#but they always find their ways back to each other somehow lmao

[4giorno]

he found god, what a beautiful moment

also found the newest addition to my fave clips of him

[yeyinde]

dangle on the leash | Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

The flimsy sarcophagus housing all his wants, his desires, cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant. Ghost cocks his head in consideration. Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger. But he's a rabid dog burning with the urge to bite. No one should really be surprised when he finally decides to sink his teeth into you. Unfortunately, that hail mary Price sent into the aether never reached you.

(your bird is too big for a cage— —but maybe a collar would do.)

this is a babytrapping fic lmao but please read the tags carefully. a companion piece to this (Price + babytrapping).

DEAD DOVE. SMUT. 18+

HARD WARNINGS—coercion. dependency. intentional alienation. unsafe, unprotected sex. this very much toes the line of noncon (that is still very dubcon even when consent is given) in many ways, notably: somnophilia, and condom/contraceptive tampering. intrusive, violent thoughts. mentions of violence. manipulation; slight gaslighting. implied kidnapping. references to past abuse (Ghost), brief mention of drugging/threats of drugging (ambiguous as to if it was ever followed through on or not, mostly just Ghost's internal monologue unfiltered). ADDITIONAL TAGS—smut. rough sex. unsafe sex. dom!Ghost. mean, obsessive, unhinged!Ghost. spit kink. dacryphilia.

he's feral, but he's yours. too bad for you, no one is really sure if that's a good thing or not.

One of the things Price often tells new recruits is to shove their old life into a box. 

��There's home,” he huffs, fingers twitching as if he's subconsciously flexing around the hilt of a lit cigar. “And then there's work. Whatever box you decide to put this, or your family, your personal life, into is your choice. But for fuck’s sake. Keep them separate.” 

Most of the new recruits are fresh off selection, shaded sickly chartreuse, and take his words as a literal gospel. Work, this; home, them. They don't start to unravel the second part of his gruff speech until much later. Until they can't wash the blood from their hands, and the scent of their mum’s eucalyptus hand soap is nauseating. Unfamiliar. When being in civvies feels like wearing skin that doesn't fit, and everyone around you is alien, foreign. They don't know. They'll never know. 

It's only when they find themselves gazing at the clock on the wall of their family home, counting down the minutes until their mandatory leave is over do they realise that home is the barracks. 

That's something Ghost has always understood. Maybe it was because his home life was already in ruins, tatters. Beer soaking into the knock-off Persian rug a cousin nicked from a flea market when he was nine. No fine china in the cupboards because it'll end up in shards on the floor. Plastic plates and forks and cups. Always. Howling in his head. Screaming from down the hall in his mum's room. His bedroom door creaking open at night. The anger, the curdling fear (shameful—be a man; punch him back, hit him before he hits you, you useless prick—), of not knowing whether or not it was his dad, high as hell and itching for a fight after busting their mum’s lip wide open, or Tommy sneaking into his bed at night because his is soaked in piss and he can’t sleep when they scream at each other like this.  

(Funny that, he always found; neither of them could ever sleep when it was silent, either.)

Blood on the linoleum. Trying to eat burnt toast and overcooked beans with a busted lip and a twinge in his jaw—

(Fractured, they'll say later, years later, during his mandatory medical checkup when he's first recruited. Healed all wrong. Son, didn't anyone take you to hospital?) 

He understands the separation between home and work—even if the former lost all relevancy nearly a decade ago. Back when he buried them all. Was buried himself—

What Ghost never really understood was the box. 

Shove it into a box. 

When he asks over cheap whisky somewhere in Siberia, Price tightens his fingers around his glass before bringing it up to his head. His index finger juts out. He knocks the tip of that bruised, scabbed knuckle against his temple. Once, thrice. Levels Simon with a pointed look he both can’t understand and somehow knows all too well. 

“Up here."

“Paid nearly fifty quid for that,” he grouses, shaking his head. “Think I've been ripped-off, Price.” 

Price scoffs, places the glass down with a hollow thud. “Don't be a fuckin’ muppet, Simon—” his real name makes his shoulders tense. Around the barracks, they know him only as the Ghost. “You put it away somewhere. Hide it. I don't fuckin’ know. But if it keeps you goin’, keeps you sane, and doesn't become a mess I gotta clean up, well—”

The implication is stark. Heavy. 

Price was always good at chiselling through layers of accumulated indifference to get to the madness within, but considering Ghost’s past and his mile-long rap sheet, the warning digging into his words like a dull blade isn't unwarranted. 

Old dogs, he'd called the pair of them when they first met. There was a sharp keenness in his eye when he lifted his hand, waved his cigar toward the tangled mess of scar tissue crisscrossing his face (made with a dull, rusted knife, one that gouged out deep pocks of skin, ugly fuck, looks like the badlands, don't he? like a postcard from the Grand Canyon, sweetheart. not so cute anymore, are ya, pretty boy—), and said, “well, you're fuckin’ rabid, ain't you? Better put a muzzle on that before it becomes a problem, mm.”

His problem, specifically. 

And Ghost gets it. Thinks Price might understand that particular brand of madness—despite growing up on literal opposite sides of the track, his Manchester to the others Liverpool; poverty and prestige—if only just. Because Price seems to be able to curb those baser impulses in a way Ghost hadn't yet mastered (and won't for quite some time yet). He's put together. Sort of. Respected. Normal.

The men in the barracks don't look at him and flinch. 

But he sees the way the man's eyes linger in the crowd, shrewd and careless, before falling on the pretty bartender in the back. The one with roses in her eyes and a smile full of dandelions. Soft, like butterscotch. It's here when they darken. When he reaches, almost angrily, for his whisky. Pats his chest with a heavy fist searching for his cigar. 

She's a sweet thing, he reckons. All pretty and trusting. Birds like her make his head itch—

“Don't even think about it, Simon,” Price grumbles, and it feels like territorial posturing, a challenge he almost raises to meet with his chin, if only to make Price fluster, but it's hollow. Empty. He denies himself, too. The prick. 

“How'd you do it?” He asks, and doesn't specify. Doesn't think he needs to. 

When Price swallows, it looks like a grimace. “Years of practice.” 

He considers the weight of it, his eyes straying back to the woman behind the bar. She's tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, wrist delicate like bone china, the kind they could never afford, and for a moment, the intrusive thoughts, the ones he gets sometimes about wanting to tear things to bloody pieces, rears—

It's stamped down in a swig of flat lager You stupid fuckin’ mutt, Price would say tomorrow morning, shaking his head. You always think with your prick? 

Simon cranks his head sharply to the side instead. The resounding crack seems to echo through the empty pub. 

Price just shakes his head. “Christ. No one ever house break you, yet?” 

“Yeah, they did,” he rasps, staring at the bartender who gazes back at him now. Skittish, unsure. Not so sweet after all. She looks away, cowed. Her hands tremble. He leans back, and hums. “And now I piss outside, like a good ‘ol boy.” “Ain't nothin’ good about you, Simon. Fuckin' Christ—”

And he's not wrong. 

The Ghost has a reputation of being a cold-hearted bastard. A Frankensteinian beast cobbled together with spare parts robbed from a jailhouse graveyard. Worst of the worst. An arm from a mass murder. The leg from a spree killer. Heart a patchwork mess of ichor and sulphur. Sutured together with barbed wire. 

It's all sort of macabre. Rather trite, too. 

The rumour mill in the barracks is insatiable.

But sometimes, he wakes up and he's still buried. Still dead. Dirt in his throat, lodged in his nose. He breathes in and feels pebbles scraping his lungs. Feels worms in his ears. Maggots in his head. 

They crawl through his grey matter. Leeches burrowing into his thoughts, sucking the good in him dry. 

Or, whatever's left of it, anyway. 

He thinks with his teeth because it's easier that way. Cold, calculative instinct. Just barely boxed into a neat package slapped on the desk of Price's higher-ups. 

A good man, they say, and turn him loose on the streets. One of the best we have, as he breaks jaws, and tears through jugulars. A force to be reckoned with. 

They hand him a gun, a rifle, when the bloodied footprints leading back to camp become too much of a hassle to clean. Shoot from a distance. He takes to it like the bulk of metal was made for his scarred hands. Scythe to a Reaper. 

It feels like bloodletting. Draining him of his anger, his fury, until a cold, gnarled indifference curls in the basin left behind. Icy, frigid. Down to the bone. 

Sometimes, he doesn't remember what it felt like to be warm, even buried under a thick balaclava and layers of military fatigues. 

Frankenstein’s monster. Patched together from the rotten remains of horrible men. 

And as he stares in the mirror at the patchwork ruins of his face, his body, he wonders if there's some truth to it, after all. He's pretty sure if someone cracked his skull open—again—they’d find rot. Tumulus. Infested with maggots and worms. Cobwebs behind his eyes. In his nose. His brain perfectly preserved: a zombified tombstone. And oh, how it hungers. 

Wants. 

But in a box it goes. One shaped like a coffin. Placed pretty in the back of his broken head. 

He stares in the mirror and thinks he sees something moving under his eye. Wriggling around. The temptation to claw it out rears, but the shredded tissue on his thighs reminds him of what happens when he listens to that insidious hiss in the back of his head (some amalgamation of his old man, and that bastard—) and goes searching for gold in bone marrow. 

He huffs. Fingers curling around the porcelain. His head is rotten. Putrefied. He can feel the decomposing sludge press against his temples. It grows teeth sharp like a razor blade and hacks away at jaundiced bone. Ghost lifts his hand, digs his fingers into his temple. Down boy—

(Simon doesn't even want to consider what his heart must look like, then.)

Cold-hearted, sure—

But he likes sweet things. 

The kind that will undoubtedly give him cavities. A spillover, perhaps, when candy bars were too expensive, and the only dessert he was given was a toffee by the neighbour when she wasn't moaning to his old man about all the shit he and Tommy got up to. 

(Bruises came afterwards, the colour of liquorice. Sour cherries.)

Unfortunately for him, sweet things don't like him much—a shame, really. Simon has always had a sweet tooth. 

His rough edges are too sharp for their liking, and Simon's—

Intense. Like a dog with a bone, he doesn't know when to let go. When to unhinge his jaw from the morsel between his teeth. He bites hard. Shakes his head. Tears into the things he wants until it's bloodied meat pinched in his incisors. 

And so, they keep their distance. Like they can smell the rot on him. The funeral dirt. The stench of an unearthed sarcophagi. 

Sometimes, though, the wiley ones will inch closer, looking to get messed up badly by a bad man, and it makes something inside his head howl when he turns them down. Following Price’s creed. Can't give in to the pretty ones, he'd said. Nothin’ but trouble. 

Trouble, like a pair of shackles. A noose. Trouble, like gentle, clean hands and fragile bones. Fine china. Fine powder. The marshmallow soft kind of trouble that will melt in the acid that leaks from his pores. Aqua regia. Attacking anything that gets close. 

(Breakable, is what Price means. Pretty chew toys that are beyond repair once he's finished with them.

He must think Ghost is some sort of psychopath—)

But still. He stays away. It's easier on base, in safe houses, too far out from the general public to have to worry about doe eyes and soft touches. He doesn't need it, anyway—

Then comes you. 

And the forfeiture of his self-control. 

You're trouble of a different kind. 

Trouble, like the end of a sledgehammer. Trouble, like the grill of a car. The barrel of a gun. 

In the shape of a battering ram, one strong enough to dislodge the madness in the back of his head. Where the corrosive acid should ruin you, eat you alive, it doesn't. Not with your tantalum skin. 

But oh, do you pack a punch—

At first, you think he's homeless. 

Some scruffed-up man sleeping on a park bench outside of your apartment. 

In another life, he might have been. He isn't a stranger to bad habits, and had the military not been his only choice in life for some semblance of good (laughable, considering what he does for a living), he could see the threads of his life leading him here. Drugs. Manchester is good for it, this he knows all too well. Especially the shithole neighbourhood he's from. 

He doesn't clue into this, though, until you glance at him, warily, and then shuffle into the cafè he’s holed outside of, the place where his current target gorges himself on steeped tea and crumpets. 

(Price's dry text sits, open, on his burner phone: and don't fuck this up—)

It feels a bit like an omen. Made worse when you meet his gaze through the glass, and—

Well. Shit. 

The impact is a collision. Hitting a pole at top speed. Metal bent around concrete. 

His teeth ache (so, so bad—).

You emerge from the small building a few minutes later—the faded eggshell with chocolate trim is nauseatingly sweet against your pastel yellow raincoat—holding a takeaway bag, and balancing a tray of coffees in your hand. 

He tenses. It's instinctual. There's nothing about you that's an immediate threat to his person—unless you plan on adding to his scars with the tip of your umbrella, the scalding coffee in your hand—but it's odd, isn’t it? No one approaches him. Not unless they have a reason to. 

And no one, in his experience, ever has a good one. 

“Hi,” you chirp, disarmingly sweet, as you come to stand in front of him. His jaw aches. Even sprawled across a bench, you're barely looking down at him. Sticky, cold fingers tap a strange rhythm down his spine. “I, um, hope this isn't weird, but I saw you sitting here, and—well. I got this—”

You wiggle the bag. He smells something greasy. A breakfast sandwich, he's sure.

It's an unusual assassination attempt. Price will be livid. 

“What for?” He rumbles, sitting up in the seat. The shift of his bulk seems to make you nervous. You take a step back, and he fights the urge to follow. To back you into a corner. No escape. 

You regain your footing, even if the smile on your face wobbles. Weakens under his flat stare. Some people can smell the rot on him. 

He wonders if you can, too. 

(Pity that. You're a pretty bird, ain't you?)

And the way you take him in lacks a distinct thrum of hesitation, fear that’s normally there. It occurs to him, then, that you see him as just another man. Just another person. 

(“deader than a doorknob, this one. such a goddamn waste, boss. he was a fun one, wasn’t he? should we burn ‘em?” 

nah. bury him out back—)

It's laughable, really. A joke. He has the urge to crack one—sick and awful enough to make that little smile on your face wilt. Wither away. Almost does, too, but it get tangled in his throat when he feels the weight of your stare on him. 

The easy sweep of your eyes is barely discrete, but it's clinical. Pitying. But the softened edges of that empathy dissolve as your pretty head adds up all the numbers on him, coming to a standstill. Your eyes linger on his wrist. The gold of his wristwatch peeks out beneath the black sleeve of his hoodie. An intricate web of complex timekeeping that only he's privy to. A little luxury he picked up in Italy when the cash he'd been given was getting too tiresome to carry around. 

Dead men, after all, don't need bank accounts. 

And then—

You fluster. “Sorry, I just thought—”

It clicks, then. The pity. The soft words. The goddamn coffee— 

His gums itch. He has the sudden urge to be mean about it. Pick you apart in this street until nothing but embarrassment and humiliation remains. 

“That I was homeless? ‘nd you brought me, what? A coffee? ‘ow sweet of you. Some breakfast, too. Well, aren't you a lovely girl?” 

You are embarrassed. It blisters across your expression. Has your hands trembling around the cardboard tray, spilling droplets of coffee down the side. Your head is bowed, cowed in shame. It reminds him of that bartender some years prior. Pulling away when the bad dog growls—

But there's a thin sheen of intrigue in your eyes, burrowing holes into the shoes in front of you; a tangled knot of want coiling in the heat of your embarrassment over this blunder. Over offending him. 

Well—

That's new. 

Some get off on it. On humiliation. Specifically, of the public variety. He didn't take you as the type. The way you twist, squirming in place, is odd, though. It doesn't fit as well as he originally thought. No. It's not the public shame, but—

Him. 

Ah. 

Sweet, sweet girl. 

(So naïve.)

He reckons he could get you to do just about anything to make it up to him. You would, too. You're soft enough to be submissive, to bow your head in contrition, but there's a flicker of defiance in the jut of your chin when you lift your head. 

This is a blunder and you're sweetly embarrassed, sure, but it isn't enough to break you. 

And now Simon just wants to ruin you. Teach you a lesson about bad, vile men—

(Something you'd welcome with open arms, wouldn't you?)

“Didn’t know Manchester was so charitable,” he rasps. His throat is dry. Parched. He reaches for the coffee—black, with extra creamer and sugar on the side, tucked neatly in a little bag; fuckin’ hell. Ain't you just adorable—and places it on the spot beside him. “I’ll be takin’ this. Will need it for later.” 

You look like you want to protest. Fight back. His hackles rise, ready for it—eager. Something anticipatory, dark, bleeds through the moulted mess of his head. Sickly. Terrible. He thinks about what you'd look like sprawled under him, shaking and begging for more, for him to stop—

Fuck. Birds usually make his head itch, but you make his fucking skin crawl. 

In the end, you just huff. Roll your eyes. He wants to chew them out of your head. Pop them between his teeth. He bet you'd taste divine. 

You walk away from him before he can. You don't look back once. 

Pity, he thinks. Someone's gonna snatch you clean off the streets like that—

Hours later, he sends Price a text message with the coordinates for where to pick up the package Ghost left. 

He considers it a blessing when the man sends him back, good job, now get a pint from me as a little reward. Can't say I don't treat my team well. 

A reward, huh? 

Well. With your stature in comparison to his own, Ghost easily can see you being considered a pint. 

So, he follows you home, and tallies this one as being on Price. 

It's easy. Too easy. He slips deftly behind you, tucked away from view, and masks his footsteps under the echo of yours until he's standing in the shadows outside of your house. This, too, feels like a blessing. It's a duplex. He waits for one of the lights to flicker on, and—

The window brightens. Room number two. 

He hums, and palms his pockets for the pack of smokes he nicked off the man. Needing something to take the edge off. To quell the urge to bite. 

It's even easier to engineer meetings. Random run-ins. All blamed on happenstance, chance. Of course. This towering mountain of a man with his thick manc twang—the sort of gallows humour that can only be found in the blue-collar streets of Salford from the nasty old men squatting on the corners—must have better things to do than stalk you. Surely. You're not special enough to be hunted, right? 

Still. You're a touch wary of him. Distrustful. You keep your distance—six inches for Jesus Christ, aren’t you a peach?—and try to skirt the line between neutrally polite to the strange man loitering outside of the shops you frequent (your schedule burned to his memory, naturally) and that fascinating skittish intrigue from before. All simmering heat. Blunt want. The kind wrapped up in silk threads. 

It's interesting to watch it play out when he steps closer and all those long-forgotten instincts in the back of your head flare up. The shaky step you take back. The inward frown of confusion when you're not sure why your body craves space, acting almost on its own. And then the sweet defiance that breaks over you. The intentional step closer. The feigned warmth in your tone as you talk to him.

It's easy to pocket the uglier aspects of his personality. The coldness. The indifference. The flat, droll insincerity that leaks into his tone. All of it shelved, locked away, and he's not sure if Price would be happy that he listened to what he said, followed his example, or furious that he's bastardising it to lure this pretty fish in.

)The latter, undoubtedly. But Simon gets a sick kick from it all.)

Especially when it brings you closer to him. Thaws you as you rationalise his reaction during the first meeting, gears spinning. Kicking up excuses. 

Anyone would be angry, offended. It's natural. He's alright now—

It makes you look at him differently as you forcefully fight the urge to flee. 

Silly bird. 

Wary eyes rake over his massive bulk. Brows furrow at the series of black medical masks he wears in public. Always. That, in addition to the heavy black of his wardrobe—black jacket, black hoodie, black leather gloves—sometimes makes you glance at him with a touch of worry. Fear. Probably wondering if you brought home a delinquent. 

But it changes when he rolls up his sleeves one day after you've been moaning about your broken beach cruiser (the, I don't know, chain—or something—keeps catching—), and crouches down to fix it. 

There's a hitch in your breath. A distinct swallow. A guilty tinge of something shy, deliciously so, shading your eyes ruby-red when you look down at him. 

And ah—

Sweet little treat snagged on the line. Ain't he a lucky lad? 

It's all the better when you do the work for him. Reeling yourself in, practically throwing yourself in his cooler when you ask about his tattoos, carefully—considerately—nudging the topic away from his ugly scars. 

He guts you clean as he tells you he's in the military. Top secret, pet. Don't ask because I'd hate to ‘ave to hurt a pretty face like yours—

You preen under it. Pet. Pretty. You don't even notice when he slides his knife over your scales, dices you up on his chopping board. 

You're the picture of sweetness when he unkinks the chain in your bike, and sets it straight. All happiness. Smiles. Appreciative glances. You flutter your pretty eyes at him as you say—

“Thank you—”

You're waiting for a name. His belly rumbles. He could eat, he thinks, and licks his teeth. 

“Simon. Simon Riley.” 

The risk-reward ratio is balanced when you breathe it out between plump lips, chasing the end of it with your tongue. He wants to eat it out of your mouth. Swallow it down. 

You touch his arm, hand warm, soft. “If there's anything I can do to pay you back—”

He takes you out for a kebab later on. Nudges you out of the way when you open your wallet to pay. Draft girl. Naïve, too, because he can feel the heat in your cheeks from where he stands, reaching over to snatch the bag from the man with a grunt. 

You must think him quite the gentleman. So trusting. 

Doesn't matter. He lets it take root. Especially when you shyly invite him back to yours to eat. 

He makes a feast of it, and fucks you on your mint green chaisse after he's finished. 

(Not on birth control, you say, and hand him a box of condoms, suddenly shy. It's unopened. He hums, and burns that to memory.) 

He keeps his distance—an easy feat when he's halfway around the world, and you're stuck in the gloom of Manchester. 

It's purposeful, of course. He made a promise to Price not to give him a reason to worry, but fuck—

You're proving hard to quit. He's never had anyone cuff him upside the head on his bullshit. Not anymore, anyway. Not as the Ghost. He likes the thrill of it, of this chase. 

You don't let him steamroll you when he's in a mood to fight. You punch back, hitting him right in the mess of his guts, and fuck. Fuck. He's a little bit obsessed with it. With you. This wily little fish that acts so shy when he's got three fingers buried in your cunt, but rides him after like you're starving for it. Clawing at his chest. Scratching his arms. It's raw. Primal. He wants to break you—this fiery little kitten that bites his fingers until they bleed, and then purrs in his lap as he drives a pickaxe through your head, shredding logic into pieces. Rummaging around until he nicks the optic nerve that lets you see red. 

You’re everywhere. In everything. In the back of his head, under the howling that hadn't stopped since you trailed your finger down the jagged topography of his bare chest, digging your nail into the crude x across his heart, and whispered, soft and sweet: you're all kinds of fucked up, aren't you? 

A bludgeon to his self-control—

He resists. Has to. Is mean about it, too. Doesn't tell you where he's going (it's need to know), or what he's doing (would ‘ave to bash your pretty ‘ead in if I told you), but keeps you strung on the line (keep thinkin’ about that pretty cunt of yours; can't wait to come ‘ome and ‘ave you sit on my ugly mug—). 

It's dangerous, this game of his. Thrilling for all the wrong reasons. 

But he’s a good mutt. Good—

Until the text. 

The one you send to him when you're out with friends. A picture. You're in a pub somewhere in Moss Side, a drink in hand. A gaggle of nobodies crowded around you. It makes sense, he supposes. There's that old idiom—you’ll trap more flies with honey—and he doesn't know anyone nearly as sweet as you. 

His sweet girl.

(you fuckin’ mutt—)

Ghost stares at you for a moment, teeth aching. The little ensemble—a crop top and jeans—is a vision, he reckons. But it's spoiled when he catches more eyes on you than pointed at the camera. Practically spilling out of your top, aren't you? 

He breathes heavily through his nose. Tastes guncotton in his throat. 

Ghost commits every face to memory, and then calls you. 

You're drunk. Too drunk to remember it tomorrow. Stuck in a pub on what's supposedly a bad part of town. Chatting away about going to your friend’s house. He gets the address, and something sour twits in his stomach. Shit council houses. 

“That safe?” He asks, leaning back in his chair. He's already chubbed up in his slacks at the slur in your voice. “And dressed like that? Didn't take you for a slag—”

It makes you sputter on the line. “I'm—I’m not—”

You're so quick to placate him. So hasty to make him happy. Please don't be angry with me, Simon. I'm just having some fun—

The claws and fangs are tucked away when you're drunk. He shoves the information in the cache, eyes burning. Head aching. He's feverish. Hot under the collar.

Odd considering he's dead—

“Sounds like you will be.”

“It's not like that—”

“‘ow would you know? Might meet a nice fellow. Might take him home.”

“I don’t—I wouldn't—”

The sniffle makes him throb. Fuck. “Yeah? Well, ain't none of my business, I reckon—”

“It is.”

“Oh? How's tha’?”

“I—I like you, Simon—” he can taste your embarrassment through the phone. He didn't even need to bring you flowers and you're already boxing him into monogamy, confessing to him. So sweet. So tender. If he were a better man, he might have told you to sober up. To talk about this tomorrow. 

Too bad for you, he isn't. And what’s worse is that he’s a loyal bastard, too. 

But that's later, and right now—

He's halfway across the world, and you're vulnerable. In the den of hungry mutts. 

It’s charr in his throat. Anger in his veins. “You like me? An’ you go out dressed like that?”

“There's nothing wrong with how I'm dressed—”

He sucks his teeth. “Dunno ‘bout tha’, pet. You look like you're achin’ to get fucked.”

You take a shuddering breath. “I just want you—”

“Yeah?” It's a growl. His cock spits prespend in his trousers. “Then be my good girl. Go home and wait for me.”

It's quiet on the line. He catches the hitch in your throat, the sharp exhale, like you can't really be sure if he's serious or not. He says nothing. Waits. 

Where there would have been a fight—fists and teeth and snarling words—you quieten in the silence. Docile. Submissive. It's in you, he knows. He saw the glimpses back when you first met, when he'd bent down and fixed the bike he broke. All it needs is a little—

“Jus’ worried about my sweet girl, is all.” 

And you relent. 

Corrosive oil spills out of the necrosed holes in his head. It curls over his thoughts, liquid sin. He takes himself in his hand, blood pulsing in his veins, white-hot, damning, and bares his teeth at the urge to come to you, to push you down on the floor, and mount you like a snarling beast—

“Good girl,” he growls when you tell him you'll call a taxi, that you'll go home and have some wine with your friend instead.

Friend. Friends. 

He'll have to do something about that. 

(The thing about deprivation is that it bleeds into a vicious sense of possession when it's finally obtained. Greed. His wants have wants, have wants—

A perfect ouroboros. One you feed into almost destructively.)

Because the thing is—

Simon wants to tie you to his bed. Keep you locked up in the safe house he has in Manchester. Chained, shackled. A prisoner with him as your iron guard. 

It isn't just fantasy, either. 

The flies that congregate around you are an annoying, incessant buzzing in his ears. Remora clinging to the biggest fish. 

But they're easy to scatter when he waves his hand. 

(Waves off. Threatens with bodily harm, with physical aggression—

Same thing.)

The sting in his knuckles and the blood on his shoes are worth it in the end when your tantalum skin cracks. An aggregate of beautiful lines, pretty in their fragility, their brokenness. He wedges his fingers between the splints, widening the chasm to pet at the sticky-soft centre hiding beneath all that rough rock. Sweet girl. Hard candy enclosing taffy-softness. 

His coos melt you to the consistency of mercury. Liquid silver pebbles along your lash line, spilling over in a dizzying display of raw vulnerability. 

It makes every predatory instinct inside of him bristle. Locking onto the sweet lines of crystalline sadness that run down your cheeks. It has his heart racing. Eager, anticipatory. The thrill of the chase, of running you down into the ground until you're fine powder under him. 

And it’s there, it's in his arms—the maw of a beast—where you seek comfort, lamenting the loss of your friends, your coworkers. No one wants to hang out with you anymore. They don't return your calls or answer your texts. 

