#and to all the men I've fumbled

[slightlyspooky]

Dear Gavin,

I hope you're doing well. We knew each other from middle school until early high school. I liked the way you would pick me up & carry me around. I remember you being funny and kind.

You asked me one year if I was gay, and I told you no. The next year, you came out as gay yourself. I wasn't lying, I just didn't know. Turns out I'm bi. I really fumbled on that one

[thepersonperson]

Sukuna’s Loneliness Part 4 (Sukuna’s Negative Rizz)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Some warnings before we start.

1) This analysis deals with sexual topics.

2) I will be mainly using the TCB scans because of their accessibility. Raws are from mangareader(.)to.

3) This was written as of JJK 262 266. (I'm just going to keep updating this until I stop finding things I should've noticed earlier.)

4) The raws broke me in ways you cannot possibly imagine.

(Click images for captions/citations.)

Fighting as Communication

Baki the Grappler. This is a manga where men destroy each other’s bodies as a test of strength. It’s poorly written but the art is terrifying and I love it so dearly. Between fights of extreme violence and body horror the characters eat. And that’s it. That’s the manga.

I bring Baki up because Gege is a huge fan of Fujimoto Tatsuki, the creator of Chainsawman. Fujimoto is a fan of Gege too, but more importantly, he is a huge fan of Itagaki Keisuke, the creator of Baki. (His daughter made Beastars btw.) In a way, this means Jujutsu Kaisen has been influenced by Baki. But that’s not a surprise, a lot of manga is.

Itagaki’s work is so massively influetial on Japanese media that it’s kind of hard to grasp since it’s not as popular overseas. When listening to interviews from various Japanese creators, Baki will often be cited as a major influence. And the thing is, you can tell when a creative has read Baki. There’s nothing quite like it. If you’ve read Baki and consume Chainsawman, you will see its bones everywhere. I feel the same about Jujutsu Kaisen.

The main antagonist in Baki is Yujiro Hanma. He is the strongest creature alive. So much so that he has no one to call a rival. He’s bored. He causes trouble. He kills his wife to motivate his son, Baki into becoming stronger. His son, Baki, who he grooms into becoming a fighter that might beat him in combat one day. Kind of sounds like Sukuna, right?

But that’s not my point here. My focus is how Baki doubles as a discussion about strength and manhood. It’s aggressively bisexual. Men love each other with their fists. Straight up the main character says having sex with women is the same thing as fighting men.

And it just doesn’t stop there. The homoerotic nature of the fights is never shyed away from. Here’s an example of my favorite.

He grabs his balls and compliments their size. That’s pretty gay, right? Well there’s this reanimated prehistoric caveman called Pickle that fights Baki’s brother Jack. And how do they fight? They kiss.

I didn’t call it a kiss. Itagaki did. I didn’t say they melded together. Itagaki did. This mangaka overtly calls attention to the homoerotic nature of men fighting men, and how men communicate their love for each other through violence. And yes, it’s sexual. Itagaki wants you to read it that way.

But sometimes he doesn’t want you to read it that way. Sometimes the fights are a dialogue, an emotional conversation. Like one between father and son.

Itagaki is a master of narrative framing. When he wants you to feel a certain way, you will feel it. He also tells his readers that there’s more to the fights than just fighting.

Those are the ideas that help me see the bones of Baki in other works. Men loving men with violence. Men communicating with men through violence. I see these ideas in Jujutsu Kaisen too.

Jujutsu Communication

I’ve gone over how Yuji commucates with other people on their own terms. And a lot of it is through fighting. A conversation without words, learning how someone works. Yuji is good at using fights as tool of communication.

But he’s not the one who tells you that there’s more to the fights than just fighting. Maki does in her spar with the sumo guy.

Just like Baki. Fighting is a means of communication. Gege has told you that there can be more to the fights than fighting. It's a tool used to understand the self and others.

With that in mind, I want to reexamine a particular fight under the lens of Baki rather than Umineko.

Sukuna vs Gojo

Baki tells you that homoerotic readings of its fights are intentional. If you ask me, this probably stems from historical stances on masculinity and homosexuality in ancient Japan. Men loved men and women differently, but both were ok. That’s how Baki can have a girlfriend and his gay fights. Peak bisexual optimization.

What does Jujutsu Kaisen have to do with this? Well it has been extremely queer friendly. We have a multidue of canonical trans characters, non-binary characters, and other flavors of queer characters not disparaged for their identities, Gojo Satoru included. It may not be stated outright, but Gojo and Geto do love each other in a gay way. The subtext is so persisent it’s basically text.

In other words, Gege has already told us, yes please have queer readings of this text. It’s the same way Baki tells you, yes this is straight up convoluded gay sex. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to reread the Sukuna and Gojo fight as some ridiculous mating display between two men who are fighting over can miscommunicate their intent the hardest.

Framed as Courtship

Let’s start with the framing. The pre-fight set up. How does text tell you queer readings are allowed?

Kenjaku does. It’s romantic. It’s a date. This reading has been made valid explicitly. And if there’s room for doubt because of the sarcasm? There’s still additional support for it.

We already know how badly in love Gojo is with Geto. The fight is on the 24th of December, the most romantic day in Japan. And in a fun little Geto parallel, who declared the start of war on this day, violence underlines this new romantic venture.

That doesn’t include Sukuna who recalls Yorozu’s words about teaching love in the context of marriage.

Gojo never heard that conversation which is why the next point is absolutely insane.

The outfit Gojo initially is in resembles that of a groom at a Shinto wedding.

Shinto weddings were implemented after the Heian era. Part of the ceremony includes a priest and a shrine maiden who respectively stand to the right and left of the altar. A purification ritual will occur, lead by the priest, to cleanse the shrine before vows are exchanged. Gakuganji is the priest and Utahime is the shrine maiden. To the right and left of Gojo respectively.

The bride at a Shinto wedding wears mainly white. After the 200% Hollow Purple cleanses the area, the dark shawl is removed and Sukuna remains in mostly white.

How interesting that this battle has been framed as one between groom and bride.

The thing is, marriage in the Heian era was far more lax. There were no major ceremonies. If a man was interested in marrying a woman, he would visit her for 3 nights after receiving approval from her father. Upon the passing of their 3rd night together, the family would have an informal celebration of their union in private. Even after marriage, multiple partners were allowed and sometimes encouraged.

Yorozu’s big celebration proposal to Sukuna and banning of concubines was quite improper by Heian standards. Though it is in line with modern marriages. If Sukuna did not consume any Shinto wedding literature, he probably didn’t recognize that Gojo was dressed as a groom.

But did Gojo dress this way for Sukuna intentionally? The Toji fit served an entirely different purpose. It’s the robes and pre-fight ceremony that catch my attention. So I propose the following:

1) Gojo dressed up as a groom to die and be wed with his one and only Geto in death.

2) Gojo dressed up as a groom in part as an offering to Sukuna. And because Sukuna is from the Heian era it went over his head entirely.

3) Gojo intended for both of these things at the same time and left who he would end up with to fate.

Regardless of what Gojo was going for here, it’s a visual cue combined with the knowledge of it being Dec 24th that encourages the reader to perhaps consider the fight as something other than just a fight. A date perhaps? Kenjaku made the connection and neither Gojo or Sukuna really denied it. Gojo gave the weak excuse of a death anniversary confusion. But much weirder, given how hostile he was to Yorozu, Sukuna did not object to the romantic framing in any capacity.

Am I reaching? Is this reading intentional?

When I start getting this confused by how a translated work wants me to read it, I try to refer to the original language text and anyone who knows it for missing context. Sometimes localizations add things that weren’t there or push readers towards one interpretation. So for the rest of this analysis, I’m going to be focusing on the raws.

I’m going to be honest. My Japanese fudging sucks. I can barely read kanji and can’t reliably translate anything. Feel free to correct me if I got something wrong. That being said, with what little I do know, I have discovered something interesting.

In this post I talked about how weird Sukuna’s manner of speech is. I focused on his you pronoun usage of お前 (Omae) for everyone else and 貴様 (Kisama) for Gojo since this is a strong indicator of how a character views their relationship to someone.

Here's a summary of the two points I made in that post:

1) Omae is informal and either a casual thing amongst peers or indicates the speaker's higher status. Since Sukuna is arrogant, we can reasonably assume he's talking down to people.

2) Kisama historically was a formal show of respect, but in modern times it is a hostile insult, much more rude than Omae. Since Sukuna is 1,000 years old and hates Yuji (who he uses Omae with), we can reasonably assume Sukuna was being friendly to Gojo when he used Kisama.

With that pronoun usage in mind, while examining the raws for the infamous “You Cleared My Skies” speech I found this:

Kisama. Sukuna is very happy and lavishing Gojo with praise. The assumption it was formal from the start seems to be correct. It's hard to read this any other way.

Though Japanese can easily be dubious in its interpretation, there are instances where context can cut off all other readings. I truly believe this one of those cases.

Now, to confirm Sukuna is still only treating Gojo this way I started looking at his you pronouns as he got excited post-Gojo death. Maki is the person he seems to admire the most.

He’s still just using Omae. What does that mean? Gojo is in his own fudging category for Sukuna and he has been there since the start of the manga. (For more on why this is significant, refer to this post.)

Wow ok. That’s pretty intense! We’ve got Gojo dressed up as a groom on December 24th and Sukuna treating Gojo different from anyone else. I read their fight again under the lens of explicit courtship and focused in on these specific panels.

Satisfaction. Now that’s a word that can easily carry a sexual connotation. Love as well. The parallel syntax fascinated me in English. So I decided to look at the raws and see how close they are.

Pretty much the same except for "the one who will teach you love" and "the one satisfying him now". Since the one being satisfied is Gojo by Sukuna, it really seems we can assume the one being taught love is Gojo by Sukuna.

Time to learn some Japanese again!

Kanji has multiple readings. Most have at least two. The Onyomi (Chinese) reading typically used for nouns and the Kunyomi (Japanese) reading typically used for verbs. (This is not always the case but it’s the basics.)

That’s probably why 満 is read as まん (man) when Gojo and Geto are talking about “satisfaction” using the On version and み (mi), the Kun version, when the narrator is talking about who “satisfies” who.

However 満 on its own does not mean satisfaction. It means full. To be filled. Or fullness. 足 (zoku) is added as a modifier after 満 to be read as satisfaction 満足 (manzoku). 足 usually means feet, but it can also mean to be sufficient. Manzoku therefore has a direct translation of being sufficiently full. It’s not a surprise a lot of food places in Japan use Manzoku in their names or advertising.

But what’s this? Why is this sentence written as 満たして or Mi(tashite) instead of 満足して or Manzoku(shite)? The addition of Zoku is what transforms Man into "satisfying". Without the Zoku, it’s just "fill". The means this sentence can be read as “The one filling him up now is—”

We’ve already established that the blank is Sukuna. The new problem is that he’s filling Gojo up. And boy, does that sound homoerotic to put it lightly. But perhaps I am reaching.

So I did what any sane person would do in this situation. I read hentai.

Surely if the phrase 満たして (mitashite) can carry a sexual connotation I will find it in hentai.

...

I immediately found a yaoi doujin called Fill me with your Big Love aka おっきな愛で満たして (Okkina Ai de Mitashite). Honestly, I found too many doujins about creampies specifically. (You have internet access verify this yourself.) When you search Manzokushite the results are much more in line with life satisfaction than sexual satisfaction. ...So Gege decided to use the more frisky phrasing.

Manzoku is also the name of an active sex toy manufacturer (I’m not linking them use a search engine.) and a discontinued adult entertainment news company. So the satisfaction Gojo and Geto talk about, along with Geto using 妬 (ya), the jealous kanji often used between lovers, is definitely probably carrying a sexual connotation too.

So, I’m not reaching. What the fudge did Gege mean by this?

Now that we've established that I am NOT reaching. What do we do with this information?

Well, we ruminate on the fight with the knowledge that Sukuna, of his own volition, decided to get Gojo off, probably.

I have forgiven Nanami for calling Gojo a pervert. If I watched someone bust a nut after being cut in half by his sworn enemy instead of saving the country, I too would be like what the fudge.

Anyways, the typical phrase used for an orgasm in Japanese is 行く(iku). It translates as to go. And yes it can mean to die, as in going to the other side. To die and go to heaven if you will. Which is what Gojo did with a big old smile on his face.

There’s also the term 心天 (tokoroten). It refers to a dish were a semi-opaque white substance is pushed through holes to create noodles. Literal translation using the kanji for heart 心 (kokoro) and the kanji for heaven 天 (ten). (Don’t ask me why them being smack together turns the Koroko into Tokoro. I don’t know.) Which in slang refers to prostate orgasms. This has nothing to do with this analysis I wanted to drop this fun fact in here. …And this image of Sukuna clutching his heart while looking at someone he sent to heaven.

(This is a reach but the idea of this being an elaborate gay pun amuses me greatly.)

I have another fun slang term: 賢者タイム (kenjataimu) which directly translates to sage 賢者 (kenja) time タイム (taimu). This refers to post-nut clarity sending someone into a meditative-like state.

Oh that’s a bit familiar. Sukuna was giving sagely advice to Kashimo and reflecting on satisfaction and love.

And what’s this? Mitashite has made a reappearance! Sukuna is saying “I’ve never thought about needing another person to fill me up.” Which 1. further supports the 'The one satisfying/filling him (Gojo) now is—Sukuna.' reading and 2. suggests Sukuna is a top suggests Sukuna really doesn’t have sexual interest in people. (Since the context of this convo is relationships and love.)

By the way. Acts of eating in Japanese can be modified to carry sexual meanings. It’s a bit more suggestive than English, but it carries over pretty well I think? 肉食系 (nikusokukei) refers to someone who aggresively pursues romantic or sexual relationships. Composed of the kanji 肉 (niku) for meat, 食 (ta) for eating, and 系 (kei) class. If you noticed, 食 isn’t usually read as Soku. It becomes Soku when paired with Niku for some reason. (I don’t know why someone please help me.) Side by side the kanji 肉食 (nikusoku) means meat-eater.

食 is still interesting on it’s own. The 食べる (taberu) reading is normal eating. The 食う(kuu) reading is an innuendo. It can mean to devour someone, like a cannibal, or devour someone sexually.

Sukuna has made it very clear that his eating of people is literal. There’s no innuendo. In fact, if you read into it, he’ll kill you (rip Yorozu and Kashimo).

Gojo, however, appears to be his sole exception to this rule. When Sukuna tells Kashimo not to spoil his pleasure he uses the kanji 興 (kyou). This of course can be directly translated as pleasure, but the Chinese reading of it can also indicate intense excitement or sexual arousal.

Sukuna is pretty good at double-entendre wordplay if his earlier stunts with the kanji for Enchain doubling as Megumi Activities if read a different way is anything to go by. He's a fan of Chinese literature. It's not a stretch to assume there's more going on here.

And if notoriously homophobic Reddit dudebros are posting things like this. Maybe there's a lot more merit to this reading than I can currently grasp.

I’m still pretty convinced Sukuna is aroace. That of course doesn’t bar him from pursuing romantic or sexual relationships. Sometimes there’s the one exception. Sometimes the desire to be with and please an allo partner allows for engagement of activities they aren’t into. Sometimes the actions are pursued without the emotional attachment because they physically feel good. There’s also the gray-scale and demi labels to consider.

With that in mind, I want to emphasize this all points to how important Gojo is to Sukuna regardless of sexuality. He tried to engage with and understand Gojo on terms he won’t for anyone else. And he’s been pursuing this connection relentlessly since the start of manga.

Sukuna’s Negative Rizz

Ok I established that reading the Sukuna vs Gojo fight as unhinged courtship is supported by the text. That doesn’t really say anything about Sukuna sucking at it.

But, my dear reader, that in of itself is proof of his negative rizz. I had to sit down. Learn about Heian era and Shinto wedding rituals, learn more Japanese, splice seemingly unrelated manga panels together, read hentai, and know that Gege is into yaoi to come to this conclusion. I had to rip every little shred of characterization and context apart and rearrange it into something comprehensible.

You know who can’t do that? Gojo.

As far as Gojo is concerned, Sukuna hates him. Kisama is an extremely hostile you pronoun in modern times. And if Gojo can’t tell Shoko (his closest friend after Geto) is stressed over him being used like a meat puppet by her visibly falling back on her addiction, he’s going to default to the assumption Sukuna hates him just as much as everyone else.

And Gojo does just that. He assumes he failed to reach Sukuna. Despite how often they did hand to hand combat and weaponized their knowledge of each other, Gojo believes they never had proper conversation through fighting. He dies not understanding Sukuna, convinced the other was not trying to communicate with him at all.

And if you recall, all of this fight occurred while Sukuna was wearing Megumi’s face. That boy is pretty much Gojo’s adopted child. From my experience, most single parents do not go looking for clones of their kids as partners.

If someone wore the skin of my family member I would assume they were trying to torment me. And torment Gojo Sukuna does. He draws attention to Megumi’s soul being used as collateral and attacks him with the 10 Shadows. We as the audience know this is all for the sake of getting past Infinity using his Shrine. Gojo doesn’t know that. He’s fighting an evil dude who is puppeting the body of his son for god knows what reason.

Seriously, Sukuna sucks at communicating intent.

In Part 3 of my examination of Sukuna’s loneliness, I said Dismantle is a tool Sukuna uses to understand. And that him upgrading it by making Gojo the center of his world was indicative of his desire to reach him. I also said his refusal to use it on Yorozu was him expressing how little interest he had in her.

Yorozu is pissed by this. She sees it as Sukuna rejecting her and I don’t think she’s wrong. Sukuna saved his special Cursed Technique (CT) for Gojo while turning Yorozu down. If we’re considering all the wedding imagery and references that started with Yorozu, I’m certainly allowed to read that as him saving himself for Gojo. (Think of how he lied to Gojo about being the first one he killed.)

There’s also the fact that Yorozu saw their battle as an expression love and lust—that the usage of CT is a type of foreplay under certain circumstances since it is an extension of the self. Combine that with the established premise that fighting is a type of a communication thanks to Maki vs Sumo Guy and you can start to see the courtship logic behind Sukuna’s treatment of Gojo.

If we are to read “The one who will teach you love is…Sukuna” there’s another adorable caveat. Yorozu uses the you pronoun あなた (Anata) for Sukuna.

It’s an informal you pronoun used by people learning Japanese. Native speakers try to avoid using it as it can come across as rude. But in the context of love? This is colloquially called the wife pronoun as its often used by a wife to her husband.

If you wanted to localize its usage in the way Yorozu means it, Anata might become “you, dear”. So here we have Sukuna dressed in white, like a bride to Gojo’s groom, thinking of him as Anata.

The problem is, Gojo doesn’t know that. Sukuna never bothered to open his mouth and say this was an act of love. Sure he told Kashimo in the most roundabout way possible, but Gojo was the one who needed to hear that. If a courtship is going to be this diabolically complicated, there has to be clear hints for the other party. JJK is not Umineko where there’s a witch that can revive the dead over and over until the idiot finally understands this was all for them.

Gojo also doesn’t have access to the kanji Sukuna uses to describe certain techinques or words. He hears the phonetics and runs with whatever best fits the context. This means there’s no way for him to catch the double-meaning unless he’s a certain type of lingust, which he is not. His manner of speech and personal interests don’t line up with the flowery language of the Heian Era. The types of written works Gojo is into are historical war politics from the Sengoku period (known for violence more than the fine arts), Shonen manga, and physics/math.

And what's this? According to CFYOW (the canon light novels): JJK Thorny Road at Dawn, Chapter 3 Asakusabashi Elegy, Gojo doesn't even like ancient poetry. You know, the thing Sukuna enjoys and tries to communicate with.

The Kokin Wakashu Gojo off-handedly disparages is a compilation of Hiean Era poetry known as Waka. This was the primary means of communication amongst the noble class and spiritual leaders at the time. And the thing is, this poetry is supposed to be read into. Down to the quality of stroke and paper, not just the kanji written. Especially for courtship.

It’s not that Gojo is stupid. He just doesn’t specialize in the studies that would give him a more critical ear to Sukuna's words. And Sukuna doesn’t seem to understand that no one in the modern era communicates like this anymore.

If you didn’t know, this is why Japanese characters introduce themselves they often describe what kanji their name is spelled with. Take for example: Satoru. He uses the kanji 悟 meaning enlightenment. This kanji can be read as Go instead of Satoru. Additionally, the name Satoru can be written in kanji as 聡 for smart, 智 for wisdom, 知 for knowledge, 了 for understanding, 哲 for philosophy, 聖 for virtuous, or 暁 for daybreak. That’s 8 different kanji possible if you hear the name Satoru.

This is why Sukuna’s wordplay for everything else can be easily missed by other characters. They hear the words and cannot read the kanji like us. Context decides what Sukuna means for them. And since Sukuna’s context for most is violence and insults, it’s very hard for them to think about his words in any other way.

And boy howdy does Gojo miss it. Sukuna straight up calls him his husband and it took me several rereads to catch it. While mocking Gojo for being unable to open his domain, Sukuna calls him "painfully ordinary". This is localized from the word 凡夫 (bonpu) which can also be translated as unenlightened. (A layered insult! Sukuna is pretty much saying Gojo's sorcery is so boring he shouldn't even call himself the Honored One.)

The thing is...Bonpu is comprised of the 2 kanji 凡 for mediocre, and 夫 for husband. (Please note that there are many other ways to call Gojo a ditz without using the kanji for husband.) And an update from the Replies: Turns out there's layers to the gayness too.

It's come full fudging circle. Gojo came dressed as a groom for a wedding and Sukuna thinks they're already married. The miscommunication is off the rails.

But wait! There's more...

Earlier I mentioned that the kanji for Enchain doubles as Megumi Activities. Let's break that down more. (Unfortunately the Twitter account of the person I referenced may or may not be nuked so here's this screenshot I've doctored.)

So we have the translation of Enchain from 契闊 (Keikatsu), which might be better localized as Separation.

This term comes from a Chinese poem about lovers who are husband and wife in The Book of Odes, Section I (Lessons from the States), Chapter 3 (The Odes of Bei), Poem 31 (Banging the Drum). (Here's a link to the full poem and context of it.)

In summary, it’s about a soldier who is on the brink of death, having lost nearly everything after being abandoned by those in power, lamenting the happiest days of his life with his love are ones he can never get back. (Hey that sounds just like what Sukuna did to Yuji!)

Keikatsu specifically comes from this passage:

“Our vow is beyond death and life”, I and you are together I always remembered. I will hold your hand, And together we grow old.

Too pitiful we are faraway apart, The distance separates us to meet again! Too miserable this takes forever, And it does not let us fulfill our vow!

Keikatsu is used to exemplify how the physical distance between the husband and wife prevents them from fulfilling their wedding vows. And that's just what Keikatsu/Enchain does to Yuji and Megumi, it causes painful separation neither of them wanted.

Keikatsu also tells Yuji exactly how Sukuna plans to do it. 契(kei)闊(katsu) can be written as 恵(kei)活(katsu). The kanji 恵 can be read as Kei or...Megumi. (It's the literal kanji used for his name.) The kanji 活 (katsu) can mean "activities", which is how we get Enchain=Megumi Activities.

A two for one special! Sukuna mocks Yuji for being so close with Megumi while telling him exactly how he's going to destroy their relationship.

It seems this has nothing to do with Gojo until you consider the 3rd possible reading from wordplay with 契闊 (Keikatsu). The kanji 契 when read as Kei refers to a promise, pledge or vow. When 契 read as Chigi? It can refer to sexual intercourse, especially between husband and wife.

So we have 契闊(keikatsu, separation), 恵(kei Megumi)活(katsu, activities), and 契(kei chigi, spousal sex)活(katsu, activities). It's no wonder he erased Yuji's memory of it.

Keep in mind, that when Sukuna uses Keikatsu, the only vow that he has made at this point is his promise to kill Gojo. He eventually does that using Megumi's body during a fight framed between groom and bride. And for reasons beyond their control, Sukuna and Gojo have been unable to fulfill that vow through lengthy separation.

Notes from poem "Banging the Drum" Sukuna references include the following:

"And during the operation, he lost his horse, which was a desperate situation (horses in ancient time carried soldier supply and weapons, are life companion for soldiers in advance or retreat), he lost his horse, his supply, maybe his armor and weapons, and the road he was facing that we may lose his life so he may never go back. In all these mess, he started searching, and somehow at this hopeless moment he started to revisit his happiest moment, when he together vowed in marriage ceremony with his wife, and he was even afraid that he might never see his love again."

"And His last statement for his true value is his home, his love, his fulfillment of his vow is his true duty. Hero's duty is to pursue love."

In Buddhism, which JJK is heavily influenced by, horses are a pretty big deal. Horses can represent the path to enlightenment, especially since The Buddha's horse is what takes him on this journey away from his wife and children. They separate in the end though, the horse dying of a broken heart.

Remember how Sukuna called Gojo unenlightened? He sort of guided Gojo to enlightenment using Mahoraga, whose Eight-Handed title is a reference to the Eightfold Path to be followed for enlightenment. Buddhist enlightenment is centered around liberation from suffering. (Just check the wiki entry to verify this.) Infinity was the source of Gojo's suffering and Sukuna cut right through it.

Sukuna has been running around with a broken heart for a good chunk of the post-Gojo fight. And if you take that into consideration with this poem and all the other symbolism, he's somehow a Buddha, a Bodhisattva, the dying husband, the widowed wife, and the heartbroken horse all at the same time. Not unlike his wordplay taking on every possible meaning at once.

But my point here is that Sukuna might’ve seen his fight with Gojo as consummation of their marriage. (There's probably a joke in here about the husband reaching climax while leaving his wife unsatisfied.) Remember in the wise words of Itagaki Keisuke, "Fighting and sex are exactly the same!"

In Conclusion?

This is possibly one of the most bizarre and elaborate expressions of love I have lost my mind over. Sukuna gave everything Gojo ever wanted from Jujutsu violently. He did it in such an unpleasant and cruel way that the target of his affection thought there was nothing between them. Sukuna also hid his intent under social norms that no longer exist. Unless Gojo happened to be into ancient literature, there was never a scenario where he would catch onto this. Sukuna's failure is critical on multiple levels.

It’s impressive. It really is. No one knows how Sukuna’s strange little brain works so he’s stuck being loner without anyone that fully understands him. (I’m still thinking about how Uraume didn’t know Sukuna was a twin for over 1,000 years.) He’d have to let people in and tell him outright, but he’s just like Gojo so I guess that’s never happening.

