#edit before the posting but i already wrote all the tags :

[botanicsoul]

Watch Yourself

Pro Hero | Bakugou Katsuki x (fem) Blogger Reader | Aged Up

-> This is a part 2 of “Behind the Screen”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

—

Your inbox is chaos.

Comments piling up, notifications buzzing like a hornet’s nest.

——

“Where tf are you QUEEN?!”

“don’t play w us like this”

“no bc i’ve reread it five times already. give us a BONE”

“you ruined my life now come back and do it again”

——

You’d be lying if you said the silence wasn’t intentional. It was. Completely.

But it wasn’t just strategy—it was survival.

Because ever since Bakugou read your last fic—the one where he quite literally fucked you in his hero suit— You’ve been distracted.

You two have been… talking. Texting. Flirting in that hot, volatile way that feels like standing too close to something explosive. Nothing overtly explicit, but every word between you dripped with the kind of tension that makes your thighs press together under the table.

He’s been buried in hero work—long nights, busted ribs, always tired. You’ve been pretending to stay calm. Composed.

But truthfully?

You’ve been writing. Touching yourself under the covers, laptop screen glowing in the dark as your free hand slid beneath your panties.

Drafting filth between gasps, imagining his hand around your throat, his voice in your ear, his body flush against yours as he makes you watch yourself fall apart.

You were supposed to be staying low-key.

You were supposed to be patient. But you were hungry.

And tonight? You feed the fire.

——

After editing, rereading, and working yourself up until your thighs were slick and sore—you finally hit Post.

And this time, there’s no warning. No tags. Just the excerpt, raw and dirty:

⸻

@/blastyourbackout :

“Pro Hero Dynamight would so love to make you watch yourself get slutted out in front of a mirror.”He’d drag your pretty body in front of it, make you stare at your own ruined reflection as he split you open from behind. One hand in your hair, the other around your throat, all while he whispers, ‘Look at you. That’s what I fuckin’ do to you.’

⸻

That’s all you post.

No context. No explanation. Just the filth.

You slam your laptop shut and walk away like you didn’t just set your entire blog—and possibly even Bakugou’s sanity—on fire.

You don’t expect him to read it that night and you definitely don’t expect him to text you 45 minutes later.

Four messages. Rapid fire.

——

Katsuki :

You wrote that shit while I was out bustin’ my ass?

You fuckin’ serious?

You knew I’d read it.

On my way.

——

You freeze, toothbrush still in your mouth, pulse suddenly in your throat.

He’s bluffing.

He has to be bluffing.

Buzz. A location ping.

Your toothbrush clatters into the sink.

⸻

He’s at your door in under ten minutes. When you open it, you think briefly—he might actually arrest me.

He’s still in his hero suit—this feels familiar—Boots tracking in dirt, gloves tucked under one arm, shirt stretched across his chest like it’s barely containing him. His face is flushed. Wind-tangled hair, a fresh cut across his jaw. And his eyes—Furious.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps inside, kicks the door shut with his heel, and locks it behind him.

Then finally—finally—he speaks.

“You really thought you could post that shit and not answer for it?”

Your heart skips. “It was just—fiction.” He laughs, but it’s humorless. “You didn’t even fucking tag it right.” He stalks forward. “Didn’t even label it as based on real events this time. Why?”

You open your mouth struggling to find the right words, “Because it didn’t happen?”

he gives you a sly smirk, “Well, it’s about to”

Before you can answer, he catches your wrist and tugs you forward—down the hall—into your bedroom. You know exactly where he’s going.

Straight to your closet mirror.

He doesn’t stop until your chest is nearly pressed to the closet door. His palm slides up your spine, warm and commanding, until it’s cupping the back of your neck.

“Look,” he growls. “You wrote that I made you watch. So fuckin’ watch.”

You meet your own wide eyes in the reflection. Your mouth is parted. Your skin flushed. You look like a girl seconds from being ruined.

He leans in behind you, voice low at your ear.

“You wrote I pulled your hair,” he says, fisting a handful gently.

His hand trails down between your thighs—cupping the heat of you through your thin pajama shorts.

“I’m gonna do so much more to you.”

The cool air hits your bare skin when he pulls your shorts down, panties dragged with them. Your palms brace against the mirror, forehead bumping the glass.

Bakugou shoves your legs farther apart with his knee, one big hand gripping your inner thigh, the other steadying your hips as he sinks to the floor behind you. You’re standing—barely—your palms pressed to the mirror for balance, forehead bumping the glass, but your knees already feel weak.

“You didn’t even write this part,” he mutters, low and dangerous, right before he spits on your pussy. The slick sound echoes in the room. Then his thumb spreads it in lazy, taunting circles over your clit. “That was a fuckin’ oversight.”

You gasp as his mouth is on you—ravenous. Tongue plunging deep, nose pressed against you, his groans vibrating straight through your core. It’s filthy. Wet. He’s eating you out like he’s starving, and all you can do is hold onto the mirror and try not to collapse.

“Look at yourself,” he growls, dragging his mouth just low enough to suck your clit between his lips, then back again. You catch his reflection behind you—eyes locked on yours, lips glistening. “Already fuckin’ trembling.”

You choke on a moan, head dropping forward against the mirror.

He keeps going, devouring you with slow, obscene licks, until your legs are shaking—slick and spit trailing warm down your inner thighs. He pulls away only when he knows you’re right on the edge, panting, ruined.

You feel the shift in his breath behind you. He stands slowly.

“Didn’t write this part either,” he mutters darkly.

Clink.

The sound of his belt unbuckling is slow and deliberate, followed by the sharp zip of his pants. Fabric rustles. Then— You hear it.

And when he leans down, lips brushing your ear, he finishes, “Guess I’ll just have to make it up.”

Wet, heavy strokes. The slick sound of him palming himself, dragging his fist down the length of his cock.

He groans low in his throat.

“You hear that?” he rasps, stepping close enough for you to feel the heat of him behind you. “That’s what your shitty little story did to me.”

You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

You try to glance over your shoulder, desperate to see him behind you—broad, flushed, jaw clenched in concentration. But you don’t get far.

Without warning, a rough hand clamps around your jaw and yanks your gaze forward, slamming your attention back to the mirror.

“God fuckin’ dammit,” he growls, voice gravel grinding against your ear. “If you don’t keep your eyes on that fuckin’ mirror, I’ll leave you here—cunt empty and all.”

He drags his tip through your folds—teasing, and cruel.

Then, he slams into you.

“Fuck—Katsuki—” You cry out—one palm smacks the mirror as the other braces your thigh. The stretch is overwhelming. Deep. Perfect.

His hand tangles in your hair again, yanking your head up until you’re staring at your reflection.

You watch the way your mouth falls open, the way your body jolts with every thrust. You watch your own tears start to well. The way his hand wraps around your throat from behind, the way his hips keep slamming forward.

“Suki— I can’t take it an-anymore” you whimper again, voice barely there—thin and cracking, tears threatening to spill as the pleasure tips into something unbearable. Your body’s trembling, your throat closing around the moans you can’t hold in anymore.

“Don’t start cryin’ now, sweetheart—you deserve this.”

It’s too much. He’s too much. The mirror, the pace, his words—him. Your chest stutters with a ragged breath and your lip quivers, trying so hard not to sob.

And for a second—just one—he softens.

His mouth finds your shoulder. Just a gentle press of lips, almost tender. His hands, so rough moments ago, ghost over your hips, up your sides, like he’s holding you together while he tears you apart.

He leans in, breath hot on your cheek as your tears finally fall.

“Shhh,” he coos, so quiet it almost sounds sweet. “You’re fine. Takin’ it so well.”

And just like THAT —his grip tightens again, possessive and punishing. He growls it right into your ear, voice dropping to something feral, almost loving in how cruel it sounds.

He rocks his hips up again, dragging his cock slow and deep, making you sob out a sound so raw it barely sounds human.“You made me sound like a fuckin’ animal.” he snarls.

Because he was.

Because he is.

“Were you writing that filthy shit with your hand down your panties?” he snarls, voice dark with disbelief and want.

Your breath stutters. Eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth trembling as another thrust rocks you forward.

You’d feel guilty if you said no.

“…Yes,” you whisper brokenly.

“Say it louder baby”

The sound of his balls slapping against your clit makes you whimper—each thrust, each roll of his hips, makes the pleasure surge higher.

“Yes—fuck—” you gasp, voice cracking as your head falls back to his shoulder. “I was writing it while I touched myself. I—” you choke on a moan, “I came thinking about you watching me in the mirror. I couldn’t stop.”

He groans—low and wrecked, hips jolting hard enough to slap skin. You cry out, fingers clawing at the mirror for leverage.

He’s fucking you harder now—meaner, like your confession unlocked something vicious in him. “Such a needy little thing.”

You whimper. Your knees are buckling.

“God baby where you want me to put it, huh? inside you? want me to fuckin’ bust a load in this tight pussy?” You can’t speak. You just nod, gasping.—He’s pounding into you now, brutal and relentless, your whole body rocking against the mirror.

He pulls you back against his chest, one hand on your stomach, the other cradling your jaw so you can still see yourself fall apart in his arms.

And when you come—messy, shattering—he groans like it takes him with you, it knocks the breath clean out of your lungs. You cry out—loud and broken—and feel him pulse inside you seconds later, growling into your shoulder as he follows you over the edge. He empties inside you, still grinding his hips through the aftershocks.

⸻

The room goes quiet but for your shuddering breath. He holds you there—pressed to the mirror, skin flushed and sticky, heartbeat stuttering in your chest.

He doesn’t let you go right away. Just holds you there. Like you were meant to be ruined by him, and only him.

You watch the mirror fog slowly from your breath. Then, after a long beat, he leans in—mouth brushing your temple.

“Wanna go on a date?”

You blink. “You’re seriously asking me that right now?”

He chuckles, still catching his breath. “Felt right.” He nudges your thighs together, gently helps you upright, even as his cum drips out of you and slides down your leg.

“I don’t want you with anyone else,” he adds softly.“Don’t want anyone else to have you like this.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Yes, Katsuki. I’ll go on a date with you.”

⸻

Hours later—after he’s cleaned you up, made you eat something, kissed your thighs like he was worshipping them—you’re alone again.

You sit at your laptop, skin still warm, fingertips trembling.

You open a new post.

Title: Correction: Watch Yourself

And you write. Every filthy detail. Just for him.

You posted the new—updated—fic five days later.

Tagline?

#based on real events

#yes he read it first this time

#yes the suit was on again

#no he didn’t let me tone it down

#i still can’t look in my closet mirror without shaking

#i got everything i wanted

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

[sometimeslwish]

Something Just Like This (With Xavier)

The easiest one to write by far, but it might be because I started with him. I always start writing them in the order that they got introduced into the game and later on organize the posting schedule according to the order in which they "appear" in the lyrics of whichever song I chose.

Word count: 1,343

Tags: voice acting, just general +18 content, freakazoid Xavier on the ring, nothing too explicit, just mentions of fluff, smut and angst, he likes playing innocent too much.

Social media handles

YouTube 

sleepingstars (first channel)

starboyasmr (va channel) 

Instagram 

afallenstar – it's clear that it's his personal account. There's a couple selfies, a bunch of food pics, pictures of flowers and cute animals. Sometimes you'll get a peek of his clothes or his plushies. Lots of space related things.

Twitter

starboyasmr – where the interactions with the fans happen. Posts audio announcements and sometimes teases the next audio by making a cryptic post.

How it starts 

His first channel is filled with recordings of the books he read aloud, some requested, others his own preference. He reads poems, stories, a lot of things. It started as a way to earn more money. A child once told him his voice was soothing and asked for a bedtime story, he figured he could turn it into a little thing. It turned into voice acting after one too many people kept commenting about it and encouraging him.

— He did a bit of research before starting, looked up tags and how everything worked, he informed himself thoroughly before trying anything. He already had the set up and some editing experience, he just needed the scripts.

— His first 5 months of boyfriend asmr were script fills, until he learned what he liked doing and got the hang of it, then he started winging it completely. He still does script fills, but it's usually from a fan who wrote something with him in mind.

Eventually, his first channel took a backseat as he focused more on the second channel. So, he went from posting every monday to every two weeks on sleepingstars, while he'd post every wednesday on starboyasmr. 

Channel

— Space and flower themed, it's got a cozy quality to it and it ranges from dark colors to pastels in a coherent way thanks to Jeremiah's help.

— Always starts the videos with "There you are, starlight, are you ready?". It's a habit he could never get rid of, not after the first channel. 

— The first three to five minutes of his videos are the tags and disclaimers to the content. He didn't like his audios jumping straight into it, so it's kind of a way of easing the listeners into the headspace.

— His audios are mostly M4A, it's very rare for him to be specific about gender. The pet names he uses are mostly “baby, honey, sweetheart, angel" and "bunny." If the gender is specified, he might say "sweet boy" or "miss" depending on the type of audio.

— As a gift of appreciation for the fans after he reached a certain amount of followers, he once did a bunny butler audio. It did so well that he had to do a kitty audio for the next milestone and now he occasionally brings them back from time to time. 

— He has two famous audio series that people recognize him for: Lightseeker (a story about a time traveling prince and his royal knight) and Lumiere (an alien crash landing into earth and falling in love with a human). Those are the only audios he has ever scripted.

— The characters he often does are: witch familiars, aliens, hybrids, knights, princes and/or noblesse related characters during october or whenever the time called for it.

— When he did a Q&A video for the fans, it caused some outrage because people couldn't believe he didn't use a script and just improved his way through most of them. Shit got a bit messy and two weeks later, he posted an old, completely unedited video that showed his whole filming process and proved that he didn't script anything at all. Every single hater shuts up whenever the fans use it as evidence.

His sfw content

— Soft spoken, gentle, calm and laid back audios. The fans like his laugh and chuckles the most, it's not rare for him to laugh in an audio, but they love it when he does. His videos carry this slice of life quality that instantly draws you in from the very first moment you listen to his voice.

— He mostly does established relationships, but there will be times where he does a friends to lovers audio or some really slow burn series. He does them so well that it's a little infuriating.

— Little cute dates: pillow forts at home, cuddle piles where both of you (but mostly him) speak of everything and nothing at all, stargazing, walks in the park, eating together, lots of reassurance, warmth, comfort and kisses.

— On the "darker" side of things, he'll do a bit of a jealous or possessive boyfriend audios. He did a yandere audio once– very sweet and loving but quite possessive and restrictive– and instantly deleted it cause it felt uncomfortable for him, that audio never saw the light of day and he never talked about it.

— A bit nerdy and unintentionally hilarious, will say the most out of pocket shit with the most innocent sounding voice. The recurring themes on his videos are mostly spring and flowers, along with stars and planets.

His nsfw content

By the point that he started dipping his toes into that area, he had a year and a half of voice acting under his belt. 

— He struggled at first, everything would go well until he had to act out the sex. He's read a few erotica books before, but those are nothing like this, he would get so turned on that he'd forget the script and end up rubbing one out. It took him a couple of tries to get it right, sometimes it still does.

— The more encouragement he received, the bolder and more natural he got until he found a comfort level. Some of the videos have spicy endings that he posts to a different platform, but not all of them do, it's more of a once or twice a month thing. Those part two's happen on Thursdays.

— Each time they come out, a new batch of fans will make posts about how they didn't expect it from him, about how sweet he is and how they didn't expect so much filth to come out of his mouth. Every single time, he gives them even more whiplash by posting some cute picture of a bunny or some other adorable animal as a response. It's become an inner joke amongst the fans.

— He does some dirty talk, edging, multiple orgasms for the listener, rough sex and a bit of exhibitionism. If he's feeling particularly pent up, he might infer that the listener is being pinned down and takes a more condescending tone or lightly mocks the listener without insulting their worth or intelligence. Sometimes he even does gentle morning and/or period sex.

— Alternates between letting the listener take control and being in control himself, the changes happen like the seasons or the phases of the moon.

Extra things

— Jeremiah is his editor and unofficial manager. He posts the edited videos, keeps track of the fans comments and what they want, so Xavier has a bit of a "schedule" board. It's mostly suggestions for script ideas, a list of the audios he's done that month and the occasional "remember to do x audio before monday" He only edits the audios without the spicy endings and the occasional reading out loud audio. Xavier takes care of the rest himself. 

— His second and first channel seem like they're in a competition with the way that followers will grow randomly. They keep alternating between the channels once they realize that he's the one behind both. 

— His face is already out there because of the few streams where he filmed himself while reading on the first channel, so the followers never really talk or ask about him considering doing a face reveal. It's another thing that happens like clockwork, the new fans see his face and instantly gush over it. 

— He doesn't go out much, but when he does, it's with a mask on. It's rare for him to get recognized, and while he doesn’t mind having a little chat with fans, it's always better to keep it safe. 

Series masterlist.

[peridots-pixiwolf]

sketches from @mipexch 's whiteboard a couple days ago!!

also feat. a very small reference to @onlineviolence :]

[coridallasmultipass]

.

[wordsofwhimsy]

ᴄᴜᴛ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ, ᴋɪꜱꜱ ʜᴀʀᴅ ʚ♡ɞ - Brunch Edition!

Pairing: Lenless [No Goggles]!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: More smuttt for my people!!

Tags: More of that fucked up toxic bullshittt but we love it don’t we? Mark makes reader jealous, lots of juicy brunch drama

Word Count: 2,664

Chapter Synopsis: Next morning brunch with the girlies! Only make it unhinged, make it hot 👏

a/n: i literally had this wrote up last night after i finished the first part & was dying to post it this morning lmaoo. had so much fun writing this

Part One

The air shifts before you even see him.

You don’t know how—maybe it’s the way Sadie suddenly stops mid-sentence, mimosa halfway to her mouth. Or maybe it’s the pit in your stomach that drops like a stone.

And then—

“Oh my god,” Maya whispers. You turn, already knowing. And there he is.

Mark.

In a black tee and dark jeans like he didn’t just threaten murder and make you see stars less than twelve hours ago. Hair a little messy. Bite marks still faint on his neck. He smirks when he sees you—like he planned this.

“Hi, besties,” he says, sliding into the booth next to you like he belongs there.

The silence is deadly.

Lauren stares like she’s watching a car crash. Sadie physically recoils. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Mark says, reaching across the table to snag a piece of bacon from Maya’s plate. “Figured I’d stop by. Catch up.”

You’re frozen. Mouth open. Praying to disintegrate like dust in the wind. And then—he does the worst possible thing. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and kisses the top of your head. “Missed you, baby.” Lauren chokes on her coffee.

You can feel the tension spike. It's so loud you swear someone at the next table over flinches. Lauren mutters, “What in the actual fuck…” under her breath, stirring her coffee like it's laced with poison. You elbow Mark in the ribs, whispering,

“What are you doing here?” He grins, unbothered.

“Thought I’d meet the people you’re willing to throw scissors over.”

Sadie slams her fork down. “You’re joking.”

“Oh no,” Mark says smoothly, picking up a menu he clearly doesn’t care about. “Dead serious. Though, between us?” He leans across the table just slightly, smirking at her. “I dunno why she acted like that. I mean, you’ve clearly already made up your mind.”

Sadie blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t like me, Sadie. I get that. You think I’m dangerous, manipulative, unpredictable—”

“You are all of those things!”

Mark raises your glass of water like a toast. “Exactly. And yet…”He tilts his head, eyes dragging down her face—slow, deliberate. “You stare at me like you want me to prove it.”

The table goes silent.

Sadie’s face flushes so fast, you swear steam rises from her mimosa. “You’re disgusting,” she spits, crossing her arms. “You’re not even trying to be subtle.”

Mark shrugs. “Why would I? You think about me when you’re alone, don’t you?” You kick him under the table. Hard. He winces—but doesn’t stop smiling.

“Jesus Christ,” Lauren mutters. “He’s like if a red flag gained sentience.”

Maya—completely unbothered and already two mimosas deep—leans over to you and whispers, “Okay but like… he is kind of hot when he’s being evil.”

“MAYA!”

Mark raises a brow, absolutely delighted. “See? At least someone at this table has taste.”

Sadie’s glaring at him like she’s two seconds from launching her croissant at his head. Mark’s just sitting back, arm draped behind your chair, sipping water like it's champagne. His eyes never leave her.

“You know,” he says, casual as hell, “I used to think you hated me because you were such a good friend to [y/n].”

Sadie scoffs. “Used to?”

“Mmhm.” He sets the glass down slowly, like he’s warming up for something. “But now I think maybe you just wish it was you I had pressed up against the wall last night.”

You choke on your drink. Lauren’s fork clatters to her plate. Sadie turns bright red—rage red.

“Excuse me??” she says, voice low and incredulous. Mark leans forward slightly, all fake innocence and devil-smile.

“You’re always looking at her like she’s in trouble when I’m around,” he says. “But I see the way you look at me. Like you’re trying to figure out what it’d feel like if I bent you over a table and made you scream my name instead.”

The table goes silent. The kind of silence that rings in your ears.

Your stomach flips, heat pooling low in your gut—half rage, half something you don’t want to name in front of the bottomless mimosa crowd.

“Mark,” you hiss, gripping his arm. “Shut the fuck up.”

He doesn’t even blink. “I bet you fantasize about it,” he says to Sadie, voice lower now, silkier, dangerous. “About what it’d be like to give in. Just once. Let someone wreck you and not say sorry after.”

