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empresskylo · 2 years ago

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Any ideas for ghost headcanons part two? 🥹😊 I love your personification of him!! Your writing is great!

(I also loved that konig brings you a tea or drink everytime he makes one for himself I like cried reading that)

more ghost headcanons!!! some headcanons mention reader being afab. some are nsfw. [previous ghost headcanons] (also thank you sm anon!!!)

♡ he's clingy af. but like, not in a needy way, more in a 'he just wants to be around you' way. he just likes to be in your presence. sometimes you think you might be boring him because you're just sitting there reading while he watches you, but he could leave at any time. he's choosing to just sit there in silence with you because he cant help but be around you.

♡ he kind of just hovers around you. he won't even realize he's doing it half the time. you'll get up to leave the room and he'll follow suit. "simon?" "hmm?" "why are you following me? I'm just going to the bathroom." "oh... I--I don't know."

♡ you stood up, stretching your arms above your head in a yawn. "i think i'm gonna go shower," you mumbled. simon got up from his seat, following you to the bathroom. "yeah, guess I could use a wash." you turned to him and raised a brow. was he inviting himself to partake in your shower? you stood a bit dumbfounded in the bathroom as simon began to strip his clothes immediately. in just his boxers he halted. "What?" he asked realizing you were simply staring at him. "you're joining my shower?" you asked. you weren't sure why, but simon's instinctual reaction assuming he was doing whatever you were doing surprised you. "don't worry, love. i'm not comin' on to you." he paused. "unless you want me to." you swatted his arm making him chuckle. he reached down and began to help you take off your shirt.

♡ he's a good cook. he's always enjoyed cooking though he doesn't get the chance to do it often. he got soooo nervous the first time he cooked anything for you. it's just something he finds really personal, so sharing it with another person made him feel a bit vulnerable. but of course, you loved whatever he made.

♡ his hair is always a mess. not only because of his mask messing his hair up, but because he's so used to having it on, he doesn't know what to do with his hair when it's not hidden by his mask. he doesn't like when it gets too long, but he also can't be bothered to cut it all the time so it frequently gets kinda shaggy.

♡ the same goes for his scruff. he gets kinda lazy about his physical appearance and so he doesn't shave that often. he doesn't usually like when he grows a full-on beard (it gets itchy under his mask) but he almost always has stubble. his hair grows so fast and thick too. like even if he shaved in the morning, by that night, his face is scratchy with stubble again.

♡ he definitely has body hair too btw (; he's got a slightly hairy chest. a nice lil happy trail. there's no way he'd every shave his chest either. he already struggles finding time to shave his face. he's just a very manly man. lots of hair....

♡ idk this is so random but he bites his nails. he does it a lot at night when he's laying in bed, just thinking. his mind tends to keep him up at night, thinking about all the shit he doesn't want to think about. it's a bad habit but it's the last thing he's worried about.

♡ speaking of bad habits, i think he's probably a smoker. not a heavy smoker, which would fuck with his lungs thus fucking with his stamina. but he likes the occasional cig. he more so smokes when he's extra stressed out. you'll often find him smoking outside the night before a big mission, his mask pushed up to his nose as he takes a hit. he smokes a lot with price too, who usually has a cigar.

♡ he is very handsy. maybe it has something to do with his trauma—he feels like you’ll disappear if he lets you go—but he always likes to have physical contact with you. he’ll walk past you and let his hand brush across your back. he likes to pull you into his side, his arm wrapped around your waist. he will aimlessly rub circles on your thigh when you sit next to him. he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it but he’ll slowly pull you closer until you’re on his lap. he wraps both arms around you when you sleep in his bed—you both always wake up tangled in the morning. likes to kiss your forehead, the top of your head, your cheeks, your hand, your fingers, just everywhere on you, whenever he can. But he doesn’t love pda. so that means he won’t kiss all over you when someone else is around, but his wandering hands still somehow find their way to you, holding yours or resting on the small of your back.

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖

♡ likes to make you beg for it.

♡ he likes seeing you on your knees, absolutely a mess, pleading, begging for him to touch you. he enjoys making you work for it. he’ll let you suffer, bringing you to the edge just to stop and demand you tell him what he wants to hear.

♡ but that’s not to say he doesn’t like when you take revenge on him. you enjoy riling him up, making him shift his pants while you two are in public because you’ve been teasing the fuck out of him. and when you’re finally behind closed doors, you don’t let him touch you. you don’t let him anywhere near you until he falls to his knees and begs you for it. begs you to let him touch you. begs you to kiss him. begs for your permission to touch himself. begs you to let him take off your clothes. and only then, do you let him devour you, only giving you pleasure. no, he can’t come until you allow it. and honestly, simon never thought this would be his style, he definitely always preferred to be the dominant one. but something about you making him a helplessly devoted fool makes him revel in the way you can get him to succumb to you.

♡ likes to fuck you from behind (-: he loves getting a good grip on your hair, yanking you back into him as his other hand leaves bruises on your hips. and fuck if he doesn’t leave bruises all over you. your hips, chest, arms, legs, neck, just everywhere. and sometimes he feels bad after, thinking he was a bit too rough with you, but he always gets a weird swell of butterflies whenever someone else sees your bruises (knowing exactly how you got them) and seeing you get all flustered.

♡ and speaking of feeling bad about being too rough, he definitely gets dom drop (aka emotional exhaustion/feeling of guilt or depression after dominant sex). this makes him very clingy and cuddly after, always double-checking to make sure he didn't go too hard on you.

♡ he is also really good at aftercare. he will immediately clean you up, carry you to the shower, or bring out a warm washcloth. he helps you change into comfy clothes, brushes your hair, then pulls you into him so he can wrap his body around you and hold you as you both lay in bed.

♡ as much as he likes receiving, he fucking loves giving. he loves to go down on you. he fucking loves knowing he's the one making you come apart like that. loves knowing you're moaning his name because of what he's doing. goes crazy when you drag your fingers through his hair, tugging on him when he starts to suck on your clit. he often hums against you in pleasure, getting off solely from the fact that you're getting off just from his tongue.

♡ very possessive. and he often exhibits this during sex. he gets off on the fact that you're his.

♡ "say you're mine," he demands as he thrusts in and out of you. your mind is so lost in a haze you barely hear what he says. simon stops, making you whine before he speaks low and slow. "say. you're. mine." you shift under his weight, moving your hips around, making him growl. "i'm yours, simon. only yours," you pant. a sly grin forms on simon's face before he starts pounding into you relentlessly.

♡ my guy's got a bit of a breeding kink. (i don't think he necessarily wants kids. maybe in another life. but in this one, he's so committed to his job that he'd never be able to raise a kid. he'd feel especially guilty if anything ever happened to him, cutting his time with his kid short) that being said, he loves the idea of breeding you. he likes to come inside you till you overflow. likes the idea of him knocking you up.

♡ "gonna fill you up, yeah? i won't stop till you're fuckin' overflowing, love. you gonna be a good girl and take it all for me?"

♡ he's very talkative during sex. always mumbling something vulgar or demanding things from you. that, or he's muttering little praises.

♡ "you like that, baby?" "fuck, you're so tight." "god, i love it when you do that." "this feel good, yeah?" "you can cry all you want, i'm not stopping till you come again." "you're taking me so well." "tell me how much you want it." "say my name, baby." "fuck, you're squeezing me so god damn tight." "want me to make you come again?" "want me to stop, hm? no? then let me hear you beg for it." "don't keep those noises from me" "look at me." "don't you dare look away now."

#ghost #simon riley #ghost headcanons #simon riley headcanons #smut #ghost cod #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod #ghost fanfic #simon riley fanfic #ghost call of duty #ghost angst #cod mw2

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not-so-casualenjoyer · 5 months ago

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You cut the boy's hair :3

Each of the men had their own way of keeping their hair trimmed. Whether they had each other do it or they did it themselves, it always got taken care of eventually, when Johnny’s head of differently length hairs started to grow out funny or Gaz’s curls became much more apparent.

They all had their own ways of cutting their hair, until you came along. A new addition to the team who had some hair cutting experience. And of course, you insisted on helping them.

Ghost

I imagine Simon doesn’t really care how his hair gets cut. The mask covers it all up anyways, so what’s the point? He doesn’t spend meaningless time fussing over his hair when he’s got more important things to worry about.

So often it’s shaggy underneath the mask. And when he takes the trimmers to his head himself, in the dim light of his dingy bathroom, it usually comes out as a very uneven and patchy buzzcut. He doesn’t care, he just prioritizes feeling as un-itchy under the mask as possible. Besides, he can just cover it up until it grows out. No biggie.

It takes a long time to convince him to let you cut his hair for him. Because of course, cutting his hair requires him taking off the mask. And for a while, he’s not sure if he’s ready to bare himself to you like that. So when he finally does, regard it as one of the highest honors.

You take it slow and gentle, telling him everything you’re doing, not forcing him to talk, not staring at his face in the mirror. Unfortunately, your not talking or looking got him worried.

Are you horrified by his face? By his scars? Are you forcing yourself to do this?

Eventually, he just blurts out, “Say something,” before he can stop himself. “Talk. Please.”

From then on, you fill the time with chatting his ear off, talking about anything and everything, just to let him know you’re not terrified of him.

Because Simon honestly doesnt give a flying fuck about what his hair looks like, you like to experiment on him a little bit. Every time you trim his hair, you try out something a little different. You leave the top a bit longer, or give him a middle part and let whisps hang down in front of his face. Sometimes you just buzz it all off (and even leave a little design in the side of his head, if he so obliges.) You like seeing what looks best on him before you settle on a style that you will inevitably cut his hair in forever

Afterwards he’ll give you a gruff thanks in appreciation. He likes the cut more than he’s willing to admit, and he finds catching his appearance in the mirror before he hops in the shower is a little more tolerable now.

Soap

Absolute menace while you’re cutting his hair. Half because he’s trying to annoy the fuck out of you, and half because he’s bored.

He’ll tug on the cutting cape, complaining that it’s around his neck too tight. He’ll rub the back of his neck subconsciously, wiping away the itchy hairs that have fallen from his head while you’re trimming. Can’t sit still, is constantly squirming and fidgeting, which means you have to repeatedly remind him to sit still. Eventually you situate your phone in front of him with something for him to watch so he’ll stop moving around and you can make sure his cut is straight.

He cuts his hair in the mohawk and nothing else. He’s very, very particular about it, and you comply (Because he’s a drama queen.) I imagine it takes a mix of the clippers and a pair of shears to get the job done. 90% of his hair is lopped off with the clippers, going back over it to make sure everything’s been trimmed to the same length. The 10% of his hair that isn't buzzed is carefully tended to with the shears, shaping the hawk part just right.

He likes to subtly keep his hands on you as you work. If you stand in front of him, he’s got his hands resting on your hips or wrapped around the back of your thighs to pull you closer. After you’re done, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you to stand between his legs while he hugs you close, his face buried in your chest.

Gaz

Bro is getting the whole ass spa treatment let me tell you. Before you even cut his hair, he is getting his head, neck, and shoulders massaged.

He’s the easiest to cut for, and an absolute doll. All he requests is that you leave the top a little fluffy, with a gentle fade down. He sits still while you work, smiling adoringly at you in the mirror as your tongue sticks out in concentration. He’s so good and still it just makes you wanna pamper him. Unlike Johnny, who irritates you on purpose and makes you want to nick him with the clippers. You like to leave feathery little kisses on his skin while you work on the back of his neck, trailing down his shoulder. All the stops are pulled out for this man. Products, moisturizing oils for his skin, the cleanest cut anyone’s ever seen. And he happily entertains you with stories and jokes while you work.

Afterwards, he spends a good long while holding you in his lap and pampering you in return.

Price

Price is also an easy man to cut for. He doesn’t let himself get scruffy and believes strongly in being well trimmed. Which means all his hair needs is a few minutes of the clippers to clean up the back of his neck and shorten the length, and he’s good to go.

Price’s hair isn’t really what he usually has you cut. His beard is the main attraction.

This man’s beard is his biggest pride, a central point of his look. It’s like his baby. He is so so so protective and picky about his beard, and he doesn’t trust any of the muppets on the team to trim it for him.

Except you, of course.

He saw how good you did on the other guy’s hair and decided to give you a chance on his facial hair. After a quick demonstration of how he wanted it cut, he sits back and lets you finish the rest off for him. Your hands shake the whole time, worried about messing it up, not doing it right, disappointing your captain and making him look like a fool. Price senses your nervousness as you stand in front of him, eyes laser-focused on trimming his beard. He steadies you with a hand on your hip and a, “Just go slow, sweetheart. Take your time. You’re doing great.”

Once you’re done, he’ll stand in front of the mirror, turning his head side to side to observe your work, making sure it’s even and just bushy enough. You stand behind him, staring at his reflection in anxious anticipation. He turns to you with that smile that makes his mustache curve upwards and nods. “Well done, sweetheart.”

From then on, it becomes a routine to have you trim his beard up. He even lets you lather whatever beard oil you want into his scruff before covering his face in kisses.

