#bloody knuckles and sweet nothings

[shibiichi]

Silly angst thingy

Context! Vampire Moon ran away from the facility that held him. He was very excited to be out of hell’s grips and was hoping to make a new life! He didn’t know the people at the facility would be more tolerant of him than those outside of it. So when he stopped at a town and tried to ask for help and such, the people of said town were less than kind upon seeing a 12ft tall inhuman creature! Most fled, but some did fight, or at least called the police making Moon have a not so savory encounter with humans. He luckily only ran away with a broken face, he retreated back to a service tunnel he had found the day prior and hid. Looking up at the ceiling, scrappy pillow under his head, he wondered if things would be the same as they were in the facility.. just without the sterilized walls. Same treatment, not matter where he was… he’d try again tomorrow.

Song Inspo: Everything Stays!

Will everything stay the same? Will the differences be better or worse? He’s still hopeful in this moment, just scared.

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon, yandere, kidnapped reader, murder of nameless side characters

♡ fem reader

Thinking about that moment of violent change you’re forced to go through when your loving boyfriend becomes the terrifying man you don’t recognize—and how it completely eradicates the reality you’d grown so comfortable in, realizing it was all some perfectly orchestrated lie.

Rope burns on your wrists and ankles, tears streaking your chunky cheeks, and a poor soul’s blood on your pretty face belonging to some guy who’d gotten a little too close for comfort.

He’d cut him down like it was nothing.

The knife is held still by his side, a shining red murder weapon, dripping on the floor in the growing pond by his feet. He sighs heavily, casts his head back then looks behind him, beholding you through slim eyes, clicking his tongue, “Look what you made me do…”

He wouldn’t be the only one… several victims followed in his bloody path—witnesses who’d seen him struggle with you, kicking and screaming for all your worth, trying anything to get away. You were all too easily manhandled into the car, and could only watch behind the locked door, banging with bound fists on the glass while he gutted other passersby who’d threatened to call the police.

Driving off, he growls at you, first to shut up and then, “That was your fault—if only you’d been a good girl, none of those innocent people would have had to die.” His knuckles whiten on the wheel, wringing it in his stained grip—scarlet on ivory. “If you don’t want any more blood on your hands, you better sit pretty and not cause me any more trouble.”

You sob uncontrollably and inconsolably despite the threat—you can’t stop yourself—you can’t even comprehend his words. None of it makes any sense. You’d seen it all, and yet you can’t understand it—any of it. You’d watched the sweet guy you knew shed his skin and become a monster right before your eyes. It must be some bad dream, some terrible, awful, horrible nightmare.

But even if it is, you don’t want him touching you ever again. It makes you physically sick to your stomach to think you’d ever shared a bed with him—exchanged sweet nothings in the damp heat of each other. No, no, no, it’s not the same person—it can’t be. It can’t be true. What about the smiles you’d shared over breakfast, those times you’d surprised each other at lunch, all the dates, all the gifts, all the kisses, the future you’d talked about?

You’d fallen in love. But you’ve fallen in love with someone who doesn’t even exist.

He makes sure the door to the bedroom’s under lock and a key he stores somewhere you won’t find it. You squirm in your bonds on the bed when he approaches, shivering with whimpers under his hands, flinching at his touch while he unties you, then cringing as he angles your face to look at him—wanting to pry free, anything not to look into those changed eyes.

You hadn’t thought his build was imposing before, it hadn’t struck you as lethal. Naively, you’d thought him cozy—a big chest and a warm embrace he would scoop you up in, a safe place you could live. He’s cold now, menacing and filthy from his crimes—the body of a killer, a cold-blooded murderer. He’s so big it makes the room feel too small for the both of you. Claustrophobic.

He forces your gaze to him, and it’s all you see, those eyes, those unrecognizable eyes, with that look within you can’t understand, beholding you with burden.

“I still love you,” he states, though it angers him. “Even though you broke my heart. I still love you.”

You shake your head, or you try to, but it results in only tiny tremors caught in his hand where he keeps your chin, bloody fingers buried in your plump cheeks, squeezing so hard you wince.

“But it doesn’t come for free,” he seethes with an awful sneer. A type of grimace you’d never thought him capable of, overfilled with disdain. “My love is earned. And after all you did today, you’re in deep debt.”

He lets go of your face with a nasty shove, taking a mean grip on your shirt instead, using both fists to tear it down the middle. You yelp and cover yourself, but that only angers him further—causing him to grab your wrists and pin them to your side. You think you feel your joints popping.

“Test me, and I’ll hurt you,” he growls, his teeth bared at your ear where your face curls to hide itself in the pillow. “I don’t want to, but if that’s what it takes to make you sorry, then so be it. Be good, and I won’t have to take it that far.”

You lie as still as you can muster while he removes the rest—roughly as he goes—your bra, your skirt, your underwear. You only snivel and toil with the sheets in weak little fists, making your joints cramp up—feeling raw under him, at the mercy of those blood-dried hands.

You understand what he’s about to do, and yet it doesn’t really dawn on you before you hear the sharp ringing of his belt buckle being undone. You don’t look, but you don’t close your eyes either—the room is already dark enough that closing your eyes would make you feel too close to death. So, you keep your gaze fixed to the side, to the stale wall.

The bed bounces you as he shuffles. The urge to run bubbles within, but you know it wouldn’t be to your advantage. So your mind spins, thinking of other possibilities, growing ever more panicked when coming up empty.

He spits on your slit, then rears it with his spitefully erect shaft—pushing in without further prep. And you lose all sense of control.

Twisting at the attack, you scream again, “No! Stop—”

Your hands barely touch him before he’s answered the protest with a tightening grip on your neck. Unrelenting, your throat instantly snares, and you choke on any further outburst.

“I told you,” he chastises. “Why do you have to force my hand, huh?”

You gasp for any sliver worth of air, sipping through the cracks of his chokehold, but it’s very nearly sealed completely shut. You try lifting his grip with your own, both hands holding onto his wrist, wanting to pull loose but achieving nothing.

It’s so pitiful that he ignores the effort. Using his remaining hand to continue what he’d set out to do. Planting his tip at your unprepped entrance, he wasted no time before surging forward.

Your vision starts to spot, and your hands grow weak, barely hanging on.

“That’s good. Lie still and take it,” he groans—his lips on your cheek as he bullies through your dry walls, only aided by his spit. “And I might consider once’ enough.”  

You don’t have a choice, feeling your body go numb. He picks your thigh up over his hip and drives deeper—starting a steady pace without letting go of your throat, squeezing the life out of you. Your hands finally drop, lying limp, and still, you feel it deep within—the thrusting as he beats your sorry cunt into an aching mess, then fills you up with awful warmth.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Naoya

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

[lalunanymph]

𝟏𝟏:𝟒𝟗𝐏𝐌 ─── your husband notices everything about you—even the things you don't notice about yourself

˚୨୧⋆ sylus x wife!reader

˚୨୧⋆ warnings: wife!reader, reader has just given birth a few months ago, jealous sylus!!, pregnancy, implied mentions of a fight, injuries, mentions of b/lood, explicit s/mut, implication of o/ral, teasing, petnames (wife, darling, doll, sweetie), daddy k/ink, breeding, shamelessly self-indulgent AND very selfship-coded :')

Nothing ever escapes Sylus’ attention. 

Other than cunning resourcefulness being his trademark which many associate with ravens—his favorite bird—another marker of your husband’s personality is that like a hawk, he’s acutely aware of everything.

Tonight’s date night after you’ve given birth to the twins didn’t go exactly as planned.

While Sylus was in a convenience store, buying the both of you drinks to whet off the balminess of the summer evening, you were approached by an obviously drunk man who asked if you were here alone.

After countless times of trying (and failing) to convince him that your husband wouldn’t be too happy about his unwanted advances, the man in question whose ring is around your finger appears, tall and imposing.

Safe to say, the night ended with one bloody nose, and a pair of split knuckles, the latter being the ones you were currently patching up. 

Your husband is reclining back against the plush pillows, black dress shirt unbuttoned slightly and showing off the deep divot of his pecs. His face is a mixture of emotions—anger, frustration, possessiveness, a hint of concern. All coalescing into one tense ball he keeps close to his chest as the adrenaline from the encounter with that sleazebag still hums through his veins. 

You stow your phone back into your purse, sighing.

“I've texted Sara to keep the twins for the night. I think we're both too angry and might say or do something rash.” 

His expression softens and he lets out a sigh, the anger and tension slowly starting to ebb away as he gazes at you.

“... that’s good. I wouldn’t want them to see me in this state.” 

You sigh again, picking up his bandaged hands.

“Y’know, I did tell him my husband was a big, scary man, but he still persisted in demanding a date,” you bring your husband’s knuckles to your lips, kissing the contused flesh softly. 

Sylus grunts, rolling his eyes, though his expression softens at your sweet gesture. “Some people just don’t know when to take a hint… so, I had to make a point.”

You scoff, clutching his hands tighter. “Yes. By socking him in the face. Very classy.”

Instead of appearing reticent like a sane person would, Sylus chuckles. “Didn’t see you complaining when you were cooing all over me, patching up like a good, little wife.”

His words make a flash of heat run through you, and you shoot him an exasperated glare. “Well, at least you looked sexy doing it. Punching that asshole in the face. Consider that compensation for tonight’s turn of events," politely, you add, “Thank you for defending my honor, darling.”

He lets out a low chuckle, and wraps his arms around you, pulling you onto his lap. Crimson eyes darken with a mixture of desire and affection, his thumbs rubbing circles on your hips. 

“No need to thank me, sweetie. It’s always a pleasure of mine to defend your honor. No one gets to disrespect you without facing repercussions.” 

You squirm in his lap, hitching a breath when you feel his hands play with the straps of your dress. Slowly, he drags them down, touch hot and insistent as the pads of his fingers graze your bare shoulder.

“Really, Sylus?” You try to look vexed, but the breathlessness his touch incites only fuels him to misbehave further. “Defending me has seriously gotten you all hot and bothered?” 

Your husband grins at your teasing tone, a wicked gleam in his eye as he continues to push the straps of your dress down further, baring more of your skin to his heated stare. His hands continue to explore, tracing over your exposed skin. 

“Hmm. I suppose seeing you in danger… really ignited something in me. Hearing someone insult you and disrespect what’s mine… makes me want to claim you all over again.”

Warmth fills your cheeks, and you fail to fight back a shiver. “T-that doesn’t make any sense.” 

Sylus’ fingers are now trailing your collarbone, tracing the marks he left there from the night before.

“It doesn’t need to make sense, doll. It’s something primal. Seeing you in danger like that… and the look on your face when I punched that idiot senseless… It's titillating. I just want to claim my wife, remind you and everyone else that you belong to me, body and soul and future baby.” 

Heat licks down your spine, and you shudder at his words. 

“F-future baby?” 

Sylus’ hands snake to your bare back, caressing the expanse of skin with soft, ticklish circles. Without warning, he leans in, lips hovering close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

"Yes, doll. Future baby. I'm going to fill you with my seed. Breed you over and over until I'm sure you're pregnant. And in a few weeks, we'll have a mini-us growing in your belly, a physical reminder of my claim on you."

His words are soft and sound almost sweet, but the filthiness in them makes you gasp, involuntarily arching your body into his. 

“Sylus…”

The idea of him claiming you again so boldly after defending you from danger turns you on like nothing in this world can. You know you have much to discuss with him about having another baby, considering you had just given birth to Sabrina and Protus a few months ago. But, in this instance, desire overtakes logic and all you want is to feel your husband deep inside you again. 

His lips are cool when they touch your jugular, trailing down the column of your neck until they reach your heaving chest. 

“Sy…” you whisper, eyes fluttering close. “Stop… teasing me.” 

You want this, he realizes with a jolt. You want this as much as he does. 

He lets out a low chuckle, hands continuing to caress every inch of your skin. 

“Oh, my pretty little doll. It’s not teasing anymore. It’s a promise.” His lips touch your ear, the heat of his breath and words snapping the last of your resolve. “And you know I never break my promises, doll.” 

A whimper slips from your parted mouth. The heat in this room is too much to bear, pressing down on you with the weight of an ocean closing in.

You can barely breathe when you exhale, “Breed me. Please… breed me.” 

Your bastard of a husband grins at your desperate plea, his hands gripping your hips tighter. It’s the predatory confidence of a man who knows he has you completely at his mercy, begging for him to claim you completely. 

“Say it again,” his fingers dance to the hair at the nape of your neck, sinking his fingers into your soft locks and using it to snap your face up to meet his darkened gaze. “Tell me you want me to breed you. Tell me you want to only belong to me.” 

The bite of pain pulls a wanton moan from your trembling lips, and you lose all bearings and composure, giving in to the desire which always leaves you wanting more of him on your knees.

“Oh god... please... breed me, Daddy. Make me yours. P-put a baby inside of me and make me a mama again…” 

Sylus’ eyes darken at your plea, the possessive need flaring in his chest. Those blood-red eyes burn with the desire of keeping and making his promise come true.

“Lay back, sweetie. Go on—there’s a good girl.” His bigger body hovers over you, pressing you into the bed. “Good girl. You're such a good girl, doll. Asking Daddy to breed you, begging to be filled with my seed, to carry my baby. You're mine. Mine to breed, mine to claim. Mine to make you a mommy again."

His words whip through you like an electric shock. You gasp, eyes fluttering and body arching further into his touch. 

“Please… yes…” 

As much as his self-control is reaching its breaking point, he needs to hear the words coming straight from your mouth; his grip on your hips tighten, eyes darkening with possessiveness. 

"You want this, doll? You want Daddy to fill you up—make sure you're pregnant with my baby?"

Your nod is equal parts desperation and desire. You lick your lips, nodding.

“Yes,” your whisper is like a bullet tearing through his chest, leaving it hot and stinging with pure need. “Yes, I want it so badly.”

Sylus groans, your words igniting the unquenchable thirst inside of him to make you his, his, his. 

Tearing the flimsy dress off your frame, he digs his fingers into your hips, mouth leaving a burning trail of kisses and bites across your neck, your jaw, your chest. 

Your hands grapple at his clothing, pulling off his expensive, tailor-made button-down and slacks, reaching into the heart of him to expose him fully to your lustful gaze. 

He sucks and licks on your nipples until they become all puffy and swollen just for him, and the second you tell him you can’t take it anymore, Sylus stakes his claim by sinking inside of you—inch by delicious inch.

Your pretty, milky pink nails stab into his shoulders, dragging down red lines across the pale expanse of his back. Your heels dig into his hips, and the way you’re desperately clinging onto him, makes him wonder if you want to fuse your body as one with his. 

“Sy… Sylus…” 

Fuck. He digs his teeth into the soft flesh of your neck, strong hips snapping forward, giving you one powerful thrust after another. Your walls suck him so perfectly, like you were made for him. 

He fills you up over and over again, until every load becomes more painful. But, you can't get enough. You keen, beg, and cry for more, milking his promise to make you a mama again for what it’s worth.

Hours seem to pass, ravaging passages of time that are marked by more cum filling you; his shuddering, animalistic groans for you take it darling, take it all, take all of me like music to your ears.

Sylus collapses on top of you, breathing hard and red in the face. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, his hand coming to rest gently on your stomach, caressing the soft skin with shaky fingers.

“Mhm… you’ll be the death of me one day, you know that, sweetie?” 

Giggling, you use what remains of your strength to twine your arms around his shoulders. The both of you stay like this for a while, slowly coming down from the high.

Briefly, your hand grazes your belly, and you wonder idly if what he promises has come true—if his seed has already taken.

Sylus, ever keen and observing, chuckles. It’s like he knows exactly what you're thinking. Planting a gentle kiss on top of your head, his voice is low and tender.

“I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you, sweetie. I have a feeling you're already pregnant with my baby."

Your eyes widen, and you give him a shock look. 

Stammering, you say, “How do you know?” 

But, you should know this is Sylus you’re talking about. Mastermind of the N109 Zone. The leader of the most notorious organization alive. 

He’s always two steps ahead of you, seeing what you can’t see, anticipating what you can’t expect. 

Your husband’s palm drifts down to join yours on your stomach, his hand gently resting on yours.

“Call it a lucky guess… or, intuition. A few little signs here and there. Besides, I'm not letting you out of my sight until you confirm it."

His words make your head spin, and you give him a look of reproachful intrigue.

“A… few signs here and there? What are you talking about?” 

Sylus nods, his touch reverent and tender. 

Without caring for your astonishment, he lays down his observations like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Your scent has been different, sweeter, a little intoxicating. Your body is more sensitive, more responsive to my touch. And there's a glow about you, a soft flush on your cheeks, a sparkle in your eyes. It's subtle, but I notice when it comes to you, doll.” 

You gape at him, and without thinking, tighten your grip on your belly.

As if he has a sensor on you, Sylus immediately notices the subconscious gesture.

“Mhm... You've been doing that a lot lately, doll. Touching your belly, caressing your stomach, as if you're already feeling the baby growing inside you. It's adorable, but it's also a bit of a giveaway.”

His tone turns teasing and you flush, flustered beyond measure.

“Wh-what are you? Some kind of werewolf?” You hiss, “How're you so attentive?!”

Your husband chuckles again, amusing himself by brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers gently tracing your jawline.

“It's not a matter of being a werewolf. It's just a matter of paying attention to the woman I love.” His grin turns soft, becoming tender at the edges. “I notice everything about you, doll. Every little detail, every change in your body, every little thing. I can't help it. I can't stop watching you. And you just happen to have a few tell-tale signs right now that are screaming 'pregnant'.”

Pouting, you glare at him churlishly, deciding to challenge him. But, underneath the pomp and bravado is an innate curiosity to see how far your husband’s perception can go.  

“Tell me more then, since I myself don't seem to notice anything.”  

Sylus grins at the sarcasm dripping from your tone, and decides to indulge you. 

“Hmm, you really want to know? Well, here's another one... Your taste has changed, darling. A little sweeter, a little richer. Something I can't seem to get enough of, but it also seems to have gotten stronger lately.” 

You blanch, warmth flushing your cheeks.

“You mean... whenever you eat me out... you noticed my taste? That's...” 

Your speechlessness amuses him, and he chuckles, voice growing deeper, laced with hunger and heat.

“I notice everything about you, remember? Even the smallest changes in your body,” he drawls, glancing at the spot between your thighs. “Especially when it comes to the places I spend the most time on, tasting and exploring... Every. Single. Time.”

He punctuates his words with soft kisses to your neck, flustering you even more.

All you can mutter is a cute, little, “Hmph,” scowling and fanning your cheeks. 

Sylus adores your reaction to his words, and leans in, his lips brushing against your neck, teasing your skin.

“Mhm... why are you scowling at me? Are you embarrassed? Are you... thinking about all the times I've tasted and explored you, doll? I can practically see the memories playing in your head… it's delicious.”

You squeak, slapping a palm to his mouth, feeling like your face is hot enough to explode.

“Sylus!” 

He laughs, though the sound is muffled against your palm. His hand drifts down to your belly again, the gleam in his eyes possessive this time. 