[makoodles]

ミi hear you like magic? i've got a wand and a rabbit!

part one | part two

🍓 pairing: simon "ghost" riley x fem reader

🍓 tags: nsfw, size kink, virgin!reader, oral sex, vaginal sex, rough(?) sex, some mild second-hand embarrassment perhaps, sex toys, edging, failed masturbation attempts, ghost takes your virginity and also maybe ruins you for literally anybody else ever again

masterlist

reblogs are always enormously appreciated!

The ceiling over your head is drab grey and water-stained, the old paint peeling away in strips. It’s an ugly sight, but you barely see it; you’re too busy trying to catch your breath.

The sheets beneath you are uncomfortably damp with your sweat, but you don’t have the energy to roll over just yet. You feel hot and itchy with frustration, and you scowl up at the ceiling above you as your fingers curl into fists. But even though you feel like laying in your now grubby-bedding for the rest of the evening, you can’t let yourself wallow. There’s going to be a knock on your door any minute, and this is not a position you want to be found in.

With an irritable groan, you haul yourself off the bed and to your feet. Your muscles ache and you feel too warm, but you reach for your clothes anyway. The worn cotton of your shirt feels scratchy against your skin, but maybe that’s just because you’re still over-sensitive and irritable.

You can never quite bear to look at the aftermath of what you’d been doing, so you avert your eyes as you gather up the bright silicone and plastic devices littering your mattress. It’s embarrassing now that the adrenaline has worn off and disappointment is beginning to set in, so you end up gathering them all up more roughly than necessary.

The term ‘toy’ seems incongruous to you. It sounds too childish, too immature. It makes you sound like a stupid kid, as though you aren’t a young adult past twenty fumbling your way through sexual self-exploration. It’s embarrassing, and much more frustrating than you ever would have predicted – despite all of your clumsy, desperate attempts at pleasuring yourself, you’ve never quite managed to reach that peak of pleasure you’ve heard other people talking about.

You grumble quietly to yourself as you try to wipe away the sticky lube that’s still coating your thighs. Your muscles are a little achy from all the tensing you’d been doing trying to come with that stupid vibrator, not even accompanied by the satisfaction you had been hoping for.

It’s not as though you’ve never gotten the opportunity to experiment with others; you’re not unforgivably ugly, you don’t think you have a bad personality, and for the past few years you’ve been surrounded by military men that certainly aren’t known for being picky. And it certainly isn’t like you haven’t received your fair share of offers. 

It just never seemed right. You’re not overly concerned about ‘saving’ your virginity or anything like that; it’s just that putting yourself into such a vulnerable position is scary. You’re aware of the irony, of course, that you’d trust many of these people with saving your ass from catching a bullet in the field, but allowing someone to see you so intimately feels like a step too far.

You’re still sweaty and flustered and naked when a knock sounds from your door, and you freeze. The doorknob turns, but doesn’t open; in that moment, you’re deliriously grateful that you had turned the lock – it’s something that you’ve forgotten to do on far too many occasions.

“Lass, you in there?” Oh god, it’s Soap. 

Cursing quietly to yourself, you jolt into action. Your pants are crumpled at the bottom of your bed where you had shed them, and you hurriedly gather them up and struggle your way back into them.

“Gimme a minute!” You yell, praying he doesn’t notice the somewhat frantic edge to your voice.

You stagger slightly as you worm your way into your pants, and then lunge to grab the stupid dildo you’d just been trying to use. You feel your skin prickle with humiliation as you try to force the stupidly large silicone cock into your already full underwear drawer, jamming it shut roughly to hide it from sight. You don’t want to even imagine what Soap might have to say if he were to see what you had been doing; you think you might have to go full deserter mode and abscond into the wilderness.

“Did ye forget about drinks?” Soap’s drawl carries through the thickness of the door. He doesn’t sound even slightly put out – if anything, he sounds a little amused.

You pause, close your eyes, sigh. Fuck. You had not, in fact, forgotten about drinks, you just thought you had more time.

“No, I– just a minute!” You yell back, shoving your shoes on and trying to fix your hair.

You had completely lost track of time, and now you don’t even have time to rinse your sweat-damp skin off – you’re going to have to sit through drinks with the squad all grimy, like a physical reminder of what you had been up to for the last two hours.

When you finally unlock the door and wrench it open, Soap is standing on the other side tapping a staccato rhythm on his thighs with his open palms. He’s dressed casually in just blue jeans and a black muscle shirt, and he gives you a look of semi-disbelief.

“What the hell were you—”

“Gym.” You interrupt, landing on the only explanation you can think of for your sweaty skin and messy hair.

Soap blinks, but apparently decides it’s not worth the effort to continue that line of conversation. He just shrugs, then turns and starts making his way down the hall, slowing his pace for you to catch up.

You exhale; Soap can be like a bloodhound when he suspects there’s gossip to be had, and you’re relieved to have dodged a round of his relentless questioning. You suppose he can be surprisingly tactful sometimes, and he knows you well enough not to press you. Or, perhaps it’s because you come across as such a non-sexual being that  it doesn’t even occur to him that there may be another explanation.

There’s an unofficial tradition that when the squad is on base, everyone gathers in the sparsely decorated recreation room for drinks and card games on Thursday evenings. It usually makes for an enjoyable night; Gaz and Soap can always be trusted to supply whatever bottles of alcohol they’ve managed to get their grubby little hands on, and it’s always amusing to watch Captain Price get increasingly more irate as Soap pretends not to understand the rules of whatever card game they’re playing. The whole illicitness of having contraband on base only makes the whole thing more exciting; the CO’s on base often turn a blind eye to the activity, so long as it’s kept under control.

But tonight, you’re distracted.

The others had offered a bit of good-natured ribbing when you and Soap had turned up late, but before long you’re all settled in a loose circle on the poorly-stuffed couches in the corner of the room. Gaz has already unstoppered a bottle of bourbon, and is attempting to convince a visibly unimpressed Price to play a game of Kings with them. You curl up on one of the worn-out couches opposite them, watching with a small if slightly stiff smile.

The atmosphere is relaxed and pleasant, almost enough to make you forget about the irritating buzz of unfulfilled arousal under your skin. You shift, trying to keep your movements small, subtle, to avoid the notice of your team. Your denim jeans are nowhere near as comfortable as usual, and you wonder briefly if you should have simply worn your cargo pants just to avoid the harsh friction of the denim.

You sit there feeling… unmoored. You fidget, drink your smooth bourbon in sips in an attempt to avoid wincing, and try not to look as obviously out of place as you feel. It’s been like this, recently. Joining the task force has been an accomplishment for you, a source of immense pride – you’re the youngest member (just narrowly beating Gaz for the title) and a woman to boot, and though the squad has never treated you any differently it’s hard to kick the belief that you have something to prove. 

You engage in conversations the best you can, but you’re distracted and you know it must be obvious. Your preoccupation gets you a couple of furrowed brows and glances, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement to give you some space.

You don’t even realise the extent of your distraction until a big body settles down on the loveseat next to you, and you jolt. True to his name, Ghost had appeared near silently, escaping your notice until he lowers himself down to sit next to you.

And damn, you forget how big he is sometimes. It’s an average sized loveseat, but the lieutenant takes up over half of it. He’s obviously being mindful not to consciously crush you, but he’s not being overly cautious when it comes to avoiding touching you. He’s dressed unusually casually, and his thick, muscled thigh is wrapped in blue denim as it presses carelessly against yours. 

“You alright?” He asks, his voice low and smooth as he nudges your knee with one of his big knuckles.

You haven’t been a member of the task force for long, but you would know Simon Riley by his hands alone, by the earthy salt-spice in your nose as he leans a little closer to peer at your face. You tilt your head up, unable to stop the small reflexive smile that breaks over your face at the sight of him.

“Yeah.” You breathe, hurriedly straightening up where you’re sitting. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”

His sudden proximity isn’t doing your current state any favours, and you take a quick sip of your drink in an effort to collect yourself. It’s taking a herculean effort not to stare at the way his biceps are bulging against the straining material of his black cotton t-shirt.

“What’re you thinking about?” Ghost asks as he stretches out his legs with a tired groan. The sound is gruff and gravelly, and you feel blood rush uncomfortably to your cheeks. 

“Nothing.” You say quickly.

He doesn’t believe you, that much is obvious, but Ghost never pushes and he rarely speaks more than he has to. He just gives you a glance, brief and knowing and far more penetrating than it should be, before turning his head back so he can watch the boys playing their card game. He’s holding a crystal tumbler filled with dark amber liquid, but he hasn’t yet pulled his mask up to drink from it.

Your eyes drop to the thick, pale scars that mar the backs of his hands. You trace the path of the scar tissue, eyes lingering around the thick knuckles and broad palms, the way that he holds the glass so casually confidently. He’s got nice hands, probably made all the more attractive by the fact that you hardly ever get to see them. Seeing Ghost without his usual long sleeves and gloves makes you feel like a Victorian pervert snatching stolen glances at a passing lady’s ankles.

A quiet snicker causes your eyes to dart back to his face, and you’re mortified to find that he’s caught you staring.

“What’s got you in such a mood?” He asks. Even through the mask you can tell that he’s smirking, though it doesn’t feel as though he’s making fun of you.

“Just one of those days, I guess.” You say without meeting his eyes.

It’s an evasion at best, but Ghost nods ponderously as though he’s giving this great thought. His stare is penetrating, those big brown eyes watching you as though he can see right through you. Maybe he can. You try not to get too caught up staring at his pale eyelashes, darkened by smears of eyeblack.

“Did something happen?” He asks. The question is casual enough, asked as he lazily swirls his whiskey around in his glass, but his gaze is sharp and assessing.

“No.” You sigh, finally looking properly at him.

It’s a little frustrating, but the squad has been like this with you from the start – protective. Your whole military career has consisted of you veritably clawing your way up through the ranks, and you’ve been surrounded by coarse, gruff men that have underestimated you all your life. 141 is different – they don’t baby you, but the way they treat you is unmistakably softer than how they typically treat each other. The concern can be touching, if a little tiring sometimes.

And maybe it’s because he’s your lieutenant, but Ghost’s attention has always been just this side of overwhelming. It feels like you’re pinned beneath his dark eyes, his gaze somehow sharpened as he watches you from beneath his more casual balaclava, the skull pattern printed on his jaw adding another layer of intimidation. But his shoulders are relaxed as he sits next to you on the small couch, settling the weight of his attention over you like a blanket.

You’ve always respected him, admired him. How could you not? He’s practically a living legend, his reputation larger than life, and he’s scary as fuck. But he’s also softer than you had expected, gentle when he needs to be. He still rides you hard in training, pushing you to your limits and taking no quarter, but you can’t begrudge that. Not when you know he’s working to keep you alive. Perhaps that’s how the attraction had first bloomed; once it started, it was hard to stifle.

Ghost hooks one finger into his balaclava and pulls it up just high enough to expose his mouth, and he presses his glass to his lips to take a sip of his drink. You struggle not to stare like a moron, but he makes it so difficult. His lips are full and pink, and there’s a rugged scar bisecting his top lip. His stubble is dark blond and short, and it doesn’t hide the various scars and marks that decorate his strong jawline. 

You almost jolt when he pulls the mask back down, hurriedly averting your eyes and forcing yourself to look out across the room. It’s not just the 141 that’s decided to take up in the rec room this evening; there are soldiers from other units littered all around the room, laughing and joking, playing lazy games of pool on the table in the corner and smoking. The smoke alarm has been jimmied off the ceiling and the window is open, and even Price is turning a temporary blind eye to the blatant disregard for regulations in favour of puffing on one of his cigars. 

Ghost shifts on the worn-out fabric of the couch, and lays an arm over the back of the headrest behind you. It’s a casual, thoughtless movement, but it ends up pushing his body slightly closer to you in a way that makes you feel as though you’re about to catch fire.

You cross your legs, but the seam of your jeans presses into your pussy in a way that sends a frisson of heat up your spine. You hurriedly uncross your legs, and attempt to school your expression into casual neutrality as you force yourself to tune back into the conversation.

“–ach, c’mon, Captain,” Soap is saying in a wheedling tone that he probably thinks is endearing. “One round of strip poker won’t kill ya–”

“No.” Price says in a voice like thunder, brooking no argument as thick cigar smoke pours from his nose. It gives the impression of an enraged bull.

Soap either is ignorant to the warning, or is choosing to wilfully ignore it. Judging by the sly gleam in his eyes, you can guess which. He turns to you then, and waggles his eyebrows.

“C’mon, lassie, you’ll play, won’t ya?” He asks with a grin that promises trouble. “I guarantee you’ll be a sight better than any o’ these louts.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gaz pipes up, already grinning. “I was looking forward to seeing the Captain in his jocks–”

Price promptly knocks his drink back, before pushing himself up to his feet with a grim groan. “Right. That’s enough of you lot for one night.”

Gaz and Soap break into peals of laughter, settling back into their seats as they watch their captain march away.

“Offer’s still open, love,” Soap says, still snickering when he looks over to you. “Wanna play?”

Ghost shifts, his wide thigh knocking into yours as his arm stretches behind your shoulders. He lets out a short exhale through his nose, but when you glance up at him you find him as stoic and hard to read as always.

You just roll your eyes. It’s not the first time that they’ve tried to rope you into strip poker, and you’re sure it won’t be the last. You can always trust Soap to start stripping his clothes off when he’s three drinks in, whether he’s playing a game or not, so it’s not surprising that he tries to involve other people in his bad decision making.

And it’s not a big deal, really. There’s been countless missions and operations that have ended up with all of you staying in uncomfortably close quarters with each other. You’ve seen them naked countless times, and the same with them for you. It’s never meant anything, and you know that Soap’s teasing is exactly that – you don’t think they’ve ever once looked at you through any sexual lens at all.

But even still, the joke flusters you more than it should.

“Think I’ll be joining Cap in going to bed, actually.” You say, clearing your throat and setting your glass down on the low table in front of the couch.

The playful booing from Soap doesn’t do much to change your mind, and you stick out your tongue at him and Gaz as you push yourself up from the couch. You try to ignore the loss of heat at your side when you move away from Ghost, though you can’t help but glance back at the lieutenant. He’s not looking at you, his gaze directed into his glass. You try not to feel disappointed about that.

You say your goodnights, and retreat from the rec room.

By the time you make it back to your dorm however, you’re already playing the conversation back over in your head and wondering if you had made the wrong decision.

Perhaps you should have just played the damn game. Despite your inexperience with all things sexual, you’re not actually all that shy about your body. On missions, you and the squad are often forced into tight quarters, and they've all seen you in various stages of undress before. It's hard to be self-conscious around a group of people that have seen you at your worst, whether that’s soaked in blood, unshowered, sleep-deprived, or injured.

But you were so keyed up from your earlier failed attempts at masturbation that the thought of being so physically exposed in front of your squad is mortifying. It feels as though your unresolved arousal is still simmering through your veins, turning your thoughts slow and soupy and stupid. 

It’s not so surprising. Your preferred method of dealing with stress is coming back to your private bunk and messing around with your vibrator until you’ve forgotten all of your problems. The problem is, you’ve never quite been able to reach that climax you’ve heard so many talk about.

It’s not for lack of trying, and it’s not as though you haven’t come close to that toe-curling finish you crave so much. But it’s like there’s some sort of block, something that always holds you back before you can go plummeting over that edge. Something that makes the buzzing pleasure dissipate before your eyes like smoke, leaving you worked up and so frustrated. It’s probably inevitable that all those ruined finishes have built up like sludge in your veins, leaving you slow and distracted and irritable.

You eye your underwear drawer thoughtfully as you perch on your bed, before reaching inside and drawing out the same dildo you had been using earlier. You wonder if it would be too much to try again tonight – the muscles in your calves still feel a little bit over-worked from training all day, and you have a feeling that straining in an attempt to reach an orgasm you’ll likely never attain will only make it worse.

But the thought of Ghost in that stupid tight cotton shirt stays firmly stuck in your mind, and that really makes the decision for you. Before you can think too much about it, you’re sliding your jeans off and climbing atop your mattress. The sheets are dirty anyway, after all. May as well have some fun before you change them.

You slide your panties off next, then kick them to the side. It’s difficult not to feel a little pathetic, but you push those feelings aside. So what if you have an embarrassing little crush on a superior officer? It’s not like that’s unusual within the military, and you’re quite certain that dealing with all that unresolved attraction like this is the most sensible thing you can do.

You fish out the bottle of lube you had been using earlier, and drizzle it liberally along the dildo’s length before setting it aside on the blanket. While you’ve used your dildo plenty of times, you still struggle to grow accustomed to the stretch of it. It’s a good dildo – a vibrating one in the rabbit style, designed to stimulate your g-spot and clit at the same time. It was damn expensive too, but it’s one luxury you’re willing to indulge in.

You close your eyes, slide it between your legs, and hit the power button. A low bzzz emanates from between your thighs; you jerk at the immediate barrage of pleasure, your abs tightening and your legs twitching apart, creating more room between them.

Your body is quick to react, sweat prickling under your armpits and your heart thudding quickly in your chest. You can feel electric pleasure coursing through you as you press it against your clit, your toes curling into your sheets.

You bring the vibrator lower, your clit throbbing a little at its sudden absence before you press it inside, sighing. It slips inside much too easily – you’re almost embarrassed by the easy slide. You’re so wet, both from your failed attempt at masturbation earlier and from sitting beside Simon fucking Riley all evening. It’s a deeper, subtler pleasure now, and you clench around it with a quiet moan. 

You cycle through the vibrator’s different settings, making it buzz at odd intervals or lower intensities in your usual attempt to build up an orgasm. You wish, with sudden and mortifying clarity, that it could be replaced with a person. More specifically, a person with big hands and firm muscles that still have some soft give to them, and a toe-curlingly gravelly voice.

You squirm, shifting your hips to change the angle of the vibrator inside you. Without meaning to, you imagine Ghost. It’s hard not to, considering your close proximity to him all evening. Your cheeks heat as you imagine Ghost actually being here, watching you all still and silent with that penetrating dark-eyed stare of his. 

You huff out a breath, arching off your bed. This is always the best part. You have to ensure that you relish the build up, before it all fizzles out from between your fingers. You whimper, soft and quiet, clenching around the stiff silicone as it buzzes away inside of you.

Right as you press the soft little vibrating bunny ears to your clit, there’s a knock on the door. Then, horrifically, like a scene from your fucking nightmares, your door opens.

“Kid, you–”

Ghost is already half-way through the door when he lays eyes on you, and then he goes completely still in your doorway.

“Fuck.” You hiss, scrambling to knock the stupid thing off. 

You fumble for it, panicking. The end is slippery and you can barely manage to grip it. When you finally do, it’s difficult to pull out, your body still attempting to hold it inside. It’s another agonising few seconds to turn it off, the vibrator unfortunately featuring one of those awfully thought-out designs that makes you have to cycle through every single one of the settings rather than hit an off-switch.

And then, finally, silence.

Ghost is living up to his name right now; he’s as stock still and silent as a dead man, stiff as a board as he stares unblinkingly at you. You’re not even sure that he’s breathing, but you can see the whites of his eyes as he gapes at you, frozen.

You stare back at him blankly, hoping that your bed comes to life and swallows you whole just to put an end to your mortification.

At last, Ghost blinks, then finishes his sentence. “You left your phone.”

He lifts his arm. In his large, thick fist, is your stupid goddamn phone. You must have left it on the couch when you had gotten up to leave. You might have wondered at the lieutenant voluntarily bringing it to your dorm for you, but you’re hit with a wave of humiliation so strong that it wipes your brain completely blank.

“Ah.” You say, and your voice cracks. “Thanks.”

There’s a moment of mortifying silence, and then Ghost steps into your room. Your heart jolts right up into the base of your throat as he closes your door behind him. The click of the door is as loud as a gunshot in the silence that’s settled over the room.

Ghost still hasn’t blinked. He’s watching you with eyes that look almost black in the dim light of your room, intense as a predator. 

“I–” You attempt to speak, and your throat clicks dryly. “I didn’t–”

Far too late, you realise that your legs are still splayed open. You snap them shut, inhaling a choked breath through your nose.

“I thought I locked the door.” You finish lamely. 

Ghost apparently decides to simply disregard that, which you’re honestly a little grateful for. Instead he steps towards you – the enormous bulk of him feels as though he’s completely filling every bit of space in the room, sucking out all the damn oxygen.

“...‘S this why you were so distracted this evening, hm?” He says as he approaches the bed. “You were in a mood ‘cause you wanted to get back to playing with yourself?”

It’s not a question, exactly. At least, it’s not phrased like one. Ghost’s tone is knowing, with an undertone of gruff amusement. You’re certain that you’re not imagining the rough, breathless quality to his voice either, though the thought sends nerves fizzing through your bloodstream.

“No.” You deny uselessy; it’s plainly obvious what you were doing, after all. “No, I just–”

He doesn’t wait for you to finish. His eyes are still glued to you, even though your thighs are now pressed together. Before you can stop him, he reaches down and takes a hold of your hot pink vibrator where you had been trying to hide it beneath your thigh.

“Cute little thing.” He comments, tilting his head to look at the dildo hanging between his thick fingers.

Mortification burns through you. A panicked sort of screech escapes you and you yank it back out of Ghost’s stupid big hand, shoving it under the blankets. 

Perhaps if it had been anyone else, your humiliation wouldn’t be burning quite so intensely. But this is Ghost – your lieutenant, the gruff man that you’ve looked up to ever since you joined the task force. He’s not a man famed for his patience, nor for his eloquence, which is making this situation all the more unbearable.

“Lt,” You wheeze, scrambling to sit up and cover your pussy with your hands as you squeeze your legs closed. “I swear I didn’t– I’m sorry–”

But Ghost doesn’t seem interested in your apologies. He’s still watching you as though he can see right through the damn blanket, as though he’s measuring you up and trying to come to a decision about something. In that moment, you hate your reaction to him – no matter how humiliating this situation is, you want him to approve of you, even now.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He grunts, and then he sits down on your bed.

You gape at him. It feels as though your brain has stalled; you’re pretty sure you’re not reacting correctly right now. You probably should have screamed when the lieutenant walked right into your room without knocking. That surely would have sent him straight back out again. And even now, you should probably be ordering him out, telling him to leave. 

But you don’t.

“I was.. um.. finished anyway.” You manage to croak out. You sound so pathetic that you nearly make yourself cringe.

Ghost doesn’t answer immediately. He just watches you, his eyes as dark as ever beneath the mask. For a moment, you think he’s not going to answer at all.

But then he says, “Didn’t look like you finished to me.”

Blood rushes to your face so quickly that it makes you light-headed as you catch his meaning. Oh, what the fuck. This is just adding salt to the wound now.

“I wasn’t trying to–” You start, then cut yourself off. “That’s not why I was– I was just trying to relax.”

In the ensuing silence, you realise how silly you sound. At the very least, Ghost doesn’t laugh; he just tilts his head to the side, consideringly.

“Let me see.”

You gape at him. “I– sir–”

“Let me see, sergeant.”

It’s not an order. Not quite. Ghost’s voice is effortlessly assertive, but it falls just short of being a command. You have room to refuse. You could tell him to get out of your dorm right now, and he’d do it. Knowing the lieutenant, he’d never bring it up again, either.

You drop your knees apart, spreading your thighs in an unpracticed, self-conscious sort of motion. 

Under the lieutenant’s sharp gaze, your skin prickles and your nerves strain. Even sitting down on your bed, he’s a veritable behemoth of broad shoulders and thick corded muscle. His hulking form towers over you even now, and you feel so damn small as you lay there propped up against your pillows in nothing but a t-shirt.

Ghost has seen you naked before, obviously. You can’t afford to be prudish in the military, where you never know when you’ll next have true privacy, and you’ve changed out and showered with the squad countless times. It’s never meant anything, and the men in 141 have never made you feel anything less than comfortable with them.

This, however, is different. This isn’t just a case of catching a quick glimpse of your nude form as you shower in the group shower rooms when you’re out on missions – your whole damn pussy is out on display for him, still glistening wet and sticky from your ministrations and the lube you’d used.

Ghost’s inhale is as loud as a thunderclap. You’ve never felt so exposed, so vulnerable in another person’s presence. You feel a little ridiculous laying like this as he watches you, but another part of you feels so humiliatingly desperate for some kind of approval from your lieutenant. 

At first, that approval is nowhere to be found. Ghost is notoriously difficult to read, and you’re beginning to sweat as you lay there waiting for a response – any response.

At last, he makes a noise. It’s part grunt, part hum, and part groan.

“You’re still wet, sergeant.”

Are you imagining it, or is his voice an octave deeper than usual? 

Your eyes trace his face, trying to imagine what he looks like beneath the mask. You can see the suggestion of his nose, the square curve of his jaw. His darkened eyes are watching you so carefully that you feel as though you’re physically being pinned in place.

You swallow. “It’s just– I–”

“You didn’t get to finish.” Ghost interrupts, with the air of completing your sentence for you. 

You try to speak, but nothing more than a strangled sort of murmur escapes. You swallow hastily, then try again.

“I wasn’t going to. Sir.” You tack on the title at the end as an afterthought, but this whole situation is so far beyond professional that you probably needn’t have bothered. “Finish, I mean. I… I never do.”

You’ve admitted it before you can really think about it, and then you regret it wildly. You can’t help but wonder if you’ve overstepped a boundary, but then again the boundaries are currently so blurred that they’re virtually impossible to discern.

“You never finish.” Ghost repeats it. Slowly, staring right at your face, as though he’s confirming what you’ve just said. 

It sounds so much worse in his deep, gravelly voice.

Embarrassment blooms, thick and sickly in your stomach. Your legs start to twitch closed, too embarrassed to be having this conversation with your cunt bared like this, but then Ghost’s big paw of a hand reaches out to settle over your knee, keeping you open and exposed. It’s so rare to see his hands ungloved, and the bare skin of his callous-roughened hand feels almost scorching hot against your inner knee.

“I don’t– I’ve tried,” You say, and you can’t help but feel as though you’re just digging yourself further into a hole, here. “But I don’t– I’m not able to. I mean, I’ve come close, I’m just not able to… you know.”

You trail off lamely, feeling like the biggest fucking loser ever. Why are you telling him this? Why the fuck haven’t you reacted properly, and kicked him the hell out of your room?