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le-fruit-de-la-passion · 2 months ago

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Shigaraki Kinktober - Day 2 - Licking and Blackmail

A gust of wind hits you in the face as you open the heavy metal door, the difference in temperature outside the school making you shiver. The rooftop isn’t supposed to be accessible to students, but it's a rule even most faculty seem content to ignore. The smokers and slackers will often hang out here, to enjoy the fresh air and the view. But there's never anyone there so early in the morning.

You stare down at your phone, re-reading the mysterious text for the hundredth time:

[Unknown: school rooftop. 6:00AM. dont be late, or ull regret it]

You look around the empty roof, clutching your free hand around your skirt. Through the metal fencing, you can see the dark autumn sky, the sun barely peaking through gray clouds. It's eerily silent, with the sounds of the barely waking city so far down below you.

If you screamed, you wonder if anyone would hear you.

“Hello?” you ask hesitantly, voice more hesitant than you would have liked. Could it have been just a prank?

“Hey.”

The raspy voice coming so close from behind you makes you jump, and you stumble quickly to turn around, taking a few steps back.

The guy behind you is tall, impressively so.

Instead of the school's mandatory blazer, he's wearing a plain black hoodie which seems much too large for his frame, with a few grayed-out stains on the sleeves. His hair is shaggy and messy, a light periwinkle, but what really strikes you are his eyes: they're red, a bright crimson that feels like it could burn holes through your skin just with the way he looks at you.

“Took you long enough,” he comments, visibly annoyed, “I was starting to think you weren't going to show up.”

You've seen him a couple of times before. He has the same math class as you, always sitting far in the back. You remember he pointedly ignores all your teacher’s attempts at making him answer questions, and that's only when he actually comes to class. Is he trying to confess a crush on you? You’d have to be nice and careful rejecting him, he seems a little… unpredictable.

There is one issue though.

You can't remember his name for the life of you.

He seems to notice the lack of recognition on your face, and gives you an odd, stretched-out smile, like he had expected it.

“Can't remember my name, can you?” he taunts you slightly, one hand going inside his pants pocket to pull out his phone. A small, tiny red charm is hanging from it, the words ‘I AM HERE’ written in a bold font. “That's too bad. It's Shigaraki. Tomura Shigaraki. Don't worry, you'll remember.”

He unlocks his phone with a practiced, lazy motion, scrolling through a photo app without a care in the world. You manage to stay silent for a few seconds, until you decide you can’t handle the strange tension emanating from him:

“Why am I-” you start.

“Shut up,” he immediately cuts you off, not looking up from his screen. “You always talk all the time. With the teachers, with your friends, with random NPCs. Always have your hand up to yap about something,” he complains, clicking his tongue. “That stops today.”

Whatever protest or retort you had for him dies in your throat the second he shows you the picture on his screen.

It's you.

It's you, but… Not a photo of you anyone was ever supposed to see.

You swallow with difficulty, looking at him, then back at the picture, and finally back at him.

“How… did you get this?” you ask, feeling panic rise in your mind. You breathe slowly, trying to look as calm as possible.

“Does it matter ?” he counters, the crooked smile back on his lips. You hadn't noticed how dry they are, the flesh pale and cracking. “I have it. It would take me about…”

He pretends to count on his fingers, like he's talking to a child.

“1.7 seconds to send this to everyone at school. Maybe 1.9 to everyone you know.”

It's getting harder and harder to breathe. He's still showing you the picture, the image taunting you without mercy.

“Please…” you begin, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes. But the man's ruby eyes are devoid of any pity, the grin hanging on his lips triumphant. “What do you want?” you end up whispering.

“Nothing much,” he shrugs, putting the phone back in his pocket, like it doesn't contain the weight of your entire existence in it. “Nothing you don't already give to others for free.”

The implication doesn't hit as much as it should. It's cold, so cold. You wish he had done this anywhere else.

“This- this would ruin my life, no one else can see it,” you beg slowly, your bottom lip trembling. The wind picks up again, going through your blouse with ease like the edge of a knife. You feel cold, exposed, and oh-so wholeheartedly desperate. “I’ll do anything.”

“Good,” he comments, his voice a few octaves deeper. The smile is gone. “Then start by shutting the fuck up.”

In an instant, he has your back pinned to him, a surprisingly strong arm restricting you at the waist. You bite back a scream of surprise, letting him handle you like a puppet. He hums behind you, seemingly pleased by your reaction. His body is so close to yours you can feel the warmth of his breath on your neck.

“That's a good girl,” he compliments in a mockingly light tone. It feels like he's talking to a dog.

His lips touch your neck, the ghost of a kiss, and you let out a small whimper. You know where this was going, now, and something in you had known since he showed you the picture, but you hadn't wanted to believe it. The smallest of tears falls down your cheeks, and you hope he doesn't notice.

But evidently, he does.

“Come on,” he groans, grip on your waist still tight, like he thinks you might try to run away. Where would you even go? “You don't cry when other guys do this to you. I know, I've seen you. Why do you cry when I do it?”

The chilling remark causes alarm in your mind: how long had he been watching for you for? How, where, when?

You can't let the thoughts continue before his lips are back on you, more firmly this time, right at the intersection where your shoulder and neck meet. His hair tickles your chin, oddly softer than you would have expected. It tickles a little.

Once he seems content with his positioning, you feel the tip of his tongue start caressing your skin, slow and curious at first, like a cat drinking milk. But as you twitch under his grip, he gets faster, bolder, like he's trying to devour your flesh. And you can't help it, can't help but lean closer to the feel of his warm tongue on your skin like a desperate whore, craving anything other than the harsh wind on your face.

“That's it”, he mutters in the crook of your neck, “fuck, yeah, that's it…”

He shifts a little, and you feel how hard he is behind you, clothed cock shoved against your ass.

You start to pull away when you hear him use his free hand to pull down his zipper.

“No, wait, Shigaraki-”

“Relax,” he says plainly, his arm not budging a single inch despite your struggle. “I'm not a fucking monster. I'll just take care of this.”

The words do little to reassure you, but you settle down once more, letting him pull his pants down behind you. When he brings you flush against his chest again, you feel his naked cock rub against your uniform skirt. But he doesn't do anything further; instead, his mouth goes back to your neck, and sucks on the same spot he's been abusing for what feels like hours. You let out a moan, less of pain, and more of a very unwelcomed pleasure. He groans at that, and you can feel his free hand moving up and down his shaft, quick and rough.

He licks you like a starved man, like you're the last thing on Earth he'll ever taste. It's messy, wet, a trail of saliva gliding down your back, and every now and then he'll bite with teeth sharper than an animal’s. And it's warm, so delightfully warm in this freezing autumn morning you can't help but bring yourself even closer to him and moan approvingly.

It doesn't take long before he's close, groaning and grunting inaudible words under his breath. You can't be sure, but it sounds like he's repeating “good girl” over and over, like a mantra. One last pump behind you and he cums in his hand, mouth gripped on your collarbone like a vice. It takes him a moment to stop panting and collect himself, and you absentmindedly think this must be the first time he's done anything like this with another person.

You fall to your knees the second he lets you go, not having realized how much you had relied on the support of his body. Your legs feel like putty, your skin like it's on fire.

A hand reaches out to you, and you look up in surprise. He doesn't look directly at you, suddenly strangely bashful when considering what he had been doing seconds prior. You take his hand, slender fingers wrapping around yours to bring you up.

“Thanks,” he says, and it's all so odd, because why is he thanking you now? You didn't exactly stay here out of the kindness of your heart.

“You're welcome,” you reply awkwardly. You realize with some surprise you're still holding his hand, and you let it go. It feels oddly empty.

“Be back here tomorrow. 6 am still.”

He could remind you of the picture, of what's at stake here; but he doesn't. Instead, he puts his hoodie back on and heads towards the door to the inside. He stops at the last second, throwing you one last look with those eerie eyes of his:

“You should probably go change before class starts. You got some on your skirt.”

And just like that, he's gone, and you're alone on the rooftop again. Your mind can only muster a single thought as you stare at the rusty door.

It's cold.

#shigaraki tomura #shigaraki tomura x reader #kinktober #mha kinktober #bnha kintober #tomura shigaraki smut #kinktober 2024 #careful with the bl*ckmail tag !

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peoplesgraves · 1 year ago

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Yandere Scooby Doo Headcanons

•Originally you were just a hitchhiker they picked up (totally ignoring Velma’s warnings). The more nights and days they spent with you crammed in the van and even helping out on cases, they all start to realize just how nice it is to have another member of mystery inc, especially one as cute as you.

•Fred would be the first to fall for you. Realistically he is weak to pretty people and probably falls in love like 8 times a day but it’s different with you! You’re not some passing fad, your love is the real deal. At least to Fred. He won’t be offended if you reject him at first because he just assumes that you’ll be together eventually. Like eventually he’ll figure out just the right way to make you love him back but until then he’s so happy to spend every day finding new ways to love you. When you’re on cases he always, always assigns you to stay with him and do something safer like watching his trap. He needs to keep you safe above all else so he’ll rarely leave your side. He would be the most likely to kidnap you.

•Shaggy falls for you next. He trusts Fred, he always has. So if Fred likes you then Shaggy will try to like you to. He ends up liking you too much though. You’re always down to share your snacks with him or comfort him after a particularly freaky case. You two always sleep in the back together (witch Scooby of course) because he rarely ever has a bad dream when you’re next to him. Shaggy wouldn’t consider himself brave and neither would anyone else, but for you he is. He’ll jump straight in the claws of any monster to keep you safe. He’s ok with you having your freedom because he trusts you not to leave him, if he ever does feel like you’ll leave him he still won’t lock you up but he would cry and beg and emotionally manipulate you.

•Daphne would be next. She’d only be after shaggy because it takes some time for her to realize that it’s not your fault that Fred has a thing for you. At first she tries to befriend you partly to make up for her original poor behavior and partly to try and figure out what Fred liked so much. She becomes just as obsessed with you as he is. She’s always finding an excuse to sit on your lap or just be really really close to you in some way. Daphne would also start buying you guys like matching jewelry or something, like a classy collar that won’t make you suspicious. She would also very likely kidnap you but it’s just because she literally can’t stand being away from you for too long, very selfish but also self aware enough to try and make up for it.

•Velma falls last. She’s the only one who definetly didn’t want to pick you up so she’s initially very suspicious of you. Glaring, asking probing questions and things like that. Whatever you did to gain her trust would be something small that you wouldn’t remember but she would never forget. Like absentmindedly calling her pretty or asking about her latest project. She feels so seen and understood by you and gets kind of addicted to it. She’s spent her entire life feeling overlooked and misunderstood so she takes great care to make sure you don’t feel that way. She keeps notebooks of things you tell her so she won’t forget and is a big big stalker. If there’s something to know and understand about you then Velma wants to know about it. She would not kidnap you because she values your happiness over her anxiety.

•Scooby! People say that dogs take on the traits of their owners so while I wouldn’t say Scooby is yandere he would be very easily influenced by everyone else. If he sees Fred keeping you in the van more often than not, then he’ll start to do the same. He’ll questions things at first but everyone just says it to protect/help/take care of you so he goes along with it. He really does love you, you’re one of his best friends! It’s just his other best friends are more convincing.

Part 2 with the hex girls?

#Yandere Scooby Doo #yandere #yandere cartoon #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere x y/n #yandere x you

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deadwasteland-dazaisfan · 10 months ago

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ִ ࣪𖤐Teenage romance₊˚⊹ ᰔ

ᯓ★Synopsis: Being in a relationship with Dazai Osamu seemed like a huge problem to you, because his behavior often made you confused, and everything suggested that he would remain a silly guy who would remain alone for the rest of his days. But one day you had to realize that this wouldn't happen. Because he has you in his life.

ᯓ★Pairing: pm!dazai×fem!reader (both 16-18y.o);

ᯓ★Contains: fluff/comfort, hugs, kisses, hanging out together, teenage romance, nonsense, pm!reader, mention of murders, mention of criminal organizations drabble&headcanons, sfw, affection, mention suicide attempt;

| author's note: This is my first work, I hope you'll like it. Please don't judge too harshly I tried my best ૮₍˶Ó﹏Ò ⑅₎ა |

The whole situation was so strange and unexpected for you that you really didn't understand where you were and what you needed to do. When you woke up in a dimly lit room, you found yourself lying in a room that looked like an infirmary. There was practically nothing around. There were no sounds either, but they soon appeared. There was a door at the end of this room, as you assumed, there was a corridor behind it. It turned out to be true.

A couple of minutes after you woke up, the door opened a crack, and a guy came in — funny shaggy hair, dark eyes, bangs on half of his face and a bandage covering one eye. He was dressed quite formally—a white shirt (although slightly frayed and wrinkled), a black tie, black trousers and shoes. He had a black jacket slung over one arm, he looked rather rumpled and seemed tired. Sitting down on the bed, you looked at the boy with bewilderment and suspicion when he finally came up to you and scratched the back of his head. Yawning lazily, he said:

«Well, hi, silly suicidal. Mori-san asked me to give you something, but I don't think you need it right now. Congratulations! Oh, though... It would probably be more accurate for me to say that I'm sorry, though...Aaaahhh, okay, never mind. I'm Osamu Dazai, don't be surprised, you survived your failed attempt and Mori-san and I dragged you here. He wants to recruit you...So you'd better come to your senses as soon as possible and come to his office. He doesn't like to wait too long... In short, you have no choice. Come on, get up! Can you walk?»