The white-haired devil pries your hand from his mouth, kissing your wrist and placing it back down onto the bed. “Oh, doll. You're just too cute when you're flustered. And it's even cuter when you try to shut me up. It just makes me want to tease you more, Y/N.” 

Emboldened and somewhat foolish, you plaster on your faux confidence, egging him on. 

“Oh, yeah? Well, I think you’re dead wrong.” 

Sylus snorts, finding your foolish certainty endearing. 

“Are you doubting my observation skills? Are you saying I haven't noticed a thing? That I'm not paying attention to the little changes in your body… that I haven't noticed how you're reacting?”

You smirk, nodding. 

“Mhm hmm. I know my body better than you, Sy. You may be my husband, but I’ve been living in this meat suit for years. And I’ll know when I’m pregnant. Besides—” you giggle, enjoying the look of faint amusement spreading across his features. “—I bet you a hundred dollars that if I take a test right now, it’ll come back negative.” 

Sylus cocks a brow, eyes glistening with the challenge. 

You continue, oblivious to his smirk. “My period is due in a week, and I don’t have morning sickness, nor do I have any cravings. Besides, weren’t you the one who said we have to plan our family smarter? Why do you want to be right so badly?” 

Your husband chuckles, enjoying your bold confidence. His grip on your hip tightens, and he kneads the flesh, shrugging. 

“You’re so endlessly fascinating, doll. Yes, I do think we should space out conception times, but I never did say I wouldn't want more babies. Especially when they are living proof of our commitment and love for each other.”

Oh. You swallow hard. When he puts it that way…

But, you’re much too thick headed to give in. 

You cup his cheek, gaze softening, though the spark of a challenge remains in your eyes. 

“Fine. We’ll see who’s right tomorrow.” 

Sylus grabs your hand, enjoying the warmth of your skin with a touch of feral amusement in his crimson eyes. “And if I’m right? What is my reward, doll?” 

Grinning, you tease, “A hundred dollars.”

Your husband tilts his head to the side, as if considering your strange wager.

“... make that a hundred kisses and a dinner, doll. I don’t want your money.” 

Scoffing, you roll your eyes. A hundred kisses and a dinner—that’s easy for you. 

“Fine. We’ll see that I’m right tomorrow, then.” 

Night fades and the next day dawns.

You wake up to an empty bed, sheets rumpled and still warm. Your eyes land upon an innocuous pregnancy kit on the side table, fresh from the store.

Sylus is nowhere to be seen, though you suspect he’s downstairs in the kitchen sipping on a cup of coffee. Not wanting to look like you were chickening out of this bet, you huff and go straight into the bathroom, putting the test to use.

You’re going to win this bet, and Sylus will have to eat his words. There is no way your husband would be correct. All he has is a hunch while you know your body inside and out. 

No singular person in the world, not even the one you share a bed with every night, can claim to predict something as mercurial and unpredictable as a pregnancy which hasn’t happened yet—unless they were a prophet or someone from the world of Dune, you think with a scoff.

The timer goes off and you grasp the test, about to smirk and prance downstairs to show Sylus how far off his observation was, when you come to a hard pause.

“...”

You blink, checking the test and rechecking it again. You look at it closer to the light, scrutinizing the stupid white stick from front to back, wondering if it’s faulty or broken.

A languid knock on the door interrupts your thoughts, and you look up to find your husband leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and an infuriating smirk on his face.

“Go ahead, doll,” he gloats, noticing your reaction, the pallor of shock written all over your face. “Read the result out loud to me.” 

You swallow hard, setting the test down in defeat.

“Impossible.”

But, knowing how competitive your husband can be, he’s not going down without a fight.

“And the result is…?” 

Tossing him a scowl, you throw your hands up in the air, caving in so he can pipe down and just kiss you already. 

“Positive,” you groan, wrapping your arms around him. Sylus responds without a shred of hesitation, grasping your smaller body and holding it tightly to his, secretly elated at this reveal. The ghost of his chuckle brushes your neck.

“Yeah, doll? Say it again. Tell me I’m right.” 

You exhale a watery giggle, tears filling your eyes. The feeling of pure love fills your chest, and you look at him like he’s hung the moon up in your sky.

You’re going to be a mommy again; Sylus has made his promise come true. 

Touching your forehead to his, you breathe in his comforting scent, feeling the softness of his sleeping robe underneath your palms on his chest.

“You’re right, darling. You’re always right,” you whisper, the love you feel for your husband overflowing from your eyes. “It’s positive.” 

Nothing ever escapes Sylus' hawk-like attention, and for that, you love him a little more than you did before.

sydawn lore: we have twins together—a baby girl and a baby boy named sabrina and protus. initially, the scans and tests only picked up sabrina and it was literally on the surgical table when the doctors made a discovery that there was another whole ass baby inside of me (they called it a shadow pregnancy when one twin completely overshadows another) so long story short, we have two babies together with a third on the way :,) ok thx for reading bye !

— reblogs and feedback are seriously appreciated !! thank you all for your support <3

© lalunanymph. do not copy elements of my selfship and reproduce it into your own bodies of work. do not translate and share across on other platforms.

[rowarn]

afab!reader, gn!reader, simons a fighter, protective!simon, blood mention, fingering, lil bit of mean!simon for flavor <3 MDNI

simon riley is by all means a "do what you want, i can fight" kind of man. and fight he will. simon will go to the ends of the earth to protect you. and that's always been incredibly hot to you. you'd never had a man so eager to defend you.

especially to the point that simon was. more than once he'd come away from a fight with bloody knuckles and a split lip. 

that's exactly how he looked now, but he also sported a cut across his eyebrow as well. the guy he'd beaten in the alleyway looked much worse, but he got a few good hits in. 

all you knew was that he said some revolting things about you that simon happened to overhear. simon refused to tell you specifics, citing that you didn't need to hear something like that. 

you both had gone home quickly after that. but the sight of simon all beat up, knuckles split and bruised from the force he'd used to beat the man had something stirring in your stomach. butterflies. 

as you cleaned his cuts and wiped away any blood that stained his skin, you could feel the wetness growing in your panties. you clenched your thighs and shifted as that began to uncomfortably stick to your pussy. 

simon, always attentive, noticed right away. his pretty, brown eyes lit up in interest, a brow raised as he watched you shift on your feet. 

"something wrong?" he asked, as if he couldn't tell what was going on. 

"n-nothing, si," you responded sheepishly, tossing the bloody gauze into the garbage can before stepping away. 

simon doesn't let you get very far before his arms are wrapping around your waist, pulling you back into his chest. you can feel the heat radiating off of him and feel how his heart pounds on his chest against your back. craning your neck, you look up at him. 

"ain't nothin'," he says, voice low and quiet, "and i'm not lettin' you walk out of here with that pretty pussy drippin'.''

you swallow around the lump in your throat as he says it. he wraps his big hands around your waist and moves them downwards, slipping under your shirt and pawing at the hem of your sweatpants. he dips his head down so he can kiss along your neck, practically purring when you sink into him. 

he takes the opportunity to slip his fingers under your panties, thick fingers prying your pillowy lips apart. you adjust your stance, leaning back against him for support as you spread your legs a little more so he can slip his fingers further down.

first he glides over your clit, pausing to stroke and roll the tender little bud under his fingers. your whole body twitched at that, trembling hands reaching to grip onto the fabric of his hoodie. your head fell back against his chest, giving him more access to your neck. 

his fingers dip lower, finding your entrance, slick and drooling all over the digits as he strokes back and forth, teasing you with their presence. 

"tell me," his voice vibrates in his chest, deep and low, "what's got you this wet?"

"mmm, d-dunno, si," you lie right through your teeth at him. 

he hums, pulling his fingers away from your sweet little hole to go back to your clit, pinching the bud. you whimper at the feeling, hips rabbing back to get away from the little pain, "you're lyin'. i want you to tell me the truth. what has this pretty little cunt all wet?"

"simon..." you whine. he knows you don't want the embarrassment that comes from the confession but he teases it out of you anyway, "y-you got me wet, si!"

"me?" he grins, wolfish and predatory, "i didn't do anything, love,"

you whine, rocking your hips forward. he took some mercy on you and slowly sunk one, long, finger into the tight clutch of your cunt. the stretch wasn't enough, he knew that, you'd become so accustomed to the fat girth of his cock that one single finger would never be enough to satisfy you now. he'd ruined you. 

"y-you beat that-that guy up for me..." you finally manage to squeeze out of your dry throat, "'s hot..."

he scoffs as if he didn't already know that that was the reason, "you like me beatin' some bastards head in for you?" you nod, sighing in pleasure when he rewards your with a second finger, "you're fuckin' filthy. you think he'd be happy to hear that it turns you on?"

"don't care about him," you quickly answer. 

his grin broadens, "that's the right fuckin' answer, love."

he finally gives you the third and final finger. you keen when he stretches you open on those digits, curling them just right to hit that gooey, spongey little spot inside you. his palm curls around your pelvic bone so the heel of his hand grinds against your clit just how you need to cum nice and hard for him. 

he works his fingers slow and deep, making sure to hit that spot every time he stuffs his fingers back inside you. his other hand comes up, wrapping around your throat to pin your against his chest. you moan freely, clawing at his tattooed arm desperately as you rock your hips against his hand. 

he can hear the wet, slick sounds of him fucking your precious little cunt open. you work your clit feverishly against his hand, helping yourself along to the high you so deserve. you're dripping down his fingers, making a mess of him and yourself but you don't care. 

"'m gonna cum!" you needlessly warn him.

"i know," he grumbles, tilting your head up so he can press his lips against yours, hand still firmly wrapped around your throat. 

he sees your eyes roll back before you melt into the kiss, your orgasm washing over you. he groans when he feels you squeezing and clenching around his fingers, pathetically humping against his hand to work your clit even harder. he slowly strokes that spongey little spot to help ease you through your high. you tremble and clutching desperately at his arm as you start to come down, whimper and panting into his mouth before he lets you pull away. a string of spit connects your lips and you look completely dazed as you gaze up at him. 

he always did enjoy the way a good orgasm had you looking all dumb and pliant for him. 

he pulls his fingers out of your panties and you whine at the loss, watching him bring those cum-covered fingers up to your face. you could see the way the bruises and splits in his knuckles were covered in your cum and had to hold back to keep from moaning at the sight. 

he popped them into his mouth, sighing at the taste of your sweet cum on his tongue. 

before you knew it, he was breezing past you out of the bathroom and down to the living room, no doubt on the hunt for something to eat. 

"simon!" you called petulantly. 

you heard him laugh from the living room, "what?"

"you aren't gonna fuck me?" you complain, feeling heat flood your cheeks when he laughs again.

"dunno, love," his tone is teasing, "we'll see."

ugh. he could be so generous one second and mean the next </3

mwah here is some food my beloveds

[moonlight-prose]

dust to dust

a/n: i chose to combine two prompts from the logan promptober hosted by the lovely @silverskyeline. only because old and belt buckle just blended so well for me and the idea i had in my head. i know i've basically written a different version of this in my fic slow, but i've made this one a whole lot filthier. solely cause this is literally my dream scenario with this man.

logan promptober: day fifteen + day seventeen - belt buckle + old

summary: when the days are long and he's grown weary of everything, he knows he can find his peace in your body. that is until he brings a whole new understanding to the belt buckle that sits proudly on his waist.

word count: 1.6k+

pairing: old man!logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, fluff, exhausted logan, dirty talk, dry humping, he's so filthy in this one, overstimulation, domesticity.

The temperature of his body was the first thing you sought out. His scuffed boots that had seen better days were discarded by the door—his flannel on a hook beside the heavy leather jacket. You heard him by the shuffle of his feet, the tinkling echo of keys hitting the glass bowl in the kitchen. A creak of the couch filtering through the bedroom door—his raspy groan followed right behind it.

There wasn't much that could pull you out of a book when you were settled in a comfy spot, but the sound of Logan coming home still grasped all of your attention. He called to you silently, his presence strong enough to fill the house with a staggering amount of warmth. As if this place, these walls, wouldn't be the same without him.

"Baby?"

He grunted, rubbing his thumb between his scarred knuckles. "'M here."

"Long day?"

The audible huff gave you enough of an answer to make your way over to him. The dark lines beneath his eyes did little to prevent your stomach from twisting in empathy. He worked too hard. Broke himself right down to the bone and yet refused to let you help when it really mattered. You were his pretty girl, the soft swell of love he came home to every night.

To mar your skin with exhaustion was something he refused to accept.

You simply longed to help him. Bear the brunt of his anguish with him, your hand tightly gripped in his. The walls he built were too high—a mountain that only seemed to grow with each new precipice of emotion he came across—but you were resistant. You would climb until your hands were bloody and raw; you'd dig your heels in and refuse to let go.

His face dug into your stomach, hands curling low around your waist.

Silence became the embodiment of your conversations when he fell into his own mind. You tangled your fingers in his hair, thumbs curving along the base of his neck. The drop in his shoulders as tension released made you smile—the flutter of your heart dropping to your stomach within seconds.

He didn't even have to look at you, yet he had you in the palm of his hand—wrapped tightly around his pinky finger where you belonged.

"What can I do?" you hummed, tugging at a particular chunk of hair that always followed with a raspy groan.

The calloused brush of his palm dragged down your hips, grasping the flesh of your ass to drag you even closer. His face now pressed an inch above your crotch - the sweatpants you wore doing nothing to hide the fact that you were completely bare beneath them. The slight hitch in his back told you he knew. By your scent alone; the slick forming between your legs was sweet in the air, begging for his tongue to bury into you.

"Lemme see her," he grunted, inhaling sharply against your hip. "She's callin' to me princess."

A rush of air escaped your lungs. "But don't you want–"

"To see what I waited all day for." His head rose, eyes peeking at you through drooped lids—a lazy smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

"You should rest."

"You callin' me old?"

Your hands froze on the back of his neck. "No. You just–"

Fingers curled into the waistband of your sweats, dipping down beneath the fabric to slide along your hip. What little breath you had left caught in your throat—the flutter in your stomach dropping to press right up against your clit. He caught onto the minimal reaction instantly. His hand moving to cup your drooling pussy.

"Nothing underneath," he muttered, wetting his bottom lip. "This all for your old man?"

"Logan," you sighed.

"You like that huh?" Pushing further, his chest stuttered at the hot pool of wetness that greeted him—your body practically purring with such a simple touch. "Knownin' you're fuckin' an old man. Makes you wet doesn't it?"

"Oh fuck–"

"There you go." A huff of laughter escaped his mouth at the way your eyes slid shut. "Dust to dust. One foot in the grave and you still want me to ruin ya."

Unable to even comprehend what he was muttering, you nodded aimlessly.

A harsh tug dropped your sweatpants to the ground, your legs clambering out of them in clumsy quick steps. You felt uncoordinated—untethered. And Logan drank it down like the greatest whiskey known to man. He pulled you close, helping you straddle his lap, to grab a glance down at your sticky folds glistening in the low light of the lamp to his right.

You spread your legs wide unconsciously, the need to please him choking your insides until you held no other option but to relent. Yet you did so willingly and without hesitation. The smile on his face became your sole reason for why you breathed—why you lived.

All for him.

"I bet you missed me." You nodded frantically, canting your hips up into his touch. Only to realize...he wasn't talking to you. He wasn't even looking at you.

His attention lay solely in your fluttering hole creaming for the heavy cock that grew hard between his legs. Starvation bled into his features—darkening his eyes as they dragged down the length of your body. He wanted to eat you, dine on the flesh of his lover with a smile, anticipating more than just your shouts of pleasure.

Oftentimes it scared him how much he longed for the touch of your skin, the warmth that seeped from your softness. He craved you, desired to know each intimate part that lay between the crevices of your bones. The gaps in your ribs encased around the heart that beat solely for him.

"Touch me," you sucked in a breath, chest heaving beneath your tank top.

He barely spared you a glance, his thumb stroking the edge of your cunt. "That's not what she wants."

"W-What–"

The lift was nearly effortless, barely forcing a soft grunt past his lips as he pulled you directly over his cock. The very bulge you were eyeing the second you saw him. He didn't bother to unbutton his jeans or give into the throbbing ache that grew unfathomably quick. You clambered to hold onto his shoulders—mouth searching for his in the hopes of gaining something in return.

"I want to kiss you." A whine spilled free, hips shifting in his tight hold.

"Hang on princess."

"What are you–" The slow drag of your hips along his cleared the words from your mind—a stuttered cry replacing any other sound that might have come to the surface.

Cold and hard was all you could comprehend as he pushed your body back to repeat the same move. His lips plastered with a knowing smile as your eyes rolled back—a low throaty moan ripping from your throat. The belt buckle sat directly beneath you. Covering the button of his jeans. You'd maneuvered your way around it before, barely giving any detail to what it looked like.

Now you felt every minute carving drag along your pulsing clit, stimulating you in a way that shoved you towards a blinding release. Logan's hands became pliant on your hips, giving you the freedom to move as you wished. You thanked him with a kiss.

"Feels good doesn't it?" His tongue slid into your mouth, swallowing down the choked sound that rushed to the surface. "Gettin' off on your old man's belt buckle."

"F-Fuck. It feels—oh god–"

"That's it. Keep goin' honey." Cupping your chin, he pressed his forehead to yours, the hot brush of his breath hitting your lips with each word. "Soak it for me, yeah? And I'll wear it to work tomorrow."

A soft pleading cry was all he got in return, your hips jerking frantically over his lap—a wave of slick coating the tarnished metal. And he laughed. Chuckled softly into a spit soaked kiss that left your mind reeling, lips chasing his for just a bit more.

"I'll drive around with it." His words burned your skin, seeping right down to the erratically beating heart that struggled to keep up. "I'll lick it fuckin' clean while I get off to the thought of ya princess. Me sitting alone in that fuckin' limo. Stroking my cock to your pretty face."

The image flashed neon in your mind and that was all you needed to fling yourself off that cliff. With trembling thighs you pressed your clit down hard onto the metal surface, coming undone with a broken shout muffled against his cheek. He talked you through it, mumbling small praises of good girl, did such a good job for me, makin' me feel good. into your skin punctuated by the brush of his lips.

"Feel good?"

"Mhm," you mumbled, sagging into his chest with a sated grin. He grinded his hip up into you, pain sparking up your body and forcing you away from him. "Sensitive."

His hand brushed down your back, slipping beneath your top to knead at your waist—a soothing rhythm pressed into your skin. A sigh escaped his lips as he settled deeper into the couch, clutching you closer than before. You knew where this would lead. How you'd wake up with him atop you on the couch, restricting you from movement.

That alone kept you from moving.

"Good day now baby?" Your words were whispered against his neck, your lips trailing down to his chest.

A small grin pulled at his lips - his thumb working a circle into your lower back. "Yeah honey. It's a good day now."

[novemberheart]

{overview} You and your pack navigate through your heat

{warnings} fem reader, poly 141, a/b/o dynamics, MDNI, sexual content, mating & marking, p in v sex, multiple partners, cursing

Chapter 32 <- Chapter 33 -> Chapter 34

You weren't quite sure if you had even been so well cared for in your life. If you had- it felt minuscule compared to this.