What did I do? You sniffle, throat bared. Belly turned up. 

Flooded with tears. The lachrymal face that peers up at him makes his teeth ache. He rolls his head back, feels himself thicken in his pants. 

Simon loves it when you cry.

“Fuck ‘em,” he rasps, words sticking to his dry throat. “If they can't see what a catch you are, then they don't even deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

It makes you cry harder, makes you mumble into his chest about how lucky you are to have someone like him. Someone who cares. 

His breath hitches. Warm floods his veins, fever-hot. 

“Thank you, Simon—”

And then you, smooth silver and wickedly sweet, cradle him in your palms as if you could hold all the broken pieces of him together. 

He thinks it's cute. 

Doesn't really have the heart to tell you it's a lost cause.

“Anytime, pet.”

And you're perfect, too.

You take this mangy mutt into your house, and let it eat your food, sleep in your bed. You let him fuck you stupid, and listen so prettily when he convinces you to let him spoil you. Let him pay your rent, your bills. Let Simon dote on you the only way he knows how—mercilessly possessive, and a touch cruel, mean—but you roll over, showing your belly. Submissive and sweet. 

It's even better when you try to lash out at him with a collar in the shape of his teeth branding your neck, spitting and hissing like a feral cat who doesn't know yet that's claws have been clipped. Only to then curl up in his lap, purring as he strokes your fur, and carves out a place for himself in your life. 

He wants to sink his teeth into you, and you think he's a big dog. Undomesticated. One who comes and goes as he pleases. A stray. A mutt. 

It's said fondly. Full of love—

His mouth is full of cavities. His teeth ache. His gums bleed. 

(do you know he's rabid? that the faded name on his dog tags once read cujo—)

Everything about you makes that sludge flood behind his eyes, pounding rotten fists against his temple. take, take, take; mine, mine—

The howling doesn't stop. It tells him to press you into the mattress and fuck you stupid. Tie you to the bedposts and never let you go—

He throws fists in the dark, trying to hit the madness in his head. Ends up with bloody knuckles and laughter in his ears. 

(a voice of reason says, your bird is too big for a cage—)

He clings to it. 

You're warm beside him. Burning hot. He syphons it from your veins when you're asleep, pulling you close just to feel something on his skin other than dirt. Other than blood. 

It's easy to pretend he's fine with these little nips. Leaving teeth marks in your neck. Bloody rings snaking up your thighs. 

He wraps one hand around both of your wrists, holds them high above your head, and tells himself it's enough. Shackled by him, under him, as he takes you apart, pulling at your sense of independence like the gnarled fingers of winter bringing defoliation to summer's bloom, but even with this, all of it, he still aches. Still wants. Needs—

Stupid fuckin’ mutt. 

Then you bring his hands up to your throat, letting him wrap his bearish paws around your delicate neck, and he knows these little bites will never satiate the hunger in his guts. 

He wakes up the next morning feeling warm. Full. Edges softened, if only just, by the sticky sweetness of your breath ghosting over his chest. 

Simon curls his arm around you, holding tight.  He won't let go. Won't—

Hide it. Put it away. 

Ghost does neither of those things. He buries it, instead.  

But in doing so, you find cracks in the foundation. Ones that are just big enough for your willfulness to slip through. To hand him back the cash he gave with a scoff, and a, i work, too, you know? i don't need your money, Simon. that's not why i’m with you—

(All he hears is, I don't need you.)

And then you send him a text. I'm going out with friends from work tonight. We're going drinking. I'll talk to you tomorrow! 

In the zombified remains of his head, a new howling starts. The hisses tell him you're pulling away, running from him—

It's a big world out there. It'll eat you whole—

Like Tommy.

The thing about want is that sometimes it grows teeth, hands. Claws. Without a body of its own, it tends to mould itself after its maker because that's all it knows how to do: devour, consume. Yearn. 

He shouldn't be too surprised to find that this need of his has dug itself out of the grave he buried it in. 

(he did, too—)

The flimsy sarcophagus cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant.

The howling in the back of his head stops abruptly. The pulsing ache in his temple abates. It's heavy, this weight. This absolute, utter emptiness—

No. It's not hollow. The chasm isn't drained, it's—

(In the silence, something growls. Feral. Possessed.)

—full. Perfect equilibrium. All of the patchwork parts of himself, the ones that don't quite fit, suddenly find synergy. 

Communion. 

Ghost cocks his head in consideration.

(your bird is too big for a cage—

—but maybe a collar would do.)

—after all, could you ever leave him with his name etched into your womb—

In leaving the key under the mat for him to come and go as he pleases, you've left yourself vulnerable. But—

Not anymore. 

He has a safehouse he'll take you to. You'll let him, too, because it'll be the best choice for you. The three of you.

He's never entertained any ideas of family, not when the closest approximation he has is drenched in gun oil and smells of smoke from artillery fire, but the howling in his head quietens at the idea of it. He can't shackle you to the bed—stupid fucking mutt—but he can tie you down all the same. Make you his. Wholly. Always. 

And the thing is—despite a pickaxe making figure-eights out of his grey matter; lead poisoning and rust giving him these sour, awful thoughts about locking you up in his house, leaving you a needy mess, dependent only on him—Simon supposes he knows right from wrong. 

Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger. 

But in carving himself a place in your life, he failed to realise that the walls behind him closed in. No way out. And so, his only option is to go forward. To keep moving.

He'll be crucified for this, but that's fine. 

He doesn't intend for you to find out, anyway. It'll be an accident. He came home early, and found you drunk. Drank with you. Your drunken idiocy merged, creating a terrible, noxious cocktail of awful, bad choices. Permanent ones. Irreversible. 

(You're so sweet, so docile when you're drunk—)

It'll be easy to convince you. To play the part of a stoic man suddenly in turmoil. You'll offer to get rid of it, a suggestion that he'll flinch at—a cornered dog, a hand raising in the air. You'll whimper. Shake in his arms as you tentatively smooth over the wrinkles in his brow, murmuring out your options in a stilted breath.

You'll be a Riley before the end of your term. It's only proper, he'll mutter, stiff and uncomfortable, and you'll melt. Liquid tantalum in his palm. The fruits of his labour laid bare, seeping from the corners of his mouth. Tucked tight between his teeth. Mercury he can swallow down, keep in the bracket of his rotten ribs. Safekeeping from this world that just takes. Devours. 

But not if he eats you first. 

The mere notion alone serves as an anchor, locking him to the seafloor. The tumult in his head calmed at the promise of owning. Biting to claim. To have. Greedy for it. For you, and the strange sense of quiet your proximity brings him. The warmth, too. 

He's a rabid dog. This he knows—has known—for quite some time. Indisputable. It pools in his mouth. Liquid sin. Makes him ache for just a sip. Unquenchable, though, because he's wary of water. Hydrophobia, but only for how it washes his efforts away. Cleanses. 

The urge inside of him to bite, to infect, quietens when he gets closer to you. 

(a rabid mutt licking at the window you're on the opposite side of, dreaming of just a taste—)

A byproduct of that maddening virus in his veins, the one he must have picked up six feet in the ground. Bite, bitebite—

—and give you a collar in the shape of his teeth.

He finds you in bed. A bottle of wine on the end table beside you, courtesy of your friend. The one lingering remora he couldn't snap at—one who sends you messages about how you are being manipulated. Taken advantage of. Fuck that loser, the latest one says when he picks up your phone, scrolling through the dwindling conversations housed within. Just him now, and them. 

It preaches about empowerment. About how you shouldn't let a man pay your bills (textbook manipulation. he's putting you in a position of dependency. making you feel obligated to stay. it's all on Google, babes. like, fucking get a clue!!!!), or how it's moving so quickly (maybe you should come stay with me in Durham for a bit, hun. get away for a weekend. i worry about ya, is all). He hums, thumbing through the old chats. 

You told her to fuck off about the manipulation, but it came after a lot of, oh, yeah. well, he's just. you know. he's different, and you haven't declined the invitation. i’ll think about it, is what you write. 

It simmers under his skin. That independence he plans on stomping out under his heel. With his kin. 

(sick, sick sick, wrong—)

It's desperation, this. Clawing at the walls—the dirt—until his nails are torn off his fingers. Until his skin splits, peels. Broken under rock and rubble. That animalistic need for air. To breathe. Basic training tells him not to save the person drowning unless he's sure they won't kill him in their struggle to live. But what's he supposed to do when that person is his rotting body, sinking down to unfathomable depths? When all he has is you to cling to—

Damnation built by his own hands. 

You'll die together, he reckons, and tosses your phone on the hamper in the corner of the room. 

Ghost can't remember the last time someone made him feel anything at all other than impartiality. Indifference. Casual apathy. 

Price is the exception to this on the grounds of being consanguineous to him.

And you—

An outlier. 

One he intends on sinking as deep as he can with. Anchored, maybe, by this little plan that beats and pulses in the back of his head. That clogs his throat with a want so thick, he can already taste the brine from the ocean. Water in his nose. Down his esophagus—

Better than dirt, he supposes. And it spurns him forward.

You're malleable like this. Tensile. He bends you easily with just a touch until you're flat on your back, a pillow shoved beneath your tailbone, and stripped. The loose shirt you wear to sleep is hiked up under your neck. Panties are pulled off until your sweet, bare cunt is revealed to him. All pretty and soft, and his. Untouched, he notes, and gives an appreciative stroke over your clit with his thumb. 

It was something you were whining about the other day, panting in his ear as if he wasn't a continent away. Pleading with him on the phone to please, please let you come. 

Simon likes the way you cling to him when it's been a while since something has wrecked you as thoroughly as his cock. When your spoiled pussy was neglected for a few days, weeks, and starved for attention. You were so sweet to him then, cooing in his ear how good you've been, how much you want him and only him, need him. Begging so prettily for it. 

He's almost sad to spoil himself in your cunt when you can't weep for it. Can't bully him closer. Try to claw his eyes out. That delicious push-pull where you hiss at him for pulling away, but whine when he gets too close. 

Sad, but—

Not enough to stop himself. 

You're not wet enough for him to slide inside unprepared—his cock too big, something that makes his bones tremble—and he rectifies it by leaning down, letting saliva pool between his teeth and lips. He holds it there for a moment as he spreads your folds apart with his thumb and forefinger. 

And then he spits on your bare cunt. 

It hits your clit, the thick glob siding down your slit. He reaches between your thighs, pawing at you. Slides his fingers through the slick mess he made, teases around your tight rim. 

Simon usually likes to take his time with you. Lapping at your pussy for hours until you're a weeping, snot-nosed mess whining in the sheets. Spoiled rotten. Begging him to fuck you already, Simon, you can't take it anymore—

He's mean. Cruel. Edges you for hours until your legs shake, trembling around his ears. He never lets you reach that peak—doesn’t let you come until he's buried inside of you. 

Coming on his tongue, his fingers, is rarely a privilege you ever earn. Too much of a spitfire, a spiteful little kitten, to give in and do what he demands. So he keeps you on the precipice until he's ready to fuck you, ignoring your bribes, your bargains. Simon doesn't give in even when you beg, when you relent and tell him you'll finally be good. 

You never are. 

Spoiled, he always huffs. Down to the fuckin’ bone. 

Like now. Pulling away from him. Him, the only person in your life who stuck around. A little bullying (bones breaking, splintering under his fists; the wet, hot smear of blood on his hands, skulls smacking against the pavement—an’ if you tell anyone, he cracks his battered fists and it sounds like a snarl, a gunshot, your parents will be cryin’ over an empty grave—) shooed the gnats away. He took a more clandestine approach to others. Birds that kept circling you tight. Protective, shrill. They made his head ache, but—

(don't want to start nothin’, but i don't want to be alone wit’ ‘er. tried to kiss me, is all. ain't like that, pet—)

It was a test. And they all failed. All but him. 

Yet—

come to Durham. 

i’ll think about it. 

Ungrateful. It's his fault, though. Simon doted on you too much, cosseted by his affection, when he should have clipped your wings from the beginning. 

Ah, well—

Lesson learned. 

You're wet enough now. He pushes in two fingers, scissoring them apart. You'd be yowling at him, kicking up a fuss if you'd been awake. But you're not. It thrums through him. Thick, heady. He likes you like this—probably more than he should. The heat simmering in his veins bubbles. Pops. Sap on charring wood. It clogs his throat with his smoke until it burns, a dry forest fire. 

He needs you. Needs to be in you. He's tired of waiting. Impatience burrows into him like a maelstrom. 

Simon adjusts his hold on your leg, fingers curling behind your kneecap. Steadying himself. His fingers slip out of your cunt with a sloppy squelch that ghosts across his spine. Anticipatory. A touch anxious. He wants you. Wants you bad—

He takes himself in his hand, and slides the weeping tip over your slit. Taps it once, thrice on your clit. And then guides it to your centre. Your warmth bleeds into him. Eager, he shuffles forward. Feeds you his cock. Eyes drilling into the place where his head slips in, swallowed by your sloppy, wet hole. The glands make you stretch around him. Rim pulled taut. 

The sight alone must have been crafted by some Luciferian dream, dangled before him in the shade of nirvana. 

take a bite, it urges. and then take more—

Like this, passed out with your legs hitched over his shoulders, drooling into the pillow unawares, you're just a doll. 

Made for him, and—

“Fuckin’ hell—” He presses into you—cock splitting tight, warm heat—and tries not to lose himself to the sensation of being bare, raw, inside of you. 

—“A perfect fit.”

It's always been condoms. You're not on birth control. Ink blots in his eyes. He goes a little feral with it. Instincts unleashed. Unfettered. 

Simon bullies his fat cock into you until his hips tap the back of your thighs, buried as deep as he can go. It's molten heat cocooning him—a warm embrace. For the first time, ever, he thinks he understands the meaning of home. Sliding home, in particular. 

(Welcome home. Home. Home. He'll make a house out of your body. Sleep inside the brackets of your thighs, head pillowed on your chest—)

As good as you feel around him—slick, wet, and tight—and as much as he wants to saviour the sight of you, passed out on the pillow, cunt split by his cock, he has a goal, a mission, to see through. 

His hand falls, slick and tacky, to your lower belly. Palm pressing against the subtle bulge in your abdomen, the outline of his cock. You always whine and hiss that he's too big for you. That you can't take him to the root. 

Hurts, you complain, hand against your naval. Fingers knotting over the place that aches. 

He presses his fingers there instead, feeling himself under your skin. Changing your anatomy to make room for him to fit—

It lights him in fire. Spurns him on. He bucks into you, pace sloppy, clumsy. Selfish. He's unrelenting as he splits you apart, drilling the full length of himself into your supine body, supple flesh relaxed under him, practically melting into the sheets. 

The thread keeping his resolve, his self-control, sprung up tight begins to quiver. Each piston into you has delicate fingers drumming across the strings of a harpsichord. It reverberates through him, echoing in the stifling, suffocating, silence of the bedroom, overtaking it. Clouding it with the musk of his desire, his devotion to you, to this dream blooming in the prison of his mind. 

Everything narrows into a needlepoint. 

There's just your burning flesh beneath him, softer than it's ever been; pillowy. Welcoming. And the sounds of him fucking into you—lewd squelches, slick and wet; the sound of his cock finding home in the basin of your spread thighs; his heavy breaths, his groans and growls that seem to rattle the bed. The noise breaks, an incomplete requiem of sin in his head, and he loses himself in the lulling notes, dragged under in the bestial beat of taking what his—

A sudden noise shatters through the room. Beneath him, you stir, gasping wetly. The sound mangled in your throat. 

There's confusion in your sleepy, hazy gaze when you peer up at him, lashes clumping together. You moan, whimpering, as you struggle to latch on to the threads of cognisance that he's content to fuck out of you. Your hand lifts, falls to his wrist still pressed against your lower belly. The grip is lax, loose. You’re not pushing him away, but clinging to him. Centring yourself. 

It makes his blood thicken. Has him burning red-hot. 

“Wha’s a’matter, pet?” He taunts, grinding his cock into you hard enough to make your dazed eyes water. Your hand tightens around him, holding steady. “Don't like it? Not fuckin’ you hard enough?”

“Simon—”

His name tapers off into a keen when he angles hips, and starts pistoning into you with a mean, merciless fury. The desperate noises that spill, unhindered, from your slack mouth is the perfect accompaniment to the lewd sound of him fucking your sopping cunt; the piece he was missing when this started. His requiem, complete. 

It's a serrated blade to his self-control, already frayed and threadbare as it is. The pressure makes it snap.

“C'mon, sweet thing. Thought you wanted this?” 

There's a place in hell just for him. It's sealed when you blink your tired, sleepy eyes up at him, mind a slurry of lingering somnolence and the heady alcohol on your breath, and offer a shuddering whimper. Always so soft for him, so agreeable when you’re drunk. 

“So’ry, Simon—”

You can barely string words together. Poor, pitiful you—vulnerable under him. Breakable. Malleable. Anyone else could have tricked you into this same position when he was away. Got you beneath them like this, compliant and unawares, and took what belongs to him. 

(The only thing in this destitute existence he claims for himself—)

Not anymore. Not ever again. 

It's almost callous when he grinds into you. Hateful. Brutish. Furious. And dazed as you are, you barely even flinch at the snarls that spill, unfettered, from the back of his throat. The low groans of him making promises with devils unknown; constructing shackles from brass, iron. 

Entrenching his future in motion, cupped protectively between the parentheses your thighs make around his hips. It's almost a vicious sort of poetry, one laid bare in the odious ruins of that broken thing he calls a heart. Etched into his rotten pericardium. Necrosed devotion. He'll see it through—however noxious, and putrid, you might find the miasmal stench of it spun tight in his web. 

It's for your own good.

And as if you agree, you answer him in perfect euphony, moaning sweetly as you tilt your hips up for more. 

Ghost groans low in his throat, bestial and spinning rapidly out of his control. He feels everything spinning, slipping; the trudge to the finish line narrows into a pinprink. He needs something to cling to, to hold on to with broken hands—

The only purchase he finds is in your demise. 

His hand lifts, shaking yours loose. He reaches up, fingers dig into your chin, forcing your pouty mouth open. You blink at him, sluggish, but he catches the thin gossamer of awareness spooling thin cobwebs over darkened crevasses, covering the canyons in your eyes with cognisance. It makes him leer. 

“Stick your tongue out, pretty girl,” he rasps, words sticking together, muffled under the mask. Crushed aggregate stone under the weight of his own desire. “Tha’s it. Open up nice and wide—”

He lets spit gather again, pooling on his tongue. It's degrading, you always say. Gross. But you swallow it down like a good girl, anyway. Always. You come at him with fangs and claws, but somehow, you always merge in a perfectly dizzying polyphony. 

Ghost spits on your tongue. Lets it land right in the middle of fleshy pink. A sick, twisted pleasure thrums in his veins at the sight. 

There's checking the boxes of an established kink, and this. Horrifically proprietary. Ownership that ignites a fire in his marrow, setting him alight from the inside out. Turns bone into blackened char, cinder. He can almost taste it on his tongue. 

It's made worse, turned frenzied, when you—sweet, perfect, you—bracket it protectively in the curve of your tongue. Completely dazed, head filled with a heady slurry of somnolence and alcohol, but still aware enough to know, even if only through muscle memory, what you're meant to do when he spits in your mouth. 

If anything, you're more obedient like this. Little doll. Coddling it lovingly, this little piece of him that he gives you. 

And it might be the madness speaking—these fraying thoughts take on a vitriolic edge, corrosive aqua regia pooling in his throat—but Christ. He's been stabbed in the guts, repeatedly, and it somehow packed less of a punch than this. 

He wants, wants—

Family never crossed his mind, was never even on the table or something to be considered, but with you it brims. Blooms in rot. Roots in tenebrous. 

He has this insatiable urge to devour you whole so you'll always be with him. The waves of his desire are monstrous. The waters below are rapacious. A gaping maw eager to eat you up—

Pity it’s not an option. 

But he’ll make do. Buy a ring tomorrow. Something pretty that matches your eyes. The curve of your smile. Sanctioned ownership. A collar in gemstones and gold, glimmering and shining bright enough that should any light fade from your gaze, it’ll illuminate in the gloom; twilight made in sorrow. The prettiest blues—

Said eyes water. Ghost’s hold on your face relaxes when you give a muffled keen, cheeks bubbling up against the pressure. Tongue still stuck out even as he takes his pleasure from your supine flesh. Suspended in motion, stasis. Such a good girl for him—

He swallows. Tastes poison, rot, on his tongue. “Swallow.” 

You're a little sluggish, a little slow, but you follow his command all the same. He knows, then, that it could only ever be you. 

No one gets under his skin like this. No one makes him itch, want, crave, as much as you do—

You make a face, twisted up in some amalgamation of pleasure and confusion. It nudges the ruins of his chest and feels almost like a heartbeat when it pulses in his flesh. 

“Simon, Simon—”

His name is all you can say, and he's not sure if you're begging for mercy, or muttering it out into the scant air between your heaving breaths like an obsecration, an orison, but he eats it all the same. Bites down on your pleas, your cries, your prayers, and chews them up between fangled teeth. Takes them down into the swirling pits of his belly where they're eaten alive by what grows in the decay.

(belly full of dirt:

he heaves, and heaves, but nothing comes out even though he can taste humus in his throat, feel worms using his organs like a playground—)

“Somethin’ you want, pet?” He taunts, and shifts his hips back just enough to drag a few inches of his cock out of your drenched cunt. A tease—cruel and mean. He’d get lobbed upside the head for this had you been in your right mind. A tap to his temple, shaking the cobwebs loose. He would have bent down, and sunk broken teeth into your jugular. Merging violence with love until bloody knuckles feel like a kiss. “All you ‘ave to do is ask. Use your words, pretty thing—”

You whine, low and drawn out. A lazy whimper in the back of your throat. “Pl’se—”

You can barely speak. Tongue too thick. Sleep too heavy in your veins. Alcohol, too. A lesson, perhaps, for his willful little pet come the morning when you struggle to measure just how deep into his gullet you’ve let yourself fall. 

He can’t help rubbing salt into the shallow cuts, if only because he likes the way you pout. 

“C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better’n that.”

And damn him—damn you—you do. Your hand curls over his wrist, pulling it close to your mouth where you place a kiss against his palm. Tender. Chaste. Midnight blooms in your eyes, casts shadows under pale moonlight. His breath stutters in his chest when you lean your head back, letting his hand fall to your bared neck. 

Your heavy, lidded eyes gaze back at him, cutting through the shade of night that sews the air like satin. Etched in the file silk is threads of trust in stark white. The kind that bleeds for him; hungers. One that aches, always tender like a bruise. The throb of it echoes between mouldering ribs. Booms between his ears. 

Ghost doesn’t fall into pieces. Doesn’t shatter. No. Something in the splintered remains shifts. Settles. He wraps his fingers around the thick of your throat, thumb notched tight against your pulse, and he feels complete. Whole. Remade from the ruins. 

Your breath hitches. The sound is a gunshot in his ears. He squeezes down, a gentle press. Just enough to make the air spill out of your lungs, to let your eyes water. Lachrymose, eager. It does something to him when you cry. He feels tipped upside down, torn inside out. Left all askew, asunder. He wants to drown in the pebbling river growing against your lashline. Wants to drink it down until it quenches his neverending thirst. Wants, wants—

He feels his name spill from your lips. Brassy and broken, trembling against his palm. A plea—

More.

And he gives it to you. 

Simon hitches your ankle on his shoulder. Adjusts the grip he has on your throat. He settles over your body, blanketing you under his bulk. Stygian beast devouring the maiden whole. The thought amuses him even as it knocks the air from his lungs. 

He anchors himself into the mattress with his knees, steadying himself, curls his other hand around the iron ring of the headboard. All the while, you look up at him—glossy eyes burning coals in the dark, in the gloom. Wanting, hungry. Mouth held open as if you’re waiting for his scraps—

And then he bucks into you, the leverage giving his thrust a savage edge. 

The whines are snuffed out under his palm. Your eyes widen, tears now spilling down your temple, soaking the pillow below your head. 

He groans, head rolling back. “Fuckin’ hell—ain’t you a pretty sight?”

Tucked under him, throat swallowed by his palm. Split on his cock, slick and wet. The tears streaming down your face makes him feel wicked, foul; but the spit running down your slackened jaw quells any doubt. The hand on his wrist holds him tight, tighter still, to your flesh. 

You want this. His spoiled rotten bird.

So, he gives it to you.

Simon’s almost ruthless when he snaps his hips into yours, cooing viciously into your ear about how you feel, how you look, how you sound—so pretty wrapped around him, under him; his little doll—

“S’where you belong, pet—” guttural words spill, flintlike and savage, from his mangled throat. Reinforced with the hateful way he blugeons his cock into you. Times it perfectly with the firm squeezes against your jugular, never letting you catch your breath. Your eyes roll back, legs trembling. Shaking. But you don’t move, don’t struggle. The hand on his wrist is a shackle, and it makes him smirk, scars pulling up in a gnarled mess of mirth; ugly and mean. “Right where you belong. Ain’t tha’ right?”

He leans down, babbles nonsense into your temple. Promises you the heads of gods, the ichor they bleed. Swears he’ll build a shrine for you in Durham.

But for as mocking as these words he murmurs into your ear are, they’re tremulous. Raw. A current roars beneath; a steady stream, a plea, all full of need: stay, stay staystay—

(please)

He buries his nose into your hairline to stem the ravening ache in his guts, breathes in the heady scent of you—of sex, and wine, and sweat. Drags it into his lungs in harsh, angry gasps to stain his skin with the smell of you. Of him. 

It goes right to his head in a heavy rush until he’s dizzy, almost sick, with the swell of it flooding in. An animal, he thinks, drunk on merging pheromones that make him mindless. Unfettered. 

It’s as if he’s driven on instinct alone; his frenzied pace ebbs, grows sloppy. The air around him feels thick. Syrupy. Stifling. The balmy breath in his chest is nearly as unbearable as it is addicting. Sickeningly sweet. Still—

His chest expands, taking as much of the potent miasma into his lungs as he can, filling them up, up, until he feels the edges threaten to brust. It’s only then, when ink moults across his vision, that he lifts his head just enough to shove his mouth against yours, a broken snarl ripping free from his throat as he forces the infectious air into your mouth, down to your lungs. Polluting you with the same sickness. The same rot. 

Little hiccups tumble past your lips as you swallow it down, taking everything he gives you, and he catches them on his tongue. Plays with them between his teeth, basking in the salty tang of you—brine, loam; peatsalt. Ashes, guncotton. Molasses. He’s not sure if he wants to drown you in him, or crawl into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth that pulses around his tongue like a heartbeat. 

Both, maybe. Everything. All of it. 

Always—

But he’s chasing pleasure on fumes. Trying to run with broken legs. There’s nothing refined about this. About the way he cudgels the head of his cock into the places that make your mouth twist away from his greedy lips in a silent scream. His weight is crushing you, he’s sure, but you cling to him harder, holding him tighter. Almost afraid to let go. And fuck—the notion alone is a kick to the chest, harsh and heavy. He nearly gags on the litany of broken moans spiling out of his mouth, landing on your tongue. 

Driven mad, maybe (or pussy-drunk, and high off of his own poison); but in that madness, he discovers this:

Nirvana exists between your thighs. 

Home, too. 

(well—

not yet.)

Pleasure fissions down his spine. The paroxysm taking him deeper into the battle-worn depths of his demise until the walls narrow, closing in. Crushing. No escape. But—

He won’t climb out of his hole he dug. Not until he makes a bed from your flesh; shelter out of your bones. He wants to ingrain himself as deep within you as he can, arsenic subsumed down to your marrow. Poisoned with the fill of him, too sick to let go. 

