#but he’s admitted to not being proud of what he’s said back then and from what I’ve seen he doesn’t act like that anymore

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 31

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 30 🟣 Part 32

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August, Sherlock, Charles, Melot and Napoleon

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: ongoing vampire shenanigans, Melot's ongoing identity crisis gets worse (courtesy of Mikey), lore (buckle up)

Word count: 2.9k

A/N: Alright, as promised! Major thank you to @geralts-yenn (as usual) and @wa-ni for putting these babies back in my brain. I hope they're there for the long run because OH BOY did I dream up some filth that I'm desperate to share with everyone...

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @ellethespaceunicorn @summersong69 @mis-lil-red

@sillyrabbit81 @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld @proud-aroace-beastie

@plaidcat4815 @wa-ni @lovemusicpart2 @lizzystuffsthings @manysecrets2020

@sarcasmoverlordxo @mysweetlittledesire

Melot didn’t show up for dinner. He’d kicked you out of the room too, seconds after Mike had left, and now you were sitting at the dinner table, opposite questioning looks from the others.

“He wants to be alone,” Mike said. It was easier to get everyone to believe stuff like that when Mike said it. After all, the man knew what he was talking about.

It came as no surprise, then, that everyone dropped the subject. You ate dinner, mostly in silence, with ‘pass me the salt’ being virtually the only exception. It was hell.

Then, a flick of a switch. Off, on. Off again, and back on. Fast as lightning, and it sure as hell wasn’t the light. The feeling had come from somewhere inside you…

“You found him.” Marshall nodded approvingly from across the table, casting a few quick glances between you and Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” you asked. He looked at you with raised eyebrows and hummed by means of a reply. “Do that again, please.”

A smile spread across his handsome face at a glacial pace while a sigh of relief escaped you.

“As much as I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t mind you couldn’t find me, I must admit I am quite glad that you did manage,” he confessed.

“Where did you go?”

“I brought Melot a plate,” he explained. “Whatever Mike did — Mike, don’t bother — it shouldn’t keep Melot from August’s exquisite risotto.”

Dessert was the richest, creamiest and probably only homemade chocolate mousse you’d ever encountered in your life so far. It didn’t taste anywhere near as good as it should have.

“We should go talk to him,” Mike said. He'd practically inhaled his own dessert. You slid what was left of yours — about half — over to him. He made quick work of that, too, and then got up.

“I thought he wanted to be alone,” you said.

“He does,” Mike responded indifferently. “But just because he wants the sky to be green and the grass purple, doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”

“He’s already working himself into a frenzy,” August added.

“Being alone is not good for Melot.” You were surprised that Charles even cared enough to weigh in on the situation, but you kept your mouth shut. Seemed like the smart thing to do.

“Absolutely correct.” Marshall threw a knowing smile your way.

Mike dragged you out of the kitchen, picking you up without asking to rush you to Melot’s room. He didn’t bother to knock.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Melot was lying on his bed, curled up in a ball, knees tucked tightly into his chest. His shoulders moved, although he didn’t make a sound. As soon as Mike spoke, Melot was on his feet, and in a split second the two were standing toe-to-toe with each other.

“You,” Melot snapped. “What did you do to me?”

Mike burst out in laughter. “What did I— you’re joking, right?”

A sharp smacking sound, Mike reaching for his cheek… Your eyes opened wide at the sight. Before Melot could strike again, Mike grabbed both of his wrists.

“I know you’re not seriously accusing me of what I think you just tried to accuse me of,” Mike snarled, baring his teeth. “It’s fine that you’re not sure how to handle this, but this” — he made a general gesture with his arms, dragging Melot’s along like he was a puppet  — “is not it.” He let go, his eyes suspicious.

“This is not who I am,” Melot stammered, his voice tired and broken.

“Oh, but it is, Melmel,” Mike said with a taunting grin. “You like boys.”

He what? You hadn’t seen that coming, that’s for sure. Okay, maybe a little, but you’d written off your interpretation of that strange, tense moment between the guys as a projection of a kind of fantasy you never even knew you’d had. Only it hadn’t been a fantasy. You’d simply seen that for what it was.

“I don’t—” Melot started, but Mike put a finger on his lips to shut him up.

“It’s the twenty-first century, baby!” He pulled his hand back again, draping his arms loosely around Melot’s neck. “Say it. I promise you’ll feel better.”

“I guess I’m… not gay, I mean, but maybe—”

“You’ll have plenty of time for the whole identity crisis later,” Mike said. “Just acknowledge what you know you’re feeling right now. It helps, trust me.”

“I like…” Melot’s voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. “I like at least one boy.” As soon as the words left his mouth, a sense of calm washed over him: he let his breath out on a dramatic sigh that turned into an exasperated chuckle, his shoulders dropped half a mile, and he leaned his forehead against Mike’s.

You’d watched the whole thing in silence, with an open mouth, and afraid to breathe or do anything to draw attention to yourself, but when Mike leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss on Melot’s lips…

“Aww.” Christ on a bike, what an award-winning response…

The boys turned their heads towards you. Mike raised an eyebrow, Melot looked shocked — as if he’d completely forgotten you were even there to begin with.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “But you two are surprisingly cute together.”

They both glared at you — Mike’s face morphing into a grin well before Melot’s did.

“Do they know?” Melot asked, his voice soft and brittle.

“Who? The mind-reading bunch of vampires, most of whom you’ve been living with for multiple centuries?” Mike raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes. It looked so silly that you couldn’t help but laugh.

The whole situation felt strangely comfortable, yet at the same time you felt incredibly out of place in it. Should you leave them to it? There was clearly a lot to unpack here, still, and you weren’t sure if you had any business being there to begin with.

“Don’t leave,” Mike said, once again grinning like a fool. “As badly as he wants me, he wants you more.”

Melot let out a frustrated cry before launching himself onto his bed in the most dramatic way. It was adorable. He scrambled to get under the covers, and hid his face in a pillow.

“Too bad those aren’t going to keep me away,” Mike said as he slowly stalked towards the bed.  “Come on, sweetcheeks. He needs cuddles!”

You hesitantly walked over to the side Mike hadn’t claimed, and looked at Melot. He pulled the covers back, inviting you into the bed. A wave of relief rushed through you as you got into bed with the guys.

It was quiet for a long time, in which Melot kept looking back and forth between you and Mike, unsure what to do, what to say… “How can I want you both?” he finally whispered on an exhale.

“Sexually, the answer is easy,” Mike said. “We’re both smoking hot, and you like that, so—”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Melot muttered, his cheeks slowly coloring pink. “Okay, for her, sure — no offense. But you…”

“None taken?” you half-said, half-asked carefully. Mike chuckled.

“You’ve never been attracted to me, actually,” he said casually. “Not until last week, anyway. You were always so distant, so… high above all of us. Why?”

“I was the eldest — in a way. I had a responsibility,” Melot explained. “It always felt unnatural” — he considered his words for a moment — “well, not always. It’s complicated. I felt incredibly out of place in the old, authoritarian coven I was a part of before Charles and Sherlock… And when I turned them, I was able to finally break those bonds, but it left me with this strange power over them.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “I took care to use that power as little as possible. Charles fought me for the position more than once.”

“But, why?” you asked. The story didn’t exactly provide great publicity for Charles… Not that that surprised you.

“He thought I lacked experience,” Melot said. “He wasn’t wrong, per se. Charles and Sherlock both managed to hold onto their positions at court, even shortly after they were turned. I was constantly plagued by my visions, starting to discover my healing ability… Ancient vampires are widely known for having the impulse-control of a toddler on crack.”

Mike coughed — a poor attempt to cover up his laughter. Melot glared at him and continued: “I had spent five centuries staying out of everyone’s way, living in a large coven, away from human society.”

“Why did you leave?” you wondered.

“Remember what I said before? About you making me kneel by your feet like a dog?” Yeah. You remembered. “I didn’t make that up. Catharine — the Queen of that coven — kept me as one of her personal pets. I was her prized possession. Or rather: my gift was. She’d seek my counsel, and proceed to ignore it, punishing me when things invariably went completely sideways. I’m sure she cursed herself for training us and our gifts so well, when I finally ran. It allowed me to stay out of her hands for nearly two centuries before I was finally able to sever the bond with the help of Charles and Sherlock — mostly Charles.”

“How did you do it?” You snuggled closer to him — Mike did the same on his other side.

“I’m not proud of it,” Melot said, tears forming in his eyes. “She came after me once again, sweet at first, begging me to come back, pulling the strings with all her might. I thought she’d pull my heart right out of my chest. I’d only ever been able to resist her pull and run, but with Charles and Sherlock behind me, helping me… When I refused, the bond snapped. That’s when she attacked me. Charles took her out — he almost died doing it… If she’d come around a decade sooner, I wouldn’t have been able to save him. I owe him my life, in more ways than one.”

“That still doesn’t explain the high and mighty attitude from before,” Mike joked — was it a joke? Not completely…

“We agreed on a fairly democratic structure. It became more difficult when Sherlock created Marshall, and August somehow found his way back to the coven. You can’t imagine the amount of fighting I had to shut down between Charles and August.”

No, actually you could imagine that perfectly well.

Mike laughed. “You really can’t. They’ve been very civil since you got here.”

“And they’re more afraid of Sherlock than they ever were of me,” Melot added, finally smiling again. “I can’t say I mourn my involuntary resignation. I finally have the opportunity to see who I am, and who I want to be, and what I want to do.”

“And two of the things you want to do are in your bed right now,” Mike said, pressing his lips to Melot’s shoulder.

He shrugged him off. “Don’t make it sound so lewd,” he snapped. You ran a finger down his cheek, hoping to calm him as well as get his attention. It worked; he turned his head to you.

“Don’t listen to Mikey, you know he means well. He can’t help it he’s such a mess,” you said softly. Melot chuckled — it turned into full-blown laughter when he saw the adorable frown on Mikey’s face. “What do you want to do?”

Melot stared up at the ceiling. “I think I want to go to college,” he said slowly, chewing on every word.

“Hell yeah! You could probably start next semester,” Mike immediately chimed in cheerfully, a grin stretching across his face. “I mean, it’s too late to get a dorm but we can be roommates, and—”

“Mike!” you said, reaching over Melot to put a hand over his mouth. “Don’t scare him!”

“Why would I want to live in a dorm to begin with?” Melot asked, surprised.

“For the experience,” Mike explained.

You virtually begged for an explanation. What experience could he possibly mean? Constant noise, people everywhere, having a tiny bed in a tiny — and shared — room that always smelled of microwaved whatever?

“Yes! That experience!” He rolled his eyes at you when you pointed out he himself hadn’t been staying in a dorm last semester, either. “Sweetcheeks, this is my third degree.”

What? As it turned out, Mike had degrees in journalism and computer science. You stared at him when he told you, trying with all your might to keep your face in check.

“I'm not as much of a clown as you think, Sweetcheeks. Just mostly.” He grinned at you before nuzzling Melot’s neck. “I think you should talk to the others, Mel.”

“What if they think it’s a bad idea?” he said softly, pulling you closer. “What if they think I shouldn’t leave this place? That I'm not ready?”

“Just apply to a few schools. Enroll in a few community college classes, even. You can always cancel if you really don’t feel ready by the end of summer!” Mike was clearly excited about the idea of Melot going to college. “Talk to Sherlock first, if you want to be certain of support! There’s no way he won’t let you go!”

“Quick question,” you interjected before Mike or Melot could start another monologue you wouldn’t be able to break in to. “Why wouldn’t you be ready?”

“Think back to ‘follow the teeth’ for a moment,” Melot explained. “They’re always on the lookout for human blood. I’m an incredibly powerful vampire who has been shielded from humanity for an incredibly long time. To set me loose in an environment packed with humans — a school, for example — would be…”

“A choice,” Mike finished. “And a particularly poor one, too.”

“But with you around…” Melot smiled apologetically. “Please don’t think you’re no more than food for me, I… It’s not fair to ask this of you already. Any of it. I’m so incredibly sorry.” He tried to turn away from you, but Mike pushed him back.

“Melot, when I offered to let you feed earlier, I was not planning on that being a one time thing,” you said, stroking his cheek. “We may not know each other well yet, but I’d love to change that. Let’s take some time to hang out this summer, and you can feed with the same freedom as the others… And we’ll see how it goes. But please, at least keep your options open when it comes to college.”

Melot nodded slowly before pulling you in for a hug that Mike joined in on as soon as he could. “Thank you. Both of you.”

You cuddled in silence for a while. It was amazing — Melot finally felt warm, Mike let out a chorus of happy humming sounds, sometimes interrupted by adorably disgruntled ones as you and Mel both kept reprimanding him every time he tried to get handsy.

“Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to be in bed with two people and knowing they both want to fuck you, and to then just… get nothing?” he finally grumbled.

Melot almost jumped out of bed listening to Mike’s complaint. “What? I never said— I don’t… I—”

 “It’s okay, Mel,” you said. “Sometimes” — you glared at Mike — “our brain needs a little time to catch up to whatever carnal desire Mike already picks up on. And that’s okay.” You hissed those last words specifically at Mike.

“I promise that I am trying my very best to behave!” Mike huffed. “I really am! But he’s reacting to visions he’s having of things that will probably happen and it’s driving me insane! Mel is really making this hard for me — interpret ‘this’ either way.”

“How do you know they’re visions I’m reacting to?” Melot wondered.

“There’s a difference between a simple desire and anticipation,” Mike said like it was supposed to explain anything. One look at your — and Melot’s — confused face made him roll his eyes. “It’s like… We always want blood, right? Well, that desire feels differently when we’re about to sink our teeth into someone. It becomes more present, heightened…”

“That doesn’t explain how you know he’s reacting to visions — which, by the way, you told me weren’t actually visions, Melot?” you noted.

“Call them visions for simplicity, I really couldn’t explain it. You’ll see for yourself, at some point.” Melot’s confidence when it came to this statement was haunting. “Back to the question: Mike… how?”

“You react in a similar way to immediate anticipation,” Mike explained. “It’s subtler — duller, almost — but it’s distinct.”

You both looked at him in awe. “How is your gift stronger and more sophisticated after four decades than mine are after fourteen centuries?” Melot exclaimed dramatically.

“I use this gift all the time,” Mike explained with a big, goofy smile. “It’s not like seeing the future, which isn’t a stable gift to begin with — yeah, I pay attention to the things Sherlock says sometimes — or the healing, which you literally just admitted to not practicing for the first few centuries of your existence. Bet you could get into med school with that…”

“I don’t want to,” Mel whispered.

“See? You can’t complain about not developing a gift you refuse to use.” Mike saying something that smart and logical was a phenomenon that just never got old. “Right now, what we should be developing, anyway, is your ability to function around humans.”

You just so happened to have an idea on how to do that…

[k1ttygam3r]

Every time I see someone compare the McPig drama to Hogwarts Legacy I die instantly

[mostly-imagines]

Banished

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason misses his girlfriend

warnings: extremely mild angst, he’s just mopey (he’s fine)

Jason sits slumped over the kitchen island, head lying in his crossed arms. His now soggy cereal disregarded after barely a few bites.

Dick’s been rummaging through the cabinets for the better part of twenty minutes and Tim sits atop of the nook table shoving donuts in his mouth for the better part of thirty.

Damian trudges past them to the nook bench, taking out a knife and beginning to whittle away at a block of wood.

He glances at Jason with a scowl. “If you’re going to be so miserable, can’t you do it in your own home?”

Jason just grunts.

He wishes. You and Bruce had conspired to trap him at the mansion for the week so he could heal from injuries sustained during the last mission without risk of him suiting up and sneaking away from you in the middle of the night.

It’s not even the fact that he’s basically being babysat that’s got him so disgruntled. He wouldn’t mind it at all if you were here too. But you were dead set that the manor was too far out of your way for work, so you’d stay behind. A lose-lose for Jason.

“He’s just mad his girlfriend kicked him out,” Dick teases, swiping through the fridge.

Tim snorts from the doorway, “Me too. He’s a lot more depressing on his own.”

Jason kept his head down as he blindly reached for the spoon in his cereal and chucked it at Tim’s head.

Tim catches it without thought, continuing, “A lot more irritable, at least. Why isn’t she here?”

“She’s gotta work,” Dick says, scanning through the pantry.

Damian peeps his head up from his project. “But Todd has a rather large supply of less than legally obtained money, does he not?”

“Yeah, but she said she wants to pay her own rent, I think,” Dicks hums, finally giving up on his quest for a snack.

Damian pauses.

“So she wants to live in a tiny apartment?” He asks, a mixture of confused and horrified.

“Watch your mouth,” Jason mumbles.

“It was a genuine question!” Damian protests, face screwed up.

Jason finally lifts his head up, turning to his little brother with a raised brows. “And I’m genuinely going to break your nose.”

It’s an empty threat, maybe. But it was enough to shut Damian up anyways. Jason turns back to his cereal and swishes the bowl around.

Dick rests his arms on the counter across from Jason and speaks lowly. “You know, it is just a few days. She’s coming back.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Jason was never one for showing his feelings—let alone talking about them.

He misses you, plain and simple. Dick could see that much clearly, though the longing looked unfamiliar on Jason.

Bruce lingers in the hallway, just past the island, listening.

He’ll admit (to himself) that he’s worried about Jason. It’s been three days and Jason has yet to show a crack in this demeanor. And while it’s not uncommon for him to stow himself away, there is something quite wrong with the way he hasn’t countered his brother’s jabs at him or teased them.

And while he could do without the blatant threats, he’s proud to hear his son defending his girlfriend, even over trivial things. It’s one of the few moments where he feels like he did right by him as a father.

And now here’s his son, caring about someone else more than he cares about himself. Someone who’s a good person, no less. It had been your idea to trick Jason into staying at the manor, you were scared that he would push his body past its limit when you couldn’t do anything to help.

Bruce knew you didn’t feel great about basically banishing him for the week but he could see that you just wanted what was best for Jason. He could see it so clearly. Maybe Bruce could never have been a perfect father, could never have given his son everything he needed despite having more money than he could ever use. Maybe he couldn’t help him, even now.

But you could.

Bruce peers around the corner, leaning up against the doorframe.

He watches Damian give up on carving at his block and start into the leg of the table.

He watches the bickering that broke out after Tim grab the last glazed donut, which was apparently the only thing Dick could possibly fathom eating.

And he watches Jason.

As Jason’s phone lights up on the counter next to him. He glances down at it with a frown before his face absolutely lights up.

He scrambles to pick the phone up and starts typing away. A quiet action that catches the attention of all of his brothers.

He types and types, waits for ten seconds for a response and types and types again—smile on his face.

The Waynes didn’t need to be the greatest detectives in the world to know who he was texting.

✨ reblog fics or face the block button ✨

[yeyinde]

old, grizzled retired alpha!Price who gets stuck in his cabin with omega!Reader when the winter roads, the only way in and out of his domain, melt with the encroaching spring. and really. what's an alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat without any suppressants. it's not like either of you really have a choice, after all.

dub con; age difference; power imbalance; rough sex; size difference, size kink; abo dynamics: knotting; breeding kink (astronomical); mean!Price, Dom!Price; unsafe sex; oral (f!receiving); slight innocence kink; implied kidnapping; coercion; slight baby trapping; possessive, greedy Price pulling strings from behind the scenes, as per usual. this is basically Alpha John Price knotting Omega Reader in mating press, bullying you into submission

It's an accident, of course. 

An unfortunate combination of poor timing and human error.

But this accident culminates in Price folding his body over you—mating press, you note a touch hysterically; you'd have expected him to be all tradition: presenting to an alpha on your hands and knees, cunt bare for the taking, waiting to be claimed. And while it might not be traditional, Price will claim you tonight. Bully his cock into your drenched cunt, split you wide on the thick of him, on his knot (fuck, fuck, fuck—), and keep you plugged up around him until the unexpected heat passes. 

And really. What's an old, grizzled alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat. It's not like either of you really have a choice, after all. It's agony. It's want. Primal, instinctual. You need him. Ache with it. The urge, the desperation, to be filled. Claimed. Conquered. Owned.

As he presses bluntly against your drenching slit, notching heavy and insistent into your fluttering, aching hole, spilling slick in thick rivulets down your thighs, over the engorged head of his cock, you can't help but wonder how could you be so stupid? 

“Spread your legs for me.”

The command rolls off of his tongue, slips—liquid, molten—down his chin, where it dangles for a moment. Pebbled hest. A globbing demand. You want to roll away when it starts to fall, unspooling slowly until it drips down to your chest, but you can't. You're stuck. Trapped. All you can do is watch helplessly as this barking order, matchstick casuistry, touches your kerosene-slick skin, igniting in a bloom of fire that spreads, rapidly, through your veins. Your body. 

An Alpha's whim must be met. Even this one. This one—

Your former chief, boss. Now retired in the mountains, chiselling out a little place for himself in a corrie, pitching this log bivouac beside a marbled blue tarn. Cut off from the rest of civilisation every spring when the only way in—and out—melted into a raging, uncrossable stretch of river. The ravine frothing too furiously for boats to dock safely on either side. Trapped here with him until next winter—

(oh god oh god—)

You don't know how it got to this point. Scorched. Soaked. With him leaning over you, in all his tartarean glory, making demands of your body as easily as pulling on loose thread between his thick fingers. 

You could blame Gaz for this. 

Sat pretty at his desk, idling a jar of gun oil in his hands. Your gun is spread out on the desk, taken apart. Worrying his lip between his teeth, he said, “someone should check in on Price. Haven't heard from him in a while.” 

Through a quick game of hierarchy, that someone ended up being you. Forced to trek halfway up a mountain just to make sure your mercurial boss didn't die over the winter. Bitten off more than he could chew and too much of a proud Alpha to admit defeat, and call for help. 

You had enough suppressants to last you there and back. Three days. One in the morning, one in the afternoon. Price, despite his surly disposition, is an intense Alpha to be around—

Even for Betas. 

Some, unintentionally, succumb to his whims without even a forethought spared on rationality. It's innate. He says something, and people listen—

Like now. Hours after you discovered your suppressants were gone, and his heavy, cloying scent thickened in the air, suffocating you. When he leaned against the thick log doorframe on the porch of his cabin, thick arms folded across his broad chest, murmured, “come all this way just to see me?” and all at once, the world fell out from under you—

Plunging you into his arms, his embrace. His growl in your ear, “you’re in heat,” he grunted, fists balled against your sides. “fuckin’ Christ—” and the death sentence he imparted on you: “either I take care of this, or your heat becomes too much for me, and I tear you to pieces. But it doesn't matter does it, mm? You can't make it back down in this state,” more snarling anger, dry heat. Scorching. His chin jerked to the river at the foot of the mountain. “In a few hours, It’ll be melted through. Uncrossable.”

Per usual, John Price leaves you very little room for choice, doesn't he? 

Slowly, shakily, your pitched knees part, unveiling your bare cunt to the man towering over you with a condescending coo on his lips, red-hot desire in his smouldering Tartarean eyes. 