Your alpha and betas had set up John's bedroom to accommodate you. They moved your bed into John’s room, pushing your bed with his to make one large one.

You weren't even sure if you needed the pills to spur on your heat. They were doing a good job with that already.

You could tell Kyle was livid. While he was in better physical condition- out of a sling and cast, he still wasn't cleared to lift heavy objects or do anything too strenuous. He settled for stocking the bedroom up with your favorite snacks, and drinks, while also helping you collect items around the house to build your nest with. To him, it felt small, but to you, it meant the world.

The pill looked big even in Kyle’s large hand.

“What if it doesn't work? I'm not good with heats anywa”-

“‘Nough of that, my love,” Kyle cut you off. You were perched on his good knee, his arms holding you as close to him as possible. He brushed some stray hairs away from your face. “Being a bit irregular with your heats means absolutely nothing and I wish we could get that through your pretty head,” Kyle sighed, his lips pressing against your temple in emphasis. John hummed in agreement, emerging from the kitchen with a glass of orange juice. You would need all the nutrients you could get.

“He’s right, sweet girl,” John sighed. He handed you the glass, bending over the couch, his lips pecking yours. “Bloody perfect,” he mumbled. You maintained eye contact when he pulled away, the look in your eyes making him groan. “Save that for Simon.”

“I want you to mark me too,” you whined. He clenched his jaw, his knuckles white against the couch.

“Can’t say no to that, John,” Kyle begged softly, his own brown eyes pleading. “The doctor said it would be alright if you stayed with her,” Kyle reminded. “The smell of you will help. You're both their alphas,” Kyle continued, referencing you and Simon.

“He snapped at me earlier”- John began to remind.

“Because you tried to take her from me,” Simon spoke, causing you to jump. “I don't mind sharing, as long as it’s an equal give and take,” Simon kept his eyes on you as he spoke. You whined softly, shifting on Kyle’s knee. You took a deep breath and grabbed the pill from Kyle’s hand, popping it into your mouth with one fluid motion.

“Are betas invited to this?” Johnny breathed from the doorway.

That would only be fair.

You would think eight hands would be enough. Yet not one of them seemed to dull the fire in your belly.

“How ya’ doing, pet?” Simon hummed. His mouth hadn't left your shoulder, trying to find where his mark would look best on you. He made sure to avoid John’s spot, the alpha grumbling when he even came close to it. You were sprawled out on top of Kyle- a panting and whiny mess.

“I’m hot,” you whined. Johnny's hands were the first to reach you, preferring to yank at your shorts than the tank top you were wearing. Kyle chuckled beneath you, his hands moving gently up your sides, pinching the hem between his fingers.

“This alright, lovie?” he hummed softly. You nodded quickly, sitting up so you were straddling his waist.

“Go slow,” Simon groaned, his hands expanding over every inch of skin Kyle uncovered as he pulled your tank top over your head. “Fuckin’ hell,” he cursed softly. The others had hardly any time to enjoy the sight before Simon was pushing you back against Kyle, hovering over both of you. John stopped Johnny from pressing himself between the two of you, by rolling atop the excited hound.

“Just enjoy the show,” John murmured against his heated cheek. “Yes?”

“Yes, alpha,” Johnny agreed, his eyes already narrowing on you. John rolled onto his side, Johnny's ass pressed firmly against the growing bulge in his pants. You clawed at Kyle’s shirt, the fabric tearing under your nails. You kept the torn shirt in bed, the soft fabric making decent nesting material. His warm skin still felt cold against you, your omega purring softly at the contact.

Simon's hand gripping the waistband of your shorts caught your attention. He paused, waiting for the go-ahead. You wiggled your hips in response, pushing back hoping to catch any sort of friction. He grumbled something low in his throat, pushing you back down against Kyle. He finished what Johnny had started, pulling your shorts down your legs. His hands massaged their way back up your legs, his thumbs digging into the sore flesh. His hand dipped between your legs giving your inner thigh a rough squeeze.

“My mark have to go on ‘er shoulder?” Simon hummed, bending down just enough for his teeth to graze over your bottom.

“Nobody’ll see it there,” Kyle hummed a lazy smirk across his face. His fingers ran up and down your sides, making you erupt in goosebumps.

“Cannae have that,” Johnny mumbled. Johnny's hands had twisted themselves in John's shirt to stop himself from digging into your softness. Simon's fingers brushed over your clothed heat, a small gasp escaping you. You buried your face in Kyle's neck, your thighs twitching around Simon’s hand.

“Soaked through the fabric,” He mumbled, his thumb swirling experimentally. Johnny groaned loudly, John pressing him further into the mattress. Your scent had already switched a flip in the beta's brains, their breathing syncing with yours, the room filling with soft, needy pants. You whined, your hips raising away from Kyle's, your ass high in the air. “That’s it, sweet girl,” Simon muttered. His thumb pressed down, finally giving you the pressure you were chasing. A breathy moan left your lips, Kyle's hips shifting below you at the noise.

Simon pulled his hand away.

“No,” you grumbled, your hand catching his wrist. He pulled away quickly, his hands pushing yours back down towards Kyle.

“Be a good girl,” Simon warned, his hand heading back between your thighs. Simon's finger wrapped around your panties beginning to pull them down your legs. Slow enough to torture you, but fast enough to give you hope. Kyle's hand collided with your bottom made you jolt, your shriek being cut off with a moan. His hands pressed against you, stopping the sting before it had even arrived.

“Couldn’t help it,” Kyle apologized against your ear. “Should see my bloody view,” he grumbled, his teeth catching your ear. His hands flung to your thighs, spreading them apart for Simon. The sudden movement leaves you completely exposed. Johnny ran his fingers over Kyles, his mouth watering at the way you pooled around Kyles fingers due to his strong grip.

A large hand rested on Johnny’s lower stomach, making his breath hitch. His hips instinctively rolled upwards, the tightness in his boxers bordering on painful.

“Doing so good, hound,” John murmured in his ear, his hand finally dipping below his waistband. He made no move to wrap around his cock, instead favoring scratching up Johnny’s thighs.

Simon's thumb slipped between your folds. His thumb running up and down your bundle of nerves slowly, applying more pressure than your body may have been ready for. You gasped out a moan, your hips trying to pull away. You would've succeeded had Kyle not held you in place.

“Too much,” you whined. You bit down on Kyle’s shoulder, growling against his skin.

“So sensitive,” Kyle groaned, against your cheek. He raised his head, biting you back.

“Simon,” you whimpered out. You were torn. One second you were pushing yourself back against his hand, the next moment you were trying to squirm out of Kyle’s grasp. “Kyle,” you added. The beta groaned underneath you, giving your thighs a squeeze.

“What do you want me to do, lovie?” he hummed,

“Make him slow down,” you panted, your eyes nearly in the back of your head.

“Just take what your alpha has to give you, love,” Kyle whispered against your head. Your mouth fell open at his words, the pressure in your lower stomach building at a rapid pace.

“I’m not ready to cum,” you babbled. That made Simon stop. You could feel him before you could see him, his large body draping over you and Kyle.

“Not ready?” he mumbled. His lips pressed against your heated cheek, breathing in your scent deeply. You quickly nodded your head. “How about comin’ around a cock?” he mumbled. His words affected everyone, each of them letting out a groan or a gasp. You could only manage a nod. “Words, sweet girl,” He grumbled.

“Yes, please,” you panted.

“Might know someone who could help you with that,” Simon mumbled, his scruff rubbing against your shoulder as he pulled you up by wrapping a strong arm around your middle. One of his hands rested against your stomach, your thighs shaking around Kyle’s hips. Simon's other grabbed yours, guiding them to the band of Kyle’s sweats. Kyle's breathing picked up, his chest rising and falling quickly. Your hands ran over the dark curly hair on his lower stomach, your fingers curling into the fabric of his pants. Kyle groaned as he was finally set free, the tip of his cock resting against his belly button. Your mouth fell open again. He was intimidatingly long. While he didn't match John or Johnny in girth, no spots inside you would go untouched after him.

“Kyky,” you whined, growing nervous. He shushed you gently, leaning up to hold you against his chest. Hands were on you in an instant, rubbing soothing circles against your soft skin.

“We’ll go as slow as you need to, princess,” Kyle murmured, brushing your hair away from your heated cheeks. “If you still want to,” he added, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. You nodded your head. You did want to continue, you just didn't want to make a fool out of yourself.

“Slow?” you mumbled back.

“Slow,” he affirmed. You rested your head against his shoulder, your eyes meeting Johnny’s. He leaned forward, his lips capturing yours. Kyle whined when Simon wrapped a large hand around his cock, tapping his tip against your soaked folds making you gasp. Johnny let go of you, settling back against John, both men watching you for any signs of discomfort- or pleasure. Kyle's hands remained on you, keeping you grounded and soothed. Simon guided him to your entrance, precum already staining your pretty folds. He pushed in gently, both of you gasping as he pushed past your tight seal.

“Fuck,” Kyle grumbled, his lips pressing against yours to distract him from the warmth enveloping his tip. You moaned against him, your hips pushing themselves down. You don't know what you were worried about. Every inch was pure bliss as he rolled his hips against yours, slowly splitting you open. You pulled away, sitting up suddenly. The new angle giving everyone a perfect view of his throbbing cock losing itself inside you. You whined, your claws scratching against his hips, trying not to break skin. Your eyes trained between your thighs, Simon's hands holding your hips steady. You were nearly there, just a few more inches. “Fuckin’ perfect,” Kyle growled, his thumb running over your clit, using the same movement Simon had. You tightened even more around him, the action making him stop. “Open up for me baby,” he purred, taking all the power away from you as he rested his hands on your side, pushing you down further on his cock.

You were praised when you finally sunk down, your cunt nestled against his sparse curly hair.

“So deep,” you whined, your knees already beginning to give up.

“So deep,” Kyle repeated. If he wasn't so enamored with the sight before him, his eyes would be in the back of his skull. You fit him like a fucking glove, every inch and vein finding the perfect home in your suffocating heat. He couldn't stop himself anymore. He sat up, strong arms wrapping around your middle, using the leverage to pull you down against his chest, his hips rolling out of you in one fluid motion. You didn't have time to dwell on the suddenly empty feeling, because he rolled back into you making your vision go spotty. You cursed, your nails digging into his arms causing the skin to break. Neither one of you could care. You joined his rhythm quickly, the two of you panting and whining like animals. Your hands pressed against his chest, pushing his back down against the mattress, fucking yourself on his cock.

The room was silent besides the two of you, everyone too enraptured to even move.

“Just like that, lovie,” Kyled encouraged, using his hips to guide you when you lost your rhythm. You were begging now. Physically and verbally.

“Please, Ky,” you nearly sobbed. “I need”-

You cut yourself off with a moan, not able to focus on anything other than the drag of his cock against your walls. Your lower half had given out, your forehead resting against his shoulder. He didn't seem to mind though, his hips picking up right where you left off- better actually. Simon's hand rested on your stomach, slowly traveling lower like he was trying to please you without interrupting. His middle finger rolling over your clit was the final nail in your coffin.

You came hard- all of your senses shutting off. Pleasure coursing through your veins with such relentlessness you couldn't do anything but sob out.

“No, no, no,” Kyle growled as your hips tried to escape his grasp, he held you down, his own hips leaving the bed with how deep he buried himself inside you. The only thing you could feel was sudden warmth unloading itself inside you. It wasn't a knot, but it was enough to satiate the clawing urge inside you, your cunt absorbing as much as it could from him. He flopped against the bed, holding you close. He had never felt so lifeless yet alive at the same time. His own body quivered at the intense high.

You couldn't feel anything except Kyle. You couldn't quite tell where you ended and he started. Every twitch, groan, and mumble felt like it could be yours. You could feel lips against you. A pair on the back of your arms, a pair on your shoulder, and a pair on your forehead. You could instantly recognize John’s hand on your lower back, your omega purring happily deep within the chamber of your chest. His hand rested against your cheek, his thumb running under your wet eyes.

“You both did so good,” he murmured, making both of you preen. They were shocked actually, that Kyle was able to perform as well as he had, given the condition he was in just a couple of weeks ago. Simon rested against the two of you, half on his side, half draped over you.

A lazy smile etched your face when Johnny began to kiss against your jaw.

“Mac,” you mumbled. Your leg extended forward, wanting to be near him. Instead, your leg skimmed against a wet spot in his boxers. He grumbled quietly, a hazy look in his eyes. You peered down, coming in contact with the mess he had made in his boxers. Wasn't his fault John was stroking him in time with Kyle’s thrusts. You whined at the loss, pulling at his boxers, thick, white ropes staining his skin and the red fabric.

“Why’re you whining?” he questioned, teeth nipping just below your ear.

“Could’ve come in me,” you whined, looking at him through your wet lashes. He groaned, his forehead bumping against yours.

“You were a bit full at the moment, peaches,” he reminded, his lips quirking. Kyle’s chest rumbled with a chuckle. “I can give ya’ more if you stop pouting,” Johnny soothed, his hand flattening over your back. “As long as it’s alright with the alphas,” Johnny smirked, rubbing his cheek against yours, coming face to face with Simon.

Simon's eyes scanned over to John like it was a decision that needed discussing.

“She needs all the prep she can get for you,” John hummed. Simon grinned like a shark. You were too high for the words to even register.

“Have at it, pup,” Simon sighed. Johnny breathed in relief, grabbing you by your thighs and maneuvering you to spot he had previously occupied. He rested over you, peeling off his shirt, which you quickly stole out of his hands, rubbing your cheek against. He smiled down at you, kicking his boxers to the floor. He pressed your knees together, kissing each of them before hooking your legs onto his arms. You giggled, the stretch actually feeling quite nice on your achy legs.

He ran the head of his cock through your folds, Kyle's spend already beginning to seep out of you. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he began to bully himself inside of you.

“Steamin’ hell, you even open her up Garrick?” Johnny groaned through gritted teeth. You accepted him greedily, your walls clamping around him like a vice. Kyle was too blissed out to be mad, Simon speaking for him when his hand collided with Johnny’s ass. His hips stuttered, a not-so-surprising groan escaping his lips. If he wasn't spreading you out in all the right places you would've laughed. “Fuckin’”- Johnny cut himself off, his mouth attaching to your neck and chest, leaving teeth marks and slobber in his path. “Mine,” he growled against your ear, your head being pushed into the soft pillows. His hips were harsh, the force of it making the headboard collide with the wall. Simon's hand rested on Johnny’s neck, pulling the eager mouth away from you.

It was then he saw it. The perfect spot for his mark. It was across from where John wanted to put his. High enough on your neck where it could be seen with almost any shirt and had just enough room so the mark could be seen from behind and front. His mouth watered at the sight. Must've been why John picked a similar place.

“Don’t stop,” Simon growled against Johnny’s temple. Simon leaned over his teeth nipping at the skin. You had an immediate reaction judging by the way Johnny groaned.

“Alpha,” you gasped, your hands not being able to decide between gripping onto him or Johnny. You settled for both, throwing your head as far back as you could to allow him the space he needed.

He ran his tongue over the sensitive spot, taking a deep breath.

His fangs sunk into the skin with ease.

Hi friends! Hope you enjoyed! SIMON FINALLY DID IT! See you 🫵 in four days for chapter 34! 🧡

[manicpixievixen]

Open arms

Jason todd x gn!reader one-shot

Warnings: None really, the reader is still referred to as smaller than Jason and wearing a 'small pajama set', but other than that, it can be read as any gender.

Summary: Another one of Redhoods visits to your place, and he was always welcome. You give Jason a little talk about what you are to each other.

Wc: 2.1k masterlist

Jason had been stopping by your apartment for so long you could barely pinpoint the day it'd started. Like clockwork at increasingly late hours of the night, he would climb in through a purposefully open window and make his way inside. Sometimes getting caught in the drapes and hoping you hadn't noticed him clumsily swatting them away like a cat with its claw stuck in the window screen.

The memory of how this routine started was almost blurry in your head. It was so normal now, expected even. You'd known Jason separately from redhood for a while. One night, he couldn’t be bothered to go home and change just to keep his alter ego in hiding. You'd freaked out at the supposed stranger in your house before he took off the mask. And then it just kept happening.

Tonight was no different. In fact, if he hadn't shown up, you would've been concerned considering his recent consistency.

He grumbled some obscenities at the curtains that had gotten caught around him once again with the help of a gust of wind from the open window. Then once he'd escaped he stared down at the welcome mat you'd placed under the window, an amused sigh escaping from under the deep red helmet that's so often hiding his face.

He guessed maybe you'd gotten tired of his boots dirtying the floor when he visited, but not tired of him.

He limped ever so slightly as he left his boots behind on the little mat you'd layed out, moving towards the couch and shedding his helmet and gloves once he got there. They were supposed to protect him, but his bloodied knuckles said otherwise. Later, it would make you question just how overboard he could get on anger alone. You'd supposed it wasn't quite a problem in your circumstance, Jason almost made too much of an effort to be gentle on your part. He settled into the couch, not feeling too ashamed to be the occasional freeloader.

You emerged from your bedroom, having heard him curse a couple of times on his way in. “You need somethin��?” You asked quietly, entering with a blanket still wrapped around you. Formal greetings were long gone between the two of you.

He looks up at you, eyes half lidded. “Food.” His tone is tired. He's happy to see your face, the first friendly one in a while. He wonders if eventually he might poison your sweet attitude towards him, just by being around you, like maybe you might realize he's horrible and broken and not so apologetic for his actions as red hood.

"Please?" You ask, wrapping your blanket tighter around you as you look at his pale blue eyes for a response. He smiles at your encouragement, muttering a quiet but gruff ‘please’

You left him to settle down, returning with a plate for him. Nothing special at this hour, a sandwich would do. "Thanks." He spoke, taking the plate from your hands and practically shoving half of the sandwich in his mouth, from what you could observe he hadn't eaten all day.

"No one's gonna take it from you Jay." he'd forgotten how long he'd been waiting to hear that nickname again.

Jason freezes, he mumbles something unintelligible with a full mouth, finally swallowing and clearing his throat before replying. "Yeah, well. You never know in this city."

You'd been settled beside him, picking up his red hood helmet and inspecting it. As he ate his food, you slipped it on yourself. At first, he was going to ask you to take it off, and he still might. But you looked oddly cute with it, accompanied by a small pajama set.

He visibly looked you up and down, placing the plate down on the coffee table. His usual frown had softened slightly along with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Cute.” He finally mumbles, quiet as his eyes wander before meeting your own again.

"Really?" You ask, sort of encouraging, as if to tell him,'say that again.' He rolled his eyes at that, but his softened frown turned into a smirk pretty quickly. He shifted on the couch, pulling you to sit on his lap. His larger frame easily engulfed your smaller one as he held you.

One of his hands slowly traced the curve of your hip, sneaking under the hem of your sleep shorts just a little bit. “Yeah, really.” his eyes showed he meant it.

You reached both hands up to pull the helmet off, messing up your hair a little when you did so. “Things fucking uncomfortable.” You discarded it on the opposite side of the couch, enjoying your spot in his lap.