Sadie’s hand slams down on the table.

“Say one more word,” she hisses, eyes glassy and full of murder, “and I swear I will gut you right here with this butter knife.”

Mark grins. Like she just made his entire week. And you—sitting there between them—feel like you’re about to explode. Jealousy is clawing up your throat, bitter and burning, but so is something else. Something worse.

Desire.

Because watching Mark push Sadie like this—filthy, unbothered, completely in control—it’s doing things to you. Things it shouldn’t.

He turns back to you, finally, and sees it in your face. Oh. He knows. His eyes darken.

“You mad at me?” he murmurs, dragging a knuckle down your jaw, completely ignoring the others. “Or just mad you weren’t the one I was talking to like that?”

You could slap him.

You could also drag him into the back alley and let him absolutely ruin you.

You’re not sure which you’re going to do yet.

But either way—

He’s winning.

You don’t even realize you’re moving until the bathroom door slams behind you, hands gripping the edge of the sink like it might save you from a public breakdown.

You stare at yourself in the mirror. Lipstick slightly smudged. Hair wild from your hands combing through it with pure anxiety. Your face is flushed—and not from the champagne.

You're furious.

Not just at him. At yourself.

Because no one should be that turned on by watching their maybe-psycho not-boyfriend flirt graphically with one of their best friends.

And yet…

A knock on the door. Lauren peeks in, arms crossed tight, eyes sharp. “Okay,” she says. “What the hell is going on?” You sigh, still avoiding your own gaze.

“I know it’s insane.”

“Oh, do you?” she snaps. “Because I just watched that man talk about bending Sadie over a table while your fucking mimosa got warm.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I didn’t think he’d come here!”

“But you knew he was like this.” Lauren’s voice softens, just slightly. “And babe... I know you like danger or whatever, but this? This isn’t just hot anymore. This is toxic. This is red-flag city.”

“I know,” you say, voice cracking.

“So then walk away,” she says gently. “Right now. Don’t go back to that table. Don’t let him sink his claws in deeper. You deserve better.” And for a moment—you almost believe her. You take a deep breath. Straighten your dress. Numb yourself.

You’re ready to let go.

Until you step out. And you see him.

Mark. Now sitting next to Sadie. Closer than necessary. Elbow on the back of the booth. Whispering something in her ear that makes her laugh—real, flushed, flustered.

His hand is on her thigh and damn if Sadie didn’t look like she was enjoying the attention. Something snaps in your chest. You walk back to the table calm. Collected. Smiling.

You slide into your seat and grab your water. Take a slow sip. Mark glances over. And you look right at him. Then, under the table, slowly slide off one of your heels.

His brow lifts. Your foot drags up the inside of his leg, slow and shameless.

His smirk dies.

You press your toes higher—just enough pressure, just enough suggestion—and keep sipping your drink like you’re bored.

His hand tightens on Sadie’s thigh. But he’s not looking at her anymore. He’s looking at you.

You mouth one word:

“Outside.”

One minute later

The alley behind the brunch spot is warm, reeking of dumpster grease and sin, and the second the door swings open—

Mark’s on you.

“Fucking crazy,” he growls against your lips, hands yanking you in by the waist. “You’re gonna touch me under the table while I’m with your friend?”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t putting on a whole show in there,” you snap, grabbing his collar and dragging him down to your mouth. “You wanted me to break.”

“You jealous?” he smirks, teeth scraping your throat.

You shove him against the wall. Hard.

“Seething.”

He groans like it turns him on.

“I love when you snap,” he breathes, hand sliding up your thigh, under your dress. “Love when you act like I’m the only thing that matters.”

“You are,” you hiss, nails dragging down his back. “And I hate it.”

“Then take it out on me.”

Mark's mouth is on you like he’s starving—teeth scraping your jaw, tongue dragging over your pulse point, breath hot as his hands grip your thighs and lift. You don’t even pretend to resist—you wrap your legs around his waist, back slamming against the brick wall, your dress hiking up around your hips like it wants this to happen.

“You’re so fucking messy,” he growls, grinding against you. “You storm off like you’re done with me, then come back and pull that little under-the-table foot trick like a fucking slut.”

Your hand fists in his hair, yanking his head back to look at you. “You’re the one who started it.”

“Oh, baby,” he pants, grinding his hips harder into yours, “I haven’t even started.”

He yanks your panties aside with one rough pull—no teasing, no games, just access. His fingers slide through your slick like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You’re so wet,” he snarls, eyes dark and wild. “You liked watching me touch Sadie, didn’t you? Liked getting all jealous and filthy under that table like a little freak.”

You gasp as he slides two fingers into you, curling just right. Your head slams back against the wall, breath stuttering.

“Fuck you—”

“You wish.”

He presses his forehead to yours, mouth inches from yours as he starts working you open, fucking you with his fingers like he owns you.

“You gonna cum like this?” he murmurs. “With my fingers in you, in a back alley, while your friends sit inside wondering where the hell you went?”

“Mark—”

“I bet you want them to hear you,” he hisses. “Want them to know you’ll always choose me.”

You cry out as he crooks his fingers just right, and he groans, pulling them free.

“Turn around,” he growls.

You don’t hesitate. Hands hit the wall, legs shaking, your breath fogging the brick in front of you.

You hear the sound of his zipper, the rough drag of denim, and then—fuck—he’s inside you in one harsh, unforgiving thrust.

You both gasp.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice ragged, “so tight—like your pussy missed me.”

You moan, high and wrecked, as he starts to move—deep, punishing strokes that send your body slamming against the wall with every thrust. One of his hands fists in your hair, the other sliding around to your throat, fingers pressing just enough.

“You’re mine,” he hisses. “Say it.”

“Y-You’re—fuck—Mark—”

He slaps your ass, hard.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours!” you cry out. “I’m yours, I’m—fuck, don’t stop—”

He loses it.

Thrusts getting rougher, faster, his mouth dragging over your shoulder, biting down like he needs to leave every trace of himself possible behind on you. You can feel yourself unraveling, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your stomach, and he knows.

“You gonna cum on my cock out here like a dirty little slut?” he growls. “Do it. Show me.”

That’s all it takes.

You fall apart around him, body shaking, eyes screwed shut as the orgasm rips through you. And he follows seconds later, buried to the hilt, groaning against your skin like you just saved his fucking life.

Silence.

Just your ragged breathing. Your body still trembling. His hands holding you up. And then, softly:

“…Think they’re still on dessert?”

You wheeze out a laugh and smack his chest. “I was dessert.”

He grins, teeth wicked. “Damn right you were.”

The second you step back into the restaurant, the air feels different. Or maybe that was just you.

Your hair is a wreck. Your lipstick? A memory. Your thighs are still trembling and you can feel the heat between your legs like a living thing. Mark’s behind you, looking completely unbothered—shirt rumpled, hair wild, lip definitely bitten.

Smug. Glowing.

The man has never looked more pleased with himself in his life.

You’re halfway back to the table when Maya sees you first. She stops mid-sip of her mimosa. Her eyes flick to your flushed face. Then to Mark. Then to the way you're walking like your soul just got pounded out of your body.

“Oh my god,” she chokes. Sadie looks up. And stares.

Mark slides into the booth again, reaching for your water like this is just another Tuesday. “So, what’d I miss?” Lauren is frozen. Fork in hand. Horrified.

You take your seat like you’re not dying inside. “...Someone pass the syrup.”

“Are you serious right now—” Sadie starts, voice sharp.

“Oh c’mon,” Mark interrupts, eyes sparkling. “Don’t act surprised. You wanted her to go after me, didn’t you?” Sadie goes silent, jaw clenched.

You stare at him, voice low. “You’re an asshole.”

He leans in, grinning. “You love it.”

Maya just fans herself dramatically. “Okay, but real talk? That was the hottest exit and re-entry I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”

Lauren finally breaks. “You guys seriously just—in the alley? Like a couple of feral raccoons??”

You pick up your drink and sip it with a completely deadpan expression. “I mean, I wouldn’t describe it like that...”

Sadie slams her napkin down. “You’re insane. You let him humiliate you in front of us and then—then you go and just—!”

“What?” Mark cuts in, eyes locking with hers. “Get fucked so hard she forgot why she was mad?”

Pin drop silence.

You don’t look at her. You don’t have to. You can feel it clear as day—the tension, the heat, the way her nails dig into her thigh under the table. Like maybe, just maybe, she wishes it was her.

Mark smiles like he knows it too.

You finish your mimosa in one slow sip, set the glass down, and say, “Check, please.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, but this is actually insane,” Lauren says, standing now, arms crossed like she’s about to launch into a TED Talk on Red Flags and the Girls Who Love Them. “You can’t seriously leave with him after this. He’s manipulative, he’s inappropriate, he literally—you had sex in an alley!”

Before you can even open your mouth, Mark cuts in.

“Oh my god, can you shut up already?” He doesn’t even look at her—just leans back, arm resting on the booth like he owns the place. “You’re so annoying. This is why I like Maya better.”

Maya chokes on her drink, a loud pfft sound spurting past her lips.

Mark points at her casually. “You at least support your friend’s slutty decisions.” Lauren makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a scream.

Sadie is just staring at you. Like she can’t decide whether to pity you, strangle you, or beg to be next.

You snap, grabbing Mark by the wrist and yanking him out of the booth. “Okay! We’re going! Brunch was so fun, love you all, gotta go—bye!”

He’s laughing as you drag him toward the door.

“Aw, we’re leaving already?” he says over his shoulder, waving. “Bye, besties! Don’t wait up!” You don’t look back. You can’t. You’re too busy trying not to let your knees give out from sheer humiliation and adrenaline.

[lightseoul]

CHAPTER 9 | ALL OUT OF LUCK

w.c. 7.4k (hoo boy. i did say i would end this with a bang. i wrote and edited this in two days.)

tags. minors dni. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (26), lots of cussing, mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions of food, mentions of physical & mental health issues, explicit...themes. y'all see for yourselves what those are

a/n. and here we are. a little over two months since i posted the masterlist in the hopes that it would motivate me to see this series through, and i actually did it!!! i poured my heart and soul into this chapter, specifically, so i hope you enjoy it and find it a great way to wrap up the story. see the end for a message <3

links. masterlist, ao3

You shoot up at the sound of a honk—a blaring sound that you think can only be from one of those humongous passenger buses that circle the city.

Except they never really pass by your neighborhood—your apartment being located in the outer peripheries of Musutafu.

So why, all of a sudden, are you hearing these noises?

Wasn’t it just recently that you shot up awake like this?

Clenching your eyes back closed, you shake your head vigorously. The dull thumping that stretches from your parietal straight to your frontal lobe is unmistakable, such is the dryness of your throat. You look to your left, letting out a sigh of relief when you see a glass of water on the nightstand. You quickly grab it and take a sip, finally eyeing your surroundings as you do so.

The room is dim—the city lights emanating through the window the only source of illumination within the four walls, enough to cast a faint glow on what you’re now sure is Bakugou’s bedroom. You’ve only been here one night, but the plush mattress beneath you feels familiar, and you’re a hundred percent sure that’s your suitcase in the corner right next to his wardrobe. The wardrobe where he retrieved the futon…last night?

You shift to be on all fours, wincing to a halt when your back screams in protest at the motion. You try to rotate your neck next, grateful when all you feel is a slight strain and a sting—like you’ve got some bruising at the front. The rest of your body seems to be working alright—fatigued, yes, but not enough to cause you a new wave of pain with every maneuver.

And so with that thought, you slowly crawl toward the foot of the bed, right until you catch a glimpse of the said futon. It’s somewhat undone—arranged exactly how you think Bakugou left it the morning of the mission. Well, how you two left it. You remember accidentally stepping on it once or twice while trying not to invade Bakugou’s personal space as you simultaneously got ready, making a mental note to fix it before you left.

You guess you never got to. Apparently, neither did Bakugou.

Which only means one thing.

It’s still D-Day.

Only then do the events from earlier today come flooding at you, and you find yourself stumbling out the door, barefoot and maybe still a little too out of it to be rushing like this.

Regardless, you burst out of the room—fully expecting the twins to be there—although you’re not hit with a sobering visual confirmation, nor are you hit with a menacing glare followed by a ripping out of your tracker, which you note has already disappeared from its spot in the middle of your chest.

Instead, what hits you is the heady yet comforting smell of ramen broth.

You glance in the direction of the kitchen, and sure enough, Bakugou’s standing there—decked out in lounge clothes under an apron with a ladle in one hand—staring at you, surprised.

“Hey,” he finally gets out after a beat of immobility, before facing back toward the stove and turning down the heat. “You’re awake.”

You nod, although he doesn’t see it with his back turned against you. You pad toward the kitchen as quietly as you can, stopping a few feet away from him where he looks so normal, like he didn’t just wrestle a murderer a couple of hours ago.

What the hell is going on?

Bakugou glances over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in question—and it just dawns on you that you said that last bit out loud—before spinning to fully face you again.

“You had an anxiety attack,” he says as a matter of factly, and you feel yourself flame. “They told me to take you home after they did first aid on the both of us.”

So, he got hurt, too.

You tamp down the shame from your breakdown and note the bandage on his cheek, right where his scar is.

Still, it’s not exactly the two of you who you’re most concerned about right now…

You gulp, willing yourself to hold Bakugou’s gaze. “What about Masaki?” you ask. “D-did he—make it?”

At that, Bakugou sighs, and it’s enough for you to know the answer. Despite yourself, you feel a surge of guilt wash over your body.

“He was rushed to the hospital,” the pro-hero explains, solemn, “But he didn’t make it.”

And when you don’t say anything: “It’s not your fault, Y/N. You didn’t kill him,” he huffs, “I did.”

You shake your head decisively, before tossing him a stern look. “You did what you had to do.”

Bakugou stares at you for a second, an inexplicable expression on his face, although you don’t get to study it further because you look away first. “Did you know he was a consul?” you inquire, suddenly feeling the obligation to change the topic.

Bakugou turns, once again busying himself with the stove. “I heard.”

You pull a stool from underneath the kitchen island and hoist yourself up into it. “Explains why he was never around in the headquarters.”

“Explains why he was never home, either,” he piles on.

You feel your brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“Apparently, he just went through a divorce and lost custody of his daughters to his ex-wife, who that guy Hiroto described to have a pretty weak quirk. Said the man always had supremacist views, but changed for the worst when the woman filed a case against him.”

Huh.

“Speaking of quirks,” Bakugou continues, stirring the broth, “I’m sure you figured it out, but his was called retaliate. He could absorb attacks, especially explosions, and redirect them with—”

“Double the power, yeah,” you finish for him.

“Quadruple if he’s feeling confident—an ironic clause for a relatively meek guy like him,” Bakugou remarks. “Explains why he still took you with him despite suspecting we were doing something behind his back. He needed your luck and was planning to blackmail you into boosting him.”

That makes you frown. “But they didn’t figure out it was actually manipulation, did they? He mentioned luck to me, too. In the car, before we went into the building.”

“No, they didn’t,” comes Bakugou’s cool response. “Masaki and the rest still thought it was luck, just that you may have been using it beyond their instruction. Plus, at that point, they already had my bombs, so they could easily dispose of me and use my life as leverage to get you to do what they said.”

Bakugou reaches for one of the condiments in the rack, lightly shaking the contents out of the container and into the soup. “Explains why they told me last night to follow suit and get dressed in normal clothes. Didn’t matter that I’d be easily identified in them—I was never gonna get to the Prime Minister’s Office anyway.”

That fucking reminds you. “Where did that bastard even take you?”

At that, Bakugou stiffens. “An industrial-grade refrigerator,” he mutters.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he spews, perhaps a bit miffed. You can tell he’s not enjoying talking about this. “I was bolted in, and Kouki disappeared before I could wrangle him into letting me out.”

You can only gawk at him as he drawls on. “Took me a while to gather enough sweat for one massive blow to break the lock.”

“H-how?” you manage to croak out.

“Push-ups,” he answers curtly, still stirring. “I lost count at around 300.”

He takes your stupefied silence as a sign to continue.

“After that, I figured the old geezer couldn’t have gotten me too far—otherwise, he would’ve depleted his capacity to conduct mass teleportation if things went south for them. I boosted myself up to get an aerial view and find a landmark, and got going when I did.”

“Were you still wearing your tracker?” you can’t help but probe.

“I had to,” Bakugou responds, “If I wanted him to come to me. When he found out I was on the move, he teleported to where I was—probably to teleport me to my death, leverage be damned—but I was faster, and he couldn’t catch up.”

“I blasted him unconscious before he could retreat and bring everyone else with him,” Bakugou says as he takes what looks to be a lid and puts it over the pot, leaving a small gap for the steam to come out. “He’s in custody now. Shitty hair’s talking to him as we speak.”

At the mention of the redhead’s nickname, you straighten up. “How is he? And Sero?” you say so quickly you almost stumble over your words, “Are they okay?”

“Yeah,” comes his prompt retort, and you find your shoulders sagging in relief. “The twins put up a fight, but they eventually had them wrapped in Sero’s tape and chased you to the elevator. But then somebody pulled the fire alarm and they got stuck.”

“It was Masaki,” you swiftly supply. “He did it just as he hauled me out of the elevator.”

Again, you watch as Bakugou visibly tenses, but he doesn’t say anything. At least, for a moment, before he sighs.

“Yeah, well, they couldn’t get out for a while because the system needed manual operation to send the elevator back to ground floor, and nobody was around to do it. They couldn’t smash their way out of there, either. Could’ve caused the entire thing to crash down.”

“Wasn’t there any other hero besides them?”

“No,” Bakugou says almost regrettably as he takes the bowl of uncooked noodles into his hands. “They thought I’d be there just as planned, so they assigned the rest of the pro-heroes involved to the rest of the schools.”

You hum in acknowledgment. “I guess that explains why they went for the twins first instead of Masaki. Maybe they thought you’d be there to handle him?”

“No, they had eyes on you,” he corrects, just as he pours the noodles into the soup. “Shitty hair said they prioritized the two because they seemed stronger than Masaki. His packing that much fucking strength came as a shock to everyone.”

You chuckle dryly. “Even you, right?”

He grunts, unamused. “Even me.”

You let yourself sit in silence as Bakugou continues to tend to what he’s cooking. It goes on like this for a little while, before it hits you belatedly.

“Did anyone else get hurt?” you suddenly ask, “You know, aside from Masaki?”

“None, unless you count property damage,” he quips, and you let out a half-hearted laugh. You can hear him smirking when he adds: “Luckily, Kirishima and the others had enough foresight to evacuate the place entirely.”

“I’m guessing you know how they did it?”

At that, Bakugou nods. “…Although, I can’t say I agree with it.”

You cock your head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“They used government surveillance information to send targeted texts to the potential victims—parents on behalf of the students, staff, employees,” he reveals, voice low. “Something about a suspension that they needed to be quiet about for their safety. Except the guards, who had to be there at the entrance.”

“But—”

“That would’ve meant Masaki and the twins would receive the message, too, I know,” he interjects. “Good thing I managed to put their names on that piece of paper. Otherwise, we would’ve been fucked.”

“No shit,” is the only thing you can mumble, head reeling from the revelation just now.

“…We barely made it, huh?” he rejoins, quiet.

“Yeah…” you reply.

A pause.

Then—

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out of the blue, startling Bakugou. You refuse to meet his gaze, though, even as you continue. “For losing it back there.”

At that, Bakugou whips to look at you, and you have no choice but to look up at him. “Hah?”

“I didn’t think I’d use everything up, and it’s been so long since I last depleted my quirk like that,” is the only thing you can get out.

You let your eyes fall to your enjoined hands in front of you. “I couldn’t control myself. I’m…sorry.”

Another pause.

“Tsk.”

Your eyes widen at the unexpected sound, and despite yourself, you find your line of vision going back to Bakugou, who’s now scowling at you.

“The only thing you should be sorry for is that unnecessary as shit apology,” he spits, before turning back to the stove. “Now, come on. Help me with the plates.”

You do just as Bakugou says and assist him.

You end up situating the placemats and cutlery just as he finished up the dish, serving it not even a few minutes later in a luxurious-looking, suspiciously Todoroki-esque bowl that you’re sure costs more than a well-functioning arm.

You try to ignore it as you navigate yourself in his kitchen, although it eventually becomes apparent that a peculiar kind of tension lingers in the air still, but you figure it’s not entirely unfathomable.

It’s only been a few hours, after all.

You repeat this like an incantation in your head—again and again until it somehow sticks—even as you quietly say your thanks and dig in. Not one word is uttered in between spoonfuls of food, the silence reminiscent of yesterday’s dinner—even though yesterday now feels like a whole month ago.

At least, that’s what you were thinking, until a booming voice erupts throughout the room, entirely juxtaposing the earlier stillness. You startle, then ease up when you realize it’s All Might’s, and that it’s merely a ringtone. Bakugou scrambles to fetch his phone from the island, although whatever urgency he had just now goes out the window when he sees the caller ID.

“It’s Asahi,” he grumbles.

You hurriedly swallow your noodles. “Aren’t you gonna answer that?”

Bakugou glares at his phone for another second before shaking his head and turning it off, walking back toward you.

“Isn’t he gonna get mad?” you ask just as he reseats himself.

“We’ve been on duty for over two weeks,” Bakugou snarls, picking back up his chopsticks. “He can kindly go fuck himself.”