“Tha’s it,” he murmurs, voice full of sarky delight. “Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”

It’s not meant to be answered—the jeer chock full of hyperbole. Despite this, your body responds instantly. Back arching, legs spreading out wider around the bulk of his frame, nearly flush against the warmed fur covering the floor of the cabin—wolf, he muttered proudly before he pushed you down against the soft pelt, mouthing teasing at your jaw. Chest heaving. Fingers curling, knotting into the pelt. 

The urge to present for him is intense. An unanswerable call when he pins you down on your back, body a cage keeping you trapped where you lay. Open, inviting. All for him. 

This surly, awful man—

His hands are rough, padded with calluses and hard, jagged scars that jut up from his flesh. It feels abrasive, sandpaper grit, when he leans down, hand pressed against your knee. The drag, then, when he lets it drop down the skin of your inner thigh, makes you keen in the back of your throat. Gnarled palms bleed heat into your soft skin. The contrast is dizzying—size, scale, texture; it all leaves you breathless. Victim to your own instincts, ones that scream at you to roll over. To run. To make this massive, virile alpha yours—

He cups your pussy in the palm of his hand, heel pressed against your clit, fingers sliding between your slit, touching your entrance with the tip of his middle finger. The way the length of it swallows you whole, long, thick fingers reaching beneath you, grazing the cheeks of your ass, sets you on fire in a way you've never felt before. 

Price sees it. He must. He leans back on his haunches, broad chest heaving as he stares, transfixed, at his hand folding over you, wrist propped against your mons. 

He groans low in his chest. When he speaks, desire scorches his words to cinders. 

“Ever had an Alpha's cock here?” 

His question is scorching. 

In a small town, choice is slim. The ratio of alpha to omega, and beta to both, is skewed highly in the latter's favour. You think, Price included, there are maybe five eligible alphas in the whole township. Two omegas, yourself included. Everyone else—

Unbothered, unburdened by this horrific anomaly of genetics, of lingering animal instinct. A relic of when people were more beast than man. 

But even with that, the suitors lining up ready to claim you since you arrived three years ago is negligible. Nearly nonexistent. 

The shame of it is absurd. You know without any shadow of a doubt that your worth is not measured by the number of Alpha's wanting to claim you, but that prickling unease in the back of your head won't be quelled by common sense. Who cares, you want to scream. Who fucking cares—

“No,” you bluster; choking on your anger, your shame. Despite being an omega—rare as they are—everyone in town seemed soured by your scent. Adverse to the pungent pheromones you released innately. 

“No?” He echoes, and the stab of worthlessness needling into your pericardium makes you want to howl, want to cry. 

He doesn't let you. He leans down, hand resting on the floor beside your head, the other still anchored to your cunt, and presses his lips to the shell of your ear. His breath is a humid kiss that tickles across your flesh. 

“Good.” 

The praise bubbles in your marrow. You melt under the heat, whimpering. Head lulling to the side, exposing your neck. Offered up for him to take. 

He huffs, chest expanding. The coarse bed of hair tangled on his sternum in a smattering of black catches on your nipples, the rough graze making you gasp, soundless, into the humid space between your bodies. Aching already and he barely touched you. 

Price follows the twist of your chin, lips pressed flush to your ear. With him crowding so close, you can feel the rumble, the low vibration, through his chest before he even speaks. A soft purr, sultry and rich. Pulling you deeper into the throes of your submission with a startling ease. 

“I don't share, and I'd hate to have to tear another alpha apart for touching you,” his beard scrapes against your cheek, words soaked in possessive fury at the thought alone. “You're mine.”

You want to fight against it. Against him. No one owns you. Has claimed you.

You have only ever belonged to yourself. 

“M’not—”

Price shushes you with a nip, blunt teeth dragging down the plush flesh of your earlobe. “Don't fight it, love. Just—give in.”

You won't. Can't—

Despite the heat—heavy, oppressive, and wet, like the balmy swelter of a tropical jungle; bubbling dross on molten metal—you fight. Rage. Push back against the heady scent he exudes, ones meant to soothe, melt. Until you're malleable. Tensile. Mouldable to fit his needs, his desires, his cock. Putty in his scorching hands. 

It bleeds through, though—noxious and potent. The acrid miasma of a wild, untameable man: leather, hide, and animal rot; bleached bones; felled timbre. A wet forest after a wildfire; charred wood, argillaceous soil. Damp. Cloying. Choking. 

Reeking of authoritative power, he leans over you, breathes in the heaving exhales you let out. Lets the taste of you sit on his tongue, curl between his crooked teeth. 

He's close like this. All fire, all heat. And underneath the scent of a pursuing alpha, you pick up hints of him. Of what he smelled like before, when you were his subordinate and he spent most of his days making yours miserable. Stale smoke, wet tobacco, old leather, dry whiskey. 

You hate how much it calls to you. 

Maybe sensing your defiance, or growing tired of this push-pull game, he huffs out a breath that sounds less aggrieved than you'd want it to, full of playful amusement. Like he expected this. Like he knew you'd fight back with brittle fists and wicked teeth. 

Price pulls back, leaning against his haunches. Content now to devour you at a distance. His eyes leave a scorching trail from your heaving breast, your quivering stomach before fixing once again on the way your pussy is swallowed by his hand. His middle finger circles your sopping hole. The tease is a burst of pleasure, of sensation. A tickle, a taunt. The drag of it makes a loud, sticky noise; the unmistakable slosh, the squelch of just how wet you are for him. 

And it is for him. All for him. 

Your heat is an incipient bloom on the horizon—a slow, crawling sunrise. You shouldn't be this slick yet. This drenched. 

The embarrassment blisters through you when he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. A loan bitten, swallowed before it can fully form. 

Price coos, voice scorched. Full of char. “All’fer me, mm? Such a good little omega.”

You hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it—

—but nearly choke yourself on a moan. 

He chuckles, dark and rich. The sound entirely too similar to crushing a fistful of charcoal, and you're reminded suddenly why he's unmated at the age he is. 

Surly bastard. As approachable as a fucking grizzly bear in a rut. 

Your lips twist, jerking downward. “Fuck you—”

He circles your rim once more, chuffing low as he does so, letting the slick noise of your soaked cunt speak on his behalf. 

You bite back a snarl, letting it fizzle out in the back of your throat. However reckless you might be, however much you might dislike him, he's still an alpha. Snarling in his face would only get you bent over his knee (at best). 

And at worst, well. Maybe they'll find whatever is left of you next spring. 

Next spring. 

Thinking about just how long you're trapped here with him—no phone, no service—makes you want to cry. To break down, to—

No. You can't. Won't. Not in front of him. 

Not Price. The awful man who spent three years picking away at everything you've ever done. Writing you up for every little misstep. You wondered then, and you still wonder now, if he hated you because you were an omega who dared to work with him, as his equal, or if his brand of distaste was just for you. 

(The latter, it must be—he’s always been so kind to Alex, an older omega. 

You're just the exception.)

This sprawling train of thought is clipped when he sinks his finger into you, to the second knuckle, and you choke. 

“Ah, fuck, don't—”

He curls his finger. “Protest as much as you'd like, but if you didn't want this, your pussy wouldn't be this fuckin’ wet would it, love?”

He's right. You hate him for it. 

But he doesn't give you a chance to complain. He slips his finger out, the wet drag of your flesh pulling on him, unwilling to let go, is loud. Awful. You burn hot—hotter still when he groans at the noise. 

“Such a good girl for me, ain't you?” 

Price circles your entrance as he says it, pressing two fingers against your rim, rubbing. Gathering slick. You wish it didn't feel as good as it did—electric shocks of pleasure sparking at his touch, but the feel of it is a tease. You want more. Much more—

He presses those long, thick fingers inside again. Two this time. All you can do is mewl around the sudden stretch, the sting. 

Your discomfort is a palpable thing. Unease, distress—the acid scent plumes around you, leaking from your pores. Price stops suddenly, fingers still crooked in a half knot inside you. 

“You're tight,” he drawls, jowls working. Tensing. His eyes flash, heat lightning. “You—”

He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes narrowing into slits. They drop down to where he disappears inside of you, flesh stretched tight around him. Drilling into the way the slick runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, drenching the back of his hand, and he hums. 

“Has anyone ever touched you here before?”

More shame. It bubbles in your chest, this awful, insidious thing. 

It hasn't been for a lack of suitors, really. But rather, other things have always taken precedence over heats, over ruts. School, then your career. And well—

Betas around here don't seem very interested, either. 

Maybe you have peculiar wants. Urges, needs, that you've always been hesitant to fill. A wellspool of desire that runs deep, vicious. You want to mate. For keeps. 

Maybe they can scent that on you. A loud cry that says, stay away. 

You take a shuddering breath before nodding shallowly, twisting your head away so you don't have to look at the patronising gleam swirling in frothing Tryhennian. 

“Look at me.”

The command bludgeons your resolve. Your chin jerks back immediately. Desperate to obey. To listen. Frantic with the urge to quell the alpha, to soothe his plight—

But where you expect anger, you're met with the most peculiar sort of expression etching itself into his brow, his rugged face. 

His lips parted, lax. The picture of surprise.

Your eyes widen. A gasp is ripped from your throat at the raw, fractured look in his eyes. It's new, this. Unexpected. Where you anticipated scorn is instead a slow, unwinding look of want, of greed, so thick, it glues to the air. 

Patchwork hunger, predatory and damning, hews into your skin. Fine needles piercing, pricking, along your flesh. 

Branded ownership. You feel it settle against your chest. Dig in when his chest expands with his, hissing inhale. 

There's a dark tremble to his shoulders that makes your toes curl. 

“I should take this slow, then, mm? Prep you. Get you nice and ready for my cock,” his words have you keening, arching for him. Achingly empty. His hand lifts, settles against your quivering stomach. The slightest pressure makes you shake, quieten; submitting to the touch. “But. I don't have the patience for that.” 

He slots his thighs between your legs, pressing it tight against your cunt. The pressure—blissful pleasure; frantic at the touch—is almost your undoing, but there's a plexiglass between full submission and the urge to flee. Still. The heat is rapacious. The desire, the yearning, doesn't abate. 

The haze is thick. So thick. It would be easy to slip under the veil, to let yourself go. To give in—

"Easy, omega," it comes out as a guttural rasp; the charcoaled command uttered in a mockingly placating tone. The sort one might use to soothe a wild animal or a startled mare. Fitting, of course, when you're rutting against the thick spread of his thigh, leaking slick all over him.

down girl, he doesn't say, but he might as well have because you're clenched tight around nothing, aching hollowly in a way that rings through your bones. You can't help it, you want to whine when he huffs, lips pulling downward in a frown. Disappointed in you, perhaps. But how do you fight instinct when you're hardwired to want to spread your legs at the pungent, lour stench of a virile alpha's incipient rut, the briny tang of his pre-cum saturating the air. A heady elixir that sends shockwaves of agonising need through your body.

It's too much. The burn of your heat is a vicious, deadly combatant. Knife to your jugular, hand around your throat, it demands compliance. 

And when he reaches down to his stained slacks, drawing your eye to the tent in the front, to the dark pool at the front where he leaks his spend into the fabric, you keen. Jealousy scorching through you instantly at the sight; animal instinct that makes you want to bare your teeth at it because his cum is just for you, all for you—

Amusement pierces the air. Punctuates it with the heavy, noxious weight of his satisfaction. 

He hums, reaches into his slacks. Curls his fist around the thick of himself. 

“Want this, don't you?” 

You gnash your teeth against your desperation, legs popping open further. Inviting. Eager. 

“Of course you do. Want this—” he frees his cock, pulling it over the band of his trousers, and you choke. 

It's wet with his spend, and angry looking. The mushroomed head engorged, swollen. Flushed a deep vermillion. Veins run the length of it. Pulsing with his need. His want. 

Price groans, strokes his hand down his shaft. Pearlescent beads of pre-cum bubble up from the tip. 

You ache. Suddenly, viciously. Hollow. Empty. You want him. Need him—

“Yeah? Want this fat cock inside of you, mm?”

And you, finally, give in—

"Please, please, Price—"

"No." He taps the head of his cock against your clit once, twice. A warning. A reprimand. You keen at the whitehot agony, the unfathomable burn of pleasure ripping through your body. He coos into it. Echoing your whimper with a derisive snort. Mocking. Cruel. You hate him. Hate him. Need him so badly you think you might go insane if he doesn't pry you apart right this instant—

"I'll give you my knot when I'm good and ready. Now, be good for me, mm?” His eyes are dark in the harsh flicker of the wood stove. Burning liquid black. Molten puddles of crushed sapphire. You hate the way he looks at you. Hate how it makes you want to roll over on your belly, soft and submissive, giving all of yourself over to this terrible man. “That's it. Good omegas get what they want. Bad ones get punished. And I don't think you'll like being taken over my knee, would you?"

His words send a fresh wave of heat through your veins. Hellfire. Scorching. You want to blame the fever on the stove burning away in the corner of the room, on a sickness you can't scrape off of your bones no matter how many times you chisel into your skin. An infection eating away at you from the inside out. 

But it's futile. He doesn't care about your excuses. He never has—

“Spread yourself. Go on and show me that pretty cunt you want me to ruin so badly.” 

Unspooled, liquid under his bulk, you don't even hesitate before your fingers unfurl from their fight knot in the fur, making a slow, timorous crawl down the supine length of your sun-scorched body. 

Your flesh feels foreign, like it belongs to a stranger. To someone else. Each touch is a phantom whisper gliding along sweat-slicked skin; new and different, and not yours. 

Not yours at all because your skin would never prickle with goosebumps over the sight of your chief kneeling between your legs, the hair on his thigh matted, slick with your wetness. The unruly black thatch darkening into a patch where you shamelessly rutted against him, eagerly seeking friction over the place you ache the most. 

For him. All for him. 

It's impossible. Impossible. And yet—

As your fingers curl over the tops of your thighs, notching into the soft, heated flesh at the bend of your hip and groin, you feel just how soaked you are for him. How wet. How eager. It stains your skin, reaches almost down your bent knees. Beneath you is a puddle drenching the fur. 

Your fingers slip, sliding in the mess you made. You flush when he huffs, humoured by it all, and dip your chin away from the scorching, piercing look in his cerulean eyes, drilling holes in the apex of your thighs. Greedily taking in his fill as your fingers glide over your sopping folds, gingerly parting them. Presenting to him on your back. Ripe for the taking. 

“One hand,” he rasps, words clicking in his throat. He holds his hand up, curling his fingers down and leaving his index and middle finger up in a pointed V. “And the other—” he swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing. “I want you to touch your clit for me.” 

You follow his instructions, slipping your fingers between your folds, opening yourself up for him. Your other hand sits on your mons, fingertips brushing your swollen clit as heat floods you. Electric. Each touch is a shock of pleasure roiling down your spine, and more slick dribbles out of you, dripping down your aching, empty hole, down your ass, until it soaks into the furs below. 

The scent of a needy omega fills the air. Your scent. 

Where most are sweet, supple, yours has always had a bite. A tartness to it, an earthy tang. Boysenberry. Loam. Lemongrass. Beeswax. You bluster. Flushing. Embarrassment plumes up, mushrooming in the air—smoked orange peels, coral berry sour—and you wonder if he's repelled by it, this strange smell of yours—

Price’s head rolls back, nose pitched in the air. Breathing in deep, groaning with his exhale. Eyes fluttering, flashing. He eats it clean from the air. Mouth dropping open, panting. 

It's then when the unmistakable musk of a pleased Alpha—smoked tobacco and sage—clots beside your scent do you feel the prickle of free will hewing into your periphery. 

None of what he demanded of you carried the unignorable weight of a command. Before you can even think of the ramifications of that, he's moving. Heavy body falling, sliding down the furs. His hands come to rest, hot and firm, on your knees, spreading you wider, wider, to fit the boxy heft of his broad body between them. 

He hovers over you, head bending to fit in the brackets of your thighs. Leading with nose, nostrils flaring, fluttering, as he pulls in deep lungfuls of your scent. Over and over, and—

His head bows. Humid air ghosting over your sopping cunt when he exhales. It's then when he dips his chin further, further, until the bottom of his face is flush with your pussy, mouth parting around a groan that reverberates through the floorboards, rattles your bones. 

“You smell s’fuckin’ good, love,” he rasps, choked. His eyes are gyres. They might just swallow you whole. You fight back a shiver, resolve threadbare. Stitches coming apart. “Bet you'd taste even better.”

It's all the warning you get before he pushes his face into you, mouth dropping open to let his tongue lull out. Licking a scorching stripe from hole to clit. And, oh—

Oh. 

Your head drops, eyes slipping closed at the liquid feeling between your thighs. The whitehot sensation of his tongue laving across your slit. 

So this—this—is what you've been missing out on. Pure feeling. Molten. It blooms in your loins, knots tight like a spooled bow. 

Your fingertips are in the way from him pressing his tongue flat against your clit, where you throb the most, and you move to pull your hand away. To give him access to everything, all of it. Every part of you he wants. It's all his, his, so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with his mouth, his tongue—

But his hand slashes through the air, snatching your wrist in a vice grip. Stopping your retreat. You whimper, hips flexing up, wanting his mouth. Needing more of what he's doing between your thighs. 

“Look at me,” he demands. You obey. Instantly. His eyes are black holes. Everdark. Eclipsed, totally, by the bleed of his black pupils spreading out. You moan, thighs parting wider, wider. “Good girl. Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”

He doesn't let you answer. Draws your wet fingers to his mouth, pressing the pads against his lower lip, nails scratching his teeth. He breathes in, shoulders bunching up. Eyes fluttering again, rolling back in his head. And it's divine—

To have such a surly, contemptuous Alpha on his knees for you, fat, heavy cock drooping between his thighs, spitting a steady stream of spend onto the floor. Wasteful. You keen again, back arching. Needy. Wanting—

Price sucks in your fingers, tongue laving between your knuckles. The pressure, the feeling, is good. You like this. Like his mouth. 

But your fingers are not where you want him. 

“Please, Price. Please—”

He pulls off with a pop. Leans his cheek on your inner thigh. 

“What do you want? Use your words, omega.”

Heat blooms in your chest, but you're long past the point of embarrassment anymore. Shame. It's all awash under the torrent of need. Desire. Swept in the rage of your heat. Nearly rendered delirious by it. 

“Want your mouth.”

“Where?”

“M–my—” you swallow, fingers spreading your folds wider. Opening yourself up to him. He glances down, nostrils flaring once again. But he doesn't move. Won't. You groan, head rolling back. “My pussy. Please. Want your mouth on my pussy, Price—”

He groans, low. Dark. But then he's moving. Head bowing. His tongue is scorching. Whitehot. He drags it through your folds, teasing at your rim. Presses it inside, just a touch, a shallow thrust. And—

Ah. 

You make a noise in the back of your throat. Awful, wet. Choking. The feeling of his tongue inside of you is good. Beyond words. 

It slips in more. The full length. Stuffed. You keen, arching. Aching. Hips flexing, jerking against his mouth. He lets you ride his face like this, fucking your hole with his fat tongue, nose glued tight to your clit. 

All you can do is sob his name, fingers curling, knotting, into his damp hair, holding him close. 

His tongue leaves you, sliding up your seam until it cups your clit. Laves over it. He lifts his chin, and seals his mouth over you. Sucks—

The spool unravels. Pressure released. You flood around him, on him. Pussy gushing slick over his chin, drenching him. Drowning him. 

Lips sealed over your throbbing clit, he moans low. Deep. Eyes rolling back in his head. Gyre blue. 

“Tha’s it,” he coos, pushing two thick fingers inside your throbbing cunt. “Think you're about ready for my cock, ain't you?” 

He doesn't let you answer. And—

You don't think you can form a coherent thought. Running on sensation. On instinct. You make to roll over on your belly, ass pushed into the air, ready for his knot, but he stops you. Hands squeezing your hips. Firm. 

“No. I'll take you like this.” 

And it's hard to reconcile the urge to present with his demands. His wants. You whimper. He answers it with a grunt. 

“Stay still.” 

You flatten to the fur, body melting. Lax. 

“Good girl.”

The praise is a serrated knife to your jugular, cutting a jagged line across your skin. Spilling blood. You quieten under his bulk, now. Desperate. Docile. Collared in blood. 

His hands push behind your knees, lifting your legs. Pushing, pushing. Until they rest under your ears. Spread open for him. Ready to be claimed, owned. Bred. 

“Price, Price, please—”

He shushes you with a coo, pitching your heels over his shoulders. Shuffling closer until his heavy cock, hanging thick and fat between his legs, bumps against your ass. Your cunt. You whimper, back arching. Needing him to fill you up. Split you apart. 

Ruin you—

“Gonna fuck you now. Knot you.”

It's a warning. A threat. You feel it trail over your skin, branding. A collar. You lift your chin, letting it settle there. So long as he makes you feel this good, he can do whatever he wants to you. Anything—

And so, he does. 

His cock is a heavy weight against you, pressing. Pushing. He doesn't wait for you to adjust, for your body to acclimate to the burning stretch of him splitting you apart. 

Your slick aids in the brutal onslaught of his cock prying your untouched flesh apart, chiselling open a space just for him to fit. 

It should hurt more. And maybe it would if you weren't drowning in the throes of a vicious heat, numbed to everything but the way his cock feels as it slides, inch after inch, inside of you. Thick, fat. Pulsing. You pant shallowly, head turning. Chin pressing into your shoulder. 

It's good. This burn, this ache. This madness—

“Christ—” he spits, sounding almost angry. Furious. You peer up at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. Through the murky haze, you catch the clench of his jaw, the prominent divot between his brows. Face tightening with pleasure. Rapturous. “This cunt was made for me, wasn't it, love?”

“Yes—” it's breathless. An airless whisper. “All yours, all yours, John—”

You repeat this as he reaches halfway inside of you. As he bends down, mouth feverish he slots it greedily over your lips in a bruising, sloppy kiss. You mutter it against his teeth, his tongue. He swallows your acquiescence, your submission, down with a moan. Drinks you in as he takes, takes, until you're full of him. Stuffed. 

John bottoms out with a moan that trembles down your throat, balls pressed flush against your ass. Split apart on him. Claimed. 

He settles, letting you adjust to the sensation. Content to simply mouth sloppy kisses over your face, your cheek, jaw. Nipping your skin. Basking in this, in finally having you stretched around him. His pleasure is ripe in the air. Heavy and acrid. Smoked leather. Fresh, and heady. 

It's novice, this feeling. This pressure. This fullness. Your hand drops, falls, palm sliding between his heavy, hairy belly, resting over yours. Feeling the unmistakable bump of him rearranging your anatomy to fit—barely—in you. 

He lifts up, elbow dropping to the floor beside your head so he, too, can feel for himself the way he fits within you. His hand comes to lay beside yours, flattening over the bulge of him protruding from your flesh. His cock jerks inside of you, twitching. The feeling makes your toes curl, your cunt throb. 

“Like that, huh?” 

Your nod is slowly, languorous. Everything feels unreal. Like you're staring at the world from underwater. Inky. Fractured. Raw. 

The burn of the stretch is there, throbbing like a bruise. A contusion. He scents the sting, the ache, and slides his hand down, cupped over your swollen, stuffed pussy. Fingers tangling into the thick bed of curls grazing your mons. Price quells the burn with a swipe of his thumb rolling over your clit. 

