#cotton hang tags

[cottonii]

colour test that got WAY too out of hand

anyway hbd(?) to one of the fictional men ever

(og sketch of this i did in class under the cut)

[shamelesslymkp]

@mayakern OK so I have a PLAN to write a nice and helpful review of your skirts, but I honestly have no idea if I'll actually be able to follow through anytime soon or if it'll just languish in my head for the rest of time, so this is a PLACEHOLDER nice and helpful review that just says HER SKIRTS ARE V. NICE, IF PLUS SIZE AND ON FENCE HIGHLY RECOMMEND DO BUY

[meowizard]

making memes about your fic counts as working on it

[laughicate]

wool tapestries by Leonora Carrington (1917 - 2011)

[pedrospatch]

flutter

Jackson! Joel Miller x Pregnant! Female Reader

snapshots masterlist

summary: When you finally start to show, Joel has a tough time with it as the reality sinks in—he’s going to be a father again.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. (TW) PREGNANCY. established relationship. no mention of reader’s age, however in other works for this universe, it is implied she is younger than Joel, her specific age will never be stated so do with that what you will. brief descriptions of a pregnant woman’s changing body, brief mention of morning sickness, mention of breastfeeding (it only comes up in a conversation very briefly) these subjects can possibly be triggering, especially mentions of a changing body, so while i try to handle everything with the utmost care, i still ask that you proceed with caution. domesticity, reader enjoys taking care of her family, ellie is a little shit, grumpy joel, he’s sort of a dick at first? but only because he’s working through some feelings so let’s forgive him, okay?

word count: 3.5k

a/n: this is part of the snapshots universe, but it could absolutely be read as a standalone too. minimal editing, this has been sitting in my drafts and i did a quick edit during my lunch hour, so please excuse any mistakes.

“Shit.”

You almost can’t believe your own two eyes. Staring at your reflection in the large, oval shaped mirror hanging over the porcelain bathroom sink, your gaze widens in complete surprise. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, turning to the side. It takes your brain about a good minute or two to process, really process, the way that your belly strains against the thin, white cotton of your camisole. It had seemingly swollen overnight—because it hadn’t been this prominent the day before, had it?

Over the last few months, there’d been changes.

Some subtle and some not so subtle.

“Ellie! Stop fucking staring at them,” you’d scolded the teenager late one evening during yours and hers weekly game night. For as hard as you tried focusing on what move you should make next, it was hard to concentrate on the chessboard in front of you when you could feel the way her eyes were fixed on your breasts. “I mean it! Quit staring at my boobs, you little shit.”

She held up her hands, her mouth full of popcorn.

“Hey, in my defense, they’re just fucking there, man. If anything, they’re fucking staring at me, okay?”

During your chess rematch the following week, you had accidentally knocked one of your pawn pieces off of the table. When you’d stood up and bent over to pick it up, she had made the observation that your butt seemed to have gotten a little bigger too.

“Bet Joel’s liking these changes,” Ellie had smirked. “It sure as hell explains why the headboard’s been banging against the wall more than usual lately.”

You threw the pawn at her, smiling in satisfaction when it bounced off her forehead and landed into her glass of lemonade.

One part of your body, however, hadn’t changed.

Not until now.

“Hon, trust me, you have nothing to be worried about,” Maria had assured you with confidence when you had brought up your concerns about your stomach. “Every woman, and every pregnancy, is different. I didn’t start showing until I was around six months, remember?”

“I guess you’re right.” You’d been around four months, then. “Doesn’t help that I haven’t felt the baby move.”

“You will,” Maria had promised. “Just be patient”

Biting your lip, you place a hand on your belly.

It’s always been one of the softer parts of you, but now, it’s firmed into a perfect, round bump.

“Maybe soon I’ll feel you move,” you murmur, giving it a gentle pat. You tug the lace hem of your camisole down as far as it can go and then pull at the elastic waistband of your blue, terry cloth shorts.

Shutting off the lights in the bathroom, you slip out into the bedroom where you find that Joel’s still tangled up in the sheets, fast asleep. He had been assigned to the afternoon patrol route today—normally an early riser, if he was still snoozing, it meant that he really needed the rest. Deciding it was best to let him keep sleeping for a little while longer, you quietly tiptoe out of your shared bedroom and head downstairs into the kitchen.

After making yourself a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, and one for the kid as well, you prepare the coffee maker for Joel. You spoon dark roast grounds into the filter and set the timer for the coffee to start brewing in thirty minutes.

He should be up by then, you think, pulling a basket of eggs out of the refrigerator.

You’re starting to get used to this. Domesticity.

Despite your protests, Maria had made the decision to pull you off patrol that same afternoon you had shared the news of your pregnancy. “I’m putting you on leave,” she’d told you. “Effective immediately. I don’t want to see you outside of these walls. Got it?”

“That’s not fair, Maria. You were out on patrol until—”

One stern glare from her had shut you right up.

“Fine.”

Sure, you missed it and looked forward to the day when you’d be able to get back into the saddle with your rifle in hand, but this way of life had grown on you. Certainly a lot more than you thought it would.

You enjoyed taking care of the house. Packing Ellie her lunch for school and checking her homework. Having a nice a meal on the table for the three of you to enjoy in the comfort of your own home instead of having to go down to the crowded mess hall for supper because you and Joel were both always much, much too tired after a long day out on patrol to bother with cooking.

With the baby due to arrive in the winter, looking after your little family had become your purpose, and you did not mind it one bit.

As strips of bacon sizzle in one pan on the gas powered stove, you crack a couple of eggs into another, knowing the kid is already on her way downstairs. You can hear the sound of her old, tattered low top sneakers that you have been trying to throw away for almost a year now squeaking on the kitchen tiles just as you finish plating her breakfast.

“Morning!” Ellie pipes, the loud plop of her backpack into a chair prompting you to turn around. “What’s for brea—whoa! Holy shit!” Her brown eyes widen in shock when she sees you and her jaw drops. “Dude.”

“Ellie,” you say her name warningly as you walk over to the table. “Don’t.”

“You’re bigger!”

With a playful glare, you set her plate down, along with her glass of orange juice. “Thanks a lot, you little jerk.” You feign offense. “You’re making your own eggs from now on.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Ellie’s cheeks flush a shade of red and she squirms, sputtering apologetically, “I swear, I don’t mean it like that at all. It’s just, your stomach, it didn’t—you didn’t look like this last night, you know?”

She’s fucking lucky that your raging hormones decided to take the morning off duty.

“You look different. I mean, you look great—”

“Ellie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just shut up and eat.”

“Deal.”

She shoots you a sheepish grin and sits down, scarfing down her food in her usual manner. 

“You get your fractions homework done?”

“Yeah.” Ellie huffs, rolling her eyes. “Took me forever. I was up until fucking midnight.”

Amused, you offer, “Want me to check your work?”

“Sure.”

As Ellie inhales the rest of her breakfast, you pull out a green, single subject notebook from her backpack and look over her homework for miscalculations.

“So, uh, how are you feeling?” she asks after a minute.

“I’m feeling alright. I think the morning sickness finally stopped, so can’t complain.” Shrugging, you close the notebook and stick it into her backpack. “You did good, kid. Only got two problems wrong.”

“Man, I really wish we knew whether it’s a boy or girl,” Ellie mumbles through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “What do you want to have, anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter to me, Ellie,” you answer, honestly. Clocking the skepticism on her face, you laugh and say, “It’s true. As long as the baby’s healthy, that’s all I care about.” And you mean it. As an expectant mother in the post outbreak world where medicine is scarce, supplies are limited, and the closest thing you have to a hospital is the town’s old clinic, the only thing you can hope for is the smooth, safe delivery of a healthy child.

Before she can say anything, you both catch the sound of Joel’s heavy boots as he descends the staircase.

She quirks an eyebrow. “Uh, has Joel seen you yet?”

Grimacing, you shake your head. “No.”

“Well, I don’t wanna be here for all that awkward,” Ellie says, chugging the rest of her orange juice. She stands up and snatches up her backpack, along with her lunch bag, which you’d packed for her earlier that morning. Just as she’s about to whirl around on the heel of her sneaker and make a run for the front door, she pauses, watching as you make your way back over to the stove to light another flame. “Unless you want me to be?”

“I’ll be fine, Ellie,” you assure her. “Go on, get to school. Maybe you’ll be on time to class for once.”

“If you say so.” She wishes you luck and then bolts out of the kitchen, throwing a quick goodbye at Joel on the way out. “See ya later, old man!”

Nervously, you turn around and start cracking another two eggs into the pan. There’s no telling how he’s going to react.

Joel’s been fairly supportive since you’d found out you were pregnant, considering how unplanned it was. But you know him like the back of your own hand, and you know, despite the numerous times he’s denied it, that it has been weighing heavily on him. Each time you’d try to sit down to talk to him about it, he would brush you off and insist he was fine. But he wasn’t fine.

And you wish he would spit it out and tell you why.

In your periphery, you notice the stained glass butterfly he had hung in front of the window above the sink, the ornament catching and refracting the sunlight. Flecks of color dance across the walls in captivating patterns, brightening the space. You think of the sweet little girl he’d hung it for, the little girl he rarely talks about, that he keeps tucked away safely in his memory.

You bite back a small sigh.

By now, you’ve learned not to push him. Especially not about what he was feeling. He would tell you when he was ready.

“Who the hell lit a fire under her ass this mornin’?” Joel asks gruffly as he walks into the kitchen. “She ain’t ever this fuckin’ eager to go to school.”

“Not sure,” you reply in the most nonchalant tone you can muster as you use a spatula to scramble the eggs. Transferring them onto a plate, you add three strips of bacon, and then pour his coffee. “I have your breakfast ready, Joel. Have a seat.”

You hear a chair scrape against the tile.

“I keep tellin’ you I can make my own breakfast, darlin’.”

“And I keep telling you I don’t mind making it for you,” you quip, and you hear him grumble something under his breath.

Inhaling a deep, calming breath through your nose, you take the plate of eggs and bacon in one hand, and his cup of coffee in the other. Your fingers grasp the handle of his ceramic, owl mug in a near death grip. You exhale slowly, and then turn around to face him.

He sees your swollen middle and stiffens in his chair. 

The tension is instantaneous. Palpable.

Uncomfortable.

Awkwardly, you shift from one foot to the other.

“Your belly,” Joel murmurs, a visible tick in his jaw as his gaze drags over your midsection. “S’bigger.”

“Yeah. It is. Guess I’m going to have to start trading for maternity clothes soon,” you remark, shuffling over to the table. Setting down the plate and mug of coffee in front of him, you take a seat across the table. Your eyes try desperately to meet his, but they refuse. There’s no way for you to decipher what he’s thinking. You let out a small, nervous laugh. “Can you please say something?” 

He lightly clears his throat. “I’ll take you to Main Street on Saturday,” he tells you, picking up his mug. “I’ve got the day off from patrol. I’ll, uh, pick through some of my own things and see what I don’t need so we can make a trade for some clothes.” He pauses, then offers quietly, “In the meantime, you can wear my shirts. They might be more comfortable for you.”

You flash him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Joel.”

Sipping his coffee, he continues to avoid your gaze.

“Mhm,” is all he says.

Your smile falters.

It’s the middle of August.

The afternoon heat is sweltering. Unforgiving.

“Jesus, it’s a fuckin’ scorcher,” Tommy sighs, glancing over towards the lake where his mare, Maxine, is taking a drink beside his brother’s stallion, Phoenix. His raven curls are damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead. “Hotter than the devil’s fuckin’ balls out here, ain’t it?”

He’s met with silence.

Looking over his shoulder, he sees Joel leaning against a tree, his rifle in hand as he stares at the Grand Tetons in the distance almost like he’s in a trance. “Joel?”

Blinking furiously, Joel shakes his head. “Sorry, you say somethin’ to me just now?” He asks in a daze, pushing away from the lodgepole pine. “We headin’ out?”

“You’ve been actin’ real strange all afternoon,” Tommy observes, walking towards him with his own gun slung over his shoulder. “Either the heat is startin’ to get to you, or you’ve got somethin’ on your mind, big brother.”

Joel hesitates. His dark eyes flit to the other side of the lake where the other members of their afternoon patrol group are refilling their canteens with water.

“S’alright,” his younger brother says. “Don’t worry ‘bout them. Can’t hear us.”

Joel’s chest heaves with a heavy sigh. “She popped.”

“Huh?”

“Her belly finally popped. She’s showin’ now.”

Amused, Tommy lightly shakes his head. “Y’shouldn’t be so surprised, Joel. Was ‘bout time,” he remarks with a shrug. “What is she—like six months along now?”

“She’ll be six months in a couple weeks.” Joel wipes the perspiration off his brow with the back of his hand and sighs once more. “Look, I ain’t stupid, Tommy. I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, but it still caught me by surprise. When I saw her, it became real for me. She’s got my kid in there. I’m gonna be a dad again.”

“You’re scared.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

“Shitless,” Joel confesses, feeling his chest tighten. 

“What are you afraid of?”

Joel almost laughs.

He doesn’t know where to start.

He’s afraid of everything.

“All of it, Tommy. I’m afraid for her, havin’ to give birth with no medicine,” he tells him, his voice breaking. “I’m afraid I won’t remember what to do with a newborn or that I won’t know how to help her durin’ those first few months—”

“This ain’t your first rodeo,” Tommy reminds him. “You did it once, and you did just fine, Joel.”

“That was over three fuckin’ decades ago. And it was a different world. If Sarah—” He stops, taking a second to catch his breath. The image of his daughter’s little face flashing in his mind feels like a violent punch to the gut. Even after all this time, it still knocks all of the wind out of his lungs. “When her mom had trouble breastfeedin’ her, I could head to the grocery store and buy her baby formula. If she got a real bad fever, I could load her up in the truck and drive her to the emergency room.” He glances down at his broken watch. “Besides, I was a lot younger, then. And I wasn’t half fuckin’ deaf like I am now. When Sarah would wake up cryin’ in the middle of the night because she needed a diaper change, I’d hear her. What if I can’t hear my own kid cryin’?”

“Joel—”

“I’m in my fifties. What if I can’t keep up because I’m too fuckin’ old?”

Tommy reaches out, clapping a hand onto his shoulder.

“Brother, I need you to take a fuckin’ breath,” he says, chuckling softly. “You’re puttin’ the weight of the world of your shoulders right now—you need to put some of it down. Look, we might not have everythin’ we used to before the world ended, but we make do with what we do have. Considerin’ just how many growin’ families we have and how many little ones we’ve got runnin’ around our town, I’d say it’s workin’ out pretty fuckin well.” He gives his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “And as far as your ability to be a good dad, you’ve still got it, Joel. You know what to do, and so does she. I’ve seen her in action with my little boy, and it seems like she’s already got those maternal instincts, y’know?”

“Yeah, she does,” Joels agrees quietly, thinking of how you had stepped up to help him care for Ellie.

“Trust me, between the two of you, it’ll be alright.”

He peers at him. “You really believe I still got it in me?”

“I do.” Tommy smiles. “You never stopped knowin’ how to be a father, Joel. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Their patrol shift extends into the evening, turning into a double, and it’s late when he gets home. 

“What the hell are you still doin’ up?” Joel asks when he finds Ellie sitting at the kitchen table, cursing to herself as she flips through the stale, yellowing pages of an old life science text book.

“What does it fucking look like, man?”

“Shouldn’t have waited until the last minute, kiddo—”

Ellie holds up a hand and cuts him off.

“Save the lecture for another time, dude. I’m busy.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Finish up and get to bed. S’late.”

Without waiting for some smartass response, he turns on the heel of his boot and then heads upstairs to your shared bedroom. He flips on the lights only to find that you’re already in bed, fast asleep, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties. He toes off his boots and leaves them by the door, being as quiet as he possibly can as he rummages through his top drawer for some clean boxers to sleep in.