He gave you a dubious squint that made your skin crawl, and then silently walked away. He pulled out a small old chair (which you didn't notice right away), sat down on it, and crossing one leg over the other, began to read a small red book. Still in a strange trance state, you didn't even understand how he was doing everything, it was hard for you to figure out where you were sitting at all. After a couple of minutes of silence in the room, you finally came to your senses a little — you noticed that the room was not so empty, you were sitting on a fairly soft bunk, somewhere above there was a small window through which white light entered the room.

After that, you had the next challenge — to talk to this unknown. He has already introduced himself, and you instantly remembered his name. But still, he didn't mention where you were or who he was at all... So, swallowing hard, you turned your head, but then froze when you found that he was already looking at you. With a sigh, the boy put the book on his lap and looked at the ceiling, muttering

«You're probably wondering where you are and all that... Well, you're in the infirmary of Yokohama's main criminal organization, the Port Mafia. Welcome. No, don't worry, we won't kill or torture you. The boss has slightly different plans for you. But still... You know, if I were you, I'd think twice about choosing this stupid, absolutely shitty way! I'm sorry, but do you even have a brain? To what extent does one have to be a stupid girl to use such a non-working method! And yes, you don't have to ask about all the details of your "rescue." I'll just say one thing — you looked lousy. Yes, however, nothing has changed now...»

Finally, he fell silent, continuing to stare at the ceiling for a while, and then turned his gaze to you. Maybe it was time for you to introduce yourself?...

«You said your boss wants to hire me... Why does he need this?... I... I'm probably grateful for the rescue, but... What does he want?...»

Dazai just raised one eyebrow and then looked away, continuing the dialogue:

«Well, obviously he saw something useful in you for the mafia. He will definitely find a job for you, especially since our staff is very small now. Well, according to him, he just couldn't leave such a poor thing to die»

You've got your head down. The answer was obvious, and why didn't it immediately occur to you? Then you should have introduced yourself properly. You made some kind of pathetic gurgling sound, after which you quietly whispered:

«My name is... My name is Y/N...»

The young mafia turned a curious look at you and got up from his seat. Putting his hands on his hips, he said:

«Yeah, so Y/N you said... Okay. Come on, let's go. The boss should see you before lunch»

You carefully shifted on your bunk, and then lowered your feet to the floor, still sitting. But the real problem for you was getting up — no matter how much you tried to lift yourself, nothing came out. Apparently, your body is very weak, and your legs are numb. You began to have a slight panic, tears began to come to your eyes, and you began to suffocate from them. But it didn't take you a second when Osamu came up to you and gently pulled on your arms, and you were finally on your feet. Exhaling, you were about to take the first step, but the guy stopped you with the words "Where are we going?" after that, he easily picked you up in his arms. It was so unexpected that you squeaked, but he shushed you and said in a dissatisfied tone:

«Hey, I actually don't want you to break all your legs or overwork yourself... Anyway, it's not profitable for the mafia to keep you here for a few days.»

you were more than ready to object, but for some reason your inner self told you to keep quiet. Apparently, this was not the right situation for outrage.

So, after some time, you finally got out of the Mafia boss's office. Dazai seems to have understood everything in the blink of an eye from your distorted face. You were accepted, and now you could consider him a "colleague." He somehow abruptly and very unexpectedly jumped up to you and smiled broadly, said:

«Well, now you are one of us!»

This was your first meeting.

❛━━━━━━━ ••• ━━━━━━━❜

And then everything went the way you couldn't have expected, but it's not that you didn't like it. Conversely.

You had to go through many situations and complete many missions together. He also introduced you to other members of the Port Mafia. You were received very cordially, and, frankly, it warmed your heart.

Osamu kept saying how unprepared you were to work in this organization, and that you shouldn't have been here at all, but he supposedly couldn't contradict Mori (Of course, he was a brazen liar— he was the one who begged so desperately to keep you in the mafia for his own good). In short, you got along, you became even more than just colleagues.

One of the situations that you remember the most was how you fooled around and played cards together. It was funny, even though you never managed to win. But you always laughed maliciously when the intense struggle between Odasaku and Dazai continued without your participation. You knew that Oda would always have a way to beat the youngster, so you weren't surprised by Sakunosuke's next victory.

Basically, you've always been a witness to the endless quarrels and swearing between Dazai and Nakahara. It all got to such an extent that you started to get a headache from their shouts of indignation (it's good if they used only speech, and did not get into a frenzied fight). In the end, you just got up and left, but both boys, catching themselves in time, immediately fell silent and quickly followed you, simultaneously apologizing for their antics (in fact, while you were silent, they continued to whisper insults). You didn't have much choice, you were a kind-hearted person, so you just couldn't get mad at them.

But even though they "hated" each other, they were ready to unite at any moment just for the sake of your safety. You were a valuable person to them, not only in terms of being a mafia member — everyone knew perfectly well that one day you would have to make a choice.

But you were like friends with Chuuya — it seems that even on his part there was no initiative to enter into a romantic relationship. You spent no less time together than with Dazai (which made him, by the way, jealous, but of course he would never admit it). So at some point Osamu realized that it was time to throw away the final card. Many of your memories from the mafia are quite clouded — it is clear that the job was not easy, and there was not much light and fun there. But you will always remember the moments spent with a bandaged mafia member.

Your belated winter walks, when it's already starting to get dark outside, and many teenagers your age are already running home, worried that something might happen to them or their parents will scold them. But of course you weren't like that, because you are a fearless mafia that can walk around whenever and wherever you want.

Although many called him a "Demon-Prodigy" you could only agree with one part of that nickname — he was indeed a prodigy, but a demon perhaps only in appearance. He kept in himself those weakened, smoldering particles of warmth and love that he allowed to warm his heart only with you and Odasaku.

And you, like no one else, saw it and appreciated it. Perhaps you didn't even realize it yourself, but at some point your heart literally began to ache from the accumulated warm feelings for him. You endured this mental anguish because you were sure that he didn't need it, or he would reject you.

But fortunately, none of this happened.

You remember how you went for a walk in the snowfall, and you caught snowflakes in your mouth, and he called you stupid, but you didn't care. You called him stupid when he threw a nice snowball at you with all his might... You remember when the skin on your cheeks and hands was already starting to pinch and tighten from the cold, and you were laughing while you were fighting, and he always throw you to the deflection, and you landed in a giant snowdrift. All your clothes were soaked from the snow, and Dazai only stopped laughing when he saw you desperately trying to keep warm, shivering from the cold. Then it finally dawned on him, and you quickly went to the mafia building or to his "home". He wasn't particularly proud of his house, which was just a shipping container. So basically he took you to the mafia building, but if you insisted, he could agree to spend some time with you at his house.

In winter, Osamu was a real simpleton — he almost never wore a hat, scarf, or mittens. It could be bitterly cold outside, but he still went out without any warm clothes. His warm wardrobe for the winter was everything he wore in all other seasons, and the only thing that was added was a warm black coat that Odasaku gave him. You were always cursing why he was walking around with uncovered head and not dressed properly, but he waved you off and ignored your requests to wear a hat/scarf.

But still, one day, when you, having excellent knitting skills, knitted him cute warm mittens, he grunted with displeasure and took them without saying a word. However, during your next walk, you noticed that he was wearing them.

Right after that, you started knitting him a scarf, and after a couple of weeks it was ready. You also packed it as a small present, but as usual, Osamu did not appreciate your efforts with the decoration; but he wore the scarf all the time (not without your reminders ofc).

You wanted to go to the rink together to try yourself at it, but unfortunately, by the time you remembered your intentions, all the rinks were already closed, so you had to postpone this entertainment for the next year.

When spring came, everything always changed somehow: the mood improved, the work went easier, and everyone began to live a little better. This wonderful time of the year was something enlivening. Everyone knows that it is in spring that you can catch a wonderful natural phenomenon — cherry blossoms. The second name is hanami. You really loved these few short days when you could catch this sight. And Dazai, knowing this, finally decided to hint at inviting you to go with him one day (of course, he consulted with Oda and Hirotsu before). He's very lucky that you didn't hesitate to agree.

The preparation for the traditional holiday took place slowly, you managed to do all your business and buy all the necessary attributes. On the day of the celebration, you were wearing a very beautiful kimono in delicate, light shades, and Dazai made do with a simple dark haori. Don't have to mention that he was fooling around for almost half of your walk, but at some points he was unusually serious. You were a little confused by his sudden mood swings, but given his nature, you weren't too surprised. This youngster was unpredictable.

Admiring sakura went great, although Osamu managed to piss you off a couple of times. You saw his face when his dark eyes were staring into the distance, looking at the delicate pink, mixed with white petals slowly flying down — it was a look of anxiety and peace at the same time. And yet, a slight smile touched his lips.

Time passed, your relationship was at a stable level, but still your heart felt the insufficiency that the lack of love gave you. You tried to overcome these feelings with all your might, but nothing came out; it got to the point that one day you had a dream with him; but it was very touching and gentle — a spacious field, waving grass, a cool breeze and a scorching sun, and in the middle of it you, and only you two. More than half of the summer has already passed; Work has not stopped, of course, there are no summer holidays or vacations in the mafia. But sometimes you and Mr. Bandaged Mummy managed to get out of the hectic world of blood and murder.

It was very hot, and you couldn't stand the heat, so you tried to stay in places where the temperature was more or less stable or slightly cool. You always have taken ice cream from the same stall: Dazai has always chosen some strange and tasteless ones, but of course this is only in your opinion. You took your favorite flavor, and often offered him a taste, but he always refused. Boring jerk.

And one day it happened.

His birthday has just passed; it was only a couple of days later, when his 2-day absence from work became suspicious, and you found out that he had made another attempt on his holiday. It was like it cut into your heart — it was so painful to realize it. You tried to contact him somehow, called him, but he seemed to have forgotten about the existence of his phone. You knew it wouldn't be the best idea to show up on his doorstep, so you just had to wait him to show up himself.

And you remember that day by heart: when the bell rang at your door, then a small knock in confirmation. You immediately went to the door and opened it... Osamu was behind. You saw him like this for the first time — with a slight smirk on his lips, an apologetic expression on his face and ...a bouquet of white lilies... You didn't know why, but in that quiet moment when you saw him, you caught your breath and almost burst into tears.

All the emotions mixed into one huge lump that came to your throat, and you, knowing perfectly well why he was here, carefully, timidly took a step forward and hugged him, burying your face in his shoulder. One of his hands was holding a bouquet, so he lightly hugged you with his other hand. After a couple of moments, you heard him whisper:

«Well, don't whine... I can't stand it, you know»

Those words made you smile, and you pulled back a little. Without further ado, he handed you a beautiful, elegant and delicate bouquet of lilies, after which he added:

«Well, I hope you've at least guessed that this is an occasion....»

«Sure... You wanted to apologize, didn't you?»

«And you're smart today, mouse»

You smiled at his comment; he always called you that in a teasing manner, but now it sounded more affectionate. You understood everything at once — white lilies, such a beautiful flower, which means apologies and kindness of intentions. It was his way of earning your forgiveness for what he tried to do to himself.

You spent the evening together; Lilies flaunted in a pretty vase, you watched some kind of movie. It's been dark outside for a long time, but it seems that both of you had no plans to let each other go. And yet, you both felt the tension in the silence that you allowed to hang.

You've been waiting for this. And he knew that there would be no better moment.

«Y/N.»

«Yes?»

«Forgive me»

«For what?»

«For what I'm about to do-»

As soon as he uttered the last sentence, you felt his hands on your shoulders, and he left a light, almost weightless kiss on your lips. It was so funny and embarrassing for you at the same time. Osamu looked at you for a while before hugging you to him and burying his face in your hair.

«You're all I need. You're all I can ask for.»

He muttered softly. After a couple of minutes of hugging, you finally did what you wanted — interrupted his speech and pulled him into a real kiss... But don't think he gave up on you so easily. No way. He's going to take matters into his own hands anyway...

But that day was what divided your life into before and after.

In a good way.

|P.S I think I wrote too much (( I have such a writing style, I hope you liked the headcannons mixed with drabbles. Thanks for reading! I hope I will release some more works. 𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ |

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pinecipitation · 5 months ago

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hii!! love your work sm! may i request a black cat type!gn!reader or a reader who's super badass (?) headcanons for pim and charlie pretty please :D

SMILING FRIENDS X GN!READER

FIRST OF ALL HI!!! HIII THANK YOU FOR LIKING MY STUFF!! and of course you can, new friend!! here’s me hoping and manifesting I did your ask justice (and if I didn’t don’t tell me)

word count: 500+

content warning: none so far!!

