#drawing that heart hand sign with three fingers is hard ;;

[azuhreidii-arts]

Why is this guy's base figure always sold out on every toy aisle, lol... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

six | chapter list

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you. 

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, implied chubby!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

“Why aren’t you hitting me?” James asks. 

The safety mat under your feet does little to assuage your fears. James Potter is perhaps the last person on earth you’d expect to hurt you, and yet you can’t shake the image of him deflecting your punch and sending you reeling. 

With his lovely curls slicked away from his face, his nice mouth, the curve of it where he’s smiling encouragingly, you don’t really want to hit him. 

“I can’t,” you say. 

“Yes, you can. One day you might have to, and I need to know you can do it without breaking your own hand.” The no nonsense tone he’d tended to sport when you first met barely three weeks ago is seemingly gone, replaced by a friendly, almost cavalier tone. Like this is fun. “It won’t hurt you much, I swear. And you should get your revenge. I hit you pretty hard.” 

“You didn’t hit me,” you say. “The door did.” 

“It was my fault.” He smiles, readjusting his stance with feet planted firmly against the mat. 

“James…” 

“Just hit me,” he says. 

You tense your fist around your thumb and hit him square in the chest. It’s not a punch by any means, a weak landing of your knuckles that doesn’t move him. Still, you’re surprised with yourself, checking his face for a sign that you’d done any damage. 

“There are so many people who’d love to punch me,” he laughs, nodding to your hand, “you can do better than that, if only to do what they couldn’t.” 

“I don’t want to hit you, James.” 

“I know, you have to. Come on, it’s easier than you think. You bring your first back to your shoulder and you move into it, okay? Use your weight to do the work. You’ll never hurt anyone if you don’t.” 

“I’d rather not, though.” 

“I know that, too, but you might need to. God forbid you be in a situation where I’m not there to protect you,” —here he does something strange with his eyebrows you’ve yet to encounter, sending a straight shot of butterflies through you, their wings fluttering in the soft part of your throat— “but you don’t have to be defenceless if I’m not. Give me a good swing and I’ll make sure Marlene has that pear ice cream at dinner tonight.” 

“Marlene would make it if I asked,” you say unsurely.

“But if you hit me, I’ll ask for you.” 

“You can be very manipulative.”

“Sometimes. Alright, hit me. Or I’ll tackle you again. You didn’t like that last time.” 

Obviously you hadn’t enjoyed being tackled, because James hadn’t hurt you, he’d simply overpowered you. In one sense, it had been panicky to realise you were at someone’s mercy. James had grabbed you simply behind the back with your chests pressed together and hooked his calf behind your legs, taking them from under you, and following you to the ground. You didn’t like it because he didn’t hurt you, he’d pressed his weight into yours with an arm tight across your chest, just under your throat, and you could smell his hair. Smell almond or jojoba or– or something warm. 

It isn’t that you have feelings for James. You don’t know him well enough. But having someone like James pressing down on you was impossible to ignore, consciously and subliminally.

You really don’t want to do this, drawing your arm back, tightening your first two fingers. James’ eyes widen, his lips falling open as you hit him hard enough to bruise a half inch from his heart. He stumbles and you follow, before flinching back hard, tucking shameful arms to your chest. 

“Sorry!” you burst. “Fuck, sorry! I thought you were ready!” 

“I was ready.” James grins widely. “Awesome. Do that again, yeah? Let’s have one on the cheek this time.” 

“I am not punching you in the face.” 

“You could always aim somewhere softer. The point is to incapacitate me. Hitting me in the chest won’t do that.” He rubs a hand into his shirt, the dark compression material barely moving. ��You might have bruised me, though. I’m a good teacher.” 

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you say. 

James deliberates. He tips his head back, showing you the rather nice point of his chin and his neck. A beauty mark sits nestled atop his Adam's apple. 

“Alright. Sorry. No more hitting. Maybe we’ll give the offensive a break for a while and go back to defence again in a few days?” he suggests. 

You relax. 

You’re wearing clothes you’re not used to, a compression shirt like James’, a pair of dark trousers of a similar material with loose ends. Sirius had done some online shopping with you, not worrying as your elbows brushed. He pointed at things and you’d given weak yesses or resolute nos. The total had climbed and climbed, and Sirius had taken your choking for self-preservation. “Not to worry,” he’d said, grinning, “the royal coffers will pay for this lot.” 

It doesn’t feel real. Endless money with no limit nor reason. He’d opened Curry’s swiftly after and asked you what laptop you wanted for uni. He’d attempted to goad you into two. 

It’s alien. All of it, even James across from you where he’s sitting now to put his trainers back on. He doesn’t feel anymore real than the day you met, this handsome, tall boy tasked with keeping you safe. You’ve never been someone’s number one priority. 

“Come and put your shoes on, lovely.” 

You’re not sure how to cope with that, either. He and Sirius both seem quick to coddle when you’re distracted, and you’re distracted often. You shrug away your thoughts, relaxing your tight shoulders as you cross the empty gym to sit next to him. Your trainers are new, too, a sporty pair that cost more money than your last three pairs combined. 

“It’s nice to have new things,” you confess, “but odd.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I… I’ve been wearing the same pair of converse for two years. I had one pair of proper shoes, and one bag. One purse. And I didn’t mind it, just… just, it makes you feel sick sometimes when you want stuff. It’s embarrassing.”

If James is surprised at your sudden admission, he doesn’t show it. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of in wanting things,” he says, hands braced on his knees, “but I can guess why you might’ve felt like that. We try not to think about the things we want because that can make not having it worse.” 

What couldn’t you have? you think, searching his expression for a hint. 

“I’m glad it’s nice,” he furthers, tapping his heel against yours. “They look good. Are they comfortable?” 

“They feel like I’m wearing socks half the time.” 

James nods appreciatively. “Well, get them on. We’ll nip into the pharmacist before we go home, do you have your sunglasses?” 

“It’s too grey outside for sunglasses, we look ridiculous.” 

“You look like the front page of every newspaper. Ever. In the entire western world. Here, put your hoodie on.” 

You and James leave the gym with a wave to the women at the front desk and begin down the street. James hates the city obviously, wrinkling his nose at the grey cobbled streets and all of its sooty puddles. He walks from place to place rigid as a tentpole, swerving in front of you the second that someone looks at you too long. You wonder if this is what having a boyfriend is like. James is constantly making sure you’re safe, that you’re on the right side of the pavement, that you’re warm and fed and smiling. But you don’t suppose a boyfriend gets paid to spend time with you, nor do they spend nights on the lumpy sofa in the living room when they’re too tired to drive home at the end of a long shift. 

You think without wanting to of James climbing into bed with you, a split second of his warm arm over your back, and shake it away as he pulls you into the pharmacy. 

“Can you look at something else?” you ask, turning to him as you pull off your silly sunglasses. 

James raises his eyebrows. “Whatever for?” 

“I need stuff.” 

“I know you need stuff. You asked me if we could come here. Which, by the way, you don’t need to do. You’re supposed to boss me around.” 

You look over a shelf of shampoos and deodorants and begin reading their labels. James took you shopping the day after you got back, but you’d been stuck in your old ways and what you didn’t skimp on, you forgot. You eye a large bottle of shampoo that brags deep moisture for your hair type and take it from the shelf, then the matching conditioner, and then its hair mask. Your shoulders curl forward, worried James will think you greedy or sad or something in between, but he just says, “Pass them here, Princess.” 

“It’s fine, I can–”

“I’ll have them. I’ll go get a basket.”

He scoops everything into big hands and walks back to the pharmacy’s entrance. 

It’s a big pharmacy, modern, with white walls and bright fluorescent lights behind shelves. You catch yourself in a mirror next to a stand of cosmetics and wince. You look odd in these sporty clothes. Your nose is shiny. 

You wipe your face with your sleeve and stare at the cosmetics with no clue what to get. Should’ve asked Sirius to come. Or better yet, someone who regularly wears makeup. Only thing is, you don’t really know anybody who does. 

“You don’t have to rush,” James says, joining you at the makeup section, such a long walk from the shampoos. “Did you sprint down here?” 

You’d speed-walked past the sexual health aisle actually, but James doesn’t need to be privy to that information. “You don’t want to be here all day.” 

“I want to be exactly where you are. If that’s looking at lip gloss, then so be it.” 

You smile, a little shy, a little rueful, and turn your attention back to the lip glosses in question. There’s browns and pinks, blush-rose red and moodier cherries. “I don’t…” 

“That one,” James says, poking a barrel with confidence, “would suit you. And this one, too. You’ll look lovely.”

You don’t know what to say. The colours he’s chosen get added to your basket without comment, after you’ve wrestled it out of his unwilling hands. You spend a few minutes spready tester shades of concealer against the back of your hand, where James again recommends the one that matches your skin tone best. He leans behind you, and he does his job, sweeping the aisles and giving the shop a long up and down every once in a while, but for the most part he acts like he’s there to be there. 

You get to the bit of the pharmacy you’d come for initially, the shorter but well-stocked supplement and vitamin aisle. Realistically, you aren’t going to take ten different vitamins a day, and with Marlene’s cooking it isn’t as though you need them, but there are things you’ve always craved. Biotin and collagen, for healthier hair and nails. Multi-nutrient sachets for every day, the good stuff, and so expensive your eyes initially skip over them. 

Your hand hesitates in front of a box and James makes a warm humming noise. 

“They look promising.”

“I’ve never had them before.”

“I have a killer magnesium deficiency,” James says. “I usually take the magnesium and zinc, but that throws my copper out of whack.” 

You can’t tell if he’s messing with you. You smile at him, not quite stickily but getting there, your cheeks appled with it. “Not your copper.” 

“It’s not funny, Princess. It makes me want to sleep all day.” 

“Not funny,” you agree, grabbing the box of sachets and placing them atop the new electric toothbrush you’d fancied. You feel gluttonous and weird with it, because you don’t suppose you really need one, but James had only said That’s a nice colour. 

“James,” you say, meandering with him toward the tills, “you didn’t need anything, did you?” 

He grins at you like you’ve said something different. “I have everything I need, don’t worry.” 

“You sure?” 

His eyes seem lighter, then. Amber flecks in the browned honey of his irises. “Promise.” 

He tries to get you to visit the perfume counter, but the basket is getting heavy and you’ve spent enough as it is. Not even a tenth, a hundredth, a thousandth of what you have now at your disposal, but so much more than you ever would’ve before. 

The lady at the till eyes James behind you. She beams when James opens his wallet and passes you the card you were given by Sirius for expenses, and laughs when you refuse to take it. “I have mine,” you say, “this is all for me, I can pay.” 

“Technically it’s your upkeep,” James argues. 

“James.” You pass the cashier your card as James frowns. 

“I wish my boyfriend offered so quickly,” the cashier says. 

You go hot all over, but before you can tell her James isn’t your boyfriend, he’s laughing and taking the handles of your heavy pink carrier, pulling it toward him as the cashier sorts your receipt. “I shouldn’t have tried, really.” 

“It’s the thought that counts.” She hands you your receipt. “You should to let him pay, chick, especially if he’s offering.” 

“Maybe next time,” you appease. 

You’re still flushed when you and James break outside again, the cold a blessed relief. James lets your pink bag rest in the crook of his arm, while the other hovers behind you, looking around the street unhurried. “Anywhere else you want to go, chick?” he asks. 

You laugh. “She was nice.” 

“Very motherly.” 

“I want to go home, I think. Did you need anything else?” 

“I do all my shopping when I’m not working.” 

“When aren’t you working?” you ask genuinely. “You spend more than half the day at my flat, and when you leave– if you leave, it’s night time.” You give him a sideways glance. “I have nothing else to do today.” 

James contemplates this. “I– I’ve been meaning to get Sirius a gift. It’s his birthday next week, did you know?” 

“No! When?” 

“The third.” 

“What does he like?” 

James beckons toward a neon signed music shop. “He loves music. Music and the macabre, you know, like, horror movies. And he reads, despite what he might have you believe.” 

You fall into step. “Alright. You’ll have to tell me what to buy.” 

Again, he gives you a look like you’ve said something different, like you’ve said something lovely. 

“I can do that,” James says. “I won’t steer you wrong.”

—

Later that evening, after another tentative hour in the car with James’ patient coaching, you return home to shower. It’s luxurious and strenuous simultaneously. The new hair mask is fragrant and silky between your fingers, leaving the bathroom thick with its smell, the warm air clouding the windows. You hurry between the bathroom and your bedroom in a bath sheet and pretend you don’t notice James’ head tipping in your direction. 

“Everything alright?” he calls to your bedroom door. 

You spy on him through the gap. “I’m fine. Sorry I took so long.” 

“Remus has asked if he can come early and have dinner with us.” 

“He doesn’t need to ask!” you call, closing the door soundly. 