Deep down, a shameful little part of you already knows the answer to that. You’re feeling awfully, sickeningly hopeful. Having Lieutenant Riley in your dorm, sitting on your bed and staring so hungrily at the wet, swollen parts between your legs feels like something out of your wildest wet dreams.

His eyes flick towards your pink silicone rabbit dildo, half-hidden under your blanket, and he grunts consideringly before reaching out and taking it into his hands again. It’s standard-size, but it looks small in his big hands.

“You ain’t doin’ it right, then.” He says, so bluntly that you just blink at him. “Show me how you use it.”

For a brief, wild moment, you wonder if you’re experiencing visual and auditory hallucinations right now. Surely you can’t really be experiencing this right now – and yet the lieutenant is still watching you, and you’ve never disobeyed a direct order before. 

He hands you the vibrator, then waits expectantly.

And… well. All you ever try to do is impress him. 

You shuffle your legs open a little wider, ignoring the flustered heat that scalds your cheeks. You’ve never been all exposed like this in front of another person, and the weight of Ghost’s eyes on you is reminiscent of being under a spotlight.

You swear his eyes darken even further when you press the stiff silicone rabbit dildo to your cunt, if it’s even possible for that gaze to get darker beneath the thick balaclava and eyeblack smeared over the narrow strip of skin that’s visible.

The dildo sinks in so easily that it’s almost embarrassing, and your breath catches both from the stretch and the way Ghost leans in a little closer to see. Far from turning you off, you feel your body throb in response to his proximity, and your cunt flutters pathetically around the plastic toy. You shift, attempting to get a little more comfortable, but you can’t dispel the nerves fizzing in your blood as you attempt to push the dildo a little deeper under Ghost’s sharp gaze.

His big, hulking body is so perfectly still as he watches you that it’s making you a little nervous. The only reaction that you get from him is a small, considering hum, but even then you can’t figure out what it means. Your movements are a little clumsy, so hyper-conscious that he’s watching every single thing you do that you end up fumbling a little. He’s looking at you in the same way he assesses threats, his intense dark eyes examining every movement and reaction you make. It makes you feel small and jittery, especially when you realise that he’s judging you by what you’re doing.

“You gonna turn it on?” He asks, and oh god his voice has definitely dropped lower and huskier. You know you’re not imagining it. 

You can’t even bring yourself to respond with words. You just make a strangled sort of sound of agreement, then clumsily hit the on button. The toy buzzes to life once more, and your toes curl absent-mindedly into the sheets as the soft silicone bunny ears pulse against your clit.

It feels nice, but you can’t manage to concentrate on the feeling. Hyper-aware of Ghost’s attention, you let out a quiet moan as you shift the vibrator inside you. It’s a little exaggerated, but you can’t help it – you feel like you should be putting on some kind of a show. 

You glance back at Ghost’s face, trying to guess what he’s thinking; even through the mask, you can tell that he’s frowning. You feel your stomach clench anxiously. Have you done something wrong?

“This how you usually do it?” He asks.

You swallow thickly, feeling a bit stupid. “Um.. yeah.”

Ghost grunts. He doesn’t sound impressed.

“No wonder you can’t come.” He says wryly.

You go still, eyes widening. In the silence, the bzzzzt! of your stupid vibrator is louder than ever. A sudden wave of shame washes over you, and you start to close your legs again in an effort to block the sight of the toy stuffed into your pussy.

“Oh,” You snap sourly, your embarrassment making you irritable. “So you’re the pussy expert now?”

That startles a loud bark of a laugh out of the lieutenant, a sound so rare that you find yourself desperately trying to commit it to memory.

“Think I might know a bit more than you, sweetheart.” He says. He’s relaxed now, his wide shoulders rolling back. He’s always so effortlessly confident, always so assured in himself and his abilities in a way that makes you feel like a silly little girl. 

Judging by the way the corners of his eyes are just slightly wrinkled beneath the mask, Ghost is smirking at you. He finds this funny.

“What about when you’re with other people, hm?” He asks, and his eyes drop back down to try and get a look at you again. When he realises that your legs are clamped tight together, he reaches out to guide your thighs apart again. “No one’s ever impressed you?”

His hands are big and rough and hot, and your willpower crumbles like wet paper as you allow him to open your legs all over again. The vibrator is still buzzing sadly inside you, mostly forgotten about; the stimulation is nice, but it’s never been enough for you.

You huff a weak laugh. You should have known that this would come up, and now you find yourself floundering a little.

“No one’s ever tried.” The confession comes out like a whisper, like a secret.

You can see the moment Ghost understands; realisation settles heavy over him like a physical weight, and the whites of his eyes flash as they widen just slightly. For a moment, he says nothing at all. He doesn’t move – it doesn’t even look like he breathes. 

“No?” He says, except it doesn’t really sound like a question. It sounds rough, and you can feel the almost convulsive motion of his fingers tightening around your knee. 

You shake your head wordlessly, beyond embarrassed now.

Ghost’s wispy blond eyelashes flutter softly as his eyes dart down to your pussy, still humiliatingly stuffed with your stupid little vibrator. He takes a moment to stare, then looks back up to your face. He’s so frustratingly confident about everything he does, not an ounce of shame in his posture even as you wilt beneath him.

“Never messed around with anybody?”

“No.” You say, and it comes out on a wheeze. He holds your gaze without faltering, and you realise that he’s expecting you to elaborate. “No, I– it just never happened. I was never… um, I was just always too busy, I guess.”

“Too fussy, more like.” He mutters, quiet enough that it seems like it’s a comment meant just for himself. You don’t know how to take that, so you chew your lip and stay quiet.

His eyes drop down to the vibrating dildo again, and you recognise something that looks like a flash of hunger. It feels like there’s pressure building up beneath your skin, tight and hot, and your thighs fall open a little further. You feel raw and so, so exposed, but you don’t even care when Ghost is looking at you like that.

“Let me try.” He says, the words falling out sharp and harsh as though he they’ve burst out of his mouth before he can stop them. It’s not like Ghost to speak without thinking it through, perfectly calculated, and your breath catches a little at the offer.

How could you ever say no to that? You don’t really think that he’s going to succeed in making you come – at this point you’re pretty sure your body is a little bit broken and you’re just not capable of orgasming at all, and that’s whatever – but the chance to get fucked by Ghost? To lose the lingering vestiges of your viriginity to your ridiculously hot, mysterious, massive lieutenant? It’s like something out of a dream.

“Okay.” You choke out, nodding stupidly. “Yeah.”

You want to be touched. You don’t think you’ve ever actually felt the yearning for physical contact this strongly in your life; you’re practically holding your breath as you wait for Ghost to make a move.

Finally, he reaches out. His first move is to pull the stupid little dildo out of you, still vibrating, and you feel yourself clench convulsively around nothing as he leaves you empty and wanting. He spares it a brief, evaluating glance, and you feel yourself burn as you realise he’s examining how you’ve soaked the toy.

He tosses it to the side, barely even taking the time to switch it off first, then turns his attention back to you. He’s got that same kind of laser-focus he usually only gets out on the field, and you take a moment to feel incredibly grateful that you’re never going to be on the receiving end of that terrifying scrutiny on the battlefield.

It feels like your skin is too tight for your body, every nerve and synapse strained and primed as you wait for him to touch you. But he’s slow about it, as though he just wants to torture you a little bit. 

When he finally reaches out to lay his hands on you, he doesn’t touch where you want him to.

His callous-roughened hands land on your hips, and pull you down the bed towards him. In the same move, he half-climbs up on the mattress, his huge form practically dwarfing you. Your head and shoulders are still cushioned by your pillows, but your legs are splayed open around Ghost where he kneels on your bed.

You glance down, unable to help yourself, unable to resist trying to catch a look at the outline of his erection pressing against his trousers, and oh. Fuck. He’s big. You knew he’d be big, of course, he’s big all over, but Jesus Christ, maybe you’re a little out of your own depth here–

His thick fingers tangle in the hem of your t-shirt, stretching the fabric out. “Take this off.”

You scramble to do as he says, grabbing at your top and pulling it up clumsily. You realise a moment too late that you’re not wearing a bra, but you suppose at this point it hardly matters. You drop your shirt to the side, and try not to feel too horrifically self-conscious beneath the burning hot gaze of the lieutenant.

Though you can’t see Ghost’s face, you can hear the soft exhale he blows out through his nose, just faintly muffled by the fabric of his mask. His eyes are trained on your chest, darting between each of your tits as though he can’t decide which one to settle on. After a long moment, he reaches forward and cups your left tit with one of his enormous hands, thumbing absently at one of your nipples.

It’s silly; Ghost has touched you before. Lots of times. A nudge of the elbow accompanied by a conspiratorial eye roll, a clap to the shoulder, rough hands pulling you to your feet after training or applying white-hot painful pressure to injuries. But this – you’ve never been touched like this before, not by Ghost, not by anyone.

The shaky breath you let out as his big, rough thumb rolls over your firm nipple comes out as a strangled sort of moan that honestly startles you a little. The noise catches his attention, and he snorts.

“Can’t be that sensitive.” He mutters, but then he reaches to thumb at your other nipple as though trying to be sure.

It’s because you’ve never been touched like this by another person before, you tell yourself. Truthfully, you’ve never even touched yourself like this before. You’ve never bothered to play with your own tits; you’ve always just gone straight to breaking out your vibrators. Now, with every brush of Ghost’s scarred fingers over the tight bud of your nipples, you think you must have been crazy to skip over this part of yourself. But then again, there’s no way that your own hands on yourself would elicit the same sharp jolt that shoots from your breasts down your spine.

“Sir–” You breathe, struggling not to squirm where you’re laying. You wonder, somewhat deliriously, if it might be rude to demand your lieutenant stuff his thick fingers into your pussy. You can already tell that they’re going to feel so much better than your own.

Ghost glances up at you, his eyes unreadable as he watches you bite at your lip. God, his little wispy eyelashes are so blond—

“What?” He says, his voice deep enough that you swear you can feel it rumbling through your bones. “Say it.”

“Want to try your fingers.” You breathe before you can second-guess yourself. 

The laugh that rumbles out of Ghost’s chest is low and smoky. It’s probably impossible to miss the way your eyes have been drawn to his hands all evening, so big and corded with veins and muscle and scar tissue. You’ve witnessed those hands crack bones and snap necks and break down doors, and yet you can’t help but wonder desperately what they’re going to feel like when he starts touching you properly.

He adjusts himself on the bed; he’s a big man, hulking and huge as he kneels on your mattress, his weight causing it to dip. His palms wrap around your ankles with ease, and he hauls you into place with a grim efficiency that goes straight to your pussy.

“Big brute.” You say, a little breathlessly.

He ignores you, using his arms to hold your legs open and wide for him. And all you can do is just lie there as he stares, because goddamn it’s like he’s been carved from steel and you can’t break out of his grip. Not that you want to break out of his grip anyway, but you’d really appreciate it if he actually got moving instead of just staring.

“Fuck,” He grunts after a moment, with the air of talking to himself. “Been hiding this all this time, huh?”

“Jesus.” You breathe in response, subconsciously letting your legs drop open even more.

He makes a low noise of appreciation, and finally reaches out to touch you properly. One thick thumb swipes through the seam of your cunt, and you feel the way he’s smearing the clear sticky wetness that’s been leaking steadily out of you. With his now slick thumb, he drags up towards your clit and circles it with agonisingly light pressure.

You let out an embarrassing choked whine, your toes curling at the sensation. Somewhat ironically, Ghost is handling you far more gently than you usually touch yourself, and you find yourself flexing your hips in an attempt to get him to touch you with more pressure. He ignores your attempts, keeping his pace implacably steady and slow.

“D’you always get this wet?”

You can’t even tell if he’s asking you mockingly or if he’s being genuinely curious; it feels like every inch of your focus has narrowed down to the feel of his big thumb rolling those tight little circles around your clit, his touch scorching against you.

It’s not exactly surprising that Ghost is good with his hands. You’ve seen the way he handles weaponry, locking and loading and aiming to fire with the kind of swiftness that comes from muscle memory, working with unwavering speed and precision. He’s the same in hand-to-hand combat, moving with aggressive fluidity that overwhelms his opponents. You’ve caught hits from him before in training, and you know from experience that a punch from those big hands feels like getting hit by a cinder block.

But even knowing how deft and skilled his hands are, it knocks the breath out of you when he slides his middle and ring fingers inside of you, still rubbing steadily at the swollen bump of your clit. 

When you exhale, it accidentally comes out as a moan. Your cheeks burn, but there’s really no space in your brain right now for embarrassment to sink in. Two of Ghost’s fingers are the equivalent of at least three and a half of yours, and you feel yourself break out into an overwhelmed sweat when they twist and rub against the sensitive squishy spot in the front wall of your cunt.

You’re so damn worked up, your arousal coiled like a knot in your lower belly from your failed attempts to get yourself off all day. Your back curves, humping yourself near mindlessly back up into his hand as he plays you like a goddamn instrument.

You barely even have time to consider how unfair it is that Ghost is so good at playing with you like this when he doesn’t even have a pussy himself, because then he pulls his fingers out of you.

“Oh, no, don’t stop–” You start to protest breathlessly, your chest still heaving, but the quick glance the lieutenant sends you has you falling silent.

Ghost glances down at his fingers. They’re all glossy from fingering you, and he takes a moment to eye up the way they glisten in the dim light of your bunk. You might have felt self-conscious about it, if you couldn’t see the unmistakable gleam of hungry interest in Ghost’s dark brown eyes.

He wipes his hand on the crease of your hip, but you don’t even get the chance to protest before he reaches up to hook his fingers into his mask. You go still, holding your breath in surprise as he pulls the material up until it bunches up around the bridge of his nose.

And that’s– well. You’ve seen his jaw before, and his mouth (Jesus, you had seen it earlier that evening, when he had been sipping on his smooth whiskey of choice), but the sight of his strong jawline and blond stubble and corded scars on his pale skin always manages to knock the breath out of you. And this time, he’s rolled his mask up even further than before, revealing a nose that’s clearly been broken at least once before.

You probably shouldn’t stare so blatantly, especially knowing that Ghost always takes such pains to keep his face covered. You’re not even sure if the other guys on the team have seen his uncovered face, except for Price, and you know that they’ve developed a habit of averting their eyes when he pulls his mask up for whatever reason. It’s a habit that you never quite managed to develop yourself; you’re never able to stop yourself from gaping at him like a moron, drinking in all of the minutest details. He’s never said a thing about your penchant for staring, so you can only hope that he’s chosen to ignore it.

You’re so busy staring that it takes you by surprise when he grips your jaw with one massive hand and pulls you into a rough kiss.

The sound you make is small and startled, but it’s swallowed by Ghost’s demanding mouth. His lips are dry and a little chapped, but they feel scorching hot against yours. You reach up to grab at his arms – mostly just to ground yourself – but you find yourself almost immediately distracted by the firm bulge of his biceps beneath your hands.

Listen, you’ve kissed people before, plenty times. You’re in your early twenties, and just because you’re inexperienced sexually it doesn’t mean that you’re inexperienced full stop. But this, right now, kissing with Ghost, makes you feel as though you’ve been doing nothing but fumbling your way through all of those encounters, like you’ve been kissing wrong all this time.

It’s slow and deep, at first. All-consuming. It lights a fire in your gut, which expands and spreads throughout your body until you find your fingers grasping desperately at the short cotton sleeves of Ghost’s t-shirt where it’s stretched over his thickly muscled arm.

Ghost doesn’t just kiss with his mouth, either. It’s like a full-body experience with him; he puts his hands, his whole damn body into the kiss. He clutches you to him, holding you close even as the force of his kiss bends you backwards into the pillows beneath you. At the same time, it’s all you can do to concentrate and respond to the kiss itself, your attention stretched and strained by the feeling of Ghost’s hands running over you, stroking you sides and squeezing at your breasts and groping at the soft flesh of your hips and ass. 

 “Hah,” You gasp out when Ghost’s lips slide sideways to find the corner of your jaw. His mouth is hot against your skin, bruising, and you feel yourself grow embarrassingly wetter, just from a little kissing.

“You good?” Ghost grunts into your throat as he nips at the base of your jaw.

“Uh huh.” You manage to get out, still clutching at his meaty arms like they’re a lifeline. “So good.”

His breath is hot on your throat when he rumbles out a deep chuckle, and then his tongue flicks out against your earlobe. It makes you forget how to breathe for a second, and you’re distracted when Ghost’s hand changes course, easing beneath your legs so he can press his fingers against your clit again.

Then he pauses, and his fingers slide lower, lazily hooking back and inside you. You tremble, horny and humiliated as you realise that your arousal is glistening all over your damn thighs, impossible to miss.

“Fuck,” Ghost mutters. “All this for me, sweetheart?”

“Hnng,” You whimper like an idiot as his fingers return to your clit, now slick and slippery. “I’m just–”

He doesn’t wait for you to explain. Instead, he pulls his fingers out of you again and kisses you hard. The soft breathy noises you make are muffled into his mouth, and you wrap your legs around his waist automatically. He’s built like a damn mountain, your thighs stretched wide to accommodate the bulk of him as he settles against the core of you.

He likes that – he presses in close, and you can feel the hard line of his cock pressing up against you through the roughness of his jeans. You’re so sensitive that the coarseness of the fabric is almost unbearable, but you’re able to ignore it because you’re so distracted by the sensation of his erection because holy fucking shit that can’t really be how big he is.

You gasp, the sound high and breathy, and you try to grind against Ghost, but it’s impossible because he’s so fucking heavy and he’s pinning you down on the mattress beneath him. Instead, all you can do is squeeze your legs and pull Ghost in even tighter, increasing the pressure between the two of you.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” Ghost whispers, and it sounds like a promise. He drags his lips up your throat, then talks against the corner of your mouth. “You won’t be able to touch yourself again without wishing it was me.”

The wave of desire that rocks through you almost pulls you under, and you swear you might have actually gotten so horny that you blacked out for a second, because from one second to the next Ghost has somehow managed to muscle his way back down between your thighs so that he’s eye-level with your cunt.

“What are you–” You start to say, but then he loops his forearms under your knees to tug your legs wider, and you realise just how close his face is to your pussy. You swear you’re actually pulsing with arousal, and you wonder a little wildly if he can see that.

“Oh, fuck, yes — please,” You blurt out, before Ghost has even gotten his mouth on you. He chuckles, low and amused. His grin looks predatory, but in this moment you really don’t mind being the prey — not if it means you’ll be devoured by that mouth.

Then Ghost’s mouth is against you, wet and burning hot. You cry out, barely noticing as Ghost throws one of your legs over his shoulders, spreading you open.

It’s just the right side of overwhelming. Ghost’s mouth feels like it’s going to swallow you whole – his tongue is huge and flat and firm as he licks over your clit, making your thighs quake on either side of his head. It’s entirely unlike any of the fumbling masturbatory attempts you’ve ever made – you always enjoy messing around with your various little sex toys, but you’re swiftly beginning to realise that it could never compare to real human contact. Or at least, contact with Ghost.

His hands move from your waist to your asscheeks, his big palms squeezing the plump flesh there before using his grip to pull your body closer so that he can bury his whole face between your legs. The rougher material of his mask presses harshly into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, but you hardly even notice it.

Your pussy has never been this wet before; it feels like you’ve sprung a goddamn leak. You might have felt embarrassed about it if it weren’t for the way Ghost groans against you, his wide tongue laving flat and rough against the seam of your cunt as he practically gulps down all the sticky arousal you have to give him.

“Oh god– fuck! Sir…” You sigh, spreading your knees farther apart so that Ghost can wedge his head further between your thighs.

Your ears burn as your room is filled with sounds of him tonguing at your cunt, the lewd wet squish of him working you over until you’re keening, your hips twitching clumsily until his hands tighten where he’s gripping the plump flesh of your ass to keep you still. Then all you can do is twitch as he licks over your clit in repetitive lapping motions, working in circles and then dipping down to shove his searingly hot tongue inside you. You can feel his teeth press against your labia even as he sucks at your clit, and the sensation sends hot bolts of pleasure rocketing down your spine.

Though you don’t mean to, you’re pretty sure that you make his job harder. You can’t stop wriggling, tossing your head back against your pillows and squirming on Ghost’s tongue in a wild overstimulated dance, like a fish caught in a net.

Finally, Ghost seems to have enough of your unco-ordinated flailing attempts to grind against his face. He reaches around your thigh with one arm to reach your clit so he can keep it stimulated as he gulps at the sticky sweetness of your cunt like a man possessed – the action also works to keep your hips pinned down and still. You stop your frantic moving, but your spasms and sounds increase tenfold.

You can hardly believe it, but you feel something coming. A sweet, torturous build up starts in your belly, and you sweat and gasp as he licks and suckles at you relentlessly. You’ve never found yourself in this state so quickly before, with your legs trembling and your breathing heavy and shaky. 

“Oh.. oh…” You breathe, beginning to arch your back.

You know this feeling – this is where that sweet climax builds and builds, only to dissipate at the last agonisingly close moment. But this time, with Ghost’s big head between your thighs as his mouth moves against you, sucking, tasting, eating up everything you have to offer, the breath-taking pleasure doesn’t show any sign of slipping out of reach. It feels like for once you might actually reach that peak.

But then, right as you’re certain that you’re about to tip over that long-awaited coveted release, the bastard pulls away.

“No!” You practically shriek, attempting to sit up. “No, I was so close–!”

“Lie back.” Ghost orders, his voice like the crack of a whip. 

You drop back obediently before you can even register that you’re moving, so conditioned to react instantly to that tone of voice coming from Ghost’s deep rumbling baritone. Your eyes are wide and betrayed as you stare at him, admittedly a little baleful.

God, but it’s hard to stay annoyed when he’s staring up at you from between your legs like that. His eyes are dark and hungry beneath the mask, and since it’s all pushed up and rumpled around his nose you get a toe-curlingly good look at his lower face. His chin is wet and smeared with your slick, and his lips are plump and pink and swollen from all the kissing and suckling he’s done to you. In a moment of near-delirium, you think that you understand now why he covers his face – his mouth is pretty in a way that shocks you, in a way that needs to be hidden for decency’s sake.

“You’re gettin’ greedy,” He grunts, turning his head and sinking his teeth into the crease of your thigh just to make you yelp. “Wait for it, love. It’ll be worth the wait.”

You don’t think you have much of a choice, so all you can do is lay back and hold on for the ride. He presses his mouth to you again, and you whimper softly as he tongues at your clit. 

“No one’s ever eaten you out like this?” He asks, the words muffled into the damp curve of your thigh. It’s stupid, because you know he knows the answer to that is a resounding no, but it seems like he just wants to hear you say it out loud.

“No.” You say, your breaths sawing their way out of your chest.

“Hnn.” He makes some kind of grunting sound against you, his tongue flicking out to taste you again. “That’s why you’ve been so tense, huh? So fuckin’ desperate for someone to touch you?”

“That’s not– ‘m not tense,” You manage to get out, your breasts heaving as your thighs tense up where they’re thrown over his shoulders. “Maybe.. Maybe you’re too relaxed.”

Ghost huffs a hot little laugh at your hip because you both know that couldn’t be further from the truth. You doubt anyone has ever accused Ghost of being too relaxed before, but you don’t have time to feel stupid for it – not when Ghost is devoting the full force of his attention on you, deep breaths huffing against the wet skin of your pussy and making you shudder.

“That’s it,” He croons, his voice uncharacteristically soft and lilting. The rumble of it ripples through your limbs like lapping waves, his battle-roughened palm stroking and smoothing down your ass and thigh as he hauls you closer. “Relax, sweetheart. Fuck, such a pretty pussy. Fuckin’ criminal of you to keep this hidden away all to yourself.” And then, quieter, “Fuckin’ Christ, you’re wet.”

You’re not even sure that he’s talking to you. It seems more as though he’s talking to himself, and it just happens to be you he’s talking about. Your cheeks burn as the feeling of vulnerability sets in, but you keep your legs spread wide as he kisses your clit with his swollen pink lips. You want so badly to be good, for him to be pleased with you, that you push past your embarrassment as best you can.

There’s a budding anxiety in your belly that Ghost is wasting his time here. As much as you crave his touch and the build up, you worry that he’s going to get frustrated with you and your inability to actually orgasm.

But Ghost doesn’t seem to be in a rush. He seems perfectly fucking happy between your legs, and even with his mask all clumsily rucked up around his nose he presses his face into your pussy with his eyes heavy-lidded and hazy. Even when you shift a little in an effort to get him to go a little harder or faster, he just pins you still and continues at his own leisurely pace.

When he reintroduces his fingers, pressing inside and stretching you out with a light sting, you hiss and try to lift your hips again. His rough calloused knuckles brush against the inside of your soft inner thighs, making them quiver as he goes three fingers deep.

“Shhh, atta girl.” He mumbles into you, his words coming out wetly muffled since he doesn’t even both pulling his face back. “Fuckin’– shit, so good.”

The praise shoots liquid and molten through you, and you have to bite back a pathetic keen as you pulse around his fingers. You’re sure he must feel it, because he lets out an answering rumble and laps against your clit, then closes his lips and sucks.

“Oh god–”

“Shhh.” Ghost scoots forward so your knee can hoist over his shoulder. Then he angles his chin to kiss the skin on the inside curve of your knee as he pumps into you with slow, slippery fingers and ungodly squelching noises that only sparks you hotter. You can’t even tell if it’s sweat or tears dotting your face anymore.

Though Ghost’s eyes are heavy-lidded and a little fogged over, he hasn’t looked away from you once. The focused intensity of his gaze spears you through, because you’ve never been looked at like that. No one has ever seen you like this, no one has ever put effort into you like this, no one has ever been so determined to please you before. You don’t know how you’re ever going to recover from this; you have a terrifyingly distinct impression that he’s going to live up to his promise to ruin you for anyone else.

It feels as though your blood is boiling beneath your skin, and you nearly sob when Ghost pulls back. You’ve never been so close, and you want to scream when he takes his gorgeous fucking mouth away from your clit.

“Fuck.” You wet your lips, realising you were panting like a dog and your mouth is bone dry. “Fuck, Ghost, just—”

“Quiet, lovie.” His reply is hoarse and firm, his throat working hard to swallow as he peered down between you, his clever thumb delving slick circles over the taut bump of your clit, his other three fingers fucking with easy rhythm and purpose. It’s maddening, it’s infuriating, it makes you feel as though you’re about to break apart.