PIM: feels safe around you

- y’all know that gif of bowser and kirby walking hand in hand? that’s you two

- would definitely try to get into your interests despite how out of place he seems

- honestly feels extremely protected around you, can be as carefree and optimistic as he usually is knowing you have his back if anything happens

- as different as you two dress and look and as confident as he is in himself, he did have his moments where he’s worried he doesn’t match you enough or isn’t what you want back before you two got together

- had a phase where he tried to wear more black, more leather, wore your accessories and chains and such

- overall it took you comforting him and saying that he was more than enough for him to go back to his usual nature

- will love keeping your hobbies and interests around the house, whether or not it matches his own furniture or displayed interests

- to double on feeling safe around you, he’s very heavy on cuddling and holding onto you whenever he can

- honestly loves the looks the two of you get when walking around hand in hand, puffs out his chest in an almost “yeah they want me” sort of way

- loves the way you show him off too, knowing no one’s ever gonna mess with him knowing he’s got someone like you behind him

- feels a sort of success whenever he gets you to smile or feel shy when he kisses you in public

CHARLIE: feels pride to be with you

- the raven and beast boy duo, I fear

- more like raven and shaggy but we understand what I mean

- absolutely loves to show you off, less of a hand holder more of a hand-on-the-waist

- will attend all of your bike meets, always making sure to lean back and point you out in a crowd even if he stands out like a sore thumb

- he doesn’t change his appearance or wardrobe once he starts getting with you, but you can see the subtle changes of him adapting via phone wallpaper and music taste

- is sure to stick right next to you in any public situation; pool party, regular meet with friends, group dinner, etc

- often does end up doing damage control, as a big and semi intimidating guy himself he does end up pulling you out of several fights or disputes

- will always have your back of course, he knows you could probably beat HIM up if things go south

- this man loves you, he literally cannot get enough of being around you always

- despite his mixed feelings for never dressing up for halloween in fear of being offensive, you’re just such a big fan that he somehow lets himself get convinced to dress up

- chucky and tiffany, lydia and beetlejuice, icp, he does it with all with you

- he’s not arguing with you ever, whatever you say beautiful

#pine smiles ⍋#smiling friends #smiling friends x reader #alan smiling friends #smiling friends charlie #smiling friends pim #pride month #lgbt pride #pim x reader #charlie x reader #charlie dompler #pim pimling #smiling friends glep

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loversofthegrave · 11 months ago

Text

teenage sammy grappling with his intolerable attachment to his big brother one shot<3

1998, South Carolina

Summer hits full on like a hammer, shrivelling the last spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. John has them situated this time in South Carolina in the middle of a buttfuck nowhere trailer park. Sam huffs out a whoosh wafting a strand of his shaggy, greasy hair and scuffs his knock-off beat up converse into the dry dirt, the path leading up into their new home for the next week or two.

John recites his customary speech, Dean nods, ‘Yes sir’ as Dean always does. He’s John more often than dad these days. John gave Sam a name when he was born then left, like a background actor in a movie, cut from the film roll. The rumble of the impala and he’s gone.

Spider plants hang from pots on the wide trailer porch. Chipped ceramic ornaments of butterflies and lizards were placed outside. Inside, the shabby floral wallpaper and checkered armchair. The tattered cotton curtains blowing gently, and the cross hung on the wall, wonky. It was like a polaroid from the 70s, all orange hues and clashing patterns.

“What a dump,” he said gritting his teeth.

“It’s not so bad,” Dean shrugs “Kinda cozy,”

Dean’s eyes like hawks observing their new home, finding quick exits, salting the windows and doors. Safety first, look out for Sammy, like the good toy solider that he is.

Sam knows Dean can’t help it, the urgency, the attentiveness, to keep safe, guard his little brother. Sam would be lying if he said he wouldn’t want it any other way, he hopes it’s a two-way street.

Truth is, being in each other's pocket is all they’ve ever known. Dean is Sam’s brother as much as he is his only friend, his father, his mother, all rolled into one. Dean's hands being a caress and a fumbling worry of a mother’s. Dean who changed Sam’s diapers, who soothed teething pains with nimble fingers, tender rocking's and forgiving scoldings. It was all him, not a woman with satin blonde hair and porcelain skin nor the man with the grief-stricken furrowed brows and whiskey sighs. No, it was the kid with the goofy grin and the shoulders weighed down heavy with more liability than a kid should ever know, now turned leather jackets and calloused hands, felon fingers, summers caress dotted upon the bridge of a nose. Summer has always been extra generous to him, he thought, kind of face that weighs heavy on a teenage boys heart.

Looking at Dean is like hallucinating like looking through the lenses of kaleidoscope, soft orange and pink hues from the sun dipping into the horizon of the late summer dusk framing his head like an angel but an angel in the flames. An angel that could be Gabriel but an angel that could be Lucifer too, like he would readily delve into the deep, dark hell as he would fly up to the lofty, illuminated places. And Dean would for Sam.

Dean was Sam’s first everything, and it’s no surprise Sam would want that forevermore.

Sam can’t help it, this craving, it’s insatiable, like an itch irritating him under new stretched teenage skin. If he itches and itches, scratches with blunt anxious bitten nails until he draws blood. But the blood he revels in, the curving, cutting and slaughtering himself to fit into the groove of Dean’s heart, he would do anything, and he knows Dean would do the same but not in the ways Sam yearns for. Sam knows, he knows it’s twisted, he knew as soon as he was enrolled in school and how not everyone else feels that way about brothers. But he doesn’t care, not when Dean is the only grace he was given in his world of destruction and ruin, his pure drop in an ocean of chaos. Damn it if the lord doesn’t forgive him, heaven and hell are just words to a hopeless boy like Sam. When his brother looks at him, he decides to wage holy war.

But Dean doesn’t know, not really, he knows Sam loves him but no more, no less, too frightful Sam would scare him fiercely, that he would leave Sam here, loose his grace, and what is Sam without his grace? Just an empty vessel, an angel damned from heaven, forever. Think he’s sick, corrupt, disgusting. Only Sam can be the one to know this about himself, swallow the key if he must. He tries his best to shelter away these parts from Dean, distancing ever so slightly, it just makes the craving worst, he thinks, withdrawal.

So, he lives with Dean, in his shadow. Watches him, envies him, wants to be him, wants to be with him, under him. Watches him waltzing around the kitchen with sultry hips after this week's easy fuck. Probably some white trash bimbo Sam thinks harshly, doesn’t know what it truly means to have him, a boy, a man, like Dean. He goes for anything with legs and a mouth in a 1-mile radius, puts it out to anything, anyone but Sam.

“You stink Dean,” Sam mumbles under his breath

“That’s the smell of champions Sammy” Dean grins, easy and careless, throwing a wink over his shoulder. Sam shoots daggers into his back.

This is their dance, Dad goes on a hunt for a couple of weeks, Dean and Sam are holed up in a shack and they pretend that this is their normal, habit, but it’s not, they we’re and forever born in motion. Dean enrols Sam into the local (another) high school, Dean gets a short-term job working with his hands to hold them over until Dad gets back, this time at the garage. They make small talk with strangers when necessarily and act according to their roles, relocates the suspicious eyes on Sam’s stitched up hand me down t-shirts and Deans violet blooming bruises from training and hunts, keeps social services off their back. But they fit in OK around this truckers town so Sam holds it rigid, this vexation, lewdness, this jealousy brimming. Puberty is fucked, Sam likes to blame it on that.

It’s Friday, the shutters of the trailer are open and wide. Sam’s in makeshift shorts that were once jeans that he cut at the knees one town ago. The radio is static, and The Mama’s & The Papa’s is being carried through the thick-cut air, ‘you've got everything I need, and nobody can please like you, you baby and who believes that my wildest dreams and my craziest schemes will come true?’

Sam’s growth spurt mixed with food stamp fed spindly legs are propped up on the coffee table barefoot, toes wiggling, as he shovels spoonfuls of store brand cornflake knock offs in his mouth. Dean comes in wafting of oil and summer sweat after being outside tinkering with the ford pick-up truck Dad sorted out with a local hunter before he briskly left. He slaps the bottom of Sam’s foot with his greasy rag. Sam grunts.

"Up and at 'em or you're gonna be late" Dean lectures, parenting.

Sam rucks on an old 1975 Black Sabbath tour shirt that used to be Dean's that used to be Dads, now faded grey and bobbling. Pokes his feet into socks with his right toe sticking out of the hole, laces up his shoes and climbs into the passenger seat of the pick-up. Dean drops Sam off at the Pine Springs High and told him he'd pick him up, told him to ‘give ‘em hell’.

Pine Springs High was full of scraggy kids, Beavis and Butt-head boys, girls busty and leggy. Sam befriends one friend, a skinny freckled boy with thick rimmed glasses. His name is Davey. They were sat next to each other in science, dissecting a frog. Sam figures cutting open this frog is harder than the ghouls they slaughter. What did this frog ever do to anyone? Davey was informing Sam on the anatomy, pointed out the chambers of the heart, the ventricle. He seemed interested in trying to impress Sam with how smart he was. "You know a lot," stated Sam.

He smiled. He was a boy who wanted to be seen. Sam suspects with certainty he’s not in these careless halls of teenagers reeking of hormones and wariness of social status.

High school is not as gentle with kids like Sam and Davey. But Sam can tackle it, give as good as he gets. That’s what he’s been trained to do, what their dad trained him to do, those sparring sessions with Dean every other day doesn’t go to waste, as much as Sam likes to grumble and whine. The decomposition ghost of a girl in a tatty white dress with fine needlepoint lace trimmings from the 1820’s has more oomph in her thump than any of these teenagers.

Even in a Gas-mart town like this one full of greasy kids with dirty fingernails Sam still is stared at by clusters of kids. Maybe it’s the adequate collection of bruising on his body from said sparring and Victorian decomposition, or maybe it’s the fact he’s an outsider (he’s always the outsider) but Sam doesn’t mind. Cleanliness and godliness are deceptive, he’d rather wear his wounds, his ugliness. No fooling, he was torn and stitched.

Dean picks Sam up, sees the mop of brown hair and downcast face amongst the sea of chattering high-spirited kids. It reminds Dean of when he encouraged him to go to a classmate's birthday party in kindergarten, timid little Sammy protested but Dean encouraged his little brother to go, nervy on all he was missing out growing up. When Dean went to pick him up at McDonald's he spotted him, dejected, eyes glazed over. Other children around him screaming and sliding into pits filled with coloured balls. It splintered Dean to his core.

When Sam is in arm reach Dean tousles Sam's hair, and he gets a whack of the hand and a gruff in response.

“How’d it go Sammy?” Dean asks, hefting himself up into the driver's seat.

“Fine.” Sam replies, quick, sharp. “And it’s Sam,” he stresses.

Dean doesn’t know what it is these days but there’s a slight ache, a gnawing. Sam used to look at Dean like he hung the stars just for him. That Dean was God’s own reflection but now there’s a distance, an interspace and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. At first, he thought maybe it’s teenage hormones or pheromones or whatever the fuck, but Dean never remembers being that sulky as a teenager. Maybe he never got the chance. When he tries to touch Sam, he flinches, scurries away like he just spooked a rodent. Used to revel in it, they practically grew up in each other's arms. Was still sharing a bed in the motels until two years ago.

Dean would never admit it out loud to him, but he misses Sam. Misses that constant comfort of touch and affection.

They stop off at a local diner on their way back to the trailer park, Sam questions if they have enough money for the month to eat out, Dean tells him not to worry. All wooden panels, red and white checkered table clothes, a sign that reads, ‘lumber jack pancake special for $5.95!’ Dean eyes it up, breakfast at dinnertime, their lives never have rhythm or reason anyways. They slide into a booth of worn leather, Sam on one side, Dean on the other.

Sam orders a panini with ham and cheese and fries, Dean the lumber jack pancakes. When they arrive by a shy petite waitress with inky dark eyes and blushing blotted cheeks, Dean swipes a fry off Sam’s plate just to receive another swat. Any touch is better than no touch, bad attention better than none.

Sam doesn’t miss the way the waitresses' eyes linger on Dean’s profile. If he shoots a frosty glare her way Dean doesn’t have to know.

The sun with no forgiveness, a parched sky, the hillsides with purple wilting drifts of milkweed, dotting the cracks of the gas-station and garage. It was Saturday, Sam was at the garage while Dean worked. Tucked in a corner sheltered from the suns ruthless beat with his library copy of Catcher In The Rye he couldn’t return when John dragged them out of the motel inn at dawn a town back. Sam said he felt guilty, Dean told him to stop being such a law-abiding citizen.

He gazed at Dean, could smell his sweat, sharp and strong, a man, Sam’s brain applied helpfully. He was wearing overalls, wiping workman sweat from his forehead. Sam wanted to lick him, taste the salt and summer kissed skin. He knows he’s disgusting. At this rate Sam thinks he should stab his eyes out, so he can’t look. Burn his skin off, so he can’t touch.