It has you clenching, tightening even further around him. Feeling the thick stretch thrumming inside of you. Plugging you up. And fuck—

If that doesn't just light you up from the inside out. Supernova. Blistering heat. 

Pieces of yourself chip off, fluttering to the soft, downy fur below you with each heavy breath he takes. Your heat swells to a crescendo, breaking over the edge of your lingering cognisance. It's all sensation now. Pure, unfettered feeling.

And Price takes no time at all to exploit it. To batter your melting, liquid body into submission even further. 

It starts with shallow grinds against the plug of your womb. Carving more space inside of you for him to fit, to ruin. 

He fucks you like this. Cock heavy and fat inside of you. Giving you the full length until your rim catches on the burgeoning swell of his knot. Over and over again. Pulling deep, delirious moans from your throat. Breaking you to pieces on the spread of him seated deep. Tugging more and more compliance from your body, wringing pleasure out of every nerve ending. 

The sounds are horrific, and had you any sense of self left to mull over them, your shame, embarrassment, would have burned you alive. The wet squelch of your cunt swallowing him down, over and over and over again—

“Needy little pussy,” he bites out, blunt teeth skirting over your pulse point. A tease. 

The press of them heightens everything, elevating it to a tipping point. 

This is what you were made for. What every atom in your body screams out to. Wanting. Needing to be spread out under him, this dark, awful man. 

“I'm not going to claim you,” he's saying, words wet against your temple, tongue snaking out to catch the droplets of sweat beading on your hairline. 

It makes you whine in dismay, desperate for his teeth buried in your skin. 

“No, no, please—! I need it, John, I need it—”

“Then beg me. Beg for it—”

You do. It babbles out of you. Broken, fractured. Pleas, orisons, screamed to heavens; aching for his teeth on you, in you. Claiming you for his own. You want it more than you think you've ever wanted anything in your whole thing. Half of you, empty and vacant, hollow, begging to be filled. To be completed. 

And really—

You've felt it from the beginning. This stirring, agonising want. Desire. A bone-deep yearning for the man who looked at you, up and down, and dismissed you with a charred scoff and shallow shake of his head. 

“What's a little omega like you doin’ runnin’ around the woods, love? Ought to be at home—”

Where you belong. 

It didn't make sense at the time. He's so different with everyone else—Alex, Farah—but reserves his scorn, his discrimination, just for you. Special little thing, aren't you? 

But even still. Still. You tried. Struggled against the crushing weight of his derision, burying your fingers into the rubble, clinging on for three, devastating years until your nails broke, bled. Left stains on the pavement. Until he, stiff-lipped and clipped, told you he was retiring. Escaping the loose binds of a non-existent town on the fringes of civilisation for the sanctum of the wild, untamed forest. The mountains. 

You wanted him to say, come with me, even if you might have gouged his eyes out for even asking. Tore his still-beating heart out with your bare hands. 

But instead, he nodded at you. A quiet goodbye. Left you bewildered, furious, and unclaimed, unwanted, and now—

Those blood-stained fingers dig into the softness of his nape, biting flesh until it gives, breaks, under the jagged stumps of your nails, and you wrench him forward, into you, snarling mad. Apoplectic with fury at being denied so long. 

“Fuck you,” you bite out, brittle with ire. Disobedient even through the noxious curdle of heat subduing your senses. Your rationale. “Fuck you, John—!”

His skin breaks first. The bitter scent of hot, wet pavement, pennies in the summer sun, sickly sweet iron, fills the balmy cabin. He groans, choked, throat bobbing, jaw clenching. You don't let him get anything out. 

You pull him by the scruff of his neck into you, face buried in your collarbones. Heels dig in, sliding along the slick sweat of his broad back. Finding purchase against the knob of his spine, and pressing. Pushing. Kicking at him until he slots his hips into yours, pressed as deep as he could possibly go. Throbbing inside of you. Spitting molten spend as he wrenches you open. 

The first person to ever do so. 

He must know this, feel it simmering in the air, because he groans low, deep. It bubbles out of his chest, a half-bitten snarl saturated in the smoke of his desire. Feverish, possessive. 

“Mate me,” you demand, head tilting back into the awaiting plinth of his palm, cushioning your crown. “Claim me.”

He—John, you think, delirious; gone—John places a tender kiss to your pulse point, soft despite the uneven, desperate way he fucks into you now. All that careful finesse falling to pieces under your foot, growing choppier as he sinks in deep. Pistoning shallowly into your sloppy cunt, taking. Taking. 

“Please, John,” you breathe, clenching tight around him. Needing that last push to drop over this vertiginous precipice that yawns out, a growling, hungry chasm, before you. Heat spears into your marrow, drowning out all the fight inside of you. Dousing those flames until they're a smouldering heap; clumps of hot, wet ash in your hands. “Please take me—”

The growl he makes is inhuman. Lingering in the shadow of it is a mocking burst of laughter. Dark, hellish. He leans in close, mouth tight against your skin, and whispers, “already have, love.”

Those words lose any meaning when he opens his mouth wider, licking a stripe over your neck. A soothing rinse. And then he buries his teeth into your pulse, tearing through your skin. Claiming. Owning. It rips through you—all heat, sensation: blistering, inferno. You burn alive beneath him, smouldered under his possessive, heavy bulk.

Price leans back with a vicious, terrible growl. Blood dripping down his chin, mixing with the tacky slick of you still covering his face. Pinkish under the waning light of the dying sun. 

The sight of it, the horrible throb in your throat, breaks over you.

His tongue flicks out, chasing the drops. With a swipe of his finger over your clit, you fall to pieces around him, clenching. Throbbing. Screaming with your release. Gushing around him as he grips you tight, working you through it, muscles fluttering, flexing. The deluge of pleasure is molten, spreading liquid through your body. Inescapable bliss. 

He grunts, pace slowing to a sloppy grind. Letting you leech pleasure from the overfull feeling of being speared open on him. Knot swelling. Bumping into your rim. John gives you respite for a moment, content to hump against your messy cunt until you melt into the furs, panting with exertion. With pleasure. 

He keeps his thumb pressed against your clit, stroking. Shoving you into the side of too much, of pleasure-pain. Overstimulated. You mewl, whimpering. 

“Greedy girl,” he chides, cruel, and pulls back. The wet drag of his cock against your sore, sensitive walls is overwhelming. You keen, shaking under him. “Couldn't wait to cum around my knot, mm?” 

He doesn't wait for your excuses. He never does. He just thrusts into you again, a slow climb until his knot bludgeons into you. Fatten up at the base of his cock. He holds it there, grinding it against your pussy as you arch, mewling at the sting of your hole being stretched further around the curve of his knot. 

“You can take it,” he coos. The muscles in his shoulders flex. You reach out, petting along his chest. feeling him. All powerful, corded muscles hiding under a thick layer of pelt. Soft flesh. 

His knot catches. Slips. He bullies it against your sore, stuffed rim, throwing the full heft of his weight behind his shallow grinds until finally, finally, your body yields. Giving in. Opening for him. 

He sinks in with a broken groan, mouth dropping open. Lax. His shoulders slump under your hands as he pumps you full of cum. Plugged up tight on his fat, pulsing knot. It's too much. Too much. All you do is cling to him, nails biting into his flesh. Marking him like the bloody ring around your neck marks you as his. 

Locked together, damned, he leans down. Huffs in your ear. 

“Gonna fuck you full all spring until it takes, love. Until you're swollen, fat, with our kid.” His voice is a thunderclap. A promise. A threat. “Won't keep them lonely for long, though, will you? We'll give him a sister or brother. Gonna breed this pussy as much as I want, mm. Give us a big family. I've already started on the nursery for you. After your heat, I'll let you pick the colours, yeah?”

Satiated Alpha permeates the air. It's thick in the back of your throat, clogging your senses. Drowning you. Pulling you under. 

The last thought before you sink below the waterline is a broken, fragmented sense of dread, confusion. It comes in a daze. Flickering embers. Quickly snuffed out by his palm gliding across your eyes, closing them. 

“Sleep now,” he rasps, hips stuttering as he fills you with more cum. Uncomfortably full, it floods your cunt, locked tight against your womb. “Gonna need it when my rut starts later.” 

And, docile, collared, you obey, drifting. Dazed. But wondering, in the back of your head, in the part of you not yet consumed by the ink-black darkness that eats away at you, why did he build a nursery for you if he didn't know you were coming today—

—swallowed, eaten. his teeth are buried in your neck once more, and all thoughts dissolve in an instant. Dissipate into the gnawing aether where he splits them between his molars, gulps them down. 

nothing matters anymore. you belong to him—

The cabin reeks of satiated omega—sweet, pungent. Rotten apple peels, and burnt orange. It's this heavy scent—sex, loam, and you—that draws him out of his doze, tired eyes blinking against the flickering light of the wood stove pushed into the corner. 

Price groans when he shifts, body aching. Muscles stiff, sore, from disuse. 

It’s been a long, long time since he knotted an omega, and he underestimated the sharpness of your claws, your needle-like teeth. But he wears the marks, the scars, of your aggressive coupling on his shoulders, his back. Clawed up, torn. He grimaces when a clotting scab breaks, peels back from the wound. Blood drips down his spine in a steady, ticklish trickle. 

It took a lot more than he expected to make you submit. Had to force you to take his knot twice more before you finally, fully, relented, slurring his name into the sheets as he rutted into you from behind, begging for your Alpha to fill you up. 

Had you again after that—so soft and sweet for him now. Pulled you down on his lap, let you take what you wanted from him, sluggish and lazy, until he gripped your hips tight, fucking up into you as he thickened with his release. Plugged you up nicely as you drooled on his shoulder, lulled to sleep from three brutal rounds of fucking. 

But the battle was worth the victory in the end. To have you tucked into his chest, purring with contentment and too blissed out from heat exhaustion to worry about anything else, was enough. More than, really. 

Especially now, with you curled on him, snoring lightly, breath tickling his chest hair, he feels more sated than he ever had, breathing in the heaviness of your smell. Your thick miasma. New, now. Different. 

His scent, his mere essence within you, changes your smell already. Chemicals admixing. Body moulding, morphing, to adapt to him. His presence. You smell like the sea, salt water. Algae blooms. He leans down, breathes you in. Tastes his own headiness in the back of his throat—charred timber, smoke; leather. It clings to you. A second skin. 

No matter where you go, everyone will know you belong to him. 

This thought, this truism, makes him purr. A deep rumble from the pit of his gut. Satisfaction rolls off of him in towering waves, hewing the air where it congeals into plumes of conquest. Hard earned, too—

Three years. It only took three years to get to this point. To chisel under your skin, to break you down in his paws. Fine powder. 

He lifts his hand from your back, and scours it down his salt-slickened face. He feels heat blooming under his skin. A telltale flush of his approaching rut. Perfectly timed, too. And that reminds him—

He pushes away from you slightly, spent cock slipping free from your warm, drenched cunt. His cum drips out of you, a deluge that leaks steadily onto your thigh, the ruined fur below. It puddles there and stains the air with his unmistakable musk. The conquering of an omega in heat; claimed. Owned. 

He doesn't go far. Can't. There's a possessive, needy thrill under his veins. A snarling growl in the back of his head, snapping rabid jowls at him. Demanding he stay close to his mate. His omega. Don't leave the nest, it warns, or another could crawl in, fill the empty space—

Price cuts that thought off with an aborted snarl. There are no others. He made sure of it. Bloodied his knuckles against every alpha within a one-hundred-square-mile radius of his territory. Growled in their faces, hand against their throat, and told them to stay away from, you, this pretty little omega. 

Message received, of course. But you were a prickly little thing. Bitter. As much as he wanted to roll you on your belly, make you present your cunt to him, he knew he had to tread carefully. Baby steps until you were close enough to his jaws to snap up, all his. Always. Ever since you stepped foot into his domain, your tart scent coalescing perfectly with the pine, oakmoss, tang of him. You've been his before you even knew who he was—

Wily omega with your shaking fists and bared teeth. Skittish little thing. Needed to play his hand slowly, to box you into a corner before you were even aware of the walls closing in around you. Snapped up tight his maw. Bear Trap quick. Had to be smart about it, bide his time. Push and push until all you thought about was him. 

(checkmate)

John reaches for the loose floorboard, prying it open, and pulls his cell phone out—one he knows he’ll have to bury in the yard before you wake. There are very few contacts on his list, and he idly scrolls through the messages (steaming Jesus, the smell o’er—ye sure ye don’ share, cap?; better take her, Price, before I do) before he finds Gaz’s. 

The last message sent was hours ago from Kyle. on her way. but fuck, didn't realise how fast fake suppressants worked, chief. gonna have to find her quick. might not make it up the mountain smellin as good as she does—

Good boy, he types with one hand, the other petting possessively down your spine. Curled there, a weighty pressure. You found him in the end, right on the cusp of your burgeoning heat. Pawing desperately for the suppressants Kyle made sure wouldn't be there. 

(His parting gift brought on by a conversation ages ago—

“why haven't you mated, cap? not gettin’ any younger.”

“haven't found the right one. ain't gonna settle.”

“more like, your shitty attitude scares all the pretty omegas away, huh?”

“that, too,” he bit down into his cigar. suddenly angry, viciously so. “‘cept one.” 

Kyle followed his gaze, and—

“so, take her. she wants you. reeks like she does. you can smell it, too, can't you?” his eyes flashed. playful. “maybe that'll be my retirement gift to you.”

“not funny, Garrick.”

“m’not tryin’ t’be, cap.”)

Three dots appear almost instantly. It takes a moment. Then: fuckin’ prick. Another message from Kyle pops up seconds after. told you, didn't i? i wasn't bein funny. congrats, cap ;) 

As if sensing the sudden whiplash of his mood—deep, proprietorial—you stir in his arms, mewling in confusion. John drops the phone, hiding it from view, and pulls you tighter in his arms. In his embrace. Mouth pressed tight to your hairline, he rumbles, “shush, shush. I got you.” 

His words make you quieten slightly. Quelled under the susurrus lull of his bellowing purr. But there's still a deep ravine between your brows. Unease lashes the air, acidic. Bubbling up from deep within you. 

None of this must make any sense to you. Mercurial boss to mate, but he knows you'll come around to the idea of him soon enough. After all,

he has you all to himself until winter. 

all to himself. 

His hand falls, cups your lower belly possessively. Covetous. You grimace in your sleep, shifting away from the heavy, oppressive brunt of his smell. Obsessive. Potent like a wildfire. Dangerous. 

But there's nowhere for you to run. Nowhere to go except deeper into his arms, his hold. Gyves around your throat; a bloody ring of his teeth. 

Price hums. “Best gift I've ever gotten.” 

[churipu]

SAY "DADA" 𓆝 ⋆｡𖦹°‧

ִ ࣪𖤐 featuring. gojo satoru, toji fushiguro, nanami kento x fem! reader

ִ ࣪𖤐 warnings. toji cries but he doesn't admit it bye

note. i just spent a good hour watching the "glimpse of us" parents-baby trend, it's so cute. i just had to make something family themed for the jjk men :( i'm so sorry for the lack of updates, i just finished work and boy— it was stressful.

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

"come on, little guy . . . say dada, da . . . da!" gojo nodded his head slowly, in his grasp stood his one year old son.

all he got in return was a loud strained laugh from the little boy, "it's okay, baby. take it slow, come on, dada . . . da . . ." the blue eyed male softly spells out the word.

"satoru, you've been trying for an hour now." you informed him, eyeing the father-son duo every now and then, "he's going to get it eventually . . ."

gojo chuckled, "i know, baby. 'm just so excited, what if he said his first words when 'm out on a mission," a sad smile etched onto his lips as he cradled the baby in his hold.

"dada!"

it took gojo a few seconds to process what his son just uttered in excitement. slowly, the corner of his lips tugged upwards in happiness — gojo cheers loudly, nuzzling his face into your son's little belly, making him craze out in pure euphoria.

"you just said your first word, good job, buddy! 'm so proud of you," gojo muffled out into the baby's tummy, "daddy's so proud of you."

gojo then faced you, "his first word is dada, i'm going to cry . . ."

to which he did, sniffling loudly — making the little boy imitate him, scrunching his face into a big frown before wailing out a loud cry. hearing your baby cry, gojo softly hushed him, patting his back, "no, no, baby. daddy's crying of happiness, not sadness, please don't cry."

"aren't you two just the cutest?" you asked, kissing the baby on his chubby cheek — calming him down almost immediately. his loud cries ceasing down under your touch.

"we are." gojo chuckled, nose raging red from sniffling mucus.

"please get rid of your snot, satoru . . ."

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

"come on, dada. say it." toji mutters, pulling on megumi's little cheek — gently, and the baby seemingly annoyed, swats off his father's giant fingers.

toji scoffed, "huh, wonder where y' got that attitude from."

you eyed him, "what do you mean? megumi's exactly just like you — i carry him for nine months and he ends up being a copy of you," you chuckled, ruffling megumi's hair.

the young ten month old baby crawled his way over to you, settling himself on his lap, eyeing his father sharply, "what're y'looking at, huh?"

instinctively you hit toji's bicep gently, "stop that."

"'m not doing anything . . ." toji replies back, rolling his eyes before crossing his arms, "stupid baby."

"dada!" megumi shrieks out, pointing his small finger accusingly at toji, a cute glare looming over his dark eyes, "dada!"

toji blinked once. twice. thrice, and he ended up scoffing, looking away from both you and megumi, "he said his first word, and it's me," toji mutters into his skin, clamping his palm over his lips as his elbow propped down onto the couch's hand rest.

"good job, 'gumi!" you cheered, raising the boy up in the air, kissing his cheek which made the baby erupt in small laughter.

megumi crunched his legs happily, yelling out gibberish with a mix of "dada dada!"

"that's right, dada!" you parrot happily, gently hopping with megumi in your arms. eyeing toji who had been silent, "toji, are you okay?"

he grunted, brushing his face with his hands, "do i not look okay?"

"did you cry?" you ask.

toji grunted yet again in disdain, "why would i cry because the brat said his first word?" he did.

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

nanami sat on the floor cross-legged with his eleven month old daughter on his lap as he scanned the newspaper. at every page, his daughter didn't miss every spot on the dull colored paper, pointing at the paper and muttering out incoherent words.

"mhm, that's terrible news, isn't it?" he replies, sipping on his coffee mug.

you emerged from behind the bedroom door, hair disheveled, "good morning," you mumble out, wiping the back of your finger over your eyes.

"dada!"

you froze and eyed your daughter, and nanami did too. his head looked down onto the young girl in amusement, his gaze softening, "your first word . . ." he whispers, carrying the baby into his strong arms.

"you just said your first word, baby!" your raspy morning voice chirped, it was as if your exhaustion had disappeared in a heap of moments and you trotted down the ground, approaching the father-daughter.

"i'm so proud of you," nanami gently placed a kiss on top of his daughter's head, cradling her small body.

you were pulled into a hug by nanami, his arm wrapped around your shoulder and he pulled you to his side — his cheek leaning on your head in content, "good morning."

"dada dada!" your daughter cheered happily, patting nanami's face with her small hands.

"mhm, i'm dada, baby." he mumbles, letting the young girl do as she likes. you cooed softly at the sight, wrapping an arm around his waist.

a good morning it is.

© CHURIPU 2024 , DO NOT COPY OR REPOST ANYWHERE

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

Pt III good omens but i STILL SOMEHOW haven't watched it (and i'm increasingly passive aggressive)

i'm now basically held hostage adopted as mascot by this fandom. it's fine i'm fine *SIGNALS FOR HELP DESPERATELY*

Alright fuckers I swear this time I'm going to get some shit right. Without further ado, here's my third attempt at a good omens summary:

Everything everywhere is queer all at once

Angel Aziraphale and demon Crowley on earth likey each other

The car is a bentley and it is BLACK not silver and everyone is very upset about this. my bad yall it was reflecting light therefore i guessed more silver than black but I'm not Anish Kapoor take your black.

Then it is yellow, and aziraphale likes it. crowley preferred the black because he's a flamboyant emo.

God is a deadbeat absentee parent and you are all children of divorce.

There's a naked archangel and they cause problems for the husbands somehow. By being naked? By being an archangel? By being at their doorstep? Who knows not me

They were actually married for 6000 years, they just are the last to know about it.

Crowley is on fire. Like, he's slaying for sure, but also he is literally on fire, like Aziraphale's bookstore.

The actors like I said before are Michael Sheen and David Tennant but this is the place where I finally admit that I don't actually know who is whom. I'm going to assume Michael is Aziraphale because Michael sounds angel-y and David is Crowley because uh Michaelangelo made David and was gay for him.

Terry Pratchett is not fictional.

He co-wrote the book with @neil-gaiman, who IS fictional, because he does not have social media. Several of you have assured me that he is in fact a fandom inside joke. I like to think he would be proud of me.

They adopt a preteen and Crowley gives him bad advice.

At some point a baby was delivered to someone and was exchanged for the son of Satan. Idk if the baby is the preteen, or the son of satan is the preteen, or neither. This could be a fanfic, I have no way of differentiating the fanfic from canon on tumblr, except that the canon is weirder.

Crowley does not go down a chute. He goes down a telephone cord after making himself microscopic to pole dance on a pin with shroom-induced backgrounds.

During this his stage name is Disco Tony. Get it king go slay you're making better life choices than I am tbh.

Aziraphale is a biblically accurate angel, and you have all gone to extensive lengths to prove this to me. I understood nothing, but there you go.

It's all very queer, just like the fandom.

Crowley is a retired demon but he still sins by breaking the speed limit.

They eat at fancy restaurants and bicker but like in a sexual undercurrent way.

Crowley gives Aziraphale a private dance that is not a lap dance, it is an apology dance, but not in a kinky way, until it is.

Their haircuts keep changing and range from 'this is acceptable and gay' to 'i let a drunk chimpanzee take gardening shears and a blowtorch to my hair'

It's all ineffably queer my good fellows

Everyone keeps trying to convince me Neil Gaiman is the villain yeah no guys I know it's really you. Y'all be like 'SEASON TWO BROKE ME' and then you're making headcanons to make it sadder yeah I see you mmhm.

There is a final fifteen. It is sad. What is it? No one told me.

The demon turns goats into crows and the angel turns them back and then children are turned into newts (does the angel turn them back? who cares not yall) and the demon was the snake in the Eden garden and everyone's furry game seems to be on point.

There are a rather lot of children. I have not seen them. But I am assured they are there. They are, guys. I assume they were turned into the alcohol Aziraphale and Crowley drink or something.

There was an apocalypse plotline. It was averted. It is not important. You don't talk about plotlines in this fandom, no sir.

Crowley doesn't want to go to heaven. Aziraphale is sad.

The kiss is not nice, just like this fandom. It is queer, just like this fandom. It is sad and desperate and masochistic, just like this fandom.

Aziraphale doesn't want to stay back with Crowley. Crowley is sad.

Season 2 ends. Fandom is sad.

Everyone's sanity is hinging on the promise of a happy ending in season 3. Good luck guys.