He slips into the bathroom where he takes a quick, hot shower, scrubbing off that day’s sweat, dirt, and grime. After he’s dressed and his sopping wet, salt and pepper curls are haphazardly towel dried, Joel walks back out into the bedroom where he switches off the lights and climbs into bed next to you.

He lays on his side and he’s just about to close his eyes when he feels a light shift beside him. You roll over and curl into him, your belly pressing up against his curve of his spine.

He stiffens, freezing as if someone had just placed the barrel of their pistol against his back, their finger over the trigger.

Christ, get a damn grip, he thinks silently to himself.

Joel thinks about that morning in the kitchen.

He knows his reaction had hurt you. Or rather, his lack of a reaction. His shitty ways of coping aren’t your fault, and his struggle to come to terms with your pregnancy sure as hell isn’t your fault, either. He owed it to you to try harder to be the man you needed.

The man you both needed.

Joel’s train of thought comes to a screeching halt when he feels a soft flutter against his middle of his back, the spot right where your tummy is nestled—did the baby just move?

He lies still, waiting to see if he feels it again, and when he doesn’t, he rolls over to face you, causing you to stir.

“Joel?” you mumble his name, sleepily. “What time—?”

“Shh,” Joel soothes, pulling you into his bare chest. He kisses your temple. “S’okay, baby. Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice.

Within seconds, you’re asleep again, snuggled into him and snoring softly.

Lifting a hand, he hesitates, then rests it on your belly.

He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Until the minutes turn into hours.

Until dawn’s light filters in through the lace curtains. 

Until he finally feels that little flutter again.

He feels it against the palm of his hand. Faint, nothing more than a brief whisper against his skin, but there is no mistaking it.

He’d just felt the baby’s movement.

There’s a sudden shift.

Tense muscles that had been painfully wound up since the moment you’d mentioned to him your period was a week late back in the spring loosen slightly—the breath he had been holding since he’d picked up that positive pregnancy test from the bathroom counter finally falls from his lips, fanning over yours.

His fears, his worries, his uncertainties about what lies ahead, they’re all still there, of course, but he finds they are now accompanied by a glimmer of hope, a sliver of optimism that maybe, just maybe, Joel doesn’t have to be as afraid as he is.

Joel’s eyes glaze over your face, warmth radiating in his chest when you breathe a little a sigh of content in your sleep as he gently rubs your stomach through his shirt.

With his hand still splayed over your belly, he closes his eyes and begins to drift off, falling into the most decent sleep he’s had in the last few months.

Maybe his brother’s right.

Maybe he will be just fine.

divider credit to @saradika 🤍

[textmel8r]

[ DRABBLE ] 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 ! ( ninth installment ) in which you are forced to plan a corporate event with your office enemy .

୨୧˚ part; one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. ten. eleven.

୨୧˚ incl; kento nanami

୨୧˚ cw; profanity , alcohol consumption , inebriation , sexual harassment , violence , vomit

୨୧˚ an; i love nami kempo (dis shit like 4k werdssss) ALSO i’ve been getting comments that my tag list isn’t working for me dumb someone help me pls tell me what im doing wrong

୨୧˚ join my discord server ! we share headcanons, fanfic recs, color roles, and more drooling emoji

“Why am I here?” Nanami thinks out loud, glaring pointedly around the unlit dive bar. It’s unglamorous, walls garbed in eclectic music paraphernalia, references that go right past him. Flurries of reds and yellows and oranges in the decor cut brightly, shining through the dim atmosphere. Seriously, would it kill them to switch a light on? It bustles with life; university kids, Nanami is subjected to think based on the… unique fashion sense present in the room. Street wear, torn jeans, crop tops way too short to be considered shirts anymore. He cringes, feeling entirely too dated to be hanging amongst this kind of crowd. His leg bounces restlessly under the ledge of the bar, and he turns to look at you. “Why are we here?”

You’re smiling—actually smiling—flagging down the bartender. “You knew we were coming to a bar,” you cut yourself short, holding up a single finger to him whilst you relayed your order to the older gentleman behind the bar. A rum and coke, you asked politely before glancing toward Nanami. It took a moment for him to realize what that look meant. 

“I’ll have scotch, neat. Thanks.”

“As I was saying,” you steal back his attention, “I made it clear we were coming to a bar. What’s the problem?”

There was a hint of an attitude catching at your words, and Nanami felt his brow twitch in frustration. “You failed to tell me that we’d be in…” He grimaces, peeking back over his shoulder to the sea of youthful patrons slinging over nearly every stool and booth. “ . . . Mixed company.” God awful pop music fizzles through the speakers, twisting and crackling with pops of static; fuel to the billowing flames of Nanami’s overstimulation. “I was expecting something a bit more sophisticated.”

“I can tell,” you’re laughing as you give him a once over, and he gets a shiver of Deja Vu from the coffee shop where you pulled the same exact move. You tweeze at the expensive cotton button down, plucking the bunched fabric of a sleeve at the crease of his elbow. “Thought we said no more fancy clothes?”

Tonight he threw together a plain white shirt and a pair of slim fit khaki pants; the quintessential dad outfit, sure, but fancy? Nanami didn’t think so. “I’m dressed down.”

“Nixing the suit jacket and tie didn’t do much. You still look stiff, man.” Two glasses are brought over, one placed before either of you respectively. Nanami stares down into the glass, a foggy, brown abyss. His alcohol looks watered down and piss cheap. “You stick out, it’s kind of embarrassing.”

“Oh please, you’re too kind.” Nanami rolls his eyes, hunching over the bar and downing a swig from the scotch. Yeah, It was definitely watered down. Fuck this place. 

Your hand slaps his back. “So dramatic. I was kidding Nanami, you look fine.” A cheeky laugh reaches his ears before you tack on, “very handsome.” 

Now he knows you’re messing with him. 

You grin into your cup. “Stop sulking. It’s not so bad here.” Nanami would beg to differ. A debate that isn’t worth having because frankly, it’s a Saturday night and he doesn’t have nearly enough energy to draft a list of all the cons that this joint has to offer. “We got booze,” you raise your glass. “Booze makes everything better.”

His forehead wrinkles. “That’s a horrible mindset to have, Y/n.”

Your boisterous laugh outweighs the ambient chatter, and you take a hearty gulp. Nanami follows suit, albeit a bit awkwardly, tipping more spirits down his throat. You look surprisingly comfortable, slinking against the bar counter with a hazy smile that welcomes strangers in. This time, you weren’t wearing a flowery dress; instead, a low cut shirt and jeans, both equal parts dark and tight. The neckline plummeted deep, exposing slivers of your bra cups and entirely too much cleavage. By God, was his self restraint something to write home about. 

It was easy to fall into comfortable conversation. All in all, Nanami enjoys talking to you now, even if once upon a time the thought of engaging with you evoked such dread that he’d outwardly avoid your presence around the office. Passing along orders specifically meant for you to other colleagues and entrusting them to deliver the message, lengthening the conveyor belt of relation simply because you got him in a tizzy. Back then, all Nanami could see when he looked at you was that cowardly girl in the bathroom with smeared lipstick and a trembling pout. How shameful, he thinks, that it took him this long to see past that terrible first impression. 

“So there I was, balancing ten cups of coffee, shaking like a little bitch,” you laughed as you shared an anecdote from an internship in your university years. Nanami listened intently, head propped up on his fist as he watched your theatrics. Your cheeks flushed with the evidence of alcohol, eyes lidded, smile wobbly. Nanami was feeling the edge of his buzz coming on too, an amazing revelation considering the diluted alcohol this place served. “And I’m walking up ten flights of stairs–”

“Ten flights?” He gawks, feeling looser and matching you with melodrama. “What, did your office not have an elevator?”

You laughed. “It was out of order.”

“Your luck astounds me.”

You flip him off playfully. “I finally get to the last stair and my heel catches on the floor and I eat total shit in front of the entire room!” Nanami can’t stop his own tittering, cupping a palm over his grin. “Spilled the coffee everywhere, twisted my ankle, too. I probably laid in that puddle for ten minutes.”

“That’s why you don’t wear high heels anymore?”

There’s a grimace on your face when you nod, topping off the rest of your glass. “Mm.”

Nanami swaps his own story, of a time when he was in his third year of college and his work laptop got stolen. “I think I cried,” and you guffawed at his misery. “I’m serious, I really think I cried. Alone, on the floor of my dormitory. It was finals week, and I had written my dissertation on that laptop.”

“So what did you do?”

“I pulled an all-nighter in the library on campus and rewrote my entire thesis.” Merely remembering that chaotically stressful night had Nanami huffing a sigh of anguish and dragging an exasperated hand down his face. 

The bartender slides you another drink. Gosh, he was lagging behind. “I would’ve dropped out.” You spoke over the rim of the glass.

“Trust me, I was really close.” Nanami’s eyes narrow, gaging the swell of your throat as you knock back a few swigs. “How many have you had?” 

“A few.” Your answer was blunt, and from that Nanami could gather that his question had rendered you the slightest bit irritated. He understood why; you were a grown woman, who was he to regulate how many rounds you decide to have? But even with this understanding, the man couldn’t shake his concern. “More than you, old timer. Keep up.”

He shakes his head, scratching at his cheek. “This is my last for the night.” Any more, and Nanami would wake up the next morning nauseous with a pounding headache. He took precautions to avoid breaching his limits, he really disliked that hungover feeling. 

You gawk at the declaration. “How lame.” Then you hiccup.

“You can call me lame now, but which one of us will wake up tomorrow not in pain?”

You wave a hand through the air, brushing off his very astute observation. “Hush, that’s for future me to deal with. Present me doesn’t have a care in the world.”

You’re immature, but it’s amusing, so he doesn’t offer any rebuttals. The way you are so insistent on living in the moment is fascinating, almost inspiring even. Nanami feels as though he’s ever crushed by the impending future, always so concerned with what the next day, next week, next month, next year brings. He thinks ahead to a fault, and because of that, forgets to enjoy the little things. But you always stop and smell the roses. It’s admirable. 

“Bartender!” You wag a finger in the air, slamming down your empty glass. Fiending for yet another drink. 

Okay, maybe your ability to live in the now is to a fault as well. Nanami holds a hand up, signaling the barkeep to halt. “Sorry,” he apologizes politely, “she’s all good for now, thanks.” Ain’t that the truth. Your face looked tacky with sweat, pupils scarily dilated. Your words come out dimly slurred, and your gestures uncoordinated. As your business associate, he feels obligated to intervene at this point.

A hand slaps his down. Your hand. “Hey what gives?” You’re upset with him. “Just because you’re done doesn’t mean I am.”

“You’re three sips away from throwing up on yourself,” Nanami deadpans, unphased by your drunken outburst. Unbeknownst to the two of you, another patron had taken up the stool opposite of you. To be expected; the bar was decently crowded, that being said neither of you paid much mind to the man. He was younger than Nanami for sure, his hair unkempt and shaggy, swept back by sweat and something that looked like grease. He was smiling, probably on some brand of dope that Nanami was unfamiliar with. The stranger interrupts, leaning over with his elbow planted on the countertop. 

“You her father or some shit?” He speaks without any warning, catching both you and Nanami’s attention. 

Father? Nanami internally grimaces, jaw tightening. Just how old does he think I am? Trying not to be offended by the inquiry, he corrects the man. “Just a concerned friend, that’s all.” You have yet to speak, still a tad caught off guard by the unexpected company. 

The stranger’s grin widens, reaching shit-eating status. “Then hop the fuck off her case, man.” He shoots a pair of lidded, droopy eyes toward you, eyebrows jumping in a manner that is entirely too suggestive for Nanami’s liking. “If the lady wants another drink, then let her have another drink.”

Nanami feels the awkward tension thicken the air between this interaction. For all the shit you talked about getting hit on in bars, he would have never expected you to act so timid when put in a position like this. Nanami fully expected you to side with the latter party, to order another round of vodka-whatever and then leave with your newfound knight in shining armor. What actually happened: “No, er, my friend might be right actually,” followed by an incredibly strained chuckle. Your shoulders stiffen, Nanami can practically feel the way you harden up beside him. “I should probably take it easy.”

The man feigns grief. “Aw, c’mon. You seemed so eager before. Let me buy you another?”

“She just said—”

“I was talking to her, not you.”

Nanami was utterly shocked by the sheer gall this young man possessed. Was he trying to intimidate him? It was painfully ineffective. “I don’t want one,” you said with a little more oomph this time, fiercely hanging on the urge to defend Nanami. It made him feel strangely prideful. 

The stranger’s smile never retreated, but something sinister glinted in the ocean of his dark eyes. He gave a sniff, brushing the point of his nose with the pad of his thumb before hurling yet another unwanted flirtation your way. “Baby, hey, what’s one more drink? I saw you from across the room, I’ve been dyin’ to chat you up.” Under the table, his hand slips into your personal space. Nanami sees it unfold in his peripherals; the pallor hand slithering over your lap, grabbing a handful of your denim-clad thigh. You yelped in surprise, wincing. Nanami saw it all.  

He was not a violent man. In fact, he could count the number of times he’s thrown a punch in his life on one hand. Physical fights were pointless, a waste of time and energy because Nanami wholeheartedly believed that altercations were best settled with words. But the moment your nervous squeak found his ears, Nanami couldn’t control the urge to beat this guy’s face in. So that’s what he did; sliding out of his seat to round you and pull the stranger off his stool by the collar of his faux leather jacket. The material felt cheap and mingy, not something Nanami would ever be caught dead wearing. Without so much as a second thought, Nanami sends a heavy fist barreling into the meat of his cheek. One good, solid punch, and the sinewy gentleman was tumbling to the ground, walking the thin line between consciousness. “Shit…” Nanami breathes, chest heaving with barely concealed rage, knuckles throbbing to the beat of his racing heart. The bar went dead, too many pairs of eyes locked onto him to count, but the only ones he could care about were yours. 

You looked at Nanami with such astonishment, with your eyes pried wide as dinner plates and your mouth ajar. He was ready for you to yell at him, to curse him for embarrassing you in a pub you frequented, but nothing came. Well, almost nothing. 

“Security!” The bartender hollered thick and deep, slapping a damp rag onto the counter with a wet plap. 

“Shit!” Nanami repeated, cuffing a hand around the thinnest part of your wrist, tugging you into his side as you both raced toward the exit. “Let’s go.”

You’re gurgling and grumbling, latching onto the material of his shirt as little bouts of complaining bubbled past your lips. “Not so fast!” and “Oh God, my stomach” and “I don’t feel good.” Nanami had been reduced to your crutch at this point; he bore the entirety of your weight without batting an eye because your own legs were too wobbly to do it yourself. 

“I know,” he murmured, maneuvering through the crowd. “Hold it together, we’re almost there.”

The first step outside felt like entering Heaven. Nanami basked in the cleanliness of the chilly night air, gulping down a big breath of fresh oxygen that hadn’t been tainted by marijuana smoke. But suddenly, you’re detaching yourself from his hip and he’s bewildered by your sudden need for proximity. “Y/n—”

He turns to face you, only to be met with the crown of your head. Doubled over at the waist, hands on the lower fraction of your thighs, you vomit onto the dewy pavement… and his shoes. Nanami’s cursing once more, drawing closer despite how much you obviously don’t want him to. “Alright,” he coos in exasperation, gathering your hair into a bundle and holding it away from the splash zone. “It’s alright, get it out.”

“You’re… Did I just puke on y-your feet?” Your voice is croaky, something of a mixture of embarrassment and illness. You can’t even look at him. 

“Stand up,” Nanami tells you. He’s unbending you, straightening your body upright with a hand pressing your back in from his bowed shape. “Can you look at me?”

You pout, childlike. “No.” You’re looking at his shoes, the toes slick with remnants of your stomach acid. 

“They’re just shoes, I have a million pairs.” His head cocks to a tilt. “Would you look at me, please?”