His fingers are pulled out, and then you feel firm pressure pressing into you yet again. Your head lolls as you attempt to sit up, your eyelids fluttering as you realise that he’s pressing your stupid dildo into you again.

“Oh, you bastard–” You start to complain, but Ghost doesn’t give you the opportunity to speak properly.

The dildo slides into you so easily, your sticky slick mixing with his spit making the slide almost effortless. You sigh, a build-up of pressure making your whole body feel as though you’ve been stretched out and pulled tight. 

Now that you’ve been pushed to the edge, you linger by it. Ghost keeps you on that edge for what feels like hours, until your breaths are burning in your chest and the ligaments in your calves are screaming from all the straining you’ve been doing. Every roll of Ghost’s thumb over your clit sends sparks racing through your nerves, and your breathing is harsh and uneven as Ghost starts fucking you with the stupid vibrating dildo. The rhythm he sets is firm and unrelenting, pushing the silicone toy in and out and visibly relishing the wet squish of your cunt as it takes it deep.

Ghost huffs against the wet skin of your inner thigh, making you shudder. It seems like he’s enjoying this as much as you are, judging by the subtle roll of his hips against your mattress as he absorbs himself in fucking you with the dildo. 

He experiments with the angle, adjusting the dildo until you cry out, jerking against the bedding, and whining “There!”. You needn’t bother telling him, though; Ghost has a sharp eye, and he’s so goddamn attentive. He’s already repeating the stroke, pushing the dildo in and bumping it against the same sensitive spot he had hit before.

It feels good, but it’s not enough. Now that you’ve felt the firm hot pressure of his fingers spreading you wide and the wet hunger of his mouth devouring you, you don’t think anything else will do.

He shifts, you catch the rolls of his hips against your mattress again, and you feel as though you’ve caught fire. You think of the glimpse you had caught of his hard cock, pressing against his jeans and making the fabric stretch taut, and you find yourself speaking without thinking.

Ghost pushes the dildo in once more, and you reach down to grab at his wrist as you ask breathlessly, “Can I try yours?”

He pauses; goes so still that it’s honestly uncanny, his eyes practically boring holes into you as he stares at your face. You grow flustered, your own eyes widening in response to your own words. Just because he’s deigning to touch you with his fingers and his mouth, doesn’t mean he’s actually planning to fuck you. Jesus, he’s your fucking superior officer. What were you thinking?

“I’m sorry,” You squeak. “That wasn’t appropriate. Fuck, forget I said that–”

Even beneath the mask, you can see the bob of Ghost’s Adam's apple as he swallows thickly.

“You sure?” He interrupts your rambling before you can get started. “I don’t... ‘m not good with virgins.”

There’s… there’s so much you could say in response to that. Namely, he certainly doesn’t seem like he’s bad with virgins, as evidenced by the throb of arousal still pulsing through your soaked cunt. He’s just had you sobbing at the mercy of his fingers and mouth, and all he has to say when you ask for more is that he’s not good with virgins?

Instead, what you say is a rather lame, “I’m not technically a virgin.”

Which is true. Sort of. Based on a technicality – you had bullied your damn vibrator through your stupid hymen years ago, and you’ve always thought the idea of virginity was a stupid one, anyway. 

“Plastic cocks don’t count, darlin’.”

Blood rushes to your face so fast you feel light-headed as humiliation burns through you. Jesus, okay. That’s just mortifying. 

“Oh, you think your cock is special, then?” You scoff, attempting nonchalance.

Ghost shifts, letting your legs drop from his shoulders, and kneels up on the mattress so that he’s looming over you. Fuck, every time you get a visceral reminder of how big he is, you feel a little faint. It’s like having a veritable wall of muscle caging you into your bed. Your thighs are spread wide to accommodate the size of him, and you find yourself absolutely captivated by the sight of him with his muscles straining against that stupid tight t-shirt, still panting lightly from his greedy gorging on your cunt.

He reaches out and drags a hand slowly from your cunt up over your belly, between your breasts, up over your sternum, to rest over your collarbones. It’s gentle – he doesn’t put an iota of pressure against your throat – but all you can fucking see is the swell of his bicep and the dark ink of his tattoo and the prominent veins running down the chiselled muscle of his forearm.

Good fucking lord.

“You’ll find out.” He says.

And oh. Okay then. Yeah, you sure fucking will.

He reaches down and unbuttons his jeans, and you can’t help but strain to try and watch. He pushes them down carelessly around his thighs, but doesn’t make any move to strip them off any further. You’re suddenly aware of the fact that you’re laying on the bed completely nude and exposed, while Ghost has only pushed his jeans down far enough to pull his cock out, but you don’t have any time to feel self-conscious about it.

His cock curves up against his belly, red and twitching. He’s fucking rock hard, and bigger than you had been expecting, bigger than any of your stupid little toys. Your mouth goes dry, and your eyes widen comically. Fuck. No wonder he’s confident. He’s not lacking in any way.

“D’you’ve a johnny?” He asks, one big paw of a hand taking his cock and stroking lazily at it until a bead of pearly precum oozes from the angry red head.

You’re distracted for a moment, staring at the way he fists his cock, before you blink back to yourself. “What?”

“A condom.” He enunciates slowly, as though speaking to someone he thinks is a bit thick.

“I know what you meant,” You snap, embarrassed. “But– no. Why would I? I’ve never…”

You can see the way his eyes crease and realise that he’s frowning beneath the mask, and you’re hit with a sudden bolt of panic – is he going to change his mind now? You can see the hesitation in the lines of his shoulders, but you think if he changes his mind about fucking you, you might just die.

“It doesn’t matter,” You blurt, “You don’t need one. I’m on the pill. I’m clean.”

Ghost cocks his head, but remains still. It’s almost unnerving, and you feel your toes curl into the bedsheets as you wait for an answer. He looks fucking predatory, hulking over you like a fucking behemoth as he watches you assessingly. You try your best to look confident, but you have a feeling that you just look desperately hungry.

He reaches up and hooks his fingers into the fabric of his mask and pulls it back down to cover his still slick-shiny mouth and jaw, and you’re gripped with sudden overwhelming panic and dismay that he’s changed his mind, that he’s about to leave you here wet and empty and wanting. In that moment, you throw your dignity into the wind.

“Please,” You beg pathetically, wriggling a little bit against your sweat-damp bedding in an effort to grind yourself against him. “Please, please, it’s fine, I swear, you don’t need one–”

“Fuckin’ hell.” Ghost grinds out, his voice rough and a little hoarse. “How can a virgin be such a fuckin’ slut?”

Some part of you wonders if you should be offended by that, but instead a frisson of heat runs down your spine. You know you’re not a slut – you’ve never searched for any sexual attention, and you’ve never even experienced someone else’s touch – but goddamn you want to be a slut for your lieutenant right now.

Despite his harsh words, when Ghost hooks your legs over his hips and aligns himself with you, he’s gentle. He’s acting like you’re something fragile; he’s so big that your legs are spread wide around his waist, his shoulders so broad that he’s blocking out the dim light from your lamp, and yet his touch is light against you as though he’s afraid to break you.

He’s still gripping his cock hard, and he slides the tip of it against your slick heat. You have a brief moment of alarm; even through the haze of arousal, you can recognise that this is going to be a tight fit. You breathe deeply, then begin to wiggle your hips in an effort to take him inside you.

He hisses, then one of his big hands grabs at your hip. “Fuck, stay still.”

“Put it in.” You beg, your voice coming out thick and stupid-sounding. “Fuck, please, c’mon, c’mon–”

“Kid,” Ghost bites out through clenched teeth, his voice low and gritty. “Need you to shut the fuck up for me.”

You manage to bite down on your lip, but you can’t stop yourself from pouting mopily at him with wide, wet eyes. You don’t understand why he’s making you wait – can’t he see how mean he’s being? You’re so fucking wet, so empty as you clench down on nothing, and your clit is so desperate for any kind of stimulation that it’s throbbing needily. The head of his cock catches at your opening, dipping in for a second before resuming its maddening slide up and down.

Ghost is still watching you closely, his brown eyes flickering from where the head of his cock drags through your sodden folds up to your pleading pouting expression. You can only imagine what kind of a sight you make, because his chest growls with a choked sort of groan.

“I know,” He murmurs, almost mockingly soft with you. “I know, you want it. Gotta give it to you slowly.”

You want to tell him that he doesn’t have to give it to you slowly, that he can go as fast and hard as he wants to, but some sense of self-preservation shuts you up. Instead, you nod clumsily as he rubs his cock over the slick folds of your cunt, lubing himself up with your own arousal. The feeling of his cock dragging over you, iron hard and velvety soft, so close to where you want it, is enough to have your head spinning dizzily.

You want to beg again, but you’re still trying to follow his order to be silent. You shift restlessly, biting back a whimper when he taps his cock thoughtfully against your clit.

Finally, he decides to put you out of your misery. 

The thick crown of his cock pushes against the tight ring of muscle at the entrance of your cunt, and the gasp you let out is positively punched out of you. He goes slow, just like he promised, but you can still hardly believe it. He goes in and in and in, and yet he’s somehow not even halfway inside. 

“Fuck,” You wheeze, punctuated by a strange little yowl. “Oh god, wait–”

You feel stuffed just from the first few inches, drunk already on the quiet little grunts he’s making. The stretch and the sting and the pressure inside you is glorious, so tight that you can barely even flex around him and you can’t even decide if it’s good or if it’s too much. Your eyes are hot and wet as overwhelmed tears begin to overflow, and you find yourself arching in a weak attempt to flex away from him and the devastating stretch.

God, he’s massive. You knew he would be, of course, but his size seems so much more significant when you’re being impaled on the end of his cock. Fuck, you can feel your vision go blurry as your eyes fill with overwhelmed tears. You’re mortified when a sob is ripped from your chest, harsh and thick.

“Shh, shh.” Ghost coos, his deep voice syrupy thick as he leans over you, the enormous bulk of him caging you into the mattress until your whole world consists only of him. “Just a little bit more.”

“Fuck,” You choke out, trying to arch away again but failing because he’s so big that there’s nowhere to go. “It’s not gonna fit!”

“Shh, lovie,” He rumbles, ducking his face down so that the rough cotton of his mask is pressed against the sweaty skin of your neck. “Relax’n let me in.”

“I– ‘m trying–” You whine, clutching at his biceps. “Jesus–”

You blink your eyes open, vision blurry from the tears clumping your lashes together, only to be met with the sight of Ghost’s deep brown eyes staring at you from beneath the black mask. He’s looming above you, his gaze made all the more intense by the fact that it’s the only part of his face you can really see.

“All that messin’ around with those plastic cocks, but you’re still this tight for me,” He says, his voice so deep that you feel it reverberate into your bones. “Deep breath.”

The breath you inhale at his instruction is rough and ragged, and he snorts a low breathless laugh in response.

When he finally drives his cock all the way in with one smooth stroke, all the breath is driven from your lungs. It feels as though his cock has been pressed all the way up into your chest, and the noise you make when you squirm on it is utterly pathetic. 

Ghost’s hands are like steel clamps when they close around the plump flesh of your thighs, holding them up and pressing them back until they’re pressed against your belly. He looms over you, still almost entirely clothed as sweat beads over his thickly muscled neck. It’s like getting pinned down by a mountain, and you whimper as you’re speared open and prone by the weight of Ghost pressing down upon you.

He hasn’t even started to move yet, but you still feel overfull and raw.

“Too big,” You mumble, struggling to catch your breath. You choke on a sob and feel your eyes burn with unshed tears as your back arches. “Ghost–!”

“Shh.” He grunts. “Call me Simon when I fuck you.”

That… that does something to you. Molten heat rockets up your spine and pools in your belly, and you swear your pussy floods. It’s stupid, how being granted permission to call your lieutenant by his first name is somehow so much hotter than anything else he’s done so far.

“Simon,” You try it out. It comes out a little shaky, your voice little more than a weak whisper, but you swear you can see his eyes sharpen. 

Apparently having come to the decision that you’ve adjusted enough, Ghost pulls his hips back only to drive back in. 

“Oh!” You yelp, hips jumping, but there’s nowhere to go. 

All you can do is lie there as he slides out, out, out, slow and careful and long, and then his hips snap forward and he impales you, pressing all the way into him. He does it again, and again, and you try to bite down on your tongue, try to not sound so pathetically wrecked, but you can’t. It’s like Ghost is puncturing your lungs and every time he fucks into you, you let out the most pathetic little mewling ah ah ah sounds.

You’re not quite prepared for how different this feels; it’s nothing like your stupid plastic dildo. Ghost’s cock is bigger, but it’s also hotter and with more give than you expected, and you’ve never been able to fuck yourself like this. Your plastic toys could never compare to the sensation of being pinned by your giant of a lieutenant as he ruts into you.

Ghost reaches up and roughly pushes his mask up so his mouth is exposed again before he leans in deeper, almost folding you cleanly in half, stretching in to claim your mouth in a kiss that’s not quite a kiss, but rather a fierce mash of lips and tongue as his rhythm picks up, riding you down into the mattress until you realised the screaming noise isn’t coming from either one of you, but the cheap standard issue bed frame.

All you can do is gasp with each deep, raw fuck. There are tears tracking lazily down your cheeks, having overflowed from your burning eyes, and you honestly think your lungs might collapse. You’re bent like a fucking pretzel, in a way that’s making the muscles in your thighs scream, as Ghost pounds into you. 

He’s fucking relentless, but also shockingly aware of you beneath him. He doesn’t put too much pressure on you when he holds you, he never goes hard enough to hurt, and he knows just the right amount of weight to pin you down without being too much.

Your pussy is sloppy around him, wet squishing noises getting louder and louder as he finds more rhythm against your tight walls. Your whole world of awareness has been narrowed down to Ghost and Ghost only; his fingers digging into your thighs, your name in his mouth, his sweltering body pressing against yours. 

He’s holding back, you can tell by the way his voice is caught in his throat. He’s keeping all his dangerous muscles at bay as he pulls out and presses in again. Rough, fast, but not enough to break you, just enough to make you scream until you bury your face to the side and try to cover your mouth with your arm.

“Yeah, you needed this,” Ghost grunts, his uncovered mouth nipping at the hinge of your jaw. “This’s why you were so fuckin’ distracted earlier, hm? You thinkin’ about how much you needed to cream around a real cock?”

“Uh huh, yeah,” You slur out, not even sure what you’re agreeing with. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth, every nerve in your body raw and sparking. You must sound so pathetic, but Ghost seems to like it.

“Ain’t gonna be distracted anymore, are ya?” He rumbles, laving his tongue over your jaw in a way that feels filthy. “Just needed your little pussy filled, that’s all.”

You cry out for him because you can’t help it, delight bubbling in your throat every time he plunges into you. He keeps his pace for a bit, all rushed and blazing, transfixed on watching you suck him in, leaving slick trails along his shaft. But gradually he gets bolder, more desperate, big hands squeezing from your thighs to your hips.

You get lost in the feeling of him in your belly, searing and harsh, fat tip rolling against the spongy spot inside of you until you feel like you might snap. You feel him in your ears, your head pounding with every snap of his hips. You swear you even feel him in your toes, lightning zaps of pleasure down your nerves.

Then he leans back, lifting his weight off of you so you can breathe properly. He leaves his hand on your collarbones like a placeholder, his palm spread over the base of your throat like a reminder, a way to keep your attention on him. 

“Fuck,” He grits out, “That’s it, doll.”

You’re vaguely aware of the fact that Ghost’s gaze has shifted, no longer focused on your face but now instead fixed firmly between your legs as he watches the thick shaft of his cock sink into you. He obviously likes how you feel inside; you can hear him cursing and grunting quietly as his free hand grips your hip for leverage. 

With his mask rumpled up around his nose, you’re gifted with an incredible view of the way his teeth are sunk into his lower lip. Each time he sinks his cock into you again, he makes a raspy little groan, eyes fluttering briefly shut. It’s so painfully endearing that your heart quivers in your chest.

Your legs burn from being spread around his thick waist — any attempt for you to lock them around his back is useless, your legs slipping everytime his ass flexes with his thrusts. Every hasty drive of his hips has the ridge of his cock sliding against the spongy spread of your walls, making you feel more stuffed every time he ruts into you. With every sudden movement you feel the entirety of his fat cock; the veins are throbbing, skin heated and silken within you. Part of you marvels how you’re even able to fit him inside you.

“Never seen you look like this,” he grunts. “All fucked-out and perfect.”

Ghost leans in again, grips your legs so he can rearrange them over his shoulders, and you think you might die. The angle is different and somehow, impossibly, Ghost is fucking into you even deeper. You think you might actually be crying. There’s no question as to whether you’re drooling.

Your hands move to his arms, nails sinking into the hard muscles of his triceps as you cling on for dear life. He doesn’t even seem to notice the sting of your nails scratching him; or perhaps it only urges him on, because his movements take on an edge of desperation.

“Gorgeous girl,” He grits out, jaw clenched. “Squeezin’ so tight. Fuck. Gonna make you cream.”

 You had forgotten about his promise to make you come, too lost in the hazy pleasure of his cock. But now it seems as though he’s been seized by the compulsion to fuck you to the edge; he reaches a hand down so that his thumb can join the fray, and it startles you into moaning breathlessly aloud. 

His thumb is merciless against your clit. You’re vulnerable to his touch, clit spread and on display from the stretch of his thick cock inside of you, and he takes full advantage. His fingers are thick and blistering hot as he rubs at you, and you choke as your toes curl.

“Simon–” You manage to eke out before you lose the weak thread of your thoughts, scattering into nothing as he stimulates the stiff bead of your clit. 

He grunts to show that he’s heard you, but he doesn’t seem any more capable of words than you are as he rocks into the cradle of your hips. You’re practically blinded by your wet eyes, blinking frantically to try and clear your vision as you reach out clumsily to throw your arms around Ghost’s blisteringly hot neck.

It feels as though your skin is stretched too tight over your body, hot and prickly and too much. You’re trembling, your breaths coming in shaky gasps as agonising pressure builds in your lower belly. 

“Fuck, love.” Ghost says, his voice little more than a snarl. “You gonna come?”

No, You think hazily. No, you never come. But even as you think it, part of you recognises that it’s never felt like this before. Your stomach tightens, toes curling, your lungs burning, your eyes rolling. You hardly even know what’s happening.

You recognise that something is building, but it almost seems secondary to the way that Ghost is rutting into you like a man possessed, hitting that spongey spot in the back of your pussy that you’ve never managed to reach yourself and making your legs spasm every time even as his thick thumb rubs frantic circles around the bump of your clit.

“Fuck, fuck–” You wheeze, bucking your hips against him.

It doesn’t grow and dissipate in the way you’re used to. Rather, it creeps up on you almost without you noticing, until you’re whimpering and clinging to Ghost like he’s a lifeline. Your bottom lip trembles as you sob weakly, practically on the brink of diving into an oncoming tidal wave of desire. Then that coil in your stomach snaps like a rubber band, sudden and sharp as a slap to the face. 

Your back arches, your vision whites out, and you cum so hard that the world stops, your ears ring, your body goes limp. Your cunts sucks tight around him, pulsing, feeling every inch of him. It feels so sweet, that white-hot buzzing pleasure rushing over you and wiping your brain completely clean. 

You’re a little delirious from being stuffed with such a fat cock; every thrust just prolongs your pleasure, like his penetration keeps you from squeezing your very first orgasm out right away. It’s mindless ecstasy, your nails burrowing into the skin of his biceps as you desperately clutch at him for some kind of leverage. Ghost doesn’t falter, his hips continuing to work into you, wringing your orgasm out until you feel as though your brain is melting.

You sob – an actual, genuine, wet-sounding sob as your chest heaves for air and your eyes burn with overwhelmed, rapturous tears. Your head is spinning even as your climax subsides, leaving you limp-limbed and weak as Ghost continues rocking into you.

“Look so lovely when you come, sweetheart,” Ghost grunts into your ear, his bulky chest weighing you down as you clutch feebly at his shoulders. “God, that’s a sight. All for me, yeah?”

His praise only makes it worse, makes your eyes sting until there’s tears down your cheeks and stars behind your eyelids. He sounds so smug, but you can’t deny that he has reason to be. He’s the first man to ever touch you, first man to ever fuck you, the first person to ever tip you over the edge and wring an orgasm out of you. Fuck, you think your brain might have been reduced to mush permanently; you wonder wildly if you’ll ever be the same after this.

Despite the sting of Ghost’s punishing thrusts into your already oversensitive cunt, your body sings for him. The rhythm of his hips is getting gradually sloppier, as though he doesn’t care as much for precision now that he’s succeeded in making you come. Soft, guttural little grunts fall from his mouth, and his arms wrap around your waist to reposition you so that he can fuck quick and shallow. It’s almost tender, as though he’s aware of your growing sensitivity as you mewl under him.

There’s a profound, instinctual pleasure in seeing Ghost lose himself in your embrace. His dark eyes are heavy-lidded and his mask is still all rucked up, revealing the way his mouth is lolled softly open as he pants. You find yourself wishing feverishly that he had taken off his clothes too, because you think you would give anything to watch the roiling muscles of his chest and shoulders as he ruts into you.

Then just when you think you’re beginning to recover from the shattering, mind-numbing oversensitivity, Ghost comes inside of you.

He stops rutting to ride out his orgasm, his cock throbbing, pulsing, spurting inside you until you feel fuller than you’ve ever felt. And he comes a lot. 

You’re stuffed so tightly with his cock that his cum has nowhere to go, and ends up leaking thickly from where your cunt grips around him, messy and hot and spilling over your thighs and his. The sound he makes is breathless, all open-mouth and head lolled back as he groans, blissed out as he finds release in your cunt. 

The minutes afterwards are a blur. 

You close your eyes for what feels like only a second, but the next time you blink your eyes open you find yourself feeling miserably, uncomfortably empty and sticky as all that oozy cum leaks out of you. You somehow missed Ghost pulling out of you, and your thoughts are muzzy and embarrassingly slow.

For a moment, you think you’re alone. You’re becoming more aware of yourself, and you realise that you’re shivering weakly alone in your sweat-damp sheets. Where did Ghost go? Part of you, still a little hazy, wonders if he had left you alone as soon as he had come, and you feel your lower lip tremble at the thought. 

God, you feel pathetic. You shift feebly on the sheets, and suck in a sharp breath when you feel the ache inside you, proof that you’re going to feel the shadow of Ghost’s cock for days. You feel drunk off the afterglow, yet you’re swiftly becoming more and more aware of yourself and all the aches and pains that are coming to the fore now.

It feels like you’re too big for your body, and you’re clumsy when you try to sit up. Pushing yourself up makes a whole new set of aches light up, and you let out a quiet keening grumble.

You’re so caught up with trying to ground yourself that you jolt in surprise when big, paw-like hands land on you, pushing you back down onto the bed. “Shh, hey, lay down.” Ghost says, the rough edges of his accent softened. To your bewilderment, he has a damp cloth in his hand; he went to the bathroom, you realise hazily.

Maybe it’s just because you feel raw after your experience with him, pulsing like an open nerve, but you sniffle and blink and then suddenly there are tears dripping down your face.

“Thought you left.” You mumble, trying not to sound like a needy little idiot.

Ghost glances up at you, unblinkingly. His mask is fixed firmly back in place, and he looks annoyingly put-together; it’s an embarrassingly stark contrast to the way you’re still nude and shivery and teary-eyed.

“No.” He says simply.

The damp cloth is warm when it makes contact with your skin, and you relax as he drags it along your sweaty back and over your legs. He’s a little rough about it, but you don’t think it’s on purpose. Gentleness doesn’t come naturally to Simon Riley, and yet you can feel that he’s trying and that makes a warm glow settle in your stomach, replacing the cold anxiety that had settled in when you thought that he had left you alone.

When the cloth reaches the tender skin of your pussy, you hiss and try to pull away. It all feels too sensitive, and you feel your face crumple up as he wipes away the mess of slick and cum between your thighs. He gentles his touch as much as he can, but you still mewl at the electric zaps of oversensitivity that jolt up your spine.

When Ghost pauses and pulls the cloth away from you, you blink your eyes awake. Your vision is still all wet and blurry from tears, but you can still see the shape of Ghost as he stares down at you. You can imagine you look nothing short of ruined right now, even after having been cleaned up, and Ghost’s stare is burning.

You wonder if he’s about to leave now – you can recognise this whole thing had gotten out of hand, and you just about manage to stifle the panic at the creeping realisation that you’ve just fucked your superior officer. Ghost must have realised at this point that the two of you had just ripped through all those fraternisation rules, though it’s always been difficult to tell what he’s thinking. But you trust him – you have to, in your line of work. You have to trust that he’ll handle things.

Ghost tosses aside the cloth, and his big overbearing body climbs back into bed beside you. It’s a standard-issue bunk, and yet it feels comically tiny when Ghost has been added to the mix. He’s surprisingly agile, even despite his big size, and you barely have time to realise that he’s joining you in bed before he’s wrapped a thick arm around your middle, hauling you closer.

You’d love to act chill and cool about the fact that he’s now essentially cuddling you, but you miss the mark by a long mile. You take a breath, and allow yourself to relax into his big burly chest. He’s still fully clothed, and the rough texture of his jeans against your tender bare skin makes you shiver lightly from oversensitivity.

Your hips are sore from being stretched so wide, your joints weak and watery, and you’re perfectly content to close your eyes and forcibly ignore all your concerns about fraternisation or how you’re going to face Ghost in training. It’s a problem for another time.

“You still alive?” Ghost grunts, and his palm coasts down over your back to settle at your ass, his fingers squeezing absent-mindedly into the soft flesh there.

He sounds amused, which makes you grumble in irritation. He takes up so much space, his big body filling up all the free space on the bed and making you feel so fucking small as he holds you so that your back is pressed against his stomach.

“I dunno,” You mumble, words a little garbled. “Think… think you might have fucked me stupid, Lt.”

Lying like this, with his front pressed against your back, you can feel his laugh rumble into you. He’s touchy too in a way that surprises you; his hands are constantly moving, swiping over your sides and groping at any part of you that’s squishy-soft.

“Think I might have,” He agrees, and you can hear the smirk in his voice even if you can’t see it. “But I think you needed it, sweetheart. You were practically cryin’ out for it all day.”

You feel your face heat at the insinuation that he had noticed the arousal you thought you had hidden so well. But you still feel so fuzzy inside, and you can’t manage to drum up any genuine reaction.