Y'all better appreciate this. I can't even boast to my mother about this legacy of mine, hey mum your son has been held hostage kidnapped inducted into a cult adopted by a fandom he's not part of look he's winning at life.

[softspiderling]

like, ever | j.v

summary:

“Hey, I’m worried about you.”

You glanced up from your laptop screen to see Rhaena standing in your doorway, her arms crossed.

“Why?”

She gave you a look, before her eyes roamed your room: your textbooks stacked half-hazardly on your desk, two empty ice cream tubs, another half melted one on your nightstand, an empty tissue box on the floor and you on your bed, wrapped in your blanket like a burrito.

OR; You and Jace break up because of a stupid reason, but you’re both too proud to apologize.

pairing: jacaerys velaryon x reader

warnings: kinda toxic behavior from both of them, but like the usual issues in communication that’s so common in people our age idk what to tell you

word count: 4,1k

author’s note: modern au!jace is the president of the frat Alpha Draconis (it's co-ed, Rhaenyra was president during her time at uni), Jace/Aegon/Baela and their respective siblings are all cousins, but this is NOT in the same universe as can I go (where you go). thank you to my wonder sister wife beta @eldrith as usual <3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“We broke up.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes, we did.”

Baela gave you a look, narrowing her eyes at you as she pushed her Econ 1 assignment away. You dropped down on the couch next to her, leaning your head back.

“Why?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” you huffed and Baela whacked you in the arm.

“You just came home and dropped a bomb like that, you can’t just not talk about it.”

“Not talk about what?”

You internally groaned when Helaena’s voice floated from the hallway, the front door shutting behind her. An intervention was inevitable at this point. At least Rhaena wasn’t home yet, you knew she was volunteering until six.

“She and Jace broke up,” Baela told her and Helaena paused in the doorway to the living room, a frown on her face as she undid her braid.

“You didn’t.”

“That’s what I said!”

“You know, normal friends would offer ice cream if their friend was going through a break up.”

“I’d offer you ice cream if you were sad,” Helaena pointed out. She sat down next to you, patting your shoulder. “You don’t look sad.”

“Well, I am sad,” you sniffed, but Baela fixed her brown eyes at you until you threw your hands up in frustration. “Fine! I’m mostly mad, okay? Pissed off, actually!”

Baela folded her legs under herself. “Tell us what happened.”

“I don’t know, she just rubs me the wrong way. It’s like she knows you have a girlfriend and she chooses to ignore that.”

You and Jace were laying in his bed, your head on his chest. He had been telling you about the new pledges of the term, and you weren’t exactly fond of one of them - Laura, a nursing major. You were aware of her being especially touchy with Jace, twirling her hair while she was talking to him and always searching him out at every event. Which was fair, he was the president of the frat after all and at first you had told yourself that you were just projecting but the you noticed that she was laughing at all of Jace’s jokes. She was definitely into him. He was not that funny.

“I don’t know, it’s just the way she is, I think,” he said, and you frowned at him.

“Jace, come on, she’s totally into you.”

“Well, good thing I’m into you,” Jace pointed out, turning his head to nose along your neck but you pushed him away, starting to get annoyed that he wasn’t taking this seriously.

“I mean it, Jace.”

“So do I,” he answered, irritated. “Why does this bother you so much?”

“Because I don’t like another girl’s hands being all over you?”

You sat up, leaning away from him with a frown and he only sighed, laying his head back on the pillow, shutting his eyes. He was starting to piss you off.

“She’s not into me! Everyone tries to butter me up because they want to join the frat. And even if she was, why does it matter?”

“It matters because it bothers me and you clearly don’t care!”

“Of course I care,” Jace sighed. He opened his eyes, reaching out for you, and you had to admit your resolve was starting to crumble. “You’re overreacting.”

And just like that, the wall was back up.

“Wow, thanks.”

Your voice was biting as you spoke, tugging your hand out of his grasp and standing up, grabbing your hoodie. Jace was quick to follow you, brows furrowed. Great, now both of you were mad.

“You’re making a big deal out of nothing!” Jace snapped and you only glared at him.

“Thanks for invalidating my feelings, Jacaerys,” you said sarcastically. “If I’m making a deal out of nothing, maybe we’re both nothing.”

Jace’s face fell and he stopped in his tracks, letting out a huff. “You don’t mean that.”

Maybe you didn’t. But you weren’t about to backtrack now. You were a woman of your words.

“Yes, I do.”

You pulled the door open and rushed out of his room, slamming the door shut behind you. Distantly, you could hear Jace call after you and you secretly hoped he would chase after you, but by the time you made it downstairs to the front door, he was still nowhere to be seen.

“That’s…”

Baela and Helaena exchanged a look and you frowned at them. While you hadn’t expected for them to immediately spring into assuring you that they were on your side - you were dating their cousin after all - you also didn’t quite imagined them being so… Shocked.

“What?” you asked, suddenly growing insecure. “I had a point.”

“Well, yeah,” Baela started, “But so did he.”

“Why did you immediately jump into breaking up?” Helaena asked with a soft voice, the voice you knew she used when she didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You lifted your shoulders, then dropped them again, unable to answer her question.

“Did you want to break up?”

“No!”

You tucked your chin against your chest, a pit forming in your stomach. Did you maybe overreact?

“I was just mad,” you said, frowning, picking at the hem of your shirt.

“.. And you wanted to hurt him?” Baela said, finishing your sentence. Your head shot up, a denial on your lips, but your mouth closed when her words sunk in.

“… Maybe.”

“You two really are hotheaded and stubborn,” Helaena pointed out, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You only glowered, the anger from earlier dissipating and instead was replaced by misery and a little bit of guilt? Luckily, Helaena and Baela left you to your wallowing after they realized you needed some space and you fled to your bedroom, trying to bury yourself in your assignments.

There was only one slight problem. You couldn’t find school bag anywhere.

“Where did I leave it?” you muttered to yourself, checking under your desk for your bag, even opening the drawer for good measure. You were crawling on the floor looking under your bed when it finally dawned on you.

“Fuck.”

You had gone over to the frat’s house right after class, with your school bag. And after the fight, you must have forgotten to grab it.

“Ugh,” you groaned, dropping your forehead on the floor You’d rather crawl under your bed and sleep with the dust bunnies that have been collecting under there than go back to the frat house right now. But you had no choice. The assignment was was due the day after tomorrow and Professor Cole already was in a bad mood because his date went badly.

“Fuck me,” you muttered to yourself, turning to lay on your bad and cursed the Gods for making you miserable as you stared at the ceiling, collecting your wits.

“Oh.”

Luke Velaryon, Jace’s younger AND biological brother, stood in the doorway, apprehensive. He had always been the more sensitive one between the two brothers, but he was also unwaveringly loyal. You had no doubt that Jace had already told him everything about your fight.

“Hey Luke,” you said, giving him a wry smile.

“Hey,” he replied hesitantly. “Jace is not here.”

“I know.”

Luke pressed his lips together, his eyes darting around as if he was expecting his older brother to come out of the bushes any second. “Are you okay?”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. What a sweet boy.

“Yeah, alright enough I guess,” you replied, sighing. “Listen, I forgot my bag in Jace’s room and I really need it to do an assignment, could you let me in?”

“I don’t know….” Luke answered slowly. “Jace should be back soon though. Maybe you can just wait until he gets back? And then you guys could talk?”

Bless him.

You bit on your lip, running your hand through your hair, exasperated. “Listen Luke, I really appreciate you trying to look out for Jace, but I really can’t see him right now.”

Luke exhaled, shifting on his feet like he was undecided. The longer it took for him to decide, the higher chances were you’d run into Jace on your way out.

“Please, Luke, I just need to grab my bag really quickly. He won’t even notice I was there.”

With a loud sigh, Luke finally nodded, opening the door wider and taking a step back.

“He’s gonna be back soon, you need to hurry up.”

“Thanks Luke!”

You hushed past him into the house, walking the familiar way up the stairs to Jace’s bedroom, shutting the door behind you. With a small sigh, you looked around, trying to discern your stuff from his. It was harder than you had first anticipated, your belongings strewn all over the room. Picking your favorite scrunchie off of his nightstand next to a picture of the two of you during New Year’s Eve, you put your hair up as you narrowed your eyes, feeling relief settle in your chest when you saw your backpack lean against the desk.

“Thank God”, you muttered, grabbing it quickly. Just as you headed to the door, hand on the door knob, you could hear voices down the hallway through the closed door. You cursed, recognizing it as Jace and Cregan.

Fuck.

Immediately, you let go of the door knob, taking a few steps back, trying to come up with a way you wouldn’t be caught standing in the middle of Jace’s bedroom. Did you have enough time to make the climb out of the window and scale down the roof?

“- it’ll blow over. I’ll give her some time to calm down and-”

Before you could make a decision, the door swung open, and Jace entered. He was looking back at Cregan, who raised his brows when he saw you in the middle of the room.

“Wha-?” Jace turned his head, his mouth dropping open. “… Hey.”

“Hey.”

Cregan glanced between the two of you, narrowing his eyes. Meanwhile, Jace was rubbing the back of his neck.

“Did you forget something?”

“Yeah,” you answered - LAME! - lifting your backpack.

Jace nodded slowly. “Was there anything you wanted to say?”

You frowned at him, confused.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Jace said, shrugging with his shoulders. “I thought you were here to apologize.”

Cregan groaned, leaning his forehead against the door frame as you felt all the anger from before welling up again.

“Me apologize?” You repeated, your voice shrill. “What about you? I bet Laura’s thrilled to hear we broke up.”

“You just ended things for no reason! Laura’s not even into me!” Jace snapped and Cregan pushed himself off of the door frame.

“Maybe we all should just calm down.”

“Shut up, Cregan!” You and Jace yelled at the same time, your anger very briefly directed at Jace’s best friend.

Cregan flinched, raising his hands defensively. “Jesus, sorry. I’ll never try to help again,” he muttered. “Let me give you two a minute.”

He stepped out of the room but you held your hands up, stopping him with a scoff.

“No, I’m done here,” you huffed, shaking your head in disbelief. With one last angry look at Jace, you pushed between them, running out of the house, smoke coming out of your ears.

You spent the rest of the week distracting yourself. Burying yourself in assignments and reading, eating ice cream - there was a deal at Whole Foods, five for three, your freezer was full - and you only cried once.

“Hey, I’m worried about you.”

You glanced up from your laptop screen to see Rhaena standing in your doorway, her arms crossed.

“Why?”

She gave you a look, before her eyes roamed your room: your textbooks stacked half-hazardly on your desk, two empty ice cream tubs, another half melted one on your nightstand, an empty tissue box on the floor and you on your bed, wrapped in your blanket like a burrito. You sighed, letting the blankets fall from your shoulders.

“I’m fine, Rhae.”

“Hey, did you convince her to come?” Baela skidded to a halt next to Rhaena, looking from her sister to you. Rhaena only sighed while you narrowed your eyes at Baela’s get up. She was wearing black leather pants and a brown corset; she looked like she was going out.

“Come where?”

“Alpha Draconis’ summer term opening party.”

Right that. The party you had helped Jace plan. Before you broke up.

“I don’t know guys,” you sighed, leaning back against your headboard. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go.”

“You don’t have to go,” Rhaena assured you but Baela shushed her, shaking her head.

“No, you absolutely have to go,” she insisted. “We’ve let you wallow in your misery long enough. It’s time to put your big girl pants on and face Jace. You broke up with him for a shitty reason and yes, he was being a jerk, but you were being a bitch. Now suck it up and get your man back.”

You gaped at her, and Rhaena whacked Baela in the arm, but she only shrugged, ever the unapologetic brutally honest one.

“What? You know I’m right,” Baela only said, frowning at her twin before she turned to you. “So?”

With a groan, you closed your eyes. You knew Baela was right, in a way, and it was no use sitting around when your friends were going out. You had to see him eventually.

“Fine,” you gave in, pushing the blanket back as Baela cheered, immediately disappearing. Rhaena only shook her head, stepping into your bedroom, helping you clean up a little.

“I’m driving,” she told you. “Just tell me if you want to leave, okay?”

You nodded, giving Rhaena a grin when something soft just hit you in the face with no warning, courtesy of Baela having returned to your bedroom.

“Put that on.”

The projectile fell to floor, and as you picked it up, you recognized it as a dark red dress, tags still on.

“Hel’s headed to the party from work, so we’ll meet her there in an hour, go take a shower and I’ll do your hair,” Baela said, reaching for your hand to pull you up. “Come on, up up up!”

Begrudgingly, you let Baela usher you into the shower, shutting the door behind you very decidedly. You stared at yourself in the mirror, eyes rimmed red and hair a mess and you allowed yourself a minute of respite before you turned the shower on. If you had to go to that stupid party, you’d make sure to look the absolute best.

“Am I crazy or is it even more crowded than last term?”

You winced as you followed Baela and Rhaena through an especially crowded spot in the house, glancing around.

“No, it’s definitely more people,” Baela agreed, squeezing your hand to make sure not to lose you in the mass. “Has Helaena said where she is?”

“She said she was in backyards,” Rhaena replied and Baela steered you in the direction of the backyard. Meanwhile you tried not to let your eyes roam too much; you didn’t want to seem like you were looking for Jace, even though that was exactly what you were doing. Just as you reached the patio doors, Helaena appeared, stopping you in the doorway.

“Hey guys,” she said, breathless, her eyes flitting over to you as you greeted her. “Should we go get drinks?”

“I’m not dragging my ass back through that crowd,” you moaned, shaking your head. “Let’s just sit down by the pool for a second before we go back in.”

You nudged Helaena out of the way gently, but the blonde grabbed your arm, trying to pull you back.

“But I’m really thirsty.”

“Hel, come on,” you laughed. “You’ll survive ten more minutes without-”

The rest of your words died on your tongue when you caught sight of Jace sitting by the pool, surrounded by his frat brothers and of course, Laura. Now you knew why Helaena was so adamant to get you away from the backyard. It was too loud to hear what Jace was saying, but he must be telling an extremely funny story with the way Laura was laughing, touching his shoulder. They weren’t doing anything scandalous, but it still hurt you to see him still talking to her after you voiced your concerns. You tried not to let it get to you. It wasn’t your business anymore anyways, but you were still a little sick to the stomach.

With a scoff, you turned away, embarrassment burning your cheeks as your friends looked at you with pitiful eyes.

“Sorry,” Rhaena said and you only shrugged with your shoulders.

“Whatever,” you muttered, clearing your throat. “I told you, she was into him. Now he’s free to do as he pleases.”

Baela winced. “We can leave, if you want.”

“No, I’m not leaving because of that clown.”

The girls let out a laugh and Helaena wrapped her arm around you. You gave her a wry smile, leaning into her.

“Let’s go get you that drink.”

As Helaena dragged you away, you couldn’t help but glance back to Jace and for a split second, your eyes met. You quickly turned away, feeling a lump form in your throat. You couldn’t wait to get drinks. After getting to the kitchen, the four of you did two rounds of shots, knowing where the boys kept their expensive booze; Rhaena then mixed you some drinks before you settled on the couch in the living room. Taking a careful sip of your cup, you immediately pulled a face, looking at Rhaena.

“What the hell is in this?”

“I think Grey Goose and Coke.”

“You think?” you asked, wincing when you took another sip. “This is awful Rhae.”

“What is awful?”

Aegon, Helaena’s brother, one cousin of many in the Targaryen family, suddenly plopped down on the couch next to you.

“Oh great, Aegon is here,” Baela deadpanned and Aegon only mocked Baela as he reached for your drink.

“Sure, just go ahead and take my drink.”

Aegon took a big gulp of your drink, humming. “It’s not bad,” he said, offering the cup back to you but you politely declined. You didn’t know where Aegon’s mouth had been in the last 24 hours, there was no way you’d drink out of the same cup he had.

“So, what’s this I hear about you and our cousin breaking up?” Aegon asked, throwing his arm around the back of the couch and you scooted forward, trying to escape his touch.

“You heard right,” you said, throwing him a dirty look and Rhaena rolled her eyes.

“You’re a dick, Aeg.”

“What?” Aegon exclaimed. “’t was just a question, no harm done, right?”

You let out a deep sigh, pushing away from the couch.

“I need some air,” you told the girls and Rhaena furrowed her brows, worried.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“We can make Aegon leave,” Baela offered and Aegon made a noise, frowning at his cousin but you shook your head,

“Nah, I’m good. Just, text me if you guys go somewhere, okay?”

“Are you sure, babe?” Helaena asked and you nodded, patting her shoulder gently.

“Yeah, ‘m fine. I promise.”

With a small wave, you disappeared into the crowd, hearing the cousins starting to argue, but it was background noise to you. Instead of heading to the front door, you inconspicuously headed upstairs, past a kissing couple, and to the bathroom on the second floor. The door was shut, but unlocked and unoccupied as you opened the door. You let it fall shut in its hinges after you, walking over to the window, like you had done so many times before, but never alone. Clicking the window open, you carefully climbed out to the roof, sliding the window closed behind you again. You traipsed over the roof, before settling down on the small nook that sat right above Benjicot’s bedroom, stretching out your legs.

Jace had shown you this place when you first started dating, and sometimes when the parties got too much, the two of you snuck out here to be alone. It was probably risky to go here; but it was the only place you felt like you could retreat without having to go home.

The noise of the party downstairs could still be heard, especially the conversations in the backyard, but to you, it seemed quieter as you closed your eyes. It had cooled down significantly since you had come to the party, but you enjoyed the bite of the cold on your bare arms. A deep breath escaped your lips, your chest heavy.

Looking back on it, you knew what you had said was wrong. It was words hurled in the heat of the moment, chosen to provoke a reaction out of Jace and if you could take them back, you would. But now it was too late, it had seemed like Laura had already sunken her talons into Jace as soon as he was available - not that she had cared much about whether he had a girlfriend or not - and he seemed to be lapping it up.

“Stupid,” you muttered to yourself, wiping the tear that escaped your eye from your cheek with the back of your hand. You froze, when you heard the bathroom window slide open; not daring to look back. His steps were careful as he walked towards you, as if not to spook you, but before he came into view, a soft jacket was draped over your shoulders, engulfing you in his scent. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, tugging the jacket tighter around your body when Jace sat down next to you.

The silence between you stretched on, before Jace cleared his throat.

“You were right.”

You let out a small scoff at his words, glancing over to him.

“You’re shitting me, right?” you asked in disbelief. “She was all over you like that and you still thought she wasn’t into you?”

Jace winced, ducking his head.

“That’s fair. Maybe I was a little oblivious. It’s just…” he paused, sighing. “I didn’t see it, because I don’t really see other girls. Ever since we met, it’s just been you. I didn’t even realize that she was flirting with me until she straight up asked me if we could go upstairs.”

Jealousy flared up in your chest at his words, and you frowned, quickly giving him a once over.

“Well, did you?” you asked, your voice tight. Jace gave you a look, his hands dropping down on his lap.

“I’m sitting here with you, aren’t I?”

Relief flooded your veins and you ducked your head to hide your face. Jace glanced over at you, his face vulnerable and you bit your lip.

“I’m sorry too,” you then said. “I didn’t mean what I said. It was petty and stupid, and I’m sorry.”

“Well looks like we both got to work on some things,” Jace said, tentatively reaching out to take your hand; out of reflex you immediately laced your hand with his. He quirked a smile at you, scooting closer to you and you glanced up at him, almost shyly before you leaned in, as he met you halfway, your lips touching. Jace wrapped his hand around the back of your neck as you kissed, and if you hadn’t felt warm before, you definitely did now.

“What’s happening?”

“They’re kissing!”

“No way! Move over!”

“You move over!”

A crash sounded and you pulled away from Jace, just to see Luke and his cousins spying on you from the bathroom.

“Nothing to see here, carry on!” Luke yelled, quickly sliding the window back down, but their bickering could be heard through the closed window.

Jace snorted out a laugh, leaning his forehead against yours and you only grinned lazily at him.

“Come on, let’s go face the circus before they break the window and we have to scale down the roof,” Jace said, offering you his hand as he got up. You let him help you up, as the two of you walked back to the bathroom window.

“You know I thought about scaling down the roof when you caught me in your bedroom?”

“You’re joking.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

author’s note: tell me what you think <3 also will add the taglist tomorrow bc i’m so tired but wanted to post🫶🏼

[midwestprincesss]

a/n: reposted this again cause for some reason the original one w the ask barely surfaced like. anyone .

contents: sub patrick my beloved, reader is a lil funny, patrick is #1 in the slut Olympics, finger sucking, p in v, more stuff. blah blah blah.

patrick zweig is a whore.

if you look up "whore" online, a picture of patrick comes up. you told him that. he didn't take it well.

"i'm not a whore!" he protested. he didn't sound sure of it either, though. and the very obvious boner under his sweatpants spoke for itself.

"patrick, you're literally hard. i didn't even do anything" you deadpanned, staring him right in the eye.

he scoffed then took the pillow next to him and covered his growing erection with it. "you're wearing that shirt again. you know how i feel about it"

you looked down at your shirt. it was an " I ❤️ Art" top which you got at one of art's recent matches, as a joke. (but you really did love art though)

you laughed. "this shirt gets you hard? i mean, patrick, i know how you feel about art, but, a shirt that only mentions him? c'mon man"

"UGHH." patrick groaned as his face turned red. "it's the way the text stretches because of your tits, okay? fuck you."

"i don't know about you fucking me, but me, on the other hand, i'll be glad to do it" you smirked, proud of the little pun you just made.

patrick's hips bucked up into the pillow at that. "yes, please. god, just fuck me. i've been hard the whole day." he cried.

"you've been hard the whole day? how did you manage to actually get through the day without jerking off?" you joked, referencing, well, his slutty tendencies.

patrick blinked and looked around the room suspiciously. "i uh. i did. like two times." he admitted.

"WHAT?!" you screeched. "but- when the fuck?! i was with you like the whole day. except for when you went to the bathroom that one time"

"well. i jerked off then. once" he said.

"and the other time?" you asked.

"uh." he held back. "i uh, i came in my pants. just a few minutes ago when you called me a whore."

your eyes widened. "well then, i was right, wasn't i?"

"i guess so." he said, hips still bucking into the pillow.

"then i gotta treat you like a whore too." you said and took the pillow from his hands and threw it on the floor. immediately straddling his lap, you started making out with him. messily. he moaned into your mouth as you explored his with your tongue. he bit your lip and you pulled back, mouth open, pretending you're going in for more. only to pull back when his mouth chases your again. he moans again. this time, because of frustration.

"don't fucking tease me, i'm so hard, fuck. and i'm so wet, just take my boxers off. please. i'll let you do anything you want to me if you take them off." he pleaded.

you raised your eyebrow at him. "i can do anything i want to you, even if you don't let me." you giggled. "but just to be nice, i'll take them off."

and shit, he was right. his boxers were fucking drenched. of cum, thanks to the fact that he had came in his pants. like the slut he is.

"hey uh. you have a bit of boxers in your cum." you couldn't help but joke.

you grabbed his jaw, softly, and then slammed him back onto the pillow, right hand all over his face. then, as your fingers reached his mouth, he immediately parted his lips and took them in, sucking on them while holding eye contact. you let him have his fun for a couple of seconds, then tried removing them in order to take off his boxers. he didn't like that.