It will be nice to have Remus for dinner. He doesn’t have to tell you what fork to use here, you only have one kind, but he explains the heritage or main flavours of each dish and doesn’t make you feel embarrassed when you don’t know the Genovian Marlene uses. Honestly, you hadn’t even realised Genovia had a language, a hodge podge, Remus says, of Italian and French. And Remus has a steady voice that feels evidence of his more humble background —he’s like you, you’ve found out, working class and humbly brought up. He attended their boarding school on a scholarship of academic prowess, and served as a prefect for all seven years. 

“How exhausting,” you’d said. 

“With those two? You wouldn’t believe it.” 

His disdain was feigned, mostly. It’s why you’re excited to have him for dinner. When the boys are together, they end up telling you stories about their hijinks at school, and you get to peek into the window of their lives, see their fondness for one another in praises and shoulder squeezes and their ridiculous nicknames. 

You haven’t managed to ask about them yet. They slip out every once in a while, and in multiple variations. Moony, Moons, Moon and Pads, Pad, Padfoot. Remus’ you’ve deduced from a story they told, how Remus could be oh so moody when he wasn’t very well, like a wolf, a werewolf. Isn’t that clever for a gang of twelve year olds? Lupin, the wolf boy. You have a feeling it didn’t start out as a particularly kind nickname, but it morphed into a loving moniker later on. Sirius’ nickname, however, you’ve no chance at working out. Padfoot? 

And Prongs? You assume James had a nasty run in with a fork. 

You dress in soft, new clothes. Prongs, you think, doesn’t suit him at all. The James you know is only ever prickly when you’re at risk. He doesn’t flinch when you panic, never hardens. He has a soft hand for your back whenever you need a pat. 

Your socks slide on the living room tiles as you make your way in. James is clicking away on his phone, a dark business phone with many, many buttons. It’s dwarfed by his hand. He swears under his breath. 

“Everything okay?” you ask softly. 

James looks up and his gaze snags on you, his head tilted to his phone and his eyes steadfast where they look you over. “Fine. Nice shower?” 

You’re rich now. Every shower is nice, the boiler turned to a high six, hot water neverending. 

“It was good. Where’s Sirius?” 

“I’m actually not sure.” 

“Isn’t that your job?” 

“No. And if it were I wouldn’t know anyways.” He turns back to his phone. “He’s a slippery one, Pads,” he murmurs, “I couldn’t really keep track of him if I tried.” 

You feel as though you’ve caught him at a bad time. Restless, you turn away from him and head for your small kitchen, unsurprised to find Marlene still cooking and the continued remodelling of your kitchen. Old countertops find themselves housing new oiled cutting boards. Your grody cooker seems small beneath a HexClad Dutch oven, where oil bubbles and spits lightly, dough cuts set on a baking sheet beside it. 

“Hi, Marlene. What are you making?” you ask curiously. 

She grins at you from over her shoulder. “Apple cider doughnuts. I’ve made cinnamon sugar, do you mind it?” 

“What’s the thermometer?” you ask. 

She laughs at you lightly. She’s used to you dodging questions. “Just making sure I don’t set your house alight. At home I can do this by eye, but it’s finicky with your oven. She’s temperamental.” 

“Sorry.” 

Marlene waves a hand. “You want to try?” 

“I’ll just be in your way.” 

“No, you won’t. Frying doughnuts is fun, here. I’ve put each of them on a bit of greaseproof paper. They slide right off.” 

Marlene doesn’t usually take no for an answer. She’s not bossy, but decisive. You’re hesitant at first of the boiling oil and the greaseproof paper doesn’t cooperate when you try it, but eventually you’ve freed a crispy bit of paper from the dough, watching patiently as Marlene turns the doughnuts. She tells you about the dark colour you’re searching for, “I’ve put apples in the dough, see, so they’ll come to a brilliant dark colour without burning. We’ll have them with ice cream or whatever you like.” 

”James told you I wanted it?” you ask shyly. 

“James didn’t mention you at all, he just begged a bit for it. He can be quite pathetic when he needs to be.”  

“I resent that!” James calls. 

Sirius and Remus arrive in their usual pair, Remus tall and light to Sirius’ tighter darkness. Remus wears glasses today, black thin frames perched atop a scar on his nose. Sirius is being himself, poking at them and reminding Remus that just because he is an insufferable swat doesn’t mean he has to look like one. 

“You’re worse than insufferable,” Remus says. When he sees you, he brightens. “Ah, Princess. James hasn’t injured you, that’s brilliant.” 

“And you clearly haven’t killed him in a motor vehicular disaster,” Sirius says cheerfully. “Praise be.” 

“We’re both fine,” you say. 

“Were you worried about us?” James asks. 

“I wasn’t worried about you, James,” Remus says with a smirk. 

You eat as you have every day for the week since you’ve been home: around the coffee table, five plates and drinks rearing to get knocked over and ruin it all. Your knees press into Remus’ on the left and Marlene’s on the right. James sits across from you now that Frank’s shown up for his night shift, digging in with vigour, beaming around his fork as Sirius gives him a good nudge. So many people in your crammed flat. It doesn’t seem real. Half the time, they’re just here to keep you company. 

Paid to keep me company, you think, biting your tongue as you do. This isn’t… real. 

Something taps you under the table. James’ hand, you find, long fingers pressing soft into your kneecap. You quickly lift your head again to find him frowning at you mildly. Okay? he mouths. 

“Bit my tongue,” you say. 

“Ouch,” Remus says. 

James pokes his lip with his tongue. “Be careful,” he says eventually. 

You ignore whatever it is he’s not saying and pick at your food instead. For dinner, Marlene has made a traditional Genovian pasta dish heavy with red pesto and steak. It isn’t what you’re expecting, used to the paler whites and greens of the last week's worth of dinner. James couldn’t be enjoying it more, and Sirius has pledged his undying love to Marlene three or four times since you sat down. 

“Jesus, I barely miss Genovia when you cook like this,” he says. “I will happily serve my country.” 

“Unlike before, when you were here unhappily,” Remus teased. 

Sirius looks you dead in the eye. “Princess, I would follow you anywhere. Marlene is an added bonus.” 

“I– I really wish you guys wouldn’t call me that.” 

Sirius looks gently chastened. “Sorry, sorry. It’s muscle memory at this point. If I called Princess Julianna by anything but her title, she would’ve had me drawn and quartered in the royal courtyards, is all.” 

“And the rest,” James snorts. 

“I try not to address her at all,” Remus says to himself. 

Everyone laughs. You join in a second later, wondering about your unknown cousin. “She was rather spoiled, wasn’t she?” you ask. 

“You’d think she’d tone it down some. Her royal status is rather tenuous, you know.” 

James gives Sirius a look. Careful, it says. 

“What do you mean?” you ask. 

“Well, she’s a royal by marriage, not blood. We explained that, didn’t we?” 

James had said it was complicated. You’d been too startled about your own royal status to inspect it any further. “She’s not a Renaldi?” you ask. 

As it’s explained, your uncle (uncle! who is indeed royal by blood, and the eldest son) forwent the throne when it became clear he wouldn’t be allowed to marry a divorced lover otherwise (reminiscent of certain British scandals). Said divorced lover already had a daughter, a young Julianna. And so your uncle remained a prince but not a king, and Julianna became a princess, to the ire of half the country. 

Traditions have changed in time, but Julianna still lacks Renaldi blood. 

“It drives her mad,” James says. He’s leaning back against the armchair now, dinner finished, a big glass of apple cider in his hands. 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” you say. “Sorry, I sound horrible, just. She wasn’t super friendly.” 

“It would’ve been better for everyone if she was,” Sirius says. 

You wait for him to continue. Marlene prompts him, “You think so?” 

“Well, yes, I suppose. Anything is better than a country ruled by Baron Riddle. Evil, loathsome man. He thinks that nobody knows he’s had a nose job, you know.” 

“Who’s Baron Riddle?” you ask. 

A hush falls around the table. You look down at your plate, eyes on the red shine of pesto and olive oil where it’s grown cold on your plate. A hunk of soft bread is discarded beside it. You poke at it with your nail until crumbs flake away, lips parted, not sure what to say. “Is he–?”

“He’s a bad man, Y/N,” Sirius says. His voice has turned soft but not thin. “He’s prejudiced and cruel. If nobody of Renaldi blood takes the throne when your grandmother steps down, he’ll rule Genovia. And he’ll run it into the ground.” 

James isn’t looking at you when you drag your head up. He downs the last of his cider and stands up, murmuring about clearing the table as he carries his and Sirius’ plate to the kitchen. 

“I didn’t know,” you say. Well, you’d known someone would ascend to the throne if you didn’t. But you didn’t know about Riddle. A guilty heat builds in your throat. “I had no idea.” 

“James asked us not to tell you,” Remus says pointedly. 

“She has a right to know,” Sirius says. They glare at each other, but the heat in Sirius’ voice doesn’t rescind. “What? She does. She’s a grown up.” 

You shake your head. “Thank you, um, for telling me. I’ll just take these out, should I?” You gesture to the plates and stand up quickly. You can’t escape the feeling that Sirius is very angry with you, and you don’t want to face it, so you escape the room instead. 

James’ shoulders are tense in the kitchen. He scrapes his plate clean into the food recycling bin, offering his hand without looking for your own. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. 

“Of course.” 

Silence blossoms like an achy bruise. 

“James–”

“Thank you for having me for dinner, but I really should be going now. I promised my mum an overdue call.” 

He’s angry. 

You cringe away from him. “Okay. Yeah, no problem.” 

“Okay. Stay safe while I’m gone, yes? Remember your panic button.” 

Your hand inches up to the opposite wrist, where your tennis bracelet of sapphires sits tightly. You’d forgotten all about the panic button embedded in disguise under one of the gemstones. 

He smiles at you briefly, and in a minute or two he’s gone. Sirius goes out after him, leaving you and Remus and Marlene to the heap of dishes, a bad taste lingering on your tongue that has nothing to do with dinner. 

[mondaymelon]

hi :)) can i make a request about zhongli who has a s/o who is very self conscious and has low self esteem?? like they’re just constantly hating on themselves and have nothing good to say about themselves making poor zhongli worried :((

₊˚ෆ 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐃… | zhongli, xiao, childe x gn!reader

[ "archons forbid you in having these thoughts once more. love, you are perfect, and please don't let anyone sway that." ]

— "archons, why did i just do that? ...fuck, i'm such an idiot..."

ZHONGLI interrupted the occasional stroke of his ink-stained brush upon silk canvas, his gilded eyes glancing up and searching your face until they met yours.

"Love, why are you..." His voice trailed off as his gaze filled with warm concern, his expression softening as his brows furrowed, as if he couldn't even begin to fathom why'd you think such a thing. He set down the brush in its hold, before moving to stand. You were sat on the couch across from his desk, where you could remain in his line of sight as he did his duties, and now you were curled up on its cushions, looking at him with the corners of your mouth slightly drawn down into a pout.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He sat down next to you, unsure of how close he should get, and so hovered an arm's length away from your form. You quietly shook your head in a frustrated manner, and he made a short hum of acknowledgement. "Love, come here. Let's take a break together, you and me, alright?"

When he had received your approval, he gently held you in his arms, stroking a gloved hand in your hair soothingly. He was warm, his tall figure engulfing you, and you melted at his touch. "...Zhongli, why do you love someone like me?"

You felt his fingers' delicate touch abruptly still to a halt at your words. Silence encompassed the room, and Zhongli shifted in his seat, drawing closer and finally moving his hand to your face, grabbing at your chin and tilting it upwards so you had no choice but to stare into his glittering eyes. The traces of a smile lingered on his lips. "It'd be impossible not to."

How come your vision had grown so cloudy? "I'm bad. At everything. I can't do anything right."

"Just who told you that? Love, your character is beautiful. You're diligent, hard-working, talented, with a golden heart... it makes me wonder how I even was able to join hands with you in the first place." His corners of his mouth were truly curved upwards now, and he met your gaze with a close eyed smile, his dark-lashed lids fluttering. "Archons forbid... please don't tell that to yourself again, alright?"

Hot tears begun to spill from your eyes at his words. No, that couldn't be true. How... how come it was possible for someone like to trust you to this extent?

Ah, I know why. The thought came to you as he kissed the tears from your sorrow-laden lashes. "I love you."

His cheeks warmed just the slightest, his gaze of melted gold soft as a smile graced his lips once more.

"Yes, I love you too." ₊˚ෆ

— "agh, messed up again... archons, how come i can't do anything right??"

XIAO's head snapped up as soon as the words were uttered into the midnight air, immediately emerging from the shadows by your side as you stared over the edge of Wangshu Inn's balcony, tightly gripping the wooden railings.