Ghost’s roaming hand slips down between your legs, and you hold your breath as he reaches your swollen, tender pussy. His fingers are so big, but he’s aware of his strength and keeps his touch light, cupping rather than groping, his calloused palm catching on your puffy clit.

“Told you a real cock would be better,” He rumbles, and you feel the soft material of his mask rubbing against the back of your sweaty neck. “You’ve got a fussy little cunt – ‘s only gonna be satisfied by the real thing.”

You’d love to jab back at him, but the feeling of him rough palm against your oversensitive clit has your thoughts fizzing out into nothingness. All you can do is let out a quiet little whimper, and rock your hips into his touch. To your utter bewilderment, you feel your arousal, which you had previously considered entirely sated, pulse back to life.

As if Ghost can feel your cunt throb beneath his hand, he snickers. “Yeah. Fussy and greedy.”

He leans down, and you feel his lips brush against the back of your neck through the cotton of his balaclava. You quiver, and part your legs without conscious thought to give his thick fingers more room to work. Despite your exhaustion, and your soreness, and your sensitivity, you find yourself wanting. You wonder, with an edge of hysteria, if your body has somehow managed to rewire itself to only accept pleasure from your commanding officer’s hand.

“Ghost– Simon–” You breathe, your hips jumping as you grind into his palm.

“Yeah,” He says again, as though he knows exactly what you need and want. “One little orgasm wasn’t enough, was it?”

“No.” You choke out, throwing your head back so that it’s resting against Ghost’s broad chest. “No, ‘t wasn’t.”

You can hardly believe that your body is winding up for more, but Ghost’s touch is searing hot against your tender skin, and you can already taste the pleasure he’s going to bring you. This time, without the edge of urgency, you think you might even enjoy it more.

“Gimme five minutes,” He drawls, his voice low and muffled in your ear. “And I’ll give you your second.”

[jirsungs]

NO IDEA ☆ l.dh

pairing: loser!donghyuck x fem!reader

no idea synopsis: a story where both you and lee donghyuck seem to get what you want. he's the perfect pawn in making your ex-boyfriend jealous and the smarty pants tutor helping you pass your math class. donghyuck has it easy too, he's finally able to seek out and experience the world of dating through you, his long-devoted crush and surprisingly enthusiastic tutoring student. but then again, when meaningless tutoring sessions soon evolve into reciprocated feelings, is it really that easy?

genre: college au, nonidol au, fake dating au, social media au (includes written chapters), classmates to friends to lovers, he's a nerd & she's a popular cheerleader (you see where this is going), he fell first but she fell harder trope, kinda based off to all the boys i've loved before, fluff, crack/humor, angst, one-sided pining that turns into mutual pining

warnings: explicit language, unrealistic college partying, talks about family issues (this does NOT reflect any of the idol's families!), yuqi has an ex gf, some alcohol consumption, kys and sexual humor, bullying, hyuck and his buds are mistreated ☹️, hyunjin is a bad bf!!!, cheesy af, unrequited love, bad insults that sound like they're from the 2000s, HELLA miscommunication

no idea playlist: btr's no idea, taylor swift's you belong with me, the vamps + demi lovato's somebody to you, james arthur's can i be him, ariana grande's daydreamin, fitz & the tantrums' out of my league, shawn mendes' treat you better, bruno mars' just the way you are, lonely god's marlboro nights, the 1975's i'm in love with you, sam smith's like i can, arctic monkeys' wanna be yours

author's note: FIRST HYUCK SMAUU! how we feeling 😏 i needed to get this idea out of my system! plus, i love this type of trope, and haechan just fits the nerdy role 😭 I HAD TO! but happy reading :D <3

comment if you wish to be tagged for the story's updates!

profiles: "ncu freaks" + jeno 🤔 | gal pals & two men

intro. #manifestationiskey 🩷

ep 1. but a FAILING?

ep 2. i guess i'm her tutor

ep 3. WHY IS HE ATTRACTIVE

ep 4. COUGH y/n bag him COUGH

ep 5. i know i can treat youuu bettterr

ep 6. YNHYUCK PLOT IS FINALLY SAILING!

ep 7. bro texts with his 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 𝓪𝓵𝓹𝓱𝓪 mode on 🐺👅

ep 8. bro fumbled HARD 🤦‍♂️

ep 9. LET THE BOY LIVE!! HES IN LOVE!!

ep 10. THE HARD LAUNCH GOES CRAZY

ep 11. lemme guess, fake boyfriend responsibilities? (written)

ep 12. jeno got me up... plotting

ep 13. AMAZING fake boyfriend

ep 14.

ep 15.

ep 16.

ep 17.

ep 18.

more to come. . .!

started: 09/06/24 finished:

© JIRSUNGS. ANY TRANSLATIONS/REPOSTS/PUBLISHES OF MY WORKS ON ANY PLATFORM ARE STRICTLY PROHIBITED! ALL COMMENTS, REBLOGS, LIKES, & FEEDBACK ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED! THANK YOU SO MUCH! I LOVE YOU, MWA! <3

[flkwh0re]

Try it, Bite it, Lick it, Spit it

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Strap-on usage (R receiving), Brief fingering, Degradation, Praise, Use of the word slut, Mirror sex, Hair pulling/gripping, Sex in a public bathroom (gross Natasha 😕), Overstimulation (R receiving), Oral (R receiving)

Word Count: 1.1k

Authors Note: Didn’t really have much going to this fic, I just wanted to make a fic with this title. (Stream Guess by Charli xcx and Billie Eilish 😚)

The loud music that blared through club felt like it shook your core. It was so loud you couldn't even hear your own thoughts, which was a total lie. You just couldn't think because of the gorgeous red head that had showed up with Yelena.

Yelena was your best friend, along side her girlfriend Kate Bishop. You'd known Yelena since your first day of college, she was your roommate at the time. You did everything with her and basically knew everyone she did, but not this woman.

"Y/n, come here!" Yelena yelled to you, the thick Russian accent being the only reason you were able to hear her. "I want you to meet my sister, Natasha. Natasha this is Y/n." You weren't sure how you should greet such a beautiful woman, so you stupidly stuck your hand out for a handshake.

"It's nice to meet you, Y/n." The woman said with very captivating grin on her lips. "Like wise, Natasha." The use of her full name caused her to cringe a little, "Just Nat." You awkwardly smile and nod.

The night moved very slowly, mostly due to your soberness, but also the countless men that would hit on Natasha ruining your small talk. "Let me buy you a drink, help you enjoy yourself a little." Natasha suggested. "I've gotta be able to get home, last time I trusted Yelena getting me home we spent half the night on the streets trying to figure out the gps." A grin creeped on Natasha's face at your jab directed at her sister.

"I can get you home sweetheart, it's no big deal." You were saved by the dim lights of the corner you and Natasha were in, you were sure your face was scarlet red. "Fine." Following your agreement, drink after drink kept coming, and now Natasha's and yours conversation flowed like you'd known each other for years.

"C'mon Nat, dance with me." You pleaded with the older woman, tugging on the sleeve of her jacket. Eventually you dragged her onto the floor, pushing through the swarm of bodies. Her front pressed flush against your back, as you swayed to the music. Her hands possessively held onto your hips, almost as if she were afraid you'd get away from her to go dance with some helpless drunk.

Your body felt like putty in Natasha arms, the arms that were moving up and down your body as her hands gripped and groped at your curves. Her hot breath fanned on the back of your neck, her soft lips occasionally brushing the sensitive skin. "Come with me."

Your hand linked with Natasha's as you two walked off to what you assumed was to the bathroom. You were never one for a hookup, especially in a club bathroom, but Nat made you want to and so you did. Your back collided with the door as soon as it shut, Natasha briefly fumbling with the lock before her lips hungrily connected with yours.

Her tongue laced with yours, as your lips molded together. Your mouths so connected that your moans didn't escape her mouth, but rather she swallowed them. "Fuck you're so hot, I wish Yelena brought you around." Natasha leaned back to admire your current state. Your hair pushed around, clothes slightly wrinkled, your gradually weakening legs as Natasha worked you up.

Her lips returned on yours, and her fingers found new ground on the clasp of your jeans. She tugged it apart and slipped her hand past the lacy material of your soaked panties. "Fuck pretty girl, you're so wet." She rasped, eliciting a pitiful whimper from you. "All for you." You could barely muster the words.

Natasha's rough fingers rubbed your clit just the right way, almost too good for you to bear. "F-fuck Nat! Feels s'good." You managed out the words that felt caged in your throat, and you could tell she knew you were struggling by the small laugh that came from her.

"You like that, hm? Wanna see how much you like this?" She took your hand rubbing it against her crotch, the feeling of silicone begging for release rubbed against your hand. You groaned loudly just from thinking about her fucking you with it. "I think you're wet enough, turn around." Natasha demanded, and you obeyed.

Natasha tugged down your jeans, along with her own. She slid the toy into you with ease and a little force, which caused your front to be flush against the sink. Natasha's hands roughly gripped your hips, yours holding onto whatever you could grab. "Fuck you're so tight, I wish I could feel you. I bet you feel so good." Her filthy words making you moan, so loud that she covered your mouth.

Her hips slapped against yours so rapidly it was almost painful, but the pleasure of the toy rubbing against your deepest parts made all that pain unrecognizable. "You're doing so good for me Y/n, being such a good girl."

Your hair was tugged and balled up into Natasha's hand in a matter of seconds, as she forced you to look in the mirror. "Watch yourself get fucked by me you slut, fucked by your best friends sister. By a woman you just met." The harsh, degrading and words that left her lips made you even more turned on.

"Nat, 'm close. 'M gonna cum, Please!" You begged. "Yea, gonna cum on my cock? Go on then, cum for me." And you did, Natasha made you see stars as she mercilessly fucked you through your orgasm.

Before you knew it she had you sitting on the counter, your jeans completely discarded somewhere. Her head between your thighs as she ate you out. You were too sensitive to take it, but to fucked out to use your words to beg her to stop. Your second orgasm nearing and all you could manage was a little whimper, "C'mon use your words, you got this baby. You're doing so good for me, you can do it." She praised.

"Please, I need- I can't take it!" Her pace quickened, it was so painful but you needed release so bad. "Nat, 'm cuming!"

"You did so good, let me help you clean up and I'll take you home okay?" You nodded, "But what about Yelena?" You asked as Natasha helped support your body, so you could redress. "I'll text her, don't worry your pretty little head." She said as a placed a little kiss on your forehead.

That night wasn't the end of you and Natasha. Eventually after a few hook ups she asked to take you on a date, which went so well it turned into multiple dates, then you were officially together.

MASTERLIST

[onlyangel4]

healing a heart i didn't break. LH44. MV1. SMAU. part two.

cheater! lewis hamilton x reader. max verstappen x reader.

when your boyfriend of three years fumbles, his rival is there to put the pieces of your heart back together bit by bit.

warnings: 14 year age gap with lewis. cursing. cheating. super super angsty.

author's note: this is still building up the angst the proper max fluff will be next. for context reader and lewis broke up eight weeks before the austin gp.

part one // part three

faceclaim: camilla morrone

f1wags

liked by user12, f1fan22, user 45 and 12,382 others

f1wags: y/n y/ln and alexandra saint mleux pictured on a dog walk out near y/n's childhood home. this is the first time y/n has been pictured in a week following the revelation that lewis hamilton had been cheating on her with y/exbff. no one knows how long they have been cheating but sources seem to think it did not start last weekend and has actually been going on longer. we hope that y/n is okay.

view all 439 comments

user12: oh how i would love to hear the goss

user45: alex looked angry in some of the other pictures. i just know y/n is sitting on business

f1fan22: alex flying out to see her is true friendship y/exbff could never.

y/ninsta

liked by maxverstappen, alexandrasaintmleux, charlesleclerc and 680,928 others

y/ninsta: i'll be okay. i've got my girl.

tagged alexandrasaintmleux

view all 9,720 comments

alexandrasaintmleux: my love, i am honestly amazed how strong you have been the past three weeks. i wish to be half the woman that you are.

y/ninsta: i would not have been this strong without you and charles alex. i love you both, thank you for taking me in before i found my new place.

y/nfan: lewis cheated on her with her best friend and took the house and roscoe (WHO THEY BROUGHT WHEN THEY WERE TOGETHER) all y/n got was her husky lilo and a broken heart. I HATE MEN

charlesleclerc: i took this photo

y/ninsta: yes charles you did. well done

user37: y/n is gentle parenting charles omg

maxverstappen: hope you have been okay y/n, been thinking of you recently, missing you around the paddock.

liked by y/ninsta

user17: omg even max in on her side

f1wags

liked by f1fan43, user48, y/nlover and 34,589 others

f1wags: y/n is in her revenge dress era. the ex wag has arrived at the austin gp. she came in and watched fp1 and fp2 with charles and alex and is in the ferrari garage. we here at f1wags are so happy to see her back in the paddock. also lewis and the other girl have arrived but i don't want to post about that.

view all 8,183 comments

y/nlover: what a serve

f1fan43: THE OTHER GIRL even wag pages hate y/exbff

user48: lewis hamilton found screaming, crying, throwing up in the merc garage

user21: did you guys see max. he saw y/n walk in he stopped what he was doing jogged over to her and they had like a proper long conversation.

f1updates

liked by hamiltonupdates, f1fan, user23 and 34,5672 others

f1updates: a story in two pictures.

picture one: lewis and y/n were photographed arguing behind the mercedes motorhome. y/exbff was also there. the video shows them talking to y/n and then y/n running off crying.

picture two: a shaky video captures the moment max watched y/n run off crying and he jogged after her. she said something to him and then he pulled her into a hug while she sobbed on his shoulder. he led her inside but when she pulled away from the hug max's white shirt was almost see through. y/n is obviously going through it. we are left wondering what lewis and y/exbff told her.

view all 7,625 comments

f1fan: oh thank god for max, she looked so lost. looking around for someone to help her while paparazzi started calling her name when she was fucking sobbing.

hamiltonupdates: i am really questioning lewis rn

user23: y/n would not have gone to talk to him about just anything. this has to be big.

y/exbff

liked by lewishamilton, friendone, friendtwo and 342,837 others

y/exbff: sixteen weeks ago we made what we thought was a massive mistake that we vowed to never talk about but eight weeks ago we discovered it was the best thing ever to happen to us. baby coming march next year,

comments for this post have been disabled

taglist: @sinofwriting @toldyouitwasamelodrama @formulaal

@minkyungseokie @shrbehndwn @gr1mes-cc @nichmeddar

@liberty-barnes

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Yakuza x Reader (IV)

Happy Holidays! Remember your plans to visit friends and family back in your home country? Scratch that. The Yakuza men have other ideas for you in this cozy Christmas special. And you finally get to meet their fearsome Boss, who has a request for you.

Content: female reader, fluff

[Part 3] | [Part 5] | [Yakuza Masterlist]

You stare at your phone in disbelief, rereading each line and hoping you've misunderstood the kanji. Daitou and Kazuya are quietly frowning behind you, unsure how to help in such a situation. Their lack of response only confirms it.

The brief paragraph is written in bold, red font: Due to weather conditions, all flights are cancelled until further notice. Passengers have been refunded and will need to repurchase their tickets at first convenience.

One glimpse at the last-minute prices and you're certain of it: you won't be going home for Christmas. You slouch and sigh, somewhat at peace with the idea. What else can you do? You might as well get yourself a KFC bucket and stare at the holiday lights in the city center. You and the couples taking cheesy Christmas selfies, who will later wonder about the gloomy loner behind them philosophically crunching on spicy wings.

"Don't look so defeated, (Y/N). You can just spend that time with us instead. We're not such terrible company, are we?" Kazuya jokes, trying to cheer you up.

"We could even go on a trip around New Year."

Your eyes light up in anticipation, the sadness vanishing almost instantly. 

"Can we go to one of those hot spring inns? I've always wanted to visit an onsen." You put your hands together pleadingly. 

"Whoa! Take me out to dinner first if you're that eager to see me naked." The blonde man winks at you smugly. 

"How would I see you naked? The baths are separated, aren't they?" You inquire. 

"We can't go to the regular ones." Daitou pulls his collar slightly downwards, revealing a fragment of his traditional tattoos. True. A yakuza would never be allowed among the civilians. "We'd have to book a private bath, so there wouldn't be anyone else."

You blush at the prospect of being alone with the two men. Kazuya notices your nervousness and is about to continue his teasing, but Daitou speaks before him, unbothered and oblivious:

"Besides, you've already seen me naked. I can tell you Kazuya doesn't look much different. There's nothing to be shy about."

The blonde man can only gawk, taken aback, and you shove Daitou in a flustered panic, fumbling to find an excuse or a change of subject.

He didn't have to make your business public like that, or he could've at least announced it without you being present. Judging by the blonde's speechless reaction, you're guessing he hasn't been told about your sneaky office smooching that led to the occasional sleepover. If you think about it, there's nothing shameful about being intimate with your boyfriend, but...It's not something you're fully accustomed to yet.

As promised, after the coworker incident you were soon greeted with a job offer in the neighborhood. When you went to your old office to discuss the mandatory year contract, the managers nervously handed you an approval for resignation and refused to discuss any details. You were free to go, no penalty or obligation. They had a fearful demeanor and you hoped Daitou didn't dismember anyone involved. Regardless of his means, you were now at the liberty to pursue other careers.

On the other hand, you were rather anxious about your new workplace. You had flashing visions of drug cartels and gambling parlors, with thugs rattling their drinks at you and demanding proper service. Windows breaking and masked men rolling onto the floor, armed to the brim. Ginza hostesses scurrying behind you and asking for help against an angered client. The night before your first day, you restlessly shuffled in your bed, plagued by second thoughts. What could you possibly do for the yakuza? What ghoulish demands would they prepare for you?

Daitou was the one to accompany you in the morning. He showed you to your desk, and you could discern the blurred frames of people angrily discussing matters in the opposing meeting room, separated by a large window. You gulped.

"They're building a new apartment complex two streets down." Your boyfriend mentioned casually, helping you settle with your belongings. 

"Huh?"

"Oh, sorry, I thought you were curious about their talk."

"I mean, I am, but...Is that it?" You gazed at him incredulously. 

"What else? This is a real estate office. Upstairs is the stock investments."

"Oh...Oh...I thought..." You were a little embarrassed. The imaginary scenarios of bloody battles and crimes that kept you awake felt quite ridiculous now.

Daitou seemed to have picked up on your assumptions, because he chuckled and ruffled your hair, following with an explanation. 

"Boss is very strict with our Ninkyo-Do. If you're caught with drugs or petty theft, you're excommunicated. We used to have a bunch of gambling casinos as main income, but nowadays there's too much pressure from the police, ya know? Half of our members aren't even officially registered with the Yakuza, so they can't be tracked. We mostly do stocks and real estate. That's where the cash is. 

Heh. Kinda boring, ain't it? I'm afraid you showed up way after the golden times. Even I'm too young for it. If ya want, I can ask one of the retired seniors to tell you about it. He has a lot of great stories."

You held your tongue from bringing up his frequent killing sprees and just nodded, amused by the fact that his code of conduct didn't register human casualties as wrong. The Yakuza have strict rules of ethics that set them apart from regular mafia. Depending on the Oyabun, or Head of the Family, this chivalrous way of living is reinforced to all members or conveniently swept under the rug. Daitou's Boss seemed to fit in the former category. 

Therefore your "office job" turned out to be an actual office job without the quotes. Although you were often reminded the people passing by weren't your regular salarymen. Many of them were entirely transparent with you, striking up conversations about their latest arrest, or complaining about the poor quality of their pinky finger prosthetic they'd ordered from the Philippines. 

But this isn't the time to reminisce. The prolonged silence is unbearable and one could fry eggs on your hot, burning cheeks. Kazuya is the one to break the awkwardness. 

"Oh, yeah...You coming to the Christmas thing this evening?"

"We'll be there." Daitou smiles innocently, unaware of the discomfort he just caused.

Kazuya raises his eyebrows in surprise and looks at you.

"Did you...?"

"Yup. It's all fine." The dark haired man nods reassuringly. 

"Then I'll see you at dinner, little (Y/N). Don't catch a fever with all that steam blowing out of you." He laughs at your still baffled expression and places his large hand on your head, departing.

Daitou holds the door open for you and you hurry inside. As you both walk down the hallway of the luxurious restaurant, you can't help the nagging feeling that he's once again omitted some vital information. 

"Can you tell me again who else is coming? Just Kazuya?"

"Oh no, it's a Family meeting. So Boss and the rest of the Seniors, too."

You gasp in horror, but before you can scold him, you find yourself behind the canvas screen divider, facing a table of older men in suits, holding their drinks and eyeing you suspiciously. 

"Oi, who the fuck is this, Daitou?" one of them growls. 

"I already told you before, (Y/N). My girlfriend."

"Huh? Did you seriously just bring a civvy to our meeting? I knew you got a loose screw, boy, but this tops it all."

Daitou frowns and steps in front of you, visibly annoyed. 

"If ya got a problem with my woman being here, I can settle it for you, old man. When was the last time you fought someone?"

"'s that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've gotten too comfortable sitting up there and barking orders. Let me remind you why they leave the killings to me."

The thick tension in the air is quickly dispersed by a loud, relaxed laugh. At the end of the table, a heavily scarred man with grey hair is clapping his hands in delight, seemingly amused by the events unfolding. He glances at you and pats a cushioned seat to his right. 

"There you are! Come join us, miss (Y/N). Ignore those rusty grumps, they ain't seen a woman outside a host club." He throws the instigator a brief glare. "Is that any way to talk to my guest, Oota?"

The man swallows dryly and mutters an apology. He goes back to his drink, preoccupied, and the rest follow suit. 

You hesitantly kneel down to your designated place, sheepishly peeking at the mysterious figure. Could it be? As if reading your mind, Daitou places an encouraging hand on your waist and lowers his head to your ear, swiftly whispering "that's Boss" before going to greet the others at the table. 

"I-it's a pleasure meeting you, Sir." You mumble nervously.

"No no, pleasure is all mine. I'm Eiji Ijichi, 8th Head of our Family." 

His introduction is unexpectedly warm and his easygoing way of speaking reminds you a lot of Daitou. The faintest grin threatens to appear, but you cover your mouth. With enough imagination, this could be the equivalent of meeting your in-laws. This is Daitou's family, after all. A criminally scary one, but nonetheless you've been welcomed with open arms.

"Do you drink?" The older man asks you, raising his porcelain cup.

"Naturally." You exclaim and lift your own cup enthusiastically. 

"Attagirl!"

As the night progresses, the men at the table are loosening up under the influence of expensive alcohol. Kazuya seems to be caught in a terribly involved conversation with Daitou and one of their Captains, gesturing dramatically and occasionally raising his tone. You notice your glass has once again been filled by the waitress and take another sip, satisfied with observing their fun from the sidelines. Boss has a similar approach, gazing nostalgically over the rowdy group of thugs.

He reaches for his pack of smokes and you scramble to pick up the lighter, politely bowing as you light up his cigarette. He smiles at your gesture. 

"I see Daitou's trained you already."

He ponders for a moment, gently blowing a cloud of smoke upwards. 

"You'll make a good wife."

"Excuse me?" You question, startled by his sudden remark. 

"It's hard to tell, but I'm getting pretty old myself." He snickers at his self made compliment. "Soon it'll be time to pick my successor. I have no children, unless you count that rascal I picked from the streets." He says as he tilts his chin towards Daitou. 

"I love him like my own kid, but I'm sure you noticed he's a little off. Everyone is terrified of him. You can't have a leader if everyone runs away from him, ya know? I was starting to get worried I'd work myself through retirement. Kazuya can only do so much!

Then he comes up to me grinning like an idiot. I thought, 'There it is. He finally lost it', but instead he asks me if I want to see a photo of his girlfriend. Girlfriend?! I was ready to witness some crusty body pillow, my hand was on the phone to call our Family doctor. He shows me a cute foreigner standing next to him. Now I'm pretty sure he's not smart enough to fake photos like that, so it must be the real deal. 'How the Devil did ya pull this one?' I asked him. Cause listen, I was rather handsome back in my day and I still wouldn't have been this lucky.

And would ya look at that, it's the miss that moved into our apartments! How's the living conditions, by the way? Everything going fine?"

You nod energetically.

"Good, good."

He crosses his arms and nods himself, satisfied. He turns to gaze at you intently, with a face you can't quite read.

"You gotta excuse a drunk old man for rambling so much. What I'm trying to say...well...

Take care of him when he becomes the 9th, will ya? If he has you, I'm sure he'll manage. But don't tell him I said that! You gotta keep them humble. See, that's a lesson for you too. If there's one person the Head of the Family bows to, that's his wife! But I doubt he'd let the power get to his head."

You both turn to Daitou. He just finished pouring more sake to his superior and notices your stare. He blushes slightly and waves, unsure why he's suddenly being observed. 

"I think so, too." You respond, waving back. 

How would that look on a CV? Ane-san of a Yakuza family. 

[teletubbyinlipstick]

Kiss Me More, Please.

     Artemis. R.

Guys, idk what to say lmao, I've been obsessed with these men mostly thanks to @angel-eyes-and-devil-hearts , the ultimate legend. This one's for the hoes fr

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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  It was a balmy Sunday, grey clouds hanging low, creating a dense fog. You had just been transferred from the states to an elite task force in Europe. Delightful. At 24, you had made a name for yourself as a sniper, over 20 kills with 6 badges of honor to show for it it was no wonder you eventually got sent to higher rankings. 

You just didn't realize those rankings would be in a pack with 2 alphas and 2 betas. As an omega, it puts you on edge a bit to share such intimate spaces with alphas. But, being completely honest with yourself, you can't deny they smell heavenly. John Price, the pack alpha, had a woodsy pine, undertones of cigar, and mint made a head spinning concoction, and you embarrassingly whined when scenting him for the first time. 

The other alpha, Simon Riley, was a bit…harder to gauge a reaction. He was never mean, if a bit standoffish, at the dining hall he always made your tray and carried it for you. He held doors open, a protective hand on your back when guiding you places. He smells of cedar and eucalyptus, a faint patchouli pulling through.

God, why did these alphas smell so fucking addicting. 