"put them back." he whined, as he took your two fingers and put them back in his mouth, pressing them against his tongue. "i can take my boxers off by myself."

his little high-pitched moans filled the room, all while not even being touched by you yet. he finally let go of your fingers with a loud pop.

you looked at his pretty dick resting on his stomach. he was really, really fucking big. girthy too. pink, wet tip with a brown-ish base, slightly curved to the left. just right to hit that one spot in your pussy you couldn't reach by yourself.

"please. please. please. pleas-" he started. only you cut him off. he did this often. repeating the world "please" until you sucked him off. or fucked him. or did anything, really. anything other than staring at him and not touching.

"shut it, zweig. i'll only fuck you if you convince me with your words, but you're not allowed to say please. if you say please, i'll leave you like this." you smile confidently at him. his dick was fucking twitching. thighs squeezing every now and then, even with you straddling him. he was doing everything in his power not to lose his shit and jerk himself off.

but he still put on that patrick zweig signature smirk. challenge accepted.

"i need you to fuck me until i can't speak coherently anymore. i need you to fuck me like if you don't do it, we'll both die. fuck me so hard that my eyes will roll to the back of my head for you. ride me until i start crying. just do it. i'm so hard it hurts. i need you-" he whimpered, trying to get his dick somehow closer to you.

and with that you took off your panties, and lined up your entrance with his dick. not sinking down on him yet.

"will you eat me out after this?" you ask.

" is that even a questi- OH FUCKK" he moaned, like someone straight from a pornographic movie. you started bouncing up and down on his cock, all while kissing and sucking at the skin of his neck, shoulders and chest. you went rough with him. but you knew that he was going to stay hard even after cumming the third time, so you didn't hold back at all.

after all, he was going to pay you back. considerably a good amount of times.

[barbieaemond]

And I dream of a grave

Header by the lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs 💕💕

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: angst (!), smut, too many references to graves/burying, mentions of Blood & Cheese, miscommunication, Aemond's coping mechanism is violence and sex, in this order (good for him)

Word count: 3.8k

Author's note: the gif is self explanatory. This is a prequel to A Curse for a Curse, but can be read as a standalone. Big thank you to @irenadel for giving me the idea and being one of the most supportive souls <3

Taglist: @ladystarksneedle @arcielee @multyfangirl

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language

This is more than tempting the Gods. This is forsaking and impudently turning their backs on them.

As she sits down at the banquet, her mother’s words echo through her mind like the vexing sound of the wind on a storm’s night. It sets an unpleasant weight on her lungs, the close and yet shapeless feel of something dreadful. She’s almost grateful, looking around, to ascertain she’s not the only fool dreading this whole act.

The Dowager Queen sits at the table, barely able to contain a grimace. Queen Helaena, she is certain, has never looked so pale, her eyes so vacuous and yet so full of something unknown, elusive, smoke clouding and clearing her unnatural stare. The Hand has conveniently made himself absent. She can’t blame him. Actually, she envies him. If only she too could have been spared such a farce. But as the wife of the King’s brother, the very one they’re all supposed to celebrate tonight, she cannot do that, can she?

To cheers and the blaring of trumpets, the King enters shoulder to shoulder with his brother, tall and proud in his stride, wearing dark green velvet for such a special occasion, and such a special title.

“Do you know how they’re going to call you from now on?” the Queen Mother had asked when he came back from Storm’s end, dripping rain and mud and war.

“I do, Mother.” Aegon had answered, twisting a knife from his seat at the head of the table; she had never caught that glint of satisfaction in his eyes, not like that; it wasn’t dimmed by wine or flesh, but sharp as the blade in his hand. “A title he should be proud of.”

Pride was ever the easiest thing to wear for Aemond, the softest glove gliding on his skin, born out of a pit so deep and full of insecurities and negligence that that same endless depth had grown out of proportion in order to fill itself. To even try scratching his pride was like trying to climb the highest mountain with bare hands. She had cut her palms open to do so.

“What happened, Aemond?” she had asked once alone in their chambers.

“You know what happened.”

“What really happened?”

His good eye had pierced her as if she were made of crystal, but his jaw was too set, on the verge of breaking his own teeth if he carried on keeping the guilt, and truth, trapped inside.

“I didn’t want to.” He whispered, coming down from the peak, “I didn’t want to kill him. I only wanted—”

“Revenge? Well, you had it. Did it make you feel good? Did you bring that boy peace at last?”

It took him a lifetime to say no; a whispered sound, choked even, as if he had bitten off his tongue to get it out of that pit where he had never looked again.

He was biting his tongue in the council, the faintest clench in his jaw but here, here in the council, here in the world, he had to keep that pit buried and stand straight on the highest peak, looking up and up, never down, never back. How could he, how could he admit he had lost control. It was easier, safer, to let them think of him a monster, rather than just human.

“I salute you, brother.” The King had said, raising his cup “True blood of the dragon! We shall have a feast in your honor!" Otto had merely lowered his head in defiance, going unnoticed in the eyes of his King and grandson, drunk with power and finally free of his mother's leash, unaware that a golden noose now held him in check.

He had summoned jesters, musicians, even some dancers to coddle his brother, and raise him higher and higher. She imagined she just had to wait for the fall. Or perhaps pray to the Seven to overlook the insult, to keep a mortal up there with them for a little more. But then again, they shouldn’t ask the Gods for mercy. Someone more unforgiving, more bloodthirsty. Someone who, just as her husband and his brother and each one of their cursed dynasty, did not listen to either Gods or men.

“A toast!” the King says at one point, turning to his left. “To my brother Aemond and a long overdue justice, is it not?”

Out of courtesy and duty, she grabs her cup and raises it, but as everyone at the table sips their wine, all she tastes is contempt, and the cup hits the surface untouched. But not unseen.

“Brother, wine may cloud my judgment, but it seems to me that your beloved wife does not share the sentiment of this fine evening. I wonder why.”

She holds the King’s demanding stare with a firm one, aware of Aemond looking at her even if his eye is fixed on the table. He has ignored her for the whole night, not sparing her a single glance. Because she owns the truth, doesn’t she, and it’s a knife pointed at his back.  

“May I speak my mind, your Grace?”

There’s the slightest shift in Alicent’s posture, as if she were desperately waiting for her, or anyone, to cease all of this, to say this isn’t right.

Aegon pulls a thin, lazy smile and tilts his silver head, swirling his cup. “Why, of course, Princess. My brother tells me you have a habit of doing so.”

“Did he, now?” she resists the urge to scoff; such a despicable habit for a woman in this world.

“Fret not, good sister, I’m certain he holds no grudges against you for your silver tongue.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain too, your Grace. I know for a fact that he likes it.”

A few lords can do very little to hold their snickering, Aegon himself does not hide his malicious smirk, petty at the edges. It must run in the blood.

“Careful though, you don’t want to spend too much time talking, lest you leave my poor brother without any heir! It’s been a while since you two lovebirds tied the knot, isn’t that right?”

She glances beside her, surely Aemond won’t let that slight insult pass, but he stays still and silent like a statue. She can’t quite believe what she’s witnessing. This is the same man who would call the crowned head at the table wastrel, depraved, disgrace.

So much for a disgrace, now that he fosters your pride and lies.

“I can assure you, good brother, that the talking is well outweighed by other activities that involve very few words.”

Aegon plasters a big grin on his face, yet she’s not finished. “But perhaps the Gods are sparing me the burden of bringing a child in such troubled times. A realm at war is not the best place to live in, is it not?”

“It depends on which side you’re on, Princess.”

There’s suspicion in his tone, but she just blinks at him. “My apologies, I was not aware that my loyalty to your House, and my husband’s, was to be questioned.”

“Come now. We are bound by what if not words?”

“I was under the impression that the Crown should fear his own kin more than a simple foreign girl from the West.”

At that, Helaena lets out a strange noise, something close to a wince, and silence falls all over. It is only now that Aemond undoes the stone he walled himself in and acts as he always does when he feels belittled, or worse, threatened. He shuts her out.

“I’m afraid my wife is growing tired, brother. ’Tis best for her to retire.”

She bites her tongue and turns her head. There’s no mistake in his tone, that is an order. She stares at him and he stares back, blankly, and then, just as it is expected of her, she obeys.

She goes without saying a word, aware of Aemond’s eye on her, of Aegon’s little victorious giggle. He snaps his fingers and two dancing girls flock to his brother. She knows this because she can’t resist but turning before disappearing. The girls are said to come from Lys, no less. But he’s not sparing them a single glance. His eye follows her out of the hall, and even after.

Candles almost extinguished, casting a soft glow in the bedchamber, dim but enough to make the shape of her body visible under the covers.

“I know you’re pretending to be asleep.” He says, placing his dagger and eyepatch on the nightstand.

She doesn’t bother to wait a single moment to fly her eyes open. “Was I not supposed to pretend I was tired?”

When she gets no answer, she turns to face him, finding him on his feet near the bed, undoing the buttons of his doublet. His eye is on her, though, wide, as someone ready to hunt but seeing traps everywhere.

“Did you enjoy your feast?” she asks with piqued interest. “Such a shame that I missed most of it. I was eager to watch the girls from Lys dance. How were they?”

“Enough. You should thank me for dismissing you. You were bordering on high treason.”

“Since when telling the truth is considered high treason?”

“Is that what you were going to say? The truth? To make me look like a fool in front of the whole court?”

“I was only going to say that the feast was an insult and a challenge to the Gods or any common sense. And I know that beneath all the pats on the shoulder and the endorsement on your brother’s part, you are of the same mind.” she hopes to see the barest glimpse of validation on his face, at least here, where he can leave behind his pride and admit he made a mistake. Is that what you call starting a war?

But his expression is as closed as ever, wary.

She wishes it would hurt less than it does. “Of all the people ready to betray you, how quick you are to assume I’d be the first.”

“We’re bound by words, are we not?”

“Take your brother off your mouth.” She says absentmindedly; she tries to not let it sting, but it does anyway. It is a low blow, and she knows he does not believe it. He has raised the walls, coiling like a snake, and there’s no point trying to climb and risk cracking her skull open on the ground. She will have to wait for him to come down. “Then perhaps I should consider my father’s proposal.”

She leaves the bed and grabs a letter lying open on the desk. “He wrote me this letter. That is why my mother came all the way here, apparently to see how her daughter was faring.”

Aemond eyes it with the barest twitch in his lips, then looks up into her eyes and, with a sigh, she clears her throat.

“My dearest daughter,

It is with great concern and sadness that I write you this letter.

Words have reached me about the recent events involving Storm’s End and young Prince Lucerys’ demise. My spirits are low when thinking of the fate you’re enduring. But I want you to think carefully of this: annulments are rare but possible. Even more so since you bore no heirs yet. You cannot remain married to a Kinslayer, it is the highest of sins. I only need a word from you, daughter, and I shall hastily consult with a High Septon.”

She can barely register his arm moving, only sees his hand snatching the letter out of her grip, crumpling the paper between his fingers. Nostrils flaring, eye widening, she reads insult all over his face. About time.

“Is that it, Aemond? Is that the reason you’d think I would betray you? Because I didn’t bleed on a birthing bed yet? Is that how you measure my loyalty? What of all the times I drew your bath, washed your hair, pulled the boots off your feet? What about that curtain—“ she adds, pointing to the windows “and the fact that I told the maid to keep that side always closed so the sun will not bother your eye? Do you think I did all of this because of some empty words?”

He looks as if she has just slapped him. Mistrust and bewilderment run together all over his sharp features, trying to win one another, and she waits and waits, and she begs as all the purest things must be pleaded, wordlessly.

Come down. Come down. Lay down with me. In our bed, a grave, it matters not. I'll take the shovel and do the burying.

But he stands still on his high and cursed perch, the grip on the letter loosens, his shoulders slump a little, because this, this comes so easily. Violence. It’s the other glove he wears like second skin.

“You will write to your father and tell him if I hear another word about annulments, I will have his head for treason. And as for you… you tell a living soul what you know, and you shall join the Silent Sisters. You won’t even have to vow your silence, for I shall take your sharp tongue first.”

She watches him go, standing in the middle of the room like a fool; her hands bleeding still and a plea, unheard, choking to death in her chest.

Her hands heal, stay whole for so long. She feels she cannot reach him this time, no matter how hard she tries to climb. She finds no footholds, no inlets, until she stops looking for any.

She finds she has no strength to do it anymore. They’re all dead anyway, each of them in their own way, their own burial.

The king drinks and rages and drinks and rages. Helaena rocks on herself all day long, chasing the highs and lows of her laments. Jaehaera stares at her mother with her small lips sewn, her eyes wide and the Queen Mother weeps and weeps, wondering if the little girl is watching her mother go mad with grief or yet again her twin brother’s head rolling on the ground like one of her toys.

And Aemond…she does not know where Aemond chose to bury himself. He spends the day out, trying to escape the smothering grip of the Stranger’s claws, his curse…or is it only retribution?

Sometimes he’s in the training yard, sometimes that same yard becomes theater for revenge. He kills whoever helped Blood and Cheese enter the Keep, man or woman, he doesn’t care. He tortures them, and she wants to beg him to stop, to tell him that torturing one, two, or one hundred men won’t stop guilt from torturing him.

So, he wanders restlessly, basks in small and big cruelties, until the sun sets and she’s aware, as the bed dips under his weight, that she is his own burial. He takes her at any time, in any place, be it the bed, the desk, or bent over the vanity, she cannot do anything to stop him. She doesn’t want to and yet she aches to do it. Because it’s always sudden, and harsh and hurtful when he pulls her hair, when he spares no time to stoke her desire, when he keeps her bent with her back turned and a firm hand on her neck like some kind of punishment.

It never used to be like this. It had been playful, teasing, painfully slow as if he were separating salt from water, and then fast, urgent, unraveling for two inexperienced newlyweds.

But it had never been like that. There was no joy in it. Only a duty to be fulfilled. Some twisted way to gain control, while anyone else kept slipping from his hands. Just as Vhagar slipped out of his control on that fateful night of storm.

He remembered that dark thrill pounding in his veins, the laughter gushing out of his throat like poison. He couldn’t bring himself to stop. He didn’t know whether Vhagar was fueling his fire or the other way around, perhaps both. Just a little more, he’d thought, as Arrax batted his wings frantically, desperate, mirroring his young rider, to escape the gaping jaws of the Queen of All Dragons.

That’s what he wanted. He wanted to relish in his nephew’s dread, he wanted to drink it. He wanted him alone, desperate, hopeless, just as he had been.

And then he felt it, the shift in the ancient fire pit he was riding, like a boat tipping over and there was no helm to grab onto and bring it back to land. He had sunk his own family into the bleak abyss of Daemon Targaryen’s soul.

He had come to collect, thoroughly. A son for a son, yes, but he had taken much more than Jaehaerys. He’d taken Helaena as well. Even Jaehaera.

Will she ever be able to speak again?

Will my Mother ever forgive me?

Words never spoken, stuck on his tongue and then gagged and swallowed. He cannot look down, cannot look back. He must look up and forward, like soldiers do. To the next battle, to war.

But there’s this woman. And the sight of her in his bed that makes his breath hitch and for two reasons entirely opposite to one another. The first is the most ancient one. But she’s also a thorn in his side, for she knows. She knows everything. She knows all his peaks and depths, every brick in his walls and how to dismantle them; she knows he’s strong and weak, that he’s scared and guilty and worthy of his mother’s contempt, but he cannot bear any of this in front of her.

He flees her presence during the day, only to impose himself on her for the whole night. She cannot refuse him. And he cannot have her prying and dismantling his well-crafted walls and lies, so he takes her and takes her and takes her until he works themselves up to exhaustion and she’s a rag doll in his hands. It serves the purpose, though. As long as she has his cock in her mouth, as long as he harshly pounds into her, cutting her breath from the inside, she cannot ask questions. As long as he keeps chasing his pleasure, and his rugged breaths muffle his own ears, he cannot think straight.  

He's close now and it’s the second time already. The sheets are damp beneath their bodies, his back glints with sweat, damps his forehead as he thrusts inside her one more time. They’re lying on their side, but he keeps her caged against him, his arm has slipped on the mattress and under her neck to keep her still, with her back to him. With his cheek glued to hers, he croons praises in her ear, falling mindlessly from his lips but like drops in the ocean. Once, she would redden, smile blissfully, or challenge him, to go deeper, or harder, or both, but she’s a limp thing now. A mere body panting upon being fucked by another, that’s all.

This is possession. Or a desperate attempt to. Each night, he holds her as if it’s the last time and she could slip away from him at any moment, turning her back on him. She can feel it now, in the way he’s gripping her shoulder, the way his nails dig in her skin, carving into her bones: stay with me. Please. Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave.

But it’s him keeping her away, turning her own back on him.

Don’t you know, she wishes to tell him, that I won’t, ever. I won’t. No matter how cursed you are. I won’t. I won’t.

He grabs her thigh, resting it on his hip, spreading his long fingers on her skin, spreading her legs so he can find the perfect angle and picks up the pace. She shudders with every thrust, gasping with her throat dry, feeling the long bridge of his nose sinking in her cheek, his grunts growing rougher and deeper; some strange choked sound at the back of his throat.

He comes quietly, panting shallowly against the damp fabric of her nightgown. And he stays there, claw gripping her shoulder, head sunk between her neck and collarbone, and deep to the hilt buried in her.

A tear rolls down her cheek. She doesn’t know where it comes from, who she is mourning, she can’t tell these days. Perhaps she’s mourning him, who he was, who he is now and who he is forcing himself to be. She doesn’t know where the deception lies anymore. She wishes she could push it back in, prays that it goes unnoticed, swallowed along with all the others, but she should know by now, the Gods are not in her favor anymore, if they ever had been.

“Why are you crying?”

She turns her head, and her breath hitches. The gemstone glints, yes, but she’s too struck by his eye to even notice the sapphire. There’s something raw there, bare, more than his very skin now. It’s the first time she sees that look on him, torn, heavy lidded and not by pleasure.

This is the burden of grief.

She wonders if that’s the reason he’s so keen on fucking her with her back turned, so she can’t see him. Perhaps she didn’t look hard enough. She thought he had risen too high, out of her reach, of anyone’s. She thought he would never fall, not in every sense of the word.

Hence, she’s at a loss for words, slightly pulling herself up, when he slowly comes down; he curls into himself, into her lap, resting his head there like a child. No Kinslayer, no Dragon Prince, no son, no brother. No husband. Just a human, bare in the skin and soul.

Aemond wraps his hand around her knee, gently, and then tighter and tighter, shutting his eye. He’s on land now, but the room is spinning, the whole world is spinning and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He feels he started it all, he threw a spinning top and got sucked into it. And she’s the only firm thing he can hold onto.

“Do you think I’m cursed?” he whispers, the barest flutter of his long eyelashes against his cheekbone.

But she has no answer. All she has are her hands, sliding on his naked skin, through his loose hair, gently, as if touching the thinnest glass, sealing the cracks. Her palms slice open again.  

“Aren’t we all?”

And I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more."

- The Castle, Franz Kafka.

[cryptfile]

✶ nuclear seasons, [ soldier boy x reader ]

summary — he was friend’s with your mom. friend is a understatement cause when he appears in the middle of the night looking for revenge in your little apartment in the suburbs, you know he’s far from being nice.

warnings — +18 minors dni, smut, dead dove do not eat, we have a last name (also a mother!), kind of porn without plot? but not really cause it HAS one okay, we call it 50/50, fem!reader using she/her pronouns, p in v, masturbation ( m! receiving but blink and you miss it), dirty talk, age gap, choking, degradation, spitting (i'm sorry), fingering, mentions of injury, cancer (not you tho), tons of tension.

side notes — i’m never experiencing the post ovulation clarity lmao, that being said english is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes, also i’m a whore for jensen ackles, and i stand for what i like proudly. // 5k+

Nightshade is a hero.

You're proud of your mother since you were pretty young. The hero that fought against Vought to death during the time Payback was active, America’s Troublemaker that you only knew as Stella Nightshade, a blonde woman that talked with the death during her golden years.

Maybe it’s your mother the one that pushed you to fight crime, to pursue the bad guys and look out for the victims that can’t stand for themselves, so even when you don’t inherit much from Stella’s gifts, you joined the CIA as soon as you can so you can do something that matters.

You’re the best in your class, work your ass off to be taken serious, to be more than the look of disappointment you receive when people ask, once again, if you have any powers like your mother and you have to admit — In pure shame, that you didn’t born as a superhero but a baby who cried loudly when is too hungry.

But as years pass you make a name for yourself, one that even if differs from Stella’s job has the same noble reasons behind. You also realize you were too naive growing up, believing in heroes that don’t deserve to be called that way.

The country has made a mistake on making superhumans so openly, and it’s clear that got out of control now, backfiring as they got so much power it’s almost impossible to take accountant of any of them.

You’ve worked along Grace Mallory from the shadows, and even when Stella would not be so proud of you for helping get his kind out of the streets, the justice is enough to feed you and keep you warm on a cold night.

You like it that way. You know Grace has a team for it, a legal army of supe-haters as you called them, yet, you prefer to stay in the dark, not let your personal life get involved cause one slip and you can lose it all— Even when you don’t have nothing at all. You like to have an outside life from work, it’s the sane thing to have, so when the CIA Deputy Director asks you about joining the infamous Boys, you politely decline assuring the woman you’ve been more helpful from the outside.

What would Stella Nightshade would say? Now that you’ve grown older and you don’t look at her the same way you used to when you encounter her files and read about your mother. You know she has done wrong, yet with the years, you don't imagine Soldier Boy himself was going to seek for revenge first thing he does when he wakes up, his plan including your mother even when she was long time dead before he even appeared in the picture.

That night especially you let your guard down. It's been a rough couple of weeks back in work, so when the night comes you're a victim of the stress, victim of your bosses and the people that surrounded you. You pour a glass of wine for yourself, light a cigarette even when you haven't smoked in years, and turn on the TV to see something else rather than the face of Homelander in every single channel you've been tuning lately.

It's a weapon. When you leave for a warm shower and start filling the bathtub, you're not aware of what that night was really going to be for you. Oblivious as you stand naked in the middle of the bathroom, holding the glass of wine between your fingers before entering the warm current that relaxed your muscles.

It seems tension is your worst enemy, makes your muscles feel like stone as you got in the water, the cigarette that hangs from your dry lips splashing with tiny droplets of perfumed water as the silence filled the air. It's what you needed, at least ten minutes with your brain shutting off completely, the pleasure you haven't experienced in forever by being so compromised with work.

It's a much-needed break. The smoke that leaves the room by the almost-closed window, the taste of wine still lingering in your lips as you sip another taste of the crimson liquor you love. You don't happen to notice when he's breaking in your apartment, silent and deadly as you were protected by a door closed and a white curtain.

You don't happen to hear him too. The music coming our from your phone is loud enough to silence the knocks on your door at first before breaking the wood, you're too deep in the still water that smelled like roses and vanilla, to even pay attention to what was going on outside the warmth of the four walls that surrounded you.