(Bone nausea. 

A death sentence.)

It metastasises inside of him, filling the barren spaces up until it leaks from his pores. 

He wants it: this dream so tantalisingly close. 

Simon lifts his hand from your throat, and reaches out, grasps at it with a shaking paw—

All it takes is a few crass, careless swipes of his calloused thumb across your clit, cock angled toward that spot that makes you rake your broken nails down his back, yowling in his ear for more, there, please, Simon, please—

You clench like a vice around him. A pretty bow tied up at the base of his cock. He bows over you, grunts spilling from his chest as he sinks his teeth into your nape, splitting skin btween his teeth. The warm, ozonous tang of your blood flooding his tongue is euphoric, eclipsing his mind in a haze of pleasure that crackles and burns at the base of his spine, spitting smoke up his body and into his skull. 

The harsh whine you let out—all prey, all animal; wounded, stuck under his muzzle—has some part of him, basal and inborn, rearing up. Roaring in his ears, ripping talons across the jagged remains of his head. 

(mine, mine, mine—)

He answers your scream with a growl, one caught in the smoke clogging his throat. It sounds inhuman when its wrenched out of his mouth—more animal than man: the devastating howl of a forest on fire—but the feel of it vibrating between his teeth is connatural. Innate. It belongs between his incisors; fits like a puzzle piece in his broken muzzle. Unleashed now. Finally free from this ill-fitting cage he housed it, this goddamn box—

Cobbled together from palm ash and brimstone, ichor and salt. Sewed up with copper sutures in the shape of a man for a perfect fit. 

Every cell in his body screams that he was made for this. To be over you, in you. Maw filled with your blood. Pussy stuffed full of his cock. 

He might not have clawed out of the dirt for you, but this mossy, gnarled lump in his chest beats now only for you. Apodictic. Ironclad. His teeth in your jugular, your life pulsing wetly on his tongue. 

It’s his apotheosis. His end. 

His hips stutter. White noise in his head. It drowns out the shrill screams, the hisses. Everything is just—static. Pleasure of a silent kind, humming, buzzing, and molten. Ghost buries himself inside of you as deep as he can, until his cock is fit snug against the plug of your womb, and lays his claim by branding it with the potency of his name. 

Tidally locked, you’re dragged down the summit with him, tumbling to your demise. Too dazed, too wound tight in his arms, his embrace, to see the jagged rock at the bottom of the hungry chasm thirsting for your blood, you just cling to him. Refusing to let go. 

(silly girl—

His pretty little perigee.)

His body aches in ways that cruelly remind him of his age. Joints stiff, stomach quivering. His knuckles sting when he unfurls it from the headboard, skin pink and raw from the tight hold he had around the metal. 

It’s made worse when he heaves a harsh breath, and pulls away from you with a long, drawn out groan. He settles back on his haunches, eyes searing into the space between your thighs. Messy with his spend. It dribbles down your slit, your ass, pools on the sheets below. 

Your chest shudders, legs splayed out how he left you. He thinks, viciously, of gazelles, and wonders if the blood he feels drying on his mouth looks anything like the muddied mane of a lion after eating its fill. 

“Fuckin’ hell—”

He should clean you up, hide his crime, but he burns the image of you into his head (another tattoo over scar tissue), and drops to a heap beside you. The moment his back hits the mattress and all thoughts of moving are erased in silk, in smoke and clover. 

Chest heaving, slick with sweat, he feels the thrum of his victory in his veins. The high of the chase abates, and he nearly purrs with contentment. Hangs his pride on a pedestal, and doesn’t think about the absence of any guilt. Doesn’t even entertain the thought, not when victory dries between your thighs. When you roll over with a huff, reaching out for him. 

It's as if you're trying to bury yourself inside of him, crawl into the safety of his ribs. 

Ghost grunts, feels his sensitive, spent cock give a feeble twitch on his sticky thigh. The idea of you, blissfully unaware, seeking comfort from the man who writ your body with his virile spend, irrevocably changing your life and entwining it so deeply and so messily with his own that to severe either of you from each other is nearly impossible, floods him with satisfaction so deep, euphorically heady, that his chest seems to shudder. Resounding with some amalgamation of a purr, a grow, so utterly primal, that he sounds more beast than man. 

His roots run deep within you, now, and every misaligned piece of his patchwork body seems to sag and shiver in an almost perfect parallelism. Congruence ascertained with the cupping of you between its mismatched maw. Shackled in a baleen prison. Nestled, safe and sound, between white teeth. 

Ghost pulls you close, holding tight, and hums. As you drool on his shoulder, dripping with his spend, he knows he'll keep you there forever, until you're nothing but bones. 

There's a cloud of confusion hanging over you the next morning, a twinge of uncertainty gnarling across the gaps in your memory. The pieces of a puzzle that belong to a different set. He watches you scramble through them, filling in blanks. Oscillating so deliciously between wariness and discontent. 

“‘morning,” he greets, as if his spend hasn’t dried on your thigh last night. Tucked up nice and tight against your fertile, unprotected womb. As if he couldn't taste brimstone in the back of his throat when you wince as you walk, achy and battle-worn from the weight of his desire crushing you all night. 

“Morning,” it's a sticky rasp in your throat. He wonders if you taste him on your tongue. “When did you get in?”

“Las’ night.”

You nod, but it's absent. Flickering through the timeline of events that aren’t drenched in black, shaded over like a heavy bruise. Your expression is fractured. Raw. Pensive. Something untouchable, unchartable, and yet he reads you as plainly as the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup. 

You don’t remember. Don’t know what to make of this chasm, this fissure, that looms, icy and deep, before you. There’s no anger, though. You don’t demand recompense for what he stole, what he took. The lashings he deserves are tucked quietly between your teeth. Hidden under layers of normalcy to prevent yourself from seeing him as is: a beast. 

“Well, um. Some homecoming, huh?” You joke, but it's hollow. Flat. Fragile like fine glass. You're digging for more. Rooting around to connect these vague, absent dots that linger, lost in the vacancy of your memory. 

He almost purrs. 

He wants to chew you up. Spit you in the palm of his hand. Maybe tuck you in his breast pocket, nestled against the lump in his chest—the one those silly enough to dream might call a heart. Keep you there forever. Hidden in the barrel of his loaded gun. 

“Bit rowdy.” 

It’s horrifically vague, but you cling to the prevacation he proffers to you; a lifeline in the turbulent sea, letting it overwrite the absence, the itching in your skull that must be clanging on the walls, begging for you to run. 

“Sorry,” it's sheepish. He knows the ferality in which you sometimes come at him when he's buried deep inside you is something that makes you twinge with embarrassment. Little kitten clawing at the old dog trying to get it to play. Rolling over immediately when it growls. Docile, sickeningly sweet.

But even naive kittens know to watch out for the frothing, foaming maw. 

“Did you use a—?”

He dips his chin. “I might ‘ave.”

And you take it as gospel. As truth. Why would Simon have any reason to lie to you about this? 

Relief shudders over your shoulders. You relax, inching toward the seat across from him. Gazelle making a home for itself in the lion’s den. 

The spell of unease is broken, now, and you quickly fill the chasm with chatter about your day. Your plans. Asking him how he’s been. 

You shove at the warning signs until they’re hidden away, and ignore the bones of your brethren scattered around you. All because you trust him. 

He aches with the urge to crush it between his teeth. 

And he will one day soon, he’s sure, because it’s just as easy to enact his plan as it was to get you to open the door. 

It starts with him convincing you to drink with him after dinner. Jus’ a glass. Got this fancy bottle. Reckon we should ‘ave some. 

But—

Can’t drink forever—no matter what his dogshit dad thought. 

So, he pokes holes in the condoms you hide in the bedside table, a little wary now. A touch fretful about your contraceptives in a way that makes him preen. You have good instincts, but rarely do you listen to them. Your head must be filled with sirens, but it's futile, he supposes. He's already stuffed cotton into your ears. 

It only feeds into that gaping chasm that bellows up from the depths that this world is not good for you. That it will tear you into pieces, into shreds. You need him. Need the Ghost to protect you. 

Case in point:

You’re needy beneath him, panting and mewling into the sheets as he teases your clit with his thumb. So wet, it almost feels like hot oil on his skin. Syrupy thick. 

In your desperation, you cling to him, throat bared. Fragile fine china. Belly up. Vulnerable. 

You barely notice when he pulls off the condom, crumpling it up into a ball and shoving it in the pocket of his slacks.. Don’t even react when he shoves his bare, raw cock into you. 

You don't even notice. 

(or when he slurs in your ear about how badly he wants to knock you up—breed his pretty girl until she’s stuffed full of him, making life with what he offers. salvation in the form of creation. ain’ tha’ a thought? he huffs into your ear, humid mirth curling over your skin. a stain. and the way it unfetters you—tightening around him, gushing slick—he finds his answer, one reinforced in the rolling of your eyes as your common sense, independence, trickle out of your ears and down your slackened jaw—)

And when that fails, he just slips you a sleeping pill. There's always an easier way to the finish line, he finds. 

(stupid fuckin’ mutt—)

Nothing bleeds from the cracks he wrought, or slinks from the shadows cast by his machinations until weeks later. 

Life just goes back to what it once was—Simon coming and going, letting himself into your home with the door you leave unlocked. You go to work, and chatter aimlessly about this vision you have about a home in the countryside, near the ocean. Saving up—uselessly—for sheep and goats, and the sought-after Highland cows. Chickens and ducks first, you say, and barely notice when his gaze drops, drilling holes into your stomach. Watchful. Leering. 

He can almost scent the change on you. Nose pressed to your skin; bloodhound sniffing the ground. 

Ghost keeps time in the slow, susurrus drawl of your voice sifting through the cotton in his ears, waiting for those precious decibels to catch on, to tilt up at the end as your eyes skim the calendar he keeps scratching x’s across in red, almost delicate, innocent even though it's from his sanguinary hand. A countdown to something you haven’t yet caught on to. 

And it’s all so sweet. 

—the waiting game, the subtle changes, the desperate way you cling to normalcy—

Sweet, like the way you carve this life out for yourself, filled with stuffed animals full of idealism. So much so, that it's almost bitter. Acrid. He watches the light glow in your eyes as your plans take shape, moulding putty between your hands, and like a pit viper, he coils in on himself. Frenzied. Fearful—

But only just. 

The excitation has run its course. He’s drifting, languid, into his scheme. Content. The notion of you slipping from his fingers is a thought that rarely crosses his mind these days, especially when that house on the prairie grows from an occupant of one to two—

“And, you know… when you're not out saving the world—” your eye roll and air quotes make his lips twitch, tugging at the scar tissue, the acid burns, splashed across his mouth. An ugly fucking Pollock. “—maybe you can come visit.”

“Never fancied myself a rancher,” he drawls, just to watch you squirm. Brow furrowing into a deep ravine as you struggle to make your intentions known without actually giving them sound. Skirting around the issue of wanting him there, of planning a home with him. 

(Too much, maybe? Or too soon—? 

if only you knew—)

He finds it charming, really. 

Still—

“It's just a thought,” you mutter, downcast. He wants to choke on your misery. Your sadness. Drown himself in your anger. Float in your happiness. 

Fuckin' Christ—

All this playing daddy in his head has thrown him off his rocker. Made him soft. Sentimental. It's probably why he yields to you. Offers a lazy shrug and another smarmy twitch of his lips. 

“Sounds like a plan,” and the way you brighten is a dagger to his chest. 

And the thing is. It does. It sounds like a dream, a perfect vision. Just—

Maybe not in the way you'd want. 

He's been looking into places unmarred by human hands. Ghost towns, uncharted territories. His home here isn't perfect for it, not like the vast geography of Mexico. The uninhabited wilderness of Canada, places so remote that it's almost untethered to modern civilisation. Islands of forest, mountains, all on their own. 

Vast corners and crevasses where someone can disappear and never be found. 

But those won't work in tandem with his flighty lifestyle. While he plans on keeping you barefoot and pregnant (common sense in the back of his head screams that he's foul, vile, monstrous—), he will continue to work. Has to, really, to avoid suspicion. 

So—

Home it is. 

But he gets inspiration from the Highland cows you coo on about and purchases a plot of land in the Western Isles. Gives this whim of his—yours, really—a concrete foundation made of the abstract. The filament provided by his newly christened Sergeant—an overeager mutt that bleeds warning signs from his pores. 

(don’t get close, reactive dog. will bite—

the little mutt is a great pyrenees, ain’t he?)

But bless Johnny’s bleedin’ heart, he thought as the man prattled on about this cabin he owns. A place of solitude. Could fire a gun and no one would even peek out the curtains. Beautiful, the way all of Scotland is. The highlands, he breathes in that shade of catholic madness only the dutiful soldiers of god's right-handed wrath can be, is where he keeps his home. A place chiselled from stone, surrounded by wilderness that eats tourists alive. 

(he didn’t ask at the time why Johnny was so keen on finding these places scattered around Scotland, ones with little traffic and a nearly negligible amount of souls within the vicinity, but he finds its best not to get too close to mutts crossbred with wolves.)

But Simon is nothing if not devoted, and so. 

You’ll get your fantasy ranch in the middle of nowhere. Your highland cows, your billy goats, your chicken, sheep, and ducks. A baby in your arms, too. One that shows its hand the next morning, dashing all your carefully laid plans. These paths of independence of yours run parallel to his whims but never converge. There’s the potential in this for these fraying threads to split, and diverge. Separate. 

(But it’s all put to rest at the sound of you heaving in the adjoining washroom. His path eats yours until it’s overtaken. Consumed. 

The evasive, unfettered little bird trammelled, caught. Wing-clipped, and all his.) 

Any misgivings the part of his gyri not buried under the frothing mess of his polluted grey matter might have is vitiated by the unwavering certitude that, despite his own gains in this, it really is in your best interest. 

And maybe it's something that should have come earlier in your relationship—however threadbare that word is in conjunction with the unhinged desire blooming in the pit of his chest; madness masquerading as love or some obsessive, desperate facsimile of it. Maybe a proper man, a better one, might have dug down and fully laid out the reality of intertwining your life with the living dead. That the idea of danger, death, and revenge are all everpresent threats scratching at the walls of this sickeningly sweet fantasy you wrap around yourself. 

He’s a dangerous man. A creature of devastation—manmade, bent into, or congenital is yet to be unearthed—which, in itself, brings about a certain lifestyle. One with fewer people around, and always shrouded in secrecy. Friends, family—none of that matters when death curdles gnarled fingers around his jugular. 

You’ll get used to it. Eventually. The only other choice is to let you, his now flightless bird, go. Released back into the wild vulnerable and reeking of his stench. 

You’ll be devoured before daylight, ripped into pieces—only if they’re feeling generous, that is. 

Simon has his own twisted remora. Ones with claws and fangs and a hunger that runs deep. Insatiable. Any scraps that fall from his mouth are devoured before they can touch the sea floor. They’ll crush you in their maw and dangle your mangled body from the gaps between their teeth. 

You’re not made for the wild. Not anymore. You’re meant to be protected. You—this fragile, delicate thing. He’ll hold you close, keep you secure and safe in a mausoleum of your own making. 

This little glass jar domicile. 

A billet in the mountains. 

He’ll fill it with the finest things—silk linens, fine china; mahogany and teak, pink ivory; a bed of soft, downy feathers, sherpa, Egyptian cotton; (sticks and stones and grass and moss). Buy you whatever you need. Chickens and ducks. Sheep and goats. 

They’ll keep you company when he’s away. 

(and if that fails, he can always plan playdates for you with whatever dirty secret Johnny’s been keeping tucked away in the woods.)

He draws an x in the empty, white box of the calendar, the tip of his red marker gliding silkily across the glossy surface. Something unfurls in his guts. Blossoms in his bones. There’s an almost indescribable sense of satisfaction—primal and animalistic—that grows from the upturned dirt in his head. Life composted from rot. 

Ghost hums to himself when he turns, the sound nearly a purr—bestial as it is, suffocated under sulphur. It reverberates through his chest, trembling across the brackets of his ribs that expand with his deep, heavy inhale—breathing in the sight that greets him like a lover’s kiss

The kebab he ordered lays untouched on the table across from the television—some trashy reality show playing in the background while you tried to eat; a dating show, you’d said when he merely shrugged, having other things on his mind over what to watch while you ate. It all seems to be preserved in time. Frozen in on the exact moment when you’d sniffed the döner kebab he got for you—the same thing you order each time—and then promptly wrenched yourself back, gagging. The sandwich was flung back in the takeaway box before you slapped your hand over your mouth, rushing into the washroom. 

If his phone wasn’t in the other room, he might have taken a picture. A little memento to remember this moment. Framed it in iron and perched it on the desk they gave him back in Hereford, the one just down the hall from Price. 

(ah, speaking of—he’ll have to send that caustic bastard a fruit basket, or something, won’t he? maybe some pretty flowers for his lady.)

His reverie is shaken when the door to the washroom creaks open slowly, and you emerge through the gap with sweat on your brow, knots across your forehead, and a shaking hand resting over your churning stomach. 

Shame, he thinks. He really should have brought his phone—

You lean against the wall, taking in deep, shuddering breaths to steady yourself, confusion and worry knitting over you like a thundercloud. It tastes of ozone when he inhales. An approaching storm. In the blue gloom of the living room, illuminated only by the light flooding out from the washroom behind you and the static glow of the television, you look etiolated. A wilting flower. 

His budding rose. 

He coos. “You alright?”

You glance sideways at the kebab on the table, mouth pinching into a grimace as if to stem the nausea still rippling through you. You stare at it for a long moment, seemingly trying to make sense of the reality sitting in front of you on scratched, old pine; confusion runs laps over the dawn cresting in your eyes. This puzzle is too unfathomable for you to piece together; the keys and slots all askew. 

The air around him grows still. Silent. Anticipatory. A tiger crouched low in the tussock. A little fawn roaming too close. 

There’s a heaviness in your eyes when they flicker back to the wall where he stands, drilling holes into the x. Something implacable frissons over your threadbare expression, fracturing across sallow cheeks. 

The air is electric. It pulses across his bare flesh, irritating scar tissue, acid burns, and scorch marks. His skin prickles at its whisper. 

“Feelin’ sick, pet?” He ponders, playing pretend. He’s viciously, deeply amused at the desperate denial splashing across your cheeks. The thin shade of askance that unfurls like the leaves of a flytrap when you look at him. “Mus’t’a been the kebab. Bad meat, I reckon?”

You offer a weak nod in response, pinching your lips tight together. The matter seemingly concluded, brushed aside. Pocketed for later. 

And you say nothing else for the rest of the night—gaze unseeing, turned inward; pensive—but he purrs in contentment as if everything was alright, sprawled across the couch with his head pillowed against your churning stomach as if he could hear the whisper of another heartbeat from within. 

In the saturated blue light, he catches your eyes listing toward the calendar every so often. Wary. Nervous. He thinks you might say something, might ask, but you don’t. It’s caught on a stilted breath. A harsh swallow. 

All you do is bring your hand to his shorn head, and raze the stumps of your clipped claws against his scalp. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soothe the madness from within. Scratching that itch deep inside until it goes away. Gentle hands play pretend and dress up as a panacea. Affection to scrape the illness away. 

He thinks you should know better than that, even as he leans into it with a soft exhale, more relaxed than he'd ever been his entire life. Content. Unassailable in his conquest. 

Simon has always been more scar tissue than man, and no place is damaged more than the upturned tumulus inside his head. 

But oh. How you try—

His sweet, sweet girl. 

The look you give him the next evening is, in parts, brumous. 

A polynya of dread, worry, guilt, fear that frissons across the deep valleys in your eyes, shaded in plumes of darkness, filled in deliciously with the weight of your beleaguered uncertainty. It yawns out before him, this heavy gloom. 

So close he catch the embers in his hand. 

“Simon… We should—talk. I, uh—”

You hold up a little rectangle, dismay, misery, etched in the blue tinge spreading across your face. It seems to steal the words from your throat, turn them into ash. What else are you meant to say, he supposes, when you look out at the world now from the gape in his maw? 

But there’s a veil of wonderment that hides below the tidal wave; this precious, deadly, undercurrent that rents the air, splits his chest in two.

The happiness, however meagre, thin, it is right now (just a sunken boat on the seafloor), is there. Ripe for salvage, and he sees that it’s handled with care. Cupped between his palms, nurtured by his own conviction to do what’s right, an’—fuck, pet—know this ain’t what we planned, but—

but:

The howling quiets, turns to a low growl, and then a susurrus hum, when you shakily utter the words he was waiting for. 

“Yes, Simon—”

You shudder when his fist closes over your wrist, pulling you into his purring chest. Shaking like a prey animal in the jowls of a beast, bested and ensnared. It has a profound, almost predatory, sense of satisfaction curling over his bones. He knows this was the right choice, and is sure, in time, you'll come to realise that, too. You’re in the early stages, he knows. Prodromal. You need to be handled with care to curb the lacrimation, the hyperesthesia. 

And there’s no one better than him to guide you through the throes of it. To lead you to the unequivocal end. 

He leans down, and whispers in your crown—

“Good girl—”

—and the sound of his voice is gravel encased in sticky, sweet honey. Dark, smokey molasses. The very same cadence as a key sliding inside of a lock; metal grazing metal. Turning—

“If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Tommy.”

Click. 

(he gives you that ring he promised when he takes you to the mountains. you smile wide, and tell him it fits like a gyve.)

Simon stops shovelling his want under the cold dirt and starts burying it inside you instead. Makes a domicile from your flesh; a place where he can rest his aching head every night until the howling scraping down fractured bone stops— (paralytic)

[moonstruckme]

Hi! This is my first time ever sending a request before, so bear with me. I was hoping you could do a best friend! James with no boundaries where he and female reader are cuddling and somehow end up fucking lol. Like. They both see it as simply helping each other out as best friends do, but the way they speaking and actions is obviously saying otherwise. Either reader or James (I don’t mind) would be super comforting and praising the other, and caressing their waist absentmindedly. It’s been on my mind for says now and I just had to ask LMAO.

Thanks for requesting!

cw: smut mdni, "casual" sex with no feelings talk (sorry), oral (f receiving), p in v

bestfriend!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.9k words

You’d never be watching this series if it weren’t for James. It’s science fiction, a low production budget met with poorly written lines, but your deceptively nerdy best friend gobbles it all up without reservations. You’re three seasons deep and losing interest fast, half asleep during the big battle scene. 

James is running his thumb absently over your arm, not really helping matters. His shoulder is warm and the material of his shirt soft under your cheek, your legs curled up against his thigh. There’s a bone-deep contentedness and a slow, oozing warmth that make your eyes slip closed. 

“Are you asleep?” James' voice is soft, not meant to really rouse you if you are. 

You crack your eyelids to find you’ve slipped halfway down his bicep. “No,” you mumble. 

“Mm, I didn’t think so.” He gives your arm a playful squeeze. “I said to myself, ‘Sleep through the season finale of our favorite show? No, she’d never do that.’” 

“And you were right.” You sit up, your neck aching from the cruel angle. Scoot closer to him. “I would never do that.” 

“That would be ridiculous.” James’ voice is warm with amusement and affection. He adjusts his grip on you, helping you to get closer and more upright. Your entire side is pressed up against his. “And during the big battle scene, too.” 

You wind your arms around his middle, feeling the familiar ridges of muscles beneath his shirt. “Yeah, doesn’t sound like me.” You shuffle your legs closer to him. Until your thigh is almost entirely in his lap, until you brush up against something you shouldn’t. James tenses.

“Oh.” You retract your leg quickly. 

James brings his own leg closer to his bulge, and you look up at him with wide eyes. 

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” James looks pained. 

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” A little laugh gusts out of him. “No, sweetheart, you’re alright. I’m just a bit embarrassed.” 

You shake your head, eager to absolve him. “Don’t worry about it.” 

But it’s impossible to ignore the ache that discovering his erection has started between your own legs. The slow, oozing warmth you’d felt before and thought nothing of is now much more obvious. 

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” James says. “It’s just that we’re cuddling, and it’s been a while, so—” 

“James. It’s really fine.” 

He gives you an imploring look. “Promise you don’t feel weird about it?” 

“Yeah,” you say, lifting one shoulder awkwardly. “It’s…I get it.” 

You hoped that would be enough for him, but you should have known better than to expect James to drop it after you’ve said something like that. 

“You do?” he asks. Surprised, curious. 

“I…yeah.” You try to keep your tone blasé, though you can’t look at him. You’re not about to admit to the wetness you can feel pooling in your underwear. “I mean, it’s been a while for me too. The cuddling is nice.” 

“Yeah?” James looks at you, and you feel the touch of it everywhere. 

You rub your lips together. “Yeah.” 

“Well, if it doesn’t bother you, we could keep on, then.” James relaxes back into the couch, your arms having never moved from around him. His arm settles over your shoulders again. But you can’t stop looking at the bulge in his pants. Large and insistent and mere inches from your thigh. 

“We could…” Your voice is soft, part of you maybe hoping he won’t hear you. “We could always help each other out.” 

James stays perfectly still underneath you. “Is that something you want?” 

“If you do.” 

Your voice is tight with nerves. James’ thumb begins sweeping over your upper arm again, comforting you on instinct.

“Hey,” he says lightly, “don’t make any sacrifices on my account.” 

You huff a laugh. “I’m not.” 

He sits up, looking at you. “Okay.” 

“It can be totally casual,” you say quickly. “We don’t ever have to talk about it again.” 

“Are you sure you want to?” 

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you nod.

“Alright.” James’ big hands soothe up and down your arms. He considers you. “How do you want it?” 

“Wh…what do you mean?” 

He smiles. “I mean, did you have something in mind?”

“Oh.” Your brain is all staticy. “Um, not really. Whatever you want.” 

James gives you another easy perusal. You try not to shiver, more than used to his complete lack of self-consciousness but unfamiliar with the heady feel it takes on in this context. Slowly, intention solidifies in his gaze. He takes off his glasses, placing them on the coffee table. 

“Tell me if I do anything you don’t want, yeah?” 

You barely have time to squeak out an okay before he’s pulling down your trousers and your underwear with it. He takes one leg in each hand and spreads them open, exposing the slickness between. 

“Oh.” There’s an edge of teasing to his sympathetic tone as he dips down to kiss beside the source. “Oh, poor girl. Seems like it really has been a while.” 

You gasp out a laugh, nerves frenzied at the spectacular oddity of James’ mouth on your inner thigh. “Get fucked.” 

“Ladies first.” You nearly whimper when his breath fans over your cunt. “By the looks of it you need it more anyway.” 

You can’t muster a retaliation, but James doesn’t seem to hold it against you. He presses a soft, gentle kiss to your sex, getting a feel for it before diving in. You cry out and fist a hand in the mop of his curls, and James takes the outside of your thigh in his hand, giving the flesh an approving squeeze. 

“You’re actually quite lovely down here,” he mumbles conversationally, whilst alternating his attention between your hole and your clit like he’s sampling a buffet, “in case you didn’t know.” 

“Thanks,” you pant. 

“S’very nice.” His nose bumps up through your folds, and you make a pleady, wanton sound, pushing your hips up into him. 

“How…” You’re breathless, struggling to think through the buzz of your brain. “How is this helping you?” 

James laughs. You nearly scream at the rumbling feel of it inside of you. “Oh, it’s helping me, sweetheart. Don’t worry.” 

“I—I—” Fuck, coherent speech is harder than it’s ever been. “I changed my mind.” 

Immediately, James stops. He looks up at you, brown eyes almost all black and glistening with arousal from nose to chin. “You have?” 

You nod, panting. “Yeah. I know what I want.” 