You’re sighing, but looking up to him nonetheless. Gazing up with big, glossy eyes and wet lashes that clumped together through tears. Eyeliner diluted and cradling your undereyes in a dark embrace. You wipe your mouth with the back of a palm, smearing shimmery gloss out of the confines of your lip line. It’s all so nauseatingly familiar, this pitiful display. Nanami decides he hates seeing you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you chirp. 

“Don’t apologize.” 

“I’ll pay for them.”

Nanami puts a hand on your shoulder when he notices the slant in your posture. “Cut it out, that’s entirely unnecessary.” He looks around the parking lot, full of vehicles. They catch the glint from the yellowish street lamps. “Did you drive here?” He thinks it’s unlikely, seeing as you let yourself fall under such intoxication. You weren’t so irresponsible; if you drove here, you would’ve made sure you’d be able to drive home too, like he did. 

You’re shaking your head. “Caught a train.”

Nanami nods, pleased. “Good. That’s good.” With all the grace and gentleness in the world, the man loops your limp arm back around his nape, securing you against his oblique with a sturdy arm snaked around your waist. Everything is ginger, lest he upset your stomach again. “Are you good to walk?”

“Yeah, I think I’m alright.”

“Then let me take you to my car.”

That pulls a frown from you. “You don’t need—need to drive me there, Nana’. The station—” Hiccup “It’s just down the road.”

The blonde glowers. “You can barely stand on your own, public transportation is out of the question.” Like Hell he’s going to let an obviously inebriated, attractive young woman such as yourself ride the subway alone. Please, don’t make him laugh. “I’m driving you home.”

“It’s out of your way.”

“I don’t care.”

It’s a slow race, but Nanami eventually hauls you to his car parked at the entrance of the lot. A midnight shade Maserati; he doesn’t miss the way you gawk at his luxurious ride. “If I had a car like this, I’d never leave it.” He laughs. You smack his bicep. “I’m not kidding, I’d sleep in this thing. She’s gorgeous.”

“She says thank you,” he huffs his response. Nanami leans you up against the side of his car, pinning you between its door and his thigh while he opens the passenger door. “Watch your head.” His hand curls around the roof’s ledge, a makeshift cushion to protect your skull as you duck into the car seat. Immediately, you’re slumping back into the comfortable leather interior, moaning out quiet mewls of exhaustion. 

“Yeah, I’d definitely sleep in here.”

“Keep those eyes open.” The door swings shut, and Nanami makes haste when rounding the rear of his car to the driver’s side. He had barely toed the line of sobriety anyways, but knocking a stranger on his ass was definitely more than enough to woosh any semblance of haziness from his veins. Nanami wouldn’t think about driving—wouldn’t think about putting you or anyone else on the road in danger—if he felt even the slightest bit impaired by the scotch. Behind the wheel, the man leans across the center console to grab your seat’s safety belt, carefully dragging it over your chest and clipping it into the buckle. “I need your address first, then you can knock out.”

“My address…” You ponder, lips pursed and eyes blinking at a snail’s pace. Sleepiness prevails, and you fall in and out of slumber, head lolling and cheek mashed up against your shoulder. 

Nanami carps, unappreciative of your inability to stay awake long enough for this much needed conversation. “Hey,” he bleats, patting the top of your thigh. “Come on, Y/n. I need to know where you live.”

You whine, rolling your eyes at his persistence. “The city.”

“You live in the city.” Nanami deadpans at the useless information you’ve just spared. 

“Mm.” And then you’re drifting back to sleep. 

Nanami pinches high on the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, over the permanent divets where his glasses have drilled into his skin. The contortment of his fingers sends another spike of pain over his bruising knuckles. “Wake up and give me a proper address.” He supposes his heated seats aren’t doing much to stave off your tiredness, so he presses his knuckle into the off button. You whine. 

“I don’t remember, okay?”

That’s how you ended up at Nanami’s home, tucked under his lavish sheets in his bed that’s entirely too big for one person. Your outfit had been neatly folded and piled upon his dresser, exchanged for one of his tee shirts and a pair of sweatpants that were cinched at the waist. He helped you into his clothes—with your undivided consent, of course. A completely clinical and respectful process; Nanami looked elsewhere, acting as a handle for you to hold onto as you stepped into the oversized pants he held open for you. They were far too wide, falling off your hips, so he took the time to tie a precious, little bow with the drawstrings. 

“Comfy?” He asks upon his return to the bedroom, holding a glass of tap water in one hand, a bottle of pills rattling in the other. You’re exactly where he left you; swimming in his bedsheets, the comforter hoisted up to your chest. Nanami sets the water down on the bedside table, then takes a seat on the edge of his mattress, working the bottle open. 

“I’ve never been more comfortable,” you sigh blissfully, taking a deep inhale. “Your blankets smell good.”

The blonde can’t help his chuckle. “I’ll give you the name of the laundry detergent I use tomorrow.” With deft fingers, he plucks two small tablets, light pain medication, and sets the pair on the table next to your water glass. 

“Promise?” Your tongue pokes out from between your teeth, playful. He chides an airy yes, snapping the tylenol bottle shut. Then, your smile fades; you’re averting your eyes, fixing them somewhere over to the blank canvas of Nanami’s gray, bedroom wall. “Hey, um…” He watched the side of your face, watches the flex of your jawline and the tension in your neck. “Did I—I didn’t really throw up on you, right?”

You rub at your temple, like you’re trying to find the memory but it’s just out of reach. “No,” he replies instantly, steadily, like it’s not a complete lie. Like his bile-ridden shoes aren’t sitting outside on his front door step, waiting to be cleaned. “You don’t remember?”

“It’s fuzzy,” you grumble, frustrated with yourself. “I had too much.”

Normal circumstances permitted, Nanami would’ve totally took this opportunity to have his I told you so moment. But you already looked  upset, maybe a little bit sick still, so he bit his tongue for you. “Some drunk imbecile interrupted us. We shared words, and then he got sick on us.” He was pleased with himself, his story must’ve been believable with the way you nodded along. 

“And then you punched him, right?”

His face drops. “That’s what you remember?”

Your shrug. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, Nanami. Not for my entire life.”

“Kento.” You hum, confused, so he reiterates, “I mean, call me Kento. I just clothed you, I’d say we’re close enough.” It’s true, you guys were getting more and more comfortable together by the day. Even outside of work and the management project, Nanami and you share text conversations more frequently than he would’ve ever imagined. And these little hangouts—granted, only two have been executed thus far—have been the most fun he’s had in ages. More fun than he’d ever hope to have with his ‘friendly’ business colleagues. You’re his friend. 

You, Y/n L/n, are his friend. What a strange fucking twist of events, it nearly gives Nanami whiplash. 

“Ken… To…” You speak each syllable slowly, peeking up at him through your eyelashes. He nods, grinning easily. Happy. “Kento, Kento, Ken—”

“Okay, okay enough.” He rises, arms raised as he gives a hearty stretch to his back. “It’s bedtime. Over there,” Nanami points at a door, “is the bathroom if you need it. You’ve got water here, and make sure you take the medicine in the mornings. You’re going to have a terrible migraine.”

“Wait, where are you gonna go?”

“I’ll take the couch for tonight.”

“Kento…” You whine, and he really wished you wouldn’t do that. “C’mere. There’s room.”

You’re patting the expansive open space beside you, peeling back the heavy blankets. It’s an enticing offer, to slip in beside you and feed off your body heat. To hold you to him and— Stop, what are you thinking? Stupid. “I think it’s best we don’t. Sorry.” And then he’s fleeing to the door because the way in which he worded that made the depths of his soul curl with cringe. Nanami bids you a polite sleep well before leaving you to the darkness, though he has enough sense left to keep the door cracked just in case you should yell for him in the night. 

likes and reblogs are appreciated !

tags . • @justbelljust @amnmich @ti-mame @silkija @maddietries @vyntagei @ebrysteria @aesukuni @lololooolleonnaaa @nanamiswife22 @r0ckst4rjk @mizzfizz @saiki-enthusiast @taelattecookie @enchantingkitty @kindadolly @reinam00n @hqtoge @syamamas @numblytemporary @xxravenxstarxx-blog @bloomedintome @guacam011y @jameinfrau @luvvmae @kazisupreme @nowhoremones @https-tank @venjrnjrbhrr19 @ya9amicide @darkstarlight82 @archivefortoji @alczam02 @kaiparkerwifes @kenz1eluvs @iaminyourfloors @queeen-goldfish @beautifulloverwitch @nxuriah @invisible-mori @hexrts-anatomy @katharinasdiaryy @moonlightazriel @mermaidian02 @squishies0102 @saintkaylaa @vi-ola666 @alettertonana @seeyapizzazz @jtoddlover

[etichete]

ETITECH produce si livreaza la comanda etichete textile personalizate prin imprimare sau tesute, tip satin, semi-satin (high definition) sau taffeta, benzi tesute. Etichetele sunt lucrate din saten alb sau negru, cu diverse latimi si lungime personalizata.

[pennylanewrites]

needy [eren yeager]

tags: aphrodisiacs, f!reader, bestfriend!eren, weirdo!eren, panty sniffing, masturbation, thighjob, multiple orgasms, lots of cum, spitting, pussy eating, panty stuffing, eren eats his cum? porn with little plot enjoy

aot masterlist

your friend eren loved snooping around your house. he would read your diary to make fun of you, use your expensive skincare products ‘because they smell good’ and eat your snacks.

this time, he was rummaging through your kitchen as you took a shower. his eyes grew wide when he found a sleek box of, seemingly expensive, chocolates. he pulled on the golden ribbon and looked around before popping one in his mouth. it was sweet and tart as it melted on his tongue. he hoped you wouldn’t mind if he ate one more.

how long had you been in the shower for? eren was spread across your couch, scrolling through his phone when he viewed your instagram story from last night. a mirror selfie of you in a tight, skimpy outfit and a drink in your hand.

“the fuck?” he muttered, looking down at his sweatpants.

images of you, naked in his shower flashed through his head. that was months ago and you promised to each other it was a one-time thing. so why the fuck does he have a boner right now?

when he heard your bedroom door close, he quickly got up and ran into the bathroom. the room was still steamy, and everything smelled like your body wash. sickeningly sweet caramel, but there was something else.

eren palmed his hard cock over his sweatpants, looking around until his eyes fell on the clothes strewn across the floor. he leaned down and his hands caught a piece of white fabric.

eren wasn’t really thinking straight when he pulled his pants and boxers down. neither when he fisted his cock, your panties still in his other hand. he brought them up to his face, stuffing his nose against the fabric.

now this, this was your smell. sweet and tart, like the chocolate he shamelessly stole from you.

“shit, shit, shit!” the middle part of your panties was stuck between eren’s teeth as he rubbed his cock, making a mess all over his stomach.

eren found you lying on the couch, bare legs hanging over the arm. his cock twitched when he looked up and you were wearing one of his old band t-shirts.

“hey.” eren’s voice came out weak, whiny. you grinned behind your phone, finally looking up at him.

“hey, you.” you lifted one of your legs up, poking his thigh with your toe. he caught your leg and pulled, making you yelp.

“hey.” he sat on the other end of the couch and pulled his hoodie down. you moved until your head was resting on his thigh and turned your attention to your phone. from where eren sat, he could see the curve of your breasts under the cotton shirt and your thighs squeezing together.

he could still smell you. taste you on his tongue.

“did you eat my candy?” you asked, flipping your body over to sit on your stomach. you looked up at him with a mischievous grin.

“w-what?” he could feel your breath, hot against his thigh and your fingers stroking his calf.

“did you?”

eren remembered you earlier that month, searching up aphrodisiacs on your phone. you had said you were curious to try them and showed him a box of chocolates you wanted to order.

“you should be more careful, ‘ren.” the nickname you gave him shot straight to his cock and he could feel it get harder.

“don’t call me that.”

“rennie.” you smiled against his thigh, eyes never leaving his.

“fuck you.” he lifted you up and held your body against him, slamming his lips against yours.

you lifted one of your legs over his lap, lowering yourself right on his erection. a groan escaped his lips and his hands gripped your waist. he guided your hips, gently rutting against his pelvis.

“sorry i ate your candy.” eren pouted against your lips. “but i really wanna fucking come now.” he tugged on your shirt, breaking the kiss apart to remove it before attacking your tits. his hands squeezed every inch of your body as he popped your nipple in his mouth, tugging on it desperately.

you got off his lap, just to remove your shorts. eren pulled his cock out, painfully hard and already leaking against the fabric of his hoodie. he shamelessly stroked himself while you took your shorts off.

“keep ‘em on.” he didn’t let you take off your underwear. he wrapped his arms around your hips and pulled you down, this time your back pressed against his chest. he lifted you up easily, spreading your thighs slightly with his free hand so he could place his dick between them.

“eren…” you threw your head back, kissing the length of his jawline softly.

“shit, y-you’re squeezing.” he looked down. you gently rocked your hips, thighs wrapped delicately around his cock. you both took in a sharp breath when his cock hit against your clothed clit.

eren couldn’t take his hands off your body, even if he wanted to. one hand fiddled with the frilly hem on your panties, the other wrapped snug around your chest.

“spit on it, baby.” he urged you. you leaned your head down, looking at the sticky pre-cum smeared all over the inside of your thighs. you spit right on the tip of his cock, like he asked you to, earning a guttural moan behind you. “fuck, fuck, fuck!” he pushed on your thighs, keeping them squeezed shut as his cock twitched between them. a painfully hard bite was left on your shoulder when eren finally came all over the front of your panties. he smeared it even further with his cock tip, before lifting you off him and placing you down again.

“what are you doing?” you blinked at him. eren kneeled on the floor in front of you, spreading your legs open and placing them on his shoulders.

“cleanin’ you up.” his lips felt hot against the skin of your thigh, his tongue flattened to clean up his mess on your thighs.

his green eyes, hidden under furrowed brows and teary eyelashes, stared up at you when he finally reached your middle. your chest heaved as you waited for his move.

eren wrapped his lips around the tainted front of your panties, sucking it clean. with trembling fingers, he hooked them to the side, pleasantly surprised to see his cum had leaked under the fabric too. he swallowed with a grin against your stomach.

“can i touch you?” his voice shook you out of your thoughts. you nodded hastily, shuddering when his cold fingertips came in contact with your clit.

he let a dollop of spit fall on your pussy before replacing his fingers with his tongue. your hand shot straight to his hair, pulling him snug against your heat.

eren had always been noisy. his sloppy kisses and licks and smooches echoed around the living room. he moaned against you when his nose bumped against your clit and, oh god he could smell you.

“you taste so good.” he pulled away just to praise you, his hand palming his cock again. it was more painful this time, sore and swollen, but he had this urge. he couldn’t stop touching himself.

searching for your discarded panties, he wrapped them around his cock this time. the fabric he had stained before, now turning a dark shade of gray again with his pre.

“ren, i’m gonna come!” you whined, the knot in your stomach about ready to come undone. if his mouth wasn’t attached to your pussy, you would have seen him smirk. he pressed his palm against your lower stomach, kept pressing until you cried out his name.

“is it sensitive, baby?” he coos, the soft pecks against your clit making you jolt. you tried shutting your legs, but eren was stronger. wrapping his elbow around your thighs, he pushed them back until they were on your shoulders and returned to your sensitive cunt.

“please, eren!” you whined, trying to push away from him.

“just a little more.” his words came out slurring as he licked around your fluttering hole. “need to come.” he muttered. he sharpened his tongue and pushed it inside you, making you gasp. he curled it around before pulling out and spitting inside. wet fabric came in contact with your pussy. your eyes shot open when his fingers worked their way inside you, along with the fabric.

“shiiit.” his voice strained as he got up. “gonna come.” hovering over you, he let your legs fall and they wrapped around his torso instinctively. his cock slapped against your clit before he started rubbing the tip on it, moaning loudly.

out of breath, he sighed softly when hot spurts of his cum dripped between your folds, the fabric bunched up inside of you catching most of the liquid.