Kyle Garrick was a sweet beta, with kind eyes, strong wide shoulders, and, in your professional opinion, one of the finest asses known to man. He was so sweet and open, he helped you put up tapestries in your room (with explicit permission as invading an omegas den could end badly) , always gave you extra snacks during training, Kyle was a true man through and through. He smelled of vetiver and amber noir. When you shoved your nose into his neck to get more, you picked up a tang…citrus.

 It wasn't your fault you usually ended up having to change your panties after hanging with him. 

Johnny MacTavish was the last one you met, a strong level-headed beta with a feisty sense of humor and a very good shoulder to cry on. He might've been the last to meet you but certainly the one you bonded to the quickest. He liked to sling you over his shoulder and take off through the training post your delighted giggles chiming through the wind. He was your go-to movie cuddle buddy, and he always had an open space on his lap for you. He smelled so fucking divine bonsai, cloves and an allspice lavender, anytime youre within his vicinity it usually ends with you in his lap, drunk of his scent and purring loudly. The smell of lilies, cinnamon, and chamomile wafted from you; it was soothing and the answering rumble from the alphas chest had your omega preening.  

It's hard not to crush on him. 

It's been almost 2 and a half months since you arrived. Tf141 made it very clear their intentions on you by week 3, declaring they wanted you as their pack omega. They wanted to spoil you, protect you, and provide for you. The sudden declaration was sprang up by Johnny over a random breakfast at the table. You had gazed wide-eyed at all of them, almost like a deer in headlights. 

“I...um…I need to think about it…” Truthfully, you really didn't. You knew you wanted them. All of them. It was nerve-wracking you were younger, a bit more inexperienced in life and romance. What if they ended up hating you? Or being annoyed at your unknowing? What if you gave them your heart so beautifully beating, and they gave it right back, stabbed through with 4 shiny knives. 

You're unsure if you could live with that. 

So going on week 6 of being on task force, week 3 of confession, you have yet to give them an answer. It was crude of you, you knew it. But it was hard to form the words, hard to speak when your heart swelled to your throat and lodged itself there. Leaving you breathless and fumbling; spewing out nonsense in hopes of adoration. 

Right now was one of those moments you were sitting across from Price, fiddling with your fingers as you both gazed at each other in silence. You knew why you were called in here. You knew they wanted-deserved- an answer. 

"Come here, y/n." Your breath hitched, oh god, his voice. Deep, barretoned words woven with an authoritative spike. You felt too hot, too seen under his intense gaze. Swallowing the lump forming, you gathered what small ounces of courage you could. Straightening your spine under the alpha's eyes. 

  "No." It came out more steady than you expected, and if the raised eyebrow of John was anything to go by, he wasn't expecting the answer. It emboldened you, made you feel taller, bigger than the man in front of you almost. 

  "No?" 

  "No. You come to me…please” And oh boy, did he take it as the invitation it was, eyes twinkling in amusement, something darker brewing in them. He pushed himself up from the chair, walking round the desk to stand directly in front of you. Your head tilted back to stare up at him, mouth parted as the courage left you in a swoop. 

John's hand grazed across your jaw, thumb trailing down your throat before cupping your cheek. It was nerve-wracking, being in the presence of a God with nothing but mortal thoughts to shield you. 

  "The last time I was told no, I tore the man's throat out where he stood." A gasp left you, tensing just slightly under his palm. Was it a threat? Was it even true?? Maybe you read the room wrong. Maybe he was sizing you up. It's not like you had to wonder long. He tutted, pulling you from your thoughts as his other hand swept stray hair from your face. 

  "I find you enrapturing, Y/N we all do. You have bewitched us. And I would let you say anything to me. Anything. And now I'm asking you to please say how you feel. You know we want you, we see you as our omega. But we want you to want us. Do you?” You didn't know what to say, speechless in the hands of a prophet. The way he spoke was hypnotizing, and you leaned into his touch, hands grazing up his muscular chest until you cupped his jaw on both sides. Tugging him down, and my my my did he bend to your whims. Noses bumped together, breaths mingling, and you looked into his eyes. 

  "I-I…want you guys too. I want to be the pack omega” A stuttered breath in from the alpha in front of you had that flame of courage coming back full force. You gripped him harder, tilting your child up.

“Kiss me, please." A huff of air, and he was on you, kissing you so sensually, so sweetly you wondered if you would drown in its bliss. It was as cliche as every romance book ever said, wanton and needy with touch of his lips on yours. And God wasn't it unfair? To have euphoria in human form, holding you, kissing you like you hung the stars. 

And when he finally pulled back, both of you panting, foreheads pressing against each other. You only had one thought. 

  "Kiss me more, please." 

[lilacliquors]

kinktober day ten: fucking machine

pairing: phillip graves x reader

word count: 807

notes: welcome to day ten! i've been so looking forward to writing this all day even though i had a nasty nail break at work whoops but LOOK IT'S MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN

phillip graves was a busy man. he was the ceo and commander of one of the world’s largest private military companies, and he was running back and forth like a mad man. he always tried to make time for you, but sometimes, there just weren’t enough hours in the day. and he missed you like crazy, it was no secret. he knew it, his men knew it, and most of all, you knew it. and that was why a recent purchase of his didn’t shock you too much.

“it doesn’t replace the real thing, but it’s good enough,” he’d said when he showed it to you, and after laughing a bit, you had to agree.

he’d purchased you an automatic fucking machine, something for you to use in his absence. and while you both preferred the real thing, it was damn near close enough to him, you had to wonder if he’d done one of those molds, just for you.

and now, it was time to break it in, and send him the evidence.

he was busy, off in mexico on an assignment, when he got the message from you. worried, he excused himself from a debrief and went off to his private quarters, a bit of anxiety welling in his chest. when he was alone, he opened his phone and saw that it wasn’t a text, or an audio message, but a video. arching a brow, he clicked on it, and it began to play. 

thank god he was alone.

the sight was obscene, deliciously so. you were on your back, your phone propped up at just the right angle, and the brand new toy he’d purchased for you was slowly pumping in and out of you. his eyes hungrily gazed at the recording, watching one of your hands grip your breast while the other reached down you spread those pretty folds, and rub gentle circles on your clit. the sounds of the machine mixed with your moans, and god, how he missed you, how vocal you were, how eager you were.

“oh, phil …” your voice whispered, just loud enough to hear over the whir of the machine. this was downright sinful, and he was glad he’d left religion behind long ago. he could feel himself growing hard in his jeans, so with his free hand, he unbutton them, and slipped his hand under the waistband of them, and his boxers. his hand wrapped around his leaking cock, and as he watched that pretty pussy of yours get stretched, he pumped his hand in time with the rhythm of the machine.

“that’s it, baby,” he muttered, watching the video intently. “so good for me …”

he continued to stroke his cock, watching your face as you let the machine hit just the right spot to make your toes curl, and he could feel an almost primal growl bubble up in his throat. how badly he wanted to be there with you; on top of you, behind you, inside of you …

he continued to watch intently, his heart pounding his his chest as he watched your lips part slightly, your eyes squeeze shut, and your brows pinch together. he knew you were so close to that orgasm, and so was he. he watched your chest heave, your muscles tense, all of your tells in one perfect video. and just as you were about to cum …

“o-oh my god, oh my god, oh - oh phillip! oh!”

that sent him over the edge. his legs nearly buckled beneath him as he came over his hand and boxers to the sound of you crying out for him in his absence. he had no idea how badly he’d needed to hear that until just then. he leaned back against the wall, his face damp with sweat and hot with exertion. but the video wasn’t over yet.

he watched as you fumbled for the remote to stop it, and whirring sound died. the room was silent, save for your soft, panting breaths. then, you looked at the camera with those beautiful eyes he loved so much, and you smiled. it was a soft, blissful, fucked out smile.

“i miss you, baby. come home soon,” you said, your voice soft. then you blew a kiss to the camera, got up, and crawled over to stop recording. despite what he’d just seen and done, he smiled, and he closed the video to go back to his text messages. he hit the microphone icon, and began to record an audio message for you.

“appreciate the gift, darlin’. i’ll be back as soon as i can. be good for me, love you.”

he hit send, then exhaled a bit. he had some cleaning up to do before he went back out to his men. 

and he had a cover story to whip up.

[simpjaes]

I've always had this idea in my mind that jake is very confident until he's faced with someone who can fight back. If you respond to his flirting with heavier flirting he'll just blush and go silent. I think a lot of people write him as very dommy but I think your fics fit my vision of what I think he's like. Like, he has bursts of confidence but he's actually pretty whiny bordering in pathetic LOL but I think that makes him even hotter... down bad jake you are everything.

oh my god yeah like, imagine Jake at some random college party. He's feeling the vibe, the buzz is making his confidence skyrocket, and even tho he's a top-of-the-class smarty pants who everyone thinks is a loser, that doesn't stop him from approaching you.

His sly words mean nothing. You've heard it all before. In fact, you've heard smoother words but the thing is, they came from less smart, less handsome men so...following up with your own cheeky words just to see him blush and buckle at it? What a fucking treat.

You'd play with him all night too. Passing "accidental" touches with eye contact too long for him to actually think it was an accident. Encouragement for him to keep matching your energy, really, but you snuff his confidence out so much. You're so...like your personality completely overshadows whatever confidence he has.

It would absolutely end with you making the move, asking to go home with him. He'd be too excited to agree, and fumble everything he says and does up until his front door. You don't mind the fumbling, because you know it's just because he really, really doesn't wanna fuck this up. "You know-" You whisper, stepping to close and nuzzling right against his ear as he struggles to get the key to his front door in his lock. "Maybe I like it when you're acting like a total loser." He'd lend an awkward chuckle before tumbling into his front door with you, hoping you don't comment on his lame ass posters and just take your clothes off. You do comment on his posters, but also, you do take off your clothes as well. So quickly that he doesn't even fucking hear you mock him. it's kinda cute, actually, with the way he does his best. You can't help liking the guys who fumble, because they really try to keep the mood going. And fuck, you always get the best orgasms when a guy is a fucking try hard.

[surielstea]

Life Debts

Eris Week day 3: Healing

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Fem!Reader

Summary: Eris comes to Reader for a sleeping tonic, but she has run out, so they find other ways to find enough exhaustion for sleep.

Warnings: Smut | 18+ | Minors DNI | Creampie | teasing | p in v | penetration | he’s so hot pls I need him so badly

A. Note: this wasn’t originally going to be smut but I love to spoil you guys soo 🎀🎀

4k words.

My heart pounded against my ribs at the sound of warriors preparing for battle. Mentally, I wasn't ready to watch all the soldiers lose their life, I didn't think I'd ever be, the male whom I could not save, no matter how much I tried.

I was in the midst of creating a basic salve used for deeper gashes that didn't require stitches, the ointment taking effect long enough to fight off any infection as well as numb the pain.

I was grinding different plants with magical properties into the mortar when a familiar red-headed general came into my tent, clutching his side.

I give the lordling a very disappointed look. "Don't start," He warned, holding up his other hand before I could begin complaining.

"Those stitches took me forever and you've already broken them? It hasn’t even been a full day.” I begin to complain anyway.

He walked with such a casual grace, even with a splitting wound in his side, he did not falter. He sat on my workbench silently. I sighed. "What happened?"

"Training with the others, we leave at dawn and some of my soldiers are paranoid. I was only trying to help them take the edge off." He argued and I shook my head, gathering my medical bag and plopping it down onto the desk beside him.

"You're too careless." I reprimand, beginning to unbutton his simple tunic that would usually have armor over it, slowly revealing more and more of his chest.

I steel my features. I've been cutting clothes off wounded soldiers my whole life, it was nothing to marvel at— but the blush on my cheeks said otherwise.

"Careless? Or did I just want an excuse to come and see my favorite healer in all the lands?" He suggests and I flick my eyes up at him, sending him a glare.

"You don't need an excuse to see me," I mumble softly, finishing with his tunic and pulling it off his arms. He was fully capable of doing it himself, and I probably should've let him, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't like the feel of his warm skin brushing my fingertips.

"No, but I did need an excuse for you to take my clothes off," He says in a snarky tone and I swallow thickly, rummaging through the medical pack for something to clean his wound with.

I hated him. Not because he was cruel to me, or because of who his father is, but because he made me feel so helpless. I've been patching men up with worse wounds than this for centuries, and yet he had me fumbling with a pack of gauze nervously like some novice.

Anxiety was a healer's worst fear because a single slip up or jerk of hand could cost a man his life. And yet he made me so damned tense every time he was too close.

I somehow managed to conjure a clean cloth covered in antiseptic that I could clean his deep wound with.

He'd be fine, but it'd be uncomfortable for a while. He hisses as the cloth comes to his wound and eases to the side.

I ignore him as I pull the cloth away and grab the sterilized needle and silk thread. My hand is perfectly steady as I begin restitching the wound. "Stop squirming," I grumble.

"Are you trying to make it hurt?" He gritted through clenched teeth.

"You're the one who went and opened your wound after I so graciously healed you." I snarl.

"Well it wasn't as if I asked to—" He was cut off by a particularly deep prick. "Gods, do you hate me?" He seethed and I smiled slightly. Good, it was easier if he hated me. "I do," I hum softly, almost weakly, tuning out all his hisses and groans as I focus on his torso, the suture coming together and helping meld his flesh back together.

I owed my life to Eris, he had saved me from his father's tents and the men he kept around. I had just healed one of the High Lord's commanders when he tried to repay me with what he thought I wanted, typical male pride leading him to believe that doing my job and caring for his wounds was coming onto him. Eris had stopped it and took me to where his battalion stayed, they were a lot kinder, for war mongrels that is. I hadn't expected it meant that I was now his personal healer, but here we were.

"I don't understand you," He mumbled out of the blue and I crease my brows, but don't look away from what I was doing. "You say you hate me, and yet you heal me with delicate hands." He mumbles, perplexed at my opposing sides.

I couldn't offer an explanation, because I too was often confused by my actions. I tried to say it was because I owed him but, I don't, not anymore at least. Then I tried to argue that it was immoral to let a man bleed, but even that didn't feel right. There was a foreign feeling in the pit of my stomach that only ever appeared when he was around, it was something like longing or reverence but it felt deeper than that, it felt like a connection, and seeing him hurt sent my blood boiling that my body willed no other choice but to heal him.

I shrug. "It's my job," I settle on saying. "You pay me, so I have to help you. But no one likes their boss," I say with a huff, not fully believing my own words as I tie off the silk thread and finish with his wound.

"No, no because you're worried about me." He shakes his head and I risk a glance at his amber eyes. "Of course, I'm worried about you," I swallow thickly, unwrapping a pad of gauze and wrapping it around his torso as an extra layer of protection, just in case.

"And if you die at dawn, if I find you on that battlefield I'll revive you," I finish tying off the gauze and look at him with a stubborn expression. "I'll find a way to bring you back, just so I can kill you myself. Understand?" I raise a brow at him and he smirks, standing from the workbench— which makes me crane my neck back.

"How romantic of you," His sultry smile doesn't ease as he tugs his shirt back on. "Perhaps I will die just so I can see the lengths you'll go to bring me back," He purrs and I frown at even taunting me about it, the idea made me so ill that I thought I might hurl.

I grip his shirt in my fist, silently begging. "Don't," I whisper. "Please, don't die." My voice nearly quivers but I will it to remain steady.

He gives me a sloppy smirk and he swoops down, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek and before I can even get the chance to process it he's pulling away.

"Have a little faith in your general, would you?" He arched a brow and the confidence in his voice makes me think he genuinely split his stitches on purpose, just so he could tell me not to worry.

"I'm sure I'll see you in here later," He says and I swallow thickly. I didn't want to, I never wanted him in these healing tents again because he was hurt. I wanted him to be rid of me and alive, rather than in pain and with me.

"Be safe." That is all I can reply with before he pulls back the flap of my tent and exits the space that now feels all too small without him in it.

The knock on my door makes me startle up from bed. I hadn't been sleeping anyway, the aftereffects of war had taken their toll on my mind, if I fell asleep I'd be reliving the bloodshed, seeing the faces of the men who I couldn't save, hearing the screams and pleads for mercy below the battle cries.

I swallowed down my nausea and slipped out of bed, padding on the cold marble towards the door. I swing it open, revealing a familiar redhead, shirtless.

"Don't tell me you split your stitches again?" I groan, looking at his abdomen where his wound was, bandages still intact and recently changed. I smile softly, at least he was taking care of it. My eyes flick back up to his.

"No, no I can't sleep," He muttered. "Do you have a tonic or something?" He scratched the side of his neck and I shifted on my feet, looking back to my room where all of my vials of sleeping tonic were emptied and discarded along my bedside table.

"I'm out, but I can make some real quick," I say, I was planning on doing it in the morning but he seemed that he might collapse without another night's rest. "Come in," I pull the door open wider.

He steps into my small suite, closing the door behind him.

I tiredly stumbled over to the window sill where plants and roots were lined in jars. "You can't sleep either?" The Lord asks, looking around my rooms curiously as if he's never stepped foot in the healers' quarters before.

"There's no point," I say while collecting the herbs and oils needed to make the tonic before dumping them all down onto my work table haphazardly. "It just results in night terrors," I confess, too tired to put a wall up.

His eyes flick back to me, and I can feel them raking up my figure. I hadn't realized I was in a short nightgown until I felt his gaze on my bare legs and arms, the fabric hanging high at my thighs. I ignore the feeling slinking up my spine and begin crushing dried leaves under my palm, then grinding them in a mortar.

He stalked closer, standing behind me now and peering over my shoulder. I could feel the heat rolling off of his shirtless body, but he didn't make contact.

"Have you tried any other methods, of trying to sleep?" He asks, his voice low with exhaustion. I dare a glance back at him, and immediately regret it. His amber eyes seemed to look right through me, to my soul.

I was suddenly very aware of the fact that we were alone in my chambers, both of us wearing far too little, and standing far too close. "Like what?"

His low laugh caught me by surprise, a deep and velvety sound that filled the room and lingered for a moment longer than it should have. He moved forward, leaning his hands against the work table and trapping me between his arms. He towered over me, so much so that I was forced to crane my neck up to keep his gaze. His scent filled me to my very core, cinnamon and clove and crackling campfires. "Well, a lonely bed certainly isn't helpful when trying to get some rest," He suggests and I avert my gaze and turn back around.

His breath was against my neck as I continued to work, quicker than before, my movements almost panicked.

He seemed to notice the shift in pace or perhaps scented my mix of arousal and tenseness. "Are you nervous, Fawn?" He asked and I swallowed down the lump in my throat. "I'm just— just tired," I shake my head, attempting to convince myself more than him. It wasn't a lie, but it surely wasn't the reason my hands shook.

His deep chuckle rang again and suddenly the room was freezing and he was the only warmth, my fingers ached to reach back and touch him. He leans closer, his bare chest pressing against my shoulder blades. I knew he heard my breath subtly increasing, my pulse pounding. "Is that why your heart is beating so fast?" He purred, the sound just beside my ear.

I didn't reply, focused on bottling the thick liquid in the small vial.

Before he can move any closer I whirl around to face him, plugging the vial with a cork and shoving it into his chest. "Finished." I smile gently.

His eyes don't leave mine as he takes the small bottle from me, his hand brushing mine. "Thank you," He said softly.

"You're welcome." I nodded, but didn't move, not that I could get far, I was still caged by his proximity.

Eris knew deep down he should pull away, and give you space during these trying times, but he's never been good at doing the right things, so instead he advanced and his hands moved to my hips.

"If this tonic doesn't work, there's surely another way we could find sleep, yes?" He arches a brow and I shift under his stare, the warmth of his fingertips seemingly burning through the silk of my nightgown.

"Surely," I whisper softly, looking up at him with only one intention being expressed in my eyes.

His eyes darkened at my reply, and one of his hands lowered, past my hip down to my thigh, to the hem of my nightgown. "And would you, my healer, be open to that second option?" He tilts his head, cocking it in a way that was more animal than man.

"In the name of science, or for our own selfish purposes?" I ask, attempting to ignore the way he was toying with the hem of my flimsy nightgown, and the heady scent of my need for him spreading throughout the room.

He smirked and leaned closer, breath mingling as his lips ghosted over your jaw as he said, "Can't it be both?" Into the shell of my ear. A shiver ran down my spine at the intense need that rocked through me. His hand on my waist moved, to my jaw, my chin in his hand as he angled his head up towards me.

"Or would you prefer only for our selfish, pleasurable reasons?" He suggests and my stomach knots. I willed myself to push him away, to tell him that he was a lord and I was little more than a servant. But I couldn't. He smiled at my lack of reply. "Go on Fawn, tell me," He prompts with a foxlike smirk that sent my insides fluttering with butterflies. "What do you want?"

He waited for my words to come, it'd be so easy to pin me to this work table and begin worshipping me, but he reeled in his most animalistic instincts and waited patiently for me to form my thoughts into words.

"You," I finally manage to get out. "I want you to touch me," I say, shame tinting my cheeks pink.

He smirks. "Where do you want me to touch you?" He tilts his head mockingly and my stomach coils. "Here?" He asks, his hand dipping beneath my slip and gripping my thigh. "Or," His thumb inches closer to my core. "Here?" He suggests, brushing over the seam of my panties.

"There," I plead, a gasp shuddering through me. His smile grows into something feral as he feels the way I was pressing my thighs together, wanting so desperately to have his touch.

"Yeah?" He purrs, adjusting so that his two longest fingers pressed into my clothed folds, just enough pressure to tease. It was an effort not to grind down onto the touch.

"You've ruined these panties, my girl, and I've barely touched you," He whispers, his lips ghosting mine. I let out a soft sigh when he rubs my covered pussy. I ached to get the barrier of my soaked underwear off, but he was enjoying this, seeing me restrain from writhing down on his hand.

"Please," I whimper softly. "Please, take them off," I say with a raw tenderness in my voice that sent the male into a spiral of lust and desire.

"You're sure? Once we start I doubt I'll be able to stop," He warns and my nerves set alight at that.

"I'm sure," I nod hurriedly.

The confirmation was all he needed to hear before his lips attached to mine, prying my mouth open and pushing his tongue in to taste me thoroughly. The hand that had been on my chin moved to the back of my head, pulling me in deeper as he claimed my mouth.

It was marvelous, all the tension that had been between us these past few weeks was breaking, finally snapping in two the moment his lips met mine.

I shivered as he pulled at my panties, the resounding rip of fabric echoing throughout the room as the cloth fell from my hips. He drank in every soft sound I made, devouring it and swallowing the noise down greedily.

"My girl," he whispers into my mouth and I let out a sultry moan as his fingers finally delved between my dripping folds.

"Eris," I sighed as his thumb pressed onto my clit. My hands came to his shoulders, digging my nails into the bare skin as he pushed my nightgown up my thighs, bunching it at my hips.

His middle finger traced lazy circles around my neglected entrance and I shivered. "No, no Eris," I panted out and his hand immediately retracted. I grabbed his wrist, not letting him get far.

"What's wrong?" He asks with furrowed brows and I shake my head.

"I want your cock," I beg softly and I swore for a moment his eyes went golden. "I don't want to wait, I need you inside of me," I say, my pleas falling from my lips shamelessly.

"Turn around then," He ordered and my heart rate fluttered.

I do as he says, hinging myself over the work table as he thrashes off his pants and everything else beneath them until we are both bare and needy for each other. He pushed up my dress higher, exposing my backside and I swore a growl rumbled from him.

He gripped my hips tightly, and when his hardened length pressed into my folds I let out a quivering moan, my slick dripping onto him as a natural lubricant. I roll my hips down onto his pulsing cock, my hips digging into the edge of the desk.

"Gods you're dripping," He said, his voice half a groan. "All for me," He smiles and I nod hastily, clenching around nothing as I impatiently wait for his penetration.

After a few more drags of his cock he aligns with my aching core, and without another word, slowly pushes into me.

I mewl loudly as the thick head of his cock stretches me wide, the rest of him filling me to the brim.

"You're so, damned tight," He grunted out as I took every inch of him into me with greedy pleasure. My back bows as he finally sheathed fully inside of me, his hips digging into the plushness of my ass.

"You— you can move," I nod after a moment of adjusting, struggling to form the words due to how he was forming my walls around him, molding me to fit him.

"Tap the desk twice if it's too much, yeah?" He says and I nod in understanding.

He then begins to slowly pull out, then thrust back in, stuffing himself back inside of me.

A soft moan escapes me with every roll of his hips, his speed steadily increasing. He grew faster and faster, rougher until the table was creaking breath the weight and my thighs were pressing into the sharp edges of it. But I barely felt the pain, too caught up in the pleasure of his thick cock buried inside of me.

He finally set on a brutal pace, his length dragging through my walls and toying with that sensitive spot that left me a drooling, whining mess. My body bounced against the cold table painfully, but it was all pleasure when it came to him. "Eris," I gasped and he threw his head back, his fingers digging into the skin of my waist, so possessive I wouldn't be surprised if I found marks come the morning.

"Fuck, say my name again Fawn," He groans and I do, with every thrust, it was his name coming from my lips. "Louder, I want this whole castle knowing who's making you feel this good," He drawls.

I screamed his name, my feet slowly lifting me from the ground as he lost control and began to push me up the table with his thrusts. My toes barely brushed the floor when he pressed my hips down onto the desk, preventing me from writhing any further.

I arched my back and he leaned over me, his sweat-slicked chest pressing to my shoulders. The new angle made him press into a spot deep inside of me that made my vision blur. I clamped down onto his pulsing length and he smiled against my neck, his teeth grazing over my pulse point. "That's it, squeeze my cock just like that," He instructs and I shakily gasp as I keep a leash on my building release.

"I'm close," I warn and he nips at my skin with his sharp canines, not enough to draw blood but enough to inflict pain.

"I know baby, me too," He confesses softly, fucking me wildly with reckless abandon.

"Come inside," I pleaded and his control snapped.

"You sure?" His voice bordered on a growl.

"It's okay 'm on a contraceptive," I murmur. "Just, fill me Eris." I plead and any sliver of restraint he had left disappeared at those final three words.

"Come for me, come on my cock baby," He grunts out through a clenched jaw, and as if by his command, my release crashed through me. My vision hazed as I reached my peak, my very bones singing with the feeling of ecstasy.

His climax quickly followed mine due to the way I convulsed and twitched around him. His cock pulsed violently as his warm come unloads into my womb, still thrusting and pushing it deeper into me, seeping into every crevice ensuring every last drop was nestled inside me.