His expression relaxes. “Oh. What’s that?” 

“I want you.” It feels like blasphemy to say. You’re half worried that James is going to laugh at you, back away, say that all of this was fine but now you’ve taken things too far. “In me.” 

James smiles. There’s no teasing in it, only eagerness and a pleasant sort of surprise. 

“Well,” he says, “it’s a good thing we’ve started here then, but I’m still not sure if you’re ready for me.” 

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Oh, get over yourself.” 

“Oi,” James gives your thigh a squeeze, “don’t be mean. I’m serious.”

You give him a deadpan look. You know James is big. He’s a big guy in general, and you’ve seen him in his boxers, slept pressed up against him. Still, you can’t imagine it’s that imposing. 

“I think I can handle it.” 

James sucks on his bottom lip. “Okay,” he says after a moment, “we can give it a try, but don’t be shy about telling me if it’s too much, alright?”

You scoff. “I won’t.” 

He chuckles at you as sits up on his knees, undoing his trousers. “Just don’t be a martyr, babe.” 

“You’re so full of it.” 

But as he does away with his boxers and his length springs free, your confidence wavers. James lowers himself over you, watching you carefully as he lays down with his forearms bracketing your head. 

“This alright for you?” he asks, voice gentling some. You nod, but he doesn’t move, studying you. “You’re okay?” 

You swallow, finding your voice. “Yeah.” 

“You sure? We don’t have to.” 

“No, I want to.” You say it in a rush, but as soon as it comes out you realize how true it is. “I want to.” 

James must see the sincerity of it in your face, because he nods. “Okay.” He brushes his cock up through your folds, and you take a surprised inhale. It feels like a caress. “Tell me if it’s too much.” 

He pushes into you slowly, his own face tightening while he keeps a close eye on yours. You let your eyes flutter shut, your legs falling further open for him. A low, needy sound rises in your throat. 

When James pauses, you almost cry. “Keep going,” you tell him. 

“Fine, fine, take it easy.” The amusement is easy to hear in his voice, as is something else, something warmer and sweeter. “I only wanted to check in on you. You’re taking it so well, sweetheart.” 

One of his hands finds your waist as he goes deeper, big palm moving up and down your side, an absentminded comfort. You relax at the touch, and it’s what he needs. James bottoms out inside of you. 

You don’t have time to adjust to the feel of it before his mouth falls down onto yours, warm and soft and tasting of sex. You moan softly, and James encourages your bottom lip into his mouth, suckling devoutly like he had at your clit. After a few seconds, he breaks the kiss as if nothing happened. As if it’s something you do every day.

“You look so pretty like this,” he says, caressing your cheek. “I wish you could see. Does that feel good, lovely?” 

Ridiculously, you’re so focussed on his hand on your face that it takes you a second to remember he’s talking about his cock. 

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “Feels really good.” 

“Good.” He starts rocking his hips back and forth, an easy, gentle pace. His lips find your neck, parting wetly over your skin. “You feel so good, sweetheart. So perfect for me.” 

You realize when his chin brushes your collar that you’re still wearing your shirt, which feels bizarre. Then you wonder when not wearing a shirt around James began to feel like the only logical option. 

You lose your train of thought quickly when his hand slips underneath it again, soothing up and down your side as he moves in and out of you. He sucks bruises that feel like blessings into your skin, holds one of your hands in his own, groans when your fingernails dig into his shoulder. 

You breathe his name, and he says yours in between kisses, along with sweetheart and darling and my pretty girl. His voice is familiar, safe and warm, but the peaceful spell he’s putting you under isn’t something you can explain. His body fits to you like it’s what you were both made for.

You sigh when it’s over, pulling James down and letting him melt into you. You don’t pretend you came like you have with other guys, but you feel more satisfied than you ever have. 

You cup his face in your hand, and he turns his head, kissing your palm. Your brain feels like soup. 

“So.” Your voice comes out a whisper. “Did that help?” 

James’ laughter is deep and warm. “Yeah, lots. What about you?” 

“Mhm.” 

He watches you for a while, playing with your fingers in his. It’s not a dubious look, only happy. Fond. 

A sound effect from the television gets your attention, and you turn to look at it. “We missed the season finale,” you say weakly. 

“Yeah.” James doesn’t move his eyes from you. “We’re going to have to rewind and watch it from the beginning, I think.” 

“Oh, awesome. Can’t wait.”

[quinzzelx]

Steamy Pages

Azriel x Fem! Rhys Sister! Reader

A series of connected Oneshots. Read Paramour here

Summary: In the House of Wind's library, Azriel catches you reading a steamy novel, leading to a secret and passionate encounter.

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Smut, 18!+, Oral fem!Receiving, PnV, dirty talk, Not proof-read yet

A/N: Somehow, I always end up writing smut instead of my fluffy or angsty WIP's. But I have so many things that I'm currently working on, which I only want to be perfect & as of right now, I don't feel up to the task :( I hate to keep you guys waiting- but I really have writers' block for some of my stuff right now and all I'm able to do is smut somehow lmao... I also need a name for this series of connected Oneshots. ☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆

As you sat in the House of Wind's library, engrossed in a book, a figure appeared in the corner of your eye. Azriel. For the past few weeks, Azriel and you had been falling into and out of each other's beds. Ever since that fateful night at Rita's where the thin line you both had been tiptoeing around was finally crossed after drunkenly stumbling back home. Rhys, your brother, was out that day, Mor had left with someone, and Cassian was at the camps, leaving just the two of you to find your way back. Something was different that night, and one thing led to another. A blush crept onto your cheeks at the mere thought of that heat-filled, steamy night.

Now, you sat in the library reading. Azriel entered silently, watching you curled up on the lounge chair before the hearth, a book in your hand. He had been away for a few days, and seeing you here stirred something deep within him. Fully immersed in your novel, you didn't hear the silent steps of the Shadowsinger as he approached. The characters in your book were finally confessing their love for each other, and as the scene grew steamy, a deeper blush spread across your face, your heart rate picking up.

He stopped beside the chair and leaned down to watch the words you read, his breath brushing your cheek. A low growl escaped him as he read aloud, "My legs trembled as his fingers traced invisible patterns on the inside of my thighs, venturing further up, up, up. I felt his all-consuming presence enveloping me, and as his fingers brushed against my awaiting heat, softly caressing my cunt over the thin fabric of my lacy underwear..."

You flinched, yelping at the sudden intrusion, snapping your head in his direction. Your face heated unbelievably at what was happening. Embarrassed, you tried to snap the book shut, but he swiftly snatched it out of your hands.

"Azriel, stop!" you whined, trying to reach for the book in utter mortification.

He smirked at your discomfort and slowly flipped the book open, his finger trailing over the page as he read. "With a primal growl, he buried his face between my thighs, his tongue eagerly tasting me through the thin fabric." Scrambling to your knees on the sofa, you threw the blanket you were nestled in to the ground, fumbling to reach the book. Even your pointed ears turned a shade of dark red. "Az, please stop reading!" you swallowed hard, trying to pry the book from his hands again.

He chuckled darkly, his grip tightening on the book. The room seemed to grow warmer as he leaned in closer, his breath tickling your ear. "Why? Are you enjoying this?"

You huffed in annoyance, crossing your arms in front of your chest, staring up at his towering form. Your face was perfectly lined up with his crotch. Your eyes narrowed. "Obviously not," you lied, trying to keep your face straight, hoping the scent of your arousal wasn't that strong.

His lips twitched as he caught your lie. He tilted your chin up just enough to make eye contact before he brought the book up slightly, still holding onto it, the description obscene. "I don't think I believe you."

Your heartbeat picked up, his touch lighting a fire inside of you. "That's not my problem now, is it, Shadowsinger?" you tried to fake nonchalance, but your heated skin and subtle glance at the book betrayed your true feelings.

He smirked, his eyes filled with mischief as he watched you, his free hand coming to your cheek to trace it with the pad of his thumb. "Careful, princess, you're giving yourself away." Subconsciously, you closed your eyes, leaning into the warmth of his touch. Your breath hitched when he continued to read the absolute filth of the book aloud.

"His tongue dragged over my clothed cunt as he grunted at the feeling of my arousal-drenched panties." He raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on his beautiful lips as he skimmed the page further before continuing to read aloud. "Oh, very interesting. My orgasm shattered me, crashing over me like a tidal wave as his fingers worked their way over my swollen clit. His tongue lapping at every bit of my arousal."

"You seem to be enjoying my reading, princess." His hand trailed down from your face, stopping at the curve of your neck. His thumb brushed back and forth over the tender skin there, feeling the pulse quicken under his touch. Your breath caught in your throat, lungs suddenly empty of any air. Heat crawled up your body, and your skin felt like it was burning. "I was also enjoying reading my book before you strolled in here and interrupted me so rudely." His low chuckle rumbled through the room, and he leaned in closer, the added heat from his body enveloping you. "Rude, was I now?" His thumb slipped lower, tracing a line down from your collarbone to the valley of your cleavage.

"Azriel," you said his name, meant as a warning, but the quivering in your voice made it sound more like a plea. His eyes sharpened, jaw ticking as a low sound, something like a growl, slipped past his lips.

"Say my name like that again, and I will fuck you right into the cushions of this couch until you're screaming it for the whole house to hear," he said, voice low and husky but calm and collected. Your eyes widened, and molten lava pooled between your legs. "You have no idea what kind of thoughts you're provoking, princess."

His thumb slipped inside the neckline of your dress, grazing the soft skin of your breast. "Maybe I should give you a taste of what you're asking for, what you're so innocently reading." You closed your eyes, gasping when his fingers dipped lower, skimming across your hardening nipple. You whimpered at the touch, exhaling sharply, one of your hands wandering to wrap around the wrist of his hand that was currently groping at your chest, squeezing your breast in his big hand.

A wicked grin formed at the corners of his mouth, enjoying both your reaction and your desperation for him. He leaned closer, whispering in your ear with hot, fiery breath as he continued teasing you. "Do you want me to fuck you, princess?"

Every bit of restraint you wanted to keep snapped as you surged forward. Now, with his face so close to yours as he hovered so close, you crashed your lips into his, capturing him in a searing kiss. Tangling your hands in his hair, pulling him closer to you, you heard the book drop to the ground, his now free hand rushing to your hip, squeezing it. He growled into your mouth. Pain struck you shortly as he squeezed your breast harshly again, pinching your pebbled nipple.

"Azriel, fuck," you moaned into his mouth, into the kiss, teeth and tongue fighting for dominance. "I don't want you to just fuck me; I need you to completely unravel me."

The kiss was scorching, burning through Azriel's soul and body, igniting a wildfire of desire that almost made him gasp. He snarled against your lips, a primal, possessive sort of sound, his fingers tightening on your hip as you pulled him closer. You pulled him even closer, and with his legs already leaned against the armrest of the sofa, he toppled over. The huge Illyrian male crashing into your body as you also fell back. But the kiss never broke as he now lay on top of you, grunting and starting to kiss down your neck, nipping and licking at your heated flesh. You whined and tugged at his hair as his hand kneading your breast slipped up to tug down your dress, making your breast spill out. He wasted no time exploring the newly exposed skin, biting and kissing over your breast, sucking your nipple into his mouth. He groaned at the taste of you, his tongue swirling over your nipple before sucking it harder into his mouth. His hand trailed down your body, slipping under the fabric of your dress, inching higher until his fingers brushed against your wet core.

"Gods above," you huffed, trying to regain some composure. You pulled at his hair, making him release your nipple with a pop and tilt his head to look at you. The sight of his face made your pussy throb—his dark curls messy and falling into his eyes, hazel swirling with darkness, pupils blown wide with lust, cheeks flushed, and lips glinting with saliva. Realizing you were staring, you groaned. "Fuck, why are you so gorgeous?"

The sound of your almost breathless voice had Azriel smirking, his eyes flashing dangerously when you cursed. "Are you trying to flatter me?"

You rolled your eyes, giving his hair a playful tug. "Gorgeous but a little too cocky for my taste." You mirrored his smirk, biting your bottom lip as you imagined how he'd pound into you, how his fingers would feel inside you. Both his hands sneaked down your torso, coming to rest just above your knees where your summer dress had already bunched up. He gathered it in his hands, maintaining eye contact, and slowly inched the dress up your legs, kissing the newly exposed skin.

"Az, what are you—" you started to ask, but he cut you off.

"We've been fucking all these weeks and I didn't get to taste that pretty little cunt yet," he said, fabric bunching around your hips now, his hot tongue leaving a wet trail on your inner thigh. "And I'm planning on changing that."

Azriel chuckled softly against your skin, the sound vibrating against your thigh as he continued to move his lips further up. His possessive hand on your waist tightened slightly as his mouth finally found the heat of your core, tongue lapping at your clit through the thin lace of your panties.

Your hips bucked in surprise as he softly nibbled on your clit through the lace of your thong. You squeezed your eyes shut at the feeling, your chest heaving, your left hand grabbing onto the cushions, fingers immediately digging into them. Azriel smirked against you, fingers hooking into your panties and tugging them downwards, revealing the smoothness of your bare sex. He groaned softly, almost unnoticeably, hands moving to spread you open for him.

You whined when he pulled apart your legs, your cheeks heating under his intense stare as he seemed to commit the sight of your glistening cunt to memory. "Gods, you have such a pretty pussy," he groaned. You wanted to scream when he dragged his tongue through your folds, from your entrance to your clit, sucking it into his mouth. Your back arched as you gasped.

He hummed against your swollen folds, the vibration making you quake underneath him. His tongue was lethal, and he knew it. He had always wondered if you tasted as sweet as he had imagined, and now he knew the answer was a resounding yes. A sinful moan ripped from your throat when he dove in deeper, prodding his tongue at your entrance and lapping up your arousal, burying his face in your cunt, his nose brushing against your clit. Your toes curled as ripples of pleasure shot down your spine. He moaned into your pussy, tongue delving deeper as he feasted on you, the sound of your moans spurring him on. With one arm wrapped around your thigh, his fingers dug into your flesh possessively. Cauldron, he wanted to drown in your cunt.

"You taste like the sweetest temptation, Princess," he growled into you. "So fucking delicious."

Your other hand, the one not holding onto the sofa for dear life, tangled in his hair again, tugging and pushing him closer into your heat. "Yes, make me cum on your pretty face," you whined.

"Beg for me, Princess," he said, his words muffled by your folds. His tongue lashed out against your clit, teasing mercilessly. With each flick of his tongue, you grew more desperate, your hold on his hair tightening.

You didn't feel like fighting, so you yielded to him, to his will. "Please," you whimpered. "Please, Az, make me cum with your tongue." Every word left you as a whining moan, grinding your hips and your cunt into his face. "Oh, please let me cum all over your pretty face."

Smirking to himself, Azriel obeyed your command. His tongue plunged deeper into your cunt, greedily drinking up your arousal. His fingers continued their assault on your thigh, squeezing and possessing in equal measure. You're mine, he whispered silently.

You cursed under your breath, eyes fixed on the Shadowsinger buried between your legs, feasting on you like a starved male, as if your pussy was his favorite meal. You gasped when his nose pressed into your clit as he basically made out with your cunt. Fuck, if he hadn't ruined you for other males before, he sure did now. The way you watched him between your legs only spurred Azriel on, his hands reaching upward to grasp your hips and force you harder against his hungry mouth. He reveled in the gasps, the desperate sounds leaving your mouth. He owned them now.

You felt the knot in your stomach tighten. "So close," you slurred, desire and lust overwhelming your senses as all you could do was feel. Feel his tongue exploring your pulsing cunt, mapping it out like you once did with the night sky when you were younger.

A low growl vibrated against your pussy as Azriel felt you close to the edge. His hands gripped harder at your hips, keeping you immobile as he continued his relentless assault. He wanted to feel your orgasm shudder through your body and echo against his lips.

With a harsh suck on your sensitive bud, the dam broke, and your release came crashing over you with such force that you saw nothing but white, gasping for air. He maintained his hold on your hips, not letting you escape the intensity of your own orgasm. As you came back down to earth, he released you and gently kissed your sensitive folds before lifting his head, lips curved into a smug smile.

When you opened your eyes again, you saw him gazing at you, your chest heaving with heavy breaths. "That... That was unbelievable," you stated with a shaky voice, swallowing heavily.

He hummed as he crawled back up your body, dress still bunched around your hips, leaving your core exposed. "I am glad to have left you speechless, love," he murmured, positioning himself over you and brushing your hair away from your face. His gaze held a heated intensity that sent shivers down your spine as he lowered his head and captured your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips, and you were so lost in it, so lost in the passion, that you didn't notice how he freed his glorious length. You only noticed when his glistening head pressed into your inner thigh.

You moaned into his mouth when he gave you a fake thrust of his hips, lubricating his cock with your arousal. "You're so wet for me, love," he murmured, breaking the kiss and trailing his lips down your jawline to your collarbone. He continued to tease you, rocking his hips and letting his length glide against your folds. "Fuck me already," you gasped as his cock grazed your sensitive clit again.

"Ah ah, patience," he whispered, a sly smile playing on his lips. He slowly teased your entrance, letting the head of his cock slip inside before pulling back out. Whining, you tried to meet his hips with yours, trying to get him to sheathe himself inside of you fully, your arousal surely dripping onto the couch cushions by now.

"Oh no, we can't have that now, can we?" he said, finally giving in and thrusting into you with one swift motion. He gripped your hips, pulling you closer as he began to move inside you. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin.

You screamed out when he set a relentless pace, hips pistoning into you. He stretched you out, his cock reaching places no one had ever reached before, splitting you open. But it hurt so good, as if you were made for him, fitting perfectly around every delicious inch of him. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "You're so fucking tight, so perfect around me," he grunted, the sound primal and full of lust. He continued to pound into you, the couch moving slightly from the force of his thrusts.

You screamed out his name when the head of his cock hit your cervix repeatedly. He shifted and grabbed your ass with both hands, lifting you up slightly, and you automatically wrapped your legs around his hips, giving him better access. "Fuck, yes," he groaned low in his throat, his rhythm picking up once more as he pushed deeper into you. With each thrust of his hips, he ground against you hard, and the friction was nearly enough to make your eyes roll back into your head.

"Yes, yes, fuck me, tear me apart, Azriel," you gasped, chanting praise and urging him on. "You fill me up so good." He growled low in his throat, his thrusts becoming wilder and more unhinged. "Your pussy was made for me to dominate and destroy. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Yes!" you nodded, whining and writhing beneath him, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. "Please." As you begged, Azriel grinned down at you, his eyes gleaming with pride and a hint of sadism. He obliged, picking up his pace and slamming into you with almost brutal force. His fingers dug into the skin of your ass, leaving bruises in their wake. "I own that pretty little cunt, don't I?" he snarled, eyebrows pinched as he fucked into you."Yes. Yours, it belongs to you," you panted.

"You're so fucking tight and perfect. I could do this all day and never tire of it," he groaned, fucking you harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, blending with your desperate moans.

"What's stopping you?" you mewled, bouncing back the question. "Because of my brother? Because my brother, your High Lord, is also your best friend? Because you don't want him to know that you're fucking his little sister?"

"Fuck, you are a brat," he growled. His hand quickly snapped up from your ass to grip your chin, tilting your head back. "You want me to keep fucking you?" When you whimpered, he gave you a mocking laugh. "Thought so. Then you better behave." You whimpered again, nodding as best you could with his firm grip on your chin. Azriel's smirk grew, a dark promise in his eyes. He released your chin only to grip your hips with both hands, pulling you against him with each powerful thrust. "Good girl," he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. "You know how to behave for me, don't you?"

"Yes, Azriel," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pounded into you. "I'll be good for you."He grunted in approval, his pace unrelenting. The relentless rhythm had you teetering on the edge, every nerve in your body igniting with pleasure. His cock hit all the right spots, and the room filled with the symphony of your moans and his growls.

"You're mine," he growled, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "Say it."

"I'm yours," you whimpered, the words tumbling out between gasps. "Only yours, Azriel."

His response was a deep, satisfied groan, his grip on your hips tightening as he drove deeper. The intensity of his thrusts had you crying out his name, your body trembling with the force of your impending release. "Cum for me," he commanded, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you cum around my cock."

The demand pushed you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you with a force that left you breathless. You cried out his name, your body tightening around him as waves of pleasure washed over you. Azriel didn't relent, prolonging your ecstasy with each precise, powerful thrust. He watched you intently, reveling in the sight of your pleasure. As you came down from your high, he let out a low growl, his own release nearing.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful when you cum," he murmured, his pace becoming erratic. "I'm going to fill you up, make you mine in every way."

You moaned at his words, your body still trembling as you felt him tense. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you, his release flooding your senses. He groaned your name, his hands gripping your hips as he rode out his orgasm.

As the intensity subsided, he collapsed on top of you, his breaths ragged and hot against your skin. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as you both caught your breath.

Azriel lifted his head, his gaze softening as he looked into your eyes. "You drive me crazy, you know that?" he whispered, a tender smile playing on his lips.

You smiled back, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Good," you teased lightly, your voice still breathless. "Because you do the same to me."

He chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he murmured, his tone filled with affection. As you basked in the afterglow, enjoying the closeness of Azriel's embrace, a sudden shout pierced the air, causing you both to freeze.

"Where are you, you sneaky bastard?" Cassian's voice echoed through the library, filled with mischief and determination. Panic surged through you, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you realized the precariousness of your situation. With a frantic glance at Azriel, you both sprang into action, scrambling to compose yourselves and hide the evidence of your tryst.

Azriel's eyes widened with urgency as he helped you straighten your disheveled dress, his movements quick and efficient. You shared a silent, desperate exchange, a mix of amusement and apprehension flickering between you. With practiced ease, you both managed to arrange yourselves just in time, assuming casual positions as Cassian burst into the library, his grin widening as he caught sight of you.

"There you are," he exclaimed, bounding over to where you sat, completely unaware of the chaos that had just ensued. "I've been looking all over for you!" You exchanged a relieved glance with Azriel, a silent acknowledgment of the close call you had just narrowly avoided. As Cassian launched into animated conversation, his nose wrinkled slightly. "What is that smell?" he asked, glancing around with a confused expression.

You felt your cheeks heat, and you quickly deflected, grabbing a nearby book and fanning yourself as if trying to cool down. "Just some old library dust, Cass. You know how these books can get." Cassian shrugged, apparently satisfied with the explanation. "Yeah, I suppose. Anyway, Az, Rhys wants to talk to you about the latest mission." Azriel nodded, his face perfectly composed. "Of course, I'll head over now."

As Cassian turned to lead the way, Azriel caught your eye and sent you a sneaky smirk and a quick wink, making your heart flutter. You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing, the thrill of your secret adding an extra layer of excitement. With a final smile, Azriel followed Cassian out of the library, leaving you to catch your breath and savor the memory of your passionate encounter.

☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆~●~☆

Feedback is always appreciated and welcome. Also pls feel free to slide into my inbox and talk. I'd really enjoy building up their universe because I'm a sucker for Azriel x Rhys!Sister Reader. The whole dating your brother's best friend trope always gets me and I have soooo many headcanons for them already lol!!

[luvjunie]

Hey sweetie, I’ve been a real big fan. Can you write some HCS or a fic about the both Miles being twins?

a/n: ABSOLUTELY 10000% YES. i had way too much fun with this oml. and omg thank you you’re so sweet! 😭 btw, let’s just pretend that in this au they don’t have the same name since they’re ‘twins’ lmao

— headcanons. miles and miles as twins

Twins? Yes. Polar opposites? Definitely.

They both have a completely different sense of style, but one thing they have in common is that they both love Jordan’s. However I feel like miles!42 is a full blown sneakerhead. Has the better collection and often finds miles!1610 wearing his shoes, because somehow 42 always manages to win the snkrs raffles.

“Are those my brand new fuckin’ 4s?” “Uh… no?” “Take my shit off before I tweak out.”

42 keeps his side of the room squeaky clean, gets upset if there’s even a sock that does not belong to him on his side

Absolutely hates the song Sunflower. Cannot stand it, makes him wanna rip his hair out. The minute it came out 1610 played it into the dirt and 42 swears he can still hear it in his dreams till this day

1610 is the more affectionate one (outwardly) while 42 likes to pretend he’s completely devoid of that as if he doesn’t love his brother with everything in him.

“You got exactly three seconds to get off me.” “Just hug me back, damn!”

They’re the kind of brothers to open soundcloud, turn on a random trap beat and see who can go the longest freestyling. They do that thing where guys bring their fist to their mouths and squeal and shove each other out of excitement when they get a good flow going back and forth

42 is definitely the athletic type, plays football and soccer. 1610 is more in tune with his artistic side. Will play sports for fun but doesn’t care for them like that

42 is introverted as hell, doesn’t really like talking to people. 1610 is more of a social butterfly

They’ve never once liked the same girl. Ever. Their taste is drastically different

“Bro, you like a white girl?” “…Yes? What does her race have to do with anything?” “See me personally—“. “Literally nobody fucking asked.”

Used to help each other break out of their cribs when they were babies. Either that or Jeff and Rio would wake up to find that 42 had climbed into 1610’s crib after they’d been put down and slept with him instead. it was impossible to keep them apart from each other, so eventually they just broke down the second crib and let them use the one.

You can tell who is who in their baby pictures. You guessed it, 42 was the oddly solemn one who always wanted to play by himself. They worried about him for a bit. They also had to tickle him as an attempt to get him to smile in pictures, and just their luck, he’s never been ticklish

When they were eight years old, 1610 accidentally broke the wolverine action figure 42 never went anywhere without, and 42 cried about it for three days straight

They definitely ask for each other’s opinions on their outfits

“Do you think this shirt goes with these pants?” “The entire outfit is black… how would it not go together?”

They both obviously love their mother but 42 is the biggest mama’s boy. Always in the kitchen helping her cook, will watch her telenovelas with her and actually keep up with the plot. He’ll willingly follow her to the grocery store or accompany her on her ridiculously long Ross/Tjmaxx sprees because he likes hanging out with her

They terrorize the fuck outta their dad and have been doing so since they entered this world because they think it’s funny. Stupid shit like dying his boxers pink, or looking up a cracked tv screen video on youtube just to watch him nearly have a heart attack thinking they broke it. They used to twin-swap when they were younger to get out of certain things, but it’s 100% impossible to pull off now. They’re way too different, physically and mentally

Uncle Aaron took 42 to get his ears pierced when he was thirteen, something 1610 would never do. Rio basically had an aneurysm when he came home with them in and Jeff was not pleased but Aaron took the blame for it, said it was his idea. 42 made up some bullshit lie about how if he takes them out before they heal completely they’ll get infected. Still has them in till this day

42 is exactly fourteen minutes older and refuses to let 1610 hear the end of it, but 1610 is taller by an inch and weighs a little more.

“I don’t know why you’re talking shit like I’m not older than you. Pipe down lil’ bro.” “Sorry, is someone talking to me right now? Cause I sure as hell can’t see ‘em.” “Nigga it’s ONE INCH”

They’re definitely scrapping over that, and both get smacked upside their heads by Mama Rio for fighting with each other

42 needs the tv and the fan on, SIMULTANEOUSLY when he sleeps or he’ll be up the entire night. 1610 can’t stand it

1610 will try and turn the fan off after his brother’s been asleep for probably two hours, thinking he’s in the clear until he hears—

“Do you value your life? Turn my damn fan back on.”