“fuck, fuck, thank you.” he let his whole body fall against you, hands falling on your shoulders to pull you closer. “thanks.” he muttered between more profanities.

he slid down, leaving soft kisses on your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. you let out a sigh when he went back to kissing your puffy clit again.

“shit, baby.” he carefully removed the bunched up panties, watched them drip with his cum. “can i fuck you now?”

[notjustjavierpena]

Panties

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Well look who are back. I didn’t think dbf!joel still existed in my brain but it seems that he is actually thriving. A little treat for you all while I polish some hubby stuff. This one absolutely goes out to @sugadolly 💖💅🫶

Summary: You show off your cute little underwear. Joel wants to fuck you but you want to try something else.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, dbf!joel, age gap, daddy kink, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names, reader is a good little girl, outside sex (idk what is to call it), clit stim, overstim, reader is cockdrunk af, they’re actually very much in love for real, cum!!!!

Word count: 2.2k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52857010

Panties

“Lemme see them,” Joel says with a gentle tone as he admires you only in your jeans. He is hovering above you, kisses your lips a few times, and cups your tits as he slips his tongue into your mouth for a brief moment. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, feeling his chest against your breasts as you embrace each other. You giggle softly, “They’re silly, Daddy.”

“Never thought in a million years that my baby would be silly,” he says with obvious sarcasm, nudging your nose with his own, “Show Daddy your pretty little panties. I’m gonna see ‘em eventually.”

You remove yourself from him to step back. You roll your eyes, and he raises a brow but then you follow through. 

“Fine,” you tut as you lie down on his bed. His eyes lock on your buttoned jeans, his mouth slightly agape as he breathes deeply with anticipation hanging in the air. 

You undo your jeans and pull down the zipper, wiggling your hips as you pull the denim down over them, and into view comes your pink cotton briefs. They’re cute, not silly, but you already know this, sporting a little bow on the front and a pattern of chibi-style cats.

“Well?” You kick off your jeans, throwing them onto the floor.

Joel kneels on the bed, admiring them thoroughly, “Pussy panties?”

You snort, covering your mouth and nose as you do, “Shut up.”

“Am I wrong, baby?” He crawls closer to you, lifts your legs up to bend them, and spreads them until his thighs hit the back of yours. He reaches up to peel his shirt off and throws it into your arms so you can hug it close and get drunk on his scent. 

“No,” you say as you contemplate crawling into the piece of clothing that he has given you. God, you want him everywhere on you. That masculine smell has you wet in moments.

“Makes ya look real pretty, lovebug,” he compliments, just about to peel the underwear off of you. He stops himself as you scrunch your nose up at the new pet name.

Joel laughs heartily, “Don’t like it?”

“Say it again,” you grin up at him.

“Love. Bug,” he repeats, yanks one of your legs at a time over his hips. 

“Hmm,” you tap your chin, “Maybe you should call me it as I come, just to make me associate it with something nice.”

“Cheeky,” he says as he pulls down his own underwear. They are in no way as thrilling as yours; black briefs that can barely contain his hard cock and with a little logo on the waistband. He settles them around his thighs, and whilst he does, you reach down to pull your colorful panties to the side.

“Joel?” You say his name. He makes a movement as if his ears have perked up at hearing his actual name.

“What is it?” He asks, rubbing your legs soothingly. His eyes are locked on your cunt.

“When— when you’re,” you trail off, suddenly shy, “Uh, when you…”

“Yes?” He drags the word out, looks up. 

“I want you to come on them,” your heart beats in your chest and ears but out of the corner of your eyes, you spot Joel’s cock twitching in the air upon hearing those words.

“Was that so hard to ask for?” He digs his thumbs into your thighs, causing you to squirm underneath him, “You just lie back and let Daddy treat ya right.”

You wait in anticipation. And then, oh.

Ohh.

“Ah,” you mewl, looking down between you to see what he is doing. The thick head of his cock lays heavily against your clit, and when you tell him how good it feels, he holds the base of his shaft and slaps the tip against the small nub a few times. 

You shudder, clenching around nothing and flexing your thighs as you shift a little. Joel’s cock hangs between his legs again, and his hands slide down to rest on your hips, thumbs reaching inwards to spread you open and watch your pulsing cunt. 

“You want me to make you feel good, baby? Make you come so hard that your little clit won’t stop twitchin’ until you get all teary-eyed?” He reaches for your clit to circle it with the pad of his thumb, and you can feel slick drip down between your ass cheeks. You moan helplessly and nod repeatedly, already heaving for breath, and Joel beams with pride, “Already cockdrunk? My my. I haven’t even fucked ya yet.”

“I don’t want you to f— I don’t want that,” you say suddenly, surprising even yourself. You reach down for Joel’s cock, pulling it against your cunt but not dipping the head into you. Instead, you rub him against your clit, “This, Daddy, I want to come like this.”

“I can make that happen,” he reassures, batting your hand away to replace it and grabbing at the base of his cock himself. He resumes what you were doing, dipping the head down to catch some of your wetness before adding pressure to your clit. He slides back and forth a few times, “Like that?”

“Mhm,” you hum softly, furrowing your brow in concentration. You hold still to let him rub his whole length through your folds until he is sticky with your arousal. His left hand is still grabbing your hip, and he uses it for leverage as he leans a little weight into you. 

When he grows impatient after a few minutes of you crying quietly for him, he tries to enter you. You catch his wrist and shake your head, “No! No… you promised.”

“I did no such thing,” he clicks his tongue at you. 

You pout up at him, “But…”

“Oh, don’t make that face,” he groans,  “You know I can’t do anythin’ when you make that face.”

“Please,” you beg, “I’ll come so hard for you.”

“Yeah?” He smiles down at you.

“Yeah,” you blink your eyes prettily, “This feels so good. I’ll cream all over your cock, Daddy.”

“Now how can I say no to that?” He moves a little before guiding his cockhead back to where you want it. He rubs the blunt head in circles over your clit for a moment, slaps it against the sensitive spot too, until you can hear the squelching sound of your wetness coating you. It makes him glide over your cunt easier. 

You curl your toes and bite your lip as you look down at what he is doing, “Ahh… Keep going.”

He does, building up a rhythm that has you whining pathetically. This shouldn’t be that intense but it is, making your pussy flutter and seek out more. 

“Let me try something,” you say, and he stops as you reach down, “One second.”

With both hands, you take hold of the seam of the leg of your underwear, holding tightly at the very top of it and the very bottom. You yank it down to sit tightly over the girth of Joel’s cock, essentially trapping it underneath your panties so it drags along the shaft with each of his thrusts. He sits so tightly against you now. 

“Try now,” you don’t even have to say please for Joel to know you are begging. 

“Jesus Christ,” he growls at the new sensation, spurred on to make himself feel it even more. He fucks himself against you with a sudden quickened breath. 

The bed starts shaking. You start trembling. 

You’re not able to take your eyes off of your sinful act, chewing on your bottom lip as he works his cock back and forth over and over again underneath the seam of your panties. 

“Please,” your sound is weak, “Fuck!”

“Careful with that,” he scolds, “Eyes on me.”

You quickly look up at his face, barely able to focus with how much he shakes your whole frame with every push of his lower body. 

“Say sorry,” he commands, referring to your use of a swear word. He doesn’t relent one bit, rolling his hips again and again. 

“S-sorry,” you apologize, too focused on how your orgasm is already approaching, “Please.”

“Hold on,” he slows down, and you nearly sob with how close you are, but he only does it to remove his shirt and uncover your chest again. Then he goes back to his frantic thrusts, eyes fixated on the way that your tits bounce with every push of his hips. 

“‘M close, Daddy,” you hiccup, feeling your heartbeat in all parts of your body. You throw your head back and groan loudly at the head of the bed, “I’m so close.”

If you weren’t holding onto your underwear, you would be clutching the bed frame so hard that your knuckles were white. Instead, the fabric is pulled so taut by your fingers that it hurts when it digs into your skin. You probably don’t have to do it so roughly but the pleasure racking up your spine makes you need it.

“Don’t hold back, baby,” he encourages with ragged breathing. Confident that you won’t let go as you orgasm, he lets go of himself and grabs both of your hips. He hoists you up a little, leans forward a little further, and then drives his hips back and forth, cockhead sliding over your clit repeatedly. 

“I’m gonna— Oh my God, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” you say it like you’re almost in a panic, almost too overwhelmed to embrace the intensity you’re about to experience. You want to push him away and pull him in at the same time but he holds you so roughly in place that you just have to take it. Your eyes find his as you let it happen, “I’m coming! Daddy, oh f— I’m coming!”

“Yeah? My love bug’s coming?” He nods as encouragement, “Come for me, darlin’ baby.”

And my God, you do. You can feel your whole pelvic floor erupt into beautiful spasms of pleasure, your clit pulsing so fast and strongly that you are sure that Joel can feel it against his dick. You thank God that he is holding onto you because you are twitching and moving involuntarily as he continues his sweet torment, and tears stream down your face. 

“That’s it, baby doll, you just cry all ya want,” Joel manages to coo between his own moans. You sob as your orgasm peaks, even more when you slip into a state of oversensitivity. Joel doesn’t relent, “Oh, baby. I know, baby, I know.”

It isn’t until your panties start to tear that he draws back, precome beading at the slit of his cock from how turned on he is. He is smeared with your arousal too, pearly white, and he seems to have put all the strength he has into holding back so you don’t pass out. 

You shiver, trying to make sense of why your body chose to make you come so hard from a simple clit orgasm. The sweat on your body suddenly feels cold, and you reach for him until he leans down and kisses your lips. You whimper into his mouth. He wipes away a few tears.

“You okay?” He asks softly, pulling back slightly to look you in the eyes as you reply.

“Yes, sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t apologize,” he tuts, “You were gorgeous. God, I am so crazy about you.”

“Now you,” you insist, looking down between the two of you to see the red tip of his weeping cock, “You promised.”

“That I did,” he draws back until he is on his knees again. He grabs the base of his dick, strokes it a few times, and then lays it against the crotch of your underwear. 

Joel rubs the head fast against the soft fabric. He holds onto your thighs, neck muscles straining as he seeks out his own pleasure. You watch him whilst delirious with post-orgasmic bliss, occasionally whimpering when he unintentionally slides over your swollen clit. 

A moment later, after one of your particularly high whines, he comes with a short breath of relief. He stains the fabric, lays his cock heavy against the front of the underwear, and pulses until he has no more to give. It’s intense to see him like this, and you find yourself grabbing his wrist to keep him in the moment with you. 

“Christ, sweetheart,” he pants. He slumps a little.

“I thought it was love bug,” you say with irresistible charm. 

“Don’t make me tell you to lick ‘em clean, young lady,” he smirks, already crawling forward to lay down on top of you. He crushes you so heavenly with his weight, pretending-biting your cheek and causing you to snicker, “Are we clear?”

You hold him close, relishing in everything that he is, “We’re clear. I’ll behave. Somewhat.”

“Somewhat?” He nuzzles into your neck and presses a kiss. 

“Well, I don’t think I’m quite satisfied,” you say dramatically. 

Joel pulls back to glare at you, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I need you inside me too,” you pout even more dramatically, “Pussy feels so lonely, Daddy. Needs something.”

“Well, we can’t starve this insatiable pussy, can we?” Joel catches on quickly, and soon, he has you screaming on three of his fingers. 

.

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[syoddeye]

big game

ghost x f! reader | ~5k words cw: simon lies, mean simon, red flags? what red flags, hunting, animal death (discussed), predator/prey, knives, bad restraints, bad suspension, rough (arguably bad) sex, clothed man & naked woman, blood, murder, italic abuse. please tell me if you need something tagged. a/n: a cross between this post and this post. banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Simon lets slip that he owns a cabin nearly a year into the relationship. It’s the kind of thing where you could and maybe should be upset, but you play it off as no big deal. You have to. This is Simon. The man didn’t show his entire face until the sixth or seventh date.

(He joked about it, too, that first time—Breathe a word about this mug, and I’ll have to kill ya. You laughed, delirious as he split you in two. He didn’t.)

It’s a few hours away from the city, on the far edge of the boonies. It’s long beyond the truck stops and hog refineries that dot this part of the country. Far from delivery and traffic lights. Deep in an unincorporated village, in an unincorporated area. Its remoteness would make one wonder how a foreign ex-soldier found such a location, but again. This is Simon. Ages ago, you learned questions earn neither his favor nor answer.

The property is impressive for its locale. Two bedrooms. A decent kitchen. Heating and cooling. A garage and a shed. Renovated within the last decade and upgraded piecemeal when Simon has time. It sits on a lake shared by only two other cabins, both residing around a reedy bend and well out of sight.

Upon arrival, Simon doesn’t offer a tour, telling you to poke around as he unpacks the car. Well, a jerk of his head and a gruff, “Go on in.” Since you started seeing each other officially, he doesn’t often let you burden yourself with chores. No lifting a finger if he’s available.

The place is sparse. Occupied but not lived in. While stocking a cupboard, Simon explains the previous owner, an older gentleman with cheap taste, left behind what decoration remains. A few tacky fishing signs hang on the walls, intermixed with sun-bleached squares on the wood paneling. A curio box collection of novelty keychains in the hall to the bedrooms, full of states and a couple of names. The lumpy pillows on the sofa pouf tobacco-scented dust when you test its cushions.

Tiptoeing into the main bedroom, you imagine how you might spruce up the austere space. Considering he moved into your apartment after three months, you assume it’s a matter of time until this becomes your cabin, too. 

(It was incredibly romantic—the move. Near sunset, Simon appeared like a specter in the pouring rain, with his few worldly belongings in tow. Kissed you hard and fast, told you he couldn’t stay at his place anymore. That he needed you. You. All your effort paid off.)

The memory brings a smile to your face.

You’ll turn the cabin into a cozy love nest like your apartment. Blankets, candles, a rug or two. Though he’ll never admit it, Simon must desire comfort like anyone else. The first night he burrowed into your duvet, luxuriating in the cotton and silk, he fell asleep like an old hound freshly sprung from a shelter. He tossed most of his stuff the next day—said you had everything he needed.

Looking around, you realize you have your work cut out for you. The austere room more a cave than a refuge. The man's bed doesn't even have a frame. Just a neatly made mattress with tucked sheets and two flat pillows. A secondhand dresser and a stack of plastic drawers for extra storage. On the bright side, the adjacent bathroom is spotlessly clean, with a caddy holding melamine sponges, bleach, and other supplies on a shelf. He's always been tidy, likely a military thing.

From the living room, you're greeted with a scenic view of the lake and the adjoining deck through the glass door. A pair of wooden chairs sit side-by-side in front of a fire pit, one of Simon's old welding projects. Down the gentle slope to the shore, a small dinghy rests in the water, tied off at the aluminum dock. A smattering of yellow and white water lily pads hug the bank.

Peaceful. Picturesque. Private. 

But your eyes hitch on a strange beam.

Bolted between two mature trees, a hefty piece of timber sits within plain sight of the deck. A series of evenly spaced, fixed eyelet hooks and two pulleys catch the light when the breeze shifts the canopy of the bur oak overhead.

Simon joins you on the deck, the planks creaking beneath his bulk. A cracked beer dwarfed in his hand.

“Did the former owner have kids?” You ask as he sips.

“Kids?”

You point at the curious installation. “Isn’t that for a tire swing? Seems like the perfect spot.”

Simon stares, narrowing his eyes slightly with a chuckle. The tone of it prickles—the same snide laugh he makes at his own awful jokes. When he’s in on the punchline, and you’re not. One of the few things that sour his image.

“Kids? Fuck no,” He shakes his head. “That’s where I ‘ang deer and the like out to bleed.”