Eris buried his face into the crook of my neck, his breathing hitching as my quiet moans filled the room. I slowly came down from my high and relaxed onto the work table, my fingers shaky as I planted them down onto the wood. He pressed a soft kiss to the bite mark he had most likely left, the gentle touch rivaling his earlier roughness.

"You did so well," He praised, kissing up to my jaw. My heart swelled at the intimate movement, the kissing somehow seeming more damning than what took place only moments ago.

Ever so slowly he pulls out from my overstimulated entrance. I press my thighs together at the absence of him and he guides me away from the desk, into his arms as he swoops me up bridal style. My eyes droop with exhaustion as I burrow into his warm chest.

"No sleeping yet, I'm going to get you cleaned up first," He ordered and I let out a low whine in protest and he chuckled, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to my forehead, then one to the tip of my nose, then finally my lips. Weakly I kissed back, my hand coming up to kiss cheek. He bit my lower lip and I smiled at the sensation.

He pulled back and I looked up at him adoringly. "You keep staring at me like that and we're definitely not sleeping tonight," He said and I smirked but averted my gaze and leaned onto his shoulder, allowing him to carry me into my bathing chambers where he drew me a hot bath and cleaned me up.

We both slept in each other's arms last night, a deep slumber encasing us, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't have any nightmares, not when Eris's arms kept me warm throughout the night, reminding me I was safe now.

Comment an “🧡” to be added to the Eris Week tag list!

Eris Week Tag List: @adharanotfound @mp-littlebit @its-me-meg @olive-main @bookwormysblog @inurus @iwishiwasaprincess @randomgurl2326 @tigerlily00 @i-know-i-can @bubybubsters @booklover0318 @lalaluch @hallabongy @paintedbyshadows @ninthcircleofprythian @chasing-autumns-chill @deepestmentalitypersona @myromanempiree

[mariasont]

Our Minds Entwined------------------------

ch 1, ch 2

Aaron Hotchner x Original Character x Spencer Reid

in which jason gideon's daughter joins the fbi as the newest youngest member

Chapter One:

The bar was abuzz with the kind of infectious energy that only comes from a group of friends riding the high of a celebratory night out. In the center of it all was Evelyn Gideon, her laughter a melody that seemed to turn heads and draw smiles even from strangers. She was the embodiment of sunshine—her allure as undeniable as the curves she carried with effortless grace.

Evelyn raised her glass, her eyes sparkling with excitement and liquor. "To new beginnings and breaking ceilings," she toasted, her voice carrying over the crowded room.

Her friends echoed the sentiment, "To Evelyn, the FBI's newest and brightest!"

As they sipped their drinks, the conversation flowed easily, touching on memories, aspirations, and the occasional playful banter about the 'aesthetically pleasing' aspects of her new job.

Evelyn leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, "You know, I've had my fair share of late-night googling and let's just say the FBI isn't all work and no play. They've got some serious eye candy too."

Her friends giggled, urging her on, and she obliged, a little tipsy from the copious amounts of wine. "There's this one agent, my boss, Aaron Hotchner. Oh, and another, Spencer Reid. They're like the real-life versions of those FBI recruitment posters. So hot, it's criminal."

The group erupted into laughter, unaware that just a few tables away, two men had paused their conversation, a knowing look exchanged between them. They said nothing, just an awkward cough as they went back to their drinks.

Spencer's eyes met hers briefly before averting his gaze.

Aaron's expression was unreadable as he scoffed, "Interns."

The laughter from Evelyn's table continued to ripple through the bar, a stark contrast to the muted tones of conversation at the agents' table. Spencer's eyes flickered back to his drink, the ice clinking softly as he swirled the glass, a thoughtful expression on his face. Aaron, meanwhile, maintained his stoic facade, though the corners of his mouth twitched in a suppressed smile.

Evelyn, buoyed by the warmth of the wine and her company, leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting across the room. She caught Spencer's eye again, realization drawing on her face, and this time he held her gaze, an unspoken challenge passing between them.

One of her friends nudged her, her eyebrows raised in amusement. "He's cute."

Evelyn's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing with the implications. "I think that's my new boss and colleague."

Evelyn, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol and her earlier comments, caught the agents' glance and felt a sudden wave of embarrassment wash over her. She fumbled with her purse, her laughter trailing off into a nervous giggle.

"Uh, I just remembered, I have an early meeting tomorrow, and I should really get going," Evelyn stammered, avoiding eye contact with the table of agents. Her friends, sensing her discomfort, offered her quick hugs and understanding nods as she made her hasty retreat.

As Evelyn vanished into the crowd, Aaron and Spencer's attention was momentarily captured by the bar's TV, where a breaking news segment flashed across the screen. They leaned in, their focus on a case they'd been following, the world around them fading into the background.

When they finally turned back, expecting to find the lively group still immersed in their celebration, they were met with the sight of an empty chair where Evelyn had been. A twinge of disappointment flickered across their faces, though neither would admit it aloud.

Spencer cleared his throat, "Well, interns are always full of surprises," he remarked, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Aaron nodded, his gaze lingering on the now quieter table. "Indeed. But let's not forget, we were all there once," he said, raising a glass in a silent salute to their beginning memories.

"Statistically speaking," Spencer began, his voice barely above the murmur of the bar, "the chances of us overhearing a conversation about ourselves in such a setting are quite slim."

Hotch couldn't help but chuckle at Spencer's comment. "And yet here we are," he added, the hint of a smirk betraying his amusement.

—

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across Evelyn's sleep softened face as she awoke to the chirping of birds and the distant hum of the city. She lay in bed for a moment, her mind a whirlwind of memories from the night before. The laughter, the wine, the unexpected encounter with Dr. Reid and Hotchner.

She was Jason Gideon's daughter, a fact that filled her with pride yet weighed heavily on her. At 23, she was young to be joining the FBI, especially the BAU, and she felt the pressure to prove herself as more than just a legacy hire.

Evelyn sat up, pushing back the covers as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Today was the day. Her first day at the BAU. A mix of excitement and nerves bubbled within her, but there was something else too—a hint of mortification. She couldn't shake the memory of calling her new boss and coworker hot within earshot. She hoped against hope that they hadn't overheard.

With a deep breath she rose and made her way to the mirror. She took pride in her appearance, and today was no exception. She chose her outfit with care, professional yet undeniably her.

As she applied her makeup, each brush was an attempt to paint away the embarrassment of last night. She styled her hair, letting it fall into soft waves around her shoulders. We one last glance in the mirror, she was ready.

Evelyn grabbed her gun and badge, the weight of them both a reminder of the responsibility she was about to undertake. She was a member of the FBI now, and she had a role to play.

—

Evelyn's heels clicked against the polished floors of the FBI building, a steady rhythm that matched her racing heart. She drew a deep breath, letting her bubbly personality shine through her nervous smile as she passed through the security checkpoint. She didn't spot Hotch or Dr. Reid, a small mercy that allowed her to collect herself without the weight of their gazes.

The first day formalities were a blur—ID photos, paperwork, and the endless maze of hallways. It was all so technical and impersonal, yet it was the gateway to her dream.

Then, a beacon of light, she spotted Penelope Garcia. They had connected over an online forum for crime fiction enthusiasts, bonding over plot theories and character developments. Garcia's vibrant attire and smile were just as welcoming in person.

"Penelope!" Evelyn greeted, her voice a mix of relief and excitement.

"Evelyn! Honey, you're even more stunning in person!" Garcia beamed, pulling her into a hug. "Welcome to the BAU family!"

As they chatted, Garcia led her to the bullpen, where Evelyn was introduced to the team. Emily Prentiss's firm handshake and measured smile spoke of strength and understanding. JJ's friendly nod and Derek Morgan's charming grin were disarming, making Evelyn's nerves ease slightly.

"So you're the prodigy Gideon was always bragging about," Morgan teased, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

Evelyn laughed, the sound light and genuine. "I hope to live up to at least half the hype," she replied, her tone playful yet sincere.

Prentiss leaned in, her voice low but encouraging. "We've all heard great things about you, Evelyn. We're glad to have you on board."

"And we'll make sure you find your footing," JJ added, her smile reassuring.

The warmth of the welcome eased the knots in her stomach. She was a part of the team, surrounded by legends, and yet, they made her feel like she was one of them—bright, capable.

"Gideon."

The newfound calm in Evelyn's stomach vanished as swiftly as it had arrived when she heard her last name echo across the bullpen. The authoritative tone of Aaron Hotchner snapped the easy atmosphere like a taut wire. She turned, her heart hitching as she met his gaze. For a fleeting moment, she saw the mask of his composure slip, a flicker of surprise that quickly schooled into neutrality. "A word, please?"

Derek couldn't resist the opportunity for a quip. "Don't keep the man waiting, he's not known for his patience," he said, eliciting a round of chuckles from the team.

Evelyn's heart pounded as she approached Hotchner's office, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts seeming to rest on one—he was going to confront me about what I said. She stepped inside, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

Hotchner's office was a stark contrast to the lively bullpen, its walls lined with commendations and case files. He gestured to a chair.

"Good morning, Evelyn," Hotchner began as he motioned her into his office. "Please, have a seat."

She moved past him, her senses heightened, astutely aware of the shift in his demeanor. As she settled into the chair, she caught him glancing at a file on his desk, his eyes momentarily distracted.

"I didn't expect you to be so..." he started, his gaze lifting to meet hers.

"Young?" Evelyn filled in, her voice a mix of confidence and self-deprecation, butterflies filling her stomach. "I get that a lot, but I assure you it won't affect my performance, sir."

In his mind, Hotchner corrected himself, Attractive, but he let the thought pass unspoken of course, cursing himself for even thinking it. "Of course," he said aloud. "Your age isn't a concern. Your qualifications speak for themselves."

He leaned back, interlacing his fingers as he regarded her. "As a new member of the BAU you'll be expected to undergo a period of observation. You'll accompany the team on cases, but your involvement will be limited until you've completed your training."

Evelyn nodded, absorbing every word.

"You'll be assigned a mentor," Hotch continued. "Dr. Reid will take on that role. He'll guide you through our protocols and procedures."

"I'm ready to learn and contribute, sir." Evelyn responded earnestly.

He had been called "sir" by many, but when the word left Evelyn's lips, it was as if he heard it for the first time. He caught himself staring at the lips at which the words came from, snapping his focus back to her eyes.

Hotchner's expression softened ever so slightly. "I believe you are. And remember, this team is a family. We rely on each other's strengths to face what most can't even imagine."

With a final nod, he stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Welcome to the BAU, Agent."

next

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Price to Pay

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power dynamics, violence, blood, death, grief and trauma, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: a robbery changes your entire life.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: This is for @stargazingfangirl18 Siri's Birthday Bone-nanza! Happy Birthday. Enjoy. I've cooked you up some Mob AU+Andy Barber.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The flashing lights fade away with the squall of the siren. The smell of iron tinges the air and stains your every breath. You shudder as you stare through the tight squares between the bars across the windows.

That grating did little to deter the robber. No, he made you do it. You had no choice. 

You look down at your hands. Will the shaking ever stop? There’s blood crusted around your nails despite the frantic scrubbing in the bathroom. Once the officers took their evidence, you couldn’t stop trying to wash away the taint. 

The floor shows the crimson imprint of where the men fell. Where you went to hold him in the throes of death. The fate you fired into his chest. It was you or him. That’s what you told yourself. It’s what the police said too as they wrote out the report. Come down tomorrow and sign your statement, ma’am. 

Stan couldn’t be bothered to come down to the corner shop. He owns the place but is doesn’t mean he gives a shit. The officers waited for him to show but resigned themselves to following up later. 

He had a gun. You couldn’t do anything else but open the drawer and scoop out the bills. You weren’t going to do anything but hand over the money but then he fumbled and you did too. The scramble for the pistol under the counter slowed time. The pull of the trigger put it into overdrive. 

You can feel the recoil in your forearm. The rest of you is just as stiff. You can’t untie the tension left by the night’s deadly end. You killed that man. He's rolled him out under a sheet.

He bled out in your arms, even as you desperately tried to stem the flow with the dirty rag. Why did you shoot him? Over fifty bucks worth of change? 

Adrenaline. That’s what the cops told you. Stupidity is what you believe. This job isn’t worth all that. 

And you still have to finish your shift. You look away from the faded stain on the floor. He was so young. He just made a stupid decision and you took everything from him. He’s dead. You killed him. 

🚨

You stand outside the convenience store. Strange how it seems just the same as it was. The dingy moniker flaps at one corner as a tear rents the fabric.

Customers come and go as you stand on the curb. You’ve been standing there for an hour now, trying to make yourself go inside. You have to work. If you want to stay in the hell-hole you call a home, you need the stingy paycheck. 

You check the time. You’re not late yet. You only came early because you couldn’t stand to be alone in your apartment. Now that you’re here, you just want to go back. 

A bang jars you and you cry out, spinning to search for the source. A rusty old Chrysler chuffs out black smoke and rumbles loudly. Just a backfire. You knot your shaking hands together and search the block. 

“Heard something about a robbery,” a voice draws your attention towards another car. The model is too nice for a neighbourhood like this. A man leans against it, his hands in his pockets. “Young kid. They took him down to the morgue.” 

You squint at the man in confusion. His suit is finely tailored and his beard trimmed to a tee. He stands out among the sagging jeans and worn leather. You shake your head. 

“I heard...” you croak.  

“Sad. Stupid kid, huh? Stupid decision. All for a couple bucks.” He tuts and shakes his head. 

“Yeah, um, tragic. I...” you look over your shoulder. “I gotta work.” 

You turn away and march across the pavement. Something about the man’s cool demeanour sets you on edge. Or maybe it’s the reminder of the night before. Not that you could forget. 

You enter with the chirp of the bell and greet Mauricio as he plays solitaire on the counter top. Your sneakers squeak to a halt before you can step on the cracked tile with the red splotches. You stare down at the festering memory. 

“Tough night,” Mauricio says. “I never shot one, ya know? Always shoot past ‘em. Give ‘em a scare.” 

You tuck your chin down and step over the tile. Mauricio lets you in through the door and you sidle behind the counter. You put your purse in the cupboard by the cigarettes and sniff. You wring your hands and lean on the shelf as you wait for your shift to start. 

Mauricio shuffles the cards and packs them away. 

“You okay? Police were here earlier.” 

“They were?” You gulp. 

“Might be back. Think they just wanted some Coke,” he snickers and tosses the cards under the till. The gun is still gone, probably down in some evidence locker. “Stan is pissed about the pistol, ya know?” 

“Mm, I didn’t... didn’t mean to.” 

He sniffs as he pats his back pocket, making sure he has his wallet. “Sorry, senorita. It can’t be easy, wish I had some way to help but Stan isn’t gonna pay me nothin’ to stay and I got that gig down at Jethro’s.” 

“I’m fine.” The lie is less than convincing. 

“Told him, shouldn’t have you on nights.” He shakes his head as you move to let him past. 

“It’s work.” 

“Eh, it’s somethin’,” he scoffs and hands over the keys. “Whole thing was plastered in the paper and all over the internet. Should keep the bad ones away for a while. Place is hot now. No one wants to get their ass blown off over pocket change.” 

“Sure.” 

You clip the keys on your belt. You back up and cross our arms. You lean again as you wait for him to go. You can’t say what’s worse, being alone or talking about it. 

As Mauricio goes, a customer enters. She wants a pack of menthol and some scratchers. You ring her through as she snaps her gum between her teeth. The bell chimes with her exit and stutters as another enters. 

It’s the man in the nice suit. He stops at the newspaper rack and grabs an issue. He struts up to the counter and throws it down.  

“Just the paper?” You ask. 

He steps closer and opens the newsprint. The crinkle is deafening in the drone of the local radio station buzzing from the speaker above you. He taps the page. 

“Kid was eighteen.” 

You bite down and stare back at him. You don’t know what to say or do. Is he some sort of detective? His suit might suggest as much but he hasn’t flashed a badge. 

“It was a BB gun. Looked pretty real, didn’t it?” He spits. 

You wince and shrug. You trace your knuckles nervous as you look down at the paper. Your nose tingles, your eyes too. 

He backs up and heaves out a sigh. He glances around and strides up to the stained tile. He looks down at it emphatically. 

“Blood don’t come out easy. No matter how much you scrub or bleach. It’s like that Edgar Allan Poe story...” he raises his chin and closes his eyes, taking another deep. “Do you hear it? His heartbeat? Racing as the life drains out of him?” 

Your lip quivers and you shake your head. You flick away tears before they can fall, “I didn’t mean to.” 

His cheek twitches and he snorts. He turns to your stiffly. He comes back to the counter and you tense as he reaches under his jacket. You shudder and peek at the empty shelf beneath the till where the pistol should be. He slips out a photo and lays it down, his thumb lingering on the frame.  

You gasp. It’s that boy. He’s young and smiling. He doesn’t look scary like the night before. 

“You didn’t mean to kill my son? Over a bunch of piss-stained bills? You couldn’t tell the gun was a fucking toy?!” 

You cower and your eyes well. You rub them with your sleeves. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You fucking will be, sweetheart. Do you know who I am?” 

You stare and your mouth falls open. 

“His name was Jacob. Jacob Barber.” He swipes up the photo and snarls. “Any bells ringing?” 

You gape at him in horror. Barber. Yes, you’ve heard of him. He’s no detective. That suit is just a disguise. His business is deadly. His business is his ego. The personal is professional and you just stepped over the line. 

You brace yourself and drop your arms straight. You watch him, waiting. He looks back at you, agitation rippling above his brow. 

“Nothing else to say?” He sneers. 

“I deserve it.” 

He arches a brow, “deserve what?” 

“To die. So do it, please.” 

He laughs sardonically. “Oh, sweetheart, that’s cute.” He puts his hands on the counter and leans in. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m gonna do a lot fucking worse.” His eyes flick up and down and he pushes off. “You owe me and I always get what’s mine.” 

He twists on his heel and marches out. You gulp, frozen in fear, and watch after him. You don’t move until the next customer enters. Even then, you can hardly make your body listen to your fractured mind. 

🚨

There is no coming back. Thing’s don’t get better. You don’t calm down. You don’t sleep. You barely eat.  

All you can think about is the blood gushing from that boy’s chest. When you manage to close your eyes, you feel the hot stream flowing through your fingers. You smell it in the air. Beneath it all, you hear his father’s threat. 

‘You owe me...’ 

How can you repay that sort of debt? You killed his child. You didn’t have to. You could have handed over the money and told Stan the kid had a gun pointed right at you. Why did you do it? That question is as torturous as the memory. 

A week goes by. Ragged nights followed by desolate days. You stand behind that counter and stand at the reddened tile, or sit at home and rot. You wait for him to come back. Maybe then he’ll just end it. 

Another week of purgatory and your dissociation gives way to paranoia. Every time the shop door opens, you expect to see him. Barber and his tailored-jacket, a gun in his hand, ready to claim what’s owed. Every stranger on the street is just him in disguise, every shadow in your apartment is him haunting you. 

When he does appear, a month to the day, you’re almost relieved. There he is at your apartment door, stood as he was the first time you saw him. Arms crossed, leaning, looming. You stop and stare at him.  

He looks you in the eye and nods at the door. You unlock it and let him in. He isn’t in a suit this time. He’s dressed down, a hoodie and jeans. He doesn’t seem the type for denim. He struts inside and you close the door behind him. 

The air is static as he examines the bachelor suite. Your whole life in a single room. He is unimpressed as he stops by the table. Stan lets you take the old papers. You’ve brought home every single issue with a mention of the boy; Jacob. You don’t know why. 

His blue eyes are darkened in the gloom of your apartment. His beard is thick across his cheeks and defines his square jaw. His features are stony in determination. 

He pushes them to the floor and huffs. He stalks around the space as you stand by the door. You imagine him spinning to you, pulling a gun from under his sweater and firing. You could smile at the thought of it ending. 

He stops at the foot of your bed. The lumpy mattress sits on a metal frame. Beige sheets are pulled to the corners, a plaid comforter strewn carelessly below a single pillow. A used double you got from the thrift shop with your first pay. It smells like cigarettes. 

You stare at his broad shoulders as he runs his hand up his front. His zipper slices through the silence as he pulls it down. He shrugs off the hoodie and spins on his heel. He slings it over the only chair, right beside the table. He looks up at you, eyes blazing. 

“Strip.” 

His demand shakes you. It’s the first you’ve felt anything but horrible grief and self-pity. You’re afraid. You weren’t before. Just anxious. 

“Don’t say a fucking word,” he snarls as he tugs at his long-sleeved tee. 

You untie your sneakers and leave them by the door. You cross the room, staying far from him as you take in every inch. The apartment feels even smaller now.  

You unzip your jacket and fold it over the side of the plastic hamper in the corner. You pull of your socks and drop them into the depth of unwashed clothes. You undo your fly, your hands clumsy and shaking. The rustle behind you adds to the speckle of ember under your skin. 

You push your jeans down and step out of them. You throw them into the basket and peek over your shoulder. He stands at the foot of the bed once more. His hands are on his hips as he glares at the mattress. He wears only a pair of dark briefs. 

His intent isn’t hard to fathom. It’s not about the act itself, it’s the power, the humiliation. You ruined his life; he’ll do the same. 

“Hurry the fuck up,” he barks. 

You pull your shirt off and fumble with the back of your bra. You can barely get a grip as you quake. You push down your underwear and hang your head. You turn and march forward. He shoves down the elastic of his briefs at your approach. 

He’s a big man. Tall, muscular, stronger than you, without a doubt. Even if he wasn’t, he has all the power to keep you in line. 

“I don’t want to see your fucking face. Get on your stomach.” He commands as he peels off his last layer. 

You put your hands on the mattress and crawl over it. You cry out as he strikes you across your ass and sends you flat. You brace yourself on your elbows and whimper. He grabs your ankles and drags you down the bed.  

He hauls your legs over the edge so your feet are on the floor. He growls and scratches up the back of your thigh. You whine and he swats the back of your head. 

“Quiet,” he warns. 

He leans over you and plants his hands on either side of you. You stare up at the pillow, focusing on it as you desperately search for the numbness of those last weeks. It’s all gone now. You feel everything. The sting of flesh, the futility, the horror. 

He lifts a hand, the bed shifting with him, and traces along your spine. He dips along your ass and kicks your legs wider. He feels between your thighs and jams his fingers against your folds. He’s impatient and cruel. He rams two fingers into you and you squeak, spine arching as you grasp the linen comforter. 

He hushes you as he pushes deep. His knuckles press against you and he draws back. He jerks his hand gruffly, fucking your dry cunt raw. You hold your breath as he plumes out around you. Each intrusion is dull and achy. 

He tears free of your cunt and angles over you. He guides his tip along the swell of your ass and presses to your entrance. There is no time to be ready for him. 

You cry out and throw your head up. It’s like a red-hot iron inside of you, burning from inside out. He snarls and hooks his arm around you, smothering your mouth in his hand. You smell yourself on his fingers as the press against your nose. 

He snaps his hips and buries himself in you. You kick the floor and slap the mattress. Your muscles tighten and your bones thrum. He pushes his nose into your hair and ruts again. You squeal into his palm as your eyes bead with tears. 

He’s methodical. He pumps into you. Long, slow strokes so you feel every inch. He’s taunting you. He’s punishing you. His hot breath wraps around your scalp as he puffs. 

He bends his other arm, elbow digging into the limp mattress, and stretches his fingers around your throat.  He collapses onto you, crushing you beneath him as he squeezes your neck and jaw. He has you trapped in his grip. 

His pace quickens with his breath. He grunts and growls against your temple as the bed frame whines with his rhythm. His flesh slaps between the squeaky tempo and your pathetic mewling stays cupped behind his rough hand. 

He pounds you into the mattress, each dip of his hips heavier than the last. Every ounce of emotion; anger, grief, resent, hatred, is hammered into your helpless body. 

He puts his teeth around the brim of your ear and pinches. He growls and you feel the rumble roll through him. His thrusts turn snappy, punctuated by the bite of your flesh. Harder, harder, harder. He spasms but doesn’t let up. 

He untangles his arms from under you and pins your shoulders. He fucks his cum into you as he lifts himself up. His weight threatens to pop your bones out of joint. He pushes his thighs against yours, splaying you as far as he can. 

His furious onslaught doesn’t let up until your thighs and cunt are painted in him. Until your breathless and babbling, head lolling, defeated as he leaves you smeared across the blankets. He burrows in as deep as he can before he pulls out. 

He pushes off the bed, jarring the world around you, and his shadow hangs over you. He inhales and lets it out slowly. 

“My son. My only child,” he grits out. He bends and feels along your cunt, spreading the slimy mess leaking from your cunt. “You owe me and I will get exactly what you took from me.” 

[selarina]

Criminal

("I've been a bad, bad girl, I've been careless with a delicate man.")

-> Yuuji Itadori x Reader/ Sukuna x Reader

Content Warnings: aged-up yuuji itadori, smut, jealously, sibling rivalry, best friend's brother trope, no curses!au, jealously, rough play, possessive behaviour, somewhat toxic dynamics, childhood friends to fwb, bruises and hickeys, cooking, food & alcohol, love triangle?

Author's Note: this is what inspired me + criminal by fiona apple <3

Word Count: 2.2k words

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

You watch as Yuuji grapples and swings against Sukuna. There was always such a rough quality about him even if he was nearly an older replica of Yuuji. Rougher features, rougher voice.

You watch as the Yuuji manages to get the upper hand, pushing him down, knees first, into the brown dirt on the ground, his brows cinching in desperation and fury as he interlocks Sukuna into a headlock.

"Hey," you interrupt. "Aren't you two a little too old to be wrestling on the lawn?"

The two of them scramble, pushing each other away, as they manage to stand up.

Yuuji runs a hand through his hair, untangling the kinks as he chuckles. "Sukuna's definitely getting too old to lose."

"I was going easy on you, brat" Sukuna replies with a frown. "Didn't want your little girlfriend here to think she was with a loser."

"She's not—"

"He's not—"

"Yeah, yeah," Sukuna dismisses with a wave of his hand. "Say that all you want."

You frowned as your eyes scanned the older boy's face. A small patch of dirt was smeared on the side of his cheek.

"Hey, you have something," you pointed your finger trying to pinpoint the exact location for him.

He looked up at you, brows raised as he tried to rub it off. You can't help but think he looks like a lost child just then. The same guy you've seen wrestle men two times his size, a mere child fumbling against his own cheek.