His hand moved to your hair, attempting to untangle a few pieces, pushing them away from your face. It eventually turned into a gentle caress of your cheek. “you looked cute though.” He teased, holding your hips gently and helping you straddle his lap, legs on either side of his thighs.

"What are you doing Jason?" You hadn't asked it like you were oblivious to his intentions or innocent. Just a sort of reality check, you'd been teetering on the edge of friends with benefits for a while. You were okay with letting him come and wind down and feel safe. You wanted him to be okay, but it was going to be rough if you only ever saw him during these times. Especially if you started really seeing each other.

He slung an arm around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and keeping you in place on his lap. "What does it look like I'm doing?" He said above a soft whisper, but he couldn't possibly put your current situation into words. There wasn't ever going to be a good answer for what you had or would have with him.

"Blurring the lines?" You'd offered, even though you were absentmindedly doing the same, picking up his hand and running your fingers over his bruised and bloody knuckles.

He watched as your smaller hand held his own, his rough and battered knuckles meeting your soft skin. The contrast sent something through him, something he needed to feel more often. “maybe.” He mumbled in response. He'd tried to pull his hand away slowly. The feeling was nice, but something deeply rooted in his chest made him cringe at the way you were so soft on him, like he didn't need that treatment.

You'd noticed, telling him not to, by bringing that same hand up to your lips and leaving a soft kiss on each knuckle, your eyes not leaving his.

Jason swallowed hard at the continued soft feeling. There was a hint of something vulnerable in the usually stoic expression he wore. His lips parted slightly, trying to let out words that were caught in his throat, leaving an almost whimper in their place. He allowed his eyes to close for a second, his other hand gently exploring your thigh.

"Jay," you said quietly, as you dropped his hand and picked up the other, repeating the same actions. "You can come in here every night and blur the lines until there isn't any," you whispered, "but you better make some time to be something other than a visitor.” Jason's eyes moved with your lips as you spoke, tensing up underneath your warm body, his hand twitching at your careful touch. He swallowed again, his gaze continued to follow your lips, then back to your eyes.

His voice was a bit hoarse as he spoke. “I will.” His hands continued to rub up and down your thighs. You pushed yourself off of him. He'd almost let out a whine at the sudden lack of contact.

“go shower.” You mumbled, pressing your lips to his cheek. He sighed, reluctantly getting up.

“Bossy.” He mumbled in response, heading towards the bathroom, already pulling his shirt up as you relished in the sight of his muscular back. It was adorned in a couple of faded scars. You liked to trace your fingers over them in the darkness of your room.

"This is my house." You justified, beginning to walk back to your bedroom. You knew he would find you there when he was finished. He rolled his eyes even though you couldn't see it.

"Then maybe you should show some hospitality." He teased, his voice slightly muffled by the sound of the running water.

The hot water was no match for your soft touch, but it still felt soothing to his sore muscles. His mind, however, was still somewhat occupied with your earlier words, going back to the feeling of your lips against his knuckles and your weight on his lap, and how your thighs felt resting against his own.

He left the washroom with a pair of sweats on and his hair sending water droplets down his toned chest. Jason paused outside the bedroom door, his hand hovering over the handle for a brief moment before he slowly opened it. He could see your figure laying on the bed, still awake, a lamp casting the most flattering warm light across your skin.

You lifted the blanket up, patting the spot beside you. Most times, he would sleep on the couch or leave before morning. Because of course, the odd relationship between you two was complicated. Sure, he'd spent a few nights on and off in your room, only in times where the city streets had been truly horrible to him. But you'd offered… He took a few slow steps forward, approaching the bed and joining you under the covers, accepting your invitation.

"Much better." You told him, running a hand through his damp hair, you'd always loved the bleached streak amongst the dark waves. He let out a barely audible grumble, shivering involuntarily at the feeling of your fingers running through his hair. Jason shifted, turning to properly face you. One of his hands returning to his favourite spot on your hip.

"You gonna come over some time that isn't some odd hour of the night?" You asked, continuing the talk from earlier. "Maybe not leave before morning?”

Jason's grip on your hip tightened at the question, his eyes darting away for a brief moment before he looked at you again. His bottom lip caught between his teeth as he thought, shifting forward and resting against the crook of your neck, his lips gently pressing against your skin. "Maybe." He mumbled against your neck, almost as if to hide his face while his other hand continued tracing your body.

"I'm serious, Jay." You said, all but ignoring his hand grasping underneath your shirt."If this is all it's gonna be, it's not gonna be anything for much longer.”

His body shivered at those words, and he pushed himself farther into the crook of your neck, his breath fanning over your skin. He understood what you meant, and yet, admitting he did would make things so much more complicated. He liked the way you were with him now. He didn't need to change that. "I know." His words a whisper against the skin of your neck, his hand continuing to roam under the loose cotton of your sleep top.

"Next time I see you, better not be twelve at night in that goddamned mask." You said, holding onto his wrist, stopping his hand under your shirt so he would look at you.

He stilled again, letting you stop him. The beauty of your dynamic was the way he could rip his arm away in one action if he wanted to, but he would let you hold him down like this. He took in a sharp breath before sighing, lifting his head from your shoulder. His eyes met yours for the tenth time tonight. His blue stare held a guilty expression. "I'll try." He mumbled.

"You will." You agreed, dropping his wrist.

His eyes stayed locked onto yours, his expression still a mix of guilt and something foreign. He swallowed hard. "Promise." He whispered, his voice still hoarse. You nodded in acknowledgment at him, less serious now that the two of you had that talk.

His shoulders slumped, letting the tension of the discussion go. Easing upon seeing your approving nod. He very gently pulled your figure closer to him, muscular arms making contact with the small of your back. He rested his head on top of your own, burying his nose in your hair, taking in a now very recognizable scent.

It was his choice now, to return as Jason again. No red hood in sight. Through the door this time and not the window. You hadn't seen his old self in a long while. He knew either way he'd be welcomed with open arms, it was just a matter of what you were to each other.

[alessabriel]

Female Characters Arcane

Summary: 

Character: Vi (Violet), Sevika, Jinx (Powder), Caitlyn Kiramman, Mel Medarda, Grayson, Ambessa Medarda, Renata Glasc, Cassandra Kiramman. 

Cw. ninguna. 

➤  Vi (Violet).

In retrospect Vi had always been the strong one in everything, there was so much she carried inside her that sometimes she felt nothing short of exploding so hard and imploding until she disappeared. She didn't know if she felt like a supernova in moments, maybe she was exploding and never knew it or so she thought until she felt herself melting against soft hands, long fingers, slightly calloused fingertips, manicured nails and such a delicious feeling that shook her from bone to muscle. She felt boneless, naked, exposed, vulnerable and muscles exposed to the open air, naked nerves, nerves that you caressed so sweetly letting everything inside her melt and stir in an amalgam of comfort, warmth and coziness. It was cozy, it felt good to be comforted, cared for. It felt good, cared for, loved, adored even and it was embarrassing how she pushed her face into your chest; rubbing her cheek against the softness, bewitching herself in your scent, clinging to your body and wrapping her arms around your hips, squeezing in the hope that you wouldn't disappear.

"Because you love me so much pretty girl?"

He doesn't know why he asks, he just does, because he doesn't think he deserves so much love (if he does, he deserves it so much that you consider it almost a crime that he doesn't believe it).

"Because it's you, I love you from head to toe, the satisfying or unsatisfying feelings included, when you come home from a boxing league fight in Zaun with bloody knuckles, when I see you come home from work in that uniform I know you still hate, when you wake up with your hair a mess and in a bad mood, when you sleep, when you think you're not presentable, as a teenager and right now, I can't imagine myself anywhere else but next to you Vi" you recite with such ease, syrupy words rolling off your tongue with such sweetness and ease that they seem like honey, as you gently cradle her cheeks between your palms adoring her features; slightly bushy eyebrows, bright powder blue eyes, deceptively long eyelashes, nose just a little crooked from his countless fights, the small scar that gently parts his left eyebrow, the nose piercing, slightly plump lips and the scar on his upper lip, the tattoo on his cheek of a Roman six, the freckles that so subtly dot his skin"....I love everything about you Violet, I always will, until you let me."

Vi didn't pretend that this answer didn't completely disarm her; bone by bone, nerve by nerve until she felt almost dissected by every word and how your love seeped like water through her fingers, your loving gaze was only the last nail that cemented her love for you. Your love was intense when self-sabotage was at her fingertips and nightmares made her believe she was unloved, it was soft and gentle when she felt discouraged and decided, overwhelming when she felt needy and could not express it, violent when she refused to hear that she was loved. If you loved her you filled every nook and cranny, and helped her to get through, to move on and go on. You simply knew how to meticulously dissect her, skin layer by skin layer, muscles, bones, joints and veins to sneak your love in. You disassembled her to an almost molecular degree or could be compared to it. So, she just hid her face in her partner's shoulder, feeling her cheeks flushed beyond redness even her ears felt hot, her heart racing, her hands sweating and even her body's response to your caresses and words.

"...never leave me love"

"I will never rosita" you reply in a soft voice caressing the back of her neck, playing with the soft strands of her pink hair.

"...don't call me that" Vi whispered, even though she loved that cheesy nickname.

And you always understood her, as Vi understood you.

➤ Sevika 

For Sevika the notion of a quiet night was a lot, but occasionally this was; arriving at her apartment in Zaun (the only good thing about being Silco's second in command) where you usually arrived earlier since you worked in the weapons factories, hence you arrived before her. So arriving was a daily process, arriving at the place they shared where it always smelled like a meal cooked a little at a time, sometimes it smelled like a familiar food or a random dessert.

She craved something sweet.

She never knew how her partner was always aware of when she was craving something sweet, but she had an uncanny accuracy to it and today after dealing with Jinx's problems, having to fix them and not being able to complain because Jinx's self-proclaimed father would tell her to shut up, as if her job included babysitting a girl over 18. Fuck.

"From here I can see smoke coming out of that head of yours Vika."

Before she could even articulate a word a plate with a generous piece of chocolate cake was placed in front of her with a cutlery, she justly occupied something sweet to get over the bad drink.

"...again another mess I had to clean up" she grumbled annoyed, not in the mood to elaborate.

"Jinx, right?"

Sevika just affirmed, before taking the first bite, the chocolate exploded in his mouth and relaxed him a little, it was the little treats you usually always gave him, along with intimacy, and a life together that softened his heart.

"I don't want to bore you with the details sweetie" he replies before taking another bite of cake.

"you never bore me what happened Vika?"

The best nights are those where he eats something sweet prepared by the hands of the woman he loved and just talk, sometimes about nothing, sometimes about everything, about the future they dreamed together as children (although it was not the same it was close to what they imagined although with the difference that she herself could never give you everything she dreamed of giving you), about how they were so fucked up that nothing could get them out of that hole but together it was worth it or about the day of both of them. Sometimes she allowed herself to daydream, to dream of a better life to be able to give her partner, a place where they both didn't have to be so meddled with everything they knew would cost them in the long run.

"I love you Vika" you whispered in a syrupy voice, before stealing a kiss from Sevika that tasted like chocolate and expensive cigars.

Sometimes Sevika felt good like this.

➤ Jinx (Powder)

Mylo's voice sometimes upset her more than she could bear, more than she was willing to tolerate and she felt like scratching her scalp until she reached her skull, to go even further to her brain and to be able to shut up that irritating voice. Now she was not the Powder who felt bad about everything, who felt her spirit die with every veiled insult, with every "whenever something goes wrong, you bring bad luck" or with every memory that she tried hard to forget because she would not have them anymore, because she would never have access to more of it. So she became engrossed in improving her pumps, making the closed circuit more precise and making sure no one could see inside them.

"Silco says you haven't eaten in a few blue days."

Jinx hears you, clearly he does as your voice is the only one capable of getting through all the voices swirling in his ears; Mylo scoffing and Claggor pointing out a few things on his pump, thanks a thousand times your voice.

"...Silco says a lot of things" he grumbles before pressing the pump in the perfect closed loop to throw it towards the vacuum under the huge turbine where his workshop was located listening to the explosion "but he's right this time, I haven't eaten and I don't plan to...Did you cook me? Gimme, gimme, gimme!"

Sometimes she regrets everything that was going on, but the only thing that made her feel good and maybe somewhat lucky (contrary to what Mylo was always saying in her ear) to have a girl who was in love with her and who cared for her in her own way, sometimes she thought that your love kept her halfway sane, but er a secret that she would take to her grave forever.

Powder, in the past knew what filial love, support and warmth felt like.

Until blue came along to change everything.

Jinx, knows what fear is in the eyes of others, what affection for identification is since Silco saw himself in her but never knew to what degree which led him to treat her as a daughter which he sincerely appreciated, and knew what pure love meant, love without adultery.

You, blessed and cursed be you loved her for every positive and negative trait, you held her in her crises, you embraced her when nightmares destroyed her bone by bone, and when pink detonated her. You had seen the worst of her being, that lurid, dirty, stained and ground to a bloody pulp and yet you could love her, encourage her, tell her the truth and be her pillar. You seemed to be forged in heaven with a resilience that only the devil could create, or so she formulated.

"Have you cracked the Hextech theory yet?" you question interested, looking over her shoulder at her work leaving her to eat in peace and her space.

Jinx takes a while to pass the huge mouthful of food she had taken, but it was a sandwich with everything she liked and she finally had something in her stomach, she didn't know how but every food you touched tasted a thousand times better.

"something like that" she replies as she passes the bite with a gulp of apple juice, and her mind betrays her with remembering that you had a huge gallon of apple juice in your home just for when she visited did that feel like being loved? maybe yes "they are equations, calculations, instruction and so on, sequences of steps but I have a little trouble deciphering them, I have to recreate the, understand them so I can replicate them, and runes I think? I think they are runes and I don't know what they mean, but an easy job would be boring."

"wow that sounds complicated"

She only nods at your words, before she feels the gentle weight of your bandaged hand against her slender shoulder, and immediately identifies the weight of your hand on her. A welcome weight, loved, adored even and she melts all over, mouth full; your lips softly against her hundred, with warm, abiding love.

"Blue luck" you say in a soft voice, just for her.

Jinx stays alone in her workshop, a plate of food on her desk with another sandwich which she must finish because it is a crime not to finish the food you make her with so much love next to the big glass of apple juice, a glass which you yourself had made for her filled with soft drawings of the sky clouds over a gradient in blue of different shades until bordering on black. Her old glass had broken and you, bless you, had made her a new one, a new meaning that didn't make her retch from time to time.

How much did you love her? She thinks, maybe, you loved her very much and that comforts her.

➤ Caitlyn Kiramman. 

For Caitlyn to really feel her mother's rejection for her career was like a little thorn embedded in her skin and to be reduced to only having patrols in the Piltover shopping area was a bruise on the flesh, blood grinding and reminiscent of the annoyance from time to time, she hates it. She hates that it left her on patrols in expensive stores, the commercial sector and plaza of Piltover where nothing was going on.

It took her away from the countryside where she wanted to be to see the world outside of golden Piltover.

But, as always, she found the good part of it, she could sneak away and escape at times to that elegant, beautiful and minimalist store full of beautiful flowers exported from murky waters, Bandle City, Demacia, the Freljord, Ixtal, Ionia, Noxus, Targon and Zaun, that's a lot of flowers that are on display for all who can and want to buy, a beautiful and elegant flower shop. Whenever you went in there it was a delight to your nose since it smelled like a combination of flowers, a sweet, clean and you perfume. Although it was an irony since you always smelled of flowers, and perfume.

You were her safe place.

Caitlyn makes her way pretending to check until she reaches the flower shop and enters, opening the thick ornate glass doors that only allowed a partial view of the flower shop and when she steps inside, the amalgamation of scents so pleasant hits her nose in a friendly way and then she sees you, you're in the back room she sees you coming and going with flowers in your hands, so he takes the trouble to put up the sign "I'll be back in a flower arrangement" which always gave him grace and advanced through the store seeing the elegant furniture in pleasant tones to the back room where you are humming creating very elegant flower arrangements with a crystal flower in the middle of other more extravagant and beautiful ones. She leans against the door frame, watching you create those beautiful floral arrangements before rapping her knuckles on the door.

"Did I tell you that you look like a fairy?" she questions with amusement, it's a sweet nickname she's always had for you

"This fairy witnesses an enforcer skipping her patrols? The audacity" you reply with a chuckle, amused "Mistress Cassandra put you on a leash again pretty girl?"

She snorts when she hears you, stepping fully into the back room closing the door seeing that in the back there are even more flowers on huge furniture acclimating for them "You know, she's got the short leash for me and daddy couldn't dissuade her, so I'll be here for a few weeks."

"Then we can have lunch together. What do you think?" you offer, looking for something good in between everything.

"it would be a crime not to take advantage, sure do you fancy going for lunch? I've already put up your "I'll be back in a flower arrangement" sign" she says with amusement at the text you created when you got your own place

"Oh come on, it's original miss enforcer."

Yeah, maybe there was something good about patrolling the shopping area.

➤ Mel Medarda. 

"Don't move so much dear" Mel says, without the need to see you as she hears the soft sound of the silk sliding across your skin and is concentrating on the canvas finishing finding the exact tone of your skin, as if she has it memorized already "I don't want to lose the pose I indicated".

"It's just that my thigh itches" you grumble with a disgruntled pout because of the itch and when Mel allows you to move, you scratch just a little and return to the pose that is not so uncomfortable, leaning back against an elegant armchair that Mel had acquired just for you when they started living together with only a silk covering your skin in the areas where they should be covered "Aren't you bored? I am, talk about something, I don't know."

"A troubled muse, from what I see" adds with a chuckle Mel, smiling combining the tones in the palette watching you with deep gaze analyzing your anatomy, how your thighs joined your wide hips with a softness as if you were molded by the gods themselves and maybe, it was true "I'm almost done and I'll take you to dinner at your favorite restaurant"

"I want desserts" you jump with excitement, not realizing how the silk falls from your chest revealing your breasts and you remember your possess returning to her with blushing cheeks "Sorry love"

Mel just smiles, and finds even more charming the pose you came to be in, a gentle evolution of the original pose, demure and sensual, almost an innocent combination, as your gaze falls to the side as a soft embarrassment, but notice your sidelong glance at herself, a gaze full of love and glow. It is one of the many canvases she has created, in a long list of paintings that are in her living room and there will be one more.

"You should order food first, if you eat only desserts your stomach will hurt" she points out, adding more shadows.

"Mel" you complain in a whiny and annoyed tone, holding the pose.

"Food before, dessert after and rosé wine" tries to convince Mel already knowing your eternal love for sweet, and well sweet comes back to sweet

"...okay"

"Good girl"

Silence fills the room, and Mel continues with the painting on the canvas, trying to portray your sweet self until your voice again is heard, she loves that you are that sweet and somewhat whiny woman, because it is only in moments like these where you show how spoiled she has you, and it must be so, something she learned in Noxus (maybe the only good thing) that couples will always be priority and keeps you pampered, spoiled and happy, like you have her happy always.

"Almost there?"

Yes, she loves those moments where your gaze meets hers and you look like a spoiled little princess but there is a sweet fun in your eyes that she loves and finds herself adoring.