That makes you snort, which earns you a smirk, although his face falls almost immediately after.

You swallow the discomfort that shoots to your throat at the sight of it.

You try not to get caught, but you secretly sneak glances for the rest of the meal, and only by the end of it do you notice that his hair’s gone back to its normal, unruly state—probably due to a shower that he took after you got home.

That, and there’s definitely something weighing him down.

You just don’t know what.

You don’t attempt to comment on it as you help him clean up the plates, or even as you start drying the dishes after he washes them beside you. He doesn’t try to start a conversation, either, focus seemingly trained solely on the task in front of him, although you know better than to believe what your eyes are telling you.

It’s that thought that ultimately emboldens you to speak up a few minutes in.

You clear your throat, eyeing him as subtly as you can. “…Something on your mind?”

To your dismay, he doesn’t answer you, only passing a plate without sparing you a single glance.

Well, then.

Despite yourself, you feel yourself deflate at his snubbing.

You had your doubts about coming forward and asking him, although that’s when the memories of the things you had to go through together came in and you thought he’d trust you enough to share—but you guess you’re getting ahead of yourself, because there’s no way he’d—

“You used your quirk on me, didn’t you?

You freeze, all thoughts wiped out from your brain.

You feel his gaze on the side of your face, but you don’t dare turn to look at him, nor do you open your mouth.

He turns away, nodding. “I knew it.”

Fuck this.

“People don’t normally notice—” you blurt, and he shifts to face you again, “—when I use it on them.”

You scratch at your cheek, feeling weirdly restless. “I think it’s only because you’re perceptive to begin with, and because you know about me and what I can do.”

“Why’d you do it?” is his immediate response, catching you off guard. You splutter, although—to your chagrin—he only raises an eyebrow at you, expression nothing less than expectant.

What the hell are you supposed to say other than the truth, then?

“Fine,” you hiss, pulling your lips into a thin line. “It was because I noticed you were getting frantic.”

At that, Bakugou’s eye twitches. “You calling me sloppy?”

“No!” you exclaim, then backtrack. “I was just—I just did what my instincts told me…”

And really, you did.

That’s all you could’ve done in that situation, for a person with your experience.

And you’re about to expound on that to a skeptical Bakugou when, to your surprise, he nods.

“Good call,” he mutters so silently, but you hear it anyway, and your eyes widen.

You must be gaping at him like he just said you are the greatest person to have ever graced the earth because he immediately looks away, embarrassed, a sudsy bowl still in hand.

“It’s stupid,” he continues, and you barely clock him having resorted to aggressively toeing his house slippers—the pair you bought for him. “I’ve never really lost my cool like that before.”

Now, that you’re not sure of.

Still, you force out a decent reaction.

“R-really?”

You’re instantly granted with a side-eye. “Don’t sound so fucking shocked.”

“It’s not that—” you choke, “It’s just that—”

“I have a short temper, I know. Sue me,” he spews, shutting you up.

“But I never let that get in the way of my work,” Bakugou pushes, suddenly serious. “Never.”

You frown, placing the plate you’ve been holding in the drying rack. “Well, they did fool us by separating us last minute,” you offer just as you look back at him, “I’d be pissed, too, getting betrayed like that.”

Bakugou doesn’t say anything in reply, opting to stare at you—borderline scowling—for what feels like a minute. He eventually sighs, and you find yourself mentally sighing at the break in eye contact as he puts down the dish he was in the middle of washing.

But then he turns to you again, face blank, and says the strangest thing.

“Tell me. Are you playing with my emotions right now?”

“What?” you cry, “No! Why would you even—”

You’re cut off when—without warning—Bakugou coaxes the towel from your hand and takes a step close, invading your space.

“Good,” he rumbles, voice low and gruff as he leans even closer. “Just wanted to make sure.”

That’s all the warning he gives you before he grabs your neck and dives in, pressing his lips firmly against yours. You instantly shut down at the contact, your body going rigid against his just like when he kissed you out of the blue this morning. But unlike earlier today, you don’t relax, and he must’ve sensed it, because he quickly pulls away, the hand that was just on your nape now resting on your shoulder.

“Shit,” Bakugou curses, a mortified look on his face. “I’m sorry, I thought—”

“No!” you interject, “I mean, it’s okay. It’s just…”

“Just what?” he breathes out, releasing you from his hold, and you don’t know if you’ve finally gone crazy, but did he just sound…hopeful?

No, he didn’t.

Which is why you muster up the courage to say the next thing.

“You’re just confused,” you finally get out, looking him straight in the eye.

His reply is instant.

“Believe me, I’m fucking not.”

That makes you frown, because why is he giving you such a hard time? You’re giving him an out, for god’s sake. A wake-up call, if you will.

That none of these is real.

And that he’s confusing make-believe with reality.

These very thoughts must be evident on your face because he studies you closely for a bit, a similar frown etched on his features. He then shakes his head, the same way he does when he’s getting impatient.

“You don’t believe me?” he finally says, and you’re about to say no, you do not, when he suddenly takes a step closer, and you find yourself stumbling back.

“What if,” another step forward for him, another one backward for you, “I tell you that I’ve been wanting to kiss the crap out of you, even when no one’s watching?”

Yet another step, and he finally stops. “Especially when no one’s watching.”

You can’t help it—you sputter, and to that, Bakugou only flashes you a devilish smirk. “Nothing?” he taunts, “You’ve got nothing to say?”

“J-just kiss?”

The second you say it, you know you fucked up.

His crimson eyes widen in surprise. “I mean, I want to fuck you, too, but—”

“No!” you cry, and he shuts up, “I mean, not like that. What I meant was, is this thing you’re feeling purely physical? Not that I think I’m all that—” you quickly disclaim, “—but is there something else, or…?”

At that, the motherfucker chuckles, and you’ve got half a mind to bury yourself in the very ground you’re standing on. But then you remember you’re on the top floor of a high-rise building, so that would only mean—

“I want to date the crap out of you, too, dumbass.”

“…Oh.”

A raised eyebrow. “Just ‘oh’?”

You flush. That was too soon of a reference.

Still, you have to respond.

“Oh, as in, oh, great,” you croak, “Because, believe it or not, I feel the same way.”

You can only watch in delight as Bakugou releases a breath you think he didn’t know he was holding, utter relief written all over his body. There’s no controlling the smile that breaches your mouth at the sight of it, earlier’s dreadful anticipation now morphing into a hoard of rabid butterflies. Bakugou sees the change in your countenance and grins.

“Does this mean I get to kiss you now? And that you won’t just stand there like a fucking corpse?”

That earns him a punch to the arm, which he takes in stride, laughing. “Can’t you just do it without teasing me?” you grumble, “You’re such a dickhead.”

“Got it, princess,” is the last (pestering) thing he says before reaching for your neck again and pulling you toward him, wasting no time in bringing your lips to his.

It doesn’t elude you that you’re still somewhat tense, but you eventually manage to will yourself to ease up just as his other hand shoots up to hold your cheek, tilting it so he can deepen the kiss. You can’t help it—you groan when he does, and he takes that as an opportunity to slowly enter your mouth with his tongue, and you squeak at the intrusion. He only laughs at that, but he doesn’t let up, his tongue seemingly having a mind of its own as it swirls and explores without restraint.

You don’t know how long this goes on—your brain filled with nothing but the sensation of Bakugou’s soft lips against yours—but he eventually pulls away, and you have to stop yourself from ogling at how debauched he looks with just his flushed face and swollen lips. You guess you aren’t any different, because Bakugou’s eyes rove over your face—hungrily—almost as if he’s drinking you in.

“You’re a good kisser,” you offer lamely, desperate for anything to fill the tense air.

At that, he coughs, as if he didn’t expect you to say that of all things. “T-thanks. You, too.”

You flash him a grateful smile, although it’s quick to falter.

A beat.

“So…” you try again, “What now?”

Bakugou looks down at his feet, suddenly shy. “I—uh, meant it, you know.”

You gulp. “Meant what?”

“That I want to fuck you.”

Shit.

“But I understand if you don’t want to, or if that’s moving too fast. It’s only been two weeks and—”

“Correction,” you cut in, “It’s been over two weeks. You said so yourself.”

That makes Bakugou pause, who only looks at you in bewilderment. “What are you trying to—”

“I’m ready,” you declare, voice nothing short of sure. “I want this.”

That seems to set something off in the pro-hero, because his entire demeanor shifts. You don’t get to comment on it before he’s back on you in an instant, encasing your lips in a searing kiss. You stagger back from the sheer force alone, grabbing onto his shirt for purchase as you stumble across the living room, not parting ways for even a second, his mouth hot against yours. He seizes you by the waist just as you almost crash into the wall, expertly maneuvering you through the door and into his bedroom, lips still molded together.

He only pulls away when you reach the foot of his bed, letting go of his grip on you to lift you bridal-style, the brazen display of effortless strength sending a shot of arousal into your veins. You loop your arms around his neck as he climbs over the mattress, inching toward the headboard before gently placing you down into the pillows. You waste no time pulling him back closer to you, initiating the kiss this time, and you think he must like that, judging by the way he groans quietly.

“What,” you mumble against his lips, “You like it when I take charge?”

“Fuck off,” he mumbles back, although he doesn’t break away, only biting your lower lip as if in punishment. You wince, but he’s quick to lave over it with his tongue. “Hurry up and—” a kiss, “—take off—” another kiss, “—mm—your clothes.”

That makes you laugh. Of course, he’d order you to strip after just cussing you out.

You don’t complain, though, lightly shoving him away so you can pull your shirt over your head. You glance at Bakugou when it’s off of you, and sure enough, he’s staring at your chest.

“Aren’t you gonna undress as well?” you ask pointedly, hoping your embarrassment isn’t showing on your face.

“Shit, right,” he blubbers, and you find yourself smiling as he hurries to take off his shirt.

Only that smile doesn’t get to last for too long before it’s instantly replaced with an ‘o’ at the sight of his ridiculously defined abs.

You point to it, honestly perturbed. “How the fuck is that even possible?”

Now that makes him laugh, the motion causing his abdominal muscles to flex and you blanch. “What if I tell you I’ve had them since high school?”

“Liar.”

Bakugou grins. “Had you known, would you have forced me to listen to your confession?”

“That’s it,” you make a move to get out of the bed but he tugs you back, flashing you a boyish smile that you don’t want to admit makes you—kinda—all weak in the knees.

“That was the last one,” he promises, still grinning, “I swear.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Why do I feel like you’re lying straight out of your ass.”

“Me?” he asks, feigning innocence as he crawls closer, towering over you again until you’re back to lying on the bed. “Never.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpan, looking anywhere but at him or his broad chest. Although, your efforts are all for naught because he lifts one hand and takes your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Can I take off your bra?” he inquires, the earnestness in his tone almost causing you to squirm.

You thankfully don’t—you’ve decided you’ve embarrassed yourself enough for today—and instead, nod. He doesn’t bother to say anything else as he reaches for your back, and you arch—slowly, Masaki did a number on you, after all—just in time so he can feel your clasp. It takes him a second to undo it, and a few more to lift it off of you, but when he does, the first thing he says is—

“Fuck.”

You snort. “I’m guessing that you like them.”

“Obviously, dumbass,” he spits, although it’s more playful than scathing. Then, he’s back to staring, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. “Wow.”

“What, is this the first time you’ve seen boobs?” you joke—because there’s no way a guy like him has never been with a girl, at least physically—although the jesting lilt in your voice immediately dies out when his face falls and he looks away.

Shit.

There’s only one thing for you to do.

Reaching out for his nape, you tug him down until he’s only a few centimeters away, taking his lips into yours before he can protest. To your relief, he melts into your touch, back to eagerly returning the kiss in a matter of seconds. Wanting to make him feel good now more than ever, you let your other hand snake up to his hair, grabbing a fistful before pulling tentatively—as if to test the waters. You don’t end up disappointed—in fact, you’re far from it—when he groans against your mouth, louder than before. Emboldened by his generous reaction, you pull again—harder this time—and it’s your turn to be surprised when his hips buck involuntarily against your own, giving you the slightest bit of friction that’s nowhere near enough.

You rub your thighs together in an attempt to quell the ache as discreetly as you can, although this motion doesn’t go unnoticed by Bakugou, who withdraws ever so slightly to study you.

“You okay?”

“Yes—it’s just,” you hesitate, before deciding you owe him the truth. “…I want you.”

Whatever Bakugou expected you to say, it sure wasn’t that—and so candidly, too—because he splutters, face evidently flushing despite the dim lights. “I-I want you, too,” he says honestly, “But I should warn you, I’ve never really done this before.”

“I thought you were gonna say you were massive,” you quip.

“Yeah,” he smirks without missing a beat, and you choke, “That, too.”

You slap his chest, which you instantly regret. “You’re the worst!”

He doesn’t say anything to that, only grinning as he leans in and—to your surprise—latches his lips onto your neck. You barely stop yourself from jolting in pleasure when he finds and nips at your pulse point—no doubt leaving a mark that you’re going to have to color correct tomorrow if you don’t want to get any funny looks. To your chagrin—or delight, you don’t fucking know at this point—Bakugou doesn’t stop his assault on your neck, instead bringing one hand up to graze the skin below your breast.

Suddenly tired of all the teasing, you grab his hand yourself and place it right on your boob, smiling when a curse is immediately muttered against your neck. You don’t let go of your hold, choosing to guide him on how to grope and fondle it instead. Bakugou catches on quickly, and before you know it, he’s already playing with your nipples, twisting and pulling them just the way you like.

“You can use your mouth, too, if you want,” you tell him a few moments later, stifling a moan when he sucks on a spot at the crook of your neck one more time, before nodding and easing down so he can be face to face with your chest.

He doesn’t let you get another word in before he takes a nipple into his mouth, and this time, you can’t stop yourself—you jerk against him—which only pushes it further. He takes the opening and starts sucking, and you’ve got half a mind to push him away. You don’t, though, and you doubt you could’ve anyway, his grip on your waist unrelenting as he switches between breasts, doing all sorts of things with his tongue that have your mind swimming.

“Still think I’m the worst?” he eventually looks up and asks roguishly, lips even more swollen and glistening with saliva.

“Jury’s still out—” you hiss when he pinches a nipple, and you swat him away. “Never mind, you are the worst.”

“Even when I do this?” he drawls, and you’re about to clarify with him what he’s going off about this time, when he unexpectedly slips a finger underneath your panties, and you barely, barely manage to bite back a moan.

“Fuck,” he rasps, “you’re so wet.”

You fight back a shudder even as he traces the outline of your sex, seemingly entranced. “Are you—are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

“What, you saying I’m a liar?” is his snarky retort, although he thankfully doesn’t stop his ministrations. In fact, your question only seems to provoke him, causing him to apply more pressure.

“N-no, it’s just that, fuck—” you huff, “I-I wouldn’t be surprised if you went d-down on me and you’d be good at that, too.”

That makes Bakugou pause, and you almost whine at the loss.

But then he practically rips your underwear out of the way, and you somehow don’t find it in you to care at all. They were granny panties anyway, and you’re too engrossed in how the pro-hero urges you to open your thighs for him, and then prying them open himself when you take too long to do it.

Not to mention the look on his face when he finally sees you.

“Stop staring at me, Bakugou,” you can’t help but grumble.

“Katsuki.”

“What?”

He doesn’t shift to look at you, gaze still focused between your thighs. “Call me Katsuki.”

That’s all the foreboding he offers before he dives in and licks a long strip along your slit, and you almost scream, if not for the hand you slap over your mouth the second that he does. He’s relentless—even as you squirm and tremble underneath him—lapping on your wetness like a man who hasn’t had a drop of water for days. You jolt when he flicks his tongue right at your clit, hands instinctively shooting up to grab at his hair. But then he makes the mistake of pushing the wet muscle into your entrance, and you inadvertently pull—hard—hard enough that it causes him to groan against your core, sending a surge of vibrations straight into your pussy.

“Fuck,” you warble, looking down at Bakugou only to see him peering up at you with half-lidded eyes that’s got you almost moaning again. “Keep on doing that.”

Fortunately, Bakugou doesn’t tease you for sounding pathetic just now, only choosing to do as you say. He resumes, with renewed vigor, paying particular attention to your clit this time. He keeps on licking it, and then sucking, before licking it again, that you almost don’t notice when a finger presses against your hole. But then he’s inching it slowly and you’re suddenly all too aware of the intrusion.

The first thing that registers is that his fingers are definitely bigger than yours.

The second thing is that fuck—did he just insert a second one?

You look down to where he’s stuck to your body, but you can’t see anything beyond his head of ash-blonde hair.

But then he does a scissoring motion inside you just as he suckles at your clit, and that’s all the confirmation you need. You can’t help it—you finally moan—and you barely miss him grinning against your pussy at the sound of it.

“Fucking finally,” he breathes out, lifting his head a bit so he can speak. “I thought you were never gonna moan for me again.”

“Again?” you barely manage to answer, already missing his mouth on you. You may be out of it, but you’re certain you haven’t cracked until just now.

“Already forgot?” he goads, pulling his fingers out of you. “Let me remind you then.”

Before you can get up and coerce him to just shut up and continue what he was doing, he’s back to towering over you, smashing his lips against yours.

And then he does it—the thing he did before. The first day in your shared bedroom. You still don’t know what it is, but he does something with his tongue, or his mouth? His teeth? You don’t fucking know, but it’s coupled with his scalding hold on your body, and despite yourself, you moan.

He promptly pulls away, a proud smirk on his face.

“Now, don’t hold back,” he commands cooly as you gape at him in half offense, half shock. “I want to hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He then makes quick work of taking off his boxers, and at this point, you can only stare at him as he eases it off.

He wasn’t kidding.

If he’s noticing you practically eye-fucking him, though, he doesn’t comment on it, although the faint tinge of scarlet on his cheeks is undeniable. Instead, he only crawls over you again, right until he’s hovering over your pelvis.

Wait.

“Bakugou—” you start.

“Katsuki,” he corrects petulantly.

“Katsuki,” you force yourself to say, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious, “Let me make you feel good, too.”

“Next time,” he quickly responds, and you feel your heart lurch at the promise of a continuation. “I just need to be inside you, or I’m gonna fucking nut.”

You frown, although his honest admission sends an undeniable thrill down your spine. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he seethes, “Now, come on.”

You don’t waste another second, opening up your legs just enough for Bakugou to position himself between them. He’s got an arm propped at the side of your head to support his weight, while the other reaches down to finally grab his cock. He instantly hisses at the contact, and you don’t have to look to know it’s his pre-cum that’s dribbling down your thighs.

He then mutters a curse to himself, but it’s not exactly laced with lust just as it has been the past how many minutes.

And that’s when it hits you.

The guy is nervous.

You reach up to touch his cheek, his eyes shooting up to meet yours when you do. You offer him a small smile, one that you hope says ‘I’m alright’ and that ‘I want this’. But then you remember this is Bakugou freaking Katsuki, and the last thing he needs is to be placated.

“Relax, Katsuki,” you coo, grinning when he shoots you a glare.

“And you’re gonna have to do that on your own,” you tease, “I’m all out for today.”

That lights a flame under his ass, because the glare just now morphs into a look of determination, and one glimpse of it is enough to tell you you’re fucked.

“Spread your fucking pussy,” he growls, and you immediately do as he says. He’s back to gripping his cock in an instant, giving himself a few pumps before he’s aligning it with your entrance.

And just like that, he pushes in.

You both groan when he does, his massive dick barely breaching your hole, and yet, it already feels like your nerves are on fire. You sneak a peek at the pro-hero, and you’re glad you do, because you’re met with the glorious sight of Bakugou with his eyes clenched close, lips bit in a fierce attempt to stay quiet.

“Tell me when to move,” he rasps out, refusing to open his eyes.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, bringing your arms up to wrap them around his torso. “Look at me.”

“I can’t,” he seethes, just as you feel his cock twitch inside you. “Or else I’m gonna finish.”

Knowing better than to press him, you nod instead, before wiggling your hips slightly. That grants you a curse from him, but before he can cuss you out, you speak up.

“I think I’m ready. You can move no—” you hiss when he pushes without warning, and he freezes.

“Fuck, I’m sorr—”

“Just—slowly, Katsuki. Go on, move.”

He pushes again—slowly, this time—and you can only sit there and take it as he eases in, inch by inch—stopping sometimes when it gets a bit much for you—until he’s finally, fully sheathed in.

“Shit.”

“God.”

“You’re so fucking tight,” Bakugou grits out, head nestled within the crook of your neck. He still refuses to look at you, but apparently, that doesn’t matter as long as you’re being praised, because his comment inadvertently causes you to clamp down on his cock, and his breath hitches.

“Jesus,” he drones, burying himself further into your neck. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

You don’t answer him, choosing to tentatively roll your hips against his instead. He moans in your ear, and this time, you can’t help but whimper.

“Move, Katsuki,” you plead, “I can’t wait anymore.”

That seems to sober him right up, because he grunts in acknowledgement, before slowly lifting himself with his arms. Only then does he opens his eyes, and it takes everything within him not to cum at the sight of you.

He knows better than to fucking give up, though—not when he’s come this far—so with renewed purpose, he starts with small, shallow thrusts that have you mewling at him and him grunting at you, until he gradually builds speed and he’s pulling almost all the way out only to slam back into you again.