"What... What did you just say?" You flinched at his sudden presence, something you had still yet to grow accustomed to. The adeptus had a habit of listening in on your rambles with yourself, and appeared whenever he deemed fit. However, your words now seemed to have angered him, as eyes were narrowed in displeasure, his cat-like diamond pupils forming mere slits.

"Is there... something wrong?" You tilted your head in confusion, watching a flit of emotions cross Xiao's face in a mere split-second.

"Yes. Three steps away." His voice made it clear that it was no mere request. Complying to his order, you duly backtracked the said amount, empty hands raised in front of you as a sign of surrender. "Don't get too close to the railing. It's dangerous."

You almost laughed. "Ah, but won't you save me if I happen to fall?"

"That's granted." Xiao scoffed, nodding a little too quickly after your question, but caught himself. It seemed that he had, in fact, learned a thing or two about mortal speech from you. "No, don't change the topic now. What you said earlier... do you really believe that?"

"...Well, it's true, isn't it?" You faced the scenery in front of you, the blue, slightly cloud dusted skies, the grooves of the land and the jagged mountains poking up out of harsh stone... it was an easier sight than looking into the adeptus' eyes at the moment. His eyes were acute, perceptive, honed sharply after years of service. Oh, that was the truth, wasn't it? You were afraid that he'd see too much in your gaze, and that he'd know how much of a pathetic failure you were, with nothing but mistake after mistake following your every movement-

"Hey." There was a light touch on your wrist - Xiao's gloved fingers, wrapping around it gently. "Just what are you thinking about? You look... upset, and I don't like it." There it was. His clear eyes, staring into yours with concern. "You... You said you couldn't do anything right, but that's not true at all, love."

Love.

Xiao had never been one to display much affection, yet he had readily agreed to use such a name for his one and only. His voice was quiet, gentle, nothing like how you had first imagined it in the days after the two of you's first encounter.

"Thank you, Xiao." You finally turned to him, face breaking into a smile, and you saw his tense figure visibly relax at your contentment.

"...What for?"

"For being here. Everything." In the dim moonlight, you just might've glimpsed the whisper of a smile on the adeptus' lips, a secret one, a small one, just for you.

"There's no need to thank me. It was the least I could do." ₊˚ෆ

— "seriously?? this is the eighth damn... i knew i it, i'm absolute shit at everything i do... "

CHILDE's eyes widened as he spun to look at you, his mouth forming a round 'o' as he spotted the countless ink splatters on the paper, on your table, on your fingers, staining your clothes - everything.

...And upon seeing the chaos, clutched his sides and burst into several bouts of laughter that stretched on for minutes. When he was done with his ridicule, he placed his hands on his hips dramatically, a playful smile still decorating his joyful expression. "Aha- Love, just what...?" His voice trailed off, surely there was no need to finish his sentence? There could only be one possible thing he was referring to, and it was the absolute mess you had created, and a mess that you now sat in the center of, blinking awkwardly with a wobbly half-smile on your lips.

"Uhm... I tried to... Ugh, nevermind..." You crumpled up the canvas sheet filled with incoherent scribbles and threw it into some archon-forsaken corner, where you prayed it would never cross your line of sight again. Under your breath, you mumbled out several curse words, a frown tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Shit, this is why no one should place any faith in me, good for nothing..."

The smile on his face dropped. Curse him, and his stupidly acute hearing. Instantly, he was a mere two inches away from you, deep ocean eyes boring into yours in an almost uncanny manner. "...Hey, just now, care to repeat that?"

"...Good for nothing...?" You flinched, unsure of where the sudden wave of bloodlust that was currently flooding your senses had come from - until you glanced up at Childe, who stood over you, his eyes closed in a happy smile but the expression on his face anything but happy.

"Who told you that?" His voice was venomous, it felt like you were being poisoned just listening to it. A dark shadow cast over his eyes, as if this were some dramatic soap opera.

"Did someone have to?" You sighed, waving your hand in the air in a dismissive way. "It's true, though. I seriously can't get anything right, and I haven't even gotten started on what I don't like about myself-"

"Stop." Childe held a finger over your mouth, pressing it to your lips and effectively bringing your words to a halt. "Stop, stop stop, it's all wrong, love!" He looked like a kicked puppy, his eyes downcast and a pout on his lips, and you could practically imagine the ginger folded ears and tail that might've been. "Seriously, how do you even think up of these kinds of things?? They're not true at all!"

Why was he so adamant on this? "But... it is?"

"That's it." Childe waltzed over to where you sat on the ground, before grabbing you from the middle and hoisting you over his shoulder, giving a little huff when you wriggled to try and break free from his grasp. "We're going on a one-week vacation. To Mondstadt. Inazuma. Sumeru. Fontaine. Shneznaya, for all I care. Just not here."

"Do... Do I have a say in this?" You frowned slightly from your position, you arms dangling over your head as you fought your hardest not to laugh.

"No."

"What's even wrong with here, why..."

"Shush. Let me take care of you, won't you?" ₊˚ෆ

(a/n) apapapappow second request done!! im not doing all that bad hehehe... wish me luck on my ap class midterm!! i should be studying rn but uhm uhm yes genshin men are first priority >>>

-> teehee what if yall left a message on my christmas tree 😶😶😶

໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife

[nymphoheretic]

˜”°•.˜”°• By His Command •°”˜.•°”˜

Nymph: Inumaki was on the brain and I remembered I wrote this little thirst blurb about him on my old blog so...yeah...

Warnings: Oral(fem receiving), fingering, conscentual use of Toge's cursed speech, some Japanese words(I'm sorry I refuse to use "salmon" and "bonito flakes")

Word count: 0.6k

Tags: @katsukichureadsrecs @hvziers @sailewhoremoon @ichisagi @tokyometronetwork @babiefwuit @bakugosbratx @angelltheninth @stygianoir @bookandyarndragon

Inumaki was usually such a patient boyfriend. It took you a minute to understand his way of speaking until I learned sign language to make our communication easier. But when it came to sex, you quickly learned just how wild and feral he could really be.

“Toge...” you whined, your hands tangled in his short silver hair as his head was buried between your thighs, tongue lapping at your folds with such ferocity that it was leaving you utterly breathless. “Please, slow down, M’gonna cum if you don’t.”

You let out a choked gasp when his reply was to shove two fingers deep into your cunt, scissoring them and stretching you out as his tongue moved to your swollen clit. You pulled at his hair as you began to squirm away from him, the torturous feeling of his wet stripes becoming too much for your sensitive body. ”s’too much, Toge.”

Inumaki dug his fingers into your hips, pulling you back to his awaiting tongue. “Okaka...” he mumbled against you, a bit annoyed that you were trying to deny him of his treat.

His fingers moved in and out at a faster pace as his flicked his tongue over your clit, the feeling of your hands in his hair spurning him on. This was his cunt and who were you to deny him. He yanked you back onto his tongue when you pulled away again. Finally fed up with your squirming, he looked up at her with hard, violet eyes. “Ugokanai.”

Your body froze when you heard that singular phrase. Toge and you have had already came to an agreement that he could use his cursed speech on you during sex, but it always surprised you when he did.

You were literally at his mercy until he either released you or passed out. You let out a mewling moan when his tongue returned to your clit, his lip closing over it and sucking hard. You wanted to thrash about so badly, to buck away from his tongue, but couldn’t. Your body was no longer under your control.

He licked up and down your slit, curling his tongue in and out, gathering as much of your sweet slick as he could on his taste buds. He adored your taste so much, Toge could spend hours between your thighs with his tongue buried in your folds. “Shake.” he hummed as he used his fingers to spread your lips even further open to delve his tongue even deeper. God, you were so sweet on his tongue. He could eat you and hear your sweet moans forever. “Be louder.”

You automatically opened your mouth and moaned even louder for him as he pushed three fingers deep inside your aching cunt. It was too much. you needed a break. You had already had three orgasms before this. “Toge, please?” you begged. “I need to cum. Please let me cum.”

Since he had given me the command to not move, you could even make a move to have an orgasm, you were frozen in this position until he said so. You prayed he would take pity on your poor abused body.

Inumaki pulled back, his tongue drawing lazy lines over your swollen lips as a line of saliva still connected it to your cunt. He looked at you and saw the pained expression in your eyes, you really did want to cum. It warmed his heart to know that he brought you so much pleasure. His violet eyes were soft as he returned to your dripping pussy, “Cum.”

On command with his words, your back arched off the bed as your climax hit you hard. It rushed out of you in a hot stream of liquid that dripped down Toge’s face as he greedily lapped it all up, not wanting to waste a single drop. Once you came down from your high, Toge looked at you with pleased eyes as you reached for him to pull him up for a kiss. “I love you so much Toge.”

He nodded, a happy pleased smile on his lips as he signed out that he loved you too.

[unholyhelbig]

Part two of mafia nat???

Title: The Oversight [Part 2/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Wordcount: 3079

Warnings: Hostage situation, brusing, mentions of child abuse, horrible grammar, and Quiznos

[a/n: Thank you all for the great response to the first chapter! I'm making this a thing, for sure!] Let me know if you're interested in being added to the taglist for this story!

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

“The usual, sweet girl.” You set the plate of pancakes down in front of Veronica. A happy face was painted against the golden surface with whipped cream, with cherries and two slices of bacon divided perfectly for hair. Your daughter never seemed to grow tired of the meal and would swallow down a glass of milk with just a bit of strawberry syrup.

Despite having completed the maze on the back of the kid’s menu at least a dozen times, she remained infatuated, kicking her feet back and forth as the orange crayon made its way through the boldened lines.

You tentatively moved a lock of brunette hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. “Eat your food, kiddo. Big day tomorrow.”

Veronica nodded and started to fork down the smiling face. She didn’t speak much, a few words here and there, and that worried you enough to take the day off from work. You had found a speech therapist right outside of the city that accepted your HMO plan with enough fervor that you made the soonest appointment you could.

While you worked hard to shield Veronica from the life that you were determined to break away from, you were distressed. Kids were smart, they didn’t’ get enough credit. You were sure that she noticed the only meals she ate was at this diner and at school. The way that you were here all the time, dressed in the same uniform stained with ketchup and coffee. The way you fell asleep on the second-hand sofa for a few hours at a time.

“She your kid?”

While your back was turned, mind rushing with intrepid thoughts, someone had sidled up against the counter with an empty white mug, its mouth flipped to the ceiling. The blonde looked innocent enough, if not in despite need of the coffee she was asking for. Her accent was thick. Russian or Ukrainian, nothing you could fully place. 

“She is a very good artist.” She tapped her finger against the orange drawing of a sunset in the corner of the placemat. “A lot of talent in this one.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the compliment, picking up the coffee pot. The blonde nodded and smiled back as you poured her a cup. “She gets it from her father.”

While you weren’t entirely sure that was true, you did know that the talent wasn’t from you. You never had the artistic eye. Veronica, on the other hand, was a quiet force to be recon with when it came to art. Even at a young age, you knew whole-heartedly that she had a future in it if she stuck with it.

“That so?” The woman took a long sip of her coffee, not flinching at the heat. “She should keep going. It’s important to have something to hold onto.”

The memory flickered in our mind as you drifted in and out of consciousness. It could have been a day, or a week, and your heart ached just as fiercely for your daughter as it always had. She would be in safe hands for now, you were sure. Your sitter knew about your devoted love, your resilience to make sure that Ronnie was okay. You were all she had, and being tied to a chair until your muscles felt like jelly was not a good sign.

You weren’t sure what had pulled you out of a fitful sleep for a few moments, but there was a light squeeze on your shoulder. Your head shot back and collided with something. There was a soft grunt, and your inhale burned your lungs. When you blinked awake, there wasn’t complete darkness. A less harsh light had been turned on.

The blonde from the diner was standing in front of you, robbing a tender spot on the center of her nose. “Ouch, that really hurt!”

“Sorry, I-“ you frowned, snapping your mouth shut. You weren’t going to apologize. You were the one that had been kidnapped, not the other way around. “What’s happening?”

Natasha had left you without another word, and you hated the way you missed her presence. You’d drifted off in the quiet and considered it a better punishment than Clints vicious blows to the face. The girl in front of you held a bottle of water up as a peace offering.

She cracked open the top, and even if you weren’t quite sure if something was in it, you didn’t care at the moment. She guided it to your lips, and a few drops dripped over your chin. It cooled the burning in your throat.

“Thank you,” this time you meant it. Natasha had made it clear that there was no good cop, but this was starting to look like your reprieve. You tested your luck. “If they’re going to kill me, why hold me?”

“They are not going to kill you. Natasha is a cautious woman. She did not get to where she was without crossing a few lines. You claim that you’re not on drugs and my sister wants to make sure that is truthful. Can you blame her?”