You bristle and duck the arm he means to drape around your shoulders, ignoring how he huffs baby and c’mon, don’t be like that between snickers. 

He finds you in the bedroom, sorting the clothes you packed with punchy aggression, fuming and embarrassed by his teasing. Stupid and naive, that’s how you feel, for all your care and commitment. You’re just so silly, such a townie, for not recognizing a piece of lumber as a barbaric vehicle for slaughter.

Two wide mitts glide over your sides as you try your best to ignore the behemoth behind you. You are by no means small, but Simon. Fuck, Simon, you whisper, half-exasperated when he nuzzles into the crook of your neck—he’s—fuck, he is big.

It’s an hour before your clothes are finally put away, and you’re already down a pair of underwear for the weekend. Simon leaves you sated and dozing, a tactile apology accepted, and retrieves you to fix supper when he’s hungry. Later, parked in the chairs in the yard, watching the end of the sun’s march to the horizon, you broach the topic again.

“Will you take it down?”

“Sweetheart, what do ya think I do on the weekends you work?”

You shiver. Ten seconds ago, you’d’ve said read or weld or fish. It’s ridiculous how your mind cannot wrap around the idea of Simon out in the woods, stalking through the trees and underbrush, hunting. Decked out in blaze orange and realtree, rifle cradled in his hands. You know his history and what he’s capable of. What he’s done.

But this is different from his military career. Simon said he didn’t want to do any of that. Enlisting was how he escaped a lousy home life; he didn’t plan to get stuck in it for as long as he did. He confessed once, after a silly tiff over your job, that the day he was discharged was the best day of his life, second only to the day you met. That’s where the disconnect lies. Hunting and killing for sport, that’s not the Simon you know.

You tell him as much.

“That so?” His smirk matches the rising moon. A waxing crescent.

You insist.

Simon cracks his neck. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts, fingers flexing around the neck of the beer bottle. “I’ll quit, if I can bag one last trophy.”

The thought of burning the beam distracts you from the flicker in his eyes. The ugly thing is the only hiccup keeping the cabin from textbook perfection. You don’t want to think of Bambi’s poor mother dangling like some macabre ornament whenever you look outside.

“Fine. What’s the trophy?”

Simon grins.

~~

“I better win a fucking award for this. It’s freezing.” You’d said, tugging on your sneakers.

He laughed wickedly. The sound burned right up your spine.

“You’ll get a fucking award, alright.”

Simon sent you off a half hour ago if the time on his watch’s dull, glowing face is correct. He buckled it around your wrist before you darted into the woods, tightening it as far as it would go. It spins loose around the bone anyway. He warned you to watch your footing, pressed bear mace into your palm, and then gave you five minutes to make yourself scarce. Inwardly, you preen. To go undiscovered for this long—you’ve surpassed your own expectations.

However, squatting with your back to a distressingly damp tree trunk, regret eclipses pride and buzzes under your skin. Hopefully, it's not a parasite from one of the puddles you stomped through. It's out of devotion, you tell yourself, itching under a wet sock, that you agreed to this game. Out of love. There isn't much you wouldn't do for Simon. From the moment you met him, it's been magnetic. Poetic.

And that first date? Cinematic. You went out with one man and returned home with another. Your date caught Simon staring from across the joint, a mean set of eyes in a ski mask eating you alive. What kind of man lets another steal his ‘bird’? That’s what he called you—birdie. Need some company, birdie? Complete disregard for the flop-haired man across the table. Cupped a hand to your date’s ear, said a few words, and Mike or Matt or whatever his name was vacated his seat, leaving the big Brit to take his place.

Bringing him home was a foregone conclusion, the decision finalized as you watched him, absolutely rapt, stab the meat of your entree and claim it as his own. Rolled up his balaclava just enough to take a bite with a row of crooked teeth. Breath hitching at the scars, the pale white lines stretching over his chin. You didn’t even know his name when you blurted out the question. And it’s with fondness you recall the flash of surprise in his eyes at your resolute zeal. Didn't make him work for it, offered yourself up on a silver platter.

('Course, afterward, you had to convince him not to fuck you in the parking lot, promising breakfast in the morning if he slept over. He did. For two days. He kept turning up after that.)

You may be hiding in the woods, but he's the animal. Yes. A neglected stray you dedicated the better part of a year into domesticating. Lured him with food, a warm bed, and sex. Assiduously filing down his sharp teeth and rough edges with your body. Introducing him to creature comforts, to living versus mere survival.

Which, again, prompts the question—why hunting? Didn’t you take care of him? If he needed more, all he had to do was ask. Take. Prying a burr off of a sleeve, you wonder if it's like the old saying goes: you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe he needs to chase or track, and you’re another soft-handed city slicker keeping a working dog cooped up in an apartment.

If you still saw your therapist, she’d probably suggest you dissect that. But you don’t, and you’re not inclined to schedule a session. Besides, Simon said all shrinks are—

A twig snaps. It shocks you how quickly you push to your feet.

Twenty feet or so dead ahead, a hulking mass moves through a thin shaft of moonlight.

You run.

Huffing and puffing, you charge clumsily through the trees, miraculously avoiding clusters of roots and shielding your face with your hands. Feels unnatural to run from him. The blood rush in your ears drowns out the heavy thuds on the ground behind you, Simon pursuing, shirking stealth for speed.

Inevitably, he overtakes you. An iron grip latches onto your shirt, and a kick sweeps your legs. The bear mace flies from your hand into the brush, clanging off a tree. You dangle for a spine-tingling second, suspended, heart lurching into your throat. He leverages your tumbling momentum to swing you to the ground at his feet through strength alone. Landing on the cold floor of the woods expels a gasp, a second following as a boot presses between your shoulders. No force behind it; its presence alone enough to keep you down. Despite the dirt and twigs surely sticking to your front and the borderline painful thunder of your heart, you smile in relief. It’s over. His last hunt. The boot lifts.

“Nice work, big guy,” You cough, breathing hard. “Can we—Simon?”

Before you can move, Simon nudges the toe of a boot into your ribs, compelling you to roll over. You startle at the sight looming above, a strangled, incoherent string of mouth noises trickling out of shock. A pair of brown eyes peer through the orbits of a skull attached to a mask. They trail from your face to your stomach, where he takes advantage of your stupefied babbling, binding your hands with cord. You meet his gaze, heat creeping up your neck, and his eyes crinkle.

About a dozen questions surface on the return march to the cabin. None survive the swirling vortex of your head, unwilling to risk appearing perfidious. 

Simon flexes his grip over your bound hands. “Gonna have some fun.”

Your faith does not lapse, though fear simmers low in your belly when he doesn’t lead you to the cabin but toward the beam. A fluorescent nylon rope now feeds through the hooks and pulleys, and an oxidized steel, wide-based triangle sways freely. Beckoning. A humiliating whimper escapes as he positions you on a circle of dead grass, hands of a hangman on your hips.

“Said you wanted a fucking award.”

A fucking award. A fucking award.

Simon reclaims his watch and then methodically changes your bindings. A hand to each vertice, he fastens you to the gambrel and kisses away a rogue tear. He tugs and tests the rope. It shouldn’t induce a flood, and yet.

“Is it—Can it hold me?”

“Birdie, this is built for stags and boars. It can hold me.” He strokes your cheek, tapping the bone with a knuckle, then breaks away. “Stay put.”

As if you have a choice.

Leaving you with the frogs and crickets, you watch Simon retreat indoors. A breeze carries a cool rush of air from the lake, your thin top a poor barrier to the slight chill. You take deep, rattling breaths to slow your heartbeat, still racing from the pursuit.

A distant click breaks the quiet, followed by a low, electrical buzz and the sudden, blinding intensity of light. It sears your vision before you can screw your eyes shut, blinking away the phosphenes with a noise of displeasure. The sensation’s almost enough to knock you off your feet. You squint, sight adjusting, and track the source to a previously unseen flood lamp affixed to the oak tree some distance away.

Simon returns shortly after you regain your bearings, his imposing silhouette accentuating his mass. Closer, he’s stripped down to a fraying and stained white t-shirt, but your eyes hone in on the rig fastened around a thick thigh. The cut of the strap guides your eye to the straining denim, and the image of his dick flashes in your mind, scorching like the flood lamp.

He extracts a knife from the sheath, steel reflecting light like a mirror. You squirm, a cross between impatient and uncomfortable. Is he cutting you down already? What was the point—

He pulls the front of your shirt, setting the knife edge to the hem.

“Simon,” your voice jumps high in your throat. “Don’t you dare.”

A steady upward glide answers the warning, cleaving the material in two open drapes. The breeze hits your sweat, the band of your bra suddenly chilled and sticking, though that doesn’t last long as he slices through it, too.

“Someone could see!” you stammer, nipples tightening in the night air.

“You’re frettin’ over nothin’, sweetheart. Nobody’s out here. Open.” Simon demands, pressing the hilt to your lips. “Good girl.” he praises when you relent to bite the compressed leather between your teeth, catching a whiff of polish. He rips off the remnants of your top and bra, dropping them to the ground in scraps. A big hand fondles and weighs a tit in its palm as if he hasn’t played with it before. There’s a deep inhale from behind the mask as he swipes a thumb beneath its mass, then a chuckle. “Work up a sweat?”

The hand with the knife carefully discards the mask, revealing smears of eyeblack, and he pops his thumb into his mouth to suck it clean. A gasp slips out when he steps closer, hand engulfing the tissue again, pushing it up to glide his nose along the underside, tongue trailing. He nips, soothing after you yelp.

You mourn your expensive leggings when he shreds them next, reducing them to ribbons—another deep breath and a throaty laugh, selfish and all too pleased.

“Knew I smelled ya in the woods.”

“You ruined–you tore them–”

“Thought you’d get lucky tonight?” Scarred knuckles drag from your ribs to your thigh, squeezing, his thumb rubbing sweet circles over old stretch marks. Your wires cross, his blatant rewrite of the afternoon makes your lips purse, but his hand, Christ, your toes curl in your sneakers. “A quick screw in the woods?” He sheathes his knife to trace a finger along the crease of your thigh.

Air whistles through your teeth in a sharp inhale. He skims, dipping to gather some of your wetness, licking his fingers clean again. He hums appreciatively. “Get off on being chased? Fuckin’ dripping, birdie.”

Your hole twitches at his teasing, and you know he must see it with the sneer he gives you alongside the abrupt plunge of two fingers. The hand on your thigh migrates to your ass, pulling you snug to the webbing. 

“Simon!” A curse hisses out as he burrows his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, curling—not for your pleasure, no, but to keep you there, a crude hook. The rope strains as you squirm, impaled, and stretched too tight on his hand, clenching uncontrollably as if your cunt can’t make up its mind. A flurry of sensations meets head-on with reason, and logic’s never been your strong suit. Reduced to need and want in equal measure, a single twist of his fingers confirms you’re as desperate as the night you met him.

You don’t notice his other hand abandoning your backside for the rope. What squeaks first, you or the pulleys? It’s sudden, the way you slide off his fingers with a lewd pop, feet leaving the ground. He hoists you up and up, the movement practiced, tying you off like the boat secured around a cleat hook. 

Some feet off the ground, naked and shivering in the dark, exposed—you should feel fear, but the other shoe, instinct or intuition, doesn’t drop. All the vulnerability does instead is send a white-hot pulse to your clit. A plea leaves your mouth before your brain considers anything else. Pelvis tilting. He awards your eagerness with a grind of a zipper and a gratified grunt. Simon tugs his jeans and boxers down, then bends slightly to hitch your legs.

Your legs settle around him, and though he huffs when you squeeze, trying to ease the pressure off your wrists, you think he likes it. The ropes above slack little, raised higher than he’s tied you. With a massive hand back on your hip, he uses the other to feed his cock into you, bringing the line taut once more as he pulls you down.

The steady shove and fullness push a low whine from your mouth, which Simon smothers with a toothy kiss. It stings some—you’re not nearly wet enough, only quieting with the faith he’ll make it better. However, the fact that he doesn’t give you time to adjust isn’t promising.

He ruts. Barges in. Takes what he needs in full strokes. Builds a pace that rattles the hardware and your insides. The pain steadily stressing your wrists and lower back is secondary. Third, probably, to pleasure and heat, though the former isn’t building as fast as the latter. Sweat beads in your hairline and neck, collecting under your breasts and in the creases of your belly. Makes your calves slick where they press into his sides, the cotton of his shirt sticking to his and your muscles.

“Simon, I can’t–” The words eke out, abdomen and thighs burning, friction in the wrong places.

His arms flex, boots shuffling over dirt and grass to further beneath you, cock dragging along your walls at a drastic angle, head jabbing into your cervix. More support, less comfort. A bitter trade-off, exchanging one hurt for another. The pinch of his brow makes the bursting stars at the edges of your vision worth it.

Each thrust shakes you in the rope, pulleys whining in solidarity. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes across the cabin’s yard, coupling with your gasps and Simon’s ragged breaths. After a particularly harsh snap of his hips, laughter, deep and gular, trickles out of his mouth. "You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?" he drawls, voice oozing sangfroid. “Y’like your award?”

That has you shuddering. His hands settle on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks. “Look at you, strung up so prettily. Pretty fucking ornament.”

Bambi’s poor mother.

Simon's voice and the image of a dangling deer carcass collide, punctuated with a thrust like a battering ram. It forces another string of needy sounds. Discomfort and desire coil in your stomach, twisting into a warm mass with a life of its own. You feel every inch as he withdraws and shoves in. The heat of him, the hardness. Nylon chafes your skin, each buck a reminder of your helplessness. Restraints are nothing new, but this is—

The air leaves your lungs in one big whoosh as Simon hits a sweet spot.

You slump a bit, legs close to jelly from bracing. 

Finally, an adjustment. Simon slows to meld himself further into you, and it’s then, sucking in deep breaths, you marvel at how perfectly level you are to be fucked like this. He bands a single thick arm beneath your ass in a casual display of strength, the other snaking between you. Chin to chest, he spits, the glob hitting your clit like a bullseye. You’d cringe if his thumb didn’t chase after it, spreading his saliva. The sudden break, coupled with his attention, makes you quiver. Anticipation gaining on torment. His thumb’s rhythm quickens, alleviating the aches. You’ll be sore as hell come morning, but as you have before, you’ll forgive again.

With a new, albeit haphazard, focus on your clit, he rolls his hips at a more languid pace. The shift is a knife’s edge between torture and bliss. 

“Still want me to take it down? Don’t know if I will, birdie, like the idea of keepin’ you up ‘ere, ‘anging for the takin’ whenever I want ya.” A chuckle vaporizes into a hiss. “Shit, you like the sound of that?

If you could manage speech, you’d say yes. Simon’s rewired your synapses in a matter of seconds with the rough pad of a finger. He’s backlit from this angle. Haloed. Suits him, you think. What you’re feeling is rapturous, however ruthless it may be. Animalistic, really. If you let him leave the beam—this is what you’ll remember. Not some fresh-killed doe staring into nothing. But you, Simon, and the orgasm he harvests. 

It creeps up on you. You howl, jerking in the ropes, muscles spasming and weeping. Revived with a burst of adrenaline, your legs try to close automatically, only to press uselessly into his sides. There’s no stopping him and nowhere to go until he’s done. Your body sags in its ties like a puppet.

Simon snarls something, and his palms return to your ass, abandoning all pretense. A haze rolls, thick as molasses, over you as he uses you to his end. He goes silent the few seconds before he comes, breathing harshly through his nose. One last snap of his hips, a deep grunt, and his cock floods your pussy. His chest heaves. Breaths heavy and stunted. Burrowing into your chest, he digs his nose into your sternum and rasps his teeth over your frantic heartbeat.

Your eyes droop along with the rest of your person. Everything disappears under a tenebrous wave.

Movement. The grind of the pulleys. The sawing of a knife. A sliver of lucidity buoys you, a headrush from popping to the surface after drowning. Your head throbs, the world spins, and by the time you make sense of it, you hear the familiar creak of the cabin steps. 

