#even if they had a kid depending on them at home...

[bethanydelleman]

What would life be like for the widowed Lydia Wickham? It would probably be different if they had kids or not, but did the army pay out to the widows?

So according to this source, she'd get a pittance. £20 per year if Wickham wasn't promoted. That means she would have £70/annum total, since she has a jointure of £1000 (income £50). Also, I believe I read that when an officer dies, their commission returns to the crown, so she can't sell that. Only retirement allows sale of commissions.

That would be barely enough to live on in the gentry, but Lydia would probably either return home or live with one of her sisters, depending on who is the owner of Longbourn at the time of Wickham's death.

However, the epilogue actually states that Wickham survived the war, so there's that: Their manner of living, even when the restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the extreme.

[nikkento-writes]

Hi everyone! In celebration of the end of summer, I'm challenging myself to write a few different one-shots inspired by songs that I've personally had on repeat all summer. All of these works will contain smut, so please note the content warnings prior to reading and minors do not interact. Hope you enjoy!

Toro! Toro! by Remi Wolf [Aoi Todo x f!reader] Breaking news! International up-and-coming pop princess Luna Lux is causing quite the stir with her alleged boyfriend! Witnesses say the two were having loud sex well into the night until hotel staff had to take matters into their own hands. But who is this mystery fellow? Despite multiple accounts of being heard doing the deed behind closed doors, the pop star’s supposed boy toy continues to elude being seen by both the media and even her own manager! With his knack for disappearing into thin air, it sounds like this stud is a real sorcerer!

Too Sweet by Hozier [Kishibe x f!reader] (coming soon) When Kishibe's apartment gets flooded by a burst pipe, his underling from work, always eager to curry favor with the senior Devil Hunter, suggests he stays with you, the older sister, completely free of charge and without warning. Now, you're forced to temporarily live with the curmudgeon Devil Hunter who always comes home late, reeking of booze and women's perfume. Kishibe also has a hard time adjusting to living with a roommate, especially one as virtuous and wholesome as you. He soon finds out firsthand just how sweet you can be.

guess by charli xcx [Toji Fushiguro x f!reader] (coming soon) Your next-door neighbor is a pervert. You had your suspicions already with so many of your panties mysteriously missing every time you hang them on the clothesline of your balcony. Now you're absolutely certain since you caught him red-handed, literally, with your favorite red lacey lingerie bunched in his fist. Sure, maybe you kinda sorta wanted him to steal them, but still. He needs to be punished.

Diet Pepsi by Addison Rae [Takuma Ino x f!reader] (coming soon) Ever since you were kids, your older brother's best friend has always been dependable; that's just one of the many reasons why you have the fattest crush on him. You'll never confess to him though, convinced that your love is unrequited. When he offers to give you a ride home from university, the car breaks down halfway into the trip, leaving the two of you stuck until the tow truck arrives in over an hour. In the backseat of his car, Ino surprises you by showing that your unrequited love isn't that at all.

Check by Flo [Nanami Kento x f!reader] (coming soon) After nearly six months of dating, you finally feel confident enough to tell your friends about the new guy you're seeing. Of course, given your track record, they're skeptical. They have no problem listing the number of duds you've unfortunately fallen for in the past and you try to dispel their worries to no avail. Now, with doubts planted in your head, convinced this is all too good to be true, you go home to your boyfriend, distraught. However, like the amazing man you know he is, Nanami reassures you that there's absolutely nothing you need to worry about.

[summercreolefanfictioner]

the scent wafts in, her name making him beg on his knees chap 1.1

pairing: dabi / todoroki touya x fem!oc / reader (MODERN AU)

summary: He mentions her name after 6 months in therapy, absentmindedly narrating vivid memories of her. She was the only good thing during his darkest times.

(In which Touya returns home after rebelling against his family for 7 years. And no, it wasn't about forgiveness. He wanted to fix himself because of a certain someone.)

themes: nsfw, domestic abuse, violence, alcoholism, cigarette smoking, toxic relationships, mental health, co-dependency and other related themes (YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED)

notes: for this one, pls keep in mind that touya didn't have much scars on his face; mostly are on his body to accomodate the plot; charas might be ooc since this is modern au

Todoroki Touya has returned; it wasn't a drill.

The eldest of the Todoroki family has returned, and it was all over the news like wildfire. Pictures of him were around tabloids and newspapers, imprinted on TV screens along with family pictures of his 13-year-old self as news anchors and writers all over Japan broadcasted about the Endeavor Corp. finally having its original heir back to where he belonged. Two years ago, Todoroki Shouto announced he wouldn't be the one to replace his father, Todoroki Enji as the owner and CEO of their family business. However, Shouto focused on one part of the Endeavor Corp., particularly their sports and training business, as he wanted to become a personal trainer someday.