There's vapor coming out of the water and you find comfort in closing your eyes, in letting the blow of the smoke travel through your throat before suspending itself in the air, flowing as you drank.

In your defense, you haven't been like that in ages.

It's been a long time since you last fill the tub and have a relaxing session with yourself, so it makes sense you are enjoying it a little bit too much, too much cause when the invader is making a lot of noise when stepping into your property, you still enjoy the taste of the alcohol on your lips.

The ashes fall to the ceramic floor outside the tub and you should blame the CIA to make you so tense to the point it leads you to more problems than you ever had. In the dark room of your apartment, it's Soldier Boy the one who's going through any drawer he comes across, the ones closed, the ones hidden, any slit he can find, any clue that can trace your mother back to his personal vendetta.

He's oblivious to Stella's death and her daughter, so when the former superhero hears the noise in the bathroom he's fully convinced it's your mother the one who's behind that door, that she's the one who's going to tell him the truth, if she also sold him to the russians as well in the process.

He's decided also on killing her. She must need it after all that time getting older, closer to death more than ever.

Of course it's an unpleasant surprise when you can see the bathroom door opening when you're sure you left the front door closed and lock with at least two bolts to prevent anyone from getting inside, it makes you jump in the spot, quickly covering yourself from the new stranger that enters your bathroom.

"Stella?" he asks, it's the last room that the hero needs to check for himself.

You spot the green fabric of his suit immediately as you pressed your chest against the cold surface of the tub, and when the invader notices you're naked, he doesn't look away as any person with a hint of respect would do, but instead, continue on checking you out as you try to cover yourself in the water tinted in a nonexistent transparent color red.

You can feel his gaze as soon as you recognize him too, as you happen to notice that face from your mother's pictures, the propaganda in the TV when he did almost every commercial back when you were a kid. It's a shock, and dressed in his damn suit, you don't know why an old superhero is there standing beneath the yellowish bulbs of the light your bathroom happens to have.

Your cheeks adopt this pink color as you panic, grabbing the cup of wine to throw the liquid in the floor, breaking it against the marble walls just to shatter the glass in pieces, a weapon of defense as you lifted up against him.

"You're not Stella."

Soldier Boy looks amused: it's funny that you think you'd be able to kill him with shattered glass, yet he lets you keep thinking that way when he's enjoying the view.

Is he to blame? He just got out from this giant cooking oven back with the communists and he hasn't got his way with a lady since what seems are centuries, so when he spots you in the tub he simply cannot contain himself from peaking around. You should be in what? Not more than your 20's? Soft-looking skin that asked to be marked with his hands, by the force of his lips crashing in your flesh.

The thought is compelling, you're looking all feisty with the glass in your hand, threatening him and speaking something Soldier Boy cannot catch at first — Shit, he doesn't even notice the blood in your hand that's dripping all over your small rug in the floor, the power women like yourself seemed to have now and weirdly enough, a huge turn on.

"Get the fuck out!" you scream in an authority voice, the same you use back at work when you're mad, when you're usually holding a gun in defense more than a piece of broken glass "Stella is not fucking here!"

It takes a few more words to actually get him out of there, and as he closes the door behind him you finally stand to grab a towel covering from the currents of wind, trying, really hard, to think about anything else more that the fact that Soldier Boy has entered your house and your bathroom in the worst moment, far from what you were last updated with.

To be honest, it almost gave you a heart attack, leaving the bathroom to find your home torn apart, the drawers open and all the papers you've meticulously kept in place being all over the place as Ben stands awkwardly holding a shield in the middle of your living room.

"Fucking hell" you're cursing under your breath as you gathered some important things you cannot leave on the floor even when you're still wet from the shower, expelling this nice aroma that mixed the roses and the vanilla together with your personal scent — Weirdly enough, a fucking show to the hero that's already rock-hard from the peak he had of you from before.

You don't really notice it at first, too busy being mad as you let the papers you gathered on top of the table. You lose the shame you got left as the wet drops of the shower leave a trace in the floor — And as usual, you clearly don't notice it, but Ben does when the water is running down your back, and you're barking something about calling someone called Grace, holding onto a white tower with your dear life.

"Where is Stella Nightshade, sweetheart?" he speaks out loud cause he don't understand anything you say, really fighting to be nice with you like it would give him an opportunity to get under your skin.

"My mother's dead," you stand there without knowing what to say after. You know he and your mother were close, but you don't imagine he was going to actually go find her teammate when he recently woke up in a different country. "She died years ago dude, i'm sorry."

The information gathers in his head as you take a clean oversized shirt from the laundry basket covering with it as you throw the towel to the floor, Red Hot Chili Peppers it says, but he thinks it's a place in Italy more than a band like he isn't troubled already by the fact you were Stella's daughter, the person who thought was her only friend back in the time now dead.

"Does anyone know you're here?" your mind is drifting back to work again as you wondered if anyone knew he was going to break into your apartment and choose not to send any help — "Ben."

You've read his file. Hell, to be honest you've read every single file in Payback, so it's no surprise you know his name, but to the hero, it seems to be amusing when you call him by his real name, his mind fueled in a different direction as he notices you're not wearing any underwear beneath the shirt you're choosing to wear, one whose fabric's barely covering your tights.

"What do you mean dead?" he asks, furrowing his brows "It's not been so long."

"She got cancer three years ago" you explain with a sad tone, even when you disagree with Stella, it pains you to remember what sickness made out of her, consuming her from the inside at a cruel pace.

"Motherfucker," he states clearly angry, and you cannot help but look at him with a weird face, searching for the phone you left in the sofa to call any-fucking-body in the office that could send a damn army to get you: Didn't the Boys have everything under control? That's what you're told anyway, then why the fuck is the subject of matter cursing in your little messy apartment? — "Bitch just got away with it before I could do anything, isn't it? What a fucking shame."

"Pardon me?" it catches you by surprise at first, but it hits you soon after. Soldier Boy is not there to say hello to your mother or ask for her help, but instead, he's there to get revenge and actually kill Stella by his own matters.

Fuck. Of course is something new, something that makes you feel cold all sudden, your wet hair making you visible shake as you became aware of his plans.

"You know them. You know the people from the lab" it's more of a fact than a question, letting the words feel salty in his own mouth. "The ones that let me get away."

He's quickly to gather the pieces too, not as dumb as you think he is as the puzzle is finally coming up together in his head, and it's all it takes for him to take a step closer to you, cutting that space you've created since you kicked him out of the bathroom — He's angry now.

The red globe on his hand is now holding you by the throat, applying enough pressure to cut the air flow going to your lungs almost completely, his fingertips warm against your bare skin as he holds you in front of his figure, pushing you against the cold wall.

You usually would enjoy such activities, yet in the context you are trapped in right now, you began to choke, your own hands trying to push his grip back even when he’s too strong, not even flinching when you’re squirming, gasping for some air as your face became red, tears gathering in your eyes as he let you breathe for a couple of seconds when he senses you’re too close to black out.

“Talk little Nightshade” he says in a low voice. “Or else i’m breaking your pretty neck.”

“I work for the CIA!” You explain quickly as your breathing became more labored by the seconds. “Not for the people who let you out! I promise!”

He’s going to kill you. You can see the determination in his eyes, that predator look he happens to have.

What you don’t know, somehow, is that he’s going fucking insane. Your smell coming up to his nose to make him shiver, the sight of you in an oversized shirt that barely covers your shape is more than enough to push his buttons, to make him forgot about any killing he was allegedly so concentrated in fulfill, the sight of you almost crying messing with his brain.

Little Nightshade is a fucking tease.

His eyes follow your expression, the hand that gripped your neck and choke you harshly now pressing enough to only suppress the air flow in a more enjoyable way, the tension quickly shifting from dying to pleasure all over again as he kept you in place so easily.

It’s impossible to move, to do anything more than be pressed against a cold wall. Your mother has once again lied to you and you notice the relationship she painted with Soldier Boy was more of a movie in her head than reality itself. Makes you gulp in response when you stare at his expression, the face of a trained killer as you knew, fucking knew, a bit more of force in your neck and it would snap without any difficulty.

“I don’t work with them” you assure once again, maybe it’s your survivor skills hitting when you repeat it in a low voice, catching on your breath when he lets go allowing you to fill your lungs with air just enough before pressing that very spot again, the one that actually turns you on. “Fuck’s sake.”

Is that how you end? On your lame apartment?

The next is a weird thing, cause in the blink of an eye he’s close to your face planting his own body next to yours and you’re shivering at the feeling, his armor pressed against your chest as he left the shield he was holding on the floor.

The metal is pressed against your skin covered by the thin cotton of Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt, and he is so close, so close you froze there, no longer fighting his tight grip but mesmerized by his damn face, the same you watched on TV when you were a kid, the handsome man you happen to severely crush on in secret, just because you don’t want Stella to know or she will give you a long talk about how he is her age.

But he is, handsome as fuck, and now being so close to his face you can say it with all confidence. His beard is shaved perfectly and he smells incredibly good even for someone who has spent time locked away without any kind of hygiene, his green suit protecting him from the cold air that was getting through the opened window.

“Who are you?” he asks, scanning your face with a curious look as he wanted to know what expression you would have when you know why he's there in the first place — “What do you know about Stella Nightshade, your mother, selling me out?”

Fuck. So that's why he's there. You know she did it. And it's impossible for you to lie when he's making you so nervous, away from any weapon, any form of defense as you left the glass in the bathroom sink when you notice large gash on your hand, and your silence makes nothing more than leave him fuming. If he was angry before, he now reaches a higher level as his grip turns more violent now that he knows you know what he meant, why he's there claiming to talk with your death mother out of nothing.

"Call her then. Use your powers" he demands dryly, and you're shaking at this point cause it's more shame added to the long pile, the bathroom already being a humiliation by itself. "Fucking call her."

You squirm beneath his grabbing, when he's pushing you harder against the concrete wall and you can just feel him from under the suit, hard cock pressing against your belly, green in your vision as he towers over you. He knows what he's doing, and even when you try to be disgusted by it, you find yourself enjoying his closeness, how he's pinning you with no effort at all, hands on your throat while he demanded an answer.

"I can't call her" you admit in a low voice, cheeks now red as the embarrassment crept upon your face — "I don't have my mother's power."

Soldier Boy seems to not believe you for a mere second, after that you can feel the blade of the knife pressing against your skin, a threat that now becomes more real as you can feel the cold metal stomach. One swift movement and you'd be stabbed without a second thought.

It's sick how much you enjoy it when you are squirming against him, goosebumps in the zone he threats to destroy.

A force pull his lips upwards in a smile, unable to pay attention to nothing else but the sound you made without even realizing it. "You like that, huh little Nightshade?"

It seems to be a joke for him, bitting your inner cheek to prevent you from saying something stupid, from letting out a moan in response to all the sudden desire.

Despite all conditions you stay silent, holding his gaze like it's a game you're not going to lose. He didn't respond either, trapped in a second that seemed longer than the usual when time stopped around you, eyes looking like he can surpass the old fabric of the white shirt you choose to wear.

It's the tension what makes you mad. You're so into getting people like him, that your ego is bruised now that you notice you are actually attracted to all of that, to the way he's pressing you against the concrete, how all falls into place when he's pushing himself against you, invading any private space you could require.

He's kissing you soon after. Ben crumbles against the tension as the hand on your throat demands a kiss now, pulling you closer to his face without any warning nor concern as he crash his lips against yours in a rough kiss. You try to push him away in response even when you don't want to; see, it's hard to even admit you have interest in Soldier Boy in any other way more than the professional, but when he's bitting your lower lip you're letting your defense down: When is the last time you've been kissed like that?

You remind yourself you're tired from work, that the CIA has done nothing for you more than fuck your over and over even to this point, losing sight of one of the most important heroes of the word, and it's making you encourage to let go just for a mere hour.

"Lookin' so good takin' a bath" he says, and the sound of his deep voice is enough to send an electric wave through your spine, like he’s talking to himself as the hand on your hip is now tracing the curves of your body, taunting you from over the shirt he now learns to love. His beard is now scraping against your skin and you can feel his lips going down, tracing an invisible path to the crook of your neck as his hand is no longer choking you.

Jesus. Was that even happening or was that your imagination? Did you feel asleep on the bathtub? Maybe it’s a reflection as you are close to drowning, your brain doing that happy thoughts shit. You’re tilting your head to the side just to give him more space to work with and you’re just letting it be, enjoying how he’s sucking and nibling on your skin to leave a red mark behind, all teeth and no fucking control as he uses a good amount of force to make you moan in the process, the pain enough to remember who’s really on charge.

Ben forgets about asking any more questions, he’s too busy when his hand are taking decisions by themselves as they slide under your shirt, body still cold from the bath you just took, water still drying in your flesh when he’s like he usually is — An invader.

His hands are big and they’re capable of holding your whole tummy as he caress the soft skin that seems to expel a warm sensation, how it leaves goosebumps in any place he touches. You remember you’re basically at his mercy now that his hands roam with all liberty under your shirt, the look he gave you in the bathroom mistaken you for Stella, his eyes looking at any exposed skin he could look at.

“What the fuck,” you try to say under your breath, to keep on this facade you have of a composed person, one that won’t give in to be manhandled “What the fuck do you think you are you doing?”

“Well, i’m not seeing any complains” The blade cuts through the cotton leaving a large hole you know you won’t be able to sew after yet he’s right: There are no complains, nothing but eager that makes him go further as the seconds passed “In fact, can see that you’re pretty much enjoying it, Doll.”

You hate the nickname, that old man way of speaking when he’s squeezing one of your breasts with more force you can even handle, cursing at how easy it seems to be for him, how he wants to see you simply destroyed.

“You’re loving this isn’t?” he ask all sudden, studying you with his hazel eyes — “You love being a good whore f’me? My little Nightshade.”

He’s hard under the suit, covered in a green material you don’t know how to call as your hand searches for him, crave for him, convincing that it's what you must do as you trace the invisible lines his muscles made.

Soldier Boy’s messy, much like an animal when he’s groaning beneath your touch, his own body seeking for yours as your fingers grew bolder, demanding for a deeper contact — “Careful there sweetheart, i’m still fresh out of the oven. May be a little rusty."

You laugh at his words cause you know what he means, yet your hands work by themselves as you barely even touch him from over the suit, the hard feeling of his cock against your palm, hips buckling against your hand seconds after seeking for you, eyes shut for a couple of seconds.

“M’being careful” you say, catching yourself stealing a look at his reaction, taking your time on pleasuring him , gulping as he experiences the torture of your touch “Taking it slow for an old man.”

“Old man, huh? Now you're talking” He teases, and the sound of his laugh just fucks you up. Maybe it has to be with the fact he’s placing two fingers in front of your lips while looking at you, swollen pink lips he’s so fixated for a second, or it’s because he is, indeed, way older than you are — “Spit.”

It’s not a command, but it sounds like one as you’re unable to disobey, quickly spitting in his hand as you can visibly see the traces of saliva leaving a wet residue in your chin, one Ben looks at it for a good amount of time: How is something like saliva is so damn erotic? He doesn’t know it, but it’s enough to send him into a spiral.

He’s strong you think, cause he’s a superhero. He’s Soldier Boy by any meaning, so it’s not a big effort to hold you in his arms and lift you in the air as you let out a gasp of surprise, spanking your ass as one of his hands separates your legs for him, holding one up as you stand in the other.

“Relax, 'got you, doll” he says, your back against the wall as he kept a bruising grip in your hip, holding you in place so you don’t have to keep your balance — “Fuck you smell so damn good.”

The roses and vanilla aroma lingers on your skin as you finally understand what he's doing now, his hand close to your cunt as he taunts you, torturing you like you did so eagerly before, his personal pet as his digits get lost in your entrance now, your folds spilled with juice he can physically feel in his fingertips, your arousal's so nice against the palm of his hand he cannot help but kiss you, a feverish desire taking over his actions, the lewd sound his fingers made when he finally pushes his digits inside of you, velvety walls welcoming him as they seemed to squeeze him already — He has made such a good job on turning you on, it’s impossible to not react when he’s finally touching you, pumping into you in a constant pace.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, the look on your face is enough to make his cock twitch in his pants in response, imagination running wild as he thinks about that very same feeling in a much deeper way, how you’d look now stretched out, crying just like you did when he choked you asking for information — “Such a nice cunt, so wet f’me.”

He's looking at you, holding the image in his mind forever: Pink pussy displayed for him, white t-shirt rising over your chest, lifting your leg over his arm as his muscles flexed by the force he's using to fuck you deliberately, your lips parted as you ask for more in between erratic moans as his fingers curved inside you so he can hit that nice place he can reach with no effort at all, that one spot thats makes you moan louder.

"Ah-fuck" you let out. Ben's all about touching you for what it seems an eternity, thumb grazing against your clit when he's plainly torturing you, testing how much patience you have left now that he has full control of you.

"Don't cum," he demands, your heartbeats are louder by the seconds as he lifts you slightly, lips attacking your neck before the words escape from his mouth "Need you to come undone in my cock first."

He's leaving marks, marks you don't remember how to hide but don't bother you at all, touching you as he pleases you, taking all the time in the world cause it seems like the night belongs to him — Getting started as you shake your head in an improvised yes.

Yes. The thought is pure electricity, the sudden need to please him as you shake your head once again.

“Please Ben,” you don’t recognize what you’ve become now. “Please let me cum in your cock.”

"Go on doll, put on a show f'me" the supe says with a grin you cannot resist. "Bend and show me that lovely ass."

It’s all it takes. His fingers are now away from you, but you’re now facing the wall as you obey, bending until your cheek is pressed against the concrete and you can hear how he’s now unzipping his pants, the green fabric of his suit now to the side.

You look at him from over your shoulder, bitting the your lower lip as you check him out, his slightly curved dick pointing upwards, precum already leaking out.

“Like what you’re seeing or what?”

“Yeah, but there’s no fucking way.”

You’re feeding on his ego now, but you can’t help it when his size is far from what you consider it’s common — “Common’ doll. You can hadle it.”

You gulp in response cause you know you’re more than eager to try, just the sight of his own hand holding his lenght as he strokes himself making you drool in response. Fuck. It transforms in a need now. When he positions himself beneath you and he’s spitting down to that very place where he’s pushing against your hole, saliva coating his cock before just letting the tip inside.

Lubricated, he pushes a bit more and it feels just damn right. Even when it begans to hurt as he’s thick enough to force himself inside you.

Benjamin knows you’re in pain so he waits a second before shoving his cock inside one more time. You need some time as he stretches you out, clenching your teeth while he works.

"You're doing it s'good" he praises, hand massaging your back as he prevents himself from fucking you at his liking, “Takin' me like a champ."

"God" you let out a sharp moan moments after, crying when you felt the pain more than anything else — "Can't-"

"No doll" he hums as he pulls slightly more. “You can do this” he forces himself in until he's finally balls deep inside your cunt, letting you adjust to his size as he can feel fucking everything. Your blood flow, your velvety walls that squeeze him unused to someone as big as he was, your face distorted in what seems an intense mix of pain and pure, devastating pleasure — "Atta girl."

Strikes like lighting.

Soldier Boy's bitting your shoulder-blade as he waits, waits for it to switch into pleasure, to become intoxicating to the point you cannot longer remember your own name.

"Please move," you ask sooner than he thinks, and when he moves, you can feel it in your belly, melting your fucking brain as he repeated the process again, burying his cock as deep as he could go without any previous warning — "Ah, just like that, please-"

"Do you like how my cock is stretching you out now?" Ben's voice is way deeper than what usually is as he laughs, grunting behind you as one of his hands reach a fistful of your hair, grabbing it with force to pull your head backwards "Good girl, keep huggin' my cock."

You're drunk on the feeling, on the vibrations his voice sends every time he's saying something dirty for you, when he laughs victim of the pleasure.

"Gonna' keep you as my personal slut," he thinks out loud, pushing you against the wall every time he fucks you, using his other hand to spread one of your ass cheeks to the side so he can hit it harder. "Use you as my fucking pet so I can cum on your pretty face whenever I want."

He's moaning, your body’s sweaty as he pulls your hair without caring, not concentrated on the pain it produces as his hips continue on collide against you.

"Would you like that, little Nightshade?" he asks then in a low voice, his thumb pressing against your asshole as he fucks you harder now that you're used to his size. "Could get used to this pretty cunt. Promise to keep my cock whore nice and full."

It doesn't take long. Soldier Boy's moans are now filling the room as his pace becomes faster, slurred words between his erratic breathing when the hand on your hair comes up to finally grab you by the neck, like he can read your mind cause it's exactly what you need to get there, to experience by first hand a set of crashing waves that were getting more and more intense on your stomach.

You're close to the edge. He can smell it in the air when the sound of your skin slapping against his is loud enough to be all you can hear, mixing with the lovely moans you produce when he’s pounding into you with no mercy, fingers pressing the side of your neck with enough force you’re running out of breathe.

It’s messy, violent and you love it, love how he’s ruining you all sudden, fucking you up from the inside, making your vision turning dizzy in response. You’re immersed in the haze he’s driven you into before admiting:

“God i’m so fucking close.”

“Cum on my cock,” it sounds like he’s begging you to do it, fingers finding their way to your swollen clit to move against the sensitive flesh “Come on doll, leave me full of you.”

He’s making you move now, hands now controlling your hips as you take him as his liking, mere seconds until you’re finally crumbling, violently shaking as you finally reach your peak. He keeps on fucking you through your high, long enough so he’s pulling out all of sudden, stroking his lenght over you as his cum finally lands on your back leaving you convered with his load.

Fucking hell.

When you’re coming down from your orgasm shame seems to hit you hard, however for Ben is not enough when he’s kneeling on the floor, eyes on the mess his cock made out of you.

“Wanna go again, little Nightshade?” he asks curiously, and the question makes you laugh in response, forgetting about formalities and the trouble it meant you were intimate with Soldier Boy out of all the supes in the world.

“Hm,” you seem to think about it for a second, his breathing close to your wet pussy as he’s still wearing his clothes in contrast of you being so exposed — “But you’re keeping the suit on.”

He don’t have any complains when he’s the one pressing his face against your wet folds.

Funny thing is now when you’re forced to join the Boys days after that very encounter — A bad joke when you’re now babysitting Soldier Boy himself.

“Been missing you s’much little Nightshade” he admits after a couple of minutes alone in the filthy motel “Thinking about how cute you are, how you felt taking my cock so nicely in your living room.”

“Fuck off, Ben.”

“We’ll be quick” he promises “That stupid assholes back there wont even notice.”

You seem to think about it for a second before lifting your middle finger in response — “I said fuck off, Ben.”

For now, it’s enough for him that you’re thinking about it.

my masterlist

[ellecdc]

Can we get a James potter pregnancy fic like the moon water one? I just on ow he’d be so sweet and doting and wouldn’t let you lift a finger.

it's so true though - he would be a master coddler, & sorry to leave you waiting since April, this fic gave me a run for my money 🥺

James Potter x pregnant wife!reader who interrupts game night

CW: mentions of pregnancy, gambling?