Simon lays you out on the lumpy mattress, brushing his fingers over your hair and skin. He disappears, and you float in and out of consciousness. Thoroughly fucked.

You briefly wake when he tucks you in. The crux of your legs is damp, and a faint medicinal smell emanates under the blanket. Layers of gauze over aloe wrap your wrists where they lay beside your head on a flat pillow, and you wiggle your fingers experimentally.

“Sleep.” He says, poking your forehead.

Your throat hurts. “Stay.”

The bed dips when he obliges. He molds to your back, smushing your chest with an arm and cupping a tit. His breath fans over the shell over your ear, and when you’re on the edge of sleep, he murmurs something, but the words run together.

Somehow, he falls asleep before you. Sated. Ran out. You take care of him, and he takes.

~~

An emaciated tick floats with its legs curled in on itself in a glass on the floor next to the bed. You stare at it for too long, then roll over.

Simon’s awake, though his eyes remain closed and body still. You wince, thighs rubbing together and interlacing your limbs over his. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t shove you off.

You trace a scar jutting across the meat of a shoulder and stare at his chest, pock-marked like besieged castle walls. Months ago, you asked about the stories behind the wounds. The question went unanswered, and it earned you a week of getting fucked face-down. So you simply drop a kiss to a crater on his pec and then his chin.

“You broken?” He mutters.

“No.”

“Then fix us some breakfast.” 

It’s Herculean with how your flanks and thighs protest, but you hum through the kitchen and diligently rustle up the meal. Visions of a life dance through your head. An ivory lace curtain will suit the window over the sink. The smoke-damaged, yellowing cabinets need scrubbing. There’s hair stuck in the hoarfrost of the freezer, which makes you gag. Leftovers from one of Simon’s hunts.

No sooner than you plate the bacon does Simon emerge. No need to call. He’s trained. 

~~

The cell reception is terrible, one of the features that sold him on the property. Calls drop sporadically, and texts scrape by at the shed. His phone vibrates when he sets foot over the threshold—messages from his pet, all sent within a few hours. Poor thing’s bored at work. He wouldn’t know the feeling. His morning’s been productive. Enjoyable.

Simon’s lip curls, and he leans the fishing rod against the shed door. Sliding his phone into a pocket, he turns back to fetch the tackle box. He lumbers past the wriggling cunt strung up on the newly installed gambrel, the plastic crinkling underfoot. The steady drip of blood is barely audible over their whiny throes. Probably hurts. Hooks through the Achilles tendons will do that, but they’ll go quiet soon enough. If he times it right, they’ll be done when he returns for supper.

He nearly pricks his thumb, spearing the worm onto the hook. Watches it writhe. He huffs a laugh and spares a glance back at the cabin. The two trees that once held the beam. It’s a loss to no longer watch game struggle from the comfort of the deck. He surprised himself with how he complied with his girl’s request. She earned it, he supposed. Cried and begged and bled for it. Usually, that sort of response draws his knife, not his interest. But she’s an odd one. Different. A rare beast.

He casts the line.

“Do you want to fuck me?” She’d asked all those months ago, less than a minute after he threatened to hang her date by the balls. Blunt and to the point. Refreshing. He was unaccustomed to finding them so willing, but she fucking imprinted on him like a wobbly-kneed fawn. Nosed his open, reaching hand like a stray, hungry pup. She saw him for what he was—the bigger, meaner predator. Top of the food chain. Thinks some part of her knew she was better off bowing her head and licking his cock than running. She stuck her neck out, took him home, and gave him her pussy without a fuss.

It’s cute, the way she thinks she’s made him agreeable. How she works on him and his hygiene and manners. Doesn’t get that if it were up to him, he’d sleep on the floor, in the dirt, used to a lifetime of bunking down in shitholes. The cabin’s simply suitable for his hobbies. The fact it’s a decent vivarium for the sweet girl is a bonus, a place to keep her nice and soft so long as she’s good. ‘Course, the sight of her hanging by her hands made the idea of introducing her insides to the outside cross his mind, but he won’t cut her down just yet. Not when he’s got her leashed.

Hours later, the cooler packed with largemouth bass and walleye, he unpacks the dinghy and trudges toward the shed. It’s silent, save for the insects and the birds.

The nosy prick from the bait shop sways, unmoving. Coated with his own fluids and dripping. He chuckles. He should call her.

[wing-ed-thing]

Being Dumb and 12-Years-Old with Team 7 Headcanons

Tags/Warnings: No Reader Pronouns, Being 12, Mixed AU

𓆃 Genin are a different breed of insufferable. Because they do such heavy, "adult" work, the times genin get to be kids, they almost double down and have to get a certain amount of thoughtlessness out of their system.

Naruto

𓆃 Naruto is just spending money on useless things. He has no idea how to handle money at all and will pay for things in the lowest coin denomination possible.

𓆃 He's a sucker for "limited-time" snacks, no matter what the flavor, and he's paying for everything with the lowest denomination possible.

𓆃 So you're standing at the cash register with your two "spicy pickle and cream" flavored onigiri while the poor cashier has to count 200 1ryō coins.

𓆃 And even after all of that, Naruto will be short.

𓆃 Naruto will be too loud and laugh too much in public spaces. He can't keep his hands off anything and will get you kicked out of at least one (1) business every few weeks.

𓆃 Will go into a business without buying anything and just sit down and hang out. Has absolutely no social anxiety and will stay completely oblivious to the clear mounting frustration on the employee's face until he's asked to leave.

𓆃 Be prepared to apologize for him a million times or instead you can validate to him that he totally didn't do anything wrong— what was that guy's problem?

𓆃 Then you're going back to his apartment, trying to eat spicy noodles— that were actually far too spicy for either of you but neither of you are admitting that— and getting into scream debates over TV shows until the neighbors are banging on the wall because you're being too loud.

𓆃 He's also showing you the grossest things the internet has to offer and traumatizing you for life.

Sakura

𓆃 You and Sakura think you're such mature little adults, meanwhile, you're getting all anxious about the passive aggressive fights you're getting into with your peers.

𓆃 And in true 12-year-old fashion, no one is beefing with each other to their faces, but you sure as hell are sending each other to talk to other people and then report back to you.

𓆃 You once texted Ino's "ex-boyfriend" just asking, "Is this ___?” He threatened to call the authorities and Sakura and Ino had to calm you down for the rest of the night.

𓆃 You think you're being sneaky using the samples from the beauty store to put make up on, and looking back you're baffled you didn't get an infection.

𓆃 Any underwear outside of standard cotton panties is scandalous and terrifying, and there was definitely a time you all bought a lacy undergarment together and worried for a solid hour how to get them home without your parents knowing.

𓆃 You never wore them. Your parents never found out.

𓆃 Sakura and Ino gave you a make over during a sleepover once, even though their version of make up was just very caked on foundation and boxy eyebrows.

𓆃 Every so often, the three of you will pair off and have fights with each other. You and Sakura will have a fight that Ino "mediates." You'll "mediate" a fight between Sakura and Ino... and totally take sides. You'll tell Sakura that Ino's wrong, and Ino that Sakura is wrong.

𓆃 The fights don't last long and usually result in some tears shed and ice cream bought.

Sasuke

𓆃 Sasuke touts himself as a sort of wiz on the piano or perhaps on the guitar, when in reality, he just learned to play three songs really well.

𓆃 He won't outwardly flex, but you can tell he likes to be recognized for it. He'd whip the skill out on days he's feeling particularly down.

𓆃 He'll tell you that you're going to "start a band," but you "won't be like other music groups that just want to get famous". But in reality, when you go over to his place, you'll just end up eating junk food, playing games, and won't ever actually touch an instrument.

𓆃 The closest you'll get is karaoke, but if you ever mention it ever again Sasuke won't talk to you for a week.

𓆃 And he's not immune to sending someone back and forth with messages to you because he's not talking to you. But "not in the way girls do," whatever that means.

𓆃 He’ll also accidentally download something shady from a shady website one night after going down some obscure internet rabbit hole, and Sasuke will say he's not worried about it, but he'll call you when you get home hyperventilating about how worried he is about it.

𓆃 You'll try to learn how to ride the latest form of transportation on wheels together, but the moment Sasuke discovers he's not instantly good at it he'll get mad at you for being better than he is even though it's only been 10 minutes and are you really that better than he is?

𓆃 Only posing for pictures with a scowl and hands clasped in front of you. Bonus points if your head is tilted back. These are photos you and Sasuke hide when you're older.

𓆃 Coming up with nicknames for yourselves and subtly trying to encourage other people to start calling you those nicknames.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: No offense to any 12 year olds in the audience. Being your age is universally a cringe time it's okay it's a right of passage.

[multi-kpop-fanfics]

Hi zeta! So I received a notification today that I was ovulating and had a thought. Husband/Ceo!Cheol checking your phone as you received and notification that you were ovulating. Like my man would go crazy and be at it like the fucking rabbits.

(sorry why is this so long)

tw: dom!seungcheol, sub!reader (fem), marriage!au, unpotected sex (pls stay safe), breeding kink, mentions of kids and pregnancy, praise, use of petnames, daddy and mommy kink (they want to be actual parents), mating press, spanking, oral (f rec), cockwarming - minors dni.

@gyuwoncheol tagging her bcs she helped me to her own demise

"Babe?"

"Yes darling?"

"You have a new notification!" Seungcheol yells from the other end of the living room.

"I'll check it later, thanks!" You yell back, trying to make yourself heard through the noise of the kitchen mixer.

Seungcheol is a man who values your privacy and would never attempt the petty snooping around on your phone.

But how could he miss the bright notification of your cycle tracking app saying that you're ovulating?

He turns his head to your direction and looks at the shape of your body standing in front of the counter and his mind races at the thought of you bearing his kids and having them run around your legs in the future.

And it makes him want to fuck you until he has made sure you're pregnant.

He gets up from the couch and walks up behind you, snaking his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.

"You sure love back hugs, don't you?" You let out a small laugh.

"How can I not when I have such a pretty wife?" He hums.

"Oh, I see how it is." You turn off the mixer and turn around to face him. "Come on, out with it, big guy."

"What? Can't I just compliment my wife because I feel like it?" He pouts his lips.

"Seungcheol, you never compliment me without any reason."

"I was just thinking...."

"I knew it."

"I haven't even said anything yet!" He complains.

"Oh my God, just say it!"

"I was thinking how pretty you'd look with a belly full of our kids."

Your eyes widen with shock at your husband's blunt words. It's true that you've discussed the possibility of widening your family with Seungcheol and you know he would be the most silly and doting dad ever. But the way he looks at you and his hands tighten on your body makes you feel a tad bit jittery (in a very good way).

"Did you just think of that, or...?"

"Your tracking app said you're ovulating and I can't get it out of my damn head." Seungcheol groans.

"You checked my phone?!"

"I didn't unlock it! It was right beside me and I just saw the pop-up on the screen!"

"And that made you worked up already?" You deadpan.

"God, you have no idea." He drops his head on your shoulder and rolls his hips against you.

"You're incorrigible." You hug him with a light chuckle.

You feel his lips stretching in a grin and he throws you over his shoulder with one swift motion, carrying you to the bedroom. You complain all the way, but he just slaps your ass and puts you down on the mattress, your legs hanging from the edge of the bed.

"I am indeed incorrigible, darling." Seungcheol strips himself down to bare skin and purposefully climbs over you to grab a pillow and place it under your lower back.

"I'll do everything in my power," he hooks his fingers in the hem of your sweats and drags them away from your legs, "to get your pretty pussy," he removes your cotton panties to reveal your cunt, "full of my cum until you physically can't take more inside you."

"C-Cheol-" You watch your husband kneel on the foot of the bed, ready to use his tongue on you.

"Talk to me, darling. Tell me what you want."

"Fuck, I want your kids so bad." You moan and spread your legs, putting your hands under your knees to pull them on your sides.

"That's what I thought too." He smirks and leans down to press a kiss on your clit, followed by full-bodied swipes of his wet muscle from your puffy bud of nerves to your hole, waiting for your pussy to drip just enough to get messy.

"You're so perfect, you know that?" He brings your legs on your chest and puts your ankles on his shoulders, the head of his cock dragging over your pussy. "Perfect wife, with a perfect pussy." He whispers and slides his shaft inside you, stealing your moans with his mouth.

You let yourself get lost in the feeling of his pillowy lips, all while his cock is battering up your cunt. Your leg muscles tense up from being stretched out to their limits, but you don't want to switch up positions.

"Sweet, sweet fucking cunt, all ready to keep my cum safe." Seungcheol groans wildly on your lips, "Want to make you a mommy so bad."

"Fuck, I want you to be a daddy, Cheol, ah!" You throw your head back on the bed, watching your husband plow his hips in you relentlessly, his bottom lip caught between his pearly whites.

"W-Want a pretty little girl, w-with your eyes and lips, wanna treat her like a princess."

"And a rowdy little b-boy, so you c-can play g-games with him." You stammer over your words, but you get the message across.

"Fuck, I love you so much, darling." Seungcheol moans airily and plants his hands beside your head, rutting in you like a madman, sweat dripping down his body and a few drops landing on your chest.

"Cheol, I'm c-close." You sob.

"Me too, baby. Just a little more, please." He begs you to hold out.

You do as he says and you cum undone underneath him, his thick cock pulsing until he has emptied himself inside your cunt, not daring to pull away from you.

A few seconds of silence pass and none of you has moved yet. Your pussy clenches around his cock ever so slightly and you whimper, your legs falling limp on the bed.

"Even your pussy wants more, babe." Seungcheol chuckles and moves his cock inside you, bringing himself back to full hardness.

"You mean you've got more to give?" You pant.

"For you? Always."

[ohimsummer]

ANYTHING YOU CAN DO...

— minors dni, suguru x fem! reader (+ implied satoru x reader), virgin! reader, gojo and geto are fighting over you lol, suggestive/smut?, biting, hickeys, some dryhumping, reader is a sensitive little virgin and came in their panties, everyone is around 21-ish

the sequel: …i can do better

Having the attention of the Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto is both a blessing and a curse.

It’s overwhelming sometimes the way they tag-team making you increasingly flustered; Suguru dropping blatant hints with that silky smooth voice of his, cascading through your ears like warm, melted caramel. And then Satoru, who can never keep his hands to himself and leaves frisky, fleeting touches on any unprotected part of your body. You’ve since realized it’s such a bad (albeit tantalizing) idea to wear those cute little camis that hug your figure so nice or, God forbid, those fuzzy, blue, cotton shorts just asking for him to pinch at the exposed skin of your thighs and ass hanging out the bottom.

The way they’d compete for your affections (even though you had more than enough to go around) was both humorous and also troublesome for your willpower. How many times would they trap you between their bodies, wandering hands creeping beneath your clothes to pinch and rub at anything they could reach because they were just so, so fucking obsessed with the way you squeal and whine when they do. And the way you can’t contain all your low, desperate moans but continue to pray that their continuous spat will drown it out. They both tug at you from either side, until sometimes Satoru will just yank you by the waist into his lap and now Suguru has to gently spread your legs and scoot closer, hooking one around his waist and caressing the other laid upon his lap. And now you’re stuttering an excuse to escape inside your room with extraordinarily soaked panties and an agonizing ache between your thighs. The two were idiots but they’re far from dumb, and you mentally curse both Geto and Gojo for playing games with your pussy the way they were.

So, yeah, though they’re both terribly awful in their own way, you think Suguru is worse than his best friend. Satoru would pin you to the wall with your wrists above your head, pull you into his embrace and kiss your temples, all because he was so blatantly obsessed with you, yes, but also just to spite Geto who would always be sitting nearby. But Suguru, Suguru was far worse. It was like he made a mission out of toying with Gojo through you. Geto gets to amuse himself with a pissed off Satoru, and he gets to privately indulge in you. Like right now.