Deep down 42 is a big ass softie and loves spending time with 1610, he has no idea what he’d do without him. He’s just not the best at expressing it. 1610 teases him about it simply because he enjoys aggravating his other half

“You still got plans with Ganke tonight?” “Nah, his mom’s dragging him to some baby shower.” “Oh, cool, cool… So what movie are we watching?” “Huh?” “Huh—Headass. What movie are we watching tonight?” “Sorry, I’m not understanding. Are you—asking to spend time… with me?” “Damn, I need to say it in Spanish? Matter fact, you probably won’t understand that either. No sabo ass.”

[heeology]

I have a request for a fic where both Jake and reader are starting their freshman year of college and jake is applying to be in a frat, but to be accepted the brothers in the frat make a bet with him to make the reader sleep with him ��.

a/n -> omg i was literally thinking abt writing a jake fic (which i'll get to soon) and then this pops up lmao. but your mind...lord, this is such a good idea. anyway, tysm for being my first request !! it means a lot lol and i rlly hope you enjoy this :)) then, just in general, if you also sent me a request, i promise i have seen it !! i just work five days a week now, so i don't rlly have a lot of time to sit and write, but i promise i am working on them and will release them when i can 💕

are you down or what? | s.jy

pairing -> futurefratboy!jake x fem!reader

genre -> college au, best friends (alludes) to fwb

warnings -> MDNI, smut, drinking, cursing, mention of weed (no drug use tho)

w.c. -> 7.3k

!!DO NOT COPY OR REPOST!!

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Going to college is already scary enough, moving to college is even scarier. You wouldn’t categorize yourself as the “outgoing type” and you had pretty much figured your college experience would be dull and stressful; Junior year of high school pretty much prepped you for that. Luckily (depending on how you see it) for you, Jake is the complete opposite. He loved extra-curriculars, joining clubs, joining sports teams, and always made honor roll; essentially, he loved making new friends, trying new things. Everyone adored him and he had practically a long line of people waiting to be his friend. If only they knew they just had to be allergic to any sort of social activity and he would’ve immediately taken them under his wing. He’s always tried to have you venture out of your comfort zone, and sometimes, it worked. This time, however, you honestly didn’t see yourself branching out alongside him. Which both bummed you out and seemed as if it was inevitable. 

Who knew that the kid you met at your fifth grade honor roll assembly and pizza party would be the one you ended up applying to colleges with, let alone plan on going to the same college with? Well, actually, you and Jake didn’t quite get along at first, it was your moms that became best friends well before the two of you did. But, thankfully, both of your moms showed up to the honor roll assembly and brought the two of you together. Even if at first he would try to make conversation with you and you would just nod your head in response, too shy to actually say anything back. At first, he thought you hated him and at the time, you thought he was annoying, but somehow you both came to find these qualities about each other endearing. There were a lot of times you were grateful to have met him and have him as your best friend.

But when he brought up the topic of a fraternity mixer while he was helping–well, more like he was the only one working–assemble an IKEA storage unit for your dorm room as you both sat on your floor, you automatically rolled your eyes. You weren’t surprised in the slightest that one of the first things he wanted to do since you guys got to college was join a frat; it’s like he was born for this, and you mean it in the least douchey way possible. 

“Come on, it’s just like, some mixer; nothing major. I really want you to come. Please?” he says as he drags out the “e” at the end. 

You roll your eyes again and let out a huff, handing him the screwdriver to which he rolls his eyes in return and takes it. “It’s only been a week and you’re already rushing a frat?”

“What? Think I’m not good enough for them?” he asks, joking as he continues to assemble the storage unit for you. You knew he was perfect for this sort of thing, you swear, he was already breezing through it as a pledge, or at least he was making it seem like it. Besides, you’re pretty sure that he is even mistaken as a member already around campus. “It’s not even going to be that bad. Plus, there’s going to be free booze and hella cute chicks, so there’s that to look forward to.” he says as he grins to himself.

“Gross,” you mumble, “it’s not really sounding like there’s anything for me at this dumb thing.”

He chuckles a little. “What? You mean the thought of hanging out with a bunch of sweaty dudes playing beer pong doesn’t sound enticing?”

You shudder, “You’re not really selling your case here, pal.”

He laughs. “C’moooonnnnn,” he whines, playfully bumping his shoulder with yours, “I promise you’ll have fun. And if not, then we’ll just leave after an hour and get some food. Sound good?”

You think for a moment before letting out a huff, “Fine. But if you even leave me alone for a second with those…heathens, then I will never speak to you again.” you say, half joking, half serious.

“You’re acting like these dudes are all terrible people; they’re not the spawn on Satan, y’know.” he says as he can sense the hesitance and apprehension in your voice. “I promise I won’t leave you and I’ll hold your hand the whole time.” he says as he coos and then laughs to himself.

“Dear god.” you mutter, rolling your eyes again, which only makes him chuckle.

“I’m just kidding. But seriously, you’re coming. Who knows, it could be a funny story later on.”

“Right. I bet it’ll elicit all sorts of chuckles.” you say, sarcastically.

He laughs again, shaking his head slightly as he focuses on working on the IKEA product. He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe you’ll even meet someone there. Imagine if you fell in love with one of the frat dudes.” he laughs at his own thought. 

You scoff, “Ew.”

“I know, right? How mortifying, you fall in love with some muscular, frat boy named Chad.” he shivers, “Scary.” he says, teasing you.

You laugh, “Shut up.”

He chuckles softly and then stops working to look at you. “But seriously, will you please come with me? It would be nice having you there, and it will be our first college party together, how can you possibly pass that up?” he says as he pouts slightly, giving you his best “puppy dog eyes”.

You roll your eyes and playfully shove his shoulder, “Ew, fine! Stop doing that.”

He laughs and grins, “You are the best friend I could ever ask for!” he says, acting overly enthusiastic as he hugs you tightly, ruffles your hair, then kisses your cheek. “We’re gonna have so much fun, you’ll see.”

“Bleh,” you jokingly whine as you wipe your cheek, “yeah, yeah. Just finish my storage thing.”

He rolls his eyes, “Yes ma’am.” he says as he continues working for a few more minutes. He finishes working on the storage unit, turning it upright and smiling proudly. “What would you do without me, honestly? BOOM!” he says as he smacks it lightly, “There it is, built by yours truly; you’re welcome.” he says with a smug grin.

“Alright, alright, calm down.” you say as you laugh a bit. You stand up, rolling it over to a corner in your dorm room.

Jake follows your lead, standing up as well. “Here, I can even help you pick out something to wear for the party. I was thinking of wearing a Polo-”

You turn to him and grimace, “Dear god, you’re already becoming one of them.”

He laughs and scoffs, “Hey, I make Polo’s look hot, don’t even try to act like I don’t. Besides, if I wear a short sleeved one, it will totally show off my muscles.” he says as he flexes a bit, grinning. You roll your eyes and pretend to gag and he laughs and stops flexing before nudging your arm. “Shut up.” he mumbles and turns to look at your closet. “Do you still have that dress you wore to that grad party we went to over the summer?”

“I mean, I think.” you say as you walk over to your closet rummaging inside it (even if there isn’t much room to rummage through).

You were kind of surprised to hear him talk about a dress you wore almost two months ago, but you didn’t think too much about it. You suppose maybe he only did because it was the first dress you wore in a while, so maybe he just subconsciously remembered about it. He glances at you as you look for the dress. He was secretly grateful you didn’t tease him for remembering about it, but he just thought you looked pretty in it. Not that you aren’t pretty all the time just…that time…he shakes his head to himself; it’s just a pretty dress.

He crosses his arms and peers over your shoulder, looking into what clothes you have in your closet as well. “What about that white top?” he asks, pointing out a white, low-cut tank top that is discarded to the side of the closet. “Wear that with a nice skirt or something; that’d look good.”

You glance at it and laugh, “I wear that to bed when it’s too hot. I am not wearing that to the party; my boobs will literally be spilling out of it.”

He pauses for a moment before speaking again. “And that’s a bad thing because…?” He grins, giving you a quick wink which results in you punching his shoulder. He laughs and rubs his shoulder. “Kidding, kidding! But seriously, pick out something. You’ll look amazing in whatever you choose.” he shrugs casually. You roll your eyes and keep rummaging through your closet, suddenly hating every article of clothing you own. He leans against the wall next to your closet, “I swear to god, I can never understand why girls sometimes take so long to pick out what they wear. It’s like, how hard can it be to choose something quickly and then wear it?”

“Jesus, fine, you pick out something, then.” you say as you walk over to your bed, laying on it. “You’re the one who wants me to go, anyway.”

Jake smiles mischievously, walking over to your closet and looking through your clothes. “Do you have those tight, high-waisted jeans? The ones you wore last weekend?”

You raise an eyebrow. Is he talking about the ones you wore to the brunch your mom took you out to with him and his mom? You laugh. “Probably. My mom bought them, so she probably snuck them in there somewhere.” you don’t even realize you’re smiling a bit to yourself, a part of you secretly liking that he remembered them; maybe you looked better than you thought. “Aren’t skinny jeans, like, out or whatever?”

Jake shrugs. “All I know is your ass looked good.” he says as he spots them after looking through some of your bottoms. He grabs them and tosses them at you, the jeans hitting your stomach, causing you to let out a small “oomph”. “And pair it with that white tank top. For your shoes…” he shrugs, “maybe your Doc Martens or something casual. That’ll look good.” he says as he looks at you, nodding his head in satisfaction. “There. Done. And it only took, like, two minutes. See? It wasn’t even hard.” he jokes.

“You chose, quite literally, the most basic outfit known to man.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not even that bad. Besides, you’ll pull it off, anyway.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “I’ll wear the pants and the shoes, but I am not wearing my “booby” shirt, you perv.”

“Oh, c’mon. You know you like to show it off sometimes.” he says, grinning as he wiggles his eyebrows before laughing softly. “Just wear it, please? For me?” he jokes in a playfully flirty tone. “Plus, I need some sort of eye candy when we go to this thing.”

You scoff, playfully. “Ohhhhh, I see what this is.” you say as you sit up on your bed. “You’re hoping if you bring a hot girl to the mixer, you’ll have an automatic in with these frat fuckers, right?”

The tips of Jake’s ears turn slightly red and he scoffs, looking away before looking back at you. “What? No, that’s not the reason. Not the entire reason, anyway.” he says, laughing slightly to hide his embarrassment. “It’ll just be nice to go with you, okay?”

“Uh-huh, suuuurrrreeee.”

He laughs before going to sit beside you on your bed. “Okay, fine, fine, you got me. I did want to bring a hot girl so it'd be easier to get in with the frat. But that's not the whole reason! I also wanted to go with my best friend since we haven't really hung out this week because of classes. And I knew I'd need at least one sane person to keep me in check. Or, at least, as sane as you can get." he teases, wearing that stupid giddy grin of his he gets whenever he feels he said something hilarious. 

You scoff, playfully, “Watch it.” you warn.

He laughs, “Sorry, sorry. I meant a perfectly sane, normal human who doesn’t listen to musicals in her spare time.”

You nudge his arm, “Hey! That was middle school me, back off.”

He laughs again, “I’m messing with you. But seriously, I am glad that you’re coming. It’ll be way more fun with you there.” he smiles that typical charming smile he does, not because he knows he looks good doing it, but because he just does anyway. “I really do appreciate you. Especially since you’re ‘sacrificing’ your sanity to be surrounded by these frat guys.”

“Soon, you’ll be one of them.” you shudder, “I’ll have to start writing my obituary for you.”

“Oh, come on, we’re not all that bad. I'm sure there's at least a few decent guys there that aren't complete douchebags. They're just...eccentric." he jokes, "This mixer will be a great chance for me to maybe get an in with the career path I wanna take plus if I leave a good impression with the frat guys, maybe I won’t have to be a pledge for much longer."

“‘We’re’? Oh my god, you’re already clumping yourself together with them!” you say in fake horror.

“Oh my god, you’re right.” he says in the same tone with a shocked expression. “I’m turning into one of them without even realizing it! Quick, snap me out of it!” he says, laughing slightly. 

You shrug, “Gladly.” you say before punching his shoulder. It honestly hurts your knuckles, but you decide to keep that to yourself and ignore the pins and needles shooting through your hand.

He frowns and looks at you with an “i’m not mad, just disappointed look” which causes you to burst out laughing. “You know, you’ve got a mean right hook. Who knows, you might be the one joining the frat.” he says, rubbing his shoulder a little before wrapping his hand over your knuckles, squeezing it a little. He knows you probably hurt your hand a bit, so he hopes this makes your hand feel a little better before letting go. 

“I’d rather die.” you say in such a serious manner, he can’t tell whether you’re joking or not, but he laughs nonetheless. 

“Just get dressed. I’ll come get you later, okay?” he says as he gets off of your bed.

You groan, “Fine. But I hope you know, you are throwing me to the wolves by making me wear this outfit.”

He laughs and opens your door. “Have to let them know I’m there with the best-looking, smartest, and funniest girl at the party somehow.” he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and cross your arms. “You’re lucky flattery works with me.” you mutter.

He grins, “What can I say? I know you so well, babe.” he says before nodding his head as a goodbye and walking out of your dorm room, closing the door behind him.

-

Against your will (and your own regard for fashion), you wore what Jake had picked out for you. He smirks a bit as he looks at you after opening your door when he knocks around a few hours later. He looks you up and down, and you notice how his gaze lingered a little longer on your chest before meeting your eyes. You cross your arms, unintentionally pushing your chest a little together, he scoffs as his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah…I’m for sure getting into this frat.” he says, mainly saying it to himself, but you would be lying if it didn’t give you a little bit of an ego boost.

“Pipe down, it’s literally the most basic outfit known to man.”

“But you make it look hot…real hot.” he grins.

You roll your eyes and shove his shoulder. “Don’t even.” you mumble as you walk out of your dorm room, closing and locking the door behind you. 

He laughs softly as you start walking to the frat house, which is just around a block away. As you step outside, you shiver a bit from the cold and you frown at the fact that you didn’t bring a jacket, but you honestly felt too lazy to turn around and go back to grab one. He notices (and since he wasn’t wearing one either), he opts for putting his arm around your shoulders, pulling you a bit closer. 

“You have to admit, this is a little exciting. I mean, it’s our first college party and I’ll make it my mission to make it memorable.”

He honestly means that; he genuinely wants you to have a good time. He knows how you would rather be spending your time right now, just laying in your bed as you watch some show you’ve seen a thousand times, but he wants to break you out of that. Not that he has any problem with you being more introverted or wants to mold you into something he wants you to be, he has a more…specific reason than that. Your smile. As you two walk, he smiles to himself just thinking about it. How, whenever he sees you smiling this certain way–like you’re smiling for the first time–it’s like time stops; like you’re the only thing of importance in that very moment because nothing else matters, nothing else could possibly compare to how special and beautiful you look in those moments. It makes him feel giddy and the first time he ever saw you smile like that, he knew he had to do whatever it took to make it happen again. 

“Maybe for you, but if it smells like B.O. and weed, I am so out of there.”

He laughs and covers his mouth, his laugh coming out louder than he expected it to. He runs that hand through his hair and turns his head to look at you. “I feel like you have some underlying stereotypes about frat boys.”

“And until this party proves me otherwise, it’ll stay that way.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then you’re on your own once you join their cult.”

He chuckles softly and shakes his head a bit. “I’m not going to become some buff incel just because I want to join this fraternity.”

You knew that. Well, you were hoping that would be the case. But this is different. This is college. Dramatic, maybe, but you were afraid the two of you would split apart and although you have other friends, he’s the one you’ve had for years. He knows everything about you and has seen you through all of your phases and vice versa. You just feel this looming anxiety that him joining this fraternity will be the first step in the direction of you two no longer being friends; that you’ll just become people you pass by on your way to class. You don’t want to tell him this, though, you’re not really ready to have a discussion (which may turn into an argument) about this just yet. You feel terrible for wanting this, but you’re secretly hoping he doesn’t get in. Not because you don’t want him to branch out and experience his own things in college, well, maybe a little. Maybe you’re selfish. Or maybe you’re saving him from turning into a douche. At least, that’s what you’ll tell yourself to feel better about hoping he doesn’t get in. It’s just because you want him to not forget about you. You’re not as outgoing as him, so what if he starts to find you to be boring? The thought made you frown.

-

Ten minutes. It’s been ten minutes and this party is already making you feel like you’re being suffocated from the amount of people at this thing, all of whom already seem to be drunk. Once you and Jake got here, you could already tell you were going to hate every lousy minute you had to spend at this party. Especially since there have already been a few people who’ve had their eyes on you for a little longer than you wanted. You tried to make this situation a positive, trying to just relax and have fun as you see Jake greeting the many people he already knows. It’s only been a week since the semester started and he already knew at least twenty people here (yes, you counted). He introduced you to everyone he’s greeted, though, he didn’t want to make you feel left out. He could see you were a little uncomfortable, probably just because it was crowded and loud, so he decided to take you to the kitchen, getting the two of you some drinks. 

He smiles warmly, “We can dance if you want, or we can just talk, drink, get wasted, and judge people. Up to you.” he says, nudging your arm.

You smile a little and playfully roll your eyes. “I know that’s now what you want to do.”

“But it’s what you want to do.”

You look at him for a moment and before you say anything back, you hear a loud, booming voice calling Jake over. You both look and see some of the frat brothers laughing and motioning for him to come over as they yell at him like he’s some football player on the team they love. You glance at Jake. 

“Please go so they stop.”

He laughs and nods, walking over to them. You take another sip of your drink and then you see someone you met in one of your classes. They notice you and wave and you wave back before going over to talk with them.

Jake walks over to the group of four of the frat boys and greets them, dapping them up. One of them motions their head towards you, “So…who’s she?” he asks, crossing his arms as he grins. The others nod their heads and Jake turns to glance at you before looking at them.

He shrugs, smiling shyly, “She’s my best friend-”

“She rushing Delta Theta Zow?” another one asks.

Jake shakes his head, “Nah, sororities aren’t her thing.”

“Too bad, she’s hot.”

Jake feels himself frown slightly at that. Sure, his intention was to hopefully have them think you’re hot so they would be more inclined to go easier on him when hazing, maybe even just decide to let him in if he could prove he knew some hot girls despite how shallow that sounds. It’s just the way he said it, the way they’re looking at you, that makes him feel sick. 

“Tell you what, Jakey, you let us…get to know her, and who knows, you might just be exactly who we’re looking for.” one of them suggests.

Jake feels all of the blood suddenly drain out of his body and the frat brother grins, nudging another one. “Or, tell you what.” he says, putting his arm around Jake, “You sleep with her and you may just be one of the newest members of Alpha Omega Phi. Sound like a deal?”

“You want me to…”

“Fuck her.”

Well, there goes his chances of joining this frat, which surprisingly, is one of the more tame options out of the other ones. This one has great connections to people in the field of computer science and engineering, which is what he desperately wants to achieve. This could give him a big head start…but he can’t just use you.

He chuckles nervously, “I don’t know…she’s not like that-”

“Too bad,” the frat brother says as he takes his arm off of Jake, “We thought you would’ve fit right in with us.” the others nod their heads in agreement.

Jake thinks for a moment. “...alright…fine.”

The four of them cheer, which ignites cheers from other party goers, making Jake look around and find it a bit strange that they hold that kind of power. 

“You can use Bradley’s room, he could use some sort of action on that bed.” one of them teases and the others laugh. Jake nods his head, trying to laugh along and then they shove him to go over to you. Jake quickly walks over to you, setting his drink on the counter and grabs your arm. 

“The hell-?” you say as he quickly drags you upstairs into a bedroom and he closes the door behind the two of you, looking at you kind of panicked. “What the hell is your problem-”

“They want me to fuck you.”

You feel yourself freeze, all of your muscles tensing up at what just came out of his mouth. Was he being serious? “...deadass?”

“Deadass.”

“Damn…” you mutter, him releasing your arm from his grip. “So…”

He shrugs, “So…” he repeats.

“Guess you’re not getting into this frat.”

He looks at you for a moment, “So, this is like…a for sure thing.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Dude, I’m not having sex with you so you can join a frat.”

“Come on,” he pleads, using his puppy dog eyes again. To be honest, he knew you would say no for obvious reasons, but this was important to him. Sure, you’re important to him, too, which is kind of why he also figured you would be okay with doing this as a favor. “this is really important, I have to get into this frat. I could get an upper hand with some major companies I want to work for once we graduate. Please?” he clasps his hands together, “Just do me this one favor.”

“Fucking me is not a favor.”

“Well, it’s also not a punishment-”

You scoff, shoving his shoulder lightly and he laughs softly. It goes quiet for a moment between the two of you and he looks at you, expecting, wanting you to change your mind.

“How would they know, anyway? Can’t we just, like, pretend to have had sex? You know, like that scene in Easy A.” you suggest.

“In what?”

“Oh my god, we have to add that to our list of movies to watch, it has Emma Stone, so you already know it’s going to be good-”

“Okay, okay, yeah we can watch it later. Are you going to let me fuck you or what?”

You groan, “Can’t I just give you my panties or something and then you can wave them around and brag about it? Actually, don’t do that.”

“Look, this frat is made up of guys in business, engineering, chemistry, and physics majors, they’re not stupid. They’ll know, trust me, and I really don’t want to have to deal with any more hazing because I’m pretty sure it’s just going to keep getting worse and I would actually like to survive my first few weeks of college.”

“Or…you could just not join.”

He frowns, “You know how much this means to me.” You sigh. Yes, you thought this was stupid, but you also weren’t dumb enough to not realize how joining this frat could actually help him in the future. You saw the superficialness of it all and you knew he wasn’t dumb enough to see past it either, but Jake has worked really hard and besides, you would be lying if you said you saw this as a worst case scenario. “Please?” he asks, anticipating your answer.

You sigh again, “Fine.”

He smiles, “God, yes, thank you so much.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“I’ll make you feel so fucking good.” he says. You thought you should take it as a joke, but he says it with a more serious tone before he hooks his fingers through the loop of your jeans, pulling you closer as he leans in, kissing you. 

You were a little surprised by him just going for it so suddenly, but you close your eyes and kiss him back. His hand travels up to your waist, holding onto it as his other hand moves to the side of your face, cupping it as he pulls you closer, his fingers slightly tangling with your hair. He tilts his head, slipping his tongue past your lips, sending shivers down your spine as it slides over your own. He kisses you with a sort of hunger, not expecting to be kissing you with so much intensity, but once his lips met yours, it’s like a switch went off for him and he can’t help himself from wanting you more and more. 

He guides the two of you over to the bed as you continue to kiss, him grunting softly as his eyebrows furrow together, feeling himself getting hard from just kissing you. He parts from your lips, having you both gasp for air before he pushes your hair aside, feeling his long, thin fingers brush past your neck before being replaced with his soft, plump lips. He leaves open mouthed kisses along the side of your neck before turning you around, your ass pressing against his hard on, making him moan softly into your ear from the contact, his precum leaking and staining his underwear and pants. You tease him, grinding against him slightly which makes him bite your neck softly as he continues kissing along the side of it, down to your shoulder. He grips your hips tightly, stopping your movements and you feel his lips and hot breath brush against your ear.

“Don’t play with me.” he whispers, gently nibbling on your earlobe before pulling away. His hands slip to the button of your jeans, undoing it and slowly zipping down the zipper. He pushes your jeans down just slightly, a little past your ass and he feels like he’s going to pass out from his fingertips gently grazing the edge of your underwear alone. He kisses your neck again, his left hand going to your neck, gently gripping it as he moves your head to the side to give him more room. That action alone almost makes you moan, but you just gasp softly as his right hand slips its fingers past your waistband, finally feeling them push against you. He moans at the feeling of you already being so wet and he coats his fingers in your arousal, making a mess in your panties. 

He uses his middle and ring finger to press and circle your clit, causing you to gasp and close your eyes, your head falling back against his shoulder and he pulls away from your neck, breathing slightly heavily. He turns his head to look at you, leaving gentle kisses on the side of your face as he moves his fingers down, pushing them inside of you. From the way your lips part and you let out the softest moan, your eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, he can feel himself almost cum at the sight alone. He pushes his fingers in and out of you, his thumb rubbing your clit and he leaves a kiss against your ear.

“That’s right, baby, you like this, hm? Fuck, you’re so wet, do you want me to just fuck you now?” he whispers against your ear, knowing he, himself, wants nothing more than to do just that. He fingers you faster, curling them against your walls as the pads of his fingers reach areas you can’t. You moan louder, feeling your legs shake and he smirks. “I bet you taste so good.” he whispers and he pulls his fingers out of you and your panties. “Open.” he demands and you open your mouth, slightly sticking out your tongue and he puts his fingers into your mouth. You lick them as he shoves them a little deeper and then pulls them out, sliding the mixture of your spit and arousal on your bottom lip before he turns your head and kisses you, wanting to taste you. He licks your lip, he sucks your tongue, anything he can just to have you on his lips. He moans softly and pulls away, a string of saliva connecting your lips before breaking. He’s decided he needs more.

He runs his hand along your back, slightly pushing you so you bend over the bed. You can feel your heartbeat against the comforter of the bed. He pulls your jeans down to your ankles, biting his bottom lip as he grins at the full view of your ass on display. His eyes look over how soaked your panties are, feeling a sense of pride knowing he did it. He gently squeezes and kisses one side of your ass, playfully biting it and then realizes he likes the idea of him marking you like this. He bites it a little harder, you moaning and whining at the feeling, your fingers gripping onto the bed sheet. He grins, kissing his teeth marks before he pulls down your underwear, feeling as though he is looking at the gates of heaven itself, his eyes locking onto your pussy. He mumbles something to himself that you can’t hear, but you suddenly feel his tongue slide slowly along and in between your folds. Your mouth opens as you moan, feeling yourself clenching around nothing and he chuckles softly, licking his lips.

He can feel his cock twitch in his pants, more warm precum sticking to his thigh and underwear. He goes back in for more, low groans and moans coming deeply from his throat as he buries his face into your swollen pussy, covering his face in your slick. “You taste so fucking good.” he says with a raspy voice, the vibrations feeling as though they travel throughout your whole body as you moan, feeling his tongue lick feverishly. You feel yourself drool at how he spreads your legs more, his nose and tongue all pressing into you more, him hooking his arms under your thighs, his hands resting and squeezing your ass, raising your hips slightly as he licks and sucks your clit. His nose rubs between your swollen folds as you moan louder, gripping the sheets tighter. 

He licks faster, making out with your cunt as his tongue slips in and out of you. You let out a long moan, feeling as if your knees buckle, cumming all over his tongue, lips, chin, and nose. He moans into your pussy, licking up all of your release and he pulls away, looking at your glistening pussy, rubbing his fingers between your slit, spreading the mixture of his spit and your cum all over. His tongue licks his lips clean, reaching down to lick the part of his chin it can reach and he lets out a low groan, relishing in your taste. You whine as he gives a soft slap to your pussy, licking his fingers clean before using it to collect your cum from the rest of his face and licking that up as well. 

He flips you over, leaning down to kiss you again and you kiss him back eagerly, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands roam along the sides of your body, his right one moving up to your chest and groping your breast through your shirt, you moan and whine as he squeezes it tightly, palming and kneading it as he starts to kiss you roughly. His breaths are heavy and before he even knows what he’s doing, he rips your shirt open, his patience dwindling with each second that passes. He kisses down your throat and buries his face between your breasts, kneading them as he kisses between them. He squeezes and pushes them together, licking across them and switching between each one to leave kisses on. He pulls down the cups of the bra, your nipples hardening more from the sudden cold air hitting them as your breathing becomes shallow and you moan with how he is handling you. 