"I think I'll paint other canvases."

"Mel!"

He just laughs, continuing, he loves when you are his muse, because in retrospect you are always his muse even when you wake up disheveled and when you are dazzlingly beautiful decked out in the best dresses. He simply loves you.

➤ Grayson. 

he stress of work weighs heavy on his body, he almost feels twice his age and when he gets home, the aroma of a meal cooking wafts from the kitchen delighting his nose and being, you are his home and he adores you, you are the perfect wife. He distracts himself by taking off his boots in the entryway, stepping onto the cold living room floor passing through the spacious living room before he gets the soft smack of you impacting against his body and he can only smile, you always do that even when they were young and he loves those effusive hugs.

"You know I come home dirty from work honey" he speaks in a soft, gravelly voice close to your ear, squeezing his arm around your shoulders and kisses your hundred, savoring that expensive cream you love so much and keeps your skin smooth, from which he steals from time to time

"You know I don't mind, I must give you your hug every time you arrive" you grumble against his suit, he smells a bit humorous and a bit sour, he sure did patrol in Zaun with the recent peace treaty between the two cities and you cling to his chest, before looking up seeing him with loving eyes, Grayson is so beautiful beyond belief and as the years go by she only gets more attractive and handsome, you love that rugged and gentle air which combine masterfully in her and you stand on tiptoe kissing her "Welcome home, I'm making your favorite but I'll leave it on low heat and I can give you a bath."

"Do I look so old that you already ueires to give me a bath yourself?" she questions, with light humor frying her nose against your cheek holding you against her body, hugging you lovingly and loving the sweetish scent on your skin.

"It's not that" you say, with a pout before kissing his jaw and biting it gently "But I want to spoil you, you're the man of the house" you add, with dark humor that only your wife understands.

Grayson can only smile, the black humor between the two was a way to deal with turbulent issues with their respective families, in your own case your father disowned you for marrying a woman (a beautiful and special woman, it should be clarified) which was something that hurt you at the time but now is a topic they make jokes like that about, and in your case your parents hated you from the beginning for not being male and well, black humor is being able to make fun of everything that can hurt them and well, in your marriage humor is never lacking.

"Well, well I can't deny my sweet wife anything."

The trip to the bathroom in the master bedroom where you both have slept for years, the uniform is left in the laundry basket and you step into the shower, getting all the dirt off listening to you humming as she watches you through the glass door that blurs everything and when she steps out, her own nakedness doesn't bother her and you less, you've seen each other naked before in all the marriage os, there's nothing sexual and when she touches the hot water with soothing salts, she almost melts against the marble, even more so when she feels your hands in her hair smearing the conditioner which keeps her frizzy hair in place and your fingers against her scalp almost makes her purr, melt against you.

"Don't you get tired of pampering me honey?" she questions in a deep voice, relaxed against the tub.

"Don't you get tired of loving me? Of waking me up with kisses? Of taking me on dates to places I tell you about and always remember? Of being the love of my life?" you question, voice soft and flowing, stroking her scalp taking care of her hair.

"Never."

"We're on the same page."

Grayson knows what it's like to feel loved, he knows what it's like to love, and he wouldn't change a thing about his life, he wants to love you for millennia if possible, in this life and beyond.

➤ Ambessa Medarda. 

"You know it's going to be hard" you say, to the air listening to her heavy, steady footsteps against the white marble floor of your personal library in the palace, your wife in all her warrior and emotionally constipated glory wandering around pacing, and you just leave her drawing the memory of the meal you had with your daughter and son-in-law; Mel and Jayce, they make such a cute couple it's inevitable not to portray them, you'll give it to your daughter.

"I know, things are never easy and even less so with Mel."

"Well, if you were banished you'd be upset too and remember, I almost divorced you, so do better."

Ambessa bites her lip, remembering that turbulent moment, as cruel as it is, that she embodies the fox and the wolf at the same time she loves her family with all her being, with everything and she could destroy a thousand regions in order to protect them, strip herself of her humanity in order not to lose them, which is a paradox since she herself banished her daughter, the daughter she loved so much and who exasperated her so much because Mel was like her before she touched death, before accepting that she could become that warlord that her clan needed because she would not throw her wife to that place although, in a global vision of everything she knows that her wife is a fox in the skin of a rabbit, she is the most lethal strategist of Noxus that even the other four warlords respect and rightly so, she does not need strength or a cannon to subdue the rest, to prove her worth and Mel also inherited that. Her daughter was, in retrospect the culmination of their love for each other in her.

"I know" she replied, annoyed but not addressing her properly dropping into the long nest you must always have in your personal library and when she sees how you put down your notebook, she comes over dropping her head in your lap "but...I really want to sort it all out."

"Have you tried talking to her yet, telling her the truth?" you question, running your fingers through her hair between wavy and curly, unruly letting her cling to your legs, her hand large and calloused against your bare leg due to the Noxus dress you wore, her fingers though they carried death and carried blood to no end on your skin, on your flesh they were gentle "...that time was hard, and you proved your point, I wasn't ready to go through that ordeal like Kino did, Mel is diplomatic and doesn't value war, death and blood like you were raised and what you held on to, but what you hold high for your clan, for your family and well Kino is just like you but with a little diplomacy in the recipe."

She just sighs, feeling your caresses and lets her guard down, feeling naked and vulnerable, nerves in the air and in your sight "I know, it was selfish of me to push her away, save her from what would end up like us"

"acknowledging it is the first step, Kino has already spoken to you and her sister, all that remains is to give that head of yours time my love."

Ambessa never knows how you can love her, weapons, blood and death, trouble recognizing her own feelings, and a fierce strength to keep her family alive, her clan but, well she wants to bathe in your love, receive your caresses and delicacy. Only you have seen this vulnerable side and yet you love it. You have seen her crying after her first war, when she came back with blood on her hands and partially broken psyche, but you were there holding her tight despite the size difference, you held her all night long letting her cry until, she became the warlord she is now.

"...Will you be with me there when I talk to Mel?"

"I'll never leave you Bess, you married me and you'll never get rid of me in hell."

And if Ambessa was true to herself, heaven, hell and earth, she always wants to be with you. With loving softness which she professes only to you, she holds your wrist kissing your pulse sliding the kisses down to your finger where a red gold ring in the shape of a vine with a crystalline diamond adorns your ring finger above the black band, she made those rings herself and you never take them off your hands.

"Then I'm in luck, because I never want to leave you."

➤ Renata Glasc. 

He knows the feeling of climbing from the depths of mud, garbage and waste to position himself at the top of the city of iron and glass, installing a house in Piltover that became the central in medicine, cost horrors but here he was today controlling Zaun from the clouds and among the light air which does not make the lungs tremble. She grew at the expense of the misfortune of others, but, in Zaun is common and controls everything, leaving a certain slack to the rest of the barons and baronesses giving them the false sensation of power and freedom, to destroy them if she believes that they will put themselves in the same step where she is.

She is privileged to be at the top of the food chain in Zaun and Piltover, even if those pilties don't know it.

Many describe her as a cruel and cold woman, she is that and more. But, if his wife asked her to freeze hell she would do it. The only truth was, your wife was the one who possessed your purest and most sincere love which she has extracted from her cold chest just for you, leaving her heart in your flimsy hands. Therefore, he finds it fascinating to look at you, to admire your body, your silhouette and various expressions, your soft hands and how your skin no longer shows that sickly tone from lack of sun.

"Stop staring at me like that Ren" you say, in a soft whisper, shy like the first time he saw you.

"Darling it's impossible to stop looking at you, you are my wife and I love to admire you" Renata replies in a deep voice, approaching with fluid steps to you, where you gently place every little piece of mirror on the wall of her office, you were her little artist "...you are a natural artist and I love to see when you create all of this"

"You have always seen me, even when I graffitied the alleys of Zaun, one would think you would be bored by now" you say, gently taking each piece of mirror sticking it on the wall creating a scene and you feel Renata's mechanical hand on your hip which makes you sigh, you try hard not to think about what happened this morning at home, when she held you with that same mechanical arm so sleek and stylish yet strong pinning you against the bed and Renata devouring you

"I never tire of your creative process."

Renata rests her chin on your head, seeing every little piece of glass on the wall simulating like a fissure where you see a beautiful city, a Zaun you dreamed of and just kisses your hundred "one day I will make that Zaun come true."

I love you and I would give you hell, heaven, earth, the firmament just to make you smile, that's what he wants to say but he's silent when he sees your smile, your eyes full of love.

Renata can't imagine anyone else by her side but you.

➤ Cassandra Kiramman. 

If someone had told you in the past that you would end up married to the girl you came to hate (I didn't really, it was a gay panic actually) who brought you gray hairs with that joy and optimism, with her sweet, pleasant and kind smiles, with her concern, naked emotions, how you weren't afraid of feelings and showing them, that girl you hate in the past is currently your wife.

She is married to the love of your life and has a daughter with you.

He sighs softly, savoring the flower tea that he likes to drink and that you brought from your travels outside Piltover, a beautiful small flower enclosed in a bud, opaque and dry until it comes in contact with hot water blooming leaving the most beautiful flowers, and creating a sweet, delicious tea with a unique flavor. A box of tea that you always brought for her, without fail along with flowers, and books from other regions that she spends her nights reading. To tell the truth, the girl she hated in the past now made her happy, her cheeks hurt from smiling so much when you came on a trip and wrapped her in a tight hug, but every time she saw that scene it made her heart flip, it was as if you carved your name on her heart and soul.

"It's not fair mommy!" you hear a little childish voice squeal with indignation, it's in the middle of the huge garden with some dartboards a considerable distance away and the little girl stomps her little foot on the ground showing her anger "You let me win and I'll tell mommy!".

Cassandra feels her heart melt, as Caitlyn is held in her wife's arms and hears her laugh, it's impossible for Caitlyn to get so angry at her wife when you always get the giggles out of her to no end.

"I didn't let you win Caitlyn, you really won there" you point out in a soft voice once you leave her leaning on your hip looking at the targets and the rifle on the ground, an exact copy of yours because that's what your daughter wanted "You'll really be a good shot you know that?"

"Do you think so mom?" questions Caitlyn, small and bright-eyed to the max, expression cheerful and hopeful

"Of course I do honey, and when you grow up I'll make a rifle just for you" you promise with a smile, watching your daughter prance in your arms and you kiss her cheeks lovingly "A rifle just for you, just like you wanted."

Cassandra just smiles, watching the cute scene and how Caitlyn sees you with bright eyes, huge and hopeful, she loved her family even that woman who made her angry, who made her laugh until she cried and break her cold facade, make her heart beat wildly, but she is the woman she loves to see sleeping next to her, she simply loves her and she wouldn't change any of that.

His life is happy.

[chaithetics]

Late Night Mends

Pairing: Kid (Monkey Man) x reader

Word count: 2.1K

Warning: 18+ MDNI, mentions of anxiety, injuries, not a lot of spice, some fluff, not proof/beta read lol, does not contain spoilers for Monkey Man.

Note: Absolutely am in love with Dev Patel, he adores the world and fandom love! Also special mention to my friend @mittos who helped with this prompt/story ideas. Go and see Monkey Man if you haven't already! And if you have go and see it again! Also jaan is a Hindi term of endearment. Also can we take a moment for Dev Patel's side profile?! Comments, and reblogs are always appreciated as well! I hope you enjoy!

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

It was late, extremely late. It had been a slow night but it was quickly becoming the latest it had ever been without his tired, bloody presence. It made you uncomfortable how late it was becoming, he never took this long to show up after a big match. You bit your nails as you couldn’t help but think about the possibility of where he was and scarily, what condition he was in. 

It was a risky field that Kid was in, especially when he was the losing dog for the overeager, sweaty crowd not to bet on. He took the punches and rarely complained about it, you’d only ever been to one of his fights before and never again. It was too painful to watch, you’d bitten each of your fingernails right down to the beds, and you swore that it gave you a few grey hairs. If you had any, each of them could be traced back to being his fault, you were sure. You loved him, truly adored him, but he certainly knew how to stress you out. 

You’re sitting down waiting for him to arrive. You don’t even realise that you’ve put your hand up to your face to bite your nails but now you know that you must’ve as you’ve been subconsciously biting them as you look out the window waiting, lost in your thoughts. You could think and use that as a distraction but no, the more you think or gaze off, the more you think about him, worry about him and overanalyse every little thing to be analysed, including what would need a magnifying glass to do so. You sigh and rub your face tiredly and also as another poor attempt at a distraction to take your mind away from him. 

It was a ridiculous thought, nothing could distract you from him, Kid lived rent-free in your mind 24/7, no matter what you did or wanted. And now was his prime time for filling your head. 

You rub your face some more and then look up, you can hear the door quietly open and the sound of gentle footsteps start to make their way to you. You look up as you try to glimpse the start of his lean shadow to confirm that he’s really, really, finally here. The light switch turns on as you see his arm stretch out and then he’s standing there in your doorway. 

You look up at him as he stands, he just looks at you for a moment. His gorgeous doe-eyes are wide, he looks exhausted and defeated but there’s a small smile on his face as his eyes meet yours. Ever since you’d known Kid, he had always been a man of few words, which seemed to balance out just how expressive his handsome face was. You liked that though, that his eyes truly were the window to his soul. You did like his voice though as well, you’d have no problem with him using it more. Sometimes he would talk though, about his sweet mother, the stories of Hanuman that his mother had told him and that had vividly stuck with and inspired him still. 

You quickly take him in, there’s sweat in his hair, a cut in his cheek, and his knuckles are bloody as always. You bite your lip as you look at him, chewing over your words so you don’t come across as either a scolding lover or treating him like a patient. 

“Your hands…” You finally say as he steps closer to you and you can see that he made some attempt to cover them with a bit of cloth but the blood is all over his right hand. 

“It’s fine.” He says in a soft whisper, his voice is melodic as always but a little hoarse and deep. He looks down at his hand he tries not to flinch when you take his hand and it’s further proof that no, it really isn’t fine. You sigh and move his hand to check his fingers, it causes discomfort but based on the movement you know it’s not broken at least. It was genuinely impressive that he was still alive, still functioning and not just with everything he’d been through as a young boy, but with the amount of beatings he’d taken at the club. That he’d somehow avoided major damage to his body, that his handsome looks were still intact, and also his teeth. That was a big surprise you had to admit. 

“Sit down.” You look at him with a look of concern, one that he doesn’t like. “Come on, I’ll clean it up.” You say softly.  He runs his right hand, his good hand through his damp but perfect locks and he sighs, sitting down, waiting for you to fix his wounds and to feel your tender touch. 

You’d had the first aid kit ready to go, sitting on the floor waiting for his entrance. You always used it, he always needed it. Your medical background certainly helped, some nights you’d crack a joke that that was the only reason why he was with you. The first time you made that joke his eyes widened at first, and he immediately stuttered to try and reassure her that that wasn’t the case. He didn’t realise that it was a joke. You’d kissed him to reassure him and he kissed you back so sweetly. Now when you made the joke he’d just look at you and give you a small, precious chuckle. You just want to make him smile, make him laugh, bring him joy, and make him feel safe. He deserved that at the very least, especially with his gigantic hug. 

His hand clearly had taken the worst of it, you hold it gently in yours, and his hand twitches for a moment. He’s spent most of his life being devoid of affection. He craved a gentle touch, to feel seen and safe in the company of another. He’d started to find that with you, in the way you looked at him, how you carefully held his hand in arms when cleaning an injury and wrapping it up. You somehow had never noticed it, he figured it was because of how attentive you were to his injuries, to him, and his lips quirked up into a secret smile you’d miss over the irony of you not noticing this because of how attentive you were being to him. 

“You were later than usual.” You say as you clean his bruised and bloodied knuckles. 

“I know.” He whispers as he looks up at you, he’s tired but there’s a small smile on his lips as he knows the scolding is incoming, just what degree is it going to be from you tonight, is the question. 

“I was worried, my fingernails are almost as bloody as your knuckles because of how much I was biting them.” You say as you try to clean his hand gently, noting how his hand occasionally twitches in response.

“Would’ve been quite a match.” He whispers before he looks at your hands, noticing your nervously bitten nails. His cheeks heat up as he can’t help but feel a little bit of guilt about causing you to worry so, he’s spent so much of his life without someone who cares about him like this. You sigh and roll your eyes at his response. 

“You’re going to be the cause of every single grey hair I have in this lifetime.” You say as you treat the knuckle wounds, making sure you’re gentle. “All I do is worry, you spend every night getting beaten, thrown off tables. It’s going to be too much one day. Something will go wrong. Then what?” Kid can’t help but look up at you, it’s a conversation that’s happened more than a few times. “What if it’s your spine or something? I won’t be able to fix that-” “It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m okay, jaan.” He says as he looks up at you, his big brown eyes are widened and he’s looking at you with his sad puppy dog eyes, he feels bad for making you worry so much. 

You sigh, biting your lip as you try to stop yourself from saying anything else. He’s too sweet and so you nod and finish cleaning and bandaging everything. After a moment, you cup his cheek as you look at his warm eyes and you go to get him some water to drink. He watches you and continues to as he drinks the water. You two have become quite good at playing a game of watching each other, almost like it’s a sport to observe the other. 

He looks at you, tilting his head which tousles the gorgeous locks he has a little. You sigh and run a hand through his soft brown curls, damp with sweat but somehow miraculously not blood. His hair has always been absolutely perfect. You feel bad for essentially venting your anxieties at him right as he’s come from a long night of work at the club. 

“I only scold because I care.” You say but you’re not sure if it’s him or yourself that you’re trying to convince more as you say the words, but it’s true technically. “It’s a form of doting really.” You say as you look at him as he adjusts in his seated position, looking up at you with his wide, doe-eyed orbs. Even if it was a form of doting, you could never stay mad at him for long when having to look into those gorgeous eyes. They’d melt away any troubles and you’re sure if awards were given out for best brown eyes, he’d win. You hated that he did this, that this was how he had to get by. That he had to take these awful, unhealthy beatings but you love him anyway.

He was freshly bandaged now, he moved his hand up and Kid started to slowly caress your cheek, he traced some invisible line so gently with the pads of his fingertips as he looked at you. His doe eyes were filled with adoration and peacefulness as he concentrated on your beauty. You let him, it was soothing and sweet and you had no reason to even consider stopping this. You were his and he was yours. 

Your eyes glance down at his fingers, and then you put a hand up to cup his cheek and look into the most beautiful eyes you could ever imagine seeing. After he feels your touch his eyes quickly close and he inhales. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever get used to the feeling of your fingers on his face, of how your hair feels against his skin, or your breath, but he knows for sure, that he’ll at least never tire of it. 

His fingers glide down do your mouth and he traces your lips as he looks at them. He tilts his head and before he can even move, you’ve moved your head to press your lips together. There’s something about how gentle his hands are with you, how they feel even after everything that has happened to him and that he does. How it just takes a glance at you for him to melt into a puddle. 