From a technical standpoint- no, you couldn’t. You searched for some type of resemblance in the woman and came up with nothing but a slight similarity in the slope of her nose. She smiled, crossing her legs, and sitting back against the chair.  

“Let’s play twenty questions.”

You lifted an eyebrow, and it sent a shooting pain to your temple. “If I get one wrong, do you shoot me?”

She laughed, “No wrong answers. Can you believe that I want to get to know you? I’ll go first. My name is Yelena, and my favorite color is green. Forest green if you would like to get specific, which I would.”

“Dark red.” You said “I’m y/n.”

“Oh, I know. How long have you lived in the city?”

You rolled your shoulders back again. They were stiff. You’ve never been this uncomfortable in your life, and not just socially. There was a cool calmness about Yelena that put you at ease. Though, she was one of your kidnappers, and most-likely a member of the secret underground organization that had inexplicitly frequented the diner.

“My whole life. Not this part of town, though. East lower with my mom and my dad until my mom died and my dad got himself killed when I was seventeen.”

“Foster care?”

“For a year until I was old enough to be out on my own. I’m not going to let my daughter end up the same way. That was the hardest year of my life and if she loses me then… Her father isn’t around, but I’m afraid that going into the system would be best case scenario.”

“She’s six?” Yelena asked.

“And a half, but yes.”

“Non-verbal?”

You nodded again. This felt like a shitty game of twenty questions. Yelena already knew all the answers and you could still taste blood and the aching in your jaw. She tapped her fingers against her knee, uncrossing them and leaning forward.

The ceiling still stretched above you. There were rafters that you could barely make out in the darkness. You blinked so you wouldn’t cry. Still, when you spoke next, your words came out pinched and you couldn’t help but feel weak.

“The world is a horrible place, and the odds are already stacked against her, you know?” You sniffed to keep snot that you couldn’t wipe away from dripping onto your shirt already soiled with blood. “She’s a good kid. She’s funny, and smart, and I want her to have a life where she thinks everything is okay, even if there’s a possibility that it never is. Ronnie doesn’t need to know that. She doesn’t need to know.”

Yelena swallowed hard and nodded. She stood and closed the distance between you. Her hand was warm against you skin as she tentatively wiped away the moisture on your cheek. She gave you the rest of the water. “Okay. Drink.”

You were foolish to trust her. There was something in the water that was tasteless but rendered you unconscious all the same. You blinked awake, not sure how much time had passed. Your mind was swimming relentlessly, being forced in and out of lucidity had done nothing for your resolve.

Sunlight, something you thought you would never see again, flitted through an open window. A cooling summer breeze accompanied the sight. You’d been freed somewhere along the way, and your gratitude wasn’t lost on you.

Dark purple bruises encircled both of your wrists. Your whole body ached, and you let out a low moan at the sudden blinking movement. “Oh… fuck.”

“That’s a beautiful sound.”

Your back was pushed up against a dark oak bedframe, heels shoving you back. There was a lightheadedness swirling around you. A nice bedspread was underneath you, and the room itself was dripping in riches.

It was large with floor to ceiling windows, the walls slathered in deep maroon paint. There was a wall of bookshelves filled with expertly bound books. Two chairs and a small cocktail table was set up in a beam of sunlight.

Natasha held a crystal glass of unidentified alcohol in her hand. The ice floated within the deep brown liquid as if it were afraid to make a sound. She wore a suit, one that hugged her sides. Her lips were painted red to match the walls and she tapped her nail against the glass, observing you.

Her words sent a pang directly to your core, and that embarrassed you more than your exhaustion. Blood flooded into your cheeks and the very corner of Natasha’s lip twitched in response. She set her glass down on the table.

You recoiled as she rose and transplanted herself on the corner of the bed. She was gentle with her movements as if you were an animal that she was afraid to startle. Natasha had a tight hold on her operations. She was nothing more than a myth. Simply the boss.

Somehow, she scared you more now than she did before. When you were tied to the chair, you were certain that you were going to die. But now, in this royal-style room, you were filled with questions about why she let you live.

“I don’t make mistakes, but unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the people who work for me.” She was glaring at the design etched into the duvet, gold embroidery. Her perfectly manicured fingers thumbed the flower. “You were profiled, and you were profiled wrong. I don’t go after single mothers, especially ones that don’t keep certain… habits.”

There was a sinking feeling that you weren’t meant to speak. This was the delicate moment during a hostage situation where the robber has a gun pointed at your head, the finger on the trigger and a burlap sack of money in the opposite hand. Your words would do nothing but loosen the safety.

“This is being dealt with, believe me.” Natasha looked up at you, her eyes fierce, a beautiful fern color that bounded off the darkness of the walls. “But you must understand, y/n, I am not known for my kindness, and I am certainly not known for my mercy. You still took the money, and you still owe me.”   

You drew in a breath, opening your mouth to protest, but Natasha held up her hand and you snapped your jaw shut. There was a bit of amusement in her stare that you didn’t have the mental capacity to dissect.

“Yelena said that you know how to fight. Or, at the very least, take a hit. So, I’m not asking. I’m telling you that work for me until your debt is paid off.”

Natasha had gotten impossibly close to you. That same deep scent of mint filled your lungs. It wasn’t comforting, but it didn’t’ unsettle you anymore, and neither did her warmth. You winched when she reached up and grabbed your face, squeezing softer than Clint had, her nails still dug into soft bruising.

She whispered her words, breath hot on your lips. “You belong to me now, and I don’t always play nice.”

Natasha ‘not playing nice’ looked a lot like having a driver drop you off in front of your apartment without your shoes. The sidewalk was cold despite the hot day, and as you stared up at your unit, you swore that the curtains flickered. You blinked and squeezed the bridge of your nose immediately regretting it the second you felt the shooting pain reach your eardrums.

They had taken your keys, presumably to make copies, and the sweatpants that you were given were much too big around your waist. You had sinched them with a shoestring, just counting yourself lucky that they’d provided a change of clothes in the first place. Even the shirt was stained and had a logo on it for a defunct Quiznos in queens.

Your body threatened to give out as you took the stairs two at a time up to your apartment. You still didn’t’ have a grasp on how much time had passed, but it was evening when you left work, and the sun felt like a mid-day assault on your senses.

Frantically, you knocked on your neighbor’s door, wiping your sweaty palms against your pants. Natasha’s pants. More than likely- Clints pants. It took a few moments for the door to swing open, but when it did, you were flooded with relief.

Darcy had an eyebrow lifted at you. “Holy shit,”

You didn’t let her get another word in edgewise before you engulfed her in a hug. She let out a breath at the impact and after a few seconds, pulled you in closer. Darcy was a friend, someone you trusted enough to watch your daughter. There was a soft spot in your heart for her. You didn’t let go when she backed the two of you into the living room and let the door fall shut behind you.

“I was three seconds from calling the police, y/n.” she pulled back, squeezing your shoulders. “What happened to you?”

You were instructed on what to say, word for word. You’d repeated it twice to Natasha and once to the driver. Lying to Darcy, someone who was the equivalent of a lie detector. Her eyes were hard, her voice hushed.

“I got jumped by a couple of guys on the way out of the restaurant. I was stranded on the other side of town, no phone. I tried to get here as soon as possible but I got a little banged up. I’m okay, a little shaken, but okay.” You frowned, “What day is it?”

Your eyes searched the room for a clock, for anything that would give you indication, but Darcy, while one of the sweetest people you had ever met, was a bit scatter-brained. You trusted her with your daughter, and with your own life, but there were spare computer parts strung out across her coffee table, on the couch, and the television stand.

“Y/n, you’ve been gone for two days.” She lifted your chin with a curled finger, making a hissing noise as she sucked in a breath “Oh they got you good. You’re sure you don’t want to press charges?”

“More trouble than it’s worth.” You shrugged your shoulders. “I would love an icepack, though. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’ve got frozen peas and corn, dealers’ choice. Ronnie finally fell asleep; I kept telling her that nothing was wrong but she’s too preceptive for her own good sometimes.”

It was a bad move, but you gave Darcy a thankful squeeze on the shoulder and moved down the hall to the guest room.  It was the cleanest place in the house, reserved for visitors. Darcy still had zoomed in photos of computer chips. They were like little mazes without an escape, her personality shining through.

Veronica was laying on top of the duvet, curled up in a blanket that was typically strewn across the base of the bed. She wasn’t asleep, her tempered gray eyes flicking to the door and then lighting up when she realized that it was you. You leaned against the doorframe, warmth flooding you.

You wrapped her in a bone-crunching hug, squeezing her into you as if you never wanted to let her go. She smelled like Darcy’s shampoo, a light floral concoction that comforted you. Ronnie’s hand squeezing the fabric of your borrowed shirt.

“Hi, baby” you pulled back slightly, enough room for you to give her a kiss on the forehead, pushing back ringlets of curly hair. “I missed you.”

Her nose scrunched up and her little fingers ghosted so softly over the pulsing bruises on your face. You never wanted her to see you like this, for anyone to see you like this, but at the moment you didn’t care. Having her in your arms was enough to erase all of that doubt.

“It’s alright. I’m alright,” You assured, and she crunched her nose again. “Oh, you think I stink?”

You probably did. You’d been strapped to a chair for 48 hours, nearly vomiting up what little food you’d consumed the night of your abduction. You’d sweat through your clothes, and the borrowed ones weren’t much better in the scent department.

“Too bad, little one,” you poked at her sides, eliciting an infectious giggle. “You’re stuck with me, stink and all.”

You let yourself go slack against her, trapping her under one of your arms. Veronica playfully tried to shove you off and you let out a grunt at each attempt. Eventually her arms wrapped around yours and she settled into you.

Maybe some sleep wouldn’t do you bad. Your body was about to give out, and the only instructions you’d gotten from Natasha other than the white lie of your injuries, was to hang tight and heal until she contacted you, and she would contact you.

“I didn’t know which one you wanted, so I brought both.” Darcy said from the doorway. You mumbled into the pillow in response, nothing legible. “Oh, we’re cuddling, or is this a hostage situation?”

You winced internally at the words, but sighed contentedly when you felt the weight of the frozen vegetables against your shoulder blades. You melted into the pillows, the bed dipping down as Darcy laid on the other side of Ronnie, as you drifted off to sleep.

[Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toocreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff]

[mydearlybeloathed]

𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐀

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: zoro doesn't dance, but he has no issue in watching you twirl yourself off your feet. so long as you twirl back to him when your feet get tired.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: opla!zoro x fem!dancer!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: use of Y/N, swearing, dancer!reader, fluff

𝐎𝐏 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

He was terrified, but not terrified enough to deny that you held his very life in your hands. Zoro didn’t mind that, not at all; you were gentle and funny and lovely and kinder than he deserved. Yet, you were real, as he often was reminded when you carded your hands through his hair with a little laugh and a mumbled, “Dumbass.”

No, Roronoa Zoro was terrified of how much he’d grown accustomed to your entire being.

It was also mildly frightening that you knew fully well just what he would do for you. Zoro admitted, he never tried very hard to hide it, not after your quiet little confession of affection some months ago, under the starlit sky, the wind brushing your hair away to reveal your face.

He’d been yours long before then, but only now he didn’t care to hide his adoring stares and relished in the little way you hooked your pinky with his when you were nervous. How your eyes searched him out when you entered a room. How your kisses grew from shy to ravenous as your relationship progressed.

It was safe to say he was certain you were as infatuated as he was, if not more, though that was a heated topic of debate between the pair of you (“There’s no way you love me more than I love you.” “Wanna bet?” “Zo, I literally took a bullet for you.” “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to bring that up… Why the fuck—!”)

A grin ghosted over Zoro’s face at the memory, and how you’d just laughed as he scolded your reckless affection. His grin grew to a smile before he could cool his expression, and then the warmth of your palm was cupping his jaw, drawing his face closer to yours. 

In the low light of the tavern, he swore you glowed. Or maybe it was the three shots of vodka in your system. Either way, you were an angel if Zoro ever knew one. An angel who blessed him with your touch and your teasing little smirk as you asked, “What’s got you smiling?”

“You,” he replied like a reflex. Leaning into your touch, he cast a look around the tavern, scoping out your other crewmates for signs of disturbance. Luffy and Usopp were at the bar, Nami was swindling a woman at the booth across from yours, and Sanji was charming up a brunette in the corner. None of the other patrons minded your crew, so Zoro allowed his shoulders to lose just a bit of their tension, and his hand drifted from his sword to your hand, tugging on it gently to urge you to sit beside him instead of across.

Giddy, you jumped up and hurried to his side, sliding in till your thigh was flush with his. Zoro’s body warmed as you leaned into him, not caring to ask as you took his arm and wrapped it around your shoulder, gazing up at him softly. Your comfortability filled him with confidence; how you moved with such familiarity in his presence, and how it contrasted from when you first met—it was enough to make his ribs crack just to have room for his rapidly expanding heart.