He does this again and again—somehow deeper and deeper each time—all the while panting and moaning above you, until he prods at a particular spot that has you jerking violently against him, cursing. “Fuc—”

“Shit,” he freezes, “What—”

“No, no, no, no,” you cry out, clawing at his bare arms, “Don’t stop!”

At your request, Bakugou’s back to pounding into you in an instant, and you barely miss him looking at you with feral eyes before he hits the spot again, and you scream.

“Right—fuck—right there!”

At that, Bakugou rolls his hips once more and hits your G-spot squarely, and you moan.

“Right there?” he breathes out in question, chest puffing in pride as he watches you bob your head desperately, too blissed out to even care what you look like.

But then your walls are clamping down on him again, and Bakugou curses. “I’m not gonna l-last any l-longer,” he manages to get out, choosing to look at anywhere but your face.

“P-play—fuck,” you choke out, “—play with my c-clit.”

And when you don’t immediately feel his finger on your bud: “Hurry.”

That has Bakugou rushing to rub your clit, and you can only beg for more as the overwhelming feeling of his cock inside you mixes with the euphoria brought by his fingers—until you feel the tell-tale signs of your impending orgasm.

“K-Katsuki,” you shudder, “I’m gonna c-cum.”

“I’m g-gonna—” he grunts, eyes clenched closed, “—fuck—I’m gonna cum, t-too.”

“Katsuki,” you call again, and he turns his head to face your direction. “Look at me.”

And when he does—open his eyes—you roll your hips against his as best as you can, and you say it.

“Give it to me, hero.”

And just like that, he cums.

Hard.

And you cum right with him, digging your nails into his biceps as you moan, so loud you wish he’d kiss you to shut you up, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he moans with you—a strangled one that strangely sends a pang of longing straight to your chest, a longing that you can now finally admit is for the very person in your arms, who you so ardently wish would stay there, even if the mission is long over.

You don’t say any of this, though, even as he kisses your forehead before slowly pulling out, or even as he silently pads to the bathroom to get a towel so he can get you cleaned up. You thank him as he does, and watch him as he puts it away and hesitates for a moment—as if the manual he’s read about sex as a high schooler ends at physical aftercare and he’s run out of instructions.

It’s after a few more moments of awkward silence do you finally sit up and move, scooching over to make space beside you. Bakugou’s eyes trail your movement, widening when he realizes just what you’re doing. He’s stiff even as he crawls to the spot next to you, promptly taking the duvet cover that was tossed to the side in the middle of��everything, before laying it on top of your bodies.

“Thanks,” you murmur, not knowing what else to say.

“‘s nothing,” is his reply, voice equally quiet.

Neither of you says anything for a while, even as Bakugou gently tugs your head so you can rest it on his shoulder.

It’s you, though, who breaks the silence.

“You know, had I known things were gonna end this way, I would’ve just slept in the same bed as you.”

“Fucking tell me about it.”

a/n. :') first off, i want to thank you, friend, for taking a chance on this series and reading it up 'til the end. this has been the biggest endeavor i've ventured into as a writer, and it still feels surreal to me that i'm writing this now as i am about to post the last chapter. that being said, the biggest thank you to everyone who's shown love to all out of luck, especially the ones who left even just a single-worded comment. with the series having reached its end, it would mean the world to me if you let me know what you think about it / how it was for you <3 thank you so so much!!!

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

tagging. @bunnysaursushii @yawnzzzzzzzz @cholios @kashee-h @iluv-ace @lotuslovers @elarakive @sugurusmoon @napbatata @k0z3me @h0ngh0ngh0ng @honeyoru @yoongiwithglasses @hellokitty-doll @lilsebnem @tetsuukuroo @crangrapel0ver @syrhra @qyuin @lotusstarr | @junehasnotbeenfound @sugalarity @haechansbbg @sikuthealien @reiniella3 @ita606 @xoxoblueyy @mutsu422 @eyesforbkg @kalulakunundrum @venus-xxoo @lemuhr @pinkpantheris @ashers-playpen @bakugouswh0r3 @certaindreampost @3ve88 @tsumuus @4acoffee @anonymity-222 @lousypotatoes @homeless-clown @sk8wh33l @jungkookslittlecarrothoe @jax-the-oregonian @shosuki @reisore @babylambdietcoke @sleepyyhabii @adherethecomingofage @hakvyxo @squishybabei @gin-n-chronic-illness | @matchat3a @harryzcherry @h0nestly-though @cc1306 @gold24fish @bakukags @zennypiee @wannabewolf @kameko-ko @lovra974 @arc6021 @kooromin @surprisemodafakas @ilovedenk-i @st4ntwic3 @j1tterbugaboo @call-memissbrightside @arael-asuka @bakugosgothhoe @biancatomlinson @reads-stuff-quietly | @js-favnanadoongi @stxrrielle @panikk-attackkk @ordola @simpforeveryone @typsichryle @arsonfrogger | @vitoshi @floverisland @confusedmomfriend @poemzcheng @cheezemanz @cax-per | @rorel1a @astolary @trashyforashy @sunaraii @reisore | @beepboopcowboy @kyluskaye | @moonz33 | @lovesabreeze @reblogwhoreowo

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── OAKWOOD PUB ♫

...or rafe fucking reader in a bathroom.

✮ pairing .ᐟ pogue!reader x fuckbuddy!rafe

✮ summary .ᐟ meeting up with rafe after your gig when you’re horny.

✮ warnings / tags .ᐟ smut, MDNI! unprotected piv, drug use wc: 1.1k

✮ author's note .ᐟ i wrote this AGES ago but never posted it on my former acc… but i edited it a bit and decided to post it as a part of my 3k celebration.

3K MASTERLIST ✮ RAFE MASTERLIST

rafe didn't know what to expect when he had woken up to a text you had sent him only minutes earlier, his mind still groggy with sleep and his morning wood pressing against the fabric of his boxers. he rubbed at his eyes, trying to make sense of the message you had sent.

cum 2 oaks @ 9pm

he scoffed at the absurdity of you telling him where to be and when, especially the dump you were trying to get him to come to. of course, he knew what you meant when you referenced 'oaks', also known as the oakwood pub, a sleazy, rundown bar in the cut that was filled every weekend with every lowlife living in the area, and apparently that included you. rafe rolled his eyes, before typing out a response.

not happening. not coming to that shithole just for some pogue pussy.

yet, there he was, at 8:55pm, walking into the crowded bar, surrounded by old drunks, some local band playing on the stage while his ears simply blurred it out along with the noise that came from the other patrons, his eyes trying to find you amongst the sea of strangers, mostly consisting of men his father's age or even older; but he couldn't seem to find you.

he finally looked to the stage with an irritated scowl on his face, only to be met with your grinning face as you stood there, in front of a microphone, singing to the crowd.

your body swayed to the music, your eyes closed as if you were being controlled by something other than yourself, like your entirety drowned into the song you were singing. your bandmates basically melted into the background, but when it came to you, it was as if you owned that stage, like you owned the entire bar, your voice so melodic that it managed to drown out all the chatter of the other patrons.

"thanks everyone for listening." you said with a husky voice after the song came to an end, pushing your hair away from your face before pressing a kiss on one of your bandmates' cheek, the same girl handing you a flask that you took a big chug out of.

without even realizing it, rafe had started nearing the stage, and you spotted the boy from the corner of your eye, gesturing towards the bathrooms. he made his way to the empty men's bathroom as you exchanged words with your bandmates for a moment, joining him moments after in the men's bathroom.

"why did you-"

you cut him off by pressing your lips on his, guiding him to one of the stalls, tugging the door closed without caring about the thud it made, your hands behind your back as your fingers worked to lock the door while your lips were focused on his.

he pulled away breathlessly, his pupils now much bigger than the blue of his eyes as he looked down at you, his semi-hard cock pressing against you. "why did you call me here?" he managed to ask.

"i get really horny after shows. don't read into it.''

he grinned, and you pushed him to sit on top of the toilet before straddling him, connecting your lips with his as if you hadn't eaten in days and he was your favorite meal.

his hands were all over you, rafe's hands dipping below the hem of your top, making their way up to your tits, his eyes widening slightly when he realized you hadn't worn a bra, a grin on his lips as you slowly pulled your lips away from his.

you stood up, rafe's gaze following your hands as you slowly took off your black lacy panties from underneath your skirt and put it in one of his pockets, leaving the rest of your clothes on as you bit down on your lower lip.

"you cool if i do a line?" he asked, pulling a bag of coke out of the pocket of his jeans, the boy already preparing to pour some onto the toilet lid.

"go ahead, but i wouldn't recommend doing it off of that. sage, my bandmate, did that once, and she got a weird ass cold for two weeks. don't recommend it."

rafe scoffed, shaking his head, "then where should i do it? your tits?" he asked, fully jokingly. but you couldn't resist the temptation.

you straddled his lap once again, now without any panties, pulling your top down slightly to reveal more of your breasts, a small grin on your face. "go ahead."

and it didn't take too long until rafe had a hundred-dollar bill rolled up, snorting a line of coke off your heaving tits as you looked down at him, a part of you enjoying how almost vulnerable he was in that moment before he threw his head back, your lips attaching themselves to his neck before he pulled your face back, rubbing the remaining coke into your gum, a soft moan leaving your lips as he was rubbing your clit with his other hand.

"you look like a dick when you wear this..." you murmured, taking his backward cap and placing it on your own head, rafe almost laughing as he pulled down his jeans along with his boxers, his cock straining hard in front of you.

"you ready?" he asked with a grin, guiding his cock right below your entrance.

"shut up." you scoffed, placing your lips on his as you let yourself sink down on it, the feeling of every inch of his cock sucked in by your warm, inviting cunt making you moan, but a part of you didn't want him to know how much pleasure he was giving you, didn't want him to give the satisfaction to know just how much you wanted it.

"this is so that no one catches us..." you mumble, your mind hazy, taking his hand and bringing it to cover your mouth while you start getting yourself off on his perfect cock, moving your hand to your cunt, starting to draw circles on your own clit.

rafe's eyes roll back as you ride him, but you don't pay any attention to him, one of his hands still covering your mouth and the other one was on your hips, almost as if he was trying to pull you closer, both of your heads thrown back in ecstasy, lost in the feeling of fulfillment. he pushes two of his fingers into your mouth and you comply, sucking them in deeper, moaning around them as you move your hips up and down on his cock as you felt the tufts of hair at the back of his neck.

the sloppy thrusts slowly turned into more precise ones and you felt the tip of his cock kiss that sweet, spongy spot inside of you each time and you sped up the small circles you were drawing on your own clit, feeling yourself getting closer, the band in your stomach getting close to snapping.

"i'm-"

and before you could even utter the full sentence out, you were clenching around him and creaming on rafe's cock, your thoughts floating to the way rafe's jaw had slackened when he saw you singing on stage, the boy now groaning as he felt your pussy clench around his cock.

and when you felt him spill his warm load in you in spurts, gasps and small whimpers escaping his lips as you let him ride out his orgasm in you, you knew that you had as intense of an effect on the insufferable kook as he had on you.

[kisblle]

Dark Paradise

Pairing: Low Honor Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Part Two

Word Count: 6,218

Summary: After seemingly not wanting you for more than sex, you finally have the strength to leave the cowboy. But Arthur soon finds himself becoming jealous, possessive, and bitter as he watches you move on without him.

Tags: heavy angst, toxic relationship, pnv, smut, porn with plot, low honor, caught in the act, 18+ MDNI

Author's note: THIS is that fan fiction I wanted to read so bad I wrote it myself. I lovveee a low honor, possesive, jealous Arthur that yearns for the reader when he know's he done wrong. So that is EXACTLY what this is. This is one of the fics I've been working simultaneously on, and I think this is the one I am most excited to share. I was kicking my feet and giggling with my jaw hanging open as I wrote the smut scene. Inspired by Lane Del Rey's song, Dark Paradise, low honor Arthur is my dark paradise. Also starting to work on my masterlist since my page has started to get a little more traction.

Update: How tf do yall edit your posts so well?? Like I reread this so many times I didn’t think I’d find anymore errors and then I post it and reread it and it’s full of errors!! HELP.

A guttural moan escapes Arthur’s lips as he spills his seed onto your stomach, his body going slack as he collapses beside you on the small bed. His breath is ragged; white puffs of steam dissipating into the cold air in front of him. “Needed that,” he mutters tiredly. And with a practiced motion, he tucks himself back into his black work pants, the moment already slipping from his mind.

You sit up, reaching for a worn bandana from his wardrobe to clean yourself before pulling your bloomers back into place, letting your skirt fall back down. Exhaling, you slide back onto the mattress, pressing yourself into his side.

Colter had been relentless.

Since the gang arrived nearly a week ago, everyone had been on edge, the weight of Blackwater still pressing heavy on their hearts. But with John Marston’s return, thanks to Arthur and Javier, the burden had felt just a little lighter.

Arthur shifts beside you, his brow furrowing beneath the thick fur of his winter shotgun coat. “What’re you doin’?” he asks, his voice gruff and annoyed.

“Just wanted to lay here with you for a while, that’s all,” you admit, curling yourself closer, draping your leg over his and clinging to him as if he might disappear.

But Arthur exhales sharply and pushes himself upright, dislodging you from his body. You stumble before catching yourself on your elbows. “Best you be goin’ before Dutch and Hosea show back up,” he grumbles.

Your lip quivers with indignation.

You’d be lying if you said Arthur Morgan wasn’t an asshole. For months, you had laid yourself bare for him. Half the time, he couldn't keep his rough, calloused hands off you. The other half? He acted like you didn’t exist.

With a clenched jaw, you swing your legs over the bed and yank on your boots, rolling your eyes as you tighten the laces. You had needed this - needed him - but getting a moment alone had been damn near impossible with Dutch and Hosea constantly occupying every second of your cowboy’s time.

And now that you finally had him? After a quick, meaningless fuck -Arthur didn’t even want you to stay.

“You’re an asshole,” you snap, tying the last knot with a vicious tug.

Arthur doesn’t flinch. He simply lets out a small, amused snort, like this was all some sort of joke to him.

And that pushes you straight over the edge.

“I’m done,” you seethe, standing abruptly. “You want your dick played with? Go find someone else to do it."

Arthur doesn’t look at you as he lays back down, his gaze focusing on the cracks between the wood beams over head. “Shore” he murmurs, voice indifferent. Because he knows that with a single word, he could have you right back in his bed, tangled up in him like a moth drawn to a flame.

But this time, you swear it’ll be different.

You scrunch your nose in disgust, marching toward the exit, fury burning in your chest. You slam the already broken door shut, doing your best to control your budding emotions - you wouldn't let yourself shed anymore tears for him.

...

It takes a day and a half before the familiar heat in Arthur’s loins stir strong enough to send him searching for you. With the way he’d been pulling you into his bed nearly every other day, it almost felt like he was going through a second puberty and he didn’t mind it one bit.

Adjusting his hardened length, he steps out of his makeshift room, offering a brief nod of acknowledgment to his two fathers seated by the fire. Bringing you in here wasn’t an option of course - but the stables might offer enough privacy. You had never been too proud to let him bend you over somewhere less refined anyway.

With a firm kick, he forces open the lodged door, squinting as the sunlight glints off the white casted ground. Though winter still held its grip, the clear skies and shining sun were a welcome change from the relentless storms that had plagued Colter for the last several days.

It doesn’t take him too long to spot you. Like most of the others, you’re outside, soaking in the afternoon rays. But instead of lingering with the other women, you’re standing beside a certain Mexican Guard.

Arthur watches as you playfully swat Javier’s shoulder, a guttural laugh spilling from your lips. In response, Javier leans down, eyes locked on you as he tosses a handful of powdered snow your way. Arthur would be lying if he said the sight didn’t twist something in his gut, but deep down, he was certain you knew exactly who you belonged to.

The cowboy moves through the snow with slow, deliberate strides, the powder slipping off his boots like white sand on a beach . He makes his presence known as he hooks his fingers in the loops of his gun belt, his sharp gaze resting on you.

Javier greets him with an easy, "Oh hey, Arthur."

The outlaw barely acknowledges him, his eyes flicking straight to you. Your easy smile fades to thin lines. He hadn’t forgotten your last conversation. He just figured you’d be over it by now.

"Uh… was wondering if you could help me in the stables with something," he says, making up the excuse on the spot, not even bothering to sound convincing. "Need someone with small hands."

Your response is smooth, flat, and unimpressed as your cross your arms, your voice laced with an undertone of venom. "I'm busy here with Javier."

Javier hesitates for only a moment before shaking his head with a small chuckle. "No, it's okay, amiga," he says warmly. "I have a few guns to clean anyway. Go help him."

Arthur’s smirk is slow, his gaze never leaving yours as he watches your jaw tighten. You both know damn well there’s nothing in the stables that needs your help - at least, nothing Arthur couldn't handle himself. However, you knew the only assistance he was looking for was one that involved a quick release before throwing you out like trash right after.

If the last time Arthur hadn’t gotten the message, you were more than ready to lay your tongue on him the second you knew no one was paying attention. So, without a shred of defiance left, you allow him to drag you through the snow, past the schoolhouse, and toward the stables.

Once the door creaks shut behind you, and Arthur's sure the place is free of wandering eyes, he lifts you up against the wood wall in one swift motion, shoving his tongue down your throat before you can even process what’s happening.

“Get off of me,” you seethe, pounding your fists into his chest, the anger rising as you demand space. With a slight grunt, he lets you drop to the ground, taking a few steps back as if you had slapped him.

Arthur huffs, utterly bewildered. “What?”

You glare up at him, hands on your hips, straightening out the skirt he’s already wrinkled. “I told you I was done with all this.”

Arthur laughs, rolling his eyes as if you’re just having a moment of stubbornness. He steps toward you, all confidence in that cocky smile of his. “You don’t mean that.”

You take a sharp step back, eyes narrowing as you stand firm. “I told you, Arthur. If you want your dick played with, find. Someone. Else. I’m done.”

Arthur’s expression shifts, his charming smile still plastered on his face, but now there’s something more predatory in his gaze. He shakes his head slowly, his blue eyes twinkling with disbelief and amusement. “You don’t want that? Me?....with someone else?”

The tone in his voice, that half challenge, half laugh, is enough to make your stomach churn. But this time, you’re not backing down.

"I told you I was done, Arthur," you spit, your voice growing more venomous with every icy word. "I'm done bein' hid away like you're embarassed of me, done bein' treated like I’m your two penny whore."

Arthur’s cocky smile vanishes, his jaw tightening as anger sparks in his eyes. His brow furrowing, his body stiffening at the accusation. "I don’t treat you like that." He barks, his voice sharp and clear like a shard of broken glass.

You let out a bitter laugh, rolling your eyes. "Oh, sorry - my mistake. Only difference is they get paid, and I get treated like shit for free."

That sends Arthur over the edge. His nostrils flare at the accusation, his hand diving into his satchel as fury overtakes him. "You want money?" he seethes, his voice low and dangerous. "That what this is about?" Without another thought, he yanks out a handful of bills and throws them at you, the crisp paper fluttering to the ground at your feet. "Here."

Your mouth falls open in shock, completely floored by his sheer audacity. Your eyes flick to the ground, where at least fifteen dollars lie in the muddy snow. The anger fades, replaced by something heavier - something sad. Your lip quivers as you lift your gaze to meet his. "You think that's what I want from you... money?" A sob escaping you, a single tear slipping down your left cheek. "Is that what you really think of me?"

Arthur’s anger cools in an instant, the weight of his actions sinking in. Throwing the bills at you was too much. It was cruel. And for a fleeting second, he lets his walls crack. But just as quickly, he slams them back up, his fiery tongue flicking out like a whip.

"Then what do you want from me?"

By now, the floodgates have opened, tears streaming freely down your face. But even through the heartbreak, your voice is sharp. "Once upon a time, I just wanted you and your attention - your love. To be shown off like you were proud to have me." You let out a cracked sob, failing to harden your expression. "Now, I just want you to leave me alone."

Arthur struggles to open his mouth, your words hitting him like a brick. He wants to say something, anything, but he finds himself for once in his life, utterly speachless.

And then you turn. Catching him off guard as you walk away without giving him the chance to respond, knowing that everything might be better that way.

Arthur just stands there, fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes trailing after you.

Stupid. He was so goddamn stupid.

He wants to blame you - hell, it’d be easier that way. But as much as he wants to be angry, as much as he wants to tell himself you’re just some stupid girl he uses for fun, he can’t. Because deep down, beneath all that stubborn pride and whatnot, he knows that he's wrong.

And that pisses him off even more.

...

Two days pass as another wild Ambarino storm brews over the cursed outlaw camp. Arthur’s young mare shifts uneasily beneath him as he returns from a scouting trip, her ears flicking at the howling wind. Before he can steady her, she startles, sending him sprawling onto the icy path.

Call it unlucky or call it karma - either way, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he deserved it. Groaning, he pushes himself to his feet, running a hand over his aching jaw before soothing the mare.

"It's okay, girl," he mutters, the familiar tang of iron flooding his mouth.

Damn.

He’d busted his lip.

As snow began to flurry once more, he took the mare by the reins, leading her into the barn. He worked quickly, untacking her before trudging toward the steps of the old schoolhouse. If he was lucky, all he’d need was a quick cleanup from Grimshaw. But as the warmth of blood pooled in his mouth, he had a sinking feeling he might need stitches.