Sirius was not too proud to admit that he felt immediately guilty when he realised the mistake he had made.

As you got further along in your pregnancy, James had become increasingly less inclined to leave your side for any extended amount of time.

It got to the point that James actually took a leave of absence from work, and was now debating whether or not he’d ever go back once the baby was born. 

Remus, Sirius, and Peter all had bets on how long that was going to last, knowing how…involved James could be, not withstanding the potential pregnancy hormone related fits of anger and exhaustion. 

So, this week's game night (and likely every remaining one until perhaps your child went to Hogwarts) was being hosted at James’.

“Sorry boys, I just don’t want to risk not being here in case she needs anything, you know?” He had said. 

And they did know; and quite frankly, Sirius was looking forward to not having to clean up after his sodding friends, so there were no complaints from him or Moony. And your place was closer to Peter’s flat, so he was happy for an excuse to take an evening stroll.

So when the four friends were sitting around a circular dining table, bickering over whose turn it was in their game of muggle poker and you were - what was only now very clear to Sirius - tiptoeing down the stairs of your townhouse, Sirius really shouldn’t have made your presence known. 

“What are you doing up?” James asked as he quickly dropped his cards - face down, dammit - onto the table to make his way over to you after being alerted to your presence by Sirius’ traitorous smile and wave.

“I just wanted a snack, Jamie.” You admitted, half bashful and half frustrated at the fussing, though you accepted James' embrace willingly.

Sirius thought the hug looked awkward, seeing as how the two of you needed to leave so much room for your belly. 

“You should’ve told me, angel; I would have gotten it for you.” He chided gently as he ushered you (forced you) into his seat with a gentle hand on your back.

You smiled apologetically at the boys as you sat in James’ seat with only a small groan and a hand on your belly.

“Sorry, Trouble.” Sirius apologised quickly. But you - the sweet ‘angel’ that you were - simply waved him off. 

“Even if I had made it to the kitchen, he would have heard me rummaging in the fridge.” You said simply, picking up James’ cards and reorganising them.

“Has he got anything good?” Peter asked quickly, causing you to shake your head no before putting the cards back down.

“Damn sod’s been bluffing; he was always such a terrible liar at Hogwarts when he was the lookout for our pranks, how on earth can he bluff?” Remus asked incredulously as he dropped his own hand down on the table (face down, damnit). 

“He’s not bluffing; I don’t think he has a clue how to play this game.” You explained simply.

“You should come to all of our game nights.” Sirius chuckled as he gently nudged your arm with his elbow. 

You chuckled and looked towards the kitchen. “The point of gamenights was for you four to get together, and for me to have a quiet house.”

“Please.” James called as he made his way out of the kitchen with a tray of various treats in one hand and a large cup of ice water in the other. “You gave up having a quiet house the second you said ‘I do’.” 

You accepted a loving kiss to your temple as he handed the cup of water to you and placed the tray in front of you on top of his cards. 

If Sirius didn’t get a peak at someone’s cards really fucking soon-

“How many more weeks do you have?” Remus asked you then; probably a polite thing to ask a pregnant couple but Sirius was a little preoccupied wondering if there was an X-ray vision spell he could use to see through Peter’s cards. 

“Too many.” You responded as James offered a jovial “It’s gone by so quickly!” 

“Jamie, I really don’t think you get to say that.” You admonished him, though Sirius could tell the furrow of your brows was all for show. 

“What? Why? I feel like this pregnancy has just flown by!” 

“Oh, well I’m very glad you feel that way.” You sneered. “But you’re not the one who had to stretch and grow and carry around a bowling ball.”

Sirius felt himself swallow nervously in James’ honour, but the dumb sod simply beamed at you lovingly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s because you’ve done it so beautifully, angel; you made it look easy.”

And damn James and his smoothness; he had even Sirius blushing.  

“Alright, I’m in.” Remus announced then as he pushed a pile of chips towards the centre of the table.

“Me too.” Peter agreed as he followed in suit.

Sirius felt like he was grasping at billywigs, but he felt he had a better chance than James, so he, too, bet a couple of chips. 

“What say you, Prongs?” Peter asked then.

James turned back to the game, looking surprised as if he’d forgotten they’d been playing at all.

“Oh, I fold.” He said simply.

“What!?” Sirius screeched as he threw his cards down on the table. 

Remus made an exasperated groaning sound as he also placed his cards face up.

“Yeah, I had nothing.” James responded with a casual shrug.

“Nice.” Peter murmured quietly as he took in the state of Remus and Sirius’ cards before placing his own down on the table and pulling the chips towards himself.

“For fucks sake!” Sirius shouted.

“Pads! Little ears!” James chided.

“Are they even fully developed yet?” Sirius muttered back, earning him a swat up the back of the head from his boyfriend. 

“Oh yes.” You said solemnly. “Babe has been very active everytime Uncle Pads talks.”

Sirius paused in his tussle with Moony to whip his head towards you. “Really!?”

You smiled and nodded, holding your hand out for his which he took willingly and allowed you to place it to a particularly hard spot on your stomach.

“Say something.” You instructed.

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good!” He chanted, the end of his sentence rising an octave (or two, if you asked Moony) when he felt a little kick right underneath his hand. “Oh my godric!”

“I wanna feel.” Remus murmured as he reached over his boyfriend to swap places.

“Mischief managed.” Sirius continued, feeling the slight jump of excitement in Remus’ body at the movement he obviously felt beneath his hand. 

“Oh gods, you’re gonna have a trouble maker.” Peter remarked with a shake of his head, though his smile let you know the comment was made in jest. 

“Oh, there was never any doubt about that, considering who the father is.” You quipped back, smiling lovingly up at James who simply beamed down at you in turn. 

“Well, I’ll get out of your hair, boys.” You said as you made to stand. “Let you get back to your games.” 

Your sentence was met with a round of dissent. 

“No, no mama. We’ll leave.” Sirius argued as he too stood. 

“What? Why are we leaving!?” Pete asked then.

“Peter, you already took all our money, leave the expecting parents to their evening, yeah?” Remus reprimanded, causing the three of them to look over only to see James blanketed over you from behind with both of his hands resting on your stomach as he murmured softly into your ear.

Your eyes were closed as you allowed James to rock the two of you back and forth with a soft smile spread across your face. 

“Come on Petey, we’re officially intruding.” Sirius added as he tossed another chip at his friend. “Take this for the road - I’ll be winning it all back at our next game night.”

[pedantic-poison]

Delicious | LN4

pairing: fem sainz!reader x lando norris

genre: SMUTTTTT, 18+ MINORS DNI, p in v, fingering, light choking, use of pet names (darling, baby, sweetheart, good girl, etc), cream pie, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y'all!!!!), language, hold the moan vibes, dirty talk, Lando being a hoe

requested: yes!

word count: 3.9k

author's note: i LOVE me some brother's best friend trope

When your older brother first joined McLaren, you were unbelievably proud of him, so, naturally, you moved heaven and earth to make it to his first race with the team. Meeting Lando, you finally understood why all of Carlos' stories from before the season started were about his new teammate, and how much he made him laugh. He was friendly to you, and kind, and had a knack for making sure you never felt out of place. He also made your chest go a little tight, but you chose to ignore that feeling. Best not to complicate things for your brother.

It's been years since you first met Lando, and you can't quite use that excuse to convince yourself you need to avoid Lando. You still try, certainly, but it doesn't really carry the weight it used to, not with Carlos at Ferrari now. Would it still be messy? Maybe. Would it be a complete shit show? ...Probably not, right?

That little tendril of doubt created just enough space for that weird feeling Lando elicited to bloom. And now, with the Summer break giving Carlos time off, he's invited Lando to your family's home, for an entire week.

"Morning," the sound of Lando's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. As if it wasn't already bad enough that he was staying in your house, now Lando had the audacity to show up in the kitchen, voice gravely from sleep, with a pair of gray sweatpants hanging low enough on his hips to show the V-line of his muscles there. Your eyes trailed up his torso, allowing yourself to indulge in his tan skin and taut muscles for just a moment, before your gaze met his. A knowing look danced across his face, eyes glinting with mischief, as he smirked at you over his mug of coffee.

"Oh, um, good morning," you coughed out, embarrassed at having been caught. "How'd you sleep?" you managed to force out.

Lando took his time, finishing his sip of coffee before answering, "Slept alright. Couldn't fall asleep for a while, for some reason, though." You couldn't quite decipher the look on his face while he said it, but he didn't give you enough time to overthink it. "You?"

Your face heated immediately at the reminder of what exactly you'd been doing last night, instead of sleeping. "F-fine, thanks." It had been four long days where Lando had made himself seemingly unavoidable. Even at night, when you could close your door to the rest of the house, and lock yourself away, your thoughts strayed back to Lando no matter what you did. Last night, the ache in your core had gotten so unbearable that you'd touched yourself to the thought of him. It seemed that even the walls of your room couldn't quite keep Lando out.

"What's got you thinking so hard over there, Sainz?"

You schooled your expression, refusing to let him throw you off balance again. "Wouldn't you like to know, Norris." The coffee mug in your hands hid your face rather well as you lifted it to take a sip, leveling him with a look that you hoped seemed like a challenge.

Pushing off the counter he'd been leaning against, Lando took a step closer to you. "I really, really would, actually."

You allowed yourself to lean in for just a moment, inhaling the smell of him, before pulling back. "Too bad." Chair legs scraping against the floor as you pushed away from the table, standing and taking your mug and book with you.

"Oh, come on! You're really gonna tease me like that?" he whined, shouting at your back as you headed up the stairs.

"Gotta make you work for it, Norris!" you called back, retreating into your room once again, giddier than you'd care to admit, and telling yourself that you'd only left because you had work to do. Certainly not because you weren't sure how much longer you'd be able to hold on with Lando under the same roof.

Just three more days.

The loud splashes and laughter from outside drew your attention away from your book, for what felt like the hundredth time in two minutes. Sighing exasperatedly, you rolled over on your bed, craning your neck up to look out of your window.

Carlos and Lando were in the pool in the backyard below you, squealing like little kids as they hit each other with water balloons. You rolled your eyes at the childish behavior, even as you fought (and failed) to keep a smile off of your lips. You heard your father's voice ring throughout the house, and Carlos and Lando must've heard it too, because they quickly dropped their makeshift weapons at the call that they needed to get cleaned up for dinner. Your parents weren't terribly strict, but even they preferred for everyone at their dinner table to be fully clothed and not dripping everywhere.

Just as you'd made your way out of your room to head downstairs, you froze, finding a sopping wet Lando Norris in the hallway. Even after you (accidentally) ogled him this morning, you couldn't manage to keep your eyes on his as you watched the way the droplets of water fell off the ridges of his chiseled chest and torso. You hadn't quite noticed how close you'd come to running into each other, barely a foot of space between you, that seemed to shrink more and more the longer you stared. And you weren't the only one. The sundress you wore hung off your body in a way that made Lando want to memorize every line and curve of it himself. Looking wasn't enough - he'd always been more of a hands-on learner, anyways. And the way the gentle breeze swirled the skirt of it around your hips and legs made him want to find out if you were wearing anything underneath it. Made him want to rip anything he found there off with his teeth.

"Hermanita! Lando! Dinner in twenty minutes!" Carlos shouted up, from the sound of it in the kitchen, most likely helping your parents like the doting son he was. Helping, unlike you. Standing in the hallway, now only inches from Lando, chest rising and falling erratically as you tried to convince yourself that you should not fuck your brother's friend and former teammate in your parents' house with your entire family downstairs.

"Twenty minutes," Lando breathed, barely above a whisper. He took a final step forward, mouth painfully close to touching yours as his spread into a mischievous grin. "I can work with that."

His lips crashed into yours, hands gripping your face delicately as he did so, moving only after yours landed in his hair. Lando finally, finally, got his hands on those hips that had been torturing him, tempting him, for years, squeezing as he pulled you into him. Your fingers raked through his curls, tugging gently as you pushed him backwards into your room. He went willingly, grinning into the kiss at your enthusiasm as you kicked the door shut behind you, letting you take charge for the time being and falling to the bed when the backs of his knees hit it, hands dragging down your thighs as he went. For a moment, you paused, taking in the way Lando was looking up at you. Adoring. Reverent. Hungry.

His hands on your thighs urged you forward to straddle him, sliding his grip up your back to pull your torso flush with his. "God, these fucking tits," he groaned, squeezing you harder into his chest before sliding his hands around to your front, cupping them harshly. Through lidded eyes, you watched his hands, large, nimble, and veiny, knead your breasts while he hummed appreciatively, unable to look away from your chest for even a moment. "Been waiting to get my hands on you for so long, sweetheart," he heaved, speaking into your skin as his lips trailed over your exposed chest, just under your collarbone, punctuating the statement with a final, firm squeeze of your tits.

Before you could finish the whine building in you at the loss of his hands, Lando had yanked down the flimsy straps of your sundress, allowing your tits to spill out over the neckline. Lando swears he could come from that sight alone. "You're so gorgeous," he muttered, more to himself than to you, before looking back into your eyes, "so fucking gorgeous." His lips found yours again, stealing your breath as one hand reached up to ghost over your nipple, already sensitive and hardening from the cool air in your room, while the other lowered to rest on your waist, gently urging you to rock your hips against him at your own pace. "So," his kisses now landed on your jaw, "so," your neck, "beautiful. I think it might actually kill me," gently nipping at your pulse point before soothing the tender skin with his tongue.

Your breath had grown shallow from the attention he paid to your neck and chest, hitching as he tweaked your nipple just right, almost harsh enough to be painful but light enough to make you crave more. But what caused your breath to quicken was the feeling of Lando under you. Those strong, muscled thighs, bracketed by your own, felt so firm you couldn't stop your mind from wondering how they would feel if you ground yourself against them. The way they tensed as he moved, or restrained himself from moving as he tried to let you set the pace, felt so delicious against your thighs and through layers of fabric, you can't imagine how they would feel flexing against your core. Delicious as those thoughts were, they would have to wait for another time, because nothing was more tempting than the press of his hard cock against you, straining at the material of his swim trunks, the remaining water of the pool dampening your already wet panties.

"Shh, sweetheart, we've got to be careful," Lando startles you, the hand that had been on your tits gently closing over your mouth, and only then did you realize just how much noise you'd been making. Your cheeks heated at the realization, feeling your breath catching in your throat, rapid and uneven, whimpers and whines and a whole host of other, embarrassing sounds trapped beneath the firm press of Lando's large hand. You were so worked up that even that thought, the sheer size of his palm against you, how those thick, nimble fingers would feel between your thighs, made you whine louder, hips speeding up as you sought some kind of friction. Lando's eyes darkened as you ground yourself onto him, harder, faster, hand tightening around your waist and thighs flexing underneath you. He was holding back, you could tell, his restraint hanging by a thread, and every move you made threatened to fray that thread to its breaking point.

You wanted to make him snap.

There would be another time to savor this, to take your time, to memorize every inch of him, later.

You raised one of your hands from his broad shoulders, gripping the hand that covered your mouth and tapping twice. Immediately, Lando removed his hand, eyes filling with concern that he'd done something wrong, but before he could ask you were already whining again.

"Please, Lan," you begged, hips pressing down as harshly as you could manage. "Need you so bad, please, please," your voice was thin and breathy, and if you weren't nearly delirious from finally having this, having him, within your grasp, you might've been embarrassed by it. "Don't tease me, I c - can't take it."

Lando's head fell back with a groan, making no effort to silence himself as he did with you. "Fuck, darling, you want me that much, huh?" You nodded eagerly, hips continuing their grind as you felt Lando's cock twitch beneath you. "Such a desperate little thing, aren't you?" he asked, latching his mouth on the flesh of your breast, sucking a harsh mark into the delicate skin. Low enough that your family wouldn't be able to see, you realized, but dark enough that you'd have a reminder of him on your skin for the next few days. The thought made you flush with heat. The sudden bite of Lando's teeth on your tit shocked you out of your haze. "I asked you a question, sweetheart."

You blinked down at him, bleary eyed, "W-what?"

His grin was wicked as he looked up at you, "Aw, poor baby's already going cock dumb and I haven't even fucked you yet." Your cheeks heated, and he didn't give you the time to gather yourself enough to formulate a comeback. "I asked if you were a desperate little thing for me? You desperate for me to fuck you stupid, darling?"

A whine escaped your lips, unbidden, at his words, and the look in his eyes told you he wouldn't let you deny its cause. "God, yes, Lan, yes I'm so desperate for you, want you to fuck me so bad, I - fuck -"

The sensation of his fingers sliding your thong to the side scrambled your brains again, scattering any thoughts you'd managed to gather. The rough, calloused pad of his thumb brushed over your clit, and your body rocked violently into his hold, chasing the pleasure. "Keep talking to me, sweetheart, tell me what you want. Tell me all the filthy things my pretty little girl wants me to do to her," he whispered into your ear, lips going back to attacking your neck.

"W-want - want you to - ah- fuck me with your fingers, think about those p-perfect hands all the - fuck - t-time, want your thick fingers in me before you fuck me, Lando," you moaned out, pushing through even though your whines threatened to interrupt you.

"Good girl," he purred, sliding his middle finger through your folds, moaning into your neck at the feel of you. "So fucking wet f'me, darling, fuck," his left hand tweaked your nipple, as his right slowly sank a finger into you. The sound he let out was almost animalistic as he felt you clenching around him, reacting to the stretch that even one of his fingers made you feel. "Holy shit, you're so tight, baby," he lifted his head to be level with yours, wanting to watch your face as he touched you. "How am I gonna fit my cock into this tight little pussy of yours if you can barely take one of my fingers?"

The only answer you could give him was a needy moan, one that had his left hand going back up, not to cover your mouth, but to rest on your throat. "Shh, remember, sweetheart, you don't want your parents to hear us, do you?"

You shook your head fiercely, but immediately lost your train of thought again as Lando began to pump his finger in and out of you, slowly to let you adjust. His thumb landed firmly back on your clit, and the way he curled his long, thick fingers had him reaching a spot inside of you you'd never managed to reach before.

"What else do you want me to do, darling? Don't tell me you've already gone brainless? I've barely gotten started with you."

"Want more, Lan, want you to stretch me with your fingers so you can fuck me, want to feel you - oh, god," you barely managed to catch yourself before you screamed at the feeling of Lando pushing another finger into you. Even though he was aided by your wetness, Lando slowed his pace as he let you adjust again, easing into you as gently as possible as he maintained his circles on your clit.

"Want to feel me what, sweetheart?" he encouraged, curling his fingers to that same spot, this time hitting it hit his index and middle fingers and making your brain short circuit.

"Want to - Lan - w-want, I, fuck," you babbled, head falling to the crook of Lando's shoulder as you struggled for words.

"Come on, now, darling, be a good girl and tell me what you want. You do want to be a good girl f'me, don't you?" He chuckled lightly at how quickly you nodded, head staying buried in his neck.

"I- I want t-to feel you in me, feel your cock in me, feel you stretch me out with it, f-feel you fill me up - stuff me full with you, with your cum, leave me dripping with it."

The hand on your throat tightened harshly, briefly, before both of Lando's hands were off you and working on his swim trunks. "Jesus christ, baby, you've got a dirty little mouth on you. Such a perfect fucking girl for me, darling, such a dirty little thing, god you're perfect," he mumbled the praises into your mouth, stopping every so often to kiss you tenderly, hungrily, as his hands made quick work of the tie on his swim trunks, pulling them down enough to let his cock spring free. Your eyes widened involuntarily at the sight of it slapping against his stomach, the hard muscles of his abs and the red, leaking tip of his cock mesmerizing you.

You lifted your hips, allowing Lando to yank you closer to him until you hovered just over his cock, both of your hands bracing against his shoulders as one of his went under your dress to guide his cock through your folds.

"You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?"

"Yes, please Lan, please, ple-"

You had to cover your mouth with your own hand this time, the stretch of his cock making your eyes water, tears springing from them. Lando stared straight into your eyes as he sank you down onto his cock, bottom lip trapped between his teeth in a feeble attempt to silence himself. Both of his hands landed on your hips, gripping harshly as he held himself back from fucking up into you right away.

"God, baby you're so tight, you have such a perfect little cunt," he panted, eyes fixed on yours, not wanting to miss a single expression on your face. Finally, he bottomed out, the slow glide of his cock in you heavenly, fingers flexing against you as he forced himself to be patient.

A weak whimper left you despite the hand over your mouth as you slowly rose up, dropping harshly back onto Lando's cock and digging in your fingers at the sensation.

"Fuuuuuuuck," Lando ground out, hips bucking slightly up into you as you sank back down on him again.

It didn't take long for your legs to begin to shake, pace faltering as you grew tired. "Lando," you breathed out, head nestled in the crook of his neck again.

"Yes, darling?" His voice was thin, reedy, telling you he was just as affected as you were, even if he was better at hiding it.

"Can't - can't," your own gasp interrupted you as the head of Lando's cock hit a particularly sensitive spot inside you. "Too tired, need you to - god."

Lando chuckled, chest rumbling underneath your forehead, "You need me to do it for you, baby? You already too fucked out to move?"

"Please," you whined, unable to muster any embarrassment at the desperation in your voice. He knew he did this to you. Why bother trying to hide it?

Something in your neediness got to him, hands sliding up to your waist and squeezing as he gave himself a better hold on you. "That's a good girl. Don't worry, sweetheart, I've got you."

He lifted you off his cock, before slamming you back down onto him, hips fucking up into you harshly. The feeling of him manhandling you with ease was nearly enough to make you come on its own, but that combined with the way he kept hitting that spot inside of you, over, and over, and over again? You were so close you felt like you were going to explode.

And Lando knew it, too. Could tell from the way your hands scrabbled for purchase on his muscular shoulders, the way your head went limp on his shoulder as you gave him complete control over your body, from the way you clenched around him, and when he dropped one of his hands to graze a thumb over your clit as he fucked up into you, you were helpless to do anything but collapse into his embrace as you rode out your high.

Lando continued to hold you up by your waist, limbs sluggish and heavy, as he chased his own high, spurred on by your whimpers of overstimulation. But what finally pushed him over the edge was the sound of your voice, wrecked and fucked out, whispering weakly in his ear, "Please, Lando, please fill me up."

He came with a groan that he tried to bury in your neck, nipping lightly at the skin as he came down, chest heaving and moving you with it since you still hadn't managed to regain control of your own body just yet. The feeling of him painting your walls made you whimper, unintentionally clenching around him again, which elicited a deep groan from him.

"You keep squeezing me like that, darling, and you're gonna get me hard again."

You giggled, which earned you a playful swat on the ass from Lando, chuckling along with you as he stroked your cheek tenderly, admiring you in your post-orgasm haze.

"Lan-"

"Dinner is ready! Hurry up and get down here, we're starving!" The sound of your brother's voice jolted both of you out of your stupor, matching looks of panic on your faces.

Before you could say anything else, Lando whispers, "We're talking about this later tonight, sweetheart." Placing a kiss on your cheek, Lando lifts you off of him, hissing at the feeling, and setting you on your bed next to him before getting up and running across the hall to his room.