The next Sunday, Sam sleeps in late. He finds Dean slouched on the floral couch, stretched out like a housecat watching TV. It’s always a rarity to see him in a relaxed stance, undisturbed, a recess to the constant chaos of their lives. It settles something steady and peaceful within Sam with just a hint of sadness. He mumbles a drowsy good morning and trudges to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

He pisses in the toilet, sluggish, holds himself up steady with a hand against the tiles. The splash of his piss hitting the water too loud in the quiet murmur of their trailer.

Washing his hands, he moseys around in the medicine cabinet above the sink. Inside, aimless trinkets left behind by previous owners. Tweezers with a single gemstone on them, antibiotic ointment, outdated eyedrops.

Sam finds a small capsule behind an empty bottle of aspirin. He reaches for it, revealing a lipstick, the cheap kind you pick-up at Walmart for $5.

He holds it in his hand, stares. Turns it in his palm, opens the lid with a subtle click and rotates the base.

The lipstick itself is a cherry red, obscene kind of red. The type he sees on hookers lingering around the corners at motels when he slips out at dusk to buy Dr Peppers from the vending machine with the quarters Dean made him pocket.

The garish fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, whirring like insects as he watches them showcasing their chests and unveiled legs. They always look cold, Sam thinks.

Sam looks up and scans his face in the mirror, holds the lipstick close to his nose, sniffs it. It smells like wax and chemicals, half suspected it to smell like strawberries and an angel's kiss or something, screws his nose up.

Without much reflection he smears the cherry red lipstick onto his lips, it's messy and askew not as neat as he sees on the girls in Dean's skin mags. He sets down the lipstick onto the sink and looks at himself, really looks.

The glaring red on such a boyish face like Sam's feels lewd and indecent. He feels slightly silly, embarrassed, his cheeks stain a weak scarlet. He wonders what others would think of him like this, Dean, his dad.

God, dad would probably be appalled, call him a sissy, punish him by making him do triple the training. Make him run for miles under the blazing sun.

But Dean, what would Dean think of his little brother like this? If Sam just waltzed right out of the bathroom now and stood dead in the line of Dean's vision. Would he stammer? Get all flustered and struck-dumb? Would he look at Sam and think of him as those girls he promenades to the impala, the motel room when he thinks Sam's asleep and not hanging onto every grunt and sigh coming from Dean's throat. Stores them in the hollow of his heart, imprinted on it just as sacred as the Holy Bible is to a priest.

Would he want to tenderly caress the shape of his mouth, smear the lipstick, make Sam looked wrecked? He inspects the long plains of his body, like scorched landscape, bronzed from June’s boldness.

Sam’s been trying to get used to it, his recasting body. Finally losing his baby fat, almost catching up to Dean in height much to Dean’s dismay. Just he doesn’t carry the newly stretched limbs well, feels like a puppet and someone else is yanking the strings. He hasn’t thought about it much, how others perceive him, how Dean perceives him.

Sure, Sam’s had his first kiss and fumbled under a girl's shirt in Indiana last year, let him touch her boobs. She wore lots of eyeliner, wore black bulky boots and liked Alice In Chains. Sam creamed his pants as soon as he got a soft plump handful, she didn’t seem to mind so he tried not to feel too embarrassed. He couldn’t wait to tell Dean (lied to a reasonable measure) for him to be proud of him. Dean let Sam have his first beer after he told him, “Since you’re a man now,” Dean announced, “Don’t tell Dad,” He winked. Sam never tells John their secrets.

But other than that, he’s a bit clueless, still bashful when girls look his way. Isn’t fabricated like Dean, heavied bottom lip into effortless grin that make’s girls drop and fractures their porcelain hearts, little unconsciously brutal but never intentional to be so. Sam would let Dean smash him into smithereens, shards of broken ceramic all over the tiles, if he’d wanted.

He thinks about the woman who supposedly left the lipstick here, he decides it’s an older woman, barefoot in a simple dress in the tail end of summer, her feet and the palms of her hands showed pale pink against her sunburnt skin, looked ornamental. He decided she had many lovers, wore it for them, wonders if Dean would be one. Wonders what she would think finding out a gawky teenage boy was trying on her bygone lipstick.

Wonders what it would be like to wear this for Dean, his lover.

Dean compulsive, gluttonous with the want of Sam, gushing his hands over the sides of his body, the pull of his rutting teenage hips. The neediness he sometimes gets in that platonic brotherly way bordering on hysteria whenever Sam’s hurt. All his senses submerged entirely by Dean Dean Dean, his touch, his smell, his hot breath.

Sam shoves a frantic hand down his pyjama pants and briefs, wrenches his dick with crazed tugs. Comes that exact same time there’s rough banging on the door, Dean shouting, “Come on Sam, you’ve been in there forever!” rattling the door with his presence.

Sam leaps, grimacing at the mess he made in his pants, swiping a towel and cleaning himself up in rapid motions. Rubs off the lipstick with the back of his hand, scouring his mouth.

“You jerking off in their little brother?” Dean calls out, muffled slightly through the thick wood of the bathroom door, amusement laced in his tone.

When Sam is sure he’s cleansed himself of any misdemeanours and removed all crucial evidence he swings the door open and shoulders past Dean muttering, “No Dean, I wasn’t jerking off.” How much of that Dean believes is out of his control. He pockets the lipstick.

#I wrote a wincest thing #teenchesters #should i write more #i did write a whole story to this like 13k words but I didnt like it much in the end but #here is a snippet #sammy pov figuring his feelings for his brother out #wincest #wincest one shot #weecest #weecest one shot #wincest fanfic #supernatural #spn #sam/dean #sam winchester #dean winchester #pre series sam/dean

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snootlestheangel · 1 year ago

Text

141 Headcanons

This is "the 141 as shelter dogs" cause that's the only thing on my mind the last 5 days. It's so rotting my brain so I have to share. If nothing makes sense feel free to ask questions. I'd love to explain in more detail about my job since I actually didn't know how much goes into a shelter.

Anyways this is just a little thing right now cause I'm tired and brain no work except when it comes to my work

Some things: bonded animals are harder to adopt because they need to remain together and people often don't want that responsibility.

There are waivers for animals. Typically dogs will have waivers that are for they have a bite history, cannot be around small children, cannot be around small animals like cats, cannot be with other dogs.

Ghost

He's a big Shepherd/Pyrenees mix that's known for being a bit difficult to handle. He came in because animal control took him from a really abusive home. He was terrified of everyone but used his teeth and big size to fight first.

Hes the entire staff's favorite though because they all know it's not his fault, its just the abuse he suffered all those years. The behavior team loves when they get to spend time working with him on leash training and desensitization.

He started improving cause they introduced him to playgroups (where he gets to finally meet other dogs and play with them). He spends most of the time hiding between the team lead of that particular playgroup (despite being like half her size). He does eventually come out of his shell a bit but he's still very reserved.

Gets called "handsome man" literally all day by staff. So many treats. Is actually the sweetest and prefers to sit and "keep watch" then anything else.

Is bonded with Soap. Has bite history waiver.

Price

Big shaggy looking older dog. Has the schnauzer beard so he definitely has some of that in his blood. Called "Captain" cause he just seems to be in charge. Just has that face of "I'm the boss" despite being a dog.

Gets overlooked a lot cause he's not the most attractive dog for people wanting to adopt. He's shaggy looking and a bit grumpy, he's also an older dog so he's overlooked a lot.

Was surrendered for biting the neighbor. It's not his fault, it's the neighbors but ya know. Dog bites person, dog gets taken. It's an unfortunate reality and often times either the owners don't want the dog back or can't get them back.

Soap

Aussie/border collie mix. Has a patch of brown on his head that makes it look like a mohawk. Has the brightest blue eyes and looks just as intelligent as he is.

Was dumped on the shelter's doorstep. He quickly ate his way through a delivery that had soap in it, hence where he got his name.

He became a favorite quickly, got adopted, but was returned in less than a week. The reason being he was "too jumpy". Yes. This is a real ass reason people return their adoptions.

He gets introduced to Ghost as a playmate. They think Ghost needs a more social, confident dog to be buddies with (nothing else is working). It goes great, the whole staff is shocked when they see Ghost play wrestle with this little maniac.

It goes so well, in fact, that Ghost gets more stressed when he's not out in the run with Soap. They end up putting the two together in a kennel that's technically a room. (Something called a real life room that enables higher stress dogs or dogs with buddies to stay visible for the public)

He likes to use Ghost's head to stand on his hind legs when it's food time. Likes to yell but one slap from Ghost and he'll stop.

Gaz

Puppy privilege. Isn't even technically a puppy anymore, he's just got the face and personality of one.

Has a big prey drive though. Was surrendered for killing a bunch of stray cats.

Literally described as sassy cause he'll "talk back" and gives side eyes all the time. Known by the dog walkers as a menace just cause he's strong despite his size, and will yank the leash out of your hand or pull your arm off when he sees anything interesting.

He's a "walk only" dog because he's also an escape artist. Can be in playgroups but needs the "rough and rowdy" one to keep him occupied so he doesn't try to escape.

Soap and Gaz both throw hands with the people trying to leash them for walks, to go on the runs (little spaces of concrete made for dogs to go to the bathroom and play), to go meet potential adopters. Price will politely stand there and let you leash him. Unless Ghost knows you, he will lower his head and let out a growl but doesn't do anything else.

#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #captain john price #cod mw2 #call of duty #soap headcanons #ghost headcanons #gaz headcanons #price headcanons

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roanniom · 2 years ago

Note

ISSA PLS IMAGINE: steve pulls you into the empty locker rooms/showers after a late night swim practice/gym session/basketball game

Late Night Swim

Steve Harrington x Fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ ONLY, semi public sex (in a public place but nobody is around), unprotected sex, quickie, coworkers to lovers

You have a tradition, now that you’ve started going to the community college. After your last night class on Thursdays, you treat yourself for a lads dip in the pool at the rec center. Nobody’s ever around by that point and you’ve got a key because you work part time at the center - checking out sports equipment and towels and other amenities to your fellow students in order to pay for tuition.

This particular Thursday you’re more distracted than normal when you barge into the pool room. It’s been a long day and you’re frustrated with your professors, your workload, hell - even your classmates. None of whom know how to carry their own weight in a group project, which is why you haven’t slept in what feels like days by the time you get to the other side of your group presentation and finally get to indulge in your weekly ritual.

You strip off your clothes with your back to the water, muttering to yourself about the injustices of the academic world. So you don’t notice that someone has been swimming deep, quiet laps in the pool. Without paying any particular attention you turn and jump blindly in, plunging into the water and almost right into a very wet, very bewildered Steve Harrington.

He bursts to the surface just in time to hear your screams echo in the cavernous pool room.

“Jesus fuck Christ, you trying to kill me?!” he gasps, choking on chlorinated water.

You sink low so you’re up to your chin in the water, your hands slapping over your face in shock.

“Me?! You scared the shit out of me, Steve!”

Steve sputters a bit more but you’re relieved to find him laughing as he uselessly wipes water droplets from his face with his wet hand.

“What the hell are you doing here in the middle of the night? Besides attempted murder?” he asks with a good natured huff.

“Breaking and entering, same as you,” you laugh.

Steve Harrington has been working with you at the rec center for the past few months. He’s been steadily paying for business classes one by one in an attempt get his life kick started. A few years late to the college game, but who’s counting? Not you. Not you who certainly hasn’t confirmed his birth year and done the math to make sure that the age gap between you is respectably minuscule..

As you bob around one another in the water, you try not to think about the fact that Steve’s one of the things that’s got you stressed today. Your little harmless crush on him has magnified in the last few weeks, and it’s made watching him flirt with girls who come into the rec center particularly painful. He often shoots and misses, to be fair, but your heart cringes each time it registers his cute nose scrunch of defeat and the way he seeks you out across the room to shrug. Like he just knows you’d watched him carefully as he struck out.

“You come here every night?” he asks then, shaking his shaggy head and raining water droplets on you. You laugh and splash him back.

“Only on Thursdays. And I’ve never seen you here before, so I’d say you’re trespassing on my peace, Harrington.” Your grin belies your taunting.

“I’d gladly leave you alone in here but I don’t think that would be safe,” he says with mock sincerity. He looks over his shoulder before whispering conspiratorially. “You’re too pretty, you know?”

You feel your muscles seize and your stomach flip. Steve’s been flirtatious with you before, but never like this. Never with his shirt off, chest hair exposed and wet with pool water, dripping locks messy and plastered on his forehead above eyes that glitter with humor.

“Oh yeah? Does being pretty put me in danger?” you ask coyly. You almost widen your eyes at your own brazenness. Steve grins and cocks his head to the side.

“I’d say it’s probably more dangerous for me that you’re pretty,” he says. His voice is quieter this time and suddenly you’re aware of just how close his body is to yours now in the water. Little waves bounce of his chest and lap onto yours and your breathing is coming in quicker.

Steve’s eyes are on your lips so you lick them.