Touya was aware of what was happening on the business side of his family despite his rebellion seven years ago. After all, he saw them all over the news, watched his father on TV, and observed how everything was faring for them. So when he returned to the main house, he was a bit surprised at a few details he had missed. For one, his mother, Todoroki Rei, had already been discharged from the mental ward, faring well and welcoming him back with a big, warm hug and fat tears rolling down her cheeks. It also seemed that things were a lot better between his parents, but some of them still held reluctance to forgive their father.

Particularly him and Natsuo.

Enji was aware of their hatred towards him, hence he would talk to them politically, as Enji the CEO of the Endeavor Corp., not as their own father. Toya believed it was only fair. He would've resorted to violence if that wasn't the case. Speaking of which, that was another reason, he returned.

"I have to settle things between this family and me once and for all," he informed them on the first day of his return. "I need to talk to Father."

He knew what Enji would say to him. His father will apologize and be remorseful over what happened. He will also mention about him being his successor in the future, even though he was having none of it.

"I don't need that title anymore," Touya coldly argued, resisting the urge to punch him in the face as he knew he wouldn't defend himself after everything he had done to them since they were kids. "Not from you, specifically."

Enji understood. Touya meant, "I will have that title by my own hands, not because you passed it to me cheap because Shouto didn't want it anymore." Afterwards, his father explained everything he was required to do before his first day in the company. He also mentioned something along the lines of, "You need to undergo rehab and therapy for a while. I knew what you have been up to these past seven years with your cigarette addiction and alcoholism."

Before, Touya would violently react, would be against his decision and say, "You're just scared because I might surpass you." Now, he just nodded at his direction much to Enji's surprise.

"Why are you so shocked? You think I will half-ass my return to this family?" Toya questioned, slightly mocking him.

"I know you wouldn't," Enji commented.

And before Toya left his office, he added: "Just so you know, I am not doing this for the family."

Enji raised a questioning brow.

"I'm doing this because of a certain someone."

------

The first few months of Touya's rehab and therapy were tough as shit, gnawing at him like sharps and digging his soul like he was trapped in darkness. He felt overwhelmed by everything, talking about his feelings all day, breaking out of his shell, and slightly wanting to just break things and be alone. Touya craved darkness at some point, the urge to be violent creeping on his shoulder like the devil even though a rational part of him warned him that it would not be the best choice. He wanted to destroy himself at this point, missing the familiar pain his piercings left on his ears and nose. He was breathing hard to calm himself, persuading his brain to shut its damn trap.

It's getting annoying, fucking shit. Everything's been chaotic.

The first few days were blank, spending it staring at mindless paintings and counting how many times the water from the faucet dropped in the sink. It was eerie yet relaxing, the silence enveloping him like a plague until it bit back to tell him how much madness he needed to unleash but couldn't. He secretly had his mp3 player in his pocket, and he would watch the door and the shadow underneath, checking if someone would come in. To this day, he still couldn't take it out.

He missed that damn voice, but he needed to be patient. He shouldn't miss her. He shouldn't think about her. This is nothing, he convinced himself. This is nothing compared to all the abuse I've endured before. The angry stare. The hateful remarks. The violent beatings. The disapproval underlying Enji's tone. His rough hand smacking him in the face. The burning scars left on his skin from the heating iron. The pitiful stares. The blood he spat from his mouth.

Everything.

EVERYTHING.

I WANNA DIE.

Out of panic, he quickly reached for the mp3 player from his pocket, a secret he kept from the treatment center. He wasn't supposed to have any gadgets with him, but he knew he had to. He couldn't drink alcohol. He couldn't smoke a stick to curb this annoying feeling. He cannot destroy shit. But he had to hear that soothing voice. He had to endure.

He put in the earbuds and played the audio, his breathing coming down in sighs as he felt himself relaxing.

"Touya..."

"Yes, call me that," he said to no one, tears streaming down as he smiled in satisfaction.

"Touya..."

"Touya..."

"Are you awake?"

"I made you breakfast."

"Touya..."

"Do you want me to take an off day from work?"

"Yes," he answered, hugging the pillow beside him and imagining it was her. "Just stay. Stay with me."

"Touya..."

"I love you..."

"Touya..."

I love you too.

------

Touya has learned something, and that therapy was another form of circle from hell, or that was just him. He heard people preach about therapy all the time, that undergoing therapy healed them, made them see the light at the end of the tunnel, and had them humbled in a way they could never explain. Touya wished it was the same for him, but nah. It wasn't. Therapy was another circle from hell. It made him too vulnerable, too open he could feel the burnt scars on his skin itching too much the more the therapist asked him about himself.

He also thought his therapist couldn't care less about his minimal responses, the first few days boring him as the man asked about his name, how old he was, what he did for a living after he ran away, what helped him cope—you know, the basic questions every therapist could ask for.

"Todoroki Touya. 26. I did odd jobs. Alcohol. Cigarettes. Fighting."

The therapist looked displeased, he noted. He probably wanted more answers than that.

"Have you been in therapy before?"

"No."

"What do you expect from this session?"

"I don't know."

"Why are you seeking therapy?"

If he was being honest, Touya's answer