“Sug–uru..!”, you cry into his hair, arching into his chest and pussy throbbing against the thigh tucked between your legs. It's embarrassing how just the slow drags of his tongue over your neck and collar is enough to get you riled up like this.

He hums in response but never halts his movements. Teeth graze along your skin as Geto searches for that perfect spot to leave his claim on you, all the while peppering soft kisses in his wake. One hand pulls you harder against his tense thigh, slowly massaging your sobbing cunt against his leg, while the other has a solid grip on the back of your neck. It’s taking everything in him not to fuck you right then and there, especially when you sigh so prettily and whimper Suguru’s name into his ear like it’s the only thing you know. So stunning and so needy when he gives you the slightest touch and your pussy leaves a growing stain on his dark sweats.

"Mmph, g-god-! Su- Suguru-, ah—!"

Your voice comes out a jumble of moans and whines as teeth finally sink into your skin, followed by a harsh suck along your neck. Your grip will be sure to leave those crescent marks in Geto’s shoulder blades, even through his shirt. Quivering legs squeeze around Suguru's thigh, and you feel like such a dumb dog humping his leg so hopelessly the way you are. You've only ever been touched like this in your dreams, and it feels a million times better when it's by someone like Suguru. His steady movements don’t reveal the way he’s almost falling apart at the seams. You can’t tell in your drunken haze, but if you paid the slightest bit more attention, you’d feel the solid outline of his weeping cock against your leg.

His motions remain soothing and calm, like Geto had this all planned out for ages and knows exactly what he's doing. He’d like to chalk it up to just being a pro, but really it’s because all these lewd gestures are so new to your body. You're obviously inexperienced and his touch is like a gradual, warm fire trailing over your skin; it leaves you so excited and craving for something, anything more from him.

Suguru pulls back to admire his handywork: a nice dark blemish on the sweet spot of your neck that would surely be a prominent display (unless you planned on rousing Gojo's suspicion further and wearing winter clothes in the blistering summer heat), the shivering of your limp limbs because no doubt you just came in your panties, and that adorable, blissful look on your face. He can see the faintest of perspiration forming on your skin. Eyes squeezed shut, nipples erect beneath your top, and panting like you’ve just been fucked senseless.

Suguru chuckles at the sight. Aren’t you cute? He can't wait to have his way with you, really give you something to lose your breath over.

[kykyonthemoon]

Moonlit

You're on the mission to approach a target at a banquet, and that's all it takes to drive him crazy.

🌻 Rafayel/Xavier/Zayne x F!Reader See Caleb and Sylus's parts here: Full Moon Tags: R16+, suggestive theme, MDNI, possessive, marking and biting, no established relationship This is a request by Xuanlinhh. A/N: This is my first time trying out something like this for L&D, as I don't usually write fic with suggestive theme. So I'm curious to know how I've done with this fic. Feedbacks are always appreciated. After so many titles, I decided to choose "Moonlit", since the moon represents illusion, fear, hidden things. These are the scenarios where he shows another color of his to you. Thus, in all three scenes, there are moonlight all over the place.

Masterlist

Request a fic

𝑹𝒂𝒇𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒍

Your eyes widened when you saw the dress draped over your cotton blanket. It was long past the ankles, the shoulders were slightly bulging and hanging down to reveal the collarbone. The dress consisted of many layers of pastel pink and purple. In the afternoon sunlight, the sequins and pearls attached to it seemed to shine.

“Does he really want me to wear this?” It was a murmur to yourself. The dress was too exquisite, too expensive, too... much at least in comparison to what you would often put in your wardrobe. You did not need to become a princess, just a normal evening dress to blend in and complete the task assigned to you.

Being ignorant about high society or lavish balls, you had asked Rafayel for help. You never expected him to send you such a gorgeous dress.

Indeed, as he predicted, you became the focus of the party as soon as you arrived there.

Each party guest had a mask. Yours arrived in the same color scheme as the dress and was encrusted with opulent pearls and jewels. You wondered why Rafayel was making you look quite distinct. However, you shouldn't have had any reason to doubt him at all when your target moved toward you on his own initiative.

The target of this mission was a high-class profile from another city. Even though you tried your best to focus on the mission, you still wondered if Rafayel came here, or just his work.

The banquet area was adorned with paintings by Rafayel, so it was hard to look at them and not think about him. Had he made it in yet? Would he abandon you here, trapped in a conversation with a stranger?

Using the skill of pretended intimacy in order to obtain information was something you had learned from your training courses. You put a hand on the target's, smiling and talking as if you were fascinated by him. After getting the information you needed, you made an excuse to leave, but it did not appear like things would finish so simply.

He grabbed your wrist and roughly pulled you back to your seat. You shouted, but the music and laughter drowned you out. You aimed at the middle of his face and was about to throw a punch, only to have an arm wrapped over your shoulder and holding your back.

“It seems like this lady doesn't want to be here anymore.”

You knew right away that voice, and that scent were as familiar as a field of wild roses. You turned around and saw Rafayel standing next to you. His hand held your shoulder to help you stand up. Suddenly your heart was filled with joy to see him.

Your target still refused to let go, but when he realized Rafayel's face was not covered by the mask, he knew that was someone he could not meddle with.

He said something to Rafayel in a foreign language and then walked away. You looked at Rafayel, grateful:

“Rafayel…”

Before you finished speaking, you were tugged out of the banquet room by him.

The quiet garden was awakened by the footsteps of two people. From behind, you couldn't see Rafayel's face, only his broad shoulders covered in a dark-colored tuxedo with sequins. You had the strange impression that he was furious. Perhaps it was his pressure that caused your wrist to get crimson. He guided you through a labyrinth of plants and stone sculptures.

“Rafayel.”

He only stopped when you called his name, but still did not turn to look at you. You stepped forward to observe him. You took a step forward to study him. A frown could be seen plainly on his forehead as his face pouted.

“Rafayel? What's the matter?"

His gaze grew gloomy. His hand holding yours tightened even more as he pulled it up to touch his cheek.

“…”

His abrupt movement confused you. He buried his face in your palm, took in a deep breath and gave you a bite.

“Rafayel!”

You let out a cry of surprise instead of agony since the bite was rather faint. He took advantage of your vulnerability to wrap his arms around you, forcing your body to touch his.

His lips placed on your palm a kiss where it had just been bitten, then slid down to your wrist. You made an unsuccessful attempt to flee. He gave you another glance, or rather studied every strand of lace and fabric of the garment that embraced your upper body.

“I made a terrible mistake sending this dress to you. Too graceful. Too desirable…”

The moon, round like a silver disk overhead, provided the sole light in the labyrinth. Rafayel continued to rub his face on your hand, his face appearing and disappearing in an instant.

“He touched you here…” Rafayel whispered. He kissed your wrist and palm again, fiercely like a storm.

“You… What are you doing?…”

Your heart beat was so incessant. It might have been an overdose of alcohol that caused your arms and legs to feel so weak. Rafayel let go of your hand, just to rub his head on your shoulder. His fingers sank into your hair, causing your mask to fall off. You caught his heavy breathing close to your ear, his breath caressing your uncovered neck and collarbone.

“What about here?”

Rafayel asked, then he bit your neck, causing your body to squirm in agony.

“N-No! Rafayel!”

You tried to push him away, but the more you resisted, the more Rafayel tightened his hold on you. His lips sucked into your ear.

"Here?"

“I… I was just talking to him… That's all!”

"Good." He said, leaving your neck covered in crimson kiss marks. Moist. Burning. Exposed under the moonlight. "You won't be touched by that filthy hand ever again. Not in the slightest... I promise it."

A crazy thought suddenly crossed your mind. You had never seen this side of Rafayel. It frightened you, and also invited you to explore further.

“What... are you going to do?…” You asked in a daze. With your head whirling, you sought to Rafayel's powerful arms for support.

“With him? You shouldn't be worried about that guy. What you should be worried about is the things that will happen to you right now.”

“Rafayel, you—!”

He nipped you on the neck, then planted another kiss where he could hear your nearly deranged heartbeat—deeper beneath your collarbone.

You took deep breaths. Rafayel straightened up and gazed down at you, euphoric in his arms. The bite marks and kiss marks were intertwined like a work of art he had left on you. Similar to the garment you were donning, they served as a reminder to others that you belonged to no one, but him.

𝑿𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒓

The melodious music led the couples back and forth according to a set pattern. Every step, every movement was perfectly planned. Only eyes were not so easily controlled.

Yes, you had been looking at that man in the white attire ever since the music started and you were escorted to the center. His hair as bright as starlight at night stood out in the ballroom. And no matter where he was, you would find him in a blink. Even with the silver mask covering half of his face.

And, he also looked at you. There was a hint of sorrow and a tinge of rage in his eyes. Did you delude yourself like that? Or was he really looking at you and wishing that the person each of you were guiding through music was the other?

Carelessly, your heel stepped on your partner's foot. You said in embarrassment:

“My apologies… How clumsy I am.”

The man said there was no problem, and you continued dancing. This was the target you must approach for the day's mission. You turned back to face Xavier. He was also leading another person in the dance. Another target.

Due to the importance of this mission, neither you nor Xavier must show any negligence. But in the midst of this lavish masquerade, what you wanted the most was to leap into Xavier's arms. You could dance until dawn, if it was with him.

You forced the stray ideas out of your mind. You needed to focus. Extremely. You turned back to your dance partner, who did not seem to notice anything unusual. You pulled him closer and your hand on his shoulder slid down slightly.

A grin came across his grim mask to greet you. You caught a glimpse of the other side, Xavier's face tightening. Almost at once, his dance partner intentionally fell into his arms.

Fortunately, you had a mask on as well. Otherwise, your unpleasant glance would be visible to everyone in this room, including him.

You leaned your head slightly on your partner's shoulder. But you still kept an eye on Xavier. He was also observing your every move. Every time the other girl became close to Xavier, you did the same thing to your dance partner. This was supposed to be a mission, but it ended up being such a ridiculous competition.

One more dance and you got what you needed from the target. You made up an excuse and sneaked out onto the balcony alone. The starry sky loomed above you, and the aroma of flowers and grass bathed in night dew calmed you down. You removed your mask and set it on the railing. At that moment, a powerful hand was wrapped around your waist and gently squeezed.

You were startled. But immediately, you realized that the hand belonged to Xavier. He was approaching you from behind. He approached you from behind. His breath, which carried the delicate aroma of wine and cinnamon, breathed into your hair, before gradually sliding down the back of your neck, sending you slight trembles.

“Xavier?…What are you doing?…”

The mask he was still wearing tapped against your bare back exposed to the moonlight, causing you to shiver. Gently, Xavier laid kisses on it.

“Xavier!…” Your body was slightly bent, but his hand on your abdomen held you up. His other hand was around your neck, stabilizing you in that posture. A series of hasty kisses covered your back and shoulders. You bit your lip, waiting for him to speak while silently relishing the heated sensation radiating from the places where his lips met.

A little later, the hand holding you eased somewhat. You took that opportunity to turn around to face Xavier.

You could tell, even through the mask, he was hurt. He did not say a word, just looked at you like a puppy abandoned in the rain. You let out a soft sigh, wrapped your arms over his head to remove the mask. You pressed your palm against his cheek.

“Why did you do what you just did…” Your cheeks flushed, and you were certain that your back was now coated with traces of his. Xavier drew you back into his arms, grasping your hips once more.

“This mission…” He paused for a moment. “It's really too much for me.”

“Don't you like it, dancing intimately with such a beautiful girl?”

The scene of him holding someone else in his arms was enough to upset you. But it went both ways to Xavier, who was not able to hold his feelings any longer. To your surprise, he lifted you up and placed you on the railing. You felt guilty for unintentionally triggering Xavier's fury.

"I don't enjoy it one bit." Xavier replied bluntly. “Because, there is only one girl I have my eyes on in this universe and she is right in front of me.” His chilly fingers moved from your hip to your shoulder, then your neck. “I don't want anyone else to touch her.”

Before you could say anything, Xavier clasped your lips in a passionate kiss, sending your head spinning.

“No one else… but me…” Xavier whispered in very short pauses, then buried himself again in your embrace and scorching kisses.

𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆

The high society banquet in Linkon City was truly a remarkable event. You also prepared meticulously for that day, as your latest mission needed you to meet a target at that party.

You had done quite well during the first two hours of the event. You looked graceful in a luxurious, tight-fitting black velvet dress, with long sleeves and a thigh-high slit. You spoke, laughed, drank, and danced with your target, and everything went perfectly until you noticed a familiar figure standing in the corner of the room, observing.

The guests were all wearing masks, and from such a distance, you wondered whether you were wrong. He would dislike such events. But you couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched, attentively, by someone you knew well.

After completing the mission, you sneaked out through the path least noticed. Your feet hurt from dancing too much in high heels. So you pulled them off and wandered barefoot across the calm garden at night. The dew-soaked grass made your feet chilly, but it also provided a soothing and delightful feeling.

You sat and settled by the fountain. You removed your mask and threw it on the grass next to the shoes. Your feet had begun to swell. You stretched them out, placed your hands on the fountain, and elevated your face, allowing the silver moonlight to beam down on you as you felt relaxed and relieved after finishing your work for the day.

The sound of shoes treading on the grass jolted you awake. When you opened your eyes, you saw a figure standing between you and the moonlight, clothed in a flawlessly fitting black tuxedo. That was who you had suspected all along.

“Zayne?”

You called his name, and he took off his mask.

“It's really you!” You exclaimed, happy and astonished. "I didn't think you would attend events like this."

Zayne's face hardened, indicating seriousness. He examined you thoroughly, from your somewhat unkempt hair to the garment that clung to your body, displaying your curves and the bare thigh beneath it. He gently leaned down, one knee resting on the grass. His chilly palm touched your ankle, startling you.

“Z-Zayne!”

He gave you a glance, implying that you should remain still. His large thumb brushed over the irritated skin on your leg. Cool and comfy, as if being iced. You knew it was Zayne using his Evol.

“Seeing me here, are you surprised?”

You nodded; all words had vanished once Zayne touched you.

“I was invited. If I hadn't come, I probably wouldn't have caught you doing—"

He left the sentence incomplete without glancing at you.

"Caught me doing what?"

"…Nothing."

He tilted down and focused on rubbing your feet with all the gentleness that made you feel both comfortable and tickled.

“I think… my foot is fine now.”

Despite the fact that Zayne's Evol should have kept you cold, your body began to heat up. You were about to alter your posture to sit up straight, but he grabbed your ankle.It appeared so little in his massive, covered in scars hands.

"Be still." He whispered quietly. "Where do you want to go with feet like this?"

"I… have to go back to HQs to report for today's mission…" You made up an excuse. As soon as you left the banquet room, you sent all of the information to the headquarters.

"Mission? Is that the reason why you were intimate with that guy?”

Zayne gazed into your eyes. His face did not exhibit much expression, but his eyes were perplexing. Could it be that he was uncomfortable when he noticed you being close to someone else at the party?

Having hit the nail on the head, you pushed forward. You slipped your bare foot forward until it reached his chest.

"Maybe. But that man was really interesting. He's a doctor, too. Strangely, I was more interested in speaking with him than with some other doctors I knew."

Zayne's expression worsened. His hand shifted from your ankle to your foot, gripping firmly.

"Don't mess with me."

A giggle escaped your so red lips. “Or else? What would Dr. Zayne do to me?”

Zayne frowned. He gazed at your foot, which was still on his body. He softly stroked it and said:

"You're drunk."

"It seems so." You laughed again. Your toes started moving purposely against Zayne's chest. He grabbed them and to your surprise, he placed a kiss on the middle of your feet.

“Zayne!?”