“Good answer,” you teased. You reached up to card your fingers through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp and smirking wider as he grunted and closed his eyes. “Tired?”

Zoro huffed a laugh. “No.” 

It was your turn to reminisce, watching as your swordsman melted before you, guard nowhere to be seen. Yours. Never would you have thought you’d actually get to call him that, but here you were, after all the odds and barriers of character.

You particularly enjoyed how he looked just now, eyes closed as you gazed up at him. Once upon a time, Zoro would whip around to make sure you never stood at his back, always ensuring you were nowhere near his blindspot. Now, you mused, he often slept with his back to your chest, your fingers trailing shivers up and down his arms. 

Now, his dead eyed gaze didn’t instill you with paralytic nerves; you knew he was more bark than bite, at least with you. 

Your dumbass.

“Oi, Y/N!” called Usopp, who had moved from the bar to the wide open space many used as a dance floor. The band of various instruments played a whimsical tune, the rhythm causing your knee to bounce in time.

You raised your brows. “Yep?”

Luffy wrung an arm around Usopp and laughed like a lunatic. “Come dance!”

Your eyes were droopy and honestly, you just wanted some sleep—but who were you to deny your captain? Besides, weren’t you the Strawhats’ resident deathly little dancer? 

Casting your boyfriend a look only to find him pursing his lips, you giggled and kissed his frown away, escaping the booth in his brief surprise.

Zoro watched as you leapt to your feet and practically floated with the grace in your steps. As much as Zoro trained and as hard as he tried, he’d never been as graceful with a sword as you were now. Somehow, that made him love you more.

A fiddle and drum, a flute and dulcimer—from what Zoro could tell with his limited knowledge, the music was exactly your style. A lively sort of sound. 

And as the music blossomed anew, Zoro spotted that tell tale sparkle in your eye; you had something up your sleeve, per usual, and as your toes started to tap against the ground he knew you’d be amazing, per usual. 

Luffy’s enthusiasm drew attention, and soon enough a crowd had formed.

You clapped your hands in a steady rhythm, twirling around in the middle of a circle of people, their gazes trapped by your every move. The crowd soon mimicked your clapping. From the front of the circle, Luffy and Usopp cheered louder than the rest.

Zoro leaned this way and that to keep his eyes locked on you, but it became increasingly difficult as you drew them near like moths to a dancing flame.

With an arabesque leading into a balancé, you glanced over your shoulder and caught Zoro’s eye through the people. His heart stuttered.

You laughed, pure joy in your lungs, and shifted your style from more classical to something looser. You twirled and curved your arms in an “S” shape before pointing your foot and scraping it in the dirt in a wide Rond de Jambe. The movement was swift and agile as you continued to follow the flow of the music, completely in your element. 

Mind elsewhere, Zoro hardly realized he’d stood up, not until he had forced his way through the crowd and stopped between Luffy and Usopp. The clapping all around him was deafening, only made worse by the sweet torture of your laugh. 

Again, your eyes locked him in place as you swept toward him, only to take Luffy by the hands and twirl him around with you. Zoro scoffed and folded his arms over his chest, unable as ever to hide the smirk tugging at his face. 

A giggle left you as Zoro’s face got lost in the whirl of your surroundings. You started a swing dance with Luffy, releasing him a second later to drag a newly approached Nami into the fun.

Your head spun and your feet ached—yet you would never feel happier than when you danced with your friends.

Well, you might’ve been a bit happier when dancing with your special green haired friend, but you knew him well. If you were to drag Zoro into the circle and dance him into the ground in front of all these people, he’d be compliant, but less than pleased.

No. When you danced with Zoro, it wasn’t like this; it was slow and steady, to the rhythm of nothing but the sea. It was deep in the belly of the Going Merry, when the crew was fast asleep, and the moon hung high. When you had the world to yourselves, and could sway in the hold of the other without interruption.

It was simple and plain, but it held a very special place in your heart.

Nami let you spin her around, rolling her eyes before she yelped as you pulled her in and dipped her low. She snorted into a laugh and stumbled a bit, grabbing your arms to keep you from whirling her around again.

Shooting her a wink as she all but ran back to the bar, you danced on light feet once more, starting up a roar of steady clapping. 

Your swordsman stood in awe, his eyes desperate to catch as much of your radiance as he could, like you'd disappear at any moment. He always believed good things never last, but he’d die before he let this one end. Because you were Zoro’s best thing, and he refused to grow a similar policy surrounding best things.

So when you had spun off your balance and teetered off your feet, he was there, his arms scooping under yours and catching you against his chest. Out of breath, you looked up and found his eyes, letting the rest of your weight lean into him as he stood a steady post. 

“Hey,” you giggled. 

“Hi.” Zoro tilted his head. “Ready?”

You were back on your own feet in an instant, thoughts of a warm bed more enticing than dancing through to dawn. So you took his hand and beelined through the crowd, shoving your way through and dragging Zoro along. You winded up collecting Nami by the door, and waited up for Sanji too. The navigator and chef yawned in time, their eyes droopy.

You were no better, your steps lazy as you mindlessly followed after Zoro and the others. It felt as if you’d blinked and you were back on the Merry, gazing up at Zoro who only nudged you with his shoulder. “You up?”

You grunted in reply and promptly led the way to your shared cabin, throwing open the door and letting go of his hand. You plopped into the blankets and at once felt yourself melt into them. The bed dipped a second later. Rolling over, you grinned up at your boyfriend, finding him with his brows met.

“Gonna take off your shoes?” he asked, though it sounded more like an order. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you huffed, lugging yourself back up to undo your laces and rip the offending apparel off. You turned to find him under the blanket, holding up one end to make you room, and you settled in beside him. Your head found its natural place on his chest, sleep just on the other side of the mental door, so to speak.

Lost in thought, you barely registered the words spilling from your lips. “I love you.”

It felt natural, like a breath you needed to survive. You wanted to say it again, then once more, and maybe again just for good measure. 

Zoro stiffened, his face going an embarrassing shade of red, and he was grateful you weren’t able to see it from your place tucked against his side. He barely even breathed, wondering how much time had really passed since you’d uttered those worldbreaking words. It must’ve been longer than a few minutes; you were fast asleep, none the wiser. 

He swallowed thickly and sank deeper into the bed, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He’d deal with figuring out how to say it back in the morning, and decide whether it’ll be the full truth some time later. Or, that was the plan anyhow.

Zoro really couldn’t hold back how you consumed his thoughts—his deathly dancer—and he could deny it all he wanted, but Roronoa Zoro had fallen in love, and apparently, you had as well.

The swordsman grinned, pressing a kiss to your hairline and forcing his eyes shut. How he got so lucky to have you love him, he had no clue. All he knew was you made his life a sweet kind of complicated, and he wouldn’t want you any other way.

[m4rv3l-girl]

You’re not empty

Bucky x Y/N

Just an encounter - and a bit of healing for the white wolf…

Requests open

Warning: Some angst.

The city’s lights flickered like broken stars, casting a hazy glow over the streets as Y/N made her way down 9th Avenue.

She checked her phone for the third time, frowning at the lack of response. Bucky was supposed to meet her hours ago. He wasn’t usually one to forget plans, but there’d been a distance to him lately, a subtle drawing away that she couldn’t quite place. Tonight, though, that distance was becoming physical—stretching wider with every unanswered text.

She wandered through the familiar streets, her mind racing with worry and frustration. The occasional neon sign buzzed softly overhead, splashing the damp pavement with colors as she walked. The deep hum of the city around her almost drowned out her thoughts, leaving only the pulsing beat of her heart in the quiet spaces between.

She’d just about given up when a soft, orange glow caught her eye.

Tucked down a side street, a narrow bar with faded lettering on the window gleamed like a forgotten relic from another time.

Inside, she spotted him immediately.

Bucky sat hunched over the counter, shadows pooling under his eyes as he stared down into his drink. He looked distant, almost haunted, like a soldier lost in the memories of battles he’d rather forget. She stood there, watching him from the doorway, her heart tightening at the sight.

Finally, she approached, sliding onto the barstool beside him. He glanced up, a flicker of surprise softening the hard set of his jaw.

“Doll,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “What’re you doin’ here?”

She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as she looked at him. “I could ask you the same thing, Bucky. You were supposed to meet me three hours ago. I was starting to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth.”

He looked away, his fingers tightening around his glass. “Guess I just… got sidetracked.”

The tension settled between them, thick and heavy, filling the silence with unspoken words. She watched him closely, the way his shoulders curled in, like he was trying to shrink away from something, or someone.

“Are you going to tell me what’s really going on?” she asked softly.

He sighed, a long, weary exhale that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand sleepless nights. “It’s… it’s nothing, Doll. Just old memories. Bad dreams. Sometimes it’s hard to shake ‘em.”

Her heart ached at the quiet vulnerability in his voice. She knew he had scars—ones that ran far deeper than the metal arm or the haunted look in his eyes. Gently, she reached out, covering his hand with hers.

“You don’t have to deal with it alone, you know,” she murmured. “I’m here. I don’t care how dark it gets.”

He glanced at her, his gaze softening for a moment before he looked away again. “Sometimes I wonder why you stick around. I’m not exactly the easiest person to be with.”

“Maybe I like a challenge,” she teased, nudging him lightly. “Besides, you’re worth it, even if you don’t see it.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always know how to make a guy feel better, don’t ya?”

“Just part of the job, Serge,” she replied, grinning as he shook his head with a soft chuckle.

“Serge, huh?” he mused, his tone lightening just a bit. “Guess I could get used to that.”

He took another sip of his drink before setting it down, the glass clinking softly against the counter. “C’mon,” he said, standing up and offering her his hand. “Let’s get out of here. The night’s too quiet for sittin’ in a bar.”

She took his hand, the warmth of his fingers grounding her as they left the bar and stepped into the cool night air.

They wandered aimlessly through the city streets, the quiet between them comfortable, each step a slow unraveling of the tension that had been coiled inside him.

They walked until they reached a small park, its iron gates slightly ajar. Bucky led her to a worn fire escape overlooking the cityscape, and they sat down side by side, gazing out at the endless sprawl of lights stretching across the horizon.

After a long silence, he spoke. “Sometimes I feel… empty,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Like there’s nothing left inside me. Just shadows and echoes of someone I used to be.”

She felt her heart clench, the pain in his words cutting through her like a knife. “You’re not empty, Bucky,” she said softly. “You’re just… healing. It’s not easy, but you’re not alone. You’ve got people who care about you, who want to help. You’ve got me.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her, his blue eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “You mean that, don’t you?” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Of course I do. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze drifting back to the city lights. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” she admitted, squeezing his hand. “But I’m here for the long haul, Bucky. No matter how hard it gets. I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it.”

He turned to her, his face softening as he reached out to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin in a gesture so gentle it made her heart ache. “Darling,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t deserve you.”

She smiled, leaning into his touch. “Maybe, maybe not. But that’s not up to you to decide, is it?”

A laugh escaped him, low and soft, filled with a warmth that felt like a glimpse of the person he might become, someday. He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her as they sat there, letting the quiet comfort of each other’s presence fill the empty spaces in their hearts.

As the first light of dawn broke over the city skyline, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “You make all this…” he gestured vaguely to the city, the memories, the loneliness, “feel a little brighter. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Love is a funny thing,” she murmured, smiling up at him. “It has a way of filling even the darkest places with light.”

They stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms as the city came alive around them, its hum of life blending with the quiet promise between them.

It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t easy, but in that moment, with the sun rising over the horizon, they had each other—and maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

——————————————————————————————————

[tendersugarx]

Ask the Angels

tomas vrbada x f!reader nsfw

now you’re once again luring him to you as if you’re made of siren’s curse, seconds away from dragging him into the depths.