You put your hand back into his hair and run it through his curls as he kisses you back and the kiss deepens almost immediately. He cups your cheek gently as your lips move together in sync and you can’t help but start to tug his locks a little and his hand moves to your waist to hold you close against him. You continue to play and tug his hair as his lips move down your chin and jaw and he kisses your neck. You gasp out and tug on his hair a bit more as you feel his breath tickle your throat between his passionate kisses. You struggle to not let out a giggle as he does this and you feel your cheeks heating up as you tilt your head back so your neck is as exposed as possible for him while he kisses your throat and makes his way to your collarbone. 

He always gets like this, and so quickly. He just needs a little touch, the reassurance of you being there and he feels an all-consuming need to make up for the years of loneliness, the lack of affection, the lack of physical contact outside of a fight he was guaranteed to lose. He has you in his arms and it’s something right for once, if it was a game this would be a victory, some kind of peace.

[hoeforhao]

RED AND CREAM ✨️🧨🎈🩸Wonwoo Oneshot

pairing : military official wonwoo × fem!reader

genre : pwp, pure smut

warnings : mention of blood, unprotected sex ( wrap it up guys ) , creampie, abusive talks, minors DNI

author's note : so umm I kind of wrote this smut for someone but then thought why not post it with wonwoo in mind. Bear with the he(s) pls.

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

As he stood there looking at her with dark clouded eyes with his hair all messed up from the intense fight, blood dripping down his knuckles onto his black boots, she saw the devil in him. The devil staring at her, telling her that he has finally came for his daughter. That he has finally found his worthy offspring to spread his bloodied rays into the world.

Stepping close to him, she looks into his red burning eyes as if she's gonna light him up on fire that very moment, as if she's going to draw out those popping veins in his eyes with her red nails.

Pushing his legs apart with hers she stands between them with her black heels on while her hands take his fist in hers and gently swipe off the blood off of them with her fingers and put them into her craving mouth, gently sucking onto them as if giving him the temptation of how she would treat his dick so good yet so rough between her cavities.

All this time her knees move up and down his already tightening up crotch, sometimes pushing it a bit too hard earning muffled up moans from him. Because he's a man. He cannot show how weak and needy his woman is making him feel now. Being done with sucking off all of his enemy's blood and injecting it into her system, her hands now move upto his neck to hold it tight and firm in place while her lips curve up into a satanic smile.

She quickly brings her mouth up to the bone protruding so prominent out of his neck and instantly plants her teeth onto the skin, pulling it with her canines making tears swell up in his eyes from the intense sting.

"If you thought I'll let his blood infuse into kine and make me impure, you're so wrong honey. I'll make sure that yours takes control on his and completely overpowers him. I want to see you overpower each and every individual on the face of this planet and be at the very top" and with that she bites into his skin at animalistic force and draws out blood like a vampire feasting on its meal after ages. As if a blood thirsty demon got the first taste of vanilla sweet blood burning with rage finally on her lips, all the while he cannot touch her or do anything to her because he was pinned down.

But she very well knew that she would be overturned in a minute if he truly tried for it. Having had enough of his woman being a brat he finally engulfed her legs by his and pushed her down onto the floor. He stood tall before her, while she lay on the cold marble with a sinister smirk knowing quite well what was coming next.

Bending down to her level the very first instinct he had was to rip off ever piece of clothing from her body, making her completely naked infront of the beast that was now to feast on the vulnerable little prey infront of him. Having his legs placed on both sides of her shaking ones, he took her lips in his. And no it was not a gentle kiss at all. It was a hungry, desperate one. One to prove how he will always have the upper hand over her, how she will just be a playtoy under him.

While his teeth pulled onto her lower lips, popping the slender veins there making blood drip down the corner of her mouth, his hands played with her boobs. More appropriately abused them. His nails drew deep and sharp around her supple jiggly skin, leaving behind deep rooted tracks of his invasion onto her body and soul and mind.

Shifting from her lips, he now focuses on slapping the living shit out of her breasts, earning constant pleas of mercy from her, knowing that the undertone in them was nothing but her asking for more brutality.

When he's finally done abusing her chest, leaving it all red with his hand prints, as if something turns in him and he gently places his mouth on her nipples and suckles onto it like a child feeding on his mother. But oh well isn't his entire persona deceiving? While his mouth work like a complete gentleman around her mounds, his fingers find her throbbing clit and aggressively rubs it's like it's some sort of enemy he needs slain down.

Her eyes rolled from the intense pain and pleasure that her body was feeling at the same time. She licks off her own blood from her mouth and slightly pushes up her head as if to see what is happening to her bare body, only to find that it's a red hill down there. Every part of her skin is burning aflame. And in that very painful moment, he quickly unzips the tent in his pants and brings out his rock hard dick to now graze up and down her sloppy cunt.

Never giving her the pleasure to feel him inside her, while she claws out his toned back, he slaps the tip of his dick onto her throbbing pussy and sometimes teases her hole with it by pressing it a bit down and taking it out immediately. Not being able to take the torment anymore she takes things into her hand and harshly slaps him across the face.

That was his last string. How dare a bitch have the audacity to slap a man like him. And with that he presses himself in her in seconds without any warning, without giving her the time to even adjust to him.

"You wanted it so bad you whore hmm? How you like daddy's dick tearing up your walls into shreds now huh" he runts into her soft delicate hole like a complete animal gone feral, like a tiger getting a good meat after days.

He could see tears rolling down her eyes onto the floor from his intense thrusts, him completely ruining her pussy for the new few days so that she remembers he is who she belongs to, every inch of her body belongs to him and is only for him to ravish and eat and feast on.

With one more push down her cunt, he feels his high riding him as he releases all his anger, frustration into her, making his cum ooze out of her swelled up walls, mixed with some traces of blood from the intense abuse.

[ellecdc]

Hello! I absolutely adore your writing, I’ve binged like all of your fics 😂. If possible could you do maybe a poly!moonwater x reader where said reader maybe gets hurt (maybe someone says something negative about Remus and she gets hurt defending him?) I just absolutely adore your moonwater fics! And when Barty gets involved is hilarious. thank you so much! No pressure if you don’t feel the Inspo for it!

I've not written for moonwater in a while, so this was a sweet treat! thanks for your request, lovie <3

poly!moonwater x gn!reader who defends Remus' honour

CW: Snape's a wanker in this and we hand his ass to him for it [sorry to my Snape apologists out there - don't hate me!], alluding to blood but no actual mention of it? small injury to hand, Regulus sharing Sirius' DNA trait for mischief

You sucked in a pained breath through your teeth which was quickly replicated by your boyfriend in some sort of weird comradery.

“I know, I know; I’m sorry dove.” Remus murmured softly as he continued dabbing gently at the broken skin on your knuckles. 

“S’not your fault.” You mumbled petulantly as you tried to ignore the stinging of every swipe he made; the once pristine white cloth now quite decorated in red. 

Remus snorted as he eyed you pointedly before affixing his gaze back to your hands. “It sounds as if it sort of was.” 

It was your turn to snort as you glared at the wall behind Remus as if it had been the one making derogatory comments in the halls a mere ten minutes ago. “You’re not the wanker who was begging to be punched.”

Remus shook his head in admonishment, but you could feel the [painful] puffs of air dancing across your open wounds as he breathed out a laugh. “He’s going to be furious, you know?”

Remus didn’t clarify who he was, but he didn’t need to. “Yeah well, if you would bloody hurry up and cast an episkey on this already, he’d never have to know.” You taunted only half teasingly [and half very nervously about how long it was taking to close up the few scrapes lining your hands from your minor scuffle]. 

Unfortunately, he walked in through the door before Remus had finished patching you up.

“What in the bloody hells is this I’m hearing about a brawl between you and Snape?” Regulus demanded with a stoney face as he stalked towards your form; face falling as your hands came into his view.

“Amour! What in Salazar’s name- On dirait que tu as combattu un nundu.” 

“Okay, well, I think that’s a little dramatic.” You deflected quickly at the insinuation that you walked away from a fight with a nundu with nothing but a few cuts and scrapes to your knuckles to show for it.

“Dramatic?” Regulus drawled as he levelled you with an unimpressed look. “I’m not the one who jumped another student in the hallways after Potions! And Snape of all people; you know to ignore his usual drivel, amour.”

You shared a guilty look with Remus who gave you a sad smile. 

“It wasn’t the usual drivel, Reg.” Remus offered, causing Regulus’ breath to leave him which he had at the ready, no doubt, to continue his admonishment. 

“I didn’t think that sod had the brain cells left to come up with anything new.” He offered noncommittally, causing Remus to snort a laugh. “Still, sweetheart; I’d really prefer you just ignore him.”

“So I’m just supposed to ignore a tosser who has the audacity to speak about my, quote, half-blood half-breed freak and his blood-traitor servants who he no doubt imperio’d to be with him?” You challenged; tone both soft yet firm as you looked at Regulus imploringly. 

Regulus stood there staring back at you before you noticed his jaw tighten. “Bâtard.” He spat as he looked down to where Remus was sitting on a footstool in front of you as he finished wrapping your hands. 

“He’s just jealous that he can’t find one person to put up with his black hair and brooding personality, let alone two.” 

“Did Regulus Black just make…not only a joke, but a joke at his own expense?” You teased as you kicked one of your feet out at him, only for him to catch you by the ankle and run his thumb over your ankle bone. 

“Of course I did; I’m hilarious.” Regulus agreed in monotone causing both you and Remus to chuckle. 

“You’re all fixed up, dovey.” Remus announced as he stood, bending to press a kiss on your head before pressing one to Regulus’ too. “No more fights at my expense, okay?”

“Can I fight at Regulus’ expense?” 

“No.” Both boys chorused, though Remus pointed at himself as he nodded and mouthed “tell me first”. 

“So, where can I find Snape now?” Regulus asked as he dropped your ankle, earning him unimpressed looks from both of you. “What? I’m not going to go find him, I just need to tell Barty where he can find him.”

“Junior doesn’t give a niffler’s arse about what Snape has to say about me, Reggie.” Remus admonished as he leaned against the headboard of his four poster bed. 

“Perhaps not.” Regulus agreed readily before his gaze moved to meet yours; the horrifying glimmer of mischief present in his icy grey eyes sending shivers down your spine. “But he will care to know that his precious Treasure lost blood over that foul git.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” You hissed.

But Regulus had already turned on his heel and was rushing out of the marauder’s dorm room; as you stood to chase him, two arms wrapped an iron grip around your middle and pulled you flush to his chest. 

“No more fights, dovey.” Remus murmured into your neck as he pulled you back into his bed with him.

“I’d only be fighting our sodding boyfriend! You know I’d win!” You whined petulantly, though your body traitorously melted into Remus’ frame as he nuzzled impossibly further into your neck. 

“No more fighting.” He repeated.

So you acquiesced; you stopped fighting and fully allowed yourself to be cuddled by your half-blood half-breed boyfriend that you were so unbelievably and willingly in love with.

[justsalpals]

What if you were bones? If there was nothing else left of you?

No lungs filled with sweet laughter. No blood rushing to blushing cheeks. No skin grazing against mine when you twined our fingers together.

What if there was nothing left?

If I cradled your ribs in my palm, haunted by the ghost of your heartbeat? If I caressed the line of your ulna, almost able to feel the light brush of overlarge shirtsleeve dipping past your wrist? If the back of my knuckle skimmed the cheek of your skull, so sure I could still feel golden eyes staring so gently back at me through empty sockets?

(Mother said I'd have to watch everyone I loved pass on, but I was promised more time.)

(I walk out of step with the world, but you joined me with a gait all our own.)

(What is that if not a promise?)

What if there was nothing left but bones, yet I could still see the shape of you in the remains? If I handled every piece with the gentlest care, rebuilding you from the inside out? If I held each phalange tenderly in my palm, as if this were a new way you'd chosen to hold my hand?

(I was promised more time. Not enough, but more than this.)

Healing hurts. Magic weaving through meat and muscle and sinew, knitting together a wound before it's ready to let go. It's beautiful and necessary. The pain. Healing hurts. Living hurts. Loving hurts. Love beats in my heart my throat my hands my staff, bleeding like a gaping wound with every forbidden word spoken and ancient symbol sketched into stone.

If you need skin, blood, lungs, then you will have them. If you need flesh and meat and beating heart, I will build you them with my two bloodied hands. I will sculpt your bones a home from the carcass of a beast, breathe life into your hearth with dragonfire.

Healing hurts.

What if I didn't care who I hurt, if it meant having you again?

I think you can understand the sentiment.

And one day soon, when you look at me in the light above and give that gentle smile, I can't help but imagine hooking my fingers between the slats of your ribs and tugging you close enough to hear your heartbeat.

[yanderenightmare]

TW: NSFW, noncon/dubcon

fem reader

Thinking about massive beefcakes again...

Big, brawny warriors who're carved with both muscles and battle scars – who still have some blood on their hands they couldn't bother washing off before claiming their pretty little war prize.

Oh, but he's so gentle with you. No threats on his lips, just a smile as he lets his large hands do all the talking – that, and the bloody axe he left leaning against the wall of your humble hut. So big, you wouldn't even be able to carry it if you used both hands.

And speaking about needing to use both hands...

You straddle his lap while working his massive cock – trembling as you wrap your fingers around the base, one hand stacked on top of the other, fingertips curling around his shaft – unable to reach around it while rubbing over fat veins that pulse beneath your soft touch.

He coos at you – tells you you’re doing so, so good for him, how he’s going to reward you real soon – how he won't hurt you so long as you do what he wants.

Oh, and you're so scared – so very scared of those large scathed paws holding you steady at the hips as he rubs his thick manhood against your stomach – throbbing between your ribs – a good measurement for how far inside he would try to push. 

There’s just no way you can possibly cram all of that inside you, is there?

You hadn't even noticed you were crying. Fat tears slip from brimming in your eyes, sliding down your cheeks and splattering on the hair of his broad chest. 

He told you to breathe, and you realized you’d been holding it in. He told you to relax – but tears only kept falling when his hand reached under to cup your scared little sex – his calloused fingers a strange type of friction on the lips of your pussy, ticklish in a sense, sending energy splurging through your core. 

Oh, but ain't you just the sweetest little thing. “You’re so wet, baby~” He hummed, voice thick with heat as his finger slid playfully through the slick pooling from your slit.

You whimpered at his teasing, and he hushed you – cooing at you while his fat fingers started prepping your tight little hole for him with a thumb rubbing over your clit – still nothing harsh – just grazing the slit, letting your body know to prepare itself for him.

You almost wished he would just push you down, tower over you, and do it all swiftly – because you weren't sure just how much of this your poor heart could take. You heard its pitter-pattering in your head, felt it drum in your fingertips, in your toes, thumping where his hands were taunting your tender flesh – petting the silk as it wept for more.

You felt something curl – coil – wind like an adder in your gut along with butterflies. Soon, glossing his entire hand with arousal. 

You heard the chuckle as he filled you up with one of his digits – long and thick with muscle, bumpy at the knuckles as it eased inside you – swirling around your velvet walls, all wet and fluttering for him – then followed by another – still with his thumb drawing sweet circles into your swollen clit, making you clench around the two fingers tightly with an ever-so-sweet moan spilling from your lips.

He groaned at the sensitivity – the stimuli and response at his fingertips – how impressionable you were for him. So sweet and pliant – knowing you were but a sheep caught on wolf claws.

His eyes were heavy-lidded, a sloppy grin showing teeth as his lips brushed up your collar with wet praise – his tongue hot as he licked up your throat with warm breath ever so very intimately – puffing like a hound as he bit your earlobe playfully, letting you know with thick rust, “I think you’re ready to take me.”

Oh, how he loved the way you tensed – knowing he had you completely in his palm – hooked right on his fingers – and soon on his cock.

BNHA – Bakugou, Deku, Kirishima, Enji, AFO, All Might, Mirio

JJK – Sukuna, Toji, Kenjaku

DS – Doma

HxH – Uvogin

[cumikering]

Neighbour Ghost x reader 6

2.7k | angst No matter how loyal, guard dogs still have their teeth (part 1) (part 7)

Simon’s steps to your door were heavy, as his heart had been since that call.

Despite his blazing wrath, he was unprepared for the waves of guilt that washed over, the shame that wrestled to drown him. He was unable to protect you from his past – he brought it upon you, even after how much too sweet you’d been, how softly you’d touched him. How could he ever look you in the eye again?

The stray never deserved any of that.

When you gave him a squeeze at the door, he didn’t return it. Still, you tugged him in with the same lovely smile, even when it wasn’t as wide.

“Fancy a cuppa?”

“No.”

Your pretty hand shouldn’t be in his filthy one. Do you even know what I do with these hands?

You sat at the dining table and Simon remained on his feet to your side, eyes fixed on the cup of pu erh before you. His fists clenched and released. You didn’t like pu erh.

At the end of the day, he was still a reaper in dress uniform - one with an unrelenting demon that lurked in the far corner. He could have fucked him up that evening at the bakery. Feel his nose crumble against his knuckles, maybe even the snap of his scrawny neck in his hands.

But no, this happened because he didn't. Like his mum said, you were good for him, of course you were. But was he for you? He was nothing but trouble.

You smiled up at him. Always so sincere, so delicate, making his stomach twist more.

“My dad’s visiting this weekend. I was wondering if you wanted to meet him? And… Um, what I should introduce you-“

Not addicted, he'd tell himself too many times, as if it didn’t sound like a bloody lie to his own ears. You were the beginning of an incurable addiction, a cliff with the bewitching view he was a step away from falling off of.

His gaze left you. “I’m going back home with my mum tomorrow.”

“Oh,” you said, your disappointment evident. “Okay, maybe next time then.”

His heart pounded in his ears as he forced the words out, nails digging into his palms. “We should stop this.”

“What… What are you saying, Simon?”

“This. Meeting you, staying over. I’ll have less time when I become captain. This isn’t going to end well,” he reasoned, but it sounded more like he was convincing himself this was the right thing.

He knew it was, even when it didn’t feel like it, like a lot of things in life. He knew one day he’d be glad he did this. One day, even when right then it felt like the worst thing he could be doing. Would someone, something, rip this decision away from his hands?

“You don't get to say that yet, not right now. I know you're going through a lot.” You reached for his hand. “But we can wait until things settle and we’ll talk-“

He pulled away from your touch. “I've made up my mind. I never meant for things to get this far.”

In the still room, his stare remained on the cup you hadn’t touched since his arrival.

“You knew this all along and you still let it happen,” you said as realisation dawned.

He looked up to meet your hardened gaze. He’d seen you sad, annoyed, angry, but this was the first time your eyes were devoid of warmth. Being the receiving end of that stare was a stab to his chest.

“I should believe people when they show me who they are.” You chuckled humourlessly. “Get out, Simon.”

The world slowed. It was hard to draw his breath as he remained unmoving, like he was chained to the floor of where his sanctuary once was. Despite the arms that ached to wrap around you and never let go, he forced himself to walk away as his blood ran cold.

The door slammed behind him. He didn’t expect a positive response, of course, but it was definitely not the shatter of his own heart.

Still, it didn’t hurt as much as it would have had he waited until you inevitably left him for one reason or another. At least he’d never have to worry about being like his dad, about hurting you, betraying you, if you weren’t there to begin with. Like he’d always known, you deserved better, someone as lovely as you – unlike this stray who would never be enough.