“Well I…wouldn’t want to put you in danger of course…” you say. You slide your arms through the water, propelling you backwards. Away from Steve and towards the steps leading out of the pool. You maintain eye contact with him, and though at first he seems disappointed by the space you’ve put between you, his lips part in awe as you step out of the pool, showcasing your ass as you watch his reaction over your shoulder.

“Yeah that’s…that’s considerate of you…” he mumbles, deeply distracted. His eyes devour your dripping body, your wet swimsuit clinging to each curve. You’ve never felt this hot. This desired. And that must be what fuels you to keep enticing him.

“Have a safe swim, Harrington,” you say, giving him a cheeky (cheesy?) salute while you grab your things and head for the locker room.

You don’t even have to strain your ears to hear the frantic splashing as Steve gracelessly bounds out of the water, his feet slapping against concrete as he struggles to catch up to you. You don’t humor him with a backward glance, instead continuing on your way as if you don’t hear him.

You yelp, however, when a pair of wet arms grab you around the middle and pull you into a stall in the locker room.

“Steve!” you gasp, a smile on your face and he pushes you up against the closed door.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Steve practically groans before leaning in and kissing you. It’s all tongue and teeth and you gasp, allowing him immediate entrance into your mouth.

His fingers dig into your waist, wringing more water out of the material of your swimsuit.

“No. You are,” you counter in a moment when he lets you breathe. You still can’t believe you’re keeping up with the flirting. Who are you and where did your usually awkward self disappear to? Steve doesn’t seem to mind this change in personality. As a matter of fact, he seems to like it very much, if the way he presses his body to yours is any indicator.

You begin to feel a hardened bulge press against your thigh through his swim trunks, and when his hips rub pointedly against you a few times, it confirms it.

You pull away for another shuddering breath and Steve kisses his way to the valley between your tits.

“Been wanting to do this since your second shift, is that fucked up?” he asks with a chuckle.

“I’ve wanted it since you first handed me my name tag and made fun of my name.”

Steve says your name then and you cling to him. Pull him back to you for another kiss. As if doing so is the thing that will give you air, not the space between kisses.

Things get hot and heavy quick and soon everything is a blur. Of damp, tangled hair. Of hands slipping and groping. Of lashes filled with droplets. Everything’s steamy.

Everything’s wet.

You reach back to undo your top and Steve pulls away to watch, brows furrowing when he takes in the sight of your naked breasts.

“Oh god,” he says, and you laugh at his agony. Next you slide your bathing suit bottoms to the ground and Steve throws his hands in the air. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“You said it was dangerous to be around me,” you remind playfully. “I tried to leave you alone, but you’re the one who followed me.”

“Never said I was bright, did I?” He asks with a grin, caging you in against the wall of the stall. He kisses you deeply all over again. You reach down and push off his swim trunks. Your hand takes hold of his dick and begins stroking him. Steve moans into your mouth.

“Will…will you please fuck me?” You ask. Your timidity is finally betrayed by the hesitance in your voice, as well as the earnestness of your wording. You wish you could kick yourself, but Steve’s eyes soften.

“Yeah, baby. Especially when you ask so nicely.” The praise shoots straight to your blood stream and you preen. But you barely have a second to soak it in before Steve’s hoisting you up, pressing you against the wall and sliding his hard cock vertically through your folds.

“Oh fuck, Steve,” you whine out. Your hands scrabble for purchase on his back as you cling to him. “Oh please. Please.”

“Fuck, I don’t mean to make you beg, baby. Here you go.” The word ‘baby’ already has you feeling like you could see stars, but the second he sheathes himself inside you, you actually do see them.

It’s fast and dirty. But that’s exactly what you wanted from a locker room quickie. Or at least what you would have wanted if you’d ever been creative or horny enough to dream up this scenario.

Your back skids against the wall with each of his thrusts, and it should be uncomfortable - especially with the way your head keeps banging on the wall - but no. It feels good. All part of the pain that throbs and joins with the ache of being stretched deliciously too much too fast.

A chorus of “Steve” and “oh god” and “oh oh oh” fills the air of the locker room, the heels of you feet bouncing against his lower back.

“Feel so fucking good. Taking me so well,” Steve hums. He reaches between you and rubs messily at your clit. His hand slips around in your slick and the movement lacks nuance, but it does the trick. Especially when paired with the lewd squelching of his cocking pounding into you and the continuous stream of babbled dirty talk he seems to be spewing without thought.

When you cum, you cry out and constrict your arms and legs around him as much as possible. Trying to force him to stay inside you where you’d like him to be. Poised for round two, three - heck, round one million.

With the added pressure of your orgasming cunt, Steve reaches his peak too and slams you against the wall. His hips piston against you in a series of uneven thrusts, culminating in a final shuddering push and equally shuddering gasp on his part.

When Steve finally places you back down on your own wobbly legs, holding you steady by the waist. You take in your current state. You’re wet from pool water, sweat, and cum. You’re exhausted from a long day, the exertion of swimming, and also the exertion of being fucked against a wall within an inch of your life. You blink up at Steve. Still dazed. He seems to match your headspace.

“Wow…that…fuck…” he trails off breathlessly. You tease, waiting for regret or indifference of any other negative reaction to color his features but all he does is flash you a massive smile. “I’m gonna shower real quick and then I’m gonna take you back to my place so we can do that on a bed. Cool with you?”

It was, indeed, cool with you.

#steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #Steve harrington fanfic

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scrollonso · 19 days ago

Text

Angel — Pierresteban (+ Kika)

Pierre has dreamed of this moment for a long time now, if he’s honest with himself.

He’s had a thing for Esteban for as long as he can remember, and they’d had brief encounters here and there when they were younger and single and just reckless enough to mess around with a coworker and close friend without worrying about all the ways it could backfire. But those moments were fleeting, far too rare to ever truly satisfy Pierre — if he could even be satisfied at all.

He’s greedy, and he knows it.

He’s with Kika now, and he’s happy. Absolutely head-over-heels for her, and their love life — and sex life — leaves him wanting for nothing. But, damn, Esteban is hard to ignore.

Especially lately.

Esteban was attractive back in the day, sure. The shaggy hair and lean build, the boundless energy, and his unfailing patience with Pierre, even when he was being difficult, were undeniably appealing. But now, Esteban’s matured into stronger, more masculine features, adopting a polished, well-kept look — even at his most laid-back — and a broad-shouldered build that makes even Pierre feel small. His kindness, however, hasn’t changed. If anything, as they’ve grown closer over the years, Esteban’s tolerance for him has shifted into open affection; especially since Pierre’s softened a bit himself, no longer hiding behind snarky remarks and finally accepting the care and appreciation Esteban offers him — albeit a little reluctantly.

So yes, he’s very much greedy, and he knows it. But he thinks it’s justified when Esteban looks like that. When Pierre remembers just how good he was in bed, how attuned he was to Pierre’s body, and how he could say exactly the right words to make him lose control. He misses it. Misses being held down, told what to do, misses the thrill of it all.

That’s why he brought it up to Kika, after a lot of careful thought and some very cautious phrasing, so she wouldn’t get the wrong idea or think he was hiding his true self or using her as a cover.

No, Pierre isn’t gay. Bisexual, yes, proudly so, but not gay.

And, no, Kika isn’t a cover for anything. He loves her more deeply than he’s loved anyone in his life.

Whatever. He’d unpack all those feelings later. For now, he just needed to tell Kika that maybe he wanted to open things up a bit more, take their relationship a step beyond the bedroom.

Preferably not while he’s on all fours, as bare as the day he was born, waiting for Kika to do something.

“God, we should’ve done this sooner,” Kika says. Pierre can’t see her, of course, but he feels the warmth of her breath fanning over the back of his bare thigh. “You’re a sight to behold like this.”

Kika’s fingers start grazing the backs of his thighs with delicate, teasing touches that make him buck his hips back, trying to get more—more pressure, more heat, more anything—but she’s quick to step back entirely, a small, derisive sound escaping her throat to remind him he’s already getting ahead of himself.

There’s a natural confidence in the way Kika takes charge that’s always left Pierre a little awestruck. He should’ve brought this up ages ago — his desire to be dominated and put in his place every now and then. It would’ve saved him plenty of rushed, unfulfilling sessions in the shower, biting his fist to keep from making too much noise.

So when she finally places her hands on his ass, kneading at the flesh the same way he often does to her, his legs nearly give out.

“Might have to fuck you myself sometime soon. Not fair that Esteban gets to have you like this and I don’t.” The pout in her voice is one Pierre knows well — the one she uses when she’s aiming to get the upper hand, as if she doesn’t already always have it. The fact that she’s using it now, when he’s given himself over entirely to her, borders on absurd.

"You like it when I use my strap on you, don’t you?” Pierre moans in response, any hope of articulate speech long gone, and Kika takes his sounds as the affirmation they’re meant to be. “Hm. Maybe next time, I’ll make you fuck me with a dildo inside you. Can’t let you have all the fun, you’ll end up spoiled.” Her fingers start tracing his spine, her perfectly manicured nails drawing shivers down his back.

“Yes. Yesyesyes. Whatever— whatever you want, just— yes. Please, yes.”

“God,” Kika chuckles, breathless and a bit amazed, but Pierre couldn’t care less that she’s seeing just how needy he is. She’d better get used to it anyway. And quickly, considering Esteban’s due to join them soon.

Kika takes a moment to collect herself after hearing the full force of Pierre’s begging, her hands wandering over his back, pressing down just enough to tease him further. He wants nothing more than to be pinned into the mattress, held in place so he has no choice but to take what she gives him. But when she’s ready, she lets him know by dragging her nails down his back a little harder, and Pierre can only wonder why he hadn’t thought to ask her for this sooner.

Her hands slide around his waist, fingers pressing into his skin, nails leaving small indents that make him grip the pillow under his head even tighter.

“I see why Esteban didn’t hesitate to say yes,” she murmurs. “You’re so pretty like this, I don’t know how he’s gone all these years without having you bent over for him.”

Pierre, spurred on by her words and by all the teasing she’s put him through since they’d talked with Esteban weeks ago, tries to grind down against the sheets.

But Kika is quick to pull him up by his hips, delivering a slap to his thigh that leaves a lingering sting and a sharp echo in the room.

It’s the first time Kika’s done anything like this, and if Pierre were a simpler man — or just a bit more desperate — he’d probably come from that alone.

But he’s got a little more pride than that; a decade’s worth of experience being roughed up — properly roughed up — has taught him restraint.

Still, he can feel himself already leaking, and the whimper that escapes him as the sting fades into a warm burn is shameful in a way that only makes him ache even more.

“God, Pierre. I knew you were a slut but a pain-slut? That’s extreme even for you.”

She gives him only a second of reprieve before she brings her open palm down on his asscheek this time, her free hand already at his hip so he doesn’t even think about sinking down onto the bed. Pierre's breath hitches in his throat and he bites down on his lip from the surprise, tasting blood almost immediately.

“Kika,” Pierre says, voice already hoarse.

“What is it, baby?” there’s an abrupt shift in her tone, worry seeping through it loud and clear. “Want me to stop? Slow down?”

“No, no, please don’ stop, I just— Do that again, please.”

Kika doesn’t answer, not really, just hums in acknowledgment and waits a second before striking him again, a little more forcefully so Pierre knows she has committed to giving him what he wants. Pierre can only whine, biting his already abused lip harshly, because he is a painslut.

Kika presses a light kiss over the offended skin and steps away, the empty air behind Pierre immediately feels colder and he whines, high and needy, to try and get her back near him.

She’s standing next to the bed now. Pierre knows, not because he can see her since his face is half-pressed against the pillow and his eyes are clenched shut, but because she’s running her fingers through his hair as a reassurance.

He doesn’t have to see her to know what she’s doing, either. The sound of their nightstand drawers as they open and close is something Pierre could recognize in his sleep, much like its meaning. So he’s not surprised when he hears Kika uncap the bottle of lube or when he feels the cold drag of the metal plug as she traces the outside of his thigh with it.

This is familiar territory for both of them.

One of the first things Pierre had asked for when their relationship was in its earlier stages and he was starting to feel the restlessness of wanting more was for her to finger him. She’d taken it in stride, as she did with everything else Pierre asked for. He is really fucking lucky to have her.

The first time they tried it at all it’d taken a lot of instruction from Pierre. A lot of “Hold on," and, “Alright move,” and, “Curl your fingers right there,” until Kika muttered a comment about it not being much different from fingering a girl which prompted Pierre to raise a brow in an unspoken question Kika managed to avoid answering by hitting his prostate just right and making him forget all about it.

The first time they used a plug came only a little after that.

Because, although getting fingerfucked by his girlfriend was something straight out of his fantasies, Pierre always found the lingering sensations from it to be yet another tease about something he couldn’t have; not without a lot of conversations, ones he hadn’t felt prepared for yet.

They didn’t even have to buy the plug. Pierre had it stored away with some other toys Kika had eyed with glee when he showed her his little collection. It's always been his favorite thing. A heavy, stainless steel plug that managed to keep him floaty and grounded at the same time with how full it made him feel. It’d been Este's favorite thing too, back in the day. He loved to plug Pierre right after coming inside him, and Pierre was never one to say no to a good deal. Kika, too, took a great liking to it, openly declaring to him how amazed she was that he could take so much, how he was such a good boy for it.