(and when he breathes, he looks for you)

-----

it’s just that you’re not only obsessed, you’re hungry. and it’s a different kind of hunger where the slightest sign of affection will have you throwing yourself on top of him, claws out to make sure he’s marked. he’s always stunned at how much you want it, how much you want him, how much you want his cock. it drives him insane, makes him hold you from behind, press his body against yours. ‘if you love it so fucking much, you can have it every day’ he says, salivating because one hand is holding your waist and the other is pushing your panties to the side, the rosy cotton ones he loves so much, and you’re wet, god, you’re so wet for him. if this had been the first time during the day he would have found it cute, charming, lovely. look at you, so eager, holding your breath, goosebumps at the slightest brush of his fingertips on your skin. you're gorgeous and he’s the one doing this to you, getting you into this state. but this isn’t the first time, no, it’s the sixth time in the course of 4 hours. desperation speaks louder than anything else, he’s given you so much, made you come so good---a few times using only his tongue---and now you’re once again luring him to you as if you’re made of siren’s curse, seconds away from dragging him into the depths. he holds his cock by the base, teases your entrance, slides it between your folds. he’s so sensitive, you’re so sensitive, everything is spinning. ‘please please please please please--’ ‘i’m here, i’m here, i’ve got you, sweetheart.’ and he pushes in with one stroke, so hard it jolts you upwards for a split second. he wastes no time, fucks you nice and fast with no breaks, he needs this too, he needs it as much as you do because otherwise he’ll cease to exist. he knows, logically, that’s not true, the rational part of his brain still functions (yours is long gone) but it’s what it feels like. that if he doesn’t have you over and over he’ll never have you again.

you’re such a good thing, the greatest gift he’s gotten over the last few months. being cooked up here with you, hiding for a bit, disappearing to everyone else---he's on a hunt, to his clan, he's on a hunt. and that's not really a lie, is it? you present yourself like prey, you melt in his hand, his kisses are long and candy-like, his teeth sink into your skin and he draws the tiniest bit of blood, licks it clean again and again. god, he’s so sweet, proud, sliding in and out of you like this--- he’s come inside you three times already, and you begged for it in your mouth, too, begged because you wanted his taste, wanted to see his eyes rolling to the back of his head, to feel his fingers tangling in your hair as you urged him to use your mouth as he pleased. and now now now god now you want it inside of your cunt again, you feel so full already, such a mess, yet you ask for it so adoringly. he chokes on a moan at the request, his heart is beating fast, sweat covered skin and damp hair, eyes sparkling, lips used and swollen from your kisses. “i said i’d give it to you, didn’t i?’ ‘you did,’ you say, out of breath. ‘i’ll come inside you, sweetheart, you feel how hard i am, i’m fucking throbbing inside of you and you--fuck---you squeeze me so tight, you're the only one who gets me like this-- ‘ he’s rambling away in your ear, sweet nothings, he’s admitting to so many things, he’s picking up the pace and thrusting into you like his life depends on it and it probably does. one particular angled thrust takes you there, makes you clench down on him and scream a silent scream, head tipped back almost touching his chest. he gets louder, even faster, he’s coming too, he’s coming so  fucking hard and pressing you against that wall and he’s, he’s--

‘yeah, like that, come on my cock, come on my fucking cock, fuck fuck fuck i love you, i love you so much---’ you’d barely picked up on his previous ramblings but these words register perfectly, seep inside your skin, into your bloodstream. this is what makes you blush. not the fact that he's been fucking you against the wall with such force your nails scratched the pretty wallpaper as you tried to keep yourself steady, no, no, what makes you blush is the softness of his confession. how the word 'love' sounds on his tongue, pure, the euphoria of hearing him like this, usually so well spoken and polite, losing control to the point of uttering such secrets. when you’re both standing still, panting, trying to recover, his forehead pressed against the back of your head, you think he’s choosing to believe you didn’t hear his words. but you did. ‘i love you, too.’ ‘you do?’ you nod, turning around to face him, to nudge against his face like a cat trying to leave your scent on him. your knees buckle but he holds you. ‘with all i have.’ he smiles. ‘me too. with all i have, i mean, i love you. i want you.’ ‘i’m here.’ "promise?’ ‘i would never stray. not from you.’

[rockingrobin69]

Want

Malfoy did this thing where he only used a finger and a thumb for crisps. He’d wade through mud without a second thought to retrieve Scorp’s ball from the hissing nettles, he put his arm up to the elbow in cold spaghetti sauce on a dare, he rolled down not one but three different hills with Teddy on their hikes, but when it came to crisps, he was his perfect lordly self. A finger and a thumb going in neat motions, barely even crinkling the bag. A dignified amount of crisps pinched tightly, brought slowly into his mouth. So careful and clean and entirely unintentional. He didn’t even know he was doing it.

Harry did.

Harry noticed everything about him. Hard not to when Malfoy was like this, weird and loud and awkward, pathetic and incredible and everywhere. When Teddy adopted him and Scorp (officially, with a letter he’d hand-written, signed with a drawing of, randomly, a horse); when they moved in, and Malfoy’s pyjamas became a recurring vision, llamas and tiny buttons following even in his dreams; when he found the stray cat, named her Nibbles for no earthly reason; when he was a menace, and Harry adored it. Him. Adored—the whole thing, how their lives suddenly became this, tight and uncomfortable and too warm and perfect.

Teddy was no help. He practically had love-hearts for eyes whenever Malfoy walked in the room. All these ‘Draco, look!’ and ‘Draco, can you—’ and ‘Draco, Draco, come sit next to me!’ that drove Harry spare. And Scorp was such a tiny little thing in all his Molly-made-jumpers, babbling with a look of utter importance and following Teddy around, and cackling with joy whenever he was in Malfoy’s arms. And the cat, fucking, cat, always getting kisses and—

No, Harry wasn’t jealous, that wasn’t quite it. He was… overwhelmed with how gentle it all was. Never really imagined life could be like this, didn’t think he’d want it. Discovered he did with such terrifying intensity, that he yearned for something that wasn’t quite nameable, that he somehow almost had. It kept him up at nights and filled his days with this weird, feverish joy. It was soft and itchy and all his. Almost his. So fucking close to being his.

And Malfoy was right there, sitting across from Harry with his ankle on one knee and the bag of fucking crisps and the way he was eating them, almost—decadently, and utterly, helplessly serious. On the rug, Harry realised he probably loved him.

Stretched, leaned slightly to his side until he was touching Malfoy’s knee. “Hey,” he said, swallowed.

“Hi.” Malfoy offered him the bag. “Want some?”

“You eat crisps funny,” Harry said for an answer. “All cleanly and stuff. It’s funny.”

“Oh. Well. Always happy to amuse you.”

He was so ridiculous, with the little stickers he let Ted and Scorp stick on his socks, on the sliver of his leg that was visible. It would hurt like hell to rip these out, all the fine blond hair caught underneath. Harry couldn’t breathe for a moment, it struck him so hard.

It was the middle of August and a really cold day. All the lights in the living room made it look like… something Harry wanted so badly. Instead of trying to make it into words, he leaned his head against Malfoy. Allowed the fingers threading through his hair. The movement so, so gentle.

“I’m picking Ted early from school tomorrow,” Malfoy announced some time later, in this awful voice he used for Scorp, or when Teddy had a nightmare. “He hates the dentist, so I promised to take him on a walk after. Maybe the hill where we went last month, the one with the waterfall.”

Harry hummed something delighted and heartbroken. Buried his face in Malfoy’s thigh, surrendered to the feeling of his hands, of his warmth.

“Harry… I meant, do you want to come with us? Sorry. That’s not—wasn’t quite clear.”

Buried his face tighter.

“Or—maybe we can go another day? Just us. You and me, I mean. There’s this place I think you would like. If you absolutely insisted, we could take Nibbles along on her lead.”

Brought his head up, pouted at Malfoy’s pretty face. “No, that’s…” stopped when he noticed the smile. When he realised that this thing that he wanted was already his. Pressed a tiny kiss to Malfoy’s shin, to a sticker of a star on his hairy leg. “You are,” Harry said, and meant it from the bottom of his heart. Breathed, breathed. Sat there and grinned to himself.

The bag of crisps crinkled. The afternoon went on, lit and weirdly warm. It was the life Harry didn’t know he wanted, that he ached for, that he had.

(If you enjoyed this, I've recently shared the first part of Wonderful on AO3. Consider checking it out for your pining needs).

[moxfirefly]

Nnnn- how about-

Fem!reader, choke + behind with Donnie boy? If you're up for it 👀😩

*rubs hands together evilly*

Let’s do this anon.

Rated Explicit

The foggy spot that spread across the window glass was a tell tale sign. The way your breath puffed a new spot to maybe write a message, draw a little heart or tell Donnie that he was currently so far deep in your guts your soul was cracking.

In the best of ways, naturally so.

Donnie had arrived in a mood, a temperament that was palpable right down to the tips of his fingers. He hasn’t grabbed you with ill intent, if anything there was a neediness in his grasp. A longing when his lips had landed on your own, it was somewhere in the way his tongue found the roof of your mouth.

So when he’d not so gently pressed you up against the window of the fire escape, when he’d yanked down your pants and kicked your legs apart, you know he wanted to center himself.

And nothing had Donnie more centered than stuffing you full of his cock and watching your thoughts melt out of your ears.

His height made this angle deliciously ache, made standing on the tips of your toes agony but it would be far worse if he pulled out now, if he stopped pushing his frustrations in you, you always did like it when he took a rougher approach.

A hard slap echoes next to your sweaty cheek, the condensation of the mirror mixing with the sweat. Donnie’s large three fingered hand slides enough for the squeaky sound to mix with your own embarrassing squeak. His hips aren’t stuttering, he isn’t close, he just wants to consume and fill every little hole you have to offer.

So when that large hand finds your neck, caresses the flesh before applying pressure to key points, you can’t control the second embarrassing choke and squeak you emit. He pushes your head back, the tension in your neck burns, aches as much as the neglected spot between your legs.

Donnie likes watching.

He likes watching your skin turn red, the veins in your eyeballs become more prominent, he simply adores that somewhat far away blissful glaze that adorns your face as every wave of everything hits.

The tempo of his thrusting mixing with the blood pumping into your ears.

He grins, drunk off of your pussy and the vice it currently has.

And just when you feel lightheaded and unable to stand he lets go and pumps the first load of many for tonight.

[hellsburners]

def need some more perv!matt !! If u want to can u write some perv!matt x dom!reader ?

me and the devil

a/n: kinda related to my first fic but you can read it alone. pairing: matt murdock x gender neutral!reader word count: 930 warnings: 18+ warning, perv!matt, toy use, dom/sub themes, sub!matt, dom!reader, tonight you punish the devil

masterlist | more matt murdock

The devil’s heart raced because of the situation. He could feel the blood go in and out of its chambers rapidly, anxiety creeping through his skin. He felt the way you pressed into his thighs, your hands gripping on through his clothes. You were giving him gentle kisses on his abdomen, soft pecks on his hard muscles. Your fingers wandered to the hem of his trousers, where the fabric meets skin. Your fingers drew circles on his pale skin teasingly. You slowly raised his shirt, slightly licking your way to his chest and his hard nipples. You licked them and you heard him moan. The trail your tongue was making finally led to his neck, where the stubble felt rough on your cheek.

“You’ve been unfair,” you whispered to his ear, giving it a teasing nibble. “Playing with yourself without me. What should I do about that?”

“Deal with it,” he said begrudgingly. You continued your back down, leaving his compression shirt bunched up to his chest. Your hands caressed his chest and played with his nipples. You added more pressure to them, giving them a little pinch.

“And let it slide? You think so little of me Matthew,” You palmed the tent forming in his pants. “Here’s what we’ll do, you’ll lay here while I deal with this.” His cock throbbed from your actions. You began to undress his pants, his cock standing hard all thick and big, the head pink from the torture. You began to lick the base of his dick, he closed his eyes as you licked up the shaft. You began to tease the tip, tracing your finger on the sensitive slit. The devil cursed, you took this as a sign to take the head in your mouth, letting saliva pool in your mouth. You took him deeper, your nose hitting the base of his center, all seven inches in your throat. He places his hands on your hair to form a better grip on you. You quickly pinned them down to his sides. 

“No, love, your hands stay here, at your side. You’re not allowed to touch me,” he cursed from your order. You went back to sucking his dick, not forgetting to fondle with his balls. His body began to tense, his hands gripping onto the sheets, his teeth sinking into his lip. Your grip on his dick started to tighten. “No, no, no, Matt, loosen up I’m not letting you cum unless I say so.”

He tried to plead, calling The Father and The Son’s name. There was no god in these four corners tonight. No angel will come down to strike you, because tonight you had the devil in your hands, and he's here for you to punish. You let out his cock drenched in spit, the head leaking a white substance. Tonight you are to offer something to the devil, not yourself, no, he doesn’t deserve that yet. 

“Do you trust me?” you asked, he nodded in return. Behind your jeans pocket was a small black object, around three and a half inches or so. It was made with silicone and a silver button attached to its end. The devil could hear you lube the object in your hands.You began to draw circles around the rim of his hole teasing it. He began to whimper, a moaning mess in front of you. With your left hand you gripped his cock, your thumb resting on the wet tip, your other hand holding the black object, slowly inserting it in his hole. You could feel a resistance from the contracting muscle. You whispered some comfort to him, telling him to relax. The object began to go inside him smoothly. 

You continued to suck his dick afterwards, your arm gently pushing the object in and out. You could feel his cock throb more. He was fighting the urge to moan wherein the neighbors could hear. You pressed on the silver button once, he let out a strong moan, his forehead drenched in sweat. Tears start to pool from his eyes as you click on the button two more times, the vibrations of the object pulsating through his core. 