It’s the right thing.

He could give his mum his undivided attention now. She would never leave nor kick him out the door. If he was not wanted, he had to be endlessly needed, used dry until he was nothing but a ghost.

“Who the fuck broke my bloody door!”

Simon and his mum had been waiting for his dad’s return to the house that had turned into a complete mess. Meanwhile, she’d packed as much of her belongings as she could, her luggage in the living room.

“Sign the bloody papers before I make sure you never can anymore,” Simon barked, standing tall next to his sitting mum.

His dad rounded the corner and Simon’s jaw ticked thinking of what he did to you. He let out a weak sigh at the sight of his wife and son at the dining table, a sight he hadn’t seen in over a decade. His eyes softened.

“I don’t want anything from you, James. Please sign them and we’ll be out of here.”

He pulled out the chair across the table and propped his elbows up, face in his hands as he took a deep breath.

“I need to apologise, Melanie,” he began. “I’ve made your life hell, and I know there’s nothing I can do to change that now. I was my fault.”

“She didn’t ask,” Simon said through gritted teeth. He shoved the papers closer when he ached to break the filthy table with his dad’s skull.

“I’m sorry about your last night here. It was unforgiveable, what I did.”

Simon slammed his fist onto the table. He had watched the grand performance too many times. “You’re not fooling anybody with your tricks. Sign the bloody papers. I swear this is the last time I’m asking.”

His mum patted his hand, and he reluctantly took the seat next to her.

“I want you to have the house, Mel. You’ve always kept it too beautiful for a man like me. It’s the least I can give you after everything.” He let out a steady breath, flipping open the document. “I hope one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me for how much I’ve hurt you,” he added quietly.

Was that remorse that settled in his hollow eyes?

His mum bit her lip as a tear slipped. When Simon wrapped an arm around her, she sobbed into his chest.

No words were exchanged as his dad went through the papers, and it remained so until Simon wheeled his mum’s luggage out the door behind her.

“Goodbye, James.” She didn’t spare him another look.

“Simon?” he called in a small voice. “I’m sorry I’m not the father you deserve.”

The lieutenant threw the door shut.

Simon spent the next few days with his mum, Tommy, his wife and son. Since his last visit, Tommy’s got a new job and seemed to be spoiling his son rotten with plenty of new toys, including the shiny red bike outside. Unfortunately, even after over a year, he and Beth still hadn’t had much luck trying for a second child.

Joseph was a brilliant kid with a toothy smile, just like Tommy was, and it always surprised Simon how big his nephew got between each visit. It was a shame he only got to meet his family twice or thrice each year.

“Joe, you’ve been sitting on your uncle’s shoulders all day,” Beth said with an amused smile. “Give him a break.”

“It’s the best seat ever!” His little arms wrapped tighter around Simon’s head, eyes glued onto the cartoon on the telly.

“You need to do your homework.”

“I’ll do it here.” He poked the top of Simon’s head.

He laughed. “I don’t mind.”

She shook her head. “Come on now. Dinner will be ready in an hour. You don’t want to be late.”

“Okay…” he huffed before dragging his feet to his room.

While he flicked through the channels,  Beth went back to the kitchen where his mum was. He wasn’t one to watch the telly apart from football, but his thumb hovered over the button when the Great British Bake Off came on.

He remembered the episode. He’d watched it with you, the only person he ever watched the show with. It was yours, like a secret only the both of you knew.

It’s the right thing.

Faintly, his mum chuckled at something her daughter-in-law said, and his mind couldn’t help but drift to all the times it was you and her in his flat instead. Sharing stories, laughing, while he smiled at the sight from afar.

It’s the right thing, Riley, I promise.

He turned the telly off and went for a walk instead.

At dinner, the table admired little Joe’s drawings he’d done at school – he always saved them for when his daddy came home. With his precious family beaming, it seemed like the life Simon should have had, the one he always imagined was supposed to be like. But even without the devil trailing behind like an ellipsis, this, somehow, didn’t feel right either.

Despite his smile, his chest was heavy with the rotting carcass of the heart he didn't know he still had until weeks ago.

It’s the right thing, it’s the right thing, it’s the right thing.

Later that night, Simon’s head tilted when he entered the guestroom his mum occupied.

“Have you not packed yet? We’re leaving tomorrow. I’ve still got training on Monday.”

On the bed, she lowered her book and frowned. “I’m not leaving. Manchester is my home, Si.”

“Home is where you’re safe, mum, and you’re not here.”

She sighed, the sympathetic kind, before putting her book away. “My well-being and happiness aren’t your responsibility.”

He scoffed. “‘course they are.”

“I can’t thank you enough for thinking about me, but what’s happened, happened. I’m trying to start over, and that includes not being a baggage to you.”

He blinked. “Mum, what are you on about?” he asked carefully as he sat next to her.

“You need to live your life. You push good things away, Si.”

What… “I don’t. You’re all I’ve got.”

“Always so stubborn.” She shook her head. “Don’t make the same mistake I did, Si. My first love… Your granddad didn’t want us together, and I ended up with your dad. I grew to love him, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I chose easy over real. Sometimes I wonder if I’d been less afraid, what life would be like now.

“I'm by no means regretful, because I got to have my two perfect sons, but you had to pay for my mistakes too, and for that I’m yet to forgive myself. I’m supposed to give you a good life, but I didn't. The least I can do now is not hold you back.

Her hands clasped over his. “So live for me, Si. Don't worry about me. Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will always be your mum. I can’t stop loving you even if I tried. I just need to see you happy, that’s all I need from you.”

His gaze dropped to the ground. “I’m not good enough for her,” he muttered.

“That’s not for you to decide.”

“Isn't it too late?”

“Never.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“You make it sound harder than it is.” She cupped his cheek. “It won’t be painless, but if she’s the one, it will be worth it.”

Against his mum’s shoulder, he wished his tears would stop flowing, but with the way she rubbed his back, Simon was once more just a little blond boy with the scraped knee.

From the front porch in the chill night, it was shameless how he called you at that hour, when he didn’t even say goodbye when he left. It was shameless how even after you rejected his calls, he still called for the 5th time, or 10th – he’d lost count. But at last, the line connected.

“Luv,” he said breathlessly, palm pressing against his eyes that had barely dried.

“Please stop calling me.”

“No, wait. Please, listen. Don’t-”

“You’ve made up your mind. Begging only reduces me to nothing, so I didn’t try to change it. I owe you nothing, Simon.”

And the line clicked off.

Still sat on the steps, he blinked at the phone in his hand, deciding if he was going to worsen the situation if he called again. It was shameless that he did anyway, but it went straight to voicemail.

Simon might not have had plenty of dating experience, it was shameless really, but he knew he still had a chance if you were mad.

You’d listen when he showed up at your door, still hauling his backpack.

“Luv, please. Please, listen.”

He thought his heart was about to explode when your footsteps approached. The door opened halfway.

“Hi,” you said, not meeting his eyes.

His breath hitched, and he was near to tears. Despite his resolve, he couldn’t get the words out.

“I've thought about it. You're right. I thought I knew what I was getting into, but it was always so hard to see you leave, and I realised it’s only going to get harder.”

No, no, no...

“Thank you for being honest and saving us from further heartache. I know I didn’t have to block you, but I hope you understand my decision to not be in contact anymore.”

“Luv, no. I wanted- I want to try. I don’t care how hard it gets.“

“I care. I want stability, maybe even a family, and I see now we’re not heading in the same direction.” You looked up at him with glassy eyes and a pained smile. “I wish you all the wonderful things, Simon. Truly, I'm so thankful I got to know you.”

He barely made out the words tumbling out of your lips, wishing he was hallucinating.

“Goodnight, Simon,” you whispered as you closed the door.

Even then, you didn’t give him a foul look for his audacity to show his face after biting the hand that fed him. It was the last time you were going to see him, why did you still have to treat him with respect?

He wished you’d have said something mean, even sick. You should have called him names, tell him he was the most ungrateful man there was, that he was just like his dad, so he had something to hate, so the fire could flare up high once more and he’d be safe behind it like he always was.

But it was you. You could stab him in the chest, and he wasn’t sure it would have been enough to hate you. To overwrite how wonderful you’d been to the wounded stray.

His gaze cast down, unmoving at your door. He did this to himself. It was his fault for dropping his cold stare, for smiling, for looking when you weren’t, cracking his jokes, touching your hand and kissing you, for lying down and baring his belly. It wasn’t your fault you didn’t want him anymore after what he’d done.

If he closed his eyes, he could still see the vivid curve of your lips, your soft laugh, the caress of your fingers. The ache for you morphed into an itch that made him want to claw at his skin, to replace the sweetness with bright, searing pain.

Would you please do the humane thing and shoot him so he didn’t have to drown in the storm that brewed in him?

It was for the best, he told himself. It was what he wanted after all, to keep his problems away from you, to keep you happy, even when he wasn’t in the picture. Leaving you was his repayment for being a thankless beast.

“Just because I go, doesn’t mean my heart follows,” he whispered.

@tiredmetalenthusiast @shadofireshinobi @keegansshark @two-gh0sts @eve-lie @lyenera @luvecarson @jaguarthecat @knight4xmas @unwrittenletter @mxtokko @reaperxxxxzz @footyandformula @opalesquegirl @audisive @sparrowgalaxy @fanficreblogs @strawberrystargal @damalseer @onlineoutcast

[opheliawhodrowned]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies [Chapter 1]

[Outlaw/Cowboy!John Price x Preachers Daughter!fem!Reader] Masterlist | AO3 | early access | navigation

there's someone new in town

cw: western time setting, archaic punishments/abuse, religious trauma, religious imagery, bad father/daughter relationship, minor wound mention, archaic standards of women, reader is Christian, probably inaccurate Christianity, more tags on ao3

wc: 2.7k

He has you kneeling on rice again. 

Unforgiving grains burrow deep into your skin as their wickedly sharp ends pierce straight through your knees. Eyes trained on the scuffed wooden floor below you, you do not look at your father. Leather boots skirt your vision as he paces beside you, slow and with consideration. You swallow and the aftertaste of that morning’s communion dances on your tongue. Sweet wine pairs oddly with your father’s brutality, but it is the only flavor you’ve ever known. 

Bloodied fingers coil around the back of the pew in front of you as he raps your knuckles with a wooden stick no larger than the circumference of his thumb. Searing pain cuts through you with the consideration of an untrained blade, but you are good at willing your tears away. He reminds you that this is your fault, and that this is a terrible waste. A waste of time, a waste of food—everything that concerns you is pure prodigality. Gluttony in its most concentrated form. You can consume nothing—not resource nor time—without it being a sin. 

Crack!

“Again,” he demands. 

Biting back the acrimony boiling in the depths of your throat, you shift. Rice scatters, bouncing along the floor as it spreads, and you grimace. There is only the slightest amount of comfort to be found in your movement, but it is met by swift punishment. You are not supposed to find solace while in the midst of one of your father’s demanding lessons. 

Crack!

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from His hands-” 

Crack!

“Wrong. Again,” he demands. 

Your mind reels as it attempts to recall the sermon your father gave that morning. His words spoken with utmost faith, the ones you are always made to recall as a lesson at the end of each morning, and yet you can’t. It’s patchy. Like the frayed ends of poorly woven textiles. No matter how often you blink, it won’t fix itself. You can only stumble and pray you pull on the right string to unravel it all. 

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from Him, and beat Him with it,” you attempt. 

Once more, you are punished. It’s difficult to hold back the tears now as the skin on your knuckles parts like dried clay in a forgotten riverbed. They’re wide, deep crevices. Broken skin is good. It serves a purpose. It allows you to soak up your father’s lessons directly from the source. 

“Do you not listen at all? Does your mind wander during my sermons? What better things do you have to think about than His word? Again,” he demands. 

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from Him, and beat Him on the head with it.” 

There is a gentle lull that succeeds your recitation. Anxious pacing ceases as your father stares down at your kneeling form, gaze burning into the back of your head. When he hums, content with your answer, you feel every muscle in your body melt. Proud, you look up at him, ready to revel in accolades, but his lips are pressed firmly together. It is the only way he is able to restrain the acidulous words he would otherwise spew at you. 

“Good,” he mutters, though it is flat. There is no pride to be found anywhere within him.

He strikes the stick against your knuckles five more times on each hand. With each impact, he reminds you this is for your own good. This is what a loving father does—a man of God—he teaches his daughter right from wrong. 

As usual, you are made to clean up the mess that remains after your lesson. Rice is swept up by broom and stowed away into the pockets of your apron like treasured pebbles found on a walk, and what little blood that remains on the pew is wiped clean. Your hands ache. They pulse and throb, and the apex of your knuckles sting as if you’ve rubbed salt in the broken skin. You might as well have done as much with the brine that seeps into the wounds each time you rub at your eyes. 

When all is clean, and your transgressions are swept aside, momentarily forgotten, you pray. Your father always says forgiveness is God’s duty. God is the quintessence of love and mercy while your father has proved many times he is not. A devout worshiper and priest, his love and respect is saved for his savior—never his daughter. So you kneel in the pews and bow your head before the cross strung up on the wall above you, and you beg. You apologize for the simple sin of your existence. You pray that God might bless you with the tools to be a better daughter. 

Amen.

You rise. The church is stilly, and you are alone. You are left to ruminate about your failures in this divine building until it is spotless. There is always more cleaning to be done. Breadcrumbs left from communion, wine that stains the wooden floors nearly as bad as your own blood does, muck from work boots; you are on your hands and knees more often than your own two feet. Perpetually in prayer. Reciting scriptures. Cleaning this house of God until not a speck of sin remains. 

When you are finished with your duties at the church, your father sends you into town to fetch wine. It’s foolish of you to believe he would allow you to sit at the dining table with him and partake in lunch. To enjoy a mouthwatering meal of boiled potatoes and ham. He always sends you out when you look like this—disheveled from cleaning and still trying to stunt the bleeding of your hands. It’s the acme of his lesson: ignominy. Shame digs in deeper, settles in nicer, when there’s an audience to witness it. 

Mr. Beckett’s chickens are roaming the town again. You notice a few stragglers as you come to the end of the path that slowly morphs into the main road. Colorful hens cluck and bob their heads as you weave between them. They feast on small beetles with iridescent exoskeletons that flutter and click between sparse strands of grass, but when they take note of you, they stare expectantly. You try not to wince as your knuckles scrape against the fabric of your apron, hands diving into your pockets to retrieve uncooked rice. They flock as you toss the grains on the ground for them to peck and gorge themselves, putting your punishment to good use. 

Sheep bleat at you just as you turn the corner into town. The flock has grown steady this spring with several new additions of playful lambs that trot after their mothers. They curiously line the fence as you pass by, and cry pitifully as your figure grows smaller in the distance. Townsfolk flutter in and out of steady wood buildings with their pockets full of money, both earned and spent. Your own fingers brush against the cash your father gave you for your task—you keep in mind his words of warning: 

I’ll be counting that change when you return, girl. 

The saloon isn’t busy this early in the afternoon, yet Mr. Beckett is perched at his bar wiping down glistening glasses. Empty tables adorn scratched wooden floors, and the tops are sparkling clean. The summer sun seeps through cracked windows, though the building still seems darker than it should be. A group of four men lurk in the far corner of the bar, each talking lowly and looking at you with shifting eyes, yet you avert your gaze as you approach the bar. 

“Afternoon, Mr. Beckett,” you greet. You muster your best smile as you wipe a hand beneath your eyes, worried tear stains are still visible on your cheeks. “Your chickens are out again.” 

Chuckling, Mr. Beckett pushes the empty glasses to the side to give you his full attention. Wrinkles settle in his face as crows feet wink by his eyes, and they only deepen as he smiles at you. There’s a cheeky twinkle that lurks in his grey eyes, and a rosy color that fills his cheeks.

“I’m sure that broke your heart having to see those critters running amuck along the trail,” he teases. “What can I do for you, kid?” 

“My father sent me to get some wine for next week’s service,” you say. 

“Ah, I should’ve known. Three?” he asks. 

“Yes, please.” 

Mr. Beckett holds up a finger as if to tell you to stay put before he wanders off to fetch your order. Sighing, you look down at your knuckles while you wait. They’ve stopped bleeding, but the blood crusts on your skin like boulders on a mountain. Your father didn’t even give you time to clean the scabs from your hands before sending you off to do his bidding. It’s almost as much of an eyesore as it is a literal sore. 

But—as it is with all wounds—your blood seems to have attracted the dogs. 

Their gazes burn your flesh, and you are suddenly well aware of the men at your back. You had done your best to ignore them upon your arrival, but curiosity gnaws at you with dull, aching teeth. Casting a cautious glance over your shoulder, you soak up swift looks at each of the men. You catch sight of a masked man too large for his own good, a handsome fellow with deep brown skin and kind eyes, a stranger with an even stranger haircut, and a man with a low sitting hat. The brim nearly covers his eyes, but you’re still able to catch the blaze of his cobalt gaze as he stares at you. 

You shiver. 

“Alright, here we are,” Mr. Beckett hums as he returns behind the bar. Glad to have someone else to focus on, you find a smile on your face as he begins to unload the bottles in his arms onto the counter. “Three bottles of red wine. Should be plenty for everyone, I hope.” 

“I appreciate it, Mr. Beckett,” you chuckle. When digging into your apron pocket, you can’t help but wince as your knuckles once again scrape against the unyielding fabric. You play it off with a cough as you present the cash to him. “This ought to be enough.” 

At the same time as he grabs the cash with one hand, Mr. Beckett grabs your wrist with the other. Gently, he turns your palm over until your knuckles are on display beneath the oil lamp that sits just above your head. Pressing your lips together, you keep your eyes on the bartop, too ashamed to witness the results of your own stupidity. 

“Why don’t you grab a seat, kid,” he insists. 

There’s no use in arguing; you’re well aware that he won’t give you your change until you let him clean you up. Sighing, you hop onto the stool and lay your palms flat on the counter while Mr. Beckett retrieves his strongest moonshine. He pours a bit of it onto a rag before pressing it into your cracked skin where it soaks deep like thirsty soil. Your squeak echoes in the near empty room, and you feel your face heat as you attempt to keep your head down. 

“Why’d he do it this time?” he asks. 

“It was my fault,” you insist. 

“You and I both know it wasn’t,” Mr. Beckett retorts. 

You swallow as he wipes the rag along your skin before moving to the next knuckle. “I couldn’t quote his sermon today. I should’ve paid better attention.” 

“Perhaps your father should have more grace. He ought to marry you off already. I reckon you’d find more peace with a husband than you would with him.” 

Things grow quiet between you and Mr. Becket just as the muttering grows louder behind you. Those men—those strangers—make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Still, you are grateful for their presence, as they give you something else to talk about than your unfortunate life as an eternal servant to your father. 

“Mr. Beckett, can I ask about the gentlemen behind me?” you whisper.

He politely drops one hand in order to move to the next, but his eyes stray to strangers at your back. “Travelers. Blew into town a day or two ago. They’ve been doing odd jobs to scrounge up some money, but they’re nothing but trouble, if you ask me.” 