However, it was the first time she was going to be doing all of this when he was in such an obscene position when he knew what would come later.

It was hotter, too, because of that.

Kika starts like she always does, with soft touches all over his ass and just toying with him further. Pierre shoves his hips back towards her, moaning loudly when his naked skin meets the rough fabric of her jeans.

Kika isn’t happy at his antics and she lets him know by smacking him on the side of his thigh, harsh and unforgiving, before stepping away from him once more. Pierre feels like he’s about to cry with how much he wants and how little he’s being given. Kika sighs, much like she does when Simba makes a mess she’ll have to clean up, and lets him just wallow for a moment without saying anything.

“If you’re so hellbent on getting what you want then you probably don’t even want my help, do you?”

Pierre is about to respond, to plead with her, really, not to stop touching him — that he’ll take whatever she wants to give, even if it’s just incendiary touches and nothing else. But Kika is already grabbing one of his wrists, pulling it away from the pillow he’s been white-knuckling for a while, and covering his fingers messily in lube.

“Go on, then. If you want to be full so badly that you can’t even wait for me to do it, you should open yourself, baby.”

She drops his hand over his ass, and it falls like dead weight, Pierre too boneless to exert any control over his limbs.

“Go ahead and make it interesting for me, since you and Esteban are having all the fun tonight.”

The reminder of what’s to come pulls him out of his stupor, and he’s rushing to fill himself with his fingers. It takes less than two minutes before he’s got two fingers inside himself, thrusting wildly — he’s never been fond of moderation.

Kika laughs sweetly behind him.

“You’re gonna make yourself come before me or Esteban even get our hands on you. Is that what you want, babe? To be already fucked out and useless when Esteban gets here? Won’t be too fun for him, I bet.”

Pierre tries to shake his head but is still pressed tight against the pillow.

“Maybe he’ll fuck me then, and we’ll just make you watch,” she says conversationally. Pierre whines, somewhere between a protest and a plea. “No? Are you going to be a good boy, then, and wait for Esteban to fuck you? Or are you so needy that you just can’t help yourself, baby?”

It takes Pierre a moment to push past the fog of his arousal, his brain sluggish with want, and it’s only when Kika yanks his hand away and presses it harshly against his lower back that he realizes she’s asked a question.

“Pay attention, babe,” she says softly, but the underlying warning is unmistakable. “Are you gonna behave or not?”

Pierre tries to fight her hold, but his body already feels like jelly, and his thrashing only makes Kika dig her nails into his wrist, making him bite down on his cheek to keep from squealing.

“I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll be so good, please, just let me— I need—”

Kika rewards him with a light slap to his thigh. “I know, babe, I know. I’ll give it to you, yeah? And then Esteban will too, but for that, you need to stop being so needy, okay?”

Pierre nods as best as he can, and thankfully it’s response enough for Kika, who lets go of his hand but stays hovering over him.

“Go on, then. Open yourself for me.”

And he does, to the best of his ability while Kika distracts him with soft touches and murmured praise, the heat of their bodies echoing between them and searing Pierre’s skin. He’s three fingers deep and dangerously close to coming when Kika stops him again. She silences his complaints with tender touches and light kisses pressed between his shoulder blades.

“Good boy, look at you. You’re doing so well for me, baby,” she says. “Gonna get the plug now, okay? Do you still want it?”

Pierre babbles his affirmative, and Kika kisses his shoulder once more before getting up. His thighs are starting to strain, and he’s so hard it hurts, but he wouldn’t change a thing.

Kika sits back on the bed, and Pierre hears the lube uncapping again. He tries to breathe, hoping not to come just from the idea of the plug.

He gets no warning before Kika presses the cold metal against his hole. This time, when Pierre tries to rut against the mattress, Kika doesn’t stop him.

She has her fun, fucking him slowly with the plug, letting it get to the widest part before taking it back, only to do it all over again. Pierre isn’t sure he can handle much more; he’s already so spaced out, and Esteban hasn’t even arrived yet.

“Kik—Kika, ‘m gonna—”

“No, you’re not,” she says dismissively, finally pushing all of the plug in and immediately stepping away.

Pierre could cry.

“Stay still now, babe,” Kika commands. “I’ll go get Esteban, yeah?” She doesn’t wait for his response before she leaves.

Kika, damn her, knows exactly what he likes and where his limits lie. This whole “stay just like that while I go do something else” shtick is one he’s well accustomed to. It’s a test of his obedience and a tease for his exhibitionist side.

And he’s never failed a test of obedience before — not unless he did it on purpose, that is. So, he stays mostly still, shifting a little on his knees to get more comfortable and rolling his head on the pillow so he can press his forehead against it.

Waiting isn’t hard. He’s been waiting for years.

Pierre only knows Esteban has stepped into the room because of his familiar giggle.

He and Kika exchange pleasantries, and Pierre knows, from Esteban’s tone and Kika’s barely concealed laughter, that it’s only to mess with him. He’s so focused on not moving an inch that he doesn’t notice Esteban next to him until his hand maps out his back. Pierre keens at the sudden touch, and Esteban shushes at him.

“It’s alright, mon ange, it’s alright,” he says, “I’m right here. Gonna give you what you want, yeah?”

“Please, oh, please, I’ve been good, I’ve been so good, please—”

“Oh, really?” Esteban says, his hand stopping right at his nape. “That true, Kika?”

“A bit needy but yeah. I’ve seen him do worse.”

“He’s probably just excited. Right, doll?”

Pierre wants to tell him — both of them, really — that he’s been waiting for fucking years for this, but all he can manage is another choked moan that gets a laugh out of Esteban.

“Use your words, baby, c’mon,” he says, and Pierre realizes the one thing he didn’t miss about Esteban was that fucking phrase. “Tell me how badly you want me,” he adds, a little lower.

“Want you so bad, Esteban, please, please, s'il vous plaît—” he starts babbling, but Esteban just tuts unappreciatively.

“Didn’t ask you to beg, honey. Y’know I don’t like it when you’re a slut, yeah?”

“Sorry, ‘m sorry.”

Esteban chuckles, “That’s not good enough, doll. D’you remember how we show we’re sorry?”

And, oh, he does remember. But the apology Esteban is demanding from him is not something he ever thought Kika would see. Sure, he knew he’d get fucked in front of her — that was most of the appeal — but for Esteban to ask this of him…

“Yes, sir.”

Esteban’s hand leaves his nape and leaves him untethered. He has a second to ponder on what he should do next before Esteban solves that for him, saying, “knees.”

It’s a well-practiced command. One of the many single-word instructions that made up most of their vocabulary back in the day; when there wasn’t enough time for proper dirty talk and details. Pierre remembers every single time Esteban dragged him into a dressing room or a bathroom or a supply closet and said the exact same word. Knees. Pierre doesn’t dwell on how the timber of it has changed, doesn’t have time when he has to regain control over his muscles and shove himself off the bed, landing in front of Esteban on his knees, his eyes fixated on Esteban’s boots — just how Esteban likes it.

He regrets his carelessness when his knees hit and drag on the carpet floor, knowing he’s going to be feeling the pain for weeks on end, but he thinks the burn of them is worth it when Esteban pets his hair soothingly.

“You ever have him like this, Kika?” Esteban asks. Kika doesn’t say anything, but she must shake her head because Esteban continues, “Shame. I think you’d like it. He’s so pretty on his knees.” Pierre keens. “C’mere.”

Kika’s heels appear right behind Esteban’s boots.

The next command he gets isn’t spoken. Esteban only has to tap the base of his jaw for Pierre to look up.

The image of both Esteban and Kika towering over him, Esteban smiling softly and Kika looking intrigued, is one he burns into his memory.

“Hi, mon ange,” Esteban murmurs softly, “Fucking missed you.”

And then Esteban’s bending down, his hands cradling Pierre’s face, guiding him into a kiss that feels years overdue. He lets himself be kissed, his own hands coming up to hold Esteban’s wrists in an attempt to stabilize himself.

Esteban’s kisses, if possible, are better than Pierre remembers. So easy to sink into. So good he’d be content with just this — Esteban’s lips on his, kissing him like it’s his life purpose — and nothing else, tonight and forever.

“Really fucking missed you,” Esteban muses a little breathlessly when they part.

Pierre can’t take the adoring look on Esteban’s face for too long. It sets him alight in a gentle fire that feels placeless in this scenario and makes him restless for another thing he can’t have — not yet anyway. So, he looks past Esteban’s shoulder to see Kika already looking at him, equally as fond as Esteban, but the affection doesn’t feel as uncharted when it’s written over her face.

Whatever he did in a past life to earn himself this pair, he doesn’t know, but he’s incredibly grateful for it.

Esteban is the one to snap him out of his trance, turning Pierre’s face so their eyes meet again.

“Look at me, doll. Don’t go getting distracted now,” he says, his fingers digging into the permanent baby fat in Pierre’s cheeks.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Second time you’ve said that today and I only just got here, mon ange. Is that how you’re gonna be all night? Messing up at every turn? Another sorry, sir every five seconds?” Esteban has a talent for sounding demeaning while keeping his voice soft and low. It makes Pierre whimper with how overtaken he is by the need to do better, be better for him.

He tries to shake his head but Esteban’s grip on his jaw tightens, and he can’t do much more than whine another, “Sorry, sir. ‘m sorry, I’ll be better, please,” that makes Esteban scoff and let go of him again.

Pierre falls forward, his hands land on Esteban’s hips, and he looks up pleadingly. Esteban doesn’t even extend the courtesy of meeting his eyes, looking back at Kika over his shoulder.

“I swear he didn’t use to be like this,” he says, like Pierre is just a restless pet.

“He forgets his place sometimes,” Kika says with a sigh. Esteban tilts his head in understanding and looks back at him. Pierre’s grip on his hips tightens a bit, trying to express the plea that he knows Esteban won’t want to hear.

“He better learn quickly, then,” Esteban says. “Belt. Be quick about it.”

Pierre fumbles, his unsteady hands not making the process of taking the belt off of Esteban any easier. Esteban throws his head back, groaning theatrically.

“You’d think he’d be faster with how eager he is,” he says to Kika. Pierre pouts, still fighting a war against the belt loops that seem to be conspiring against him.

“Not all sluts are good sluts, Esteban,” Kika says, making Esteban chuckle.

Pierre finally gets the belt off. He folds it haphazardly and offers it to Esteban with both his hands. Esteban’s looking at him unimpressed. “So you can follow instructions. Good.” Pierre doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, stuck between loving the dismissive edge to Esteban’s voice and chasing after whatever praise he can get. “Go on, you know what to do.”

Pierre nods, his hands going back to fumbling with the button and zipper of Esteban's pants, vaguely registering how the leather belt is tracing the skin on his shoulders. It’s making him shudder, making his job clumsier all the while. It’s a ploy he knows well; Esteban will give him an instruction and then try to distract him from it — genius in a very evil way.

“You know, Kika?” Esteban says. Kika hums, but it sounds further than before. “I’ve always thought he’d look pretty with a collar. What do you think?” Pierre is just about done with his job when Esteban taps the underside of his chin again. He’s barely lifted his eyes to meet Esteban’s when the belt is wrapped loosely around his neck; Esteban fastens it so the excess hangs from his hand.

“I can see the appeal,” Kika says, sounding disinterested as ever. “Maybe one with a dog tag and a leash.”

Esteban chuckles at that. “He’s already our bitch. Might as well make him look the part.”

“Please,” Pierre whimpers.

“Yeah?” Esteban pulls on the leather around his neck, bringing Pierre closer. “C’mon, finish the job that you started.”

Pierre quickly pushes Esteban’s pants down and pulls his dick out, his mouth watering at the sight. He sticks his tongue out and leans forward a little, showing Esteban he's ready and looking up at him for approval.

"Go on," Esteban encourages, "show us you can be a good boy."

Pierre submits to his control easily, allowing Esteban to lead his mouth onto his cock. The weight of Esteban’s dick in his mouth is yet another thing he missed, and he shows his appreciation for it by pulling out all his old tricks — the ones that helped rush their clandestine meetings along.

“That’s good,” Esteban says, his voice smooth and patronizing. Esteban’s praise, though laced with mockery, is more than welcome. Sadly, he doesn’t get to properly cherish it before Esteban gives his next command. “Enough. Stay.”

Pierre stops moving, Esteban’s cock halfway in his mouth. He drops his hands, holding them behind his back without waiting for Esteban’s instruction. He lets his eyes flutter closed, diverting all his focus to keeping as still as possible and being mindful of his breathing and how he’s starting to drool around Esteban’s dick.

It almost feels like a gift. Getting to sit there just holding Esteban's cock in his mouth, finally able to relish it properly now that there's no rush or threat of anyone walking in on them. Pierre pushes away the thought that maybe he's always been a little too into Esteban, and how he's already missing this even as he's right in the midst of it.