“I, fuck, I need to cum, please let me cum,” he begs. You tell him a little bit more, you’re not done with him yet. He curses, in his mind the devil was in heaven, the pleasure both good and bad. He jolts from the sudden thrust you made with the vibrator, you must have hit the right spot. You released his cock from your mouth and quickened the pace the vibrator had in his hole, your other hand quickly stroking his red leaking cock. 

“Do you want to cum now?” you said teasingly. 

“Yes, please, I need to, so bad.” He was shaking at this point. You started to stroke the sensitive head of his cock. The vibrator still pressing into his sensitive spot. 

“Let go then,” as if those words were a switch, the devil’s body began to contract. The word fuck spoken repeatedly as thick spurts of cum shot from his cock. Your hand and his abdomen covered in the warm fluid. His moans turned growls and died softly as he rode his climax. You turned off the vibrator while slowly pulling it out. He looked like a mess, covered in both sweat and cum. You licked the cum from your hands as you laid next to him, his arm wrapped around your waist. He snuggles himself in your body giving thanks.

“I need you to do that to me again.” 

reblogs/feedback/likes are welcome all the time :>

if u want to get updated on new fics just tell me and i'd make a tag list

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 1 - Race against the Clock

welcome to whumptober :)

title: the life of the ebony clock went out

fandom: limited life smp

cw: blood, gore, body horror, temporary character death

~

Jimmy’s out of time.

By some cruel hope, he’d believed that he wouldn’t be first. Not again. It had happened three times, now, once and again and again, and maybe it was folly to think that Fate didn’t have her cold fingers wrapped around his neck, but he had come to believe that Grian and Joel would cover him.

He’s not quite out of time, he supposes. The numbers on his wrist still showed some minutes, last time he checked. Not like that’ll last.

Who would sacrifice time for the Canary?

It would only bring his time up to around an hour. One more death, and he would be gone—and he’s certain that such a death would come swiftly. Even well-meaning friends wouldn’t be able to save him.

He hasn’t even died, not quite yet.

He fell off the bridge, hit the ground. Hard. Missed the water.

It was a common mistake, one that everybody's made at least once, but this time is different. This time leaves him here, in the grass, staring up at the blue sky above.

His communicator keeps buzzing.

If Jimmy could see himself, see through his flesh, he thinks he would see that every bone in his body is broken.

He can’t move. Paralyzed, then. He remembers falling, falling, then hitting the hard ground with several ear-splitting cracks, his spine buckling under the impact. His head had whipped forward and then back rapidly, whiplash that’s probably more than whiplash leaving his neck stiff and immobile. His boots are too tight on his feet and shins, a sure sign that they’ve swollen immensely. His elbows have shattered, his left hand turned entirely the wrong way. There’s a rib torn out of his chest, another one digging into his lungs. The back of his skull is crushed in so deeply that Jimmy feels if he could lift his head, his brains would drip out.

He’s bleeding. He’s bleeding from all over, from gashes and tears in his back and his legs and his arms, split open by protruding bones or ripped by the ground and grass. Blood bubbles up on his lips, spills down the side of his face. The only thing he can smell is blood. All he can taste is blood.

It’s more pain than he’s ever experienced, every part of him screaming out in a discordant chorus of agony.

There’s a couple of ways he might die here. It could be the pain. The shock of so many broken pieces. His steadily collapsing left lung, desperately trying to pull the weight of the punctured right. Blood loss from so many wounds. Brain death, the matter leaking slowly through the mess of his skull. Choking on his own blood.

He hates how aware he is. Canary’s curse, aware enough of death to send a warning to others. If this were anyone else—if it was anything but his last life—it would have been death on impact. It isn’t fair that he has to experience death, when everyone else just gets to die.

It isn’t fair. It’s torturous, and it isn’t fair.

He draws in another gasping breath, cringing as his ribs scrape against each other and his throat gurgles. Everything . . . everything hurts. Everything hurts so much, it’s terrible and overwhelming; black and blue spots dance across his vision as he watches the clear blue sky. . . .

He hates—more than the awareness, more than the pain—that he’s alone.

He’s always so alone.

He choked to death on an arrow, once. Slow, heat from the scorching desert suffocating him.

He bled out, traitorous slashes in his back, face-down in the marshy earth.

Shock took him, as an Enderman dug its long fingers into his abdomen and pulled out his organs, dragging them out of his stomach.

Always alone.

Is it too much to ask that someone just hold his hand? Sure, he’s not entirely certain that both hands are still attached to his body, but it’s the thought that counts.

More blood leaks from his mouth. His heart flutters, its jolts coming fewer and fewer.

He hasn’t got long yet. A few minutes at most. The time on his wrist continues to count down.

Joel had wanted to give him extra time. Joel was determined to not let him die first, had promised to help him when his time got below an hour.

He isn’t here. It’s just Jimmy and the end, as it always is. As it always has been.

Another breath, another jab of the rib into his lung. His left lung strains and strains, blood steadily filling his chest.

Maybe he’ll drown in his own blood. He doesn’t particularly want to. He wishes he could close his eyes, quickly and painlessly slip away.

Even more blood floods his throat. He doesn’t have the strength to cough, nor tilt his head to the side.

The sky is quite blue above him. The air is pleasantly mild, the sun warm.

This would be his kindest death, if it weren’t for the pain.

Early on in the game, he and Grian and Joel had gone swimming fully-clothed, then hiked up to a sunny hill and laid out in the grass, letting the sun dry their clothes.

This could be that day, lovely and full of laughter, sleepy and happy and Green.

It isn’t.

This day is Red.

There’s too much blood. Blood all over him, more outside than in. It feels like the majority of the blood in his body is in either his throat or his chest cavity.

One final breath, a breath that nearly doesn’t make it past the blood. The pain, thankfully, is starting to numb, his lack of oxygen finally dragging him from awareness.

Though his consciousness is dimming, Jimmy feels it when his other lung collapses. A sharp pain lancing through his chest, barely distinguishable from the rest of it. Whatever little air he’d been managing to get vanishes, swallowed up in the loss.

There’s nothing in his throat but blood. Too much blood to come out his mouth, so it goes back down into his over-full chest.

Too much blood.

Jimmy’s last coherent thought is that he’s going to need some therapy for this one.

-

Grian: did tim survive that?

Tango: ?

Inthelittlewood: what?

Smallishbeans: he fell off the skynet

Grian: water bucket?

Smallishbeans: he was so far out

Smallishbeans: I’ll go find him

Smajor1995: how many lives have we lost to these bridges

Grian: far too many

Etho: I wonder whose idea that was

Smallishbeans: im gona be sick

Grian: ?

Inthelittlewood: honestly if timmy pulled that bucket i’ll be well impressed

GoodTimeWithScar: Joel… the clockers will get revenge…

SolidarityGaming drowned in his own blood.

Grian: OH

Inthelittlewood: OH NO

Etho: !

BdoubleO100: UM?

Tango: OK UH

Smajor1995: oh nooo

Inthelittlewood: haven’t seen THAT death message before

Grian: OH NO

Grian: oh tim

Etho: I have

Inthelittlewood: ??

ZombieCleo: oh that sounds awful

BigBst4tz2: ohh jimmy

Smallishbeans: iwasn’t fast enough

Smallishbeans: nobody go over there

Inthelittlewood: oh geez

Smallishbeans: lots of blood

Grian: guess he didn’t survive it after all

[burning-academia-if]

"vulnerable" + rook/??? for the anniversary prompts?

Vulnerable + Rook/??? !

Once, long ago, they’d placed a fine dagger in your hands, wrapping your finger around the hilt, “If you truly see me as the enemy, draw this blade and pierce my heart. I will not stop you.”

            Rook had received a similar one, silver blade glinting in the bright glow of a winter moon. You’d held it with more conviction than he had, not trusting the form of the one in front of you, still so unsure of their motives. They’d given you a choice, and had said you could make it any moment.

            Now, you weren’t sure where the blade had gone, cast aside in a drawer somewhere long forgotten. The taste of ripe fruit was sweet on your tongue, freshly harvested from the garden outside. Rook was at the sink, washing his hands of dirt. They were at the counter, cutting the fruit into slices and feeding it to him with a warm smile.

            “I think we should plant fruit trees.” They started, only to be met with Rook’s groan. “Oh? You don’t care for the idea.”

            “No, I just know you’re not going to do any of the work.”

            “Propositus. Of course I will.” Rook sent them and frown, and they turn away from him pointedly. “We both will, won’t we?”

            You offer a small and lazy grin, “Of course. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

            “You’re both the biggest liars in the whole world.” Rook mumbled. They placed another sliced fruit to his lips, a clear ploy to keep him quiet, and he let them.

            The scene is so serene, a far cry from the early days of uncertainty and chaos. This was not what you think you’d be given, considering the path you’d been so ready to follow. The weight of the blade in your hand had not been given lightly, you knew. Still, you’d been ready to use it. On them. On anyone who dared hurt you.

            “If it helps, we have until spring to figure out what we’ll do.” You try.

            Rook hums in response, glancing up and out the window. The trees have started to yellow as the start of autumn sweeps over. Time has slipped by so quietly, it’s hard to believe summer is already over.

            You wonder, if they hadn’t given you the blade and pulled their hair aside so you could easily plunge it in their chest, if you would have trusted them at all. Maybe once, people would have said you’d left yourself vulnerable, using that moment as a sign of trust. Rook had insisted it at first, always tense and reaching out as if to protect you whenever they were around.

            Now, the three of you exist, in a bundle of soft light, and lazy days. It doesn’t matter what you all did to get here or the sins committed. You were here, and you’re glad you made the choices you did if it meant you could have this.

[abiiors]

hot chocolate ☕ // matty healy x reader

promptober '23 - day 19

a/n: for all my girlies with the big sad, the cold months approach :/ cw: discussions of mental health, mentions of depression wc: 1.1k

matty has a pit of worry in his stomach. he’s had it for about two days now, for as long as the house has been unusually quiet. he’s alone in their dimly lit kitchen, barely any sunlight streaming in. whatever manages to sneak in through the parting of the clouds, gets diluted by the sheets of rain falling from the sky. 

it’s dull and grey. exactly the kind of weather she hates. 

matty gives the brewing pot of coffee another look and decides on abandoning it. 

he knows what he will see when he walks into the bedroom—she will be in bed, in the same three day old pyjamas, messy and unbrushed hair, “taking a nap”. not that he cares about how she looks. it’s just the niggling pit that doesn’t let him sit still. 

“darling?” he calls from the door, watching for any signs of movement under the duvet. “you awake yet?”

she should be, he thinks to himself. it’s nearly noon. he wants to make them some lunch but she doesn’t move, doesn’t reply to his question. matty gnaws on his bottom lip and walks in. 

“i’m making something for lunch…” he says again, sitting by her side of the bed and resting a hand on her back. matty knows she’s not asleep. her breaths are nowhere near deep and even. 

“i know you’re awake,” he says softly, moving his hand to her forehead, checking for any signs of an illness just in case. but deep down he knows the illness is not physical. 

when matty threads his fingers through her hair, it’s not the usual soft and smooth strands he’s met with. his fingers get caught up in the greasy knots, accidently pulling on some hair. she winces.  

“go away, matty, ‘m not hungry,” she mumbles into the pillow, voice feeble and barely audible. “‘m sleepy.”

he tuts. it’s a lie—if he’s right, and he suspects he is, she hasn’t properly slept in days, tossing and turning at night. and yet she has left the bed only a handful of times in the last few days. 

he’s tried giving her space, to let her sort things out on her own because that’s usually what she prefers. but he draws the line at skipping meals. 

“sleep after lunch,” he counters, and goes to draw the duvet off her. 

it’s not even a moment later that matty fliches, appalled when she slaps away his hand. 

“i said i’m not hungry!” she snaps, turning away from him, cocooning herself further, shut off from him, from the world. 

he stills and for a moment the only sound in the room is that of the rain hammering against the window. it’s haphazard, nowhere near a soothing beat. this rain sounds more like an anxious heartbeat—loud, odd and out of sync. 

then he hears the sniffle and his heart breaks. 

“baby…” he approaches again, trying to at least slide the duvet off her face. “hey, look at me please.” 

he doesn’t care that she snapped at him or slapped his hand away. right now, he cares that something is deeply wrong, and he’s ready to beg if that means she’d tell him. 

“g-go away, matty,” she tries again, tries so hard not to let her voice waver or crack and yet he hears it. 

matty decides enough is enough, and pulls the duvet off her entirely. 

her pyjama top is wrinkled and bunched up around her waist, and if he’s being honest, she smells a little bit but he can take care of that later. showers and perfumes and oils can wait. everything else in the world can wait. 