“What makes you say that?” you ask, voice cracking as he starts cleaning your other hand. 

Sighing, Mr. Beckett keeps his tongue between his teeth for a moment as he weighs his options. Eyes turning back to your hands, he pauses as he inspects the blood crusting on the rag. 

“That fellow in the mask… I’ve heard of him. Ghost stories ‘bout him anyway. They all have strange accents. From across the pond, or so they say. They’ve all got this uncanny look in their eyes and… well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say they’re the 141 Gang. At least, that fellow in the back looks like the man wanted from Blackpeak.” 

This name—141—drops from Mr. Beckett’s lips like it’s supposed to mean something to you, and yet it doesn’t ring a bell. Eyes narrowing, you tilt your head at him. 

“I’m not familiar,” you admit. 

“Dangerous people. Robbers. Murderers. They might greet you with a smile, but just look at how sharp their teeth are, kid. Nothing but wild animals ready to rip out throats for a bounty or good pay. Surprised they’re not wanted by half of The West by this point. They make people disappear, then vanish just as quickly. I’m just hopin’ if I keep my head down long enough, they’ll skip town before they cause any trouble.” 

Neither of you speak as the rest of your knuckles are cleared of debris and coagulated scabs. You are often plagued with the human affliction of having your heart stuck in your throat, but now you know your feelings aren’t unfounded. That tingle in your skin, the heat boiling at the nape of your neck—you wonder if these men even bother to wash the blood from their clothes before pretending to be human. Do they shed their wolf-teeth before attempting to blend into the flock? 

Once Mr. Beckett is content with the dismal state of your hands, he finally gives you your change. You quickly stow it away in your apron pocket before you turn to the several bottles of wine waiting for you on the bartop. You gather them in your arms before you slide off of the stool, eager to get home and well away from this 141 Gang. Yet just as your feet hit the ground, the fabric of your skirt catches on the wood stool, and suddenly your seat comes toppling to the floor with a deafening thud. 

Shame boils deep in your chest where it superheats your blood until your entire body is sweltering. You look up from the mess you’ve made with parted lips, yet no words come out. Your chest heaves as you stare up at Mr. Beckett with wide eyes, yet he only looks at you with benignancy. 

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean- It just caught-” you stutter. 

“It’s alright, kid,” he interjects. 

Silence envelops you so suddenly that you’re painfully aware of how many sets of eyes are on you. Dark gazes glint in the numbra that lurks in the corner of the saloon. The men look over their shoulders and from beneath the brims of their hats to soak up the view of you—a trembling, pathetic thing that’s about to drop the wine from her hands. 

“I’ll clean it up, don’t you worry about it,” Mr. Beckett assures as he rounds the corner of the bartop, waving you off. “Now, you best be on your way. Shouldn’t keep your daddy waiting.” 

Turning around feels like opening a healing wound—it burns and leaves you trembling as you mutter a farewell and stumble out the door. You keep the wine in your arms clutched to your chest with wounded hands as you rush back home. Sheep bleat and chickens cluck, yet their whining cannot drown out the sound of your heart. That booming thunder as blood gushes through your veins; it still boils. Vermillion waves of unrelenting shame and fear. 

Even on the edge of town you can still feel it—the gaze of those wolves. You pray to God that they leave your sleepy livestock town alone. 

Then again, God has never been merciful in answering your prayers.

[sicutpuella]

Sweet Like Honey | Simon Riley x Reader

A honey trap—such a sterile phrase his superiors used, as if it could sanitize the rot festering in his conscience. Unethical? Yes; but that single syllable barely scratched the surface of his transgression. They needed information, they said, and Simon—God help him—had orchestrated every tender moment, every breathless laugh, every trembling touch with surgical precision. His superiors, those faceless men in their stark offices, had pushed the proposal forward; they wanted him closer to her father, that suspected architect of labyrinthine offshore accounts.

He remembers that exact moment. Her eyes had sparkled with tears of joy when he dropped to one knee—tears that now haunted his dreams, crystalline drops of his betrayal. In quiet moments, when she lay sleeping beside him, her trust radiating like warmth against his skin, the question would claw at his throat: When she discovers the truth—not if, but when—will those same tears fall in rivers of rage? Will her love calcify into hatred, sharp enough to pierce the armor he'd built around his guilt?

"Three years of marriage." Her words floated like seafoam in the Mykonos twilight; wine-hazed eyes drinking in the pastel sky as if it were a gift he'd arranged specially for their anniversary.

Simon's jaw tightened—a muscle working beneath the skin—as waves lapped at their bare feet with metronome precision. The word 'marriage' sat like bile in his throat; every anniversary a fresh reminder of his calculated lies. He fixed his gaze on the bleeding horizon—anywhere but at her—letting the salt wind strip away the taste of guilt that had become his constant companion.

"Yeah... three bloody years." The words scraped past his lips, his British accent thick and coarse as Mediterranean sand. A bitter laugh threatened to escape—three years of this charade, three years of her soft touches that felt like brands against his skin. "Can't believe it's been that long."

She reached for his hand; he let her take it.

"I'm so happy you married me..." Her words hung in the salt air—fragile as soap bubbles, painful in their innocence. Those eyes, sparkling with a love he could never return, cut deeper than any interrogation he'd endured in the field.

Simon's muscles coiled beneath his skin; her declaration struck like a precisely aimed blade. His jaw worked silently—grinding truth to dust—as guilt wrapped its familiar fingers around his throat. The sensation lasted only moments before training kicked in; sentiment was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had a job to do—always the job.

"Yeah..." The word emerged like gravel. His expression hardened into the mask he'd worn for three years. "Me too."

A heartbeat of hesitation—then, striving for conviction: "It was the right thing to do..."

She wound herself around his arm like morning glory seeking sunlight. "Do you love me?" The question dripped with need for reassurance; every syllable another weight added to the anchor of his deception.

A muscle betrayed him—twitching in his jaw like Morse code airing out his lies.

"Course I do..." The words tasted of ashes as he forced himself to meet her gaze. Her eyes—God, those trusting eyes—gleamed up at him like searchlights through his carefully constructed shadows, sending fresh waves of guilt crashing against his ribs.

Mission parameters flashed through his mind like a lifeline: just a mission, a means to an end—nothing more. Clinical words that did nothing to dull the edge of her next question.

"Have I made you happy?"

The question hung between them like a loaded gun; he wondered which of them it would wound more deeply.

Simon's jaw ticked—a mechanical tell he couldn't control—as her voice spilled sweetness and light into the darkening air. His fists clenched; knuckles white with the effort of containing truths that would shatter her world.

"Yeah... you have." The words scraped past gritted teeth; his tone harsh enough to wound—though whether himself or her, he wasn't certain.

He forced himself to look at her—God help him—and found trust swimming in those eyes; love so pure it sent guilt cascading through his veins like ice water. Training kicked in like muscle memory: compartmentalize, distance, remember the mission parameters. This was all theater—a carefully orchestrated performance where he played the doting husband.

"If I make you uncomfortable or unhappy—" her voice trembled with an eagerness that flayed him alive—"tell me what to do and I'll change whatever it is you don't like about me."

Simon's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of her devotion; each word of self-doubt another stone added to the cairn of his shame. Her willingness to reshape herself for a man who didn't exist—it was obscene in its innocence.

"You don't need to change anything." His voice emerged gruff, carefully modulated to hide the storm beneath. "You're perfect the way you are." Perfect—and that made it infinitely worse.

As they walked further along the shore, his boss's voice slithered through his memory like an oil slick: "Give her a baby, Riley. Solidify that you're a family man to her and her family... that'll make them trust you more..."

The waves crashed against the shore; Simon wondered if they could wash away the taste of bile rising in his throat. A baby—the ultimate collateral damage in this game of shadows and lies. His handler's words echoed like bullets in an empty chamber; each one designed to kill whatever conscience he had left.

Simon's gut twisted into knots as his handler's words burrowed deeper—parasitic thoughts breeding shame. Using her love, her body, their marriage had been one thing; but this—creating life as a prop in their charade—made bile rise bitter in his throat.

He swallowed against the acid guilt. "Baby..." The endearment scraped past his lips like broken glass; his voice rough with self-loathing. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Yeah, baby?" Her response came wrapped in a smile—always that damned smile on her gorgeous face; each curve of her lips another twist of the knife he'd planted in his own conscience.

Simon guided her toward a secluded stretch of beach—away from witnesses to his latest betrayal. His muscles coiled tight as she called him 'baby'; the war in his mind reached fever pitch—duty and disgust grappling in the shadows of his skull. Professional distance crumbled beneath the weight of what he was about to propose.

He drew in a breath that tasted of salt and lies; tried to fortify himself against the magnitude of this new deception. Speaking had never been his strong suit—now words felt like weapons turned inward.

"...I've been thinking about something." His voice dropped low; serious—as if gravity itself could lend legitimacy to this fresh hell.

"I've been thinking..." Another breath—sharp enough to cut—"that maybe we should start trying for a baby..."

The words fell like stones into the space between them; he couldn't bear to meet her eyes. Instead, his gaze fixed on the sand—watching darkness creep across it like the stain he felt spreading through his soul. This was more than a mission parameter now; this was crossing a line he hadn't known existed until he stood at its edge—about to take a step that could never be untaken.

Her eyes widened—galaxies of hope expanding in those innocent depths.

The squeal that erupted from her lips pierced the evening air: "Yes! Yes!"

Simon's face contracted like a wound being stitched; her unbridled joy a fresh kind of torture. The guilt gnawed at his bones—a familiar parasite he'd learned to live with—but he buried it beneath layers of practiced indifference. Just the job, just the bloody job.

"Yeah... yeah..." The words tasted of ash in his mouth as he attempted enthusiasm—a poor actor playing at happiness. "I thought it was time." Time for what? Another layer of betrayal; another innocent drawn into his lies?

Her face glowed with such pure delight—Christ, if she only knew the truth behind his proposal, would that radiance transform into something that could burn him alive?

"I'm so happy... I'm so happy..." She bounced on her toes like an excited child; her eyes swimming with naked affection as she gazed up at him. "Can we try tonight?"

The question hit him like a body blow—air evacuating his lungs in a silent gasp. His jaw clenched; muscle memory of contained revulsion. "Tonight?" His voice emerged rough as sandpaper. "Uhh... tonight?"

The speed of her agreement caught him off-guard; reality crashed over him like a cold wave. The physical act loomed before him—another performance in his repertoire of deception. But sex is sex—a mantra he'd repeated through three years of marriage; a thin comfort that grew thinner with each repetition.

"Sure baby... sure." The agreement slipped past his defenses before he could stop it.

Sex is still sex—the lie tasted bitter this time.

"Yeah... alright... tonight." Each word dragged like shrapnel from a wound.

Simon forced the syllables past the knot of self-loathing in his gut. Conflict churned inside him—desire warring with disgust, duty grappling with decency. But there was no extraction plan for this mission; no way to abort without destroying everything.

He drew in a breath that felt sharp as glass. "We'll head back to the room then, yeah?"

His extended hand seemed to belong to someone else—a stranger playing at being a loving husband. His mind raced through a labyrinth of regrets; each thought a new dead end. The fraud of it all pressed against his chest—this performance of love, this pantomime of family planning.

"Come on." The words scraped past his lips, gruff with barely contained turmoil. "Let's go."

Each step toward their room felt like moving through quicksand—every movement drawing him deeper into a lie he might never escape.

That evening, as she lay beneath him—trusting, eager, loving—his guilt manifested in the most primal betrayal of all. The little blue pill dissolved on his tongue earlier was his shameful secret; another lie to add to his collection. His body rebelled against his deception—even chemistry couldn't fully overcome the weight of his conscience.

It should have been paradise, shouldn't it? Being buried in the warm sanctuary of her body—her beauty undeniable, her desire genuine. But paradise, he'd learned, couldn't be built on foundations of sand and shadows. Each tender touch felt like judgment; each passionate kiss a sentence passed. His pleasure came tainted with self-loathing—mechanical responses to artificial stimulation.

The truth burned in his throat like acid: he couldn't maintain arousal—not with guilt wrapped around his throat like a garrote; not with his handler's voice echoing in his mind. This secret he'd take to his grave—another shard of shame embedded too deep to ever extract. The warmth of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; heaven transformed into a special kind of hell, designed just for him.

She lay beneath him—all warmth and trust and love—while his heart turned to ice in his chest. The dim light caught the gold of her wedding ring; it flickered like an accusation with every movement. His own ring felt like a brand against his skin, burning with each tender touch she offered.

The chemistry coursed through his veins—artificial desire fighting against the tide of his guilt. Her fingers traced patterns of affection across his shoulders; each caress felt like judgment carved into his flesh. Paradise turned to purgatory; pleasure transformed into punishment.

"I love you," she whispered against his neck—words that should have been salvation became damnation instead.

His body responded while his mind recoiled; training and tablets working in tandem to maintain this cruelest deception. She arched beneath him—so trusting, so eager to create life with a man who was more shadow than substance. Her skin flushed with genuine desire; his grew cold with calculated performance.

The sounds she made—soft sighs of pleasure, whispered endearments—echoed in his skull like accusations. Each thrust felt mechanical; each kiss a fresh betrayal. His handler's voice mingled with her moans: "family man... make them trust you more..." Until he couldn't tell where the mission ended and the madness began.

Her hands cupped his face—so gentle, so loving—and he wanted to weep at the cruel irony. Here she was, trying to create life with a man who died a little more with each tender touch. The heat of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; intimacy perverted into intelligence gathering.

He buried his face in her neck—not from passion, but to hide the war raging behind his eyes. She mistook his shuddering for pleasure; it was revulsion at himself. Even as his body chased its chemical conclusion, his mind splintered into fragments of guilt and duty and shame—pieces too sharp to ever fit back together.

Mediterranean sunlight crept through the curtains like liquid gold.

"Did you have fun?" Her question floated up from the tangled sheets; innocent as morning dew.

Guilt lanced through him—sharp and familiar now. Her eagerness to please him felt like needles under his skin; every effort she made to earn love he couldn't give was another weight added to his conscience.

He forced out a grunt—another performance in his endless repertoire. "Yeah... yeah I did. You've gotten better." The words tasted of copper and shame.

"Why do you ask?" He aimed for casual; missed by miles—tension threading through his voice like steel wire.

"I just want to make sure I'm making you happy," she murmured against his chest, fingers tracing abstract patterns on his skin. "I read some articles about... you know... trying for a baby. Making it more likely to happen." A soft laugh escaped her—pure, unguarded. "I want to do everything right."

Her head rested on his shoulder—soft hair brushing his skin like whispered accusations. Any other man would thank whatever god they believed in for a woman like her; Simon could only hate himself more with each gentle breath she took.

He wrapped an arm around her—another act in this elaborate charade—pulling her closer even as his soul recoiled. The weight of her trust pressed against him harder than her body ever could. She felt like silk against his skin; he felt like sandpaper against hers—rough with deception, coarse with lies.

The urge to push her away clawed at his chest—to end this facade, to confess every sin he'd committed in the name of duty. But the mission bound him like chains forged from his own choices. His mind waged its endless war: duty versus decency, mission versus morality. An innocent woman lay in the crossfire, and he'd loaded every bullet himself.

Her warmth seeped into his side; he wondered if it would ever wash away the cold calculation that had become his core.

Simon slouched in the corner, half-hidden by a wall of pastel balloons and garlands, the sound of laughter and soft coos grating against him like nails on glass. She was radiant, glowing in that way all the books and articles had promised, a woman basking in the warmth of her impending motherhood. Friends and family surrounded her, hands touching her belly as though it held some sacred truth he could never understand. She laughed—a sweet, unguarded sound that should have brought him joy. Instead, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He couldn’t bring himself to join the celebration; every time he looked at her, every time she glanced over and smiled at him, something twisted deep in his gut—a sharp, relentless reminder that he was a fraud. She deserved a man who’d be a father in more than name alone, someone who’d be wrapped up in this new life with her, but all he could feel was the weight of his shame and pathetic self pressing down on him.

That evening, Simon spun a quick excuse for her—something about a problem at the office, a sudden emergency requiring his immediate attention. She barely questioned him, simply nodded with that gentle trust he’d come to dread. But his destination wasn’t the office; it was a dimly lit bar, a familiar back corner where his superior waited, nursing a drink and an expression Simon could only describe as smug satisfaction.

“So… successfully knocked an heiress up, eh?” The words rolled off his boss’s tongue as if they were discussing the weather.

Simon ground his teeth, feeling a spike of anger flare in his chest. “Yeah.” The response was clipped, his jaw clenched so tight he could barely force the words out. “I did what you asked.”

“Head over heels for you, is she?” His boss laughed, a low, contemptuous sound. “God, the poor thing.”

Each word felt like a blade twisting deeper. Yes, she loved him; she loved him with a sincerity he’d never known he could inspire. But the way his boss spoke of it—as if her affection was some cheap victory, as if her trust was a trophy to be tossed aside—made his blood run cold.

He balled his fists beneath the table, his knuckles turning white. “I know,” he said through gritted teeth, barely able to keep his voice steady.

“We didn’t think you’d pull it off this well.” The amusement in his boss’s voice was unmistakable. “We knew you could manipulate—use people; that’s what you do best, after all. But to get her so… blindly devoted? Impressive, even for you.”

Simon bit down hard, jaw aching as he fought to keep the bile from rising. He didn’t want to hear it; he didn’t want to hear about how flawlessly he’d betrayed her, how thoroughly he’d convinced her of a love that was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

“She trusts me,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, hoping to deflect, to shut down this sickening praise.

His boss let out a chuckle, cold and mocking. “Just trust, is it? Sure, if that’s what you want to call it. But come on—no credit for yourself? I think you deserve a bonus for this one, Riley. You’ve put in the work, pulled all the strings. Hell, even I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Simon felt himself go still, every muscle in his body wound tight, like a coiled spring about to snap. The monster his boss saw in him—was that all he’d ever be? He forced himself to nod, his voice barely a murmur. “Yeah… sure. Send some extra cash my way if it makes you feel better.”

“Good,” his boss replied, that smug satisfaction radiating from him like poison. “I’m proud of you, Riley. You’ve secured an influential family, locked down the daughter. And soon enough, there’ll be a little Riley running around, further cementing our foothold.”

A wave of nausea rolled through him at that. His boss spoke as though this were just another operation, another mission ticked off the list. Not a woman’s life, not a child’s future—just another step in their endless game of leverage and control.

Simon gave a curt nod, jaw so tight it felt like it might shatter. He kept his silence, swallowing the urge to spit some scathing retort, to lash out and tear down every vile word his boss had spoken.

“Good,” his boss said again, with a finality that felt like chains tightening around Simon’s throat. “Keep it up… and, of course, gather all the intel you can on her father.”

Simon didn’t respond. He simply sat there, silent and still, the weight of his choices pressing down like iron shackles. The mission bound him—bound him tighter than any oath he’d ever sworn—and he couldn’t escape the feeling that, somewhere along the line, he’d traded his soul for it.

All photos sourced through Pinterest

Headers made by @rookthornesartistry