A pair of hands on his shoulders do away with those thoughts, though. He can tell it’s Kika by the softness of her palms, meeting at the base of his neck. She takes the belt that's still wrapped around his neck and pulls back toward her, eliciting a whine out of Pierre, making him squirm under the pull of the makeshift collar and the urge to stay still to please Esteban.

“So you just have him sit with your dick in his mouth?” Kika asks.

Esteban nods, carding his fingers through Pierre's hair. “He's an overeager little thing. Kept stepping out of line and saying sorry. Until I got tired of sorry and told him to put his mouth to better use. But then, since he loves sucking cock so much, I thought he could just sit there and take it for a bit, learn a thing or two about patience.”

Esteban forms a fist with his fingers tangled in Pierre’s hair, pulling on his scalp just enough to make it sting. “And it seems he has learned. You’ve done so well for us, pet. I think it’s time you get taken care of. What do you think, Kika?” Pierre whines around Esteban as Kika hums noncommittally.

Pierre's eagerness, if possible, burns even harder within him.

Kika delivers his next instruction, far more polite than Esteban, “On the bed, babe,” with another tug on the belt.

Pierre's dizzy with want and excitement, and he jumps to kneel on the bed before Kika's even done telling him to. He’s confused and a little saddened when only Esteban is with him on the bed, Kika sitting a couple of feet away from them on the chair he had brought up earlier for this exact purpose. He’d been enjoying Kika and Esteban’s teamwork so much, the mixing and mingling of their voices and touches, that he’d forgotten Kika is here only to watch him get fucked.

He’s about to bring out the pout and start begging when Esteban's hands start lighting fire across his skin again.

“Sir, please.”

Esteban’s hands are all over him, running over his back and sides, caressing his stomach but avoiding Pierre’s hard dick. Esteban tuts derisively when Pierre shoves his hips forward, trying to get some contact.

“Thought you were going to be a good boy for me.” Esteban places his hand on the middle of Pierre’s back, his fingers light as they tickle over his skin.

Pierre nods again, ever desperate to please. “I’ve been so good, sir, please. I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

“Suppose we can’t expect much from a slut like you,” Esteban muses, his hand trailing down Pierre’s back, slipping between his cheeks and pressing on the end of the plug. Pierre holds back a whimper, biting on his lip, clenching his hands. He wants to beg for more but he also wants to behave; he has to be good for Esteban to get what he wants. Esteban plays with the plug some more, pulling on the end and teasing him with it before letting it slip back inside Pierre.

“Why are you so quiet all of a sudden, doll? I want to hear you.” Esteban reaches a hand around Pierre’s torso to grab his dick, jerking him off steadily. Pierre cries out loudly, hanging his head, his arms shaking to hold him up. It's very little but it's also too much. The onslaught of sensation after coasting by only on light touches, mixed with the still rising anticipation, is enough to have him on the edge in seconds.

“Fuck. Fuck, I’m going to come, sir, please.”

Esteban chuckles a bit, “You’re not allowed to come until Kika says you can.”

Pierre can’t tell what Kika’s response is, too lost in the pleasure washing over him. He’s started fucking forward into Esteban’s hand, too far gone to stop, small pained sounds falling uninhibited from his mouth.

“You’re so good to me, Este baby, I feel so good, please just, fuck—“ He tries to move away from Esteban's hand, feeling his orgasm coil in the bottom of his stomach, closing his eyes as the heat threatens to take him over. “Kika please, let me— fuck, Esteban. I—“

Pierre cries out again, and just before he feels he is going to come he hears, “Go on, babe,” and then he’s releasing all over Esteban’s hand and the bed below him, pained sounds falling from his mouth when Esteban’s hand continues to move over his sensitive dick. He squirms to move out of his grasp but Esteban doesn’t let him, holding him tighter.

“It’s— huh— it’s too much. Fuck.”

Esteban's response is a dangerous thing, whispered right next to his ear. “Oh, I’m not done with you yet, doll. Gonna fuck another out of you. D'you want that? Want to sit on my dick and ride me? Show Kika how pretty you are when taking my dick? I bet you look great stuffed full and with your thighs shaking. Imagine the sounds you’ll make, what a pretty show you'll be for Kika."

And Pierre is making more of those sounds now, cut-off whines, choked by the next sound rising from his throat. Esteban presses a kiss to the side of his neck.

“Let’s give you a little break, yeah?” Esteban says, taking his hands off Pierre. There is another pair of hands on him, cool to Pierre’s hot skin, tucking against his waist and rolling him onto his back. Pierre smiles up at Kika when he falls back into the pillows, closing his eyes when she pets his cheek.

“Do you need anything, babe? Some water maybe?” she asks.

Pierre loves that she's checking in on him. It’s the perfect balance to being roughed up by Esteban.

He shakes his head, gently grabbing her wrist and kissing the palm of her hand before turning to look at Esteban who is still partially dressed, his hands pushing his pants down the rest of the way. Pierre licks his lips, eager for what’s going to come next, shifting a little on the bed to feel the plug inside him. Kika’s hand leaves his face, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving away.

Pierre watches as Esteban unbuttons his shirt, slipping it off his shoulders, glancing up at him. He looks almost shy when their eyes meet, some of his dominant persona fading away. Esteban had always been gentle with Pierre afterward, kissing him softly, offering quiet reassurance before they had to leave each other, always making sure Pierre knew he was cared for.

Once Esteban has fully undressed, he climbs up on the bed beside Pierre and cups his jaw with one hand, pulling their lips together. Pierre melts against him, pressing his hands against his chest and waist, elated to have Esteban again after so long.

They linger like that for a while, kissing mindlessly, simply for the sake of kissing and basking in each other’s presence.

It’s both everything Pierre had missed and something entirely new. It’s Esteban, yes, but in a way Pierre had never really had the chance to experience. It’s Esteban giggling into their kiss and tracing his skin, pulling him closer even when their fronts are already molded to each other.

Pierre lets himself sink into it all: the featherlight touches, Esteban’s rushed breathing, and the slide of their lips together. He only realizes he’s been grinding his hips against Esteban’s own when his movements are halted almost forcefully.

Esteban pulls back, and Pierre can see in his face, even before he speaks, that they’re back on track. “I want you to ride me, doll. Do you think you can do that?” he asks, looking for assurance in Pierre’s eyes.

“Yes, yeah, I wanna,” Pierre responds, breathless and eager, his words running into each other with how quickly he's trying to get them out.

Esteban smiles and kisses him again briefly, moving away to settle against the headboard. “Come on, on my lap.” He beckons him with a pat to his thigh, like you would a pet, and Pierre flushes as he crawls towards him.

Esteban stops him. “Ah, aren’t you forgetting something?”

Pierre whines, confused, stopping just shy of Esteban’s lap. He hates this little guessing game Esteban plays sometimes, preferring clear instructions. It’s cruel of him to make Pierre focus on anything other than getting what he needs, while looking pretty for Kika.

Esteban smiles and pets Pierre’s cheek lovingly, but when he speaks, it edges on mocking. “You’ve gotta take that plug out, baby.”

Pierre nods and leans in for another kiss, wanting reassurance. Esteban obliges briefly before guiding Pierre’s hand back, smoothing it over the curve of his backside. Pierre tries to balance himself with one hand on the mattress as he pulls out the plug, biting his lip as he pants, doing his best to follow instructions, even though the bed feels like water beneath him.

“Good job,” Esteban’s voice grows distant, almost disinterested, making Pierre shudder, caught between wanting to earn back his attention or protesting.

“Turn around for me, doll. There you go.” Esteban helps him turn, maneuvering him a bit onto his knees, his legs straddling Esteban’s thighs. “Yeah, facing Kika, just like that. Wouldn’t want her to miss out on how pretty you look.”

Pierre glances at Kika now, pristine as always, sitting at the foot of the bed, legs crossed as she watches intently. Her steady gaze makes Pierre blush a deep red, turning his head instinctively.

Esteban pulls him back, their hips meeting as Pierre whimpers from the contact, reveling in the warmth of Esteban against his bare skin. Esteban’s hands start at his hips, holding him close, then travel up his sides, exploring his skin. Pierre squirms as one hand teases his nipple while the other strokes the sensitive skin inside his thigh. Esteban hasn’t forgotten any of his weak spots.

Pierre glances at Kika again. Her intense gaze amplifies everything he’s feeling; if Esteban doesn’t take him soon, he might lose himself from the teasing alone.

“Sir— let me, please,” Pierre begs, almost delirious, needing more. He tries to stay focused — this is his chance to prove himself, to both of them, he can’t let himself falter now.

“Already falling apart, and we haven’t even started yet,” Esteban murmurs against his shoulder, his smile pressing into Pierre’s skin.

“Please.” Pierre’s voice sounds desperate even to his own ears, and he looks away from Kika’s face as he sees her smirk at his vulnerability.

“Alright, mon ange, we’re going to give you what you need.” Esteban tugs him gently, guiding him. “Sit up for me? There we go, good pet.” He helps Pierre position himself so he’s hovering just above him, and Pierre bites down on his lip when he feels Esteban’s readiness pressing against him.

Pierre sinks down slowly, bracing his hands on Esteban's thighs as he does, shuddering and hanging his head when he bottoms out. He leans back against Esteban slightly and moans at the stretch. It’s not that he hasn’t had a dick in his ass in years; it's that he hasn't had Esteban's dick inside him in years. It still feels as perfect as the first time. Esteban has always filled him up so well, right on the verge of being too much, making him feel proud of himself for being able to take it so well.

Esteban grabs Pierre’s jaw, his fingers pressing into his cheeks as he brings his line of sight back to Kika. Pierre keens at the suddenness of the motion. “I want you to look at Kika while you ride me, think you can do that?” Pierre nods his assent as best as he can with Esteban’s hand gripping his jaw while he shifts back, already trying to fuck himself.

Esteban holds him steady, his lips pressed behind Pierre's ear. “Alright, mon ange, show me you can be a good boy. Fuck yourself on my dick for us.”

It’s a crude show, he thinks, to see him chase his own pleasure so brazenly; the way he can’t find a grip on himself or anything around him, holding onto Esteban’s arm like it’d bring him any balance. He’s never been too careful with sex, always overeager and doing his best to fulfill his cravings.

This is no exception. Pierre sets a frantic pace from the get-go, bouncing eagerly on Esteban's cock, trying to make up for the years of having this need remain unsatisfied.

That was mistake number one. It doesn’t take long before his thighs are straining, and he’s falling forward, barely staying upright. He's too into this, enjoys the feeling of being fucked far too much to try to please anyone but himself. Greed is his fatal flaw, and Esteban doesn’t hesitate to point it out.

“Come on, if you’re gonna be a greedy bitch—" he doesn’t even sound winded as he speaks, "—I think you can do better than that,” Esteban chastises, and Pierre shakes his head, his eyes teary as he rocks himself down, gasping when Esteban grabs his hips and holds him there, his hold punishing when Pierre tries to grind back against him.

“What? You’re tired already? How disappointing. You get so weak for a dick in your ass that you can’t even show Kika how well you take it. What should we do about that then? Hm?"

Pierre really hates the constant questioning. Maybe next time he’ll ask to be gagged, see if that keeps Esteban's conversation at bay. He's here to get fucked, not to be quizzed on how he wants to get fucked. He tries to convey his frustration by shifting his hips some more, letting Esteban know that he doesn't care how; he just wants him.

It does the trick well enough, though Esteban sighs like he’s tired of him.

“Wanna get fucked so bad but you won't even work for it. Spoiled fucking slut is what you are,” one of Esteban’s hands lands between Pierre’s shoulder blades and pushes him down until his face is smushed against the mattress. The change in angle pushes Esteban's cock further inside him, and Pierre keens at the feeling, squirming under Esteban, who's kneeling, tall and proud, behind him. “Can you tell Kika how you feel while I fuck you, or will that be too hard for you, too?” Esteban doesn’t seem to be actually waiting for a response if the way he continues to manhandle him is anything to go by.

Pierre feels like things are starting to fall back into place, though he’s not entirely sure when anything went missing at all. Still, there's something just beyond his reach, close enough that he can taste it, right behind his teeth, but he can't sink his hands into it. Esteban is giving him everything he’s wanted — or everything he thought he wanted. And it's good. Amazing, even. It's bringing him to the edge of delirium, but he can't help but still crave for more.

Maybe if he could have this more often. Maybe if he didn’t have to miss it. Maybe if he could always have it. Maybe if Esteban wasn’t a novelty brought into his and Kika's bedroom for a couple of hours, only to leave again. Maybe if Esteban was a permanent fixture in their life. Maybe then he’d be satiated.

Esteban lifts his hips a little higher and starts to fuck him hard, driving his hips against his own with vigor; it’s all Pierre’s wanted for years now. He's white-knuckling the sheets, letting Esteban do whatever he wants to him, not caring to hide the pathetic sounds that are getting punched out of him with every thrust, sounds that lie somewhere between moans and cries.

Both Kika and Esteban stay quiet, and the backdrop of silence it creates makes the lewd noises E

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