He flicks his tongue over your nipple, sucking and gently tugging at it with his teeth. His tongue swirls around your nipple, his hand squeezing the breast to fill more of his mouth as saliva runs down his chin. He moves and does the same with the other one and your chest rises and falls, moans escaping your lips. Your hand moves and tugs at his shirt, pulling the fabric up and he notices, moving away from you as he takes it off quickly. You feel yourself get even wetter at the sight of his toned arms and abs, looking over every curve of his upper body and he grins. He takes your hand and places it on his abs, moving it over them slowly and you both moan quietly to yourselves. He lets go of your hand and slides off his shoes, you taking the initiative to do the same. You both undress the rest of yourselves quickly and you feel yourself stop in your tracks when you see his long, thick cock slap against his abdomen. You clench around nothing as your eyes look over each vein, biting your bottom lip. 

You reach out, using your finger to slide it over his tip, collecting the precum. His breath gets caught in his throat as he watches you, as you also collect the precum from the side of his thigh. You bring your fingers to your lips, licking them slowly as you look up at him. He watches you intently, his eyes shifting from your fingers, to your tongue, to your lips, to your eyes. You let out a soft moan as you taste him, licking your fingers clean and he reaches out, his hand grabbing your chin and lifting your head up to look at him more. He looks down at you, grinning before kissing you, tasting him on your tongue; that fact alone made him feel proud. He pushes you back against the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He kisses your temple muttering a “thank you” before pushing himself into you. 

Your back arches slightly at the feeling, the pressure between your legs, the way that your walls mold and clench around his cock makes your head spin. You can feel the ridges of the veins in his cock grazing against them, making you clench tighter. He grits his teeth, cursing under his breath as he pushes himself fully into you. He moans and whines a little at the overwhelming feeling of you around him. His forehead rests on yours as he catches his breath, his hands wandering down the sides of your waist to your hips, gripping them tightly as he holds back the urge to cum. He thrusts slowly, sliding in and out of you, subtle squelching noises of your wetness coating his cock. This sound alone, however, causes him to go faster, moans spilling from your lips as the bed creaks harshly, the headboard hitting the wall. His grip becomes tighter and he clenches his jaw, letting out short breaths as he pulls away, watching your tits bounce with each thrust. He reaches and grabs one, playing with your nipple and fondling the breast, his eyes rolling back a bit as he moans. He fucks into you harder and faster, his hips meeting yours quickly, his balls slapping against your ass, the sound of your skin slapping, your moans becoming increasingly louder as your cunt swallows his cock each time he thrusts into it, his soft whines with short moans, and your arousal spreading between your thighs while getting on his drives him wild. 

He pulls out and you gasp at the empty feeling. He grabs your hips and flips you over, pushing your ass up and spreading your legs, sliding himself back in, pounding into you harder and faster. You moan–almost screaming–at the sudden change of pace, your face buried into the mattress as your body shakes. He moans, gripping your ass tightly as he uses that to keep him steady while he fucks you. You moan and scream his name into the mattress, making him moan in return. He grabs a handful of your hair, pulling your head up from the mattress, making you moan and gasp.

“Scream it now.” he demands, fucking you deeper, his other hand reaching to rub circles on your clit hard and fast.

Your eyes roll back a bit and you comply, screaming his name, letting out a lewd moan afterwards as pleasure overtakes your body, your orgasm crashing down. You clench tightly around him, repeating his name over and over as you cum. That was all he needed and until now, he never realized that’s all he wanted. He thrusts harshly a few more times, going back to gripping your hips before moaning your name and pulling out. He pumps his cock a few times and flips you back over, you just giving in because your mind was blank at the moment. He moves up and moans deeply as he cums on your breasts, watching as the pearly white liquid spills on your nipples and the soft flesh, feeling warm and sticky on your skin.

He lets out a breath he seemed to be holding and kisses you. You kiss him back, sloppily, before he pulls away, moving to your chest. He kisses your nipples, a little bit of his cum on his lips before he licks it off. He uses his pointer and middle fingers to spread the cum around your nipples in a slow, circular motion, making you shiver. He smiles, and collects his cum onto his fingers off of your breasts. You open your mouth and he chuckles softly, sticking his fingers in your mouth as you suck and lick them.

“So good…so pretty…” he whispers to you. 

You blush a little and he pulls his fingers out. He moves off of you and you both just take some time to catch your breath. You sit up and you both look at each other before bursting out into laughter. You both calm down after a moment before getting up to put on your clothes, but after you put on everything but your shirt is when you realize you can’t. 

You glare at him, “Genius, what the hell am I supposed to wear?” you ask, holding up your ripped shirt.

He laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, “Damn, my bad.” he looks around and then he takes off his shirt, handing it to you. You raise an eyebrow and take it, putting it on. He walks to the closet and just grabs a shirt from there, putting it on. “I’ll give it back later.” he says, to which you laugh. 

You both walk out of the room, seeing two of the frat boys Jake was talking to earlier. They smile smugly and whistle, cheering a bit and you roll your eyes. They give a thumbs up to Jake and he smiles a bit awkwardly before leaning to whisper in your ear, “Let’s get out of here.” You both walk silently as you leave the party. After a moment, he speaks, “Thanks…by the way…and I’ll buy you a new shirt and…I definitely owe you one.”

“You better get into this frat, I swear to God.”

He laughs, “Damn right.” he says as he nudges your arm and you nudge back. “So, how can I make this up to you?”

You think for a moment and then shrug. “It wasn’t all that bad.”

He scoffs, “Gee, thanks.”

You laugh, “You know what I mean.”

He smirks and looks at you. “You know…you look even hotter in my shirt.”

You roll your eyes and laugh. “What a random thing to say.”

He shrugs, “Maybe…we could do this again.”

You look at him, quiet for a moment. “...very funny.”

“I’m serious.” he says as he looks back at you. He smiles a bit and wraps his arm around your shoulder. “Are you down or what?”

[pedroscurls]

Absolutely no obligation to answer if you aren't taking requests, but could I ask for Hugh x reader? Like Blake and Ryan trying hard to play wingman for them both at an event, only to find out the two have been quietly together/hooking up for a few weeks? Whether it be angsty or fluffy is your choice! 🙂

our little secret (one-shot)

summary: ryan and blake try to set you and hugh up, but little do they know, you've already been secretly seeing each other. pairing: hugh jackman x fem!reader content warnings: smut (18+, mdni) - unprotected p in v (creampie oops, be safe folks), fingering, oral - f receiving, hugh bends you over 🙂‍↕️, no use of y/n. word count: 2.7k a/n: i'm catching up to all the requests that have been sitting in my askbox, so thank you for waiting on this! i know you said it could be angsty or fluffy, but it actually instead became smutty lmao. i had a lot of fun writing this lol - love the sneaking around and eventually getting caught trope 🤭 as always, this is purely fictional! i mean no disrespect to hugh jackman.

The entire night, you and Hugh steal glances from across the room. Either he’s with Ryan or some other group of people that he’s talking to and you’re either with Blake or on the dance floor dancing with her. You can feel the pull you have towards Hugh, yearning to be pulled into his arms but you have to refrain. You have to resist.

No one knows that you’re seeing each other, that you’ve been secretly having a very intimate relationship with him. Neither of you are ready for everyone else to know, so you try to keep your distance. Try not to make it so obvious that you just want him.

“I think you and Hugh should go talk,” Blake grins, nudging you with her arm.

You shrug nonchalantly, doing your best to look uninterested. “I don’t know, Blake.”

“Just one conversation,” she says. “You never know what can happen.”

Oh, you know exactly what would happen. If you and Hugh get a chance to speak tonight, you know that you wouldn’t be able to hide this secret any longer. Especially since the entire time so far, you’ve been trying to think of ways to sneak away from Blake and see Hugh. It’s such a busy event, such a huge party that even if you did try to sneak away with Hugh, someone would see the both of you.

And neither of you need that right now.

“If we somehow get to talking, then sure. Right now, I’m just focused on me.”

Blake narrows her eyes. “I can bring him over here and–”

“Blake,” you interrupt. “Seriously, I’m okay.”

Blake sighs. “Fine, okay. But if he comes up to you on his own, you’ll at least talk to him?”

“Sure. Would be rude of me to just leave if he tries to have a conversation with me,” you point out.

“Ryan and I just think you’d be so good together,” she replies.

“You think I’d be good with anyone,” you laugh.

“That’s because anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“Aw, Blake… It’s a bit early for all these compliments, don’t you think?” you tease.

Blake rolls her eyes. “You’re right. I usually need a couple of more drinks before I get to that point.”

“Okay, ha ha. Can we go back out there and dance?”

“Yes, baby, let’s go.” She takes your hand and leads you to the dancefloor, glancing over her shoulder to see Ryan and Hugh staring at the both of you.

—

“So…” Ryan smirks, watching the way Hugh’s eyes linger on your frame. “You obviously think she’s–”

“No,” he interrupts, pulling his eyes away from you. When Hugh saw you for the first time that night, he had realized just how difficult it would be to keep things a secret. You look so beautiful, the dress clinging to every curve, and he wanted nothing more than to just take you away from this party so that he could have you to himself.

But Hugh tries to remember the conversation you had with him. This has to be a secret for a little while longer, just to see if this is more than just physical attraction. Hugh agreed, but the more time he spent with you, the more he wanted to get to know you. The sex was amazing, but the conversations you had with each other afterwards were just as great.

“Oh come on!” Ryan chuckles. “You should at least talk to her.”

“Not interested,” Hugh lies. “Besides, I already talked to her at your dinner party. She’s nice, sweet, but that’s all it is.”

Ryan arches a brow. “Seemed like you two hit it off that night.”

“Just being polite,” Hugh replies.

“Well, I think you should go and talk to her. See what can happen.”

“Ryan, no.” His eyes deviate to you and he tries to keep his eyes above your shoulder, but he can’t help but let his eyes take in your frame, your hips swaying effortlessly to the rhythm of the song. Clearing his throat, Hugh shakes his head and instead turns his back to the dancefloor.

“Let me be your wingman, Hugh,” he says excitedly. “All we gotta do is walk over there, dance a bit, and then–”

“I’m gonna get some fresh air.” Hugh interjects with a sigh. He knows if he stands here another minute that he’s going to break and he’s going to give in to Ryan because he wants you so badly. Even as he’s walking away from Ryan, he turns to look over his shoulder to see your eyes glued onto him. He gives you a subtle nod and steps outside, glancing around to see that no one but him is there.

With a sigh, he runs a hand over his face and lets out a sigh. Hugh likes you a lot and he’s become tired of keeping this, keeping you a secret. His mind begins to drift when he feels a gentle hand on his back and he turns to look down at you, a smile immediately lining his lips.

“Hey there, stranger,” you say quietly.

Even under the moonlight, you look so beautiful. Hugh reaches out for your hand, yearning to pull you into him and give you a kiss. “You’re really killing me with that dress you got on.”

“You like?” you smile, twirling in front of him.

“Oh, I love it,” Hugh winks. “Would look better if it was on the floor.”

“Oh, you’re naughty tonight.” you let out a quiet giggle. “What would you do if I told you I wasn’t wearing any panties?”

Hugh’s eyes widen and his gaze darkens. “Are you?”

You shake your head slowly. “Nope.”

“And you’re calling me the naughty one,” Hugh whispers, taking a step closer to you as his other hand moves to your hip, bunching up your dress in a tight fist. “Ryan’s been trying to get me to talk to you.”

“Oh?” you ask quietly, hand moving up to rest on his chest. “Blake’s been doing the same. I think they’re trying to play matchmaker.”

“They don’t know we’ve been seeing each other for the last few weeks,” Hugh chuckles, eyes drifting to your lips. “But seeing you tonight… It’s been really difficult to keep this a secret.”

“I know,” you sigh. “I see how the other women are looking at you tonight and I can’t blame them.”

“Not looking at them though.”

“But if you want to, you know you can… We aren’t really exclusive and–”

“I want to be,” Hugh interrupts. “I know we’re still testing out the waters, seeing if this is only physical, but I like you.”

“You know, I didn’t expect to have this conversation tonight…” you say quietly.

“Am I misreading this?” Hugh sighs, pulling away from you but you pull him back to you.

“No, I like you too. I just didn’t–” you bite your lower lip. “I just didn’t want to scare you away if I told you that I want this. That I want you. Only you.”

Hugh tries to hide the smile from appearing on his lips. He looks into your eyes and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “You like me, huh?”

“I do…”

Hugh then steps closer, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you flush against him. “Good because I’m gonna kiss you now.”

Your hand moves up to gently grip the lapel of his jacket. “Please,” you whisper. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you all night and–”

Hugh leans down and presses his lips against yours, hand gripping your hip. He wastes no time in moving his lips with yours, hand slowly dipping lower and lower to your backside. You gasp against his lips, reaching behind you to grab his wrist.

“Mmm, not yet,” you whisper, pulling away slowly.

Hugh’s about to lean in to give you another kiss when you both hear Blake and Ryan’s voices.

“I fucking knew it!” Ryan quips, finger pointing in your direction.

“And here we were, trying to get you two together!” Blake laughs.

You lean against Hugh whose arm still remains wrapped around you. “Surprise?”

Blake rolls her eyes playfully and walks up to you, pulling you into a hug. “Surprise indeed.”

Ryan grins, clapping a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “So, how long?”

“Since the night of your dinner party,” Hugh chuckles.

“You fucker,” Ryan laughs.

“We wanted to keep it a secret,” you say quietly, reaching out for Hugh’s hand. “But–”

“I like her a lot,” Hugh interrupts, lacing his hand with yours. “Didn’t want to hide this anymore.”

“We’re so happy for the both of you,” Blake smiles.

“Thanks, Blake.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse us, I owe my girl a dance,” Hugh winks. He leads you back inside of the party and wraps an arm around your waist, leaning in to kiss your cheek.

Blake and Ryan join the both of you and once on the dance floor, Hugh turns you around in his arms, hands moving to rest on your hips as your bodies begin to sway to the music. It’s dark and the music is blaring, but your sole focus is on Hugh who’s staring directly back at you.

He runs his hands along your sides and back down to your hips, bringing you flush against his front as you feel the length of manhood hardening beneath his pants. You bite your lower lip, arms coming up to snake around his shoulders and link at the base of his neck.

Hugh dips his head lower, capturing your lips in a slow kiss. He moves a hand to your lower back as the crowd of people surrounding the both of you fades into the background. He gently nips at your lower lip, hearing you quietly whimper. His lips move from your own to your jawline, coming up to gently nibble on your ear as he whispers huskily.

“I need you bad, baby.”

“But the party–”

“How about we leave early?” Hugh runs his hand up your back and down to rest above your backside.

“What about Blake and Ryan?”

Hugh looks over at the other couple who look to be in their own little world and he chuckles, turning his attention back to you. “I don’t think they’d mind one bit if we leave.”

You bite your lower lip and then nod, leaning up to peck his lips. “Take me home then, Hugh.”

“Yes,” he groans lowly. “I’ve been wanting to take you home the moment I saw you tonight. Let’s go.”

—

You don’t make it far once you and Hugh enter his place. He’s on you like a starved animal, hands running along your frame, lips lightly attacking your neck and shoulder. You can feel his length pressing into you from behind as he shrugs off his blazer.

“You make me crazy, baby,” Hugh growls, gently grazing the skin at your neck with his teeth. “Like a fucking teenager all over again.”

“Hugh, baby,” you whimper. “Wait, we should go upstairs and–”

“No,” he groans against you. “Right here.” Hugh bends you over the back of his large couch, immediately lifting the ends of your dress to your hips, giving him a clear view of your backside and your glistening slit. “You weren’t lying… no panties.”

“Have I ever lied to you?” You ask, looking over your shoulder at him.

Hugh glances up at you briefly before he drops to his knees in front of you. His large hands come up to spread your cheeks apart as he licks a strip along your sex, groaning against you.

“Hugh!” You exclaim, hand reaching back to curl into his hair.

“Mmm,” Hugh pulls back and looks at your sex, gaze darkening at the sight of you glistening for him. “Gonna have my taste now, baby.”

Before you could even answer, Hugh leans in and buries his face between your legs. He doesn’t bother to slow down, groaning against your sex as you feel his tongue in your most sensitive areas. You’re close, knowing that you aren’t going to last that long with the way Hugh’s going.

He pulls back momentarily, chin glistening with your arousal as he immediately slides two fingers into your tight heat. Hugh then leans back in and sucks your clit in time with pumping his fingers in and out of you and you’re so wet that the sounds mix in with your loud moans. It’s so lewd and obscene and it only spurs him on even further.

Your grip in his hair tightens as you feel your walls begin to tremble. When you feel a tightness begin to build in the pit of your stomach, you grip his hair even tighter, holding him firmly against you. Your eyes clamp shut as Hugh continues his assault on you, urging you through your orgasm.

Hugh then pulls back and stands up between your legs, his hands coming to undo his belt and zipper of his pants. His fingers are wet with your slick and he lifts to his mouth and sucks on it as his eyes stare directly at your throbbing heat.

Once he pulls his manhood out, he gives it a few strokes before notching his tip at your entrance. He feels you flinch at the sudden touch, smirking to himself.

“Hugh, wait. I need a minute.” You tell him, trying to turn around but Hugh keeps you firmly bent over the couch.

“Ah baby, you can handle it.” He grins, running his tip along the length of your sex, catching your hole repeatedly.

“Hugh,” you plead, reaching back for him but he just grabs your wrists and places them firmly against your lower back. With his free hand, he slowly slides into your tight heat, the slickness of your arousal immediately coating his length with each thrust forward.

He releases his hold on manhood and instead moves to place it on the couch, gripping it tightly. Hugh fills you to the brim, groaning to himself at the feeling of your walls wrapped tightly around him.

“See, told you,” he grins, pulling his hips back. Hugh pulls out to his tip, glancing down to see his length slick with your wetness. Then, he slowly slides back in and grips the couch even tighter, not wanting to leave any bruises on your wrists that remain firm in his grasp.

“Fuck!” You moan aloud. Your walls are already so sensitive and you know that you won’t last long with the way Hugh’s picking up his pace.

“God, you look good like this,” Hugh groans, thrusts moving faster as he repeatedly slams into you. You feel every inch, every throbbing vein and when he firmly slams into you, you move your ass back against him and feel the hair at his base provide the perfect friction against your clit.

He pulls back only enough to see you slide back into him, watching your ass shake and jiggle as you use him to reach yet another orgasm. Hugh knows that he’s getting closer, knows that he’s about to come but he tries to hold off because the sight of you using him like this for your own pleasure just turns him on even more.

“Baby,” Hugh groans. “I’m gonna come and I–”

“Inside,” you whimper.

Hugh feels a sudden rush overcome him at your confirmation and he releases his hold on your wrists to place both hands on your hips. He groans and begins to thrust back into you, his skin slapping loudly against yours as he chases his own release.

“Hugh, baby,” you moan, moving your own hands to rest over his as pleasure washes over you. Your body feels limp, feels like you can just fall asleep bent over this couch, but Hugh’s sharp thrusts work you through your own orgasm.

After a couple of thrusts, Hugh’s hips begin to stutter and you feel his warmth begin to fill you up. His grip on your hips tighten almost painfully as he empties himself into you, every last fucking drop.

When he pulls out, Hugh can’t help the sight of his release slowly begin to trickle out of you and down the inside of your leg. He smiles to himself, gently loosening his hold on you as he turns you around to face him.

“I don’t think I can walk upstairs,” you tease.

Hugh smirks proudly. “Good, because I don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.”

—-

forever taglist: @haytchee @wolverigrl

[libraryofgage]

Pirate/Mermaid Steddie One

There is way more mermaid culture world-building than I intended, but that's the fun part lmao

This part discusses injuries, has a mention of mutilation in passing, and involves stitching up a large wound. Nothing is graphic, but there are some descriptions of pain

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future parts!

As always, if you see any typos no you didn't

----

There were a few things Eddie expected from this raid. Gold, of course. Supplies like food, obviously. Some new weapons, surely.

A fucking mermaid? Nowhere near that list of expected things.

And yet, here he stands in the doorway of the raided ship captain's cabin, caught in a staring contest with a merman that's definitely seen better days.

He's stuck in a tiny wooden tub, his tail forced against his chest as the rest of it flops over the edge and trails the floor. His blue-and-green with inexplicable hints of orange scales are dull, too dull, and Eddie is trying really hard to control the sheer rage he feels at the jagged cut that drags down the middle of the tail and through the fin at the bottom. The edges of the wound have crusted over, but it still looks painful, and Eddie knows it was meant to keep the merman from using his tail to escape.

Eddie takes a step into the cabin, ready to just scoop the merman up and take him back to his ship. But he stops when the merman tenses, his entire body somehow becoming more rigid. His hands on the edge of the tub tighten, his sharp nails digging into the slowly rotting wood. He's staring at Eddie like he's some new threat, which seriously is not gonna help with the whole "take the gorgeous merman with incredible hair and alluring brown eyes back to his ship and nurse him back to health" thing.

Eddie freezes and holds his hands up. "Sorry," he says, keeping his voice low and soothing. The merman doesn't relax much, but his nails are no longer digging into the wood. Eddie figures that's a tiny win.

"I'm Captain Eddie of the Corroded Coffin. We didn't expect to find you here, sweetheart."

The nickname just slips out, an unthinking attempt to butter the merman up and an admission of his own thoughts. The merman's eyes narrow, slowly looking Eddie over as though sizing him up.

Eddie lets him, perfectly content with standing still if it means the merman will give him even one iota more of his trust. "That doesn't look very comfortable," he says, nodding to the tub. "Would you like some help?"

The merman relaxes a little more, and Eddie has no clue what he did to cause that. Before he can think too much about it, the merman points to a dresser on the other side of the room, looking at Eddie expectantly.

"You want something from there?"

The merman nods, which tells Eddie he at least understands human language. That doesn't give him any idea if the merman can speak it, though.

He walks over to the dresser and looks at the merman, pointing to each drawer in turn until the merman nods. The fourth drawer is, apparently, the correct one. When Eddie opens it, he finds a small treasure trove. It must be a collection of trophies from the ship captain's previous raids.

A quick glance reveals a gold crown with rubies, several diamond rings, a few silver bracelets with various gemstones along the bands, and a pearl and seashell necklace thrown on top. Eddie knows the merman probably wants that necklace most, but he can't help thinking of a rumor that mermaids like shiny things.

The drawer is full of shiny things.

He hesitates for less than a second before pulling out the entire drawer itself and turning around. "I'm not sure what you want from here," he lies, smiling apologetically at the merman. "Can I come close enough to show you?"

The merman stares at him before slowly nodding once, suspicion practically radiating off of him. Eddie flashes a more genuine smile and slowly approaches, giving the merman enough time to reject his presence. When he's a few steps away, Eddie crouches and tilts the drawer so the merman can see what's inside.

Immediately, the merman reaches out and snatches the pearl and seashell necklace. The gills on the side of his neck flutter slightly as he puts it on, and Eddie wonders if that's a sign of relief. "Was that everything you wanted?" he asks.

The merman glances at him, one hand still lingering on the necklace. He glances down at the drawer again, seeming to argue with himself before reaching out and removing the crown and every bracelet. He carefully slips the bracelets on and clutches the crown in his hands.

"Anything else?" Eddie asks, his tone indulgent. It must be reassuring, though, because the merman looks at him with curiosity more than anything else. It's like he's trying to figure out what he can get away with.

A few seconds pass before the merman glances down at the drawer. His gaze lingers at the edges, and Eddie starts to wonder what could possibly be there when the merman points at one of his rings.

Eddie blinks, following the merman's finger to a chunky ring. It's shaped like a bat with emeralds for eyes and diamonds for teeth. It's one of Eddie's favorites; he found it on his first raid, took it right off the captain's hand himself. Nobody has ever dared ask to touch it, let alone have it.

Without a second thought, Eddie puts the drawer down, slips the ring off his finger, and offers it to the merman. It sits in the palm of his hand, meaning they'd have to touch if the merman really wants it that badly.

Slowly, the merman reaches for the ring, his nails tickling against Eddie's palm as he takes it. From the light brush against Eddie's fingers, the merman's skin is cool, exactly like jumping into the ocean on a hot day.

----

Steve is a firm believer in the power of small comforts, especially as it relates to the growth of his guppies. Dustin has long outgrown his baby tail belt, but he still wraps it around his wrist every morning. El and Will no longer need the seaweed and coral dolls Steve made for them when they were barely able to swim a straight line, but they still tuck them in every night.

So, when the human (Eddie, Steve reminds himself) offers up a drawer filled with shiny jewelry, Steve doesn't hold himself back. The bracelets make him feel grounded, the crown gives him something to clutch without the risk of breaking it, and the ring...

Well, the ring was more to see if Eddie's actions would match his tone. And because Steve thought it was fascinatingly grotesque. What kind of creature would have wings without feathers? Sure, the gulls he sometimes sees near the surface are confusing, but the ring depicts something even further beyond his imagination. What's up with the sharp teeth? Why must the eyes be green? Does it know it's a freak of nature?

Anyway, the jewelry helps. Steve uses it to distract himself from the sheer agony screaming from his tail when Eddie lifts him out of the cramped tub. He thinks about which bracelet he'll give to which guppy (Robin will get the crown) when the edges of his tailfin graze against Eddie's legs as he confidently walks across a plank connecting the two ships. He closely studies the featherless wings on the ring to avoid thinking about what's to come when Eddie sets him down on a large, surprisingly comfortable bed in another private cabin and starts gathering a needle and thread.

There's not much left to distract him when Eddie kneels next to the bed and looks up at him, his eyes reminding Steve of his guppies when they've done something bad and need him to clean up the mess.

"This is gonna hurt," Eddie tells him, his voice soft and gentle and full of regret as he grabs a bottle from the table next to the bed.

The liquid inside is clear, and Steve would think it was water if his nose hadn't been hit with such an astringent scent when Eddie opened it. Before he can fully process the smell, Eddie tips the bottle and pours the liquid onto Steve's tail.

An involuntary screech rips out of his throat, a burning sensation clawing along the cut and making his scales buzz. Without thinking, Steve grabs Eddie's wrist and yanks it away, his lips pulled back in a snarl that reveals sharp teeth. Despite the physical pain, Steve thinks the worst part is that he let himself get distracted by small comforts and warm brown eyes and Eddie's soft voice.

He should know better.

"Shit," Eddie mutters, quickly dropping the now-empty bottle to the floor. It cracks but doesn't break, and he looks up at Steve. "I should've explained that better. Holy fuck, I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I had to clean it. If I sewed it up without doing so, it might get infected."

Steve narrows his eyes, his grip tightening briefly as he studies Eddie's face. He seems genuinely apologetic, and Steve understands his intentions once he's processed Eddie's words. Steve had to do something similar when Mike and Lucas bothered a shark too much. Their wounds weren't nearly as bad as Steve's, but they'd still cried and shouted when Steve and Robin had to pull teeth and bits of coral out of their wounds before wrapping them in seaweed.

"I'm done with that part, though," Eddie says, his voice practically desperate for Steve to understand. "You can squeeze my shoulder or something while I sew it up."

A few seconds pass before Steve nods once, slowly letting go of Eddie's wrist. As Eddie starts threading the needle, Steve places his hand on his shoulder, bracing himself for the upcoming pain by squeezing the crown in his other hand.

Eddie takes a deep breath as he glances up at Steve. He licks his lips, looking back at the top of the cut. "Okay, I'm starting now," he says, waiting long enough to see Steve nod before starting the first stitch.

The alcohol hurt. The stitching is a fucking bitch. But, honestly, none of it is as bad as when that first disgusting human dragged a dagger through Steve's tail. He still hisses, gripping Eddie's shoulder tighter and unable to stop his nails from digging into his skin. Despite how it must hurt, Eddie doesn't flinch, and Steve feels a little better.