The old schoolhouse, where the women and children slept, was only slightly warmer than the bitter cold outside. For a brief moment, Arthur wondered why he, Dutch, and Hosea got the good cabin while the women were left to suffer - but he had never been the one to question the gang leader.

The first thing he noticed was Karen, bundled under a blanket, Mary-Beth resting her head on Karen's shoulder, her pale face expressionless. Then Abigail - curled up not with John, but with Jack, holding the boy close in her arms near the fireplace. Ms. Grimshaw, in a rare moment of exhaustion, sits hunched over at the table, elbows resting on the worn wood, looking utterly drained from the day’s struggles.

And then there was you.

Tucked against the far wall, John Marston’s head in your lap as you dipped a cloth into a pail of water, carefully tending to his wounds. Sure, John was incapacitated - possibly from the pain, maybe from Reverend Swanson’s morphine, and Abigail didn't seem to have a care in the world - but that didn’t make it any easier for Arthur to watch. The way you held him close, the way your touch was so damn gentle…

It should be him that you -

“Arthur Morgan!”

That familiar, no nonsense voice yanks him from his thoughts.

Ms. Grimshaw was already on her feet, her scowl sharp enough to cut through stone. She grabs at his chin without warning, tilting his head back and forth as she inspects him with narrow eyes.

"What did you do to your face?"

Even with the tang of iron still coating his tongue, what he’d just seen - you and John - bothered him more than the pain. So when Grimshaw grabbed his face, Arthur only muttered, “It’s nothin’,” before attempting a quick escape.

He should’ve known better.

Before he could take another step, Grimshaw yanks him down onto a spare chair, her grip firm.

"You men… all idiots," she mutters, voice sharp as a knife. Then, without missing a beat, she shoots a glare toward the rest of the room. "And all you women… lazy!"

Arthur barely has time to roll his eyes before she was at work. Taking a small mug, she pours steaming water from the pot over the fire, then reaches for him again.

"Hold still," she snaps, gripping his chin as she dips cloth into the hot water. Without warning, she presses it to his busted lip, scrubbing away the blood like she was scraping grime off a skillet.

Arthur winces - Grimshaw completely lacking the gentleness you had with John. The woman had no mercy.

"Now what you do? Get in a fight with Bill? Lose a game of cards?-"

"Got knocked off that damn mare," Arthur replies, swatting away the woman in dismay.

"Told Dutch not to be sending you out scoutin' in this weather, nothin' ever good comes out of it," she says, letting Arthur stand up.

His eyes quickly flash to you, unmoved. Still letting John sleep in your lap, still dabbing at his scars. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement in his direction. Sure his lip was popped open, actively bleeding out - but atleast the pain was temporary. Seeing you with John Marston of all people - that hurt much worse.

…

Arthur had downed nearly half a bottle of Tennesse Whiskey as he sits slumped over outside the cabin, his eyes fixed on the schoolhouse. The snow and wind had barely bothered him, numbed by the liquor coursing through his veins. But the only thing that truly bit at him was the same damn thought he hadn’t been able to shake since last night.

You and John fucking Marston.

The way you cradled him so gently, your fingers tracing over his scars. The way you acted like Arthur Morgan didn’t exist. Like John Marston - of all people - mattered more than him. It burned in his bones, tortured his thoughts, bruised his ego more than you with any other damn man could.

It had to be you taking care of John. Touching him like that, head in your lap like his should be. It sickened him.

His fingers clench around the bottle, dusting the glass over his split lip, and just as his vision starts to blur, he sees you step out of the schoolhouse, bundled in layers against the cold, completely oblivious to his drunken watch.

Before he could think better, he was on his feet, trailing after you toward the clearing behind the old chapel. His steps were slow and unsteady, but determined.

You were kneeling, scooping handfuls of snow into a metal bucket for melting.

"Enjoy yourself last night?" His voice was thick with bitterness as you startle, lifting your head to the cowboy standing over you. On your knees in front of him for the millionth time - just not in the way you had been so used to.

You exhale sharply, brushing snow from your skirt as you make your way to your feet, the sharp scent of whiskey wofting into the air infront of you.

"You're drunk," you mutter, shaking your head before bending back down, continuing to gather snow. Trying to argue with an intoxicated Arthur was never a good idea.

The gunslinger tilted his head, a slow, cruel smirk pulling at his lips as he lets out a snort of frustration. "Bet Marston's real grateful for all that attention you're givin’ him." His voice dipped in bitterness, anger, and jealousy. "Or do you just got a thing for broken men?"

Your hands still, the snow dripping through your fingers as your jaw tightens. Arguing with him now would be as useless as trying to stop the wind, but damn if his words didn’t sting.

"You're pathetic," you said flatly, refusing to meet his gaze, dumping the last handful of clean snow into the bucket.

Arthur huffs out a bitter laugh. "Least I ain't playin’ nursemaid to some bastard who can't keep himself outta trouble," he shoots back.

You straighten, gripping the bucket tight, your nails digging into the metal. But instead of lashing out, you just shake your head, looking him up and down with something close to pity.

"Go to bed, Arthur."

And with that, you turn and walk away, leaving him standing in the snow. Small flakes attaching themselves to his beard.

He holds his breath, eyes burning a hole into your back as he watches you disappear into the schoolhouse. He only exhales once you're out of sight. His head pounding. Maybe you were right - he should just go to bed.

Silently, he stumbles through the abandoned town, kicking open that damn lodged door to the cabin he shares with his patriarchs. The fire crackles, casting shadows as he steps inside. The other two men are already asleep in their worn beds. His gaze drifting to Dutch’s room, where the leader sleeps soundly on his back, Molly gently tucked into his side.

Arthur exhales sharply, a bitter weight settling in his chest. Maybe he’d feel better if he had you curled up at his side like that. And he swears at himself for even thinking it - because all those days ago, when that’s all you wanted, he was the one who pushed you away.

...

Days passed, weeks bled together, and before Arthur knew it, a month and a half had gone by.

The weather had warmed with the spring melt, and after a successful train robbery, Dutch was finally ready to lead the gang off the mountain. Taking Hosea by his side, he ventures down for a few hours, ensuring that the pass would be safe enough for the caravan.

In the meantime, Arthur grabs a bowl of venison stew from Pearson’s makeshift kitchen, half listening to Uncle joke about bloomers. The stew was nothing special, just venison, but it was a step up from the rabbit broth and salted offal they'd lived on in the early days of Colter. Still, Arthur pays no mind to its bland taste or the two old men chuckling at each other. His focus was elsewhere - on you.

His eyes trail after you as you move to the back of the caravan, hopping in and out of the last wagon, already loading supplies. He watches as you lift heavy boxes and bundled blankets in and out of the wagon bed, his gaze never leaving you.

He hadn’t spoken to you since that night behind the chapel, but the conversation still ran fresh through his mind. Guilt wasn’t something Arthur was accustomed to, yet the feeling had gnawed at him.

He hated to admit it, but something wasn’t right without you. He was never a tame man, but without you, he’d turned feral. And he’d be lying if he said his right hand had done a damn thing to replace you in his bed.

With one final bite, he tosses his half ate stew on the ground, ignoring Pearson swearing at him for wasting a bowl. He didn’t care. His only thought was getting you alone, making things right.

Jaw tight, brows drawn, scowl etched onto his weathered face, he moves toward the wagon silently. You were humming softly, lost in your own world beneath the shaded canopy, unaware of him until you turn around.

“Goddamn it, Arthur, you scared me,” you hiss, clutching your chest, face pale as a ghost.

He didn’t say a word. Instead, he extends his gloved hand, offering to help you down from the rather large jump.

For a split second, you stare at his hand before rolling your eyes, gathering your skirt in your fists, and preparing to jump down on your own.

But the gunslingers patience snaps. With a low grunt, he grips your hips, lifting you off the wagon bed without asking. “You done yet?” he mutters coldly.

Your feet hit the ground, and you quickly straighten your skirt, glaring up at him. “You already know how I feel,” you snap, turning to leave.

But Arthur wasn’t letting go. He catches your wrist, pulling you back with ease. “You want me to say I’m sorry, is that it?” he growls, scowl deepening.

Your lips purse, a crease forming between your brows as you study his face. Arthur Morgan doesn't apologize. Not sincerely anyway. And you knew him well enough to understand that words meant nothing without proof. So you stayed silent.

With a sharp sigh, he runs a hand through his hair, his scowl softening. “I jus'... I don know how to tell you I care for you more than I’d like to admit.”

You roll your eyes. “That doesn’t make up for the way you treat me, Arthur.”

“Goddammit woman, I know,” he shoots back, louder than what he'd like to. Frustration lacing his voice. Mentally berating himself for yelling at the one person that could fix everything. “I ain’t the type to beg-”

“Then don’t.” You snap.

But then something flickers in his eyes - for no more than a second. Something sad. And for a brief moment, guilt pricked at you.

Had you been too hard on him? Maybe not, but you couldn’t ignore that invisible thread tying you to him. Frayed and worn in many places - but still holding on tight.

And Arthur felt it too. You knew he did.

Neither of you would admit it, and hell would freeze over before he ever said those three words to a woman ever again. But deep down, in that cold, stubborn heart of his, he knew how he felt about you.

And that’s why, not ten seconds after you finished telling him off, he pulls you in and kisses you.

It wasn’t soft or gentle.

But either was Arthur Morgan.

Neither were you.

You met his kiss with fire, letting him think he was in control until you bite down on his bottom lip, hard enough to sting, hard enough to draw blood

Arthur jerks back, his calloused fingers swiping over his lip. Gaze dropping to the smear of red on his fingertips before snapping back to you, something wild flashing behind those eyes of yours.

Your tongue flicks out, tasting the faintest trace of him still on your lips. You don't apologize. You don’t waver. You just stare up at him, letting your pout linger, letting your lashes lower just enough to be dangerous.

And God, it drives him insane.

A muscle in his jaw ticks, his breathing uneven, his body drawn to you like a predator to prey. But you weren’t running.

This time, when he grabs you, it was rough, near punishing. He yanks you against him, his grip firm, and possessive. His mouth back on yours, nothing but tongue and teeth.

It was violent and needy. But you couldn't help but to melt into him, knees weakening as his hands find your hips.

Arthur Morgan was an asshole.

But maybe that’s why you liked him.

Sure, part of you would always ache from the way he treated you, the way he pushes and pulls like he couldn’t decide whether to claim you or drive you away. But deep down, beneath all those heavy walls you’d built, you loved watching him unravel. Watching his jealousy twist into something dark and possessive. Watching him squirm when he couldn’t have what he wanted - when he couldn’t have you.

You'd never admit it, but you'd enjoyed torturing him.

Enjoyed the chase.

And for hell’s sake, he deserved every second of it.

No words were spoken as he drags you to his empty cabin. No grand admission of love, no declerations- it didn’t need to be.

As soon as he got you behind those walls, he kicks off his boots, leaving his coat on as he nearly throws you onto his bed. His hands making quick work of your shoes, tossing them into the corner before his lips crash into yours again.

It was desperate and needy, more wrong than right.

Swiftly he yanks your bloomers down one leg, dragging his rough hands up your skirt, flinging the cloth over your hips in a sudden motion. And in a moments time he settles himself between your legs, pulling his already hardened member out from beneath the buttons of his work jeans.

But you wouldn't let him have you like that.

Not this time.

With a sharp inhale, Arthur barely has time to react before you hook your leg over his back, twisting with just enough force to flip him beneath you. In seconds, you have him on his back, your legs straddling his hips.

He looks up at you, momentarily stunned.

Arthur Morgan had always been the one in control - the one on top. But now? Now that he was beneath you? His breath trembles, muscles tensing beneath your hips.

And you could see the exact moment that confusion slips away and turns into something pleasurable for him. And strangely enough, for once in your life; you felt like his equal.

The second your fingers wrap around his cock, Arthur goes slack. His brows smoothing, jaw falling open, breath hitching in his throat. His hands twitch at his sides the second you sink down onto him - slow, deliberate, making him feel every inch of your swollen core. Teasing him until he's sheathed fully inside you.

His head falls back against the filthy mattress, a muscle in his jaw flexing, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. His gambler’s hat tilted low, the shadow of it casting over his eyes, but you can still see the way he’s looking at you.

Like he’s starving.

Like he’s waited too long for this.

And God, he had been needy.

You could see it in the way his lip quivers, in the way his fingers flex like they were itching to grab you, hold you down, rut up into you hard and fast. You could feel it in the way his cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing, stretching you to the point of pain.

His hands finally find your hips, rough and possessive, but before he can take control, you catch his wrists and shove them to the bed beneath your weight.

His eyes flash. For a moment, you see the fight in them. Arthur Morgan was bigger. Stronger. If he wanted, he could flip you over, and take you the way he liked. But the second you roll your hips, dragging his cock deeper, working him slowly and teasing him.

He gives in.

Lets you keep him there, pinned down underneath you.

And from the way his body trembles beneath yours, from the thick, shuddering swallow that bobs in his throat, from the muscle in his jaw that flexes tight, you know he likes it.

The slow, teasing grind isn’t enough. You need him deeper. You need him now.

Your hold on his wrists weaken, hands finding their way gently to his neck instead. Nothing too harsh, just enough for you to let him know who's in charge, your nails slightly digging into his nape. Starting to bounce up and down on him rather than grind.

This surprises him as his jaw goes slack, a devilish smile plastered on his face as a line forms between his brows.

And then -

Still smirking, he reaches up, plucks his hat off his head, and sets it atop yours, watching you ride him like a cowboy. His neck as your reigns.

Something about it makes you burn. Makes you ride him harder, makes you bounce your hips like you’re desperate, running after the high that the slight ache of your core gives you as he stretches deeper into your heat, reveling in the pain that comes with each roll of your hips.

Arthur groans beneath you, deep and wrecked, his fingers twitching at the cotton of your skirts, the veins in his arms flexing as he fights the need to grab you, to fuck up into you with the brutal force he’s so used to.

It doesn’t take long before his restraint snaps.

His breath stutters, his brows furrow, his nose flares - his whole body tensing beneath you.

A sharp inhale. A muffled groan through gritted teeth.

His hands snap up to your waist, shoving you up off of him, just in time for his spend to spill across his stomach, hot and thick - more than his right hand had been able to conjure in the past several weeks. In ecstasy, his head presses back, chest heaving, mouth falling open as the last of it pulses out of him.

From above him, you just watch. Watch the way the veins in his neck seem to pop, the way that his breath steadies as he comes down from his high. Pretty as a picture.

And then, before you can even think about curling against him, feeling the heat of his body rap around you in nothing but innocent affection, Arthur pushes you off of his hips. Rolling to his side like he needs a few moments to recover.

You push yourself to his back, grabbing ahold of his frame just to cuddle with him for a few delicate moments. Half expecting him to send you away like he'd always done.

But before you can get comfortable, he pushes you off of him. Dislodging your from his back.

He hadn't changed.

But then something surprising happens, instead of him getting up to rudely send you away. He shuffles halfway down the bed, turning himself onto his stomach. Settling his head between your bare thighs.

“What are-”

You stutter as he licks up your seam.

Your body jerks upwards in surprise.

His hands snap up, one pressing against your stomach, holding you down. His other hand gripping your thigh, fingers digging in as he pulls your legs farther apart for him to feast on. His lips finding that bundle of nerves you enjoy so much and sucking vigorously.

Fuck.

He’s never done this before. Never cared to.

And yet, he’s fucking good at it. Too good. The thought flickers, - who the hell taught him this?

But the idea of him like this with anyone other woman makes your stomach turn. Makes something ugly and possessive coil tight inside you.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe you were just as bad as him.

Because the second that jealousy burns through you, the second that thought even crosses your mind -

Your fingers tangle in his hair, and you shove his face deeper between your thighs.

His mouth works you like he’s desperate, like he needs this, like he’s making up for every single time he left you aching and unsatisfied. His beard scraping over your inner thighs, his tongue flicking over your clit with a steady motion. His mouth sealing around your cunt, sucking just enough to make your breath catch, to make your hips jolt against his face -

But his left hand presses firmer against your gut, pinning you down.

And then, his right hand moves.

And without hesitation, without a single fucking care, he slides two thick fingers into your dripping cunt.

The stretch, the pressure, with the roughness of it all.

Your spine arches.

Your breath shatters.

Arthur doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Just keeps fucking you open with his fingers, his tongue relentless, his blue eyes locked onto yours like he’s daring you to finish in his mouth.

Your body shakes. Your orgasm building fast, burning through you, twisting tight in your core.

“Close,” you pant, barely able to get the word out as Arthur refuses to faulter.

Just keeping the same damn pace.

And then, between the sluices of his fingers inside your core.

The goddamn door busts open.

“Arthur, we need you.” Dutch yells, his heavy footsteps entering the cabin slowly.

But Arthur doesn’t stop.

Your body goes rigid as you whisper, “Arthur?”

But Arthur just growls against you, pressing his tongue flat against your clit, not changing pace.

For no more than second does Arthur lift his mouth from your heat, quickly yelling a tense but commanding, “Get out, Dutch."

But the footsteps don’t stop.

“Oh, come on, Arthur, what’re ya doin’?” Dutch’s voice gets closer, moving through the main room, to Arthur's doorless excuse of a bedroom.

But you’re right there.

The pleasure is unbearable, your body trembling, your fingers clutching at Arthur’s hair, holding on for dear life.

And at the same time, Arthur growls, “Dutch, no,” before sucking your clit back into his mouth, dragging you over the edge.

But it's too late, the gang leader stands in Arthur's doorway.

Your orgasm crashing through you at the exact moment, stealing your breath, leaving you writhing beneath Arthur’s mouth as his tongue continously flicks back and fourth.

And Dutch?

He sees.

For no more than a second, he stares.

Wide eyed, the gang leader watches your hips tremble underneath the mouth of his enforcer. Your jaw slacking open as waves of euphoria hit you at the worst possible time.

And then.

Dutch smirks, shaking his head back and forth and walks out without another word.

Once it's obvouis you've been worked through, Arthur pulls back, his beard coated with your sweet juices. Your hand flying to your mouth, your chest heaving.

“Why didn’t you stop?” You slap at his shoulder, scrambling off the bed, shoving your boots back on as your face burns in embarassement.

Arthur shrugs without a care. As if Dutch fucking Van Der Linde hadn’t just watched him devour you.

You face burns red as you storm off, leaving him on the bed. Your ears ringing in embarrassment as you kick at that damn broken door to leave.

Only to run straight into Dutch. Freezing in surprise.

He leans against the cabin, smoking a cigar as he smirks knowingly at you. He doesn’t say a word. Just looks at you as if he's holding something in.

And then, the second you turn around to scuffle off.

A steady hand catches your wrist.

It’s Arthur.

And in front of every watching eye, with your taste still fresh on his lips, he pulls you in.

And kisses you.

Slow and deep.

Like he’s finally claiming you infront of everyone.

And when he finally pulls away, your cheeks burn, the weight of every watching eye settling heavy on your skin.

Your heart pounds.

Without a word, you turn on your heel, walking away as fast as your legs will carry you - more embarrassed than anything. Turning around once more to lock eyes as you attempt to fix your sex ruined hair.

Several yards away now, you turn around. But he doesn’t stop watching. He just leans against the cabin beside Dutch, arms crossed with a slight smile grasping at his lips.

Dutch breaks the silence by chuckling, pulling a cigar from his satchel, offering it over with a knowing smirk. “You know I can’t blame you.”

The cowboy just roughly exhales in response, taking the cigar from Dutch's hands. Lighting it with a match he lit from the bottom of his boot and exhales slowly. His smirk lingering, eyes never leaving you as you disappear into camp.

Away from him.

[mari-positas]

mornings like these

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: There’s a reason you’re always late to morning patrol. That reason’s name is Joel Miller.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. JACKSON ERA. READER HAS NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION, NO AGE SPECIFIED FOR READER. established relationship though it’s lightly implied it’s a fairly new relationship, hints of fluff, hints of smut, morning wood, very brief mentions of oral sex (female receiving) and fingering.

word count: < 1k

a/n: this is quite literally nothing. just a blurb i wrote in 20 ish or so minutes. it could have been a whole thing, but i am in the middle of editing a long wip update. i needed a break from it and this happened. hardly any plot, hardly any porn, what would you even call this? lol

You wake with a gentle start, your eyes fluttering open.

Sunlight filters in through the sheer white curtains.

Soft. Warm. Golden.

A strong arm tightens around you.

“Mm,” he mumbles from beside you. “S’nice.”

His voice is deeper than usual, thick with sleep.

You’re still getting used to it. To mornings like these.

Waking up next to him—with him.

Naked in his bed, wrapped in his sheets, in his arms.

You’re laying on your side, your back against his chest.

You feel him already, hard on curve of your ass.

Suddenly, all you can think about is the night before. 

Every deep, swollen kiss he gave you.

Every sweet, loving word he’d whispered to you. 

Every minute of every hour he’d spent worshiping your body like he was getting to know it for the first time all over again.

“It is nice,” you agree with him, exhaling a small sigh of content. Finding his large hand splayed over your lower belly, you lace your fingers together with his, the same long, thick fingers that stretched the tight walls of your aching cunt all night long. “After three days of pouring rain, this is very nice. It almost makes me look forward to going out on patrol.”