You were so bewildered that you almost fell into the fountain. Zayne grabbed your leg and swiftly positioned his other hand behind you to support your back. Suddenly being so close to each other sent you a panic attack. You sensed a fresh scent like snow and wood emanating from his body. The sound of your heart beating was so loud that he could hear it clearly without a stethoscope.

He glanced at you for a minute before carefully returning to his former posture. His hand left your body, leaving you a little dissatisfied. As if reading you, he leaned forward again. One hand clutched the base of the fountain, exactly near to your hip, and almost immediately, you heard the sound of the water freezing, followed by silence. His other hand kept your leg tight to his torso. Long fingers caressed your calf and thigh. You trembled at the cold he delivered, but it was promptly followed by a tingling sensation throughout your body.

"Do you really like talking to him more than me?"

Zayne asked quietly. The hand that was sliding down your thigh came to a halt at the end of the dress's slit and then tightened, prompting you to cry out unintentionally.

Seeing your helpless reaction and crimson cheeks, a satisfied smile appeared from the corner of Zayne's mouth.

“I guess what you mean to say is, no.”

"You…"

You could feel Zayne's heat wrapping around your legs, in the place where your skin was exposed to the moonlight, then running all over your body. You sat still so he could continue to draw close, his lips gently brushing the corner of your lips provocatively.

“Now you will have to bear the consequences for teasing me.”

[katyawriteswhump]

Steddie Wiggly Wednesday🪱🐛🪱🐛

Thanks for the tag @wheneverfeasible and @medusapelagia and possibly some other lovely moots. Sorry, I move in ice ages!

CW for original character death. Don't worry, Steddie and all canon characters are safe.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Steve has an older brother, Cal, less than two years older than him. He loves his brother and hates his guts because Cal is stupidly perfect.

Not just grade A student perfect and state championship tennis finals perfect. Cal is so ridiculously, effortlessly nice. He floats above the High School popularity monster on some cotton-candy cloud of perfection—so high above all the shit that he can play Dungeons and Dragons with Eddie ‘freakshow’ Munson every week and walk away untarnished.

Steve’s pretty popular too, but he’s laboring for it the hard way— hanging with the ‘right’ crowd, dating the ‘mean’ girls. He’s sweating it out on the basketball court, barely scraping through the classes that Cal aced. Of course, his parents are pissed, and he knows he’ll never emerge from Cal’s perfect shadow.  Cal secretly gave Steve all his old class notes to copy and offered to coach him, but Jesus, who’s gotten time for that shit?

So yeah, Steve hates Cal, and he loves him too. When Steve figures he might be bi, he’s in need of his brother like never before, though can’t find the right words. He’s got a dumb crush on Tommy H and… Ugh, it’s not like he can tell Tommy, and even when Steve gets over his crush, nobody in Hawkins is gonna accept that kind of shit.

Naturally, his perfect brother sees when Steve stops hanging with Tommy and the others. Sees when Steve stops dating. On that spring night, when it’s only the two of them and a sixpack at home by the pool, Cal knows. Even before Steve starts to inarticulately explain how confused and screwed up he is. Even before Steve tells Cal he’s over Tommy, but he’s definitely queer, and faking being the Steve Harrington the world wants to see is killing him. He’s failing his classes, and Hargrove is humiliating him on the basketball court. Steve’s got a totally messed up crush on Billy too, even though the guy treats him like dirt. Steve is scared Billy knows, and… Crap, why is his life such a mess?

He cries. He hates himself for it, but he cries, and it’s okay, because he’s got his brother, and he hates how perfect Cal is. But Cal is always gonna be there, and he’ll always have his back.

Cal is off to MIT in the fall. So yeah, that’s gonna suck, until… Cal doesn’t go. Instead, he gets sick.

Really sick. Steve’s worried, but this is Cal, he’s perfect. Everyone says that Cal is gonna ‘beat it.’ As if, because he’s a good person, he’s going to somehow exert his magic over whatever fucked-up biology is destroying his body.

Cal has three months to live.

Eddie is devastated. It was supposed to be Cal’s final campaign before he ascended to the higher plane of an Ivy League school. Now it’s simply final.

Suddenly, Eddie is moving Hellfire Club to Hawkins General Hospital, and then hosting it at the fucking Harrington’s. Nobody is shrieking or dousing him in Holy Water, and it would be hilarious, if it wasn’t so horrible.  Obviously, Eddie is determined to make it the greatest, most metal campaign he’s ever conducted. He’s crumbling inside. They all are. These are the last days he gets to share with the guy from the ‘right’ side of the rails who looked at Eddie and saw Eddie, rather than the con-supremo-spawn of Al Munson.

Cal’s a-hole kid brother, Steve, starts hovering around when they’re playing. For obvious reasons. He needs to cling to every last moment with Cal, too. Lurking in dark corners, Steve starts staring at Eddie so hard it gets creepy. Eddie knows he’s pretty magnetic when he’s in full-on DM mode, but this is weird. Obviously, Steve must want ‘in,’ so Eddie reluctantly offers to help him draw up a character card, and… shock horror.

Steve Harrington isn’t that much of an a-hole. Now, it’s just the two of them, laughing and sketching and conjuring with D and D ideas, and Steve’s oddly jumpy. He doesn’t seem to be able to look Eddie in the eye, keeps staring at Eddie’s mouth, then touching his own, licking his lips. Eddie is… confused. Steve Harrington is cute. He is also supposed to be a repellent jock—not this guy who swerves maniacally between hilariously bitchy sniping and self-effacing over-apologies.

Once Eddie gets Steve going in Hellfire, Steve is stupidly over-confident, almost back to dumbass-Steve-the-jock. Eddie has a billion chances to slaughter him, and he refrains. For Cal.

Oh, and because, Eddie’s got a stupid crush on his friend’s kid brother. He figures out there is barely a year age gap between him and Steve, though. Cal was old in his year group, and Eddie one of the younger ones.

Still irrelevant. Steve is straight. Eddie’s 100% sure. Well, he would be, if Steve would stop blushing and glancing away whenever Eddie seeks eye contact.

Then Cal calls Eddie one night, asks him to come over. Cal’s getting sicker, so he detonates the bombshell.

You’d be perfect for my brother, man.

What the fuck?

Okay, so he doesn’t press Cal for details. It’s implied that Steve is into guys, but… Woah! Too much! His sick friend wants him to date his younger brother? Like, a dying wish? Yeah, Eddie likes Steve, and now he’s starting to read Steve’s feelings into the way Steve acts around him. But no way are they perfect for each other.

He gives it a shot.

On their first date, Eddie takes Steve to a dive bar Cal used to love more that it deserved, and where Eddie sometimes performs with Corroded Coffin. They make out around the back, against some dingy brick wall. They’re slightly drunk, and the kiss is wet and messy, and they’re stupid happy and then both so stupid sad that they stop trying not to be. They can’t kiss away the pain, but they can kiss. They cry so hard.

Eddie has found another Harrington brother who actually sees him. It occurs to him, more gradually, that he’s the only person in the world, other than Cal, who actually sees Steve.

What the fuck AGAIN?

And then he’s the only person left in the world who sees Steve, and besides Wayne, Steve is the only person left who really sees Eddie.

Steve loves Cal so much, and he hates him. He was so fucking perfect that he couldn’t possibly ditch his little brother without setting him up with a soulmate.

🪱🐛🪱🐛

My ST fic on AO3

no pressure tags: @mugloversonly @tea42 @fuctacles @queenie-ofthe-void

[glorysbox]

breeding w di Leon ??????????😩😩

leon x afab!reader

wc: 1.8k

tags: explicitly 18+, breeding obvs, pregnancy mention, reader has breasts

“I’m getting old.” Leon mutters, pausing momentarily to sip at his mug full of coffee that you’d brewed for him a few moments earlier. You raise an eyebrow at this; head turning ever so slightly to meet his gaze. It’s been a few weeks since he’d been on the mission to Alcatraz. There’s been a personality shift that’s come over him in this time—at first, you just chalked it up to self-reflection from a near death experience.

Maybe there’s something else to it.

“You keep saying that,” you note, attention back on the kitchen counter as you prepare breakfast for the both of you. “You’re not.”

“I am. You can’t deny it. And you know, well…” he sighs, setting the mug down. “I’ve been thinking about some things. About us.”

This gets your attention. You turn fully to face him now.

He stands, advancing towards you, trapping you in between his body and the counter behind you. Leon’s lips are on yours nearly immediately—and while you appreciate the gesture and the taste of hazelnut coffee creamer that lingers in his mouth, you’re feeling a bit…

Nervous.

Your nerves quickly shift into a feeling of something else, the sensation of Leon’s hands squeezing on your waist quickening your heartbeat—that familiar aching between your thighs reddening your face at his touch. His eyes are on you as you part, examining the pretty slopes and curves of your face—but your nerves quickly shift back to that feeling of uncertainty.

“I love you,” he starts, hands furthering up your torso. One hand runs over the curve of your stomach, shifting back to the fat of your hip. “And I’ve been thinking about just how good you’d look pregnant.”

Your breath comes out in slight pants at the feeling of his hands tracing over the contour of your body. Leon leans in, placing feather-light kisses over the soft skin of your neck—the feeling of his lips and the prickle of his stubble admittedly making your knees weak. He smells good, like home; like aftershave and cologne from the night before when he’d fallen asleep with his arms around you.

His hands snake up the long shirt that you’re wearing—one of his that you’d fished from his dresser ages ago—traveling from your waist up to cup your breasts. His tongue runs over the shell of your ear, warm breath fanning over the sensitive feel of your skin. You shudder.

“Think about it. Me, you, a family…” Leon’s tone is hushed as he speaks in your ear, thumb toying at the sensitive peaks of your nipple. You feel him smile as he places a kiss on your temple, something you can hardly focus on from the feel of his hand caressing your breasts. “Don’t you want that?”

“I—” Your breath hitches at the feeling of deft fingertips running along the now sodden cotton of your panties, thighs shifting and molding around the shape of his hand between your thighs. “I… yes, of course. I mean, I’ve thought about it, but…”

“But?” He questions, tugging the wet fabric aside enough for his fingers to drag along your sticky folds. Leon’s breath fans on your neck, his cock stiff against the inside of your thigh. It’s thick and hard and throbbing and has your walls clenching around nothing—needy from just the idea of him being inside of you.

“But…” Your voice is low, teetering out pathetically at the feeling of the pad of his thumb toying with your clit. His movements are slow and methodical, circling—almost too much while simultaneously being not enough. “Your job, and…”

The way your bottom lip catches in your teeth makes him want to kiss you—and fill you with his cum—all the more. It’s been plaguing his thoughts ever since Alcatraz.

“We can work that out,” he mumbles, finger hovering around your entrance, collecting the arousal that seeps from you in anticipation. Your nails dig into the muscle of his forearm, head hanging low at the feeling of the digit threatening to breach inside of you. It’s too much. But not enough. “Work’s been slowing down. Doubt that they’d want to keep an old man like me out on the field too long anyway.”

You go to speak—you want to scold him for calling himself old, even though it’s undeniably true—but you’re cut off by the sound of your own whine at the feeling of his finger pushing its way inside of you.

He only goes as far as the first knuckle… but the gasp that falls from your lips coupled with a low moan has him a bit too eager to hear more from you. Leon inserts a second finger, the pad of his thumb pressing a fleeting amount of pressure on the sensitive bud of your clit. He’s patient as he finger-fucks you, scissoring you open with methodical movements that have your knees weak and your face hot.

You’re too busy whining his name to realize the way he’s looking at you.

Too needy to notice the way his cock throbs at the feeling of your wetness around his fingers; too drunk on his touch to see the way that his blue eyes are trained so intently on the sight of his fingers slipping out of you and pushing their way back inside. He slides his fingers out of you, marveling at the strings of sticky arousal that cling to them.

“So,” he pauses momentarily—brings his fingers to his tongue—and wraps his lips around them. “Did I convince you?”

You nod.

It’s not long before you feel the coldness of his fingers—wet from you and from his own mouth—hooking along the lace hem of your underwear to tug them down. The cotton pools at your ankles.

“You’re fucking me on the counter?” The question falls from your lips breathlessly; the feeling of his hand squeezing at the fat of your ass eliciting more noise from you than you’d be willing to admit.

“Sure am,” he mutters, the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he pulls the fabric of his pants down just enough to free his cock. “Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time to make up for this. I intend on—“

He hoists you up properly, arm keeping you suspended in the air, eyes on the slick sticky mess that’s littered your thighs. Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist. The head of his cock prods at your entrance—leaking precum enough to leave you wondering if he’d left a sticky stain on the cotton of his gray boxers.

“—stuffing you full of cum everyday until I see a positive test.”

Something tells you that he plans to make good on his promise.

He slides into you slowly; the pace agonizing as his cock stretches and splits you open—your walls shaping around his size, nails digging further into the skin of his arm. You shudder at the sound of his voice in your ear; low and needy and whiny for the feeling of the warmth of your walls instinctively gripping around his shaft.

“Leon,” he audibly groans at the sound of his name from your lips—how breathless and pretty and needy you sound for him. “Please, I—“

His fingers leave indents in the skin of your ass, his hips pressing into you so agonizingly slow to the point where you’re beginning to ache from the feeling of needing him so desperately.

“Come on,” Leon buries himself to the hilt—reveling at the feeling of the softness of your body against his. The granite edge of the counter digs at your back; a non-issue considering the fact that you’re struggling to keep your composure at the feeling of Leon balls deep inside of you. “You can take it.”

You nod.

Crescent moon shaped indentations are left on the muscle of his back, red and angry—unnoticed by the feeling of him plunging into you; his hips flush against yours with each slip of his cock inside of you. Sticky strings of arousal begin to line down his thighs���the creamy ring pooling at the base of his cock fueling the pathetic whimpers that slip from your and his lips.

Leon roughly fucks into you, pace unforgiving as your insides uncontrollably quiver and squeeze around him. You pray that no one can hear the both of you through the opened window of your kitchen—the sound of his balls slapping against your skin entirely too loud—coupled with the noisy moans that seep from your lips and the low grunts that seep from his. You can hardly tell the color of his eyes; his pupils blown so wide that you’d mistake them for brown if you weren’t aware they were blue.

He leans forward—hips still snapping against your own—and presses his lips against your own. It’s uncoordinated. It’s needy. It’s wet and sloppy as he struggles to focus on the fact that he’s supposed to be kissing you when you feel so good and tight and wet and warm around him.

He greedily tongues at your lips and greedily ruts into your pussy, movements bordering on feral at the feeling of you and the thought of stuffing you with his cum. The pretty noises that fall from your mouth drive him forward, lips still on your own as he swallows every semblance of a mewl that you make from the feeling of his cock dragging along your walls.

Leon pulls away for a moment—lips reattaching to your neck, trailing to your throat, savoring the taste of your skin. He’s losing himself. Losing himself to the overwhelming urge to put a baby in you; to the idea of your body softening and breasts swelling and hips widening—to the idea of just how perfect you’d look with his kid in you.

You squeal at the feeling of the pad of his thumb on your clit, thighs clenching and trembling and shaking around his waist—nails digging further into the meat of his back as his relentless pace falters and rhythm stutters towards sloppiness. Leon coaxes you further towards your orgasm, motion of his thumbs pulling an orgasm from your swollen, throbbing clit; the pulsating of your walls pulling him deeper into you and effectively milking his cock.

The sight of you—back arching, legs trembling, jaw slack, body spasming—it’s too much. His cock twitches, his hips sputter; his grip on you borders on pain—and you can’t do anything but take it. You feel it before you realize it. You feel the slight quiver of his body against yours. You feel his lips on your throat, tongue pressing on the rapid pulsing of the vein on your neck. You feel the warm, sticky ropes of his cum that he’d stuffed in you with no shame.

He places slow kisses along your jawline—cock still stuffed in you, plugging his cum inside—and again, you feel the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Mm.” Leon’s voice is barely audible as he mutters in your ear. “S’ not enough. Let me give you some more.”