"You know," Eddie says, mostly focused on keeping his hand steady and his stitches even, "I wish I knew your name. I can't keep calling you sweetheart."

He could. Steve wouldn't mind it. But he also knows it isn't entirely fair that Eddie doesn't know he can speak. They'll need to be able to talk, Steve thinks, if they're going to be around each other for a while longer.

And Eddie has been kind enough that Steve wouldn't mind being around him for however long it takes his tail to heal.

"Steve," he says.

To his credit, Eddie doesn't drop the needle. He does tense for a moment, his hand pausing as he looks up. "What?" he asks.

"My name. It's Steve."

"You can talk."

"Why wouldn't I?"

Eddie hums, looking back at the cut as he starts stitching again. "You didn't say anything before," Eddie says.

"The last human who saw me mutilated my tail," Steve replies.

"Fair. Is, uh, is your name really Steve?"

"That's the closest translation to your language."

"What's your name in your language?"

Steve hesitates for a moment before clearing his throat. He feels his gills flutter, trying to create the bubble pattern that accompanies his name as he lets out a rhythmic series of squeaks and clicks with a short hiss at the end.

A few seconds pass after he's done. And then Eddie nods once and says, "Steve it is. How'd you get caught, Stevie?"

Ignoring the slight urge to point out that Eddie said his name wrong, Steve frowns slightly. "One of my guppies got caught in that ship's net. I got them out but was caught myself."

"One of your...guppies?"

"Yes. You would call them...children, I think?"

Eddie has nearly reached the middle of Steve's tail by now, and his hand falters once more. "Children? Aren't you...a little young?"

Steve bristles, glaring at Eddie. He's heard that same question plenty of times from members of other pods before, and he's tired of it. "What does it matter if they are happy and healthy?" he asks.

"Sorry," Eddie whispers, glancing up at Steve. There's something he can't quite read in Eddie's eyes. "Do you raise them alone?"

"What? No, of course not. My partner, Robin, raises them with me. We have seven guppies, with an eighth on the way."

"An eighth?!" Eddie asks, sounding strained as he pauses his stitching once more to look up at Steve. "Shit, man, shouldn't you give Robin a break?"

Steve blinks, tilting his head slightly. "Why would she need a break?" he asks.

"She's already popped out seven!"

Suddenly, Steve realizes what the disconnect is. He blinks once more and dissolves into laughter. "Oh!" he says, the exclamation broken by a giggle as he tries to calm himself down. "No, no, she is my partner, not my mate. Besides, she doesn't even like mermen."

Eddie seems to relax at Steve's explanation, his shoulders dropping and his voice significantly lighter as he starts stitching again and says, "Oh, I see. Then whose kids are they?"

"Technically, they belong to the pod," Steve explains, gritting his teeth as Eddie reaches the tailfin. He feels warm all over, his nerves jumping and his scales feeling half-ready to just fall off. "Each pod has at least two caretakers. Mates have a guppy and let caretakers raise them while they focus on their own roles within the pod."

"Do you like being a caretaker?"

"Yeah," Steve says, managing a shaky smile despite the tugging on his tailfin and Eddie's fingers pressing against his scales. "They're my guppies. I'd drain the oceans for them."

"And, uh, what about your mate? Do they mind you being so...devoted to the guppies?"

It's not at all subtle, but Steve finds it oddly endearing nonetheless. He slowly exhales, forcing himself to loosen his grip on Eddie's shoulder. "I don't have one."

Just like before, Eddie seems to relax some at the answer. He also finishes stitching, tying off the thread with a secure knot before carefully cutting away the excess. "Well, uh, we'll get you healed up and back to your guppies as soon as possible," he says, looking up at Steve.

"It needs to be wrapped in kelp. And, uh, I'll need a tub. You know, with seawater."

Eddie nods along, flashing a reassuring grin. "Don't worry, Stevie, I'll get you anything you want," he promises.

"Anything?" Steve asks, leaning forward some as he tilts his head.

"I already gave you my favorite ring, sweetheart."

Steve glances down at said ring, wondering what about it could possibly make it Eddie's favorite. He can't immediately figure it out, but that doesn't change the sweet warmth and anticipation for the time he'll spend with Eddie that he suddenly feels.

[chevelleneech]

semi-live blog

They are immediately the cutest fucking people when together. So soft, so giggly.

I know it’s part of their social culture, but they drink a lot. Maybe it’s because I don’t drink, but dang.

“Jungkook is currently doing his skincare.” They add to the screen after panning away for scenery, yet leaving the sounds of *slap slap slap*😭

Jungkook cycling through multiple pairs of sunglasses, and Jimin swanning in and picking the first pair is peak! They’re so similar I yet so different, lol.

Another thing I’m sure is part of their culture, is the way they pay for stuff, but I find it interesting still that we’ve seen Jimin buy almost everything during their trips, since as far as we know they have pretty lax hierarchy rules between the two of them normally.

Jungkook is in the most romantic moment of his life, lmao! “I love it here!!!” said a million times. That man was experiencing a real life Hallmark movie in his head.

I also thought they spoke/understood way more Japanese than they apparently do.

“Come on everybody!” I understood that reference.

The way they chose to animate over everything to avoid having to blur a billion people in the station is HILARIOUS!

Jimin is too funny bro.

This train ride is so peaceful, it’s selling me on visiting Sapporo despite being broke and not speaking a lick of Japanese.

Can we also discuss how “My man, my man, my man.” Jungkook is? Yet Jimin is too, and somehow both is more than the other, lol. They are perpetually on some, “Jimin will like this.” “Where’s Jungkook?” *films food, pans to Jimin* *films the outside world, pans to Jungkook* *cuddle even while walking* type stuff. Just lovesick.

Girl!dad Jimin confirmed🥰 He’ll be such a sweet dad too, I think. He’s so patient and kind, which is heavily required to raise another human.

I loooooooooe Jimin’s jacket dude.

The way Jimin immediately pivoted to making JK laugh when he tried to downplay himself. Like I said, “My man, my man, my man.” Don’t talk bad about his man, even if you are his man.

My most delusional Jikook theory you’ll ever hear from me: “Are You Sure?” actually became the title because they were asking it if each other, because they in looooooooooove.

Also, to answer my own question from my previous list… yes, the bubble is back.

Role play Jikook strikes again!

Jungkook is it slick! He played with that sip of whiskey the entire time, but the minute Jimin left he downed it.

Them forgetting to pay would’ve been me. And JK initially sending Jimin back to do it would have also been me. You got it, extrovert! Take the embarrassment for the both of us!

They’re so cute! This snow fight makes me want to be somewhere cold for the holiday☹️

The food always looks so damn good! Lord I’m jealous.

I need someone to compile all the times JM and JK go out to eat together, and let me know if Jimin is the one with his back always to the door? It’s a thing in America at least, that the “protector” tends to sit where they can see the door, and I don’t know if that’s a thing in SK as well, but it’s cute, because it matches their dynamic either way.

“Your fingers were all over it.” SIR!? You’ve had his sweaty ear in your mouth… he’s had his mouth on your neck… you’ve also had his fingers in your mouth before and vice verse… AND y’all constantly eat and drink off each other… in fact… yesterday he bit the very sausage you were in the middle of eating and then you continued eating it… before that you gladly allowed him to put his TOES next to your face while you were BRUSHING YOUR TEETH. Stop playing with me, Jeon Jungkook!

Jimin legit being ready to beat Tae’s ass over a dumpling is too crazy, lol. And folks be acting like he some docile helpless baby. Meanwhile, JK is a mediator. They definitely made for each other.

End of the episode. It was fun. Felt like the start of a holiday special. And I didn’t mention it up top, because I decided to “live blog” thoughts like ten minutes in or whatever, but Jungkook softly and sweetly saying he wanted to come back to Japan because it reminded him of their first trip together… SOBBING! He’s such a sentimental guy, with an equally as sentimental guy on his arm.

They truly do vibe so well, and I understand with each passing episode why them enlisting together was a non-choice choice. They click. Like they said themselves, they’re one person split into two bodies, and it’s clear as day they thrive off of being around one another.

Not to get too sappy either, but it’s insane they feel that way about their bond and dynamic, on top of all the things that already just so happened to bring them together. Not just born in the same country, but same city. Auditioned for the same music group. Actually made it into the same group… they were destined to meet, and even they feel that way. All that’s missing is them being the same age, and they’d be the same person. That’s an insane thing to say, but really tells you how deeply they value their connection.

[ant0nsfirstluv]

Riize romantic headcanons

A/N: firsttt postttt just some simple headcanons I have for Riize as boyfriends 🫶🏾 hope you enjoy

Warnings: none frm what I know

More under the cut

Shotaro:

So in love with you whaaattt 🙁

Teaches you some easy japanese phrases so you guys can have your own small convos and inside jokes with each other without others budding in LMAO

Hug machine, even if he isn’t just hugging you he has an arm around you in some type of way whether it’s around your shoulders, you two link arms, an arm around your hip, anything !!

For a date he’ll probably take you to the fair, he’d pay for all the food you two eat and has you get on so many rides the main one being the farris wheel, you will take pics in it !

He likes when you wear his clothes especially his big graphic tee shirts, he’d probs buy couple shirts for you two (the cute ones not the corny ones 😭)

Randomly teaches you dances and once you have it right he’ll kiss your forehead and tell you how good you did

Always checks in on you, sometimes he’ll shoot you a quick texts asking about how your day was and if you have anything you need to rant about

Uses cute emoticons rather than emojis when making your contact name

Eunseok:

He really loves you but gets worried that he doesn’t show it well :/ even tho he is literally the biggest sweetheart

Buys you snacks throughout the day and randomly hands them to you but will play it off by saying something like “ I got these because you’re greedy 🫵”

Places your hand in his jacket pocket, keeps a hand in the back pocket of your jeans, holds and kisses your hand while sitting together, silently plays with your hair in any way he can

Even though he’s nonchalant he does worry about you like if you’re taking longer than usual to get home or he can’t figure out where you are he’ll try to be calm but soon sends a row of messages

Has random moments of cuteness aggression, you two will be sitting together and he’ll look at you and just squish you by pinching/smushing your cheeks, randomly pulling you extremely close going “AAAAAH SO CUTE”

Basketball date 😗 will go tough on you until you make THAT ONE FACE, and then he automatically goes easy on you..hell he’ll even lift you to the hoop

Sungchan:

Your favorite giant

When in public he’s practically all over you so nobody even ASSUMESS you’re single, will literally hold you from behind kissing the top of your head + cheek

So clumsy. You’ll get random text from him like “How much is a doorknob.” And you’ll ask him why and then he sends a pic of the door without its knob

Lovesss kissing your face he CANTTT STOPPPP

Play wrestling is KEY ! you’ll be teasing him and he’ll pick you up and toss you into his bed or couch and start play fighting

Goes “😧😦” if you start fighting back 😭😭.

Goes out of his way to feed you, like randomly he’ll be like “you hungry ?” and even if you say no he’ll buy you a little sum sum to munch on for now or later

Yes, he’ll have you go to the gym with him to spend time together 😭

He’ll teach you the proper form for some of the machines and do goofy muscle flex poses in the gym mirror to make you laugh

Wonbin

In the beginning he’ll try to come off as some playboy and would be quietly flirty

Does things to come off as smooth..slides in compliments, somehow finds a way to wrap his arm around you, randomly asks you on dates

Even though he seems all cool and smooth in reality he’s blushing as soon as you look/walk away

Most definitely does things in order to impress you..plays your favorite songs on his guitar, tries his best to win if he’s playing with the members and knows you’re watching

takes you out clothes shopping and has you try on wtv he thinks you’d look good in, he’d think you were so cute and would try sooo hard not to geek out watching you dress up 😓

Gets you a matching pair of earrings with him :(( it’ll either have a matching gemstone or a matching engraved symbol

Its been confirmed that he can be clingy so he’ll do whatever to be around you, if you’re laying down on your phone he’ll come lay/sit by you and it turns into cuddling, he’ll follow you around without noticing etc etc basically like a cat lowkey

You two will be quietly cuddling soo close and then he just randomly says “I wish I could live in your skin.” And you’d go “What.” Just for him not to repeat it EVERRR

Seunghan:

this man is literally…delusional over you 😭

considering he’s a libra (imma whore for astrology) before you two would even be together he’d have a “SHE WILLL BE MINEE” mentality once his crush begins

for a first date once you two are together I feel like it’d be sweet and simple, you over at his playing games and watching movies eating some takeout with r&b playing in the back getting to know each other even moree 🫶

has you sit on his lap while he plays fifa just so you don’t feel lonely waiting for him to hop off the game,, he’ll even teach you how to play it + other games he has..PLUS he’ll shower you with kisses when either of you win

you know how seunghan will call sohee cute for doing literally anything…yea he does the same exact thing with you 😭😭

you wake up from a nap ? “cuteee”, you’re in the middle of eating “cuteee” even if you’re scolding or bickering with him about something he’d stop and go “cuteee”

possessive, just like Sungchan he’d refuse to let anyone even assumeee you’re single he’d give as much pda as you’re comfortable with just to let these mfs KNOWW

if a girl tries to flirt with him he’d shut it down so fast he’d mention you every 5 seconds just to irritate her and get her away

Sohee:

A bestfriend and boyfriend in ONEEEE

the members in the group call you two the twins because y’all are attached at the HIPPP

ofc he sings for you like cmon now . he’d sing you lullabies to help you sleep if you’re having a hard time, he’d sing to you while cleaning up together, sometimes he just feels like singing for you just because

likes watching you do your hair + makeup. he’d even ask you what each product does to your face or what you’re putting in your hair, he’ll even asks if you’ll let him do it for you one day ☹️

lovessss sharing with you. It can be anything..clothes, food, body wash, his computer whtvvv as long as you mention enjoying it he’ll share it with you

uses your shampoo or lightly sprays your perfume so he’ll have your scent around and wants you to do vice versa with his shampoo + cologne

he’ll randomly make you instant foods and will just pop up with the food with the biggest smile on his face even if you weren’t super hungry you couldn’t refuse a few bites

this is so specific . but imagine sharing icecream or a milkshake with him..like it would probably be so cute omfg 😭

Anton:

takes a random photos of himself + the members just for your reaction

makes you a playlist almost biweekly..has the title “for my other half” and the picture for it is either a solo candid pic of you he took one day or a photo of you two together

this is such a random headcanon but imagine one day you’re super burnt out tired or sick he’d help you brush your teeth and do your skincare in the morning

takes .5 pics of you and sulks/pouts if you asks him to delete them (he won’t)

literally uses pinterest to come up with date ideas

he’d come up with a day long date itinerary for what you and him would do like everything is planned out and he even has a few back up plans if things go left

he will carelessly blow your phone up sending hilarious ass tiktoks or simply updates you about his day and asks you about yours

let him take you swimming !!! he’d be a little shy with you seeing him shirtless one on one but he’d overcome it, he’d teach you how to dive and will even race you 😭

he’d feel awkward about public affection but would force himself to have courage and will suddenly kiss you + wrap his arms around you

likes nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck whenever you two are cuddling

if y’all aren’t holding hands you two are mosttt definitelyyy holding pinkies

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: here she is... chappie four <3 thank u for ur patience and 1000 kudos to the anon that made a plot suggestion that i had already written lmao-- as always let me know what u think! things are heating up....

word count: just under 4k

synopsis: You return to regular training for the first time in a month. Azriel asks a favor from Rhys and finds you in a less than stellar condition when he returns to camp

CHAPTER FOUR :: FRIENDS

Velaris is a sight for sore eyes.

After nearly a month of endless white scenery, of the blinding glint of the sun against snow, paired with endless pine, the sight of a city is a reprieve in itself.

And because it’s Velaris — because it’s home — something else settles within Azriel.

A hackle that always stays on high alert finally lies down. The constant agitation of his shadows falls into a calming hush. He breathes easier.

He's back with his family and can be here to keep them safe if need be. He's back to the closest semblance of comfort he's ever known.

Where do you find comfort?

Azriel blinks a little, taken aback at the abruptness of the thought.

The lone shelter in the mountains, spaced out from the circle of buildings, every bit representing your isolation from the people of the camp — that was your home.

Where you resided and took solace from the world in, the place you felt safest. But... it's no place of comfort. It's a crutch. A necessary support. Somehow, Azriel has no doubt that if you could survive out in the snow, burrowed amidst the elements, you would, if only to have one less thing to maintain.

You've never even seen a city before, he thinks. All you know is the mountains.

Suddenly, eyes cast across the breathtaking beauty of Velaris, the hum of the Sidra carving its way through his beloved home, the buzz of people on the streets, Azriel recalls the very time he lay eyes on it himself.

It never stops being breathtaking. That much is true, but then again, there was no comparison to the first time.

The warm feeling that had grown in his chest. The way something he hadn't known ever existed within him had unfurled, like a flower blooming in the sun. Something Azriel now knows to be hope.

He hadn't known a place this beautiful could exist.

Wouldn't have been able to dream it up when all he had known for so, so long was darkness and shadow.

Even in the time after the cage, all there was to see was the white of winter and the cold bite of the harsh mountains. He learned how blood looked melting into the snow, how to sleep with one eye open, and all the different shades of cruelty.

Azriel remembers being unable to comprehend the sight, the stumble in his heart at the indisputable proof before him. That despite what had been drilled into him by his father, his brothers, by every Illyrian warrior who punched down on bastards, there was a place where peace reigned above all.

People who lived in harmony. Where Art and music are considered a treasure alongside other skills, each equally important. And Azriel belonged there, as much as any of them.

It had been one thing to walk through the city, to marvel at every cobblestone, at the trims lining each and every window, to have people regard him with such a polite and casual manner — not a second glance at his wings or his hands.

It had been something else entirely to fly over it as night fell.

Mountain ridges illuminated by his most constant friend, the rising moon, watching the moonlight spill over the dark red rock of the mountain and paint it ever softer. Sweet ocean air and the very perfume of the city intertwined within the current as he soared above it, mighty wings beating.

Azriel could remember that first day and night in Velaris vividly, like an unforgettable dream. How easy it had been to fall in love with it, to let its arms unfurl and to allow himself to make a home within them.

Looking out across it now, as Faelights begin to twinkle and blink to life as the night creeps in, all Azriel can think of is how much he wants that for you.

To bring you here. To have both of you fly above the city and wander down the streets aimlessly, to show you that there were places far kinder in this world than all you had known before.

He yearns for you to have the same dawning realisation he did—that so much more existed outside of those gods forsaken mountains.

Azriel knows you're a very guarded male. You have more than enough reasons to be. He's already pushed a thousand boundaries you have and each time you let him into your sanctuary in the mountains is a sign of enormous trust.

Maybe for that reason, Azriel wants to be the first to extend that kindness to you.

A twinge in his chest sings a different, golden answer.

Azriel ignores it and steals one more look out at his home, swallowing down how all logic seems to be pointing to the same thing, time and time again.

He finds the High Lord in his study, papers stacked high on his desk that have only grown higher in Azriel's absence. His dark hair is tousled in a way that means he's been running his hand through it too much.

Azriel lifts the shadows from beneath his feet as he enters, letting the other hear the sound of his soft footsteps. Rhys looks up at the new arrival. Despite his tired appearance, it does nothing to dim the grin that overtakes his lips at the sight of his brother.

"My, my, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

Azriel grins back, stepping forward Rhys pushes back from his desk and stands. His usual wings have been hidden away through his magic and Azriel notices their absence when he pulls him into a brief hug. Rhys lingers close, his violet eyes raking over his friend.

"Not bad to see you either."

"You flatter me." Rhys purrs, his voice all buttery and smooth. "You've got new eyebags. Overworking yourself as usual, are we Az?"

"I presume you make such lovely comments about Feyre too?"

"And risk her wrath?" Rhys smiles, eyes glittering at the mention of his mate. "Never."

Azriel rolls his eyes, letting his obvious endearment at his brother's happiness show. They truly are a perfect pair.

He crosses his arms across his broad chest tightly, if only to hide the fleeting flicker of wanting the spools tight in his chest. A ribbon of envy, woven between his ribs.

If Rhys notices, he doesn't comment. Instead, he says, "Usually, you're itching to escape the mountains but not this time I see."

He pauses, eyeing up the Shadowsinger to see what response it'll give. Azriel yields no comment back. Expecting this, Rhys smiles.

"Either way, you'll be happy to hear that Cassian has returned from his time off and is ready to resume his usual duties."

Azriel stills at the words.

He knew that Cassian would at one point return to his usual positions and that Azriel himself, would return to his spymaster post. But it's come sooner than expected. Perhaps, time with you has been passing far quicker than Azriel thought.

"I found the cause of the rumours."

"Yes, I assumed you had," Rhys says, wandering back around the deck to slump into his chair. He leans one arm against the armrest, his knuckles against his temple.

"I also assumed that you spent all that time dealing with it. Much of a problem?"

Azriel considers his words carefully. The trust he's managed to garner with you is fragile, though he knows his friend would not severe it or interfere if he asked.

Another part of him knows it's unusual behavior of him, to offer his skills so willingly to a stranger. But, well, you're not exactly a stranger anymore.

"There's a male.” Azriel begins, choosing his words carefully. “A bastard, the one causing all the stir-ups. He feeds the other bastards when he can. It's what had Lord Mylind kicking a fuss."

Rhys curses lightly at the realisation of just which camp they are dealing with.

"He's learning to make healing tonics," Azriel continues, noting how Rhys' head straightens up a fraction. Interested. "In hopes of slipping them to freshly clipped females. To see if it can reverse the damage."

Rhys sits back in his chair completely, his hand brushing over his mouth in deep contemplation. For a moment, he says nothing.

"I suppose I don't need to ask if there's been any female training then."

Azriel feels himself glower instinctively, his wings hiking up an inch higher without meaning to. He thinks of Lord Mylind and the conversation he had on the first day in their camp. The sheer display of male arrogance, snarling, and threatening violence outright.

"No.”

Rhys curses again, his eyes crushing closed. He seems to filter through a pained reaction, his face contorting until it lands on a tired resignation.

“The camp of Exordor made very good on a bargain struck during a very hard time.” Rhys grits the words out.

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes at the mention of the deal that had turned sour. A cold ripple of night shudders through the room.

No amount of soldiers supplied during the war had been worth the suffering that camp Exodor alone produced— or continues to produce if the whispers that came out of there held an inkling of truth.

It’s a rotten place, tucked deep in the mountains, and some of the worst brutes Rhys has ever had the displeasure of meeting were born in the bowels of that place.

“It doesn’t lift for another 50 years." Rhys sighs, his voice wavering with a hint of shame. "I can’t touch them without slaughtering them all— innocent or not.”

Azriel didn’t say anything for a moment. This information is not new. He watches as Rhys digests his silence, leaning back in his chair as the wheels spin in his head, dizzyingly fast.

For the second time, Rhys' brows jump.

“You’re helping him.”

Not a question.

Azriel nods.

"You don't want Cassian to take back over."

"No," Azriel murmurs. "Not yet. The male is... He's guarded. Isolated. It has taken time to earn his trust. I believe in what he wants to do and I believe he has what it takes to achieve it.”

He thinks of the quiet evenings within your shelter, your patience as you taught Azriel what you could — how you took every piece of information from him on the chin, not one complaint of ever tiring. He thinks of the heaving in his chest, the tug on his heart.

"I ask that you let me see this out." Azriel finishes, his shoulders rolling back as he stands tall. Let Rhys understand how this had become more than just a mission to him; it’s a personal calling, one he must answer, one that he needs to see out to the end.

Rhys surveys him intensely, unblinking for a moment. Then something devious crosses his face, catching in a smile.

"That's not the only thing you want to ask me, is it?"

Azriel looks to the ground, suddenly bashful. This would be entirely too revealing of the closeness he felt, to ask this, to offer this. He asks anyway.

"I wish, with your permission, to take Heartstriker." Azriel's voice rumbles lowly. He forces his eyes back up, meeting Rhys' strong gaze. "To gift to him."

Something dips into Rhys' smile, threatening a smirk and for that reason alone, Azriel feels his ears tinge hotly. His face remains calm, however, giving nothing away.

"Heartstriker? As a gift?" Rhys repeats, with a sly smile. "Pray tell Brother, when's the wedding? Since when have you ever been known for gift giving, let alone something as dear to you, such as a sword? I might just have to meet this bastard."

Azriel’s ears only get hotter, betraying him. He prays it doesn't show on his face, though he's sure the increased swirlings of his shadows give him away. And Rhys’ infallible ability to read his flustering each and every time.

"Is that permission?"

Rhys, seemingly realising he won't be getting any juicy details, quits tormenting his brother with a flourish of his hand. He leans back in his chair relaxed, a softness creeping into his expression.

"It's been yours to take all these years, Az." Rhys finally lands on. "You did earn it, after all."

—

The shelter looks bigger without him here.

Betrayingly, it’s the first thought you have when the door swings open, letting you into your nest of safety. You heave in a breath that rattles loudly and it gets swept up in the foul whistle of the Mother's Kiss.

On your side, your blood-soaked hand clutches your abdomen tightly. Pain spiderwebs up your body, fraying every nerve with a burning agony.

Every step feels loud and clumsy.

You cough as softly as you can, yet still feel the warmth of blood on your lips. The familiar metallic tang overwhelms your mouth.

You must be dripping blood behind you, dragging a slushy mess of crimson snow in on your boots. Fuck, what are you doing again? Your head throbs. They must've knocked your head hard this time if you're losing focus this quickly.

The Mother's Kiss howls fiercely, a reminder of the cruelty outside your little haven.

Right. You remember you need to close the door— and you shove the deadbolt closed along with it. If your ribs were aching a little less, you would reach up and do up the second deadbolt too, at the top of the door. You try to anyway.

Your arm gets mid-way up before you freeze, pain lashing every nerve in your midriff, enough to make you wince loudly. The bindings on your chest aren't helping. For a moment, dark spots dance before vision as you quickly tuck your arm back down, moving too quick.

Fuck. Fuck. One deadbolt will have to do.

It feels as if the whole world lurches when you take your next step, blurring like thick taffy for a split second. You stumble towards your bed and realise as you sink onto your knees on the edge of it, you need to dress your wounds.

Another bloody cough. Has your nose stopped bleeding yet? It's impossible to tell between each and every other ache.

What were you doing again?

Without meaning to, you begin to slump over, nearly lying down in your bed.

Dressings! That's right, you need to make sure the wound on your side isn't still bleeding, need to make sure it's clean when it finally begins to clot, need to...

Need to... what did you need to do?

That's right— you need to sleep.

Your head crumples against the pillow like a dead-weight as you collapse against it, exhausted. As your consciousness wanes, you cough again, a splatter of red spraying your pillow.

Not good, you think absentmindedly. Eyes slipping shut, you miss the familiar figure out the window, approaching through the storm.

—

You're wincing before you even realise you're awake.

Crackling. Logs spitting out little snaps fill the air, the quiet roar of a hearty fire; the first things you hear when you come too, far too slowly for your own liking. Your left ears hum loudly in discomfort— no doubt a result of one of the harsh hooks you had caught in the face earlier today.

Next, you smell something... clean?

Your tongue comes out gingerly, licking your cracked lips and you realise quite suddenly, there's an absence of blood on them. The thought slams into you at the same time you realise; you hadn't been able to stay awake for long enough to even light a fire.

Panic reaches through your ribs and grips your heart, tight, and you sit up without thinking.

Pain follows you closely like a lazy afterthought that slams into you, soaking into your body meanly and making you regret moving so fast. Your head swims heavily, throbbing dully.

A pained noise threatens to leave your lips and you force it down. Then force your head up, eyes blinking rapidly, trying to assess the threat, trying to do something.