Chuckling softly, Joel nuzzles his nose into your bare shoulder, deeply inhaling the subtle, delicate scent of milk and honey soap. “Don’t mean the weather, sweet girl.”

You raise an eyebrow. “No?”

He gently nips at your flesh with his teeth. “Nope.”

“Then what do you mean?” you press, innocently.

As if you don’t already know.

“This.” There’s a brief pause. “Wakin’ up with you.”

Giggling, you tease, “You’ve gone soft for me, Miller.”

“And so what if I have?” He’s grinning, you can feel it.

Slowly, he begins to lower your intertwined hands and drags them further down your belly.

You know what he’s doing. The man is insatiable.

“Joel,” you utter his name breathlessly.

“What is it, honey?” he coos into the nape of your neck.

Oh yes, you know exactly what he’s doing.

Pulling your hand out of his, you roll onto your back and turn your head, your nose lightly bumping his. “Don’t start,” you warn him in the sternest voice you can possibly muster.

There’s a mischievous glimmer in his dark brown eyes.

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, darlin’.”

His cock is rock hard, poking into your hip.

“We have patrol in an hou—”

Joel’s hand slips between your thighs and you’re cut off by the sound of your own loud gasp as he drags a finger languidly along your slick, warm folds.

He skims your jawline with his nose. “Now, what were you sayin’?”

“Oh my fuck,” you curse as he sinks his finger into your cunt, burying it to his knuckle. “Joel, Tommy will kill us if we’re late to our shift again—” You moan as he curls his finger upwards, your hips bucking up off of the bed and into his hand.

That’s where Joel Miller had you.

Right in the palm of his hand.

In every which way possible.

“I can stop,” he murmurs against your cheek, the scruff of his beard tickling your soft skin. “Just say the word, baby, and I’ll stop.”

You don’t tell him to stop.

Of course you don’t want him to stop.

You never, ever want him to stop.

Moments later, Joel’s head is between your thighs and he’s devouring your cunt like he’s having breakfast. His tongue swirls around your clit, his fingers thrusting in and out of your pussy, a mere warm up before you take his throbbing cock.

Hands tangled in his graying, dark brown curls, you forget all about getting to patrol on time.

divider credit to @saradika 🤍

[dnd-writes]

Trials and Tribulations

AO3

Tags: non-con, BFH, I somehow wrote this in 3 hours, what is 'edit', Jeewon, unnamed OC, forced free use, manipulating, groping, painal

A/N: Saw a Jeewon post on KPF and thought of something to write, laid down and wanted to write a few paragraphs before getting back up to go play or whatever, next thing I know I wrote the whole thing already more or less. Consider this as a spiritual successor to Boulevard of Broken Dreams BUT BUT BUT only in that it has somewhat of a similar premise, it is way way way waaaaay more tame and casual (aside from one painal scene) in terms of detail than BBD. Anyway, enjoy!

Cignature’s manager walks into the room and sees Jeewon just getting off her knees, he sees her bend forward, her butt pushes out towards him putting a smile on his face. She brushes her knees clean of dirt then fixes her skirt. As she turns around towards him, he sees a complete contrast to the clean and clothed look of her ass—her bare chest and face covered in cum. 

He looks over her shoulder and sees a middle-aged businessman on a chair, totally exhausted, one of the company’s investors. “She’s wonderful, isn't she?” says the manager to which the only reply he gets is a nod and two thumbs up. “I’ll be taking her away now.”

Jeewon heads out then the manager catches up with her and gets to her side. He puts a hand on her hip to pull her close to him so he can whisper into her ear. “Have one of the girls go clean you up. Haven’t fucked that ass in quite some time.” He smacks her ass as a signal for her to get going. “Be quick, I’ll be waiting, you know where to find me.”

—————

Yep, that’s Jeewon. You’re probably wondering how she ended in that situation. 

How does an innocent, voluptuous, and cheerful woman suddenly become the company’s cash cow? Well it all started when C9 Entertainment noticed a rather peculiar influx of attention. The attention wasn’t mainly on their sole girl group Cignature but rather it was targeted mostly at the company itself. 

They quickly traced it back to an interview that one Jeewon, one of Cignature’s members, did where the interviewer talked about her body, indirectly referring to her chest which she covered at the time the question was asked. Rather than addressing the situation and protecting their own artist, they instead embraced it. After all, as the saying goes, “Any publicity is good publicity.” Which goes true the more people talk about the clip. 

Now all that was left for C9 Entertainment to do was to capitalize on the attention and they found their solution from none other than the infamous interview itself—Waterbomb, well, a festival similar enough to Waterbomb that is. 

The announcement was controversial enough on its own but it was nothing compared to what Jeewon wore at the event. They put her in a bikini top and gave her a thin white top just to say she wasn’t naked. 

The outrage was massive but not as big as Jeewon’s chest or the Won signs in the company’s eyes. Sure the company received tremendous backlash for the decisions they’ve been making but that was nothing compared to the money coming their way. 

From that day forward, the company’s view of Jeewon has changed and all she is in their eyes is merely a tool they can use to generate views and revenue. While the higher ups used Jeewon’s body for profit, their manager planned to use Jeewon’s body for his pleasure. 

He used to see Jeewon and Cignature as his responsibility, close friends, and possibly even family. But given recent events, his perception of her has changed and after the festival, after seeing Jeewon up close, after seeing her tits jiggle, he has been woken up to just how insanely sexy she is. 

After every practice session or performance the group would do, whenever they finished their manager would be close by to congratulate them. Often he would clap and cheer for them or pat their backs. It gave the members encouragement and energy to keep going, that is, until they realized that his pats on Jeewon progressively got lower and lower until one day he’s just groping her butt in view of everyone else. 

Naturally the members would complain to the other staff but some simply didn’t care while the rest told them to just suck it up and accept it. That, along with some gaslighting and manipulating from the manager, made them keep their mouths shut. And the encouragement they would get turned into fear that the rest of the group would be touched the way Jeewon gets touched. 

Following their silence, he became more shameless in his interactions with Jeewon. He would slap her ass as a greeting any time he comes close to her and often we would hug her from behind like some romantic scene in a K-drama but instead it’s so he can grab her breasts without her leaving. 

He even made some rearrangements to the room assignments at the dorm, moving Jeewon from her room to his. He placed, well more so dumped, her things into his room just to seal the deal. And no, he didn’t have an extra bed so he made her stay with him on his. 

On the first night they were in the room together, as Jeewon was about to go to the bathroom to get changed, the manager blocked the way out and instructed her to get changed in front of him. With no other options and no way out, she was forced to comply. He licked his lips as he saw her in her underwear, it wasn’t quite the full thing just yet but he knows for sure he’s going to get it soon enough. They climbed into bed and he turned her around so he could spoon her and cuddle her like some body pillow, all the while grinding his erection into her butt. 

Morning arrived and everyone had breakfast together, with Jeewon sitting on the manager’s lap of course. As Jeewon was headed to the shower, he stops her and tells her he’s going with her “to save water,” a lie apparent to both of them. Jeewon wanted to say no but before she could even answer he was already pushing her towards the bathroom. The members watched anxiously as they walked together, nothing much they could really do. 

The manager immediately strips down and his cock is standing proud as it pointed towards Jeewon who was visibly disgusted. She turns away from him to quietly cry but not even her feelings had space as the manager was already starting to take her clothes off. He got her down to her underwear when he backed off to let her strip the final pieces herself. 

As Jeewon tantalizingly took her bra off, he would quote the interview back at her, saying that her physique is the best in history and that her body is the talk of the town. Jeewon once again covered her chest with her arm while she was removing her panties. She stood back up with her hands on her privates but the manager just walked up and put her hands at her side then he started feeling her up and played with her chest for a good few minutes. He would compliment her tits and especially her nipples since it’s the first time he’s seen them, maybe the first man ever to see them, then he proceeds to call himself lucky how he has her body all to himself. 

After playing with her body, he suggested that they help each other by cleaning each other while he was stroking his dick, making the innuendo even clearer as if Jeewon didn’t already know what he meant. 

The two stepped into the shower but it was less of a bath and more of Jeewon reluctantly jerking him off while he explored every inch of her exposed body once again. 

He would get increasingly annoyed at how slow Jeewon’s pace was and he decided to drop the subtleties and he pushes down on her shoulders to force her down on her knees. Then he grabbed her tits and trapped his cock between them so that he could start thrusting while Jeewon just knelt there and be used. 

Jeewon kept her eyes and mouth as shut as she could while he ejaculated all over her face. Before she could clean herself off, the manager wiped the cum off her face and collected it in his hand. He forced her to drink it all and retched from the taste. He then told her that she should get used to it because that wouldn’t be the last time she has to drink cum. 

After showering and using up more water than if they bathed separately, the group got ready to go to practice. It went just about as well as how their previous practices went just with some extra groping being received by Jeewon. When they got back to the dorm and the two got into the shower again, Jeewon was ready to get back on her knees but instead she felt herself get turned around. 

Jeewon felt the manager’s tip press against her slit and she froze in fear. He did not care if she was protected or not, a problem he was too horny to deal with at the moment. He pulled her back and held her by her chest as he started thrusting into her pussy. Jeewon just cried silently as she felt herself get more violated than she had already been, especially when she felt his hot cum stirring inside of her pussy. 

The manager got high on fucking Jeewon that he proceeded to do just that and only that for the next few days. He didn’t care how or where he fucked Jeewon or who among the members saw it but the only thing that mattered to him was that either Jeewon’s pussy or mouth was occupied by his cock. 

He would fuck her before and after sleeping. He would make her blow him while he ate food and watched TV. He would fuck her on the dining table forcing the members who were eating there to move elsewhere. He would use her mouth to properly clean him in the shower. And so on. Even when the group had to go practice, he would make the rest go to the company building while Jeewon was kept beneath him in the dorm. While they practiced their next performance, Jeewon was being turned into his sex pet. 

One of the members complained that the manager keeps having sex with Jeewon but much to the group’s dismay, they doubled down and saw an opportunity land at their feet. Why stop at dressing Jeewon so scantily clad in public when they could also use her body behind closed doors to also bring more money in, that way whenever the group isn’t on stage, they can be certain that their wallets are full. 

The manager was furious with what the members did even though the decision made by the company was expected for him but instead of finding out who the culprit was, he decided to just cool down and what better way to do that than to use Jeewon’s possibly untouched asshole for the first time. 

The manager had all the members in the living room and they all sat quietly in fear. He told them how annoyed and disappointed he was in them but he made sure to tell them he won’t scold them for it which gave them some relief for a very brief moment until he grabbed Jeewon by her hair and dragged her into his room. The members cried while they held each other as they listened to Jeewon screaming and begging for help, their hearts broke knowing that they couldn’t help and that they were somehow responsible for subjecting her to even more torment. 

He ripped Jeewon's clothes off while he held her down as she tried to struggle to free herself. Once her shorts were down, instead of feeling the familiar feeling of his tip pressing against her cunt, Jeewon felt his dick press against her asshole which made her scream so loud it echoed throughout the whole dorm. 

He didn’t bother lubing up or anything and he just started going in dry. Jeewon never knew such pain prior to that moment, whether mental or physical, and she screamed her head off through the night, making it known to the members just how much pain she was in and making it hard for them to go to sleep just from the loudness alone. 

From being always at the dorm to being almost never, Jeewon was sold off to investors as if she was some sort of prostitute. Though the manager still had his time with Jeewon, he wasn’t able to have as much action as he used to and naturally he turned to the other members of the group. He would assign a day for each member as if it was a chore to be used by him. The other members were also up for grabs but it was Jeewon who anyone wanted to fuck, not like anyone can blame them. 

From a merely suggestive interview question, spiraled all the way into Jeewon being turned into a cow, both financially and sexually. 

[alltimefail]

Agency Assignments: A comprehensive to-do list for saving Dead Boy Detectives!

I'm very easily overwhelmed, so I wanted to break down all the ways to help "Save Dead Boy Detectives" that I have seen floating around. This is meant to be something you can reference when you feel like there is so much you need and want to do to help, but don't know how or where to start.

Note: I will be updating this post as we go when necessary, so feel free to bookmark it in your browser for easy access, add it to your homepage, whatever! I'll always have a link to it in my Pinned Navigation post on my blog as well!

It is of the utmost importance that we fight as an organized, well-informed front. We need to be on the same page if we're going to save our show, so let's get into it! 💜💀🔎

➪ First and foremost, follow @savethedeadboys! They're going to be our best resource during this fight.

➪ Next, follow @deadboyagency for news and updates: they've been around since the show dropped and have been an invaluable source of information the entire time.

Now for some task breakdowns:

"One-Time" Tasks

➪ Like the header says, these things can only be done once. Once you do them, you don't have to give them any space in your mind.

Sign the petition*

Review & Rate Dead Boy Detectives on Google, IMDB, Rotten Tomatoes. Be sure on IMDB you don't just rate the show as a whole, but you also rate each individual episode! You can also "Like" the show on Google and click "Watched" which helps the show's engagement scores. (If there are other popular sites I haven't listed here, feel free to share them and rate Dead Boy Detectives highly on them!)

Notify Netflix customer service (through their online chat feature) that you're unhappy with the cancelation of Dead Boy Detectives. This is a short, 5-minute task that I wrote a guide on (with an example message) here!

"Repeat" Tasks:

➪ These tasks can become a part of your daily routine; do what works best for you! You don't have to do every single one of these tasks every day if that is overwhelming!

Share the petition* over and over again, on every one of your socials! Make everyone you love sign it!

Stream Dead Boy Detectives!* Keep it on a loop in the background on low volume as much as possible. Try to get others to stream it as well, especially if they haven't watched it before! Netflix cares about VIEWS: views save shows and I broke down the reasoning here. (Bonus: if you post over on Twitter about your rewatch, use the tag #ReviveDeadBoyDetectives)

Talk about Dead Boy Detectives!* You're probably doing that already, but just be sure that you're tagging your posts. Here on Tumblr use the "Dead Boy Detectives" tag at least (to boost our tag to trending) and anywhere that uses hashtags (Twitter, Facebook, Instagram for example) I would recommend #SaveDeadBoyDetectives and #DeadBoyDetectives as those seem to be the most commonly used tags! IMPORTANT: do not use more than 20 tags here on Tumblr! Any more than 20 and your posts might be marked as spam and hidden from the tags!

Create art, edits for TikTok, fics, gif sets, doodles, crafts, analysis posts, and so on for Dead Boy Detectives.* Having fun is important, too! This is an extension of the "Talk about Dead Boy Detectives" point, but it needs to be stated - don't remove the joy from the fight. If a drawing of our boys or a smutty fic with your favorite trickster cat king is what you can bring to the fight on any given day, that is a perfectly valuable contribution! It's not all emails and hashtags.

Daily request a show through Netflix. Bonus if you're signed in! (I do 3-5 times a day)

Send Emails advocating for Dead Boy Detectives (Email list & Email Template). You can do this as much as you want or just one time.

Send Snail-mail (physical letters) to Netflix advocating for Dead Boy Detectives. I also send a copy of my letters to Warner Bros. Studios. Again, you can do this one time or multiple times. There are dates set aside for "mass" mail sending as well, so check out info on that here!

Interact with articles posted about Dead Boy Detectives. Read them, share them, comment on them, thank the writer for writing them, etc. We want lots of press about the cancellation, and supporting journalists and publications will make them want to write about Dead Boy Detectives more.

NOTE: Anything marked with a * means it's extremely important; if you can only do a few things, these tasks are the ones that you should focus on first. Remember to take care of yourself. This is a marathon, not a sprint, so don't burn yourself out!

WE WILL SAVE THIS SHOW.

Say that to yourself as many times as it takes for you to believe it. We're doing this to get justice for the writers, the actors, for ourselves, and assert to these companies that diverse, queer stories are not disposable one-offs; they deserve to be told in full!

Hugs and Handshakes to you all - whatever will suffice. 💜 Always feel free to reach out if you have any questions, whether that be through private message or my ask box. I'm not going anywhere!

- V

[spideykuri]

#1 You Right. ⊹♡

Warnings- MDNI | Smut 18+ Andrew!Peter Parker x Fem!Reader, no plot, straight smut, more like a blurb, oral sex; giving, pet names Summary; Cuddling turns into something else realll quickly, especially with Peter.

Notes; I literally am so down bad for him, it's awful. This is just a first post type of thing. I had to shorten it.. I wrote this in my notes app, I'm calling this series the notes app edition. Hope you all enjoy! (I'm terrible at making tags so apologies that I missed some.) 502 wc! Pretty short.

Touching sometimes becomes too much, especially for you. At first, this was just a simple cuddle time; you were just drawing and peter was behind you making sure you were comfortable, that’s all.

Now, you’re on your knees taking his length like the little slut you are for him. Fuck.

“You’re doing so good for me, baby girl.” He tossed his head back in completely ecstasy.

You’re swirling your tongue around his tip so gently, stroking his length gradually. Never wanting to disappoint him, you take him in your mouth once more, continuing to swirl your tongue and you bob your head up and down at a leisurely pace.

Peter erupted a moan from his throat. “Such a sweet girl.. Keep going for me.” He breathes out.

Your free hand reaches for his balls to give extra stimulation. As you tug and pull on them, you decide to take his length deep inside your throat, choking on it slightly.

Peter’s hips thrust up, causing you to choke more. “Oh, my sweet baby. You’re doing so well.”

His large hands wrap around the sides of your head to hold it in place as he fucks your throat mercilessly, tears start to form at the corners of your eyes.

You can feel his veins pulsing on your tongue, he’s about to cum. At that moment, he pulls out. Mouth wide and eyes blown, you have this pouty look on your face.

“You wanted more, didn’t you sweetheart?” He says mockingly. You whine in desperation, the growing ache between your thighs doesn’t have time for waiting. Peter knows how much you need him, he can smell your arousal. It’s such a strong scent.

Peter’s face is painted with a smirk, eyes dark and low. He picks you up and places you on his lap, your beautiful tits in his face, his cock leaking pre-cum, right in front of your soaked cunt.

Looking up at you, Peter captures your swollen nipple in this mouth, swirling his tongue around it. Coaxed moans fall from your lips, the sounds you make he will never get tired of hearing. Releasing your right tit, he moves onto the left, swirling and sucking on it roughly, straining more moans out of you.

Peter reaches down to play with your clit, the action pulling moans and whines from your throat. You can barely keep still anymore, Peter’s cock right in front of your soaked cunt.

“Pete- I- Please- fuck me. I’m begging you..” The most strained begging you’ve ever done. Peter knows you so well, it’s sickening.

“You want me inside of you baby? Mmm. You sure?” Peter cooes at you. This is just adorable to him, already at edge and you haven’t even came once.

You nod quickly, Peter clicks his tongue.

“Oh, babydoll. You’re going to have to do better than that.” Peter pecks your lips before dipping his head into your neck to kiss it causing you to whimper in need. This is going to be a long night.

[networklovemp3]

3:33am ⏾

joshua x (gn) reader tags: 18+ MDNI, light smut, not super explicit (m.) masturbation scene, used panties, fluff, silly sweetest of all time shua word count: 1.78k words an: my first time writing and posting something smutty!! please be nice and lmk how it is, i wrote this way too late at night but tried my best to edit it. likes and rbs and any other timestamp thoughts/requests are appreciated! i'd love to write more!! <3

after you both fell asleep earlier than usual, joshua wakes up in the middle of the night, mouth dry and feeling hot everywhere. there's a terrible ache in him, a want, a need, but he looks to his side and sees you're sleeping soundly one pillow over.

sighing a frustrated but quiet breath, joshua knows himself enough to know he won't willingly wake you from your sleep that you desperately needed. instead, he carefully peels himself away from you and the bed, and heads for the bathroom across the room. the door barely clicks shut, one of your night lights glowing on the wall, and he is alone to deal with himself.

joshua thinks about calming himself down so he can just go back to bed. he thinks about distracting himself. he thinks he should have better self control than this. he thinks about taking a cold shower, if only he could without waking you up. he thinks about you. he thinks about you. your warm skin back in bed, the way you snuggled into him before falling asleep, one of his t-shirts hanging off your shoulders... fuck.

so maybe the self control thing isn't working for him. he might as well get this over with as quickly as possible before you wake up and start to wonder where he is. he's already reached past his boxers and has one hand on himself, the other white-knuckled on the counter, when he spots the laundry basket in the corner of the bathroom.

he knows it's kind of gross, and probably disrespectful on some level, but before his blood can reach his brain to think it through joshua has your silky blue underwear in his hand and then wrapped around himself. it's so cooling and soft and smells like you and... oh. he presses his lips together to contain the noises that wish to escape and squeezes his eyes closed so tight they almost hurt.

it feels so, so good and he was already so pent up that the race ends almost as quickly as it starts, finishing all over the blue fabric as he fights for any sense of control. after his muscles start to relax, joshua allows himself a minute to control his breathing and to clean himself off, then he's rushing to get back into bed with you. he slips under the covers, this time wrapping himself against your back with much more relief settled into his bones.