After you managed to muster the strength to move, you quickly fixed your dress, trying to make sure that your face and hair weren't dead giveaways for just having had the best sex of your life. You rushed downstairs, blaming your breathlessness on having run to dispel your mother's concern, and sat down quickly, trying to avoid any questions about what had taken you so long.

A few seconds later, Lando joined you, sitting across from you, eyes burning into you in a way that made you shift in your seat. That turned out to be a huge mistake, because just as your brother passed you the salad, Lando's cum leaked out of you as you realized belatedly that not only had you not cleaned up, but you hadn't even put your panties back on. You froze, quickly shifting back and squeezing your thighs together in an effort to stop him from seeping out of you, and miraculously, none of your family seemed to notice.

But the way your eyes widened told Lando exactly what had happened.

When your parents asked how the dinner was, you stammered out some poor excuse of a response, not really knowing how to speak to your family with Lando's cum dripping out of you.

Lando shot you a wicked grin, winking quickly enough that no one else saw it, and stared right into your eyes as he answered.

"Delicious."

[cassandracain52]

Reverse trope

where instead of the Bats forgetting that they’re adopted (something actual adoptees do on occasion and is hilarious) they forget that some of them *cough Damian cough* aren’t

_______

Jason in the heat of a probably ridiculous argument: Yeah well YOU’RE adopted!

Tim just as invested in said argument: So are YOU! We all are!

Damian who had previously been quietly watching this unfold while he drank his tea: Actually I’m not

Tim and Jason who didn’t realize he was there but are already DoneTM: …… Damian continuing to sip his tea entirely unbothered: :)

Damian: Because I’m not an orphan-

Jason: ok, yoU KNOW WHAT-

____

or like in their group texts (that we know they have thanks to Nightwing (2016) #79)

*Steph changed the group chat name to “Bruce Wayne’s Personal Orpanage”*

Jason: Really?

Steph: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Steph: It’s the truth Damian: Both my parents are very much alive

Steph: Shhh you don’t count

Cass: Mine too Duke: Technically so are mine

Barbara: I still have a dad so there’s that

Steph: YOU GUYS ARE RUINING THE JOKE

Tim: Stephanie aren’t BOTH of your parents alive???

Steph: KNOW WHAT? FINE

*Steph changed the group chat name to “The Technicality Police”*

Tim: well that’s more accurate at least

Steph: :)

_____

Damian in his 10th argument with Tim of the day: That’s- this is-

Tim in full Antagonizing Big Brother mode: I’m listening

Damian -a Gen Z and best friend to Jon Kent- extremely frustrated: This is such Motherless behavior!

Tim taken aback: [voice cracking] W-what-?

Damian who didn’t mean to say that but doubling down anyway because his bloodline doesn’t believe in admitting mistakes: THIS! This is such Motherless behavior!

The rest of the family who is also motherless: :O

Cass whose been spending way too much time with Meme Queen Stephanie Brown and not involved in the argument but finding it entertaining regardless: [nodding along seriously] Facts

Tim: [visibly betrayed] CASS WHAT-

A video copy of the interaction gets sent out anonymously to the entire family. Barbara is the prime suspect but there is no proof as of yet (and they will never find any)

Steph, Cass, and Duke continue to respond “Motherless behavior” everytime one of the bats does something they deem questionable/insane. It is said often

It only stops when one night in the middle of patrol. Batman is in full Dark Knight mode (possibly in the middle of threatening someone) and descends from the ceiling into the middle of a warehouse drug deal, dark cape billowing out behind him-

and Steph just automatically whispers “Motherless behavior” forgetting her com was still very much on

She immediately realizes what she said and frantically apologizes but it’s too late.

Bruce just- Blue Screens. Completely stunned into silence

Dick -who was unfortunate enough to be the one teamed up with Batman tonight- is fighting for his life to choke back his laughter

Jason doesn’t even try to stop his and has collapsed to his knees from lack of air from how hard he’s laughing. Cass try’s half heartedly patting his back to help to no avail

The criminals are terrified into surrender from The Red Hood just laughing hysterically at seemingly nothing while Batman just Stands There

Damian ends up being the only one still functioning enough to continue arresting everyone, though he is privately amused and strangely proud

Tim and Barbara have saved both the com recordings and cowl footage to at least three different servers and sent it to absolutely everyone before Batman even recovers

Duke finds out second hand the next morning and is furious he missed the chance to see it in person. He declares he is moving to the nightshift so it doesn’t happen again. (He is all talk and goes to bed by 9 pm)

Bruce bans the phrase for life and promises swift and server punishment to anyone who dares to use it again

[bunnys-kisses]

cum stained logos

max verstappen

cw: smut/pwp, the 2024 red bull driving uniform, uniform kink, oral sex

bunny says: reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated! I love feedback!! i am looking (dis)respectfully mr. verstappen, been thinkin about this image.

the driving uniform was a core feature of formula one, it was a showcase of sponsors while also being a protector for the driver. there was a reason why technically the uniform was in two layers.

max was proud to wear red bull, even off the track he wore is quite frequently. you once made a comment asking if he got this stuff for free and that was why there was so much of it in his closet.

"you like it." he responded as he placed his hands on your shoulders and went in for a kiss on your cheek from behind, "i know how you look at me after a race. red bull across my chest."

you looked behind yourself to him and made a face, "i love a man in uniform so." you shrugged.

the idea buried itself in max's brain like a seed. it soon grew into a hefty idea to make you squirm.

for max it wasn't hard to get his driving suit into his bag and back to his home. everyone assumed he was just very dedicated to racing (which was a correct assumption), but max verstappen would never do anything nefarious with it. to ruin the red bull legacy and brand.

so the look on your face when you went into the bathroom and saw him zipping up the dark blue uniform was a nice surprise. he looked over at you and smiled, "like what you see?"

you swallowed, "how did you even-"

he turned around, it was still partially unzipped giving you a clear view that he was not wearing the fire proof protection underneath. he had no reason to really wear it, while sex with you was hot. it was no fire hazard.

you adverted your eyes and swallowed, "max... how?"

he chuckled and went up to you. he placed his hands on his shoulders and leaned in for a kiss. when he pulled away soon after he said, "i want to show the integrity of the red bull brand.

he then laughed, "i'm joking. i wanted you to suck my cock while i wore it. after all, you liked men in uniform."

your eyes went wide for a moment, "every day you surprise me, max." then your hand was taken by your boyfriend and led back to the bedroom.

he looked over his shoulder as he led you and said, "well, you have a whole lifetime of surprises then." he got on the bed, with his back up against the headboard. he patted his thigh and you got between his legs.

"sometimes i forget how hot you are." you admitted.

he raised an eyebrow, "well, i guess i have to remind you then." then gestured for you to unzip the suit. he watched you careful eyes as you slowly unzipped it.

you felt your hand shake from anticipation as you zipped it all the way down, exposed his toned torso to you. you swallowed when you eyes trailed to his cock which was clothed by a pair of briefs. you noticed the bulge in them.

"like it?" he asked.

you looked up at him, "max, the first time i saw it on accident my jaw hit the floor. remember what i asked you?"

he scratched his jaw a little flustered, "you asked me if when i get hard if i lose all the blood in my head."

you nodded and reached for the waistband of his briefs. you pulled his cock out and without thinking licking your lips. you felt a shudder in your heart. you kissed the leaky tip and sighed contently.

this entire situation was hot. he looked good in the driver's suit. he looked good with red bull and the other branding across his body. he was a good racer and got good sponsors. he also had an impressive cock that fit nicely in your throat.

it was hefty and big, but not terrifying. it was a snug fit, but not a painful stretch. it was perfect just like the rest of him. you heard him relax further against the headboard and his large hand found the back of your head.

"ik had dit eerder moeten doen. als ik het had geweten, fuck." he shifted on the bed and let you take all of him in his mouth. as much as you threw around that max was a kinky man, you were almost toe to toe with him.

he knew you tried to act surprised, but he knew that you ate up any chance at exploring aspects of sex. and sometimes that meant him stealing his driving suit and letting you suck him off.

you held onto his thighs for support, the fabric under his fingers grounded you as you sucked him off. your eyes fluttered closed as you bobbed your head up and down.

your mouth felt like a dream. he held onto you and rocked up a little against your mouth.

"you feel so good." he panted as he felt the heat in his body. his heart was a loud thump in his ears as he stroked your hair. you looked so good laid out between his legs with his cock in your throat.

it was so painfully dirty that it lit a fire in max's stomach. he softly met your pace and pushed his cock a little further into your throat. he exhaled deeply as you just took him so well.

"do you like the uniform?" he asked, "maybe next time i'll fuck you while you're wearing it. " he chuckled a little.

you got your mouth off of him and stroked his cock quickly, "don't get cocky." you raised your eyebrows then leaned in to lick the swollen head, "not a good look on you."

he gripped your hair a little tighter and replied, "but you love it." then guided your mouth back onto his cock. he set the pace a little bit as he moved your head up and down his cock.

you got it slick all the way to his balls. his cock felt good on your tongue as you felt the heat curl in your stomach. the heat throbbed in your head.

you two continued to work together. the soft noises and the sounds of your mouth on his cock were in the air. the soft curses and heavy pants. the shifts on the bed.

max was deeply in love with you, not that it was something that you questioned. but when you were sucking the soul of out him, he felt a big swell of pride in his chest that you were his.

"shit, i'm close." he groaned, the sweat caused the suit to stick to his back. it felt good, but he was reaching his peak.

you pulled your mouth away from his cock and hastily jerked him off. you were both panting with an intense head rush. max ran his fingers through his hair once more before he tensed up and climaxed.

ropes of hot cum reached across his chest and splattered onto a few of the logos on the uniform. but he couldn't care in that moment. he did wish that he got to finish all over those cute cheeks of yours.

no time like the present for that dream as he reached down and pulled your mouth up against his still erect cock. between heavy pants he said, "keep it in your mouth next time. clean me up.'

you looked back up at him before you started to lick his cock. your core throbbed, you'd get yours soon enough. but your driver boyfriend wasn't done yet. <3

[drabblesandimagines]

Scoot On Over

Leon Kennedy x female reader, established relationship, fluff with a tiny bit of suggestive spice at the end

Leon threw himself down onto the mattress with a relieved sigh – a cliché, but there was nothing like sleeping in your own bed after being away. It had been a mixture of questionable motel beds, a couple of nights in the backseat of the car, another night of no sleep at all and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t on the brink of exhaustion, running on adrenaline until he made it back home to you that evening.

He rubs his cheek against your pillow, inhaling the scent of your perfume and allows himself to close his eyes. Now, he just needs you in his arms for a perfect’s night sleep…

--

“Leon?”

Nothing – again. You’d worry he had stopped breathing entirely if he wasn’t letting out soft snores from where his face was pressed against your pillow. He’d been away on a mission for two long weeks and had arrived home early evening, duffel bag in hand, covered in fading bruises, kisses and wandering hands tinged with weariness despite his obvious excitement to be back home with you.

You made small talk as you’d made a light dinner – get him fed and then you could both have an early night. He didn’t like to talk much about his missions had entailed – he wanted to keep the two things as separate in his brain as he could – but he knew if he needed to talk about something, you’d be there and that was enough.

You’d sent him up to bed first whilst you finished up in the kitchen – you liked to start off each morning with a clean slate in there and it would only take you ten minutes tops to sort, you’d assured him, a cheeky pat to his backside as you encouraged him up the stairs.

He’d changed into a pair of plaid PJ bottoms and a plain white tee, so he must’ve brushed his teeth and then just… collapsed? You place a hand on the broad expanse of his back, giving him a light shake. “Sweetheart?”

The problem is, Leon is broad and tall and currently, somehow, taking up the whole of your double bed. You can’t even see a reasonable space you could try and curl up into against his side and be remotely comfortable, the way his limbs are spread out like a starfish.

“Leon,” you place another hand on his back and give a more vigorous shake. “I just need you to scooch on up a bit, sweetheart.”

Nothing.

You change tact and try and lift an arm, maybe you can get him to roll with a little encouragement, or he’ll wake up? Surely as an agent he’s a light sleeper anyway, what if you were an enemy or any sort of threat?

His arm is deadweight, all muscle - even if you try and lift it with both hands, embarrassingly, you can’t get it even an inch or so off the mattress.

You try and push it inwards so it’ll sit tight against his body, but it just won’t move.

“Leon?” You grab hold of his shoulder and shake it with all of your strength.

“Yeah, baby?” He mumbles.

A sign of life – hallelujah. “Can you move along a bit for me?”

“Sure.”

He doesn’t move.

“Just need you to scooch up a bit for me, handsome.” “Mm-hm…” And he snuggles his face further into your pillow, an adorable smile on his face as he does.

With a sigh, you try and wedge yourself into the space in defeat – maybe he’ll subconsciously feel you and lift his arm up for a cuddle, and then you’d be able to fit a little more comfortably? He did prefer to sleep with an arm wrapped around you, keeping you pressed close up against him, legs tangled together.

After trying out various positions in the hopes of coaxing him into a spoon, a few more vigorous shakes and, finally, a more than playful smack to his backside that achieved no more than a mumble – not proud of that one, but needs must - you admit defeat, kneel down beside the bed and stare at his slumbering face in thought.

He must be utterly exhausted and, despite the frustration of not being able to cuddle up against him after so many nights apart, it is flattering, you suppose, that he must feel safe within your company to allow himself to relax so completely and be out like a literal light.

You lean down to pick up his neglected pillow and press a kiss to his forehead, and grab the throw from the end of the bed – looks like it’s a night on the couch.

--

Leon wakes up slowly as light filters in through the curtains. His body had been aching from his time away, but it seems a night in his bed has set him right. He stretches his arms out, expecting for a hand to brush up against your warmth but is dismayed when he finds the bed empty.

He turns and sits up, cautiously, rubbing the back of his head with a loud yawn and takes in his surroundings, wondering if you’ve just nipped to the en-suite, but the door to it is ever so slightly ajar.

Your phone is plugged in on the bedside table, charging, which is odd – although not glued to the thing, it's strange for you not to have taken it with you if you’d gone downstairs to make breakfast…

There’s a sickening feeling in his stomach when he realizes he doesn’t remember you coming to bed at all, that he had been waiting for you to come join him and…

Hazy memories of you calling out to him?

Fuck.

He jumps up to his feet, dashes out the bedroom and takes the stairs down two at a time, trying to think. He’d left his gun in his duffel bag, hadn’t even taken it up with him, left it by the door when he arrived home last night. Had he been drugged? He had felt exhausted, but he’d put that down to the poor sleep over the last while. Could someone have followed him home last night, drugged him somehow, a tranquilizer, waited for him to be out for the count to swoop in and…?

His heart stops as he sees you lying on your side on the couch, the throw from the bed now twisted around your legs, arms wrapped around his pillow.

Safe and sound, and fast asleep.

He exhales, calming himself for a moment with a chuckle, before kneeling down besides you and tilting his head, awkwardly, so he can kiss you up the lips.

The sensation is enough for you to stir, blinking up at him with a dozy smile.

“Morning.”

“I don’t recall us having a fight last night, sweetheart.” He grins at his joke, but it’s one that falls flat.

“A fight?” You repeat, confused.

“You know, when couples fight, one of them ends up sleeping on the couch...”

“Oh, yeah,” you yawn, sitting up with the slightest wince. “You wouldn’t let me in the bed.”

“Huh?”

“When I came up to bed you were dead to the world, literally star-fished. I tried to get you to scoot up a little so I could get in but it was impossible, so I slept down here.”

“Seriously?”

“Mm-hm, you must’ve been exhausted.” You nod, shuffling around to place your feet flat on the ground. “Lemme make us some coffee… Ow!” You hiss as you stand, placing a hand on the small of your back.

Leon is quick to his feet, eyes wide in alarm. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m okay, it’s just my back,” you rub at the sore spot, the muscles feeling tender. It had been fine last night… “Maybe the couch isn’t the best for sleeping on.”

 You take another step forward, intent on heading to the kitchen, but there’s no hiding the wince from Leon’s gaze. “Oh, baby…”

“It’ll be fine, I just need to walk it off.”

“Uh-uh, come on,” and those muscular arms that were so impossible to move last night are suddenly scooping you up and holding you against his chest as he heads back towards the stairs. “Let’s get you to bed. It’s still early and a couple of hours on a proper, supportive mattress might work wonders.”

You wrap your arms around his neck in turn. “Oh, I know your game, Kennedy.”

“And what’s that?” He replies, nonchalantly as he begins to ascend the stairs, careful not to knock your legs against the banister.

“The other activity you like to conduct in bed, the one that’s not sleeping? I just…” You tense in his arms, looking a little hesitant. “I don’t know if my back’s gonna play ball...”

Leon reaches the top of the landing and smirks, “Trust me - stretches work wonders for back pain, sweetheart.”

He strides into the bedroom and kicks the door closed with his foot.

It doesn’t open again until late afternoon. -- AN: Inspired by my boyfriend actually star-fishing me outta the bed and me having to sleep on the couch x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

Comments, reblogs and likes make my whole day x

[misctf]

Can you turn two homophobic bullies into a gay couple that still had their muscles and not into twinks, they love to have sex with each other and others please

“Dude, you don’t think I’m being too unreasonable, right?” Seth questioned, while in the midst of his bicep curl, “I mean, you would’ve total done the same, right?”

“No dude, totally.” Nick replied, “Can’t risk that shit.”

Seth nodded, “She was a total bitch about it too.” He recalled the angry expression on his girlfriend’s face. How shocked she was when he told her he was ending it, “Can’t risk that shit. I can’t have a gay kid.”

When Seth discovered that his girlfriend’s brother was gay, he quickly broke things off. If being gay ran in her family, he couldn’t commit. No way in hell he’d be raising a gay son. As the proud son of a long-line of conservative, military men, Seth knew he had a duty to continue the family tradition. He was glad Nick could understand.

“Yeah, I hear ya.” Nick continued, “I couldn’t really imagine it either.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, “God, could you imagine having a gay kid?” He chuckled, “But she was hot though.”

“Yeah...” Seth mused, thinking of his now ex-girlfriend’s chest, “Alright, I’ll spot you.”

Seth stood at the head of the bench press and watched closely as Nick slowly raised and lowered the bar. He had to admit, Nick was getting good. It seemed like it was just yesterday when the two started going to the gym. He was always the stronger of the two, yet Nick was quickly catching up.

“Atta boy.” Seth encouraged.

The more he stared at Nick, the more he came to appreciate how much work his buddy must’ve been putting in. The way his biceps bulged and his triceps strained with each movement. Up, down, up, down. Seth shook his head.

“You okay, man?” Nick asked, sitting up.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

They walked over to the bench and Seth grabbed his two dumbbells. Up, down, up, down. He always enjoyed the strain an incline bench press put on his muscles. But he could feel his arms shaking from the heavier weight.

“I got ya.” Nick reassured, supporting his buddy’s arms.

Seth blushed at the feeling of Nick’s calloused hands on his arms. The way his buddy gently applied pressure to help him complete his set. He looked up at Nick, who seemed a bit surprised by the look in his buddy’s eyes.

“Dude, you in love with me or somethin’?” Nick chuckled and Seth quickly broke eye contact.

“Fuck, don’t get too full of yourself.” He replied, dropping his weights.

Nick slapped his buddy on the back, which only made Seth shudder in pleasure. There was something about Nick’s touch. But he shook his head. What the fuck was he thinking?

“Gotta work tris.” Nick said, raising a dumbbell above his head, exposing his musky pits.

Seth could only stare. Up, down, up, down. But the smell of his bro’s musk was making his dick twitch. He wondered what it would be like to bury his nose in his bro’s hairy pit. Get right up close and personal with that musk. Seth’s eyes widened when he consciously realized what he just thought.

“Fuck, I need to go splash some water on my face.” He said, his voice trembling.

Before Nick could say anything, Seth quickly started walking towards the locker room, not realizing that his gait had changed somewhat. He sauntered- his ass sticking out just a bit more. And Nick certainly noticed. For whatever reason, he couldn’t look away. His buddy’s firm ass swaying with each step. And the young athlete wondered what it would be like to squeeze it. He shook his head and cursed under his breath, doing his best to focus on his workout.

When Seth arrived in the locker room, he walked over to the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. What the hell was he thinking? He never had a gay thought, right? I mean, he could appreciate a guy who goes to the gym. But that was all it was-appreciation. He splashed some water in his face and nearly jumped when he saw some of the other gym patrons. All shirtless or nude. Their musculature on full display. Their soft dicks. Seth could feel himself salivating. His body betraying his mind. His cock starting to stir in his pants.

“No, no, no.” Seth thought, shaking these thoughts from his brain.

And without another word, he fled. Running back to his apartment where he slammed the door and went to his bedroom. The young jock immediately pulling up some porn, desperate to prove to himself these thoughts were an aberration. But no matter how big the tits on screen or feminine the moans, his dick remained soft. Only when he focused on the guy did he feel any attraction.

“This...” Seth didn’t understand, “How...?” A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts.

He sauntered over to his door, not even bothering to put on a shirt or pants. And when he opened it, he saw Nick standing there. A strange look in his eyes.

“Dude.” Nick breathed, “Where the fuck....?”

“Something’s wrong with me.” Seth huffed, beckoning his buddy inside, “I don’t...”

When the door closed and the two were alone, Seth noticed it for the first time. The look in Nick’s eye as he roamed his buddy’s nearly nude form. And Seth crossed his arms over his pecs, wanting to appear smaller. To disappear from view of his buddy’s lustful eyes.

“Nick... don’t...”

“It’s okay.” Nick reassured. Seth had heard this voice before. It was the one he used to pick up chicks at the bar. Breathy and seductive. Dripping with confidence. Seth shuddered, “Here, don’t worry.”

He approached Seth and wrapped his arms around his waist, giving his buddy’ juicy ass a firm squeeze. Seth whimpered, his cock starting to harden. He shuddered as Nick guided his hand under his shirt, allowing him to feel the firm, sweaty muscles he had seen only in the locker room. Seth’s mind wandered as he explored his buddy’s thick pecs. His fingers tracing firm abs. And then Nick guided him further, his hand moving below his waistline. Into his boxers. Around his friend’s erect manhood.

“No... this is...” Seth’s eyes widened as Nick’s lips crashed into his own. And slowly, he returned the same level of passion. His eyes closing, his hand stroking his friend’s cock.

It wouldn’t be long before the two were in the bedroom. Their hands greedily roaming each other’s muscular forms. Their tongues exploring each other’s mouths. And as Seth kissed his buddy’s abs and made his way down, he could hear a voice begging him to stop. Crying that he wasn’t gay. That he wasn’t just some cock sucker. But it became muffled as he began deep-throating Nick’s member. The voice drowned out by the sound of his friend’s pleasure-filled moans.

“Don’t worry,” Seth thought, reassuring the whimpering voice in his head, “You’re not just a cock sucker.” He looked up at his friend and grinned.

Nick smirked, “Ever try bottoming?” He asked.

The voice in Seth’s head screamed for him to stop. But Seth’s grin only widened. His muscular ass aching with need for it to be filled.

“There’s a first time for everything.”