Panic squeezes your heart painfully again when your hazy vision clears just enough to reveal the shape of a body before you— your blood chilling in your veins as you realise there's somebody else in here with you.

The whimper you held back before slips out before you can help it, your body squirming backward without thought. Your breaths comes out in sharp pants, bursts of pain accompanying each one, and right as you hit the wall, your vision focuses.

Your lungs empty in relief.

It's Azriel before you, on his knees, his scarred hands are held out in front of him.

They aren't touching you, just hovering, his palms up to indicate he means no harm. His wings are tucked back, hunched down to be smaller than usual, and all around him, his shadows whirl about animatedly.

There's an expression on his face you've never seen before.

"—on't move," He's saying, his low voice finally registering in your ringing ears. His hazel eyes are fixed on your face, darting about quickly. "You'll re-open your wounds."

He's talking about your wounds but for some gods forsaken reason, all you can think is how surprised you are that he came back.

The thought loops endlessly, like a holy mantra —he came back, he came back, he came back— and you realise that you were both terrified and also sure that he wouldn't be coming back at all.

That somehow, somewhere along his trip back to his home, he would have realised you weren't anything worth coming back for.

"Azriel?" You wheeze.

Just to check—you have to check.

Maybe he's a mirage. He certainly would be the kindest mirage you can think of.

You think you see something soften on his face, his wings dropping an inch lower behind him. His hands are still held out before you, still waiting. He's endlessly patient. His shadows seem to slow a bit, less frenzied.

"Yeah," He murmurs gently in response. His hazel eyes burn as they take in the sight of you again. "They got you pretty messed up. huh?”

You're sitting on your bed still, you realise. Blinking slow, you take an inhale, trying to put together how he got here— your eyes fly to the door. It's locked, this time with both deadbolts secured.

Azriel follows your gaze, turning his head slightly. "They're a good precaution. Don't be dissuaded that the spymaster of this court managed to get past them."

You wheeze again, some delirious laugh that gets cut off when pain splinters through your side. You groan lowly, unable to hold it in and your hand creeps slowly to paw at your side.

Faintly, you can feel the scrape of bandages on your skin, covering the wound, and sigh in relief. It makes your diaphragm sink down, the bindings around your chest shifting and that sends a frantic bolt of alarm through you once more.

“You—” The word scratches out your throat and you cough weakly. Every instinct starts to light back up, hackles rising— there has never been someone else around when you're too weak to defend yourself. It takes a moment with eyes closed and measured breaths to lean into your trust. You trust him, you know you do.

“You... patched me up?”

The question comes out wary and pointed despite your efforts. Though that might just be the gravel in your throat from having your face beaten in.

You don’t know how to covertly ask if he saw— if, that when he pushed your bloody shirt up to nurse the slash in your side, he noticed the gauze around your ribs.

It's an alien and terrifying thought, Azriel finding out. A worry deep in the marrow of your bones warbles in response, a thousand hairs standing up on end at the possibility.

How a revelation of that magnitude could sever the first trust you've had in years.

How it could lose... the first friend you've ever truly had.

A string of nausea tugs in your throat, bile threatening, and you have to swallow it down with the crippling fear that's been thrust into your system.

This is how it goes. The intrinsic balance of the world —to be gifted closeness and friendship, is to submit to the possibility of losing it.

Back against the wall, it settles into you very starkly, a thought sharp and clear; you do not want to lose him in any way.

Some part of you thinks he must see you as some kind of starving mutt, growing far too attached to the first hand that feeds it. But looking at him now, his shadowed face and kind expression, the depth of his eyes... you're convinced he sees something more to you.

And you want him to, desperately.

In a way you can't comprehend, can't begin to understand— how can you be so tied to someone you've known for so little? How can it hurt so much to be parted from him when you're barely friends? When he doesn't even know who you truly are.

Perhaps, you think, this is what all friends are like. You wouldn't know, you haven't had any before.

Azriel nods mutely, a strand of his dark hair falling over his forehead. He seems to be considering his words carefully and you take the moment to steal a few deep breaths.

When he speaks, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard. "I understand that might be... crossing a line. But—" A waver in his voice. "— but I could smell the blood from out in the storm."

There's something left unsaid in his sentence, his tone clipped. Whatever it is, you're far too tired to discern it. Your body, overwhelmed with tension, abruptly loosens as the perceived threat of danger seeps away. It drains you, a sudden wave of tiredness cresting upon you— because you know, undoubtedly, you're safe now.

Not quite meaning to but unable to stop yourself, you sink down and fall limply against your bed. Your wing curls over you defensively, a blanket and shield all in one.

Azriel's hands finally lower, resting gently atop his thick thighs. His shadows dim their chaotic activity, almost lazy with how they whirl about his neck and shoulders. You wonder absentmindedly what they feel like against his skin.

Looking back at his face, you find his eyes haven't broken their watchful gaze on you— intense enough to stir up an unfamiliar warmth within your chest. You avoid it and his eyes, your tired eyes catch sight of something behind him.

"You brought...?" You can't quite finish your sentence, a vicious shiver wracking your frame, making you curl up closer. Tiredness chases it, the threat of sleep looming closer and closer.

Your eyes close without meaning. In the darkness, Azriel's voice swims before you, muted and far away.

"You have to get better before I can give it to you." His voice has dropped to a whisper. It makes your lips twitch in an attempt of a smile. It's funny, hearing a legendary Illyrian warrior like him whispering.

"Okay," You might say back— though you're not sure if it sounds like a word at all.

It doesn't matter. You're already asleep.

[NEXT PART: CONFIDANTS]

—

tags <3

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover @waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco @iamjimintrash @maeandering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reeee @viciane @astarlitsoul @mybestfriendmademe @archiveofcravings @reputaytionn-13 @bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa @fanworrior @skysayhi @vintageoldfashion @tequilya @fabulouslyflamboyant5

[jeonqkooks]

a little taste | jjk (m.)

the one with just the tip.

[ ‘ a little taste ’ series masterpost ]

pairing: jungkook x f!reader

rating: 18+ (minors dni)

genre/warnings: established relationship, smut (pwp), unprotected s✩x (this is fictional, don't do it irl folks), cre✩mpie, jungoo is an ✩ss grabber, he's also a lil shit, 2 secs of dirty talk?, swearing, they're both frustrated lol, zero editing pls forgive me

word count: 1.3k

note: happy sunday errbody! we got a surprise ALT drop 🥳 i have no excuse, i woke up this morning and wrote this in one sitting before i even got out of bed lmao. have fun all u horndawgs <3

— as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

You know how you got here, and the reason is very stupid.

It always starts with a meaningless discussion, really.

You two were having a quiet night in, cuddling on the couch and watching a rerun of your favorite TV show when a raunchy joke popped up, which somehow (because bless Jungkook’s brain and his useless ability to jump from point A all the way to point Z in a blink of an eye) led to the infamous “Just the Tip” debate.

You were taking the Negative, for obvious reasons, and he was on the Affirmative side. Jungkook wasn’t arguing that all men could handle themselves when their literal dick is inside of a woman; more so that he, this one specific individual, easily could.

And you suppose that’s why you’re here, trying to settle the argument, the both of you naked from the waist down. His hard cock pokes at your entrance as his eyes twinkle with a mischievous glint. Jungkook is always so competitive, but he sometimes forgets that you are too, and you’ll try your goddamn hardest to make sure he loses this one.

Okay, maybe it’s not just a silly little debate. It might have escalated into a silly little bet, one that involves the loser having to fold the laundry for a whole month.

Which so happens to be your least favorite chore.

Which only gives you more incentive to win.

Men are simple creatures, how hard can this be?

You bite your lip as he pushes in, just the tip, then stills. The stretch is a little dry at first, and a tad uncomfortable. You barely prepped before both of your shorts flew off somewhere in favor of you wanting to prove a point. Jungkook’s fingers slip through your folds to find your clit, fondling the nub until he could feel you getting wetter by the second, coating the tip of his cock in your slick.

“Ready to lose?” you ask coyly, to which he only responds with a playful scoff before he pulls his hips back, nearly slipping out of you in the process. He bucks forward again, and you can already tell that he’s trying to hold back, to be mindful of how shallow his thrusts have to be lest he wants to give you a few more inches than necessary.

“Fuck,” a tiny, whiny, moan escapes your lips, barely audible to your own ears but Jungkook catches it. He smirks at you triumphantly, never stopping his movements down there. God, you’re really not used to this. Whenever you two are on each other, it’s always hard and unrestrained, purely focused on making the other feel as good as possible.

How the hell is he so good at this? 

Maybe you should’ve known. What can’t Jungkook do?

You keep expecting more every time he pulls back, anticipating that his cock will fill you to the brim like it always does. But then he gives you just the fucking tip - which you suppose is fair; that’s the whole point of this idiotic bet after all - and you swear you could burst from frustration.

Jungkook senses your inner turmoil, how you’re trying to keep yourself from begging him to fuck you silly. You can’t say you’re surprised when he tugs his t-shirt over his head - in that insanely hot way that guys do! - and throws it recklessly across the room, flexing his abs and biceps at you. It’s like his tattoos have a mind of their own, the intricate ink winking at you with his every move like it’s mocking you, tempting you.

What’s on the line again?

Oh, right, laundry. Fuck!

You’re positively dripping with arousal, a want - no, a need - that he just won’t satiate. “That’s not fair,” you complain, even though your hands are already reaching for him, pulling him closer so you could touch him all over. 

“Who said anything about fair?” he says before he kisses you, his tongue slipping past the seal of your lips to taste you. He moans against your mouth as his fingers sneak down to squeeze your bare ass.

So he wants to play dirty? Well, you can do dirty too.

You time his thrusts so that when he ruts forward, you clench around his cock. 

That’s when you feel it. Him, deeper and throbbing inside of you.

For the first time since this started, you have the upper hand.

You break the kiss only to narrow your eyes at him. “That felt like more than just the tip,” you purr.

Jungkook groans, but it sounds more like a growl than anything. Okay, he’s really competitive. His hands dig into your ass so roughly that you’re pretty sure it will bruise in the morning. His hips stop moving entirely, trapping his cock within your walls where it’s achingly, deliciously hard.

You can practically feel his self-control slipping away, and all over a single clench?!

It might’ve taken you a bit longer than expected but alas, men are simple creatures.

You squeeze around him again, just for kicks. “What’s the matter, baby?” you tease, enjoying the way his eyebrows knit together tightly, almost like he’s angry. “Ready to admit defea– Oh!”

Then, that motherfucker shuts you right up. Jungkook shoves his whole length inside of you until he bottoms out, aided by the wetness that gushes out of you. He gives you a single grunt as the base of his cock rubs against your clit, the tension in your belly amping up tenfold when you feel him, so fucking deep in you because that’s where he belongs. This is what you wanted.

“What’s the matter, baby?” he mocks you with a sly smirk, though he doesn’t give you any time to answer before he starts fucking you with fervor, pounding you into the couch - or the next dimension - like he’s got a personal vendetta.

“I– fuck–!” If you could formulate a coherent response, you would shoot him back a retort - You lost! - but whoops, all rational thought flew out the window the second he rewarded you with his cock. It’s absolutely insane how easily he’s able to render you speechless just like that.

You struggle to even moan his name, for crying out loud. Jungkook holds your legs open so he could fuck you better, the tip of his cock kissing your g-spot with every thrust, sending you embarrassingly quickly to the edge you’ve been looking for. You hold onto him for dear life, nails digging into his shoulders and making him grunt from the added pain. It’s right there, you’re so close…

“C’mon,” he purrs, ducking down to suck a mark into the skin of your neck, “come for me. I know you want to.”

Just a few more thrusts and you’re falling right into that sea of bliss that awaits you at the bottom of the cliff. You come hard around his cock as a shout rips itself free from your throat - not even of his name, or anything in particular - and Jungkook is falling right behind you. He empties himself inside of you with a broken moan, warm ropes of his cum painting your velvety walls white. 

You hold onto each other like that for a while longer, neither of you caring about how his softening cock is letting your combined release trickle out of you and onto the material of the couch. You play with his hair as he kisses your neck softly, and when he finally props himself up on his forearms to look down at you, there’s something so sweet in his gaze that makes you flush all over.

It almost makes you forget about what you’ve been playing for. Rationality starts crawling back in again after the dicking down you just had.

Almost being the keyword. Too bad for your boyfriend though.

“I won,” you say happily, giving him your brightest grin.

“Did you really win though?” he asks, eyes narrowing playfully at you. Always the negotiator, this one. “Or did you want me to fuck you so badly that I let you win?”

“I won. You said just the tip and then you gave me your whole dick. Now prepare to fold the laundry for a whole month.”

— all rights reserved © jeonqkooks. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 14.05.2023]

[pigcowboys]

Hi I hope you're having a wonderful day <3

I was wondering if you could maybe do percy jackson with a daughter of nyx where they are basically the same person personality wise and have a lot of common interests ( sorry self indulging here🤭). They basically both kin each other lmao

THANK YOU <3

pairing: ꒰percy jackson x nyx! female! reader꒱⋆·˚

summary: general hcs for percy with a nyx! s/o

warning(s): mutual pining, nonsensical bickering, mentions of injuries & kisses

a/n: HIII OMG THIS REQUEST IS SO CUTE :)) i tried my best to do what you requested!! i hope you like it!!

request are closed!

literally off the bat i can see the two of you at each other's throats all the time.

you're just too alike there's no way there's not gonna be bickering man.

"i think we should use a different design."

"who put you in charge?"

"the voices in my head, actually"

"literally what."

i imagine percy kind of being put off by you when he'd first get to camp half-blood like

who are you.

i mean it isn't like he's TRYING to be mean, you're just so annoying sometimes yk.

then i feel like one night he'd sneak out of camp to go stargazing and find you near the shore in his spot.

lowkey annoyed by your presence at first but still proceeds to gaze with you silently. you'd strike up a conversation with him and it'd actually go a lot better than he expected it to go.

okay, maybe you're not that bad.

he'd start to approach you more at camp but like not for any reason at all yk. he just enjoys talking to you, i guess.

probably would be overjoyed when he finds out you have similar interests as him.

you two probably stay up all night talking about the most random stuff.

honestly, those talks are probably the moment when he realizes he..like likes you.

you're just chilling and talking about random shit and he laughs at one of your jokes and has to take a moment because he realized that you're honestly just the best person ever.

and then from that point on he's honestly kind of a mess.

you're so cool to him for some reason?? you'd just be living life and he'd probably just be in the background observing you with big ass heart eyes.

"is there something on my face, perce?"

"huh? uh no, what?"

he knows he likes you but just doesn't know how to say it?? i mean, do YOU even like him back..??

aghhhh it's honestly so draining to him.

he's not shy. just kind of stupid when it comes to feelings.

probably tried to "woo" you somehow by buying you ocean related stuff whenever you go out together.

played it off as him just having some change.

he is willing to go bankrupt for you.

i feel like one day he just got tired of dropping hits and just decided to go for it cause like, you've known each other for a minute.

he'd meet you at that star gazing spot and literally just spill all his feelings for you.

"don't say anything but what if i told you you're an amazing person and probably the coolest person i've ever met in my life and that i'm literally head over heels for you because you're smart and funny and pretty and you're just the best?"

"what?"

and you start dating!! woo!!

HES SO SWEET!!!

once you start dating he def gets a bit more of a confidence boost.

always boasting about the fact he's dating you like everyone else doesn't already now from the way he's always clinging to you.

and if you're not into physical touch no worries!! he's completely and totally fine with it!! probably asks permission to give you hugs and hold your hand.

beach dates.

you'd be that one sappy couple who interlocking hands and walks down the beach together UGHH

he would def be the type of guy to go to you after every quest so you can patch him up. do you even know how to patch him up?? probably not! can't he just use some ambrosia?? yes.

doesn't mean he won't stop.

"percy, what the fuck happened!?"

"what do you mean?? :)"

kind of scared of your mother but would never admit it to your face.

i feel like he'd make some kind of big plan to try and kiss you but it'd ultimately fail.

he'd pull up to you with some beautiful ass flowers with a big grin on his face.

would take you to some really secluded spot that he'd decorated with a bunch of different things and homemade food!! (sally helped him.)

things would be going good till it starts to rain.

not that it's a problem for him at all but it kills the freaking mood.

"i'm so sorry.."

"for what?"

"how this turned out, it was supposed to be this big and..romantic thing."

"it's okay, we can have other dates."

"no like..i wanted us to kiss."

"..."

"..."

"who says we can't right now..?"

"oh."

he's in heaven when you finally kiss for the first time!! you're literally so amazing like wtf he got so lucky.

from that point on you two are locked in for life.

he's everywhere you are, you're everywhere he is NO MATTER WHAT.

he's so in love.

[iamnmbr3]

I find very interesting that both Draco and Harry seem to get each other so well even though they barely know one another.

Honestly this is what fascinates me the most about their dynamic, because while Draco serves as Harry's foil, their parallels are just so symbolic.

Both children of a war they didn't choose, both boys fated to pay for the sins of those that came before, both loyal, both marked by something. Harry using Draco's wand (that worked so well for him) to defeat Voldemort.

And really, Draco is the kind of challenge Harry loves. Canon Harry didn't want admires (which is why is so beyond me that he'd end with Ginny of all people). Harry wanted someone that understood him, that would stand up to him when they thought he was being an idiot, and who in the whole saga we know does that?

So yeah, ironic that J.K. R unintentionally wrote that lmao

I completely agree! The parallels are fascinating on a thematic and character development level and are part of what makes the idea of a relationship between them so interesting and compelling to explore. Also, on a practical level it means that they have a surprising amount of shared experiences that would help them bond and understand each other in a way that is really quite unique. Each in his own way is surprisingly isolated and internal despite being seemingly surrounded by many people and I think they could reach each other in a very special way.

I also totally agree about it being strange that Harry ended up with a fangirl. Controversial take but imho Ginny's shallow admiration of Harry isn't really that different from Romilda Vane's. They're both kind of obsessed with the idea of Harry without actually knowing much about the reality of him. (In book 5 Ginny was starting to overcome this and was getting to know the real Harry while also coming into her own but then she very much backslides in book 6 and 7. Also while Ginny did make some progress Harry really didn't. He never learns much about her or her interests, fears, hopes, dreams etc.)

Draco (prior to his family's downfall) spends a lot of his life surrounded by sycophants and admirers and yet he doesn't really respect them and seems to crave a real friendship. After all, even before he knows who Harry is he tries to reach out to him in Madam Malkin's even though he obviously knows Harry isn't one of the children of the wealthy blood supremacist pureblood families who are already familiar to him. Because perhaps he wants something more, something real.

And similarly Harry doesn't want to be worshipped or feared. Part of what draws him to Cho initially is the way she can match and challenge him at Quidditch (who does that sound like?) and her humor and sassiness when they play each other. He likes someone who can push back and challenge and interest him and match his wit. And this isn't Ginny. That's Draco. Perhaps someday Harry reflects on how Ginny always did what he wanted and said what he respected, and Draco never does, and somehow that has made all the difference.

[demigod-shenanigans]

Some more of my and @queenjunothegreat’s Sofía Valdez thoughts (this time specifically focused on her relationship with her dads when she’s little):

-Jason is the kind of dad who has more baby pictures than money in his wallet and you cannot convince me otherwise.

-The same would be true for Leo, except he doesn’t really have a wallet because he tends to lose those a lot. Instead, he just puts stuff into his tool belt and hopefully one day it’ll reappear lmao. He’s got lots of pictures of her up in his workshop, though.

-Leo makes her the most ridiculously elaborate baby mobile ever. He works on it for days. There are so many moving parts and she’s obsessed with it.

-Toddler Sofía loves sleeping on her papá’s chest because he’s always warm. She’s like a cat curling up in a sunbeam. Will also take her gloves off in the winter to take his hand instead. 10/10 would recommend having a dad who also doubles as a heat lamp.

-Leo and Jason take turns telling her bedtime stories. Leo’s are often grand adventures that somehow manage to be both cool and almost completely nonsensical. He also does goofy voices for all the characters. Jason’s are heartfelt ones about found family and love, which tend to be… a lot more coherent than Leo’s. Sofía loves them an equal amount.

-Her dads are the most sickeningly in love people Sofía has ever met and she finds it so so annoying (she loves them dearly and they’ve been her go-to proof true love is real since she first encountered the concept in a movie). They’re holding hands grocery shopping and when they split up to go into different isles they’ll greet each other with a kiss like long-lost lovers returning from a voyage upon being reunited. They will constantly hit on each other in the cringiest way possible for absolutely no reason. It’s unbearable.

-Sofía gets told so many stories about her abuela. She thinks Esperanza was the absolutely coolest person ever and loves sharing a name with her. There’s a six month period when she’s little where she won’t respond to anything other than Espi.

-The only family member on Jason’s side of the family Sofía actually meets/knows about is Thalia. She has no idea who Beryl Grace is. She’s never even heard the last name Grace before (Thalia stopped using it a long time ago and obviously Jason took Leo’s last name when they got married.) The only thing she knows about Jupiter is that her family doesn’t like him.

-Because Jason never talks about his mom, and because Piper makes so many jokes about wolf genes, Sofía was genuinely convinced her abuela on her dad’s side was a wolf for the first several years of her life.

-Sofía and Leo build the fanciest pillow forts together that anyone has ever seen. The Waystation thankfully has lots of space for it. Sometimes when Jason comes back from work, exhausted, he’ll just collapse into the pillow fort and nap there, which inevitably results in him waking up in a Valdez family cuddle pile.

-Leo gets very invested in some of the cartoons Sofía watches. Will this whacky found family of animated cartoon princesses save the world again this week? Probably. But he needs to know for sure. They always have a great time.

-When Sofía is around eight, she gets really into puzzles. When she can’t sleep after a nightmare, doing puzzles in the middle of the night is Jason’s go-to way to make her feel better.

[kingconia]

TWISTED WONDERLAND BOYS AND HOW THEY WOULD ACT IF YOU WERE THEIR OLDER SISTER

warnings: hints of angst? mentions of possessiveness

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS. ❤️

— Big sister? More like a second mother;

— Childhood was rough for both of you, and there wasn't much to do for ground Riddle from it fully, but you tried so hard to make it better than your own;

— You took punishments for your brother, you intentionally caught attention of your mother, so she could ignore Riddle, and you tried to teach him how to have fun properly;

— Riddle understands it when he grows older, but nevertheless, he always was your boy;

— You are his family, but you are also his best friend;

— It hurts you to see how much impact mother put on his mental health, and you struggle so hard to fix it, somehow;

— You are the only one, who can break the rules and make Riddle smile. He doesn't really cares if you are following them, and you honestly don't even try;

— To him, you are always a soft one, his gentle big sister, who takes care of him in the most motherly way;

— But once someone wrongs him... Oh, you definitely your mother's daughter as well;

— OFF WITH HIS HEAD!

MALLEUS DRACONIA. 💚

— Time is different from fae, but Malleus always remembers that you came first, and shows you a lot of respect;

— But you never felt that you are the elder sister THAT much with him;

— Most people assume that you are twins. You look identical, you act the same way, you are both strange in the same manner that people find scary;

— I think, both of you would be quite... Codependent?;

— You had only yourselves all this life, and it hardly changed, since no one wants to socialise with you in the school, so;

— You and Malleus are always together, hip to hip, and sometimes people even confuse you two;

— You are really more shades of each other than anything else, but you are comfortable with that. You share everything, you spend all your time together;

— ...Kinda possessive towards each other, too.

KALIM AL-ASIM. 💛

— When he was younger, you took care of him, admittedly, with some unwillingness. You were older, he was smaller and restless, and you just wanted to mind your business;

— But he is such a sunshine! Always was;

— Your heart grew softer, when he told you, while being still a small bun, that you are the most nice person in the world;

— (You really wasn't back then, but for him? You are now!);

— Basically sunshine and sunshine protector;

— You have a hard time trusting his friends and people around him, and, man, Jamil suffered from your suspicion enough, but... In the end, he is the part of family, too;

— I feel like Kalim adores having matching things. Matching accessories, hats, clothes. He thinks it is an amazing way to bond with you, and you are so into it;

— He is that kind of younger sibling that the more he grows, the more balanced your dynamic becomes, because he starts caring for you, too;

— You are the healthiest duo in the world, lmao.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR. 🧡

— In this case, you are not the oldest in the family, but you are older than Leona, nevertheless;

— When he was a kid, he loved you so much. He was amazed by you, thought you are so cool, so powerful;

— So he started to take example from you. Quietly, without never mentioning that to you. (So, if anyone Farena blames on Leona becoming is such an ass, it is you, lol);

— Leona started act like you, learned your fighting tips, stole your talking manner, and... And clothes;

— It was you, who started wear leather in the family first, especially, gloves, and it was you, who made yourself two little braids by the both side of your ears;

— Leona is a little copycat, but you honestly love it;

— You took care of him the most from the family in the childhood, because others were busy or never wanted to deal with a cursed kid, and that is why Leona is so into you;

— As grown-ups, Leona starts hating all your friends OR boyfriends—don't dare to have one, he hates him, too—and really insecure because of the thought that you will lose interest in him, since he is not the kid to be taken care of;

— Ha, jokes on you. He is always your little stupid baby.

AZUL ASHENGROTTO. 🩵

— Much like Leona, you was his example all his childhood;

— But unlike his situation, you never had such a bond, when he was a kid. You were always busy with your own stuff, scamming people, reading and studying, and he felt, well, lonely;

— So, if Leona copycates, because he adores his sister, Azul does it in the order to become closer. Yes, he kins Mastermind of Taylor Swift, lmao;

— But it works, and you start taking care of him more often, hanging out to explain things. Azul is happy;

— But others? Others hate both of you;

— Contracts, lies, scams: you do it so perfectly, so smartly, so easily, that others just hope both of you will get thrown out of school, lmao;

— As Azul becomes the same level as you, someone, you can call your equal, you start your little competition. Azul tries to trick you, so you could fall on it, and lose to him;

— It is a friendly one, and you actually love your little game so much!;

— But, oh, Azul... Big sister knows better.

VIL SCHOENHEIT. 💜

— You are older, and that meant you came first. So, you are naturally prettier and more talented. Thanks, he hates it;

— As a child both of you had an amazing relationship, but as Vil got more involved with the outside world, he became more envious of you;

— It feels like he can never reach your level, and people used to pester him a lot with stupid questions about you;

— So, as a teen, he distances himself from you, starting to act annoyed and hateful, focusing solely on becoming better;

— You don't understand what is going on, or what to do, and you actively try to fix everything, but... Eventually, you are too tired to deal with all of it. You surrender. If Vil hates you, so be it;

— He misses you so much all the time, but at the same time, he don't do anything to change your situation. He only silently checks your new photos, listens to your conversations in corridors, and that's all;

— Life goes hard, and once he finds himself in front of your doors, crying and sobbing as a kid. You can't deny him, so you spend all night rocking him in your arms;

— But in the morning there is no trace of him, and in the corridors you act like strangers again;

— And no matter how often it starts to repeat, you still never talk properly.

IDIA SHROUD. 💙

— He is the most annoying little brother EVER;

— He is so stereotypical little sibling, lmao. He just whines about how old and not interesting you are, slams the door, and ignores you half of the time;

— Thanks, you hate it;

— But you try, nevertheless! You try to understand his talks, games and interests, and if you still don't, then you buy him a lot of stuff he wants;

— You bring him food and water, and constantly pester on his health;

— Actually, Idia doesn't hate you! He just likes being annoying little shit;

— So, if something gets too intense or tiring, he stops acting this way, and shows that he cares;

— But if no one dies, he puts typical teenager record player, lol;

— At this point, you are fine with that.