"...shua?" he hears you murmur and his heart stutters with a brief flash of irrational panic. "i'm sorry, baby, did i wake you?" joshua places a soft kiss on your neck, trying to calm himself down. you sigh at the sweet brush of his lips, turning around to blearily blink up at him once, twice, three times. "no, just felt you coming back to bed," you whisper back to him. he presses another kiss to your forehead, and one on your nose, and you smile up at him so warmly.

you're placing your head back on his chest and sliding your hand innocently down his bare waist and across his stomach when joshua catches his breath involuntarily, still sensitive enough from moments ago when your fingers glide just above his waistband. suddenly, your eyes are shooting back up at him with an accusatory and confused look. "what did you do?" you ask, and joshua closes his eyes for a moment.

"i..."

"you just jerked off, didn't you!" you breath out all at once. "how could you possible know that!" joshua stares back at you in shock, doe eyes wide in the dark. "i know you only jump in your skin like that when i touch you after you've just finished," you roll your eyes knowingly, "now why did you do it without me?"

"i didn't want to wake you, you were so tired earlier. i just took care of it quickly by myself." he explains gently, but you still pout up at him. "i wouldn't have cared, shua, seriously, you can just wake me up next time. i wish you had." you place your hands gently on his shoulders. "oh... do you want me to....?" misunderstanding you, his eyes trail downwards meaningfully, with that concerned crease you love between his scrunched eyebrows.

"no, joshua, not right now," you sigh in affectionate exasperation, "sometimes... sometimes, i just want the opportunity to please you."

"you do please me though, like, all the time?" he blinks at you, still in confusion. "i know, i just mean... i mean pleasing you and that's it. sometimes i just want my boyfriend's dick in my mouth and that's all!" breathing out the last part all at once, you realize you had been keeping that thought in for quite a while. after all, you really do enjoy pleasing him.

"oh, um, i.... didn't know that's something you wanted," joshua looks utterly taken aback that you'd been wanting that, and that he has played a part in keeping it from you. after a pause, he smiles a slow, sinister smile down at you. "i think we can manage to arrange that in the future though, if it's what you really want."

you smile back at him and nod, feeling pleased to be on the same page finally. he pulls you close to him again and you both melt back into a comfortable, if slightly charged, silence. it doesn't last long before you think of something else.

"were you thinking of me, before, in the bathroom?" you whisper shyly into the base of his neck. you can tell he's smiling when he responds, "yes, of course. i'm always thinking of you. actually... i might've used your panties to help me out too."

the gasp you let out is playful, and you try to pull back to look at him again but he stops you in his tight hold. "i didn't know you were dirty like that, shua!" you tease, and joshua can feel his ears are turning cherry red. "you don't think it's kind of... weird and gross?"

"no, to be honest, it's kind of really hot... maybe along with my idea you should let me watch sometime..." you trail off in thought, and joshua lets out a strangled groan above you as if you physically harmed him.

before you know it, the entire conversation is being laughed off with many future acts in mind, and the two of you slip back into sleep before the sun rises.

[velvet-n-lace]

If only you were real....

Series: Obey Me

Genre: Suggestive

Word Count: 1k words

Pairing: Leviathan x Dating Sim Character Reader (Gender-Neutral)

Warnings and Tags: Typical stan behavior, some obsession, a bit of suggestive stuff

A/N: idk I just had a thought about this, i’ll probably expand on it in the future but for now, just enjoy~ sorta wish I wrote this better... ugh...

Dating Sim!Reader is among the many love interests in the latest dating sim game. Levi has kept an eye on it for a while. He rewatched its promotional videos, realizing he was mainly fixated on you. He knew nothing about you besides that unique design and several promotional clips introducing your personality. That didn’t stop him from making gifs and edits of you—his precious Dating Sim!Reader.

You stood out among the other love interests. Everything about you just works; it is no wonder many were eager to start your route first. Dating Sim!Reader’s style is unique, and Levi constantly wonders what you would look like in real life. You would be a perfect being—literally a God/Goddess among everyone who crossed your path.

Finally, the game came out. The prologue was intriguing, but when Dating Sim!Reader’s sprite appeared, Levi completely lost it. He took at least 10 screenshots every time you spoke—20 if you said something that turned him on. He was ready to stay up all night, complete your route, and live-post about you until dawn.

Dating Sim!Reader's route was immaculate. Levi lay on his floor, overwhelmed by how much of a well-rounded character you were. Your hobbies made sense to your character, your backstory was gut-wrenching, and he cried just remembering the romantic ending. His inner circle was hardly surprised when he told them he had completed your route. “Of course he did,” they said.

Levi played through the other characters’ routes. Some were decent, some he didn’t care for, but one thing was certain: Dating Sim!Reader still reigned supreme in his heart. Every time you show up as another platonic love interest, a pang of despair fills his heart. This is unbearable. You should be head over heels for Levi’s protagonist, yet the game refuses to let that happen unless he replays your route again.

Levi returned to your route with one goal: 100% completion. To this day, Dating Sim!Reader’s route remained the only one he had fully completed. He had to, so he could prove his unwavering devotion to you.

According to a poll, Dating Sim!Reader ranked at the top of the Popular Love Interests poll. Levi was happy to see you there with the fan favorites, but then that jealousy kicked in. So many posts claimed to be your biggest fan; some were already dedicating a corner of their room filled with your merch. Levi wasn’t having it. It was time to start stanning hard.

Levi bought every piece of Dating Sim!Reader merch he could get his hands on. Some had to be fanmade so that he could stand out among the other stans. There are about five Ita Bags worth of merch overflowing inside them. He was already making fan art before you got popular, so he became THE Dating Sim!Reader guy in his weeb circle. His profile pictures were just your face adorned with pretty edits for the next few months.

Screenshots weren't enough anymore, fanfiction flooded in, and Dating Sim!Reader fics were the most popular. Levi saved each one he came across, stashing the best ones in a dedicated folder or reading list to read again and again. He found himself rereading his favorite passages, no matter his mood. He even began to write some himself.

He’s in the deep end now. Levi started getting hard in the middle of class just remembering what Dating Sim!Reader did in those R-18 fanart, fanfics, and doujins he’s collected. He even got caught doodling something provocative when he was supposed to be writing notes. It’s embarrassing to get caught, but behind closed doors, that self-indulgence was tenfold.

He'd been thinking of cosplaying Dating Sim!Reader for a while. He bought some materials and made a few tweaks to it. After completing it, he’d just take all types of pictures with it—some cute, some suggestive, some only for his eyes. They always get him likes and shares wherever he posts them. He’d never witnessed a character get so many likes as you do. Even walking around an anime convention, people asked for a photo with him. He gained a boost in confidence, all thanks to you~

"Of course, he has a mountain of Dating Sim!Reader merch. Figurines were made to capture your popularity. Mammon tried stealing one, hoping it would sell for a hefty price, but unfortunately, Levi had already “claimed” that figurine he attempted to steal… Mammon never touched Levi’s shit since."Of course, he has a mountain of Dating Sim!Reader merch. Figurines were made to capture your popularity. Mammon tried stealing one, hoping it would sell for a hefty price, but unfortunately, Levi had already “claimed” that figurine he attempted to steal… Mammon never touched Levi’s shit since.

It’s already been a few months, and Levi is still stanning hard. New changes were coming to RAD: exchange students from the Celestial Realm and the Human World would attend soon. There was a chance that humans would know about this game, but there was no way they’d know about the dating sim genre and, more importantly, about Dating Sim!Reader.

Then the new human exchange student walked in… looking exactly like Dating Sim!Reader. It couldn't be real. No matter how much Levi wished they could be real, they were only a fictional character…

He got a better look at you, taking every detail of your face and style. He couldn't deny it. You really did look like a real-life version of Dating Sim!Reader. He was a little too close; you felt him breathing against your skin.

A nervous wreck of a demon stood before you, hands shoved in his pockets, all hunched over like he was about to burst.

“Question…” he gulped, “is your name… Dating Sim!Reader?”

“Yeah, it is.” Your voice was so similar that he wondered if you were Dating Sim!Reader’s voice actor or something.

“It’s the same name as that character in that dating sim!” you exclaimed. Levi was on cloud nine. Clearly, you were no normie if you knew THAT dating sim. Having the same name and appearance as Dating Sim!Reader must be the best thing ever.

“They are my favorite!” Levi blurted out, “Do you want to see my merch collection someday?”

You nodded and smiled at him; your expression was so much like Dating Sim!Reader’s that it made his heart skip a beat. It was the beginning of something new: a real-life connection with someone who embodied the most perfect character ever. Levi thought he’d never see the day.

[bitchesuntitled]

Costco

Marcus Acacius x F!Reader wc: 2,421

Summary: Imagine if you will that you work at Costco, there's some weird stuff in the jalapeno poppers and some time travel happens. Warnings/Tags: MDNI 18+ content(GO ON GIT), Sex pollen-ish(?), Unprotected PinV(be smarter than this), jalapeno poppers, costco, inappropriate use of a storage room, explicit language, time travel shenanigans, oral sex, think that's it if I missed anything let me know! A/N: I wrote this for a discord server fic exchange and it is for the wonderful @beefrobeefcal who I also tricked into helping me edit it because she is the sweetest! She's already seen it, I'm just now getting around to posting it. Thank you much to @jay-zzle for the amazing moodboard and helping me brainstorm on this story, without you this would not be a thing <3

Masterlist||AO3

divider by @saradika-graphics

“New! Bacon-wrapped stuffed jalapeños!” The front of the box states. What should be delicious looks more like if someone picked up a dog turd and wrapped bacon around it, trying to pass it off as something edible. John, your boss, was making you pass out the free samples of these supposed stuffed jalapeños.

Surely they aren’t that bad , you think, stomach rumbling, reminding yourself you had skipped lunch today. Glancing around to make sure no customers were about before grabbing one of the samples and popping it into your mouth.

“Oh god,” you mumble past a mouthful of cream cheese, bacon, and jalapeño in disgust. They look and taste like shit. You suppose you can’t expect much from prepackaged frozen food though. The bitter sour taste still on your tongue as you grab your water bottle off the table, chugging some of it to try and rid your mouth of the gross flavor. 

Reaching for the box to check the expiration date on these things, they’ve got to be expired with that sort of flavor. The ground begins to shake violently, toppling the box onto the floor. Your head snaps up to look around. What the fuck was that?

—

All Marcus could remember was running on the battlefield before slamming into this mysterious shelf housing weird colorful goods. A woman in strange clothing gasped, grasping the child next to her, also wearing strange clothes, before quickly scurrying away. Where are their tunics? The footwear they wore looked suffocating compared to his thin leather sandals. He looked around, trying to determine where he was.

Everything in this place was so damn bright and colorful. Not that Rome didn’t have its fair share of colorful beauty, but these appeared ten times brighter than Marcus has ever seen, such as the weird candles above his head that appear to possess the sun’s power with their bright intensity. He starts walking along the smooth stone passage, hoping to find someone he can speak with to figure out where he is and hopefully get some answers on how to get back to Rome.

He spots a beautiful woman in a blue apron standing behind a table. A kind smile graces her face as people walk past her. He thinks she must be selling goods at her table and decides to approach her for help. This must be a sign from the gods. This woman with her sweet smile and beauty beyond anything he could ever imagine, surely she’d be able to help him in his time of need.

—

After eating the supposed stuffed jalapeño, you weren’t feeling the best but you knew the last thing John would do is let you leave. Business as usual, doling out polite smiles as customers pass you by, glancing at the free samples and shaking their heads. No one wanted to try these monstrosities and you didn’t blame them.

“Oh, great,” you huff, rolling your eyes, spotting a man dressed in full Roman garb walking around aimlessly, “Must be some sort of convention in town again.” The man approaches you cautiously.

“Good afternoon,” you say with an upbeat, chipper tone, “Would you like to try some brand new stuffed jalapeño poppers that just came in?” you ask, gesturing to the stuffed peppers before you. “Despite how they look, they are indeed pretty tasty,” you say, giving the man a saccharine smile.

“What?” The man murmurs, glancing at the samples sitting on the table.

“They are a new product we just got in,” you explain, tilting your head to study him. The man continues to stare down at the table; he appears somewhat frazzled, like a small child who has lost his mother in the store. “Have you ever been to a Costco, sir?

“A Cos- what?” The man repeats, brown eyes narrowing as he stares at you. A fire in your veins lit up from his dark eyes peering at you, goosebumps rushing across your skin from his heavy glare.

“Costco,” you gulp, your tongue feeling like sandpaper against the roof of your mouth. You gesture your arms around. “The store we’re in? Listen, you okay, man?” you ask, grabbing your water bottle again.

“Never been here,” he murmurs, gripping the table between you, taking deep steadying breaths.

“It’s all good! I can understand the panic,” you chuckle nervously, taking a swig of your water bottle. The cool water gives your throat a short sense of relief as it travels down your esophagus. “This place is kind of overwhelming your first time. But we like to give customers samples of food so they can try it before they buy it?”

“Is this the local market for your region?” He asks, peering up at you. 

“Market? Region?” You ask, rolling your eyes, “Dude, I get you might be in character or whatever,” your eyes trailing up and down along his form, butterflies flitting about in your stomach as you really take notice of him. His skirt showing off his bare muscular legs, his strong torso filling out the chest plate of the armor he wore, his biceps straining against the fabric of his tunic, “But let’s keep it to today's times, please.” You grab one of the jalapeño poppers and shove it towards him. “Eat it.”

He takes it from you gingerly, fingers brushing against one another and a tingly sensation shoots straight through you to your core, thighs clenching together as you feel a rush of arousal seeping into your underwear. The man looks at you and then at the food.

“Just take a bite of it.” You laugh nervously, “Not like it’s poison or something.”

His eyes narrow at you with the mention of poison and he continues to stare at it.

“Look, I’ll even eat one too, so you know it’s not poisonous,” you murmur, picking up one of the jalapeños and taking a good-sized bite to prove your point. “Mmmm,” you let out an exaggerated hum around a mouthful of the disgusting appetizer. The man slowly brings the pepper to his lips before biting into it, grimacing at the foul taste in his mouth, but continues to swallow before grabbing another to devour. “Hey man, you’re only supposed to take one.” you caution, watching him eat the second sample before he grabs your water bottle, attempting to open it. “Woah now, hold on just a minute there.”

“Water!” he gasps, shaking your water bottle, his big hand gripping the flesh of his throat. “I need water.”

Your eyes widen, nodding dumbly as you open the water bottle for him and hand it over. He snatches it from your hands, suckling down the liquid in heavy gulps, watching as his throat bobs up and down as he swallows. It feels like someone has turned up the heat, your breath coming faster as you watch him. This should not turn you on as much as it is. This man is simply drinking water to quench his thirst.

“W-what’s your name?” you ask, the ache between your thighs growing in intensity the longer you stare, watching as he places the water bottle back on the table with a loud – thunk – he stares at you, his pupils overshadowing the deep brown of his irises.

“Marcus,” he growls. Your cunt flutters around nothing, hearing the baritone of his voice. “And yours?” you let out a small squeak, giving him your name. You can feel the sweat dripping down the column of your spine as you stand there staring at one another. You watch a bead of sweat slide down from his temple, trailing to the side of his neck. It makes your insides scream, wanting to leap across the table and lick it off his skin. You can’t take it anymore.

“Follow me,” you whisper, a small whimper escaping your lips, reaching across the table, gripping his wrist firmly, and pulling him to follow you to the back of the food section. The storage room for the freezers should be a good spot. No one likes going in there because of how cold it is but the frigid temperature doesn’t even register with the way your body feels like it’s on fire.

You grip Marcus’ wrist harder, pulling him in and shutting the door behind you, turning to face him. A puff of air escapes your lips as you breathe out, approaching him slowly, watching his dark eyes drink you in. He grabs your waist, pulling you flush against him, his mouth descending onto your own with a grunt as his tongue flicks against your bottom lip. You gasp, creating enough space between your lips for Marcus to plunge his tongue into your mouth, tongues rolling against one another, fighting for dominance. He grunts, pushing you against the wall, trailing his lips across the column of your throat.

“Marcus,” you pant, breath hitching at the simple touch of his lips against your neck. He groans as your fingers tug his dark curls, “More, Marcus. Please,” you beg, shoving his hand below your apron, letting him feel the heat of your pussy through the jeans that cover your legs. His hand comes to the waistband of your jeans, trying to tug them off before you help him unbutton them and slide them down your legs, kicking off your shoes in the process. Goosebumps ripple down your legs as Marcus’ strong calloused hands caress your skin, inching their way back towards your thighs.

“Beautiful,” Marcus hums, grabbing one leg and placing it on his shoulder, “Such a sight to behold,” he murmurs, kissing the soft skin of your inner thigh.

“Marcus,” you gasp, your hand reaching down to grasp his hair and pushing his face where you want it most. He lets out a deep chuckle, nosing the fabric that covers your mound.

“You smell delicious, sweet girl,” He grins, taking a deep breath in against your pussy. His fingers toy with the elastic of your underwear, hooking them in and pulling your underwear to the side as his tongue makes contact with your center. Already feeling the coil in your belly tightening at the first contact of his tongue. You let out a ragged moan as his tongue swirls against your bundle of nerves.

“Fuck, Marcus,” you whine, and he grunts against your pussy as you tug on his hair. The vibrations against your clit causing the coil to snap inside you. Your back bows as waves of pleasure wash over you. “ Fuckfuckfuckfuck ,” you cry out, smothering Marcus’ face with your juices.

Marcus stands, his lips and chin glistening from your arousal as he looks down at you, “My turn,” he grunts, gripping your waist quickly and pushing you to the nearest flat surface. His hand comes to the back of your neck, gently nudging you down against the pallet of fish sticks. You want to laugh at how ridiculous this all is, but a moan comes out instead, feeling his thick fingers push inside you. The frills of his skirt hit the back of your thighs, and your pussy clenches around his fingers, turning your upper half to try and get a look at him. His fingers leave the warmth of your sex, one hand still gently on the back of your neck while the other reaches under his skirt and tunic, pushing the fabric aside for his length to bob freely, shuffling closer to you.

“Oh gods, I need to feel your warmth around me,” He growls, looking up at the wrecked expression on your face, “This is okay, yes?” he asks, rubbing his tip between your folds. “Please tell me it’s okay,” he grunts, notching the head of his cock at your entrance.

“Fuck yes,” you cry out, the fire in your veins burning brighter from his touch, “Please,” you whisper, your legs trembling with effort to stay upright. Marcus snaps his hips forward, plunging his length into your heat. Your walls create space for him as his thick cock kisses your womb. Your hands scramble, attempting to find something to hold onto. Marcus’ arms reach past your shoulders, caging you beneath him as he grips your hands and shushes you.

“It’s all right, sweet girl,” he coos. “You’ll be fine,” he continues, pulling back a few inches before snapping back into your warmth with hunger. “Remember, it's my turn now.” He taunts, feeling your walls already beginning to flutter around him.

“Oh god,” you whimper, writhing as his length saws in and out of you with fervor.

“Oh gods, look at you,” Marcus grunts, grinding his cock into you harder, “Taking me so well,” he groans, squeezing your hands tighter as his hips continue to move against you. His chest comes flush against your back, “Are you going to come for me, sweet girl?” he breathes against your neck. You let out a pitiful moan and nod. “I can feel how much you’re enjoying this,” he comments with a grin, moving one of his hands down to your center, feeling his length punch into you over and over again.

“Fuck !” You scream out when Marcus pinches your clit, your walls clenching tightly around his cock as your orgasm takes over. It feels like a ball of energy has erupted within your body and zips down all your limbs, ears ringing as you faintly hear Marcus grunting and growling behind you. 

“Oh gods,” he shouts behind you, thrusting into you half a dozen more times before painting your walls with his warm spend, collapsing on top of you. “I have never felt like that,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder.

“Me neither,” you hum, feeling your body floating back to earth.

—

You pull your pants on clumsily as you hear your boss calling your name through the faint buzzing in your ears. 

“The hell are you woman?” Pushing through the freezer storage doors, John shouts, “Why are you back here?”

“I- we- I- well,” you start, smoothing your shirt down before slipping your apron back on.

“Save it,” John huffs, glaring between you and Marcus. “Get him outta this room,” he says, pointing at Marcus, “and start pulling those jalapeño poppers off the shelves. The FDA called every grocery store in the country and issued a mass recall. Apparently, they’re having some weird effect on people,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Sure thing, John,” you huff, walking with Marcus towards the door, giving John a pat on the shoulder, “But I gotta go to the health section first and see if we have any plan B in stock.”

[smellrain]

𝐧𝐡𝟏𝟑 - 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭

in which: nico and you had met years ago in a cold rink in canada but then lost touch for several reasons. It's hard, growing and correcting mistakes of your past but you try anyway.

tags: written, angst, hopeful ending, mentions of: depression, injuries, hospitals, doctors, etc. (masterlist)

notes: [5.1k] I have no idea what this is? I woke up, wrote the entire thing and passed out again for 2 hours. Tried polishing it through editing? Yeah. It turned out a lot different than the rest of my stuff so far, so it's scary posting this. Come & tell me if you liked it.

The ice was as harsh as it was unforgiving. 

The cold air of the rink has seeped into your bones years ago and the reddend tips of your fingers went numb a while ago, but you were used to it by now. Nothing really mattered when you got like this, too caught up in your head for anyone to reach. 

Not even yourself. 

You had been home and then suddenly not, your body already knowing what you needed before your mind caught up to it. 