“i won't,” he declares firmly. “now you can either keep fighting me or you can tell me what’s wrong. either way, i’m staying right here.”

she looks at him through dull eyes that widen slightly with every word, jaw clenched to keep her chin from wobbling even as her eyes turn pink first, then watery until the tears fall one by one. matty doesn’t shush her, he just quietly pulls her into his chest, letting her cry it out. 

“i’m so cold…” she says after a few minutes. her voice is already hoarse, a whispery shadow of what it’s like on the good days. today it’s barely more than a squeak. “so cold. all the time. i just…i’m just so tired, i can’t. i don’t know what to do. and whatever i do, i can’t g-get, can’t get warm.”

she breaks into another round of tears by the time she’s done—loud, gut-wrenching sobs that break his heart but he lets her be. his only job is to be there and hold her. he just needs to be the sun.

“i know what will help,” matty mumbles into her hair, pressing a small kiss to her head. “give me two minutes?”

and he does return two minutes later as promised. matty practically makes a mad dash to and from the kitchen, balancing the mugs in his hands and his socks sliding on the wooden floors around the corner. but the liquid in them stays unscathed. 

“there we go,” he announces as soon as he’s back in the bedroom. a tiny pang goes through his chest when he sees her sitting up in bed, arms hugging her middle. she looks small, smaller than he’s ever seen her. but there’s a miniscule spark of curiosity in her eyes. 

he’ll take that spark. he’ll nurture and rekindle it. 

“chef matty’s hot chocolate,” he presents it with a flourish smiling at her raised eyebrow. 

“i know you said you weren’t hungry and you were cold. so i thought this would be a good compromise?”

for a moment she doesn’t say anything, only takes the mug from him and cradles it close, lets the steam waft over her face. hot chocolate won’t do anything for a cold that goes bone-deep. but it’s a start. he can do the rest of the work. 

“take a sip?” he nudges, sitting back in the same spot as before. he brings his own mug up to his mouth, nudging her to mimic him. together they drink their first sip. 

instant sweetness floods his mouth, comforting warmth creeping down his throat and settling into his stomach. he can only hope it does the same for her. 

and he will be there for the rest of it. for all the cold days that come after this. 

lemme know what you think <33

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[superbat-lmao]

Roy and Jason have their own comms channel that blocks the rest of the bats.

Because, when Roy is out of commission and it’s a slow night, he says the filthiest things over the comms to try and convince Jason to wrap it up early and come home.

Warning: Mature content.

Roy, who has years of experience over Jason also has the unique delight of patrolling for two weeks while Jason heals from a particularly nasty GSW. Once Jason’s well enough to listen in over the comms, he gets an idea.

The first time he signs on to their private channel, he’s direct and slightly nervous. He doesn’t get further than, “Busy night?”

“Nope!”

“Wanna come home and fuck me?”

There’s a noise like an impact and then Roy saying, “I might have to now that you almost gave me a concussion, Jaybird.”

But after a few days Jason really considered how much work it is for Roy to just keep talking. Because Jason has sat out in the cold for two and a half hours before, completely silent, and still had Roy chattering on in his ear with lurid fantasies.

So, he waits for Roy to do actual reconnaissance, writes down a couple of things beforehand, and really lays into it.

Because if there’s one thing that Roy is that Jason isn’t, it’s that he’s shameless.

But Jason is a bat, and if there’s one thing he’s capable of, it’s completing a mission.

So Roy announces that he’s going silent on his end and Jason waits about 7 minutes before laying into his master plan. He triple checks he’s on their private comm and goes for it.

“Have I told you what I think about on patrol when you’re on the comms? What it was like the first time you caught me off guard doing this?”

“Because at first you gave me a heart attack. I didn’t realize you’d switched lines and thought Babs could hear us. You’d said something about suffocating between my thighs and I damn near fell off a fire escape.”

“But my first stakeout? You talked about me pinning you to the wall of the alley I was above, fisting my hand around your cock, and putting my dick inside you. I couldn’t breathe, Roy. I thought I’d died when the mark finally moved and got the recon of who he was working for. I had to do breathing exercises the whole way home so I didn’t come in my gear.”

After a while, Jason gets used to the silence and just describes everything he can think of about Roy. He talks about his hands, the callouses on his fingers, his arms, what it’s like to sink his teeth into his neck, the feel of his muscles under Jason’s hands, how good he feels wrapped around Jason’s cock, or in Jason’s mouth, or how he tastes clenched around his tongue, how it feels to have Roy inside him, how Roy’s hair feels in his finger tips, how he loves the taste of his tongue, his teeth. How his back curves into his ass and the pale skin he bites when he clenches around Jason.

“God baby, how do you keep your hands to yourself saying things like this. I’m hard just thinking about you.”

And he is. Jason’s sweatpants are tented where he’s seated on the couch.

His mind wanders a bit, thinking on how rarely he’s speaking these thoughts about Roy out loud. He’s an enthusiastic partner, loud even, but rarely this explicit.

“Fuck Roy, is it easier for you to say these things when I’m not in front of you? Because I swear some times I look at you and forget how to breathe.”

“When you’re here in front of me it’s like someone has shorted a connection in my brain. I would forget English if you let me. Until all I could say is your name.”

He goes on for a while longer, not quite keeping track of how long he’s been talking for. He tries to picture what Roy will be like when he wraps up, when he comes home, but he draws a bit of a blank.

Because Jason knows this script, but not from this side. He’s always been the one to come through the window, to take Roy in whatever state he finds him on their bed, and bear down on him. To fulfill any fantasy that he had been hearing for the last twenty minutes to three hours.

But when Jason finally hears their window open, he realizes how much control Roy gives him. Because abruptly, Jason feels as though he’s been waiving a red piece of cloth in a dirt ring and he can finally hear the gate open.

He gasps into the kiss Roy demands from him, smiling into the satisfaction of how riled up he looks now that he’s removed his domino. Roy’s hands move with an urgency that makes Jason laugh as he removes his armor as quickly as possible.

“Of course you would find this funny. Jaybird, I swear on Alfred that if you don’t help me out of this right now I will combust.”

So Jason takes pity on him and strips what he can reach. There’s a pull in his leg when Roy readjusts them on the couch and it seems to occur to him that Roy is usually pretty injured when Jason is on the other side of this set up. He makes a mental note to move them to the bed in the future before letting himself get distracted.

When Roy’s wandering hands press a little too roughly that he feels Jason flinch, he takes the hint and they’re in the bedroom. Roy solves the problem of too much pressure by maneuvering Jason on top of him and letting him set the pace.

After, when they’re cleaned up and enjoying the distinct fuzziness of the afterglow, Roy tracing his fingers lazily around Jason’s chest, Jason can’t help but ask.

“So, how’d the recon go?”

Roy flushed a deep red at the question.

“That bad, huh?”

“I got what we needed.”

“Really? I didn’t distract you too bad? Do I have to up my game for next time?”

“I swear you‘ll be the death of me.”

When Jason shot him an unimpressed look Roy relented and went on.

“I didn’t think it would be that hard, I’ve spent literal hours sitting here doing the same thing and you’ve never almost botched a mission because of a hard on.”

“Yeah well, I don’t know how you can keep talking for so damn long. It’s one thing doing breathing exercises on a roof top, but our living room is too damn boring for me to be stuck looking at when talking about you.”

That gets a smile out of Roy, who presses a short kiss against Jason’s slight scowl.

“Aww Jaybird, you could always tell me while I’m here. I’ll keep things interesting.”

“Roy, if you’re here there are way more important things I could be doing than talk.”

“I do enjoy putting it to use in other ways, I’ll give you that. And tonight wasn’t, I mean. God Jason listening to you say everything, I don’t know where to start. I love every possible use your mouth could be put to, just, I don’t know if I can handle the insane amount of control you’re using to listen to everything on patrol.”

Jason worked on tucking them in properly, reaching for the light so they could finally get some sleep.

“Noted. Dirty talk on the comms only when you’re wrapped up for the night.”

“Ugh, I really hope this grappling with a boner thing doesn’t become a Thing.”

Jason laughed when he kissed Roy before really settling in.

“No promises.”

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

how did Rooster and Hangmen *ahem* meet their girl👀

Part of Our Girl

Pairing: Bradley Rooster Bradshaw x Reader x Jake Hangman Seresin

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. Minors interacting will be blocked

Warnings: Safe sex; vaginal sex; fingering; implied oral sex

When the mustached one (Bradley, he said; Rooster, the other one called him) reassures you that his friend (Jake, he said; Hangman, the guy had called himself) is really harmless—and when the supposedly really harmless one maneuvers a toothpick in his mouth and flashes you a million mega-watt grin and agrees that he doesn’t bite (hard)—well, you’re not sure which one of them is lying.

But you’re more than happy to spend at least a night finding out.

--

You go to Jake’s room. Maybe you shouldn’t be so surprised that the guys have separate rooms, but you are. You can’t help but look around. The motel that they’re staying it isn’t exactly the nicest, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of place used for murder or kidney-harvesting. There's a desk in the corner, and it seems out of place for the layout. The bed is so big, it takes up more of the room than it ought to.

Truth be told, your belly is twisting with nerves. You’ve never done anything like this before—at least, not with two men. One, once in a while, sure. Frankly, you’re not sure what’s come over you, but there’s something so terribly magnetic about the two of them.

You expect some small talk, or standing on ceremony, but you're hardly a few steps inside before Jake's curling his hand around your nape, drawing you in. Bradley's still only halfway inside, hanging the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside of the door and shutting it behind the three of you.

Jake kisses like a wildfire: all speed and ferocity, with a blinding heat. When he draws away, and when you have a moment to catch your breath, you peer up at him, taking in his wide grin. He seems to know how good he is—it’s almost unbearable.

You glance back as you feel Bradley’s hand smooth over your hip, drawing you back into his chest.

"You alright?" He murmurs.

"Mhm."

"You sure?"

You turn to face Bradley fully, searching his face. You reach up, gently removing the sunglasses that he's put back on and tossing them toward the desk in the corner of the room. You're only able to catch a glimpse of Bradley's widening smile before you kiss him.

Bradley's kisses are just as intense as Jake's, but terribly different. Jake kissed like he was trying to consume you; Bradley kisses like he's trying to know you, not overtake you. He kisses like he can drive into the very heart of you. You part your lips, slipping your tongue tenderly along his as his mustache tickles your skin. You're so wrapped up in his kisses that you hardly notice as Jake's hands slip up and under your shirt, rucking it up and up and up until you're forced to let Bradley go in favor of helping Jake remove the garment.

As soon as it's gone, Bradley's kisses drop from your lips. He and Jake seem determined to cover as much ground as they can on either side of your neck, advancing and retreating as the other changes direction. You're grateful to be propped up between them, certain that if they weren't pressed so close, your knees might buckle.

"Hey," You chuckle nervously as one of their hands snakes up to undo your bra, "I'm feeling a little exposed here."

Bradley hums sympathetically and draws away first. You watch as he reaches down, pulling his shirt up and over his head. You straighten as you feel Jake pull back as well, watching as his shirt is tugged up and off, thrown in the same direction as he threw yours. Your gaze darts between them, wandering their tanned, muscled skin, and the dog tags that each of them are wearing.

"Better?" Jake asks, chucking you under the chin. You nod, squeaking:

"Better."

--

The bed that had seemed so big when you'd come into the room feels incredibly crowded now. Your jaw is sore. Your body feels hot, and pliant. Your cunt is throbbing, slick, and feels so full as Jake draws back. Your mouth slips open, the chain of his his dog tags slipping from them as he pushes your thighs wide.

You've cum so many times that you've lost count, but a little bubble of bashfulness still wells up as he peers down at you, his tongue swiping along his lower lip. You hardly have a moment to recover before Bradley's arm is hooking around your middle and drawing you toward him. The sheets are scratchy along your back, and his arm is warm and solid around you. You spread your legs as he eases you onto your side, spearing into you in one fluid motion.

"Oh—god—" You loose a shuddering gasp as his hips begin to hammer against yours. Jake chuckles as he settles in beside you. He pushes his fingers past your slack lips, stroking along your tongue before forcing them deeper. His smile only widens as you gag, and he coos softly, pulling his fingers back to gently tease your nipples.

"Almost wish you could be this side, Rooster," he murmurs, fingers drifting lower and lower before they're dipping between your thighs, playing with your still-tender clit. "So fucking cute when her eyes cross."

Bradley groans as you do, and presses his face into your hickey-moddled neck.

"How's she feel?" Jake goads, swiping his fingers even faster.

"She feels damn good," Bradley murmurs just loud enough for him to hear over your whines and moans; over the slapping of Bradley's hips against yours. Jake nods, gently grasping your jaw and forcing your focus to him.

"Don't think we're letting you go anytime soon, sweetheart."