"Here, let me just get it for you," you said, as you slinked your way towards him, getting a little too close than you needed to as you reached over to his face.

You slid your thumb across his soft skin, rubbing off all the leftover dirt. His brown-red eyes were looking into yours the whole time as you smiled.

"There, all clean." You quickly slid your hand back to your side.

"How's Osaka?" you ask, not bothering to create any distance between you.

"It's alright," Sukuna replies. "Been quiet and nice without the two of you bothering me."

"Well, we've missed you here," you say, a quiet jump in your feet as you do.

"Speak for yourself," Yuuji grumbles as he tries to pat the dirt off his slacks.

Sukuna's lips curl into a smirk, his eyes still locked on yours. "So what I'm hearing is, you're missing me?" he teases.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Don't flatter yourself. I was just making conversation."

"Say that all you want," he says, for the second time today as the three of you begin to make your way into the house

-

Sukuna was the head chef tonight, commanding the kitchen as he barked commands at the two of you. Yuuji was in charge of cutting, while you, seemingly without purpose, plopped yourself on the kitchen counter, blabbering the time away.

"Why are you here again?" Sukuna grumbles halfway through the making of the meal, clearly frustrated by your loud, incessant banter with Yuuji.

"Rude," you say, showcasing full offense, in tone and in body language as you jerk away. Like his words were hot oil you were dodging.

"Well, I'm going to be around all summer. So if you have any plans of staying here. You should get used to this."

"You do know this is my house, right?" Sukuna retorts, his tone laced with irritation.

"Doesn't matter," you squint, a glint in your eye. "You're stuck with me."

Sukuna muttered under his breath, calling you a nuisance.

"Oh, come on!" You frown, pulling your legs up to your chest and resting back against the cold wall. "It's not all bad."

Sukuna looks up from his stirring just then, his eyes momentarily flitting to the bare skin of your thighs exposed by your crumpled skirt.

"Yeah," he says, his eyes meeting yours again. "It's not all bad."

-

Later that night, the house is quiet, but you hear the faint sound of the TV. You walk downstairs and find Sukuna eating a chocolate—a chocolate you distinctly swore you bought for yourself.

"Those are mine," you call out, stepping into the living room. "Stealing is a crime, you know."

"You literally eat and sleep on my hard-earned money," he says incredulously.

“I sleep on the floor,” you counter. “And I buy my share of groceries.”

“The idiot makes you sleep on the floor?” Sukuna looks surprised. “No way.”

That is true. You don't sleep on the floor but you'll say about anything to win arguments so you continue, "So what if I do?"

He approaches you, his eyes serious. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor.”

You’re taken aback by his straightforwardness.

“Even if you are a nuisance,” he adds.

You purse your lips, about to say something when a voice startles you from behind.

Before you can respond, Yuuji's voice startles you from behind. "You get your chocolate yet?"

“You get your chocolate?” he asks, standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking ruffled. Your eyes are drawn to his toned muscles, visible beneath his tight-fitting shirt.

"Nah," you shrug. "Don't want it anymore anyway."

And then, the two of you make your way up to Yuuji's bedroom. The door shuts and in an instant, you're pressed against it. And you're come face to face with a seething Yuuji.

He looks pissed, to say the least.

It takes a second for him to act but he leans forward, his lips pressing against your own. Hot against your own lips.

He backs off after what seems like a long time. But he stays — inches away.

“Why do you do that?” Yuuji asks, his voice low. It's rhetorical, of course. He knows why you do, all too well.

"Why do you do that?" Yuuji asks, his voice low. It's a murmur more than a question. He knows why you do this. All too well.

His cologne wafts to your nose — citrusy and sweet, fills your senses, urging you to look away, to not drown in its familiarity.

You feign ignorance, batting your eyelashes. "Do what?"

He bends down again, his teeth biting into your bottom lip, slowly. Pinching down hard enough to make you groan.

“He’s no good,” he says as he backs off again. “You know that.”

And you do. You'd choose Yuuji over an impulsive shell of a man any day, but the game, the tease, has always been to your delight.

A smirk tugs at your lips. "So?" The question comes with an annoying intonation in your tone. Your hand trails across his chest, "I always did like the brooding—" Your fingers trail. "Impulsive." Another trail. "Leather jacket type."

It lingers now above his belt. But you're too slow. His hand catches yours firmly, pinning you against the door with a force and sound that makes you wonder if Sukuna can hear you through the thin walls.

He kisses you, deep and wet, in the way he knows you like, leaving you breathless. Normally, you'd wrap your arms around his neck, tangle your fingers in his hair to pull him closer, but your hands remain prisoned now above your head

He breaks the kiss, drawing back again, just enough so that his lips are hovering above your own. You open your eyes, pupils blown out with a certain haze he'd never get tired of seeing, blinking up at him expectantly as you wait for him to kiss you again.

He breaks the kiss, drawing back just enough to hover above your lips. Your eyes open, pupils blown with a haze he never tires of seeing.

You blink up at him expectantly, waiting for him to kiss you again.

But he doesn't. He hovers there.

He likes to tease too.

You've always had the upper hand in whatever the two of you seem to have. He knows this. You know this. Hell, it's the first thing his brother told him when he met you. But there are times. Times when he likes to balance the scales. Just to see what you feel like.

When you realize he's not going to kiss you, you lean up, trying to close the distance, but he moves out of reach at the last second, leaving you pouting. He thinks that seeing you pout is almost enough for him to give you what you want.

"Still interested in my brother?" he asks, his voice teasing but laced with something serious.

You take the cue. "Who again?" you reply, looking up at him with a dazed smile.

He grins, his grip loosening around your wrists. You lower your hands, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to you. This time, he doesn't pull away. He kisses you, feeling you against his lips.

It doesn't take much for him to have you desperate and moaning, a testament to the months of practice since that first time in Sukuna's dingy car.

His fingers find their way inside you, curling against the spot that makes your eyes roll back.

You struggle to stay upright, one leg bent awkwardly to make space for his arm, your hands clutching at him for support—one on his shoulder, the other pulling his hair.

You're dripping down his wrist, whining as you cup his face, forcing him to look at you.

You start dripping down on his wrist now as you whine. Your hand leaves his hair to cup in his face, to make him look at you.

His eyes, when they look up at you, are as dazed as yours, smitten in a way that makes your heartache.

Your thighs tremble, and you whine again, begging him to fuck you. He nods, urging you to jump, his hands gripping beneath your thighs as he carries you to the bed.

He moves you to your knees and thrusts into you from behind, hard and deep, with his chest against your sweaty back. You come with your cheek pressed into the mattress, barely able to mumble his name into the sheets.

Your hands loosen up against the sheet as he flips you over, pushing your knees up to your chest, as he slides back inside you.

He makes you come again, this time hearing his name leave your mouth clear and debauched — your hands laced with his, as he kisses you one last time before finally letting go.

-

You shower first. The hot water runs down your body, revealing new bruises and hickeys like invisible tattoos come to life. You trace them with your fingers, smiling.

You wrap yourself in a towel and peek out, the chill of his room slapping your face with overwhelming intensity.

"Hey," you say, as he looks up from his phone, lounging on the bed.

"What's up?"

"Pass me my clothes. They're in the red bag," you point to the large bag on the floor, your gesture languid.

He rolls off the bed, unzipping the bag and rummaging through it. "Anything specific you need?"

"Nah," you shrug. "Just shorts, something baggy for a top, and my underwear, please."

You close the door, leaving it slightly ajar, finding it too cold to stand by it.

Moments later, you hear a knock. You smile despite yourself.

"Come in," you say sweetly as he opens the door to walk himself in. "You know you were in me like minutes ago, right?"

"Doesn't mean I lose all sense of respect, you know" he replies.

You walk over, one hand clutching the towel. "You're still a dork," you muss his hair, taking the clothes from his hands.

He exits, smiling to himself now like a thirteen-year-old boy.

You look down when he's gone. Noticing the flimsy black shorts and blue underwear are yours. But the light red T-shirt isn't yours.

You glance at the items. The flimsy black shorts and blue underwear— are yours. The light red T-shirt, on the other hand, is not. Y

You put them on anyway, emerging from the steam, and tossing the towel onto the bed.

"Your turn," you say, the shower leaving you tired. You plop yourself onto the bed.

"I know you used up all the hot water," he mumbles, mainly to himself, as he heads into the bathroom.

While he's showering, you try to occupy yourself — replying to texts, sifting through his comics, tidying the bed. But then you get hungry, and you decide you want something.

You descend the stairs slowly, aware of Sukuna's tendency to pass out on the couch. You hear the TV blaring. He must be up, you think as you abandon your need for silence.

"Still up?" you ask, noting his presence without surprise.

"About to crash soon," he hears him from the living room. His eyes were not leaving the TV as you rummage through the fridge—cheese, mint, milk. You frown, cursing the lack of snacks.

"Here," a voice suddenly, from behind you. You turn to find Sukuna offering a chocolate bar.

"I don't understand. Did you un-eat my chocolate?" you ask, incredulous.

"Bought it when I got some beer, dummy," he rolls his eyes.

You raise an eyebrow. "I want the beer instead," you point to the can in his hand.

"You hate beer," he says firmly. "Threw up all evening and made us clean, remember?"

He smirks, seeing through your facade. “You just want it to spite me. No change there.”"

He's right, but you hide your smile.

"Alright," he says, relinquishing the can as his eyes land on your neck. "Enjoy, kid."

You swallow hard, heart pounding in your throat.

"Thanks," you murmur, making your way up the stairs again, with your free hand brushing the bruise on your neck.

[reds-writings]

bird in a cage

(pairing: crash!rust cohle x f!reader)

word count: 1.5k

a/n: a bit of a concept fic surrounding rust in his crash era i've had in the drafts. if you would like more let me know 🫣. y'know i love me some feedback

warnings: men being gross, ginger, hints at prostitution, ginger, language, sexism, etc (let me know if i missed anything!)

There was something almost eerie about Crash whenever you got the chance to be in actual proximity to him. Something lost. 

Something broken. 

It made you want to hide away anytime those tortured eyes met yours. Like you were in the wrong, an intruder of some extreme fortitude of privacy. Heavy and asphyxiating.

Despite your trepidation around Ginger’s righthand man, there was always an underlying thirst to know more. 

He was a handsome fella. You’d be stupid to deny it. All the other girls around knew it too and had no shame in chittering every chance they got ever since he manifested into your lives in the extreme bore that was East Texas.  

Ginger wouldn’t let you speak much to him. Although, that wasn’t entirely uncommon since the fucker wouldn’t let you speak to anyone much at all.

Just sit there and look pretty, doll. You’re ass ain’t good for much the fuck else. He’d say. Damning you to be some cheap whore in an even cheaper cage til the day you got ugly or died.

You’d never anticipated this is where you would end up in life. You’re sure not many girls do but thanks to your pathetic shit-heel of a brother who got himself tied up in some irreversible mess you’re now indebted to a gang leader who thought doing you a mercy was enslaving you to work for him for the rest of your days. 

Some nights you dreamed of putting one right between his bloodshot baby blues. God knows the world could do with one less of a son of a bitch like him. Gruesome consequences that’d be sure to follow be damned. 

The night air was cooler than usual, offering a small reprieve to your sun-tightened skin. You’re sure by age 40 you’d look no better than some beat-up leather couch left on the side of the road. Any money you did get to keep wasn’t prioritized for shit like sunscreen or maybe even fancy aloe like those girly cosmetic magazines you’d sneak mentioned. 

The bonfire tonight was a busy affair. Ginger made some big steal so that granted cause for some hearty celebration. Most of the men seemed to be in a nicer mood than usual, but you made no effort to leave your post on an old bourbon crate in the background. Any peace to oneself around here was a blessing and you were gonna take as much of it in as you could. 

Tired fingers fumbled with your lighter, you’d been meaning to get a new one but finding a moment to step away from the Crusaders was harder to come by than one probably thought.

By the look of your chipped nails, you could do with swiping that new shade of OPI that caught your eye in the corner store some weeks ago too.

“Didn’t peg you as a wallflower.” Your solitude was shattered by the presence of a rumbled drawl. Nearly having your poor soul shooting out your body. Whipping your head in the direction of the unfamiliar timbre you almost did a double take. 

There Crash stood, looking almost indifferent despite being the one to walk up to you in the first place. He wore some weathered-looking muscle tank repping a band you had no knowledge of and a pair of jeans that had definitely seen better days. Up close you got to take in just how well-built he was. Sure, Ginger was a hefty man, but Crash had definition to him. Like something out of a poster blushing teens would have of some heartthrob idol shamelessly plastered on their bedroom wall. 

His face was a whole other story, one you wouldn’t bother getting all wax poetic about. As pretty as it was. 

Snapping out of your short-lived reverie you huffed something resembling a scoff, 

“Didn’t know you could speak. Let alone leave Ginger’s side for more than a few minutes.”

In the dim lighting, you couldn’t initially make out whether or not that had amused him, but the glowing orange hue from the tip of his own cigarette highlighted the ghost of a smirk adorning the corner of his thin lips. It had you picking at the frayed edge of your shorts to not look so childishly in awe. 

“You got a light?” You pushed forward and asked. He shook his head no but instead offered his cigarette wordlessly. The act stilled you, but you took the small offering nonetheless, inexplicably entranced after only a few words from the man. 

Those eyes of his tracked your every move as you brought the cigarette to your lips. You tried with every fiber of your being not to be affected by this strangely intimate ripple of time you’ve just stepped into. To not let your thoughts drift to the fact that those same lips were just where yours are currently as you inhale acrid smoke.

You don’t feel all that successful.

“Camels. That’s surprising.” You exhale, flicking the ash as casually as one could in this scenario. You prayed Ginger wouldn’t notice his absence any time soon. Something resembling greed regarding Crash’s attention sinking its claws into you.

“Hm…how so.” He took it back from your grasp, the action strikingly gentle. 

“All you rough boys out here smoke Reds. Hell, you even look like one of those Marlboro cowboys in the ads.” 

“Should I be flattered?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know about all the girls around here just positively gushing over you. You don’t strike me as the naive type.” 

“You know cause you one of em’?”

That shut you right up. Though only for a second. If he could feel the growing heat radiating from your cheeks he made no sign of it.

“Careful now, wouldn’t wanna sound too cocky.” You sassed, looking past him at the partygoers. His gaze felt penetrating and you couldn’t figure out for the life of you where this sudden interest to talk to you came from. There was no chance in hell of entertaining a single thing with Crash. Ginger would skin you alive for even catching you like this, as plain of an encounter as it was. This was more trouble than it’d ever be worth. 

But there was not a fathomable force that could seem to pull you away. 

“You’re different. Than the others I mean. You stand out.” Was what clambered from your mouth as you looked back at him. 

It was true despite its clumsy admittance. Even though you’d never said so much as a hello to each other Crash was different. He never bothered you. Never jumped at the chance to use you like some piece of meat. You wouldn’t say he went as far to outright show blatant respect, but he gave you space to exist unlike anyone else had. 

He didn’t so much as flinch at the statement. 

“Could say the same about you.” That alone had a cold shock similar to that of an ice bath encasing your entire being. It was a casual reply, but between the lines, you knew what he was saying. 

He saw you. 

No one ever saw you. You were a nobody. Just a warm vessel to sacrifice to the selfish woes of pigs disguised as men. You weren’t meant to have thoughts or feelings. Likes or dislikes. You were just there. 

Yet he noticed you regardless and you hadn’t ever brought attention to the possibility that he could in the first place.

You didn’t know something so small and noncommittal could make the sting of saline burn at the backs of your eyes. You felt like every existing nerve within you had been exposed but when continuing to stare at him, he held no judgment. That brokenness that took home in his stare was replaced by something else. A curiosity. 

Much akin to the same type you let fester for him over these past several months. 

The smoldering cigarette dangled from his lips, though you didn’t dare let yourself catch a glimpse, as a large hand hesitantly reached towards your face. The rough pad of his thumb scarcely graced the fragile skin beneath your eye to brace a blooming tear. 

The simple touch was indescribable. Something you never thought you could know for yourself. 

All you could think about was how warm he was.

“Birdy! Where the hell are you, girl? Get over here!” Came Ginger’s sudden drunken hollering, the moment doused in the shroud of reality as you all but jumped away. Crash’s arm stayed frozen in mid-air, his once prodding stare almost muted in agitation at the Crusader’s crude interruption. 

You shakily wiped at any reminisce of emotion, fiddling with your hair as if you’d been caught doing something more than just simply talking. Guilt and fear bore onto your shoulders like a burdensome cloak in record time. You needed to go before Ginger got too antsy. 

Looking back up at Crash, you were met with that same indifference as if the moment was just some figment of your imagination. Stewing in the sudden change would only lead to unnecessary embarrassment so all you could do was utter a quick ‘bye’ as you stumbled off towards the bonfire, heart racing something worrisome. Off to where you’d be reduced back to feeling like the piece of nothing you always were. 

It took all the willpower in you to ignore the lingering burn of the lost man’s stare and keep on toward everything you’d come to detest in your life. 

[beomiracles]

CONGRATS FOR 500!! so well deserved!

for your bash i’m thinking about something emogyu coded cuz i can’t live without it so…

tattooartist!beomgyu x reader

where reader is lowkey really scared like they’re literally trembling while entering his salon because they never got tattoos before! and in such a place (i see some sluty tattoo on their lower back)

but beomgyu seeing this can’t help but smooth their nerves by talking and reassuring aand… sneaking some not really sneaky touches here and there :’)) and rest i’ll leave for you to continue…

500 BASH SPECIAL

#serene adds ✎... as someone with tattoos (who definitely had a crush on her tattoo artist at the ripe age of 17) this was right up my alley ! and I've been meaning to get a tramp stamp myself to add to my collection sooooo hehe

wc -> 1.8K

pairings tattoo artist! beomgyu x afab!reader warnings mentions of needles, reader is really pristine and gets her first tattoo, Beomgyu is a little handsy, slightly suggestive but nothing crazy at all!

the urge to turn this into something more in the future y'all

Gosh, what were you thinking? – A tattoo? What on earth would your parents think when you came over for the holidays? Not to mention, the pain. You had such a low pain tolerance it was almost ridiculous. Despite it all, you pushed the door to the salon open and stepped inside. 

The studio was small; covered head to toe in posters of inked up men and women, wearing nothing but skimpy clothing – your cheeks reddened at the sight. Music was playing from an old radio, the artist was unfamiliar but the heavy beat perfectly lined up with your racing heart. You bite your lip as you consider turning back, there was still time…But then the door to what you assumed to be the small staff room, opened; and through it came one of the most gorgeous men you had ever laid your eyes on. 

He was perhaps everything your parents would’ve forbidden your teenage self from ever getting acquainted with. Long dark hair, matching the smoked out eyeshadow around his piercing eyes, a metal ring going through the center of his full bottom lip; not to mention the several ink designs adorning his neck and arms. You swallow a gulp as you shamelessly ogle the man in front of you, not noticing how he tilted his head, a smirk creeping its way to his pierced lips. 

“1:30?” He asks as he watches the way your gaze snaps from his chest to his eyes. You blink, confused, as you fumble for words. “I uh…what?” You meekly squeak out, feeling the color on your cheeks intensifying by the second. The man’s smirk widens, “you the one who booked the appointment for 1:30?” – “Oh, y-yeah that’s me..” you mumble as you clear your throat rather awkwardly. 

He offers his hand and you notice the tattoos adorning his finger as well. “Beomgyu”, he says as you take his hand. After exchanging formalities, he guides you over to the stretcher at the back of the salon; it reminds you of the ones hospitals usually keep. Bringing out your phone, you begin pulling up the designs you had carefully chosen weeks prior. “You gotten a tattoo done before?” he asks as he watches your pink acrylics tap against the screen. 

You shake your head as you give him a sheepish smile. “Never.” Once more your mind wanders to your parents, your mom especially, what would she say? – Your family wasn’t exactly orthodox, but the subject of tattoos and other bodily modifications was sort of an unspoken rule. And even though you were now an adult, free to make your own decisions regarding your own body, the ways of your upbringing were still rooted in the back of your mind. 

Beomgyu doesn’t look surprised as he studies your nervous frame, his gaze stopping at your hands, timidly fiddling with your phone case. “You nervous?” His question was more of a statement but you give him a small nod, “yeah.” He smirks, “it’s quite natural, don’t worry, I know what I’m doing, love.” The small wink he sends you doesn’t go unnoticed as you stutter out a small o-of course, your eyes flitting down to your phone in order to avoid his intense gaze. 

“So whatcha lookin’ to get?” He asks as he brings out a moveable table, containing what you could only assume to be the tools he used for his works. Your eyes widen as you eye the sharp needles with dread. You nervously bite your lip, “w-well, I was thinking something on…on my lower back.” Beomgyu cocks an eyebrow in your direction, seemingly intrigued by your bold choice of placement for your first tattoo. 

“And you’ve got some designs for me I presume?” Nodding you show him the multiple pictures you had saved on your phone. His inked finger swipes through them as he studies them closely. “You got a favorite?” he asks, his eyes not leaving the screen. You shake your head, “I was thinking I’d do whatever you think will suit me best…” you mumble as your gaze flickers between your phone and him. Beomgyu hums as he stops on a picture of a butterfly. You follow his gaze and he nods to himself before handing your phone back, “I think you’ll absolutely rock that one, love.” 

His words of assurance made you feel confident in your decision and you eagerly nod as Beomgyu leaves to print out the design. – The two of you spent another fifteen minutes discussing placement as you held up your shirt for Beomgyu to place the paper against your skin. The feeling of his hands on your waist as he explained what would look best made your heart flutter in an unexplainable way. 

With your back facing the mirror, your hands awkwardly rest on Beomgyu’s chest as you turn your head to study the design. His inked hands moving across your hips, fingers brushing against your lower back as he talks you through the healing process. Swallowing – your eyes drift to the way his arms drape around you before moving to his face. You watch the way his lips move as he speaks, the slight frown of his brows as he focuses on getting your tattoo right. 

Then through the glass of the mirror, your eyes meet his. The smirk he flashes you is enough to tell you that he can sense the nerves radiating off of you, and perhaps even the tinge of attraction flowing through your veins. “You ready?” He asks without letting go of your hips, biting your lip, you slowly nod. 

Upon laying down on the stretcher, your attention shifts entirely to controlling your labored breathing as you anticipate the sting of the harsh needles. Somewhere behind you, you can make out the sound of Beomgyu pulling on latex gloves and before you know it he’s next to you, sitting down on a movable chair as he plugs in the sharp tool which makes a jarring noise. 

Screwing your eyes shut, you bite down on your bottom lip, preparing for the sting. But it never comes, instead you feel Beomgyu’s hand on your hip as he massages the flesh gently. “Relax”, he murmurs and you can feel his gaze on you, “it’ll hurt less if you do.” Nodding as best as you can, you do as he says; drawing in a deep breath through your nose before letting it out through your lips. 

The pain wasn’t as bad as you thought it would have been. While it did initially sting in an almost unbearable way, it quickly simmered down to a light burning sensation. Beomgyu had told you that the whole process would take about an hour – though he managed to keep your mind occupied with questions about yourself. 

“What’s mom and dad gon’ say about this one?” He asks as he dabs the irritated skin with a piece of paper before continuing. You huff out a small breath of air at the mention of your parents. “They won’t be happy.” – “Why?” He wonders and you think of a way to properly answer. “Well they’re…strict, I suppose.” You say as a small frown crosses your features, “but, I’m old enough to decide on my own. I guess I just wished they would be a little more accepting?” It felt a little weird, opening up about your parents like that to someone you had known less than an hour but Beomgyu hums understandingly behind you. 

“They are your parents, probably only want what’s good for you. I bet they’ll come around.” He says as he dabs the paper against your tattoo once more. You nod, “hopefully.” Beomgyu remains silent for a moment, the sound of the needle working its way through your skin filling the studio, the radio having gone silent half an hour earlier. “And your boyfriend?” he suddenly asks. – “I…I don’t have one..” you quietly mumble, thankful that you were facing the opposite direction as your cheeks flushed with color. 

“Really?” Beomgyu asks in a surprised tone, though you can sense the smugness lingering behind his words. “How come?” – “Such a pristine girl as yourself, thought you were bound to be taken”, he then adds and when you turn your head to look at him, you find a small smirk tugging at his lips. 

“I guess…I don’t know. Maybe I just haven’t found the right one yet…” you bite your lip as you hesitantly peek at his expression only to find him already looking at you. “And who’s the right one?” He asks as his gaze returns to your lower back. “Someone my parents wouldn’t approve of”, you state and Beomgyu raises an eyebrow without looking up from your tattoo, as if expecting you to elaborate. – “It’s silly…but I, I’ve often thought about bringing home someone I know they wouldn’t like, just because I would want to show them that there’s more to people than just their appearance I suppose…does that sound weird?” You hesitantly ask as your eyes focus on the way his lips stretches into a smirk. “Not at all.” 

A comfortable silence falls over the two of you as you crane your neck to watch the way Beomgyu’s hand moves across your back; fascinated with the way the design was coming to life on your skin. Noticing you stare Beomgyu gives you a quick glance, “doesn’t hurt that bad, no?” – You shake your head as a small grin finds its way to your lips, “no, not at all.” 

An hour passes and soon the ink is completely engraved in your skin. Bunching your shirt up, you skip over to the mirror to admire the butterfly on your back with wide eyes. “I love it”, you breathe as your gaze travels along the tattoo, marveling at how well it complemented your skin.

Beomgyu comes up behind you as he, too, studies his work. “Told you, you would rock it.” He murmurs as he kneels down behind you. Startled by his sudden movement you turn around only to be stopped by a pair of large hands on your hips. “Stay still”, he mutters and you immediately comply as your gaze returns to the mirror in front of you. 

Carefully, he wraps a thin layer of plastic over the inked design, making sure to flatten it out with the palm of his hand before dragging it across your stomach. You hold your breath as you watch the way his painted fingers move across your lower abdomen, his touches perhaps lingering a little longer than needed, but you didn’t mind. When he stands up, his chest is almost pressed against your back and you swallow a gulp. 

“You look wonderful, love.” He mumbles as one of his hands finds yours. – He opens your palm for him to place a small note in, your gaze follows the small movement as you frown. Upon opening the paper you realize that it’s a number, presumingly his. Your wide eyes travel back up to his as your lips part in an unspoken question. 

“If you ever consider getting another tattoo”, he smirks. 

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