The rink wasn’t open, not yet, but you had gotten a key years ago. The owner, David, had been the only one that had looked at you the same back then. There had been a knowing sort of look in his eyes when he had seen you waiting for him at the front door stepps, eyes red. 

He had given you a key, because he had seen you for who you were: a girl whose entire life had collapsed around her. 

Bronze at fifteen, silver at sixteen, gold forever out of reach. 

You could still remember the red pen tucked into your doctor’s coat. The ‘my condolences, but’, the white light, the letter in your hand, the sinking realisation that this was it. 

That you were going to be one of the several girls that had pushed their body too far.

The same way you had done everything back then you had followed the instructions of your therapist to the letter. Stretching, compressions, different exercises. Still, there was no full recovery, no chance of ever skating professionally again. 

That might be the worst part, still being able to skate but knowing that you will never be able to feel it anymore. That you were cursed to be in this limbo, never letting go of it but never being able to live for it anymore. 

The harsh sound of your blade cutting over the fresh ice was as pleasant as it was torture. You wanted more, but you had to settle for this. You had to learn that this was all you were ever going to get. 

These select few hours in the early morning, just before your classes started, before you had to start living your life. 

You could feel yourself drawing harsh breaths, but it didn’t matter. You had pushed through worse, hunger, hurt and feelings just to stand here for a bit longer. The ringing in your ear accumulated when you thought about all that you had lost, that you could never regain.

Suddenly the heavy door of the entrance fell closed. You slowed down, curious who it might be. The clock in the corner of your vision reflected a red 05:57 back at you. It was too early for it to be anyone aside from David or another person with a key, someone like you.

It was a guy, a bag in his hand and another slung over his shoulder. 

You would recognize the equipment anywhere, familiar with it in a distant way. It must be a hockey player that David had picked out out of the hundreds that frequented this place. 

For some reason you already didn’t like him. Maybe because unlike you, he had the chance of actually archiving his dreams. Bitterness was an annoying but frecent emotion that stained the back of your mouth. 

You wanted. You wanted more than this. You wanted the early morning practices, the ones after school, the rigidous schedule, the heavy monitoring. What were you without all that?

The static in your mind had been interrupted by his arrival but you hardly noticed, more focused on the way he walked down the stairs, casually like he had done so hundreds of times already.

It was almost six, which meant it was time to get off the ice anyways, so you circled a few laps, rotating your wrists and shoulders to feel if anything was off, and then made your way towards the outside of the rink. 

“You look pretty,” said the boy from where he was tying his shoelaces up on the benches. “Out on the ice, I mean.”

Something in you hurt at that, as if your heart started pulling at its own strings. It’s been a while since anyone has watched you skate,, since you let someone else watch you. There was a sharp kind of anger rising up in you that it had been him watching you which dissipated as soon as you looked back at him.

It wasn’t his fault. There really was something wrong with you.

You knew your parents didn’t approve of you being here, but they couldn’t look at you anymore when you skated, disappointed that this was how it had ended. Disappointed in you.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice completely scraped raw. You hoped he didn’t notice it. 

“I’m Nico,” he said, approaching you. He held out his hand. He wasn’t wearing gloves yet but his dark shirt had thumbholes that his thumb peeked through which was weirdly endearing on him. 

You looked back up to his face. There was a tired but polite smile plastered on it but you didn’t have the energy to give him one. Instead you simply told him your name and took his hand. Even through his layer of fabric it was warm beneath your icy fingers.

He didn’t flinch at the cold of your hand and instead started genuinely smiling which took you by surprise. People didn’t react to meeting you like this, not anymore. 

Then, without saying anything else, he took off his guards and stepped on the ice, skating around to warm up. You watched him for a bit while scraping off the excess ice and putting your skates away. 

His skating was differentthan yours; not as delicate. The beauty of it had been hammered into you from an early age on which didn’t seem to be the case form him. It was weird, not being on the ice, being the one to watch instead. 

You changed back into your shoes and walked up the steps. 

From the top, which wasn’t all that high because this rink wasn’t that big, he seemed small. You wondered if you looked like that too, if anyone had thought that when you fell down, when they had seen you sprawled on the ice at fifteen, not being able to get up again. 

A sick shudder passed through you. You wondered if you had ever gotten up from that ice.

Then you turned around, your back to him and left without saying goodbye. 

~*~

The next time you saw him again, was two days later, just after six. 

You knew you were going to be late for class but didn’t really care. Today you weren’t as cooped up in your own head, but it was still hard to let go of these stolen few hours of freedom and face reality. 

“Hey,” Nico said, “it’s you again.”

“Hello,” you said in return. He stepped on the ice and you fought off the urge to leave immediately. That would be impolite, a voice reminded you in your head, even if you didn’t want him to be here right now.

“Are you here every morning?” he asked you, falling into step beside you and therefore joining you on your cooldown laps. 

Your eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. Couldn’t he just do his own thing? Did he have to come talk to you? “Yes.” 

"Dedicated. I only come every second day,” he said as if it mattered to you. You might have to leave early every second day now to avoid talking to him, which made your scowl even worse. 

“Okay.” You said instead. 

He hummed in reason but dropped the conversation after. When you took a look at him from the corner of your eye he didn’t seem deterred at your attitude, seemingly just satisfied that he got a response.

After another lap in, you hated to admit it but companionable silence, you left, without saying anything but this time he waved back at you from below. You didn’t return his gesture. 

~*~

Despite your early judgement, the two of you formed some kind of routine over the next few weeks. You came early, and sometimes you left a protein bar for him in the stands and sometimes he brought  you a hot tea for when you got off the ice. 

Still, always without fail, he joined you for a few laps. He talked about his life and sometimes asked you a few questions. Sometimes you answered him, other times you didn’t. He never pressed for answers. 

Nico told you that he was from Switzerland, which explained the heavy accent. He just joined Halifax, and he came early to work on his technique, preferring to do so in silence without his teammates chirping at him. You, in turn, told him that you had skated, professionally, before your injury. He didn’t ask for details about either of these things and you didn’t share of your own accord. 

Slowly, so slowly that you didn’t even notice, you realised that he had become your friend. 

It was strange. You hadn’t made friends in a long time. Before, you had had school friends, but because you never hung out outside of it, always training, it never deepend. 

A weird sort warmth seeped in under your skin at the thought of the two of you being friends like a steady fire that kept you warm at night.

The friends you had made while skating splintered along with your knee. 

It was hard, you knew that, to see their worst fear reflected back at them, but it was still hard for you to reach out, so you simply stopped talking to each other. 

On your bad days you thought that it was all their fault, on your good you knew that it was a mutual mistake. 

The thing about Nico was that he was hard to pin down. He was hardworking, thrived under pressure and loved hockey. He was also afraid of falling and failing, he loved sitting under the sun in the summers, feeling his skin heat up and his favorite colour was green, but he admitted that it changed every few weeks. 

You knew that this friendship wouldn’t last, not really. Neither of you had any way of reaching out to the other, and neither expressed the desire to do so but it was still nice, this tentative kinship.

~*~

“Have you ever played hockey?” he asked you, once. 

It must have been a Saturday or Sunday because you were in no hurry to get off the ice, instead basking in his company. 

“No,” you answered, simply.

He grinned, “you are missing out.”

“Really now?” you asked, teasingly, when you turned around to skate with your front to him.

“Really. I wanna teach you,” he said, leaving the choice up to you without outright asking. If you wanted to you could just brush it off and the conversation would continue. 

Instead you said, “yeah, sure, why not.”

His smile was blinding, the adoration for his sport bleeding from every inch of his skin. It was a good look on him, happiness. Distantly you wondered if anyone had ever thought that about you.

It was different, skating with a stick in your hands but it was fun. He taught you how to shoot and aim at a certain spot which you weren’t half bad at if you stood still.

Hours later when the two of you stepped off the ice your tea was cold but you hardly noticed it.

~*~

Another day you asked him what he was reaching for. 

“Olympics,” he had answered immediately but after a beat of silence he looked up as if the lights in the ceiling were stars he could wish upon. “I think I want someone to look at me and think ‘I want to do that. I want to start playing hockey.’”

You looked at him and the only thought that crossed your mind was that he was the reason you could step off the ice again, that you knew you would always be able to come back, just one more time. 

“I like that,” you said because it was true. 

He tilted his head back to you, and the way his eyes glimmered with a rare vulnerability made your breath catch. Or maybe that was just the effect he had on you, standing still, alive and just in reach.

Oh. 

That was that feeling in your chest. 

~*~

Yet another day he joined you on the ice and you immediately kicked him off again. 

“What did I say about injuries?” you asked, frustrated in a way only he could make you. 

“That they were not to be ignored,” he parroted back, his gaze between his feet as if staring at his ankle would magically heal it. 

“Exactly,” you said. Then, gentler than before, “you need to give yourself time to heal, otherwise you will never get better.”

He looked back up to where you were hovering above him. “Okay.”

You didn’t want him to have the last word. “Okay,” you said firmly and sat down next to him. 

The two migrated up to the changing rooms  where he sat on a bench with his ankle elevated while you worked through your stretches, your knewww aching in phantom pain.

~*~

Today your mind was quiet.

It was your last time and you had wanted to take it all in again, one last time. You were moving, your father had gotten a new job somewhere in New Jersey. You knew it was good, a new start away from everything, a chance to start over. 

But still, you were going to miss this. The rink, the quiet, the place you had grown up in. The place that was your prison as much as it was your salvation. 

As you looked up towards the ceiling, the lights shining down on you, the dark gary that seemed black in contrast, you thought you should cry. This was the perfect moment to, and you hadn’t yet. 

Then, the door opened. 

You were surprised because he wasn’t supposed to be here today. Nico had been here yesterday and the two of you had argued about your favorite brand of cereal, and you selfishly had wanted to leave it at that. 

To leave your friendship without having to say goodbye, without having to ever really let go of him. 

“Nico,” you breathed, before you could stop yourself. 

“Hey you,” he said, as he came up to you. You didn’t even realise that you had stopped moving. 

“It’s late,” he stated. You looked up to the clock and sure enough, it was almost twenty past. 

“Ah,” you said, uncaring. It’s not like you had school today. You wondered when he went to school, if his just started later than yours had. In all your talks you had never actually talked about it. 

And you never were going to anymore, you had to remind yourself. Suddenly it was a lot harder to breathe through the ache in your chest. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, and you knew he meant it, “you look, I don’t know, sad?”

“I’m moving,” before he could ask anything more, “like tomorrow. This is the last time I’m going to see you in a while.”

“Oh.” The expression on his face was hurt, because he must have realised that you had intended to leave without saying anything. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. “for everything.” You weren’t really sure for what, but it seemed like the right thing to say. For your intentions, the way you acted, maybe.

“It’s okay,” he said, but it wasn’t, not really. You knew that and he knew that you knew.

“I’m moving to New Jersey.”

He was quiet for a bit.”America,” he started. Then, “do you want to exchange numbers?”

You ignored the sting behind your eyes. “I’m probably going to have to get a new simcard, but you can give me yours.”

The two of you skated back to the door, from where you had stood still in the middle of the open space. He got a piece of paper and a pen from his bag and then somewhat messily tore off the corner of a worksheet and scribbled down his number in blue ink and signed it with his name.

He looked up at you but neither of you said anything for a while. What was there to say, anymore? 

“Don’t forget about me,” he ended up telling you and you reached out to hug him. He was warm under your hands, steady and you were going to miss this, him.

“Don’t forget me either,” you murmured into the crook of his neck. 

Still, in the back of your mind, you knew that you were never going to use his number. You were going to cut off your old life before it could follow you to your new one. But for once you had told him the truth, you weren’t going to forget about him, probably ever. 

And that was that. You said goodbye, waved and you left him there. He returned the gesture, face unreadable and you were sad that the last time he looked at you he wasn’t smiling.

From the top you looked down at him one last time. He seemed bigger now, compared to that first time you had looked down at him, still filled with bitterness.

Maybe that was just your imagination, or maybe it was his confidence after playing with his current team, after seeing his results pay off. 

You turned and let the door fall closed behind you. 

Then, and only then tears started to well up in your eyes. You ignored them and moved on. Always looking ahead, never back. 

Still, you kept the number tucked away safely hidden in a small corner of your wallet. A piece of him that you would always carry with you. 

~*~

You made new friends, graduated and decided to attend college. Got diagnosed with chronic depression and mild anxiety, got a boyfriend and broke it off again after three months, cried, laughed and finally lived. 

But there was part of you hidden in the corner of your wallet, too.

~*~

If you were being honest, Nico didn’t really cross your mind when your friend asked you to go to a hockey game with you. 

In a way he did, because he had been one of your few friends that played hockey, but it was more of an oh yeah, the sport Nico loved and not oh yeah I’m going to a hockey game and I wonder if Nico is still playing, I wonder if he made it to the big leagues. 

Okay, maybe that was a bit of a lie, but still. You hadn’t expected this. 

The two of you went to the Prudential Center and you were excited despite your earlier apprehension. Your phone with the blocked tags of icehockey and nhl seemed to burn a hole in your pants but it’s not like anyone would know. 

Your friend had told you a bit about the team, but if you were being honest, you could not remember any of their names, much less which position and line they played. 

When the players got announced, the home team first, you froze. Suddenly the noise of the cheers around you were completely quiet until they flooded back to you, a harsh reminder of reality.

Because it was him. That was Nico. Your Nico. Or like your past Nico.

There, with a red thirteen and a small C over his chest, was Nico. He was all grown up now, and instead of thinking wow, he is kind of attractive when he smiled at the camera, you thought, holy shit, he is really, really handsome. 

Your friend picked up on your strange behaviour. “What's wrong?”

I know him, you wanted to scream. I think he saved my life without meaning to, and I think I loved him but I never told him. What came out instead was, “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“What?” she asked, suddenly even more worried, “do you need fresh air? Or do you just want to leave?”

You wanted to stay. You wanted to shoot a puck at his head and tell him to look up at you, the way he had done back then. 

“No, don’t worry about it,” you said and when didn’t change at your reply, you added, “I’m just going to get some water. I think it might be the crowd or something.”

“Are you sure? Do you want me to come with?”

You knew how much she had been looking forward to it, and besides there was nothing she could help you with anyhow. “No, really, it’s all good. Just need to breathe for a second.”

She gave you a look, and you smiled despite wanting to curl up in a corner and cry, “if you are sure. But if anything,” she took your hand in hers, “if anything is wrong call me. I’m gonna have my phone in my hand the entire time.”

You squeezed her hand the same way your heart did at her words. “Thank you, really, but it’s okay. I'll be right back.”

Then you fled up the stands and you couldn’t help but think about the first time you had seen him, how you had left without saying anything. You looked down, just once, and spotted him immediately, as if he was the north pole to your south, your eyes drawn to him. 

He seemed even bigger now, as if he had finally grown into the steady confidence he had had, even back then. 

You smiled. He deserved it, genuinely. You were glad that he did end up making it to the big leagues, even if some part of you hurt at that. You still missed ice skating, your rink from back then, David, but most of all you missed what could have been if you hadn’t been scared. 

What could have been if you had just texted him. 

Regret was a useless emotion to feel, but all of a sudden you felt yourself drown in and you coughed once, just to ease that feeling in your throat.

Then you turned your back to the ice and walked up the rest of the stairs to the stands to get yourself some water. 

It was useless trying to think about any of it now, so you pushed the thoughts aside for later. 

~*~

A week later you were drunk. It was a Friday evening and you had finally finished the gruelling lab you had worked on for the entire day. 

You were hanging out in your friend’s room, the same friend that had taken you to the game a week before. Two of your other friends were sat ob the floor, leaning gainst the opposite bed and a warm, content feeling spread through your chest. 

You had friends now. 

“What’s wrong?” she suddenly asked from where she was sat next to you on her bed, her back against the headboard, yours against the wall adjacent to it.

“Nothing,” you answered because nothing was. 

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me, tell me,” she said, “you've been quiet ever since we came back from the game a week ago and I’ve waited long enough for you to say something, so now I’m going to.”

Had you been that obvious? Or did she just know you that well? Either way, she deserved the truth, the full truth.

“I just,” you began and stopped again, starting to peel off the sticker on your beer with the blunt edge of your nail. 

“When I was younger, I skated.” You started. You knew that she had never expressed any kind of interest in skating so you elaborated further, “really well.” Wow, you were really eloquent tonight.

“Okay,” she said, no doubt wondering where you were going with this. 

Your mind was fuzzy around the edges because of the drinks which made harder than usual to focus on your words, but it made it easier to talk about it, too. These people didn’t know about anything that had been, only what was. “I was good enough to win. Olympics, I mean.”

Suddenly one of the other two friends from the other side of the room joined in. “The Olympics?”

“Yeah,” you said, staring firmly at the bottle in your hands, not looking at any of them. “I won bronze and silver, fifteen and sixteen.”

“Holy shit,” she said, as did your other friend, but one of them remained quiet, so you looked at her. 

From the look in her eyes you knew that she knew. “And then I fell, badly. Tried to get up again but couldn’t. Went to the doctor and you know,” you trailed off, “retired. Started physiotherapy, got a lot better but…”

“Not enough to ever compete again,” she finished for you. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice hoarse. “But I couldn’t let go of it, you know? So sometimes, before school, I snuck out to the local rink and skated around just because I didn’t know anything else.”

Your friend that was next to you on the bed made an encouraging noise, and laid a hand on your knee, so you continued. 

“Then I met a guy. I was in a bad mental place, not really talking to anyone unless I had to, but we somehow became friends.”

Then you looked at them, “I don’t know, it was a weird friendship because we only ever saw each other at the rink every few days, but I felt something for him anyway. It wasn’t quite love but could have been, maybe.”

The others were still listening, and the words rushed out before you could stop yourself. “Then I moved. Wanted to leave before saying goodbye because that would hurt too much. On the day I was leaving I saw him anyway. He gave me his number but I never used it.”

“You wanted to make a clean cut?” your friend asked. 

“Yeah. It was sefish, because it wasn’t just about me, you know? I should have told him how I felt, but I didn’t.” You shook your head, “but that’s not even the point. I saw him again at the game.”

“Oh,” your friend that had dragged you to it, said. 

“Yeah,” you answered, and your other friend asked, “why didn’t you talk to him?”

The other friend, the one that had never asked you about your skating, even though she had known, even though she had every opportunity to, said, “because he was playing, right?”

“Yeah,” you said and you wanted to cry. You could still hear his name announced by the speakers. “Funny, all the time we spent together and I never knew his last name.”

“Who is it?” she asked, gentle, and you knew you could just not answer. You could bury it deep down, once and for all. But that’s not what you wanted to do, not anymore. 

“Nico Hischier.” And your friend laughed. 

“Of course it’s the captain,” she said and you couldn’t help but join in, the effects of the alcohol cursig through your veins. What were the chances, really? That he ended up in the state you had moved to all those years ago.

The others joined it. “He changed his number by now, I’m sure.”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” one of them said. 

All of you were quiet for a second. “Wait, I have an idea,” she said and moved her hand from your leg and grabbed your phone. 

She gave it to you and made a motion for you to unlock it. You did and gave it back to her. From where you were sat you weren’t able to see your screen, much less what she typed on it. 

After a few seconds she gave it back to you. 

It was Nico’s instagram profile. You hesitated before clicking on his most recent post. Your other friends that had been sitting on the floor climbed up to join you. 

“Follow him,” one of them said. You could feel your heart thumping in your chest. This was not the account you had used to document your wins and training back then, but it still had your first and last name in the username, but it was on private. 

Underneath your thumb the button changed colour. “Fuck,” you said.

The other three laughed at your exclamation. “Wait, do I text him?” you asked, turning to the others. 

They all looked back at you, and one of them asked, “do you want to?”

You did. You really fucking did, but you had no idea what to say. “But what do I say? Hey, sorry for being a dick to you when we were like seventeen, I was half in love with you and didn’t know how to tell you, so I just cut you out before anything could possibly hurt me.”

One of them leaned her head on your shoulder. “If you leave out the half in love part, it’s not too bad.”

“You should also ask if he wants to meet and talk in person,” the other said. 

You opened your notes app and the four of you composed a message to him. 

Your hands were shaking and your heart was beating too fast. This was it, this was your chance and you weren’t going to let go again without a fight. This time you would stay and he could make the choice: to stay or to leave. 

Then, you hit the small blue icon and sent it and let out a quiet scream. You wouldn’t be able to take it back, not anymore. 

You threw your phone away from you onto a small patch where the blanket you were sitting on was still visible. 

Over an hour passed and you still hadn’t heard back from him. Soon after you pased out, but a quiet acceptance had settled in your stomach. He forgot. Or maybe he didn’t see the message or maybe he didn't want to talk to you again, which you couldn’t blame him for. 

But when you woke up the next morning, you had a single notification from him. 

For a second you debated not clicking on it, but that would mean standing still. It would be different this time. You would be different this time. There was an unfamiliar, new kind of determination that flickered up your spine and it reminded you of the steady ice under your skates, of the final hug the two of you had shared. Harsh, unforgiving, certain. 

You clicked on it and there was no going back now.

Nico Hischier Hello, it’s been a while.  Of course I remember you, didn’t I tell you?  For sure, I'd love to meet up and talk. Does next weekend work for you? I have a home game which makes it easier for both of us. 

notes: So. How are we feeling? Thoughts? Part 2? Please talk to me about this one because this lives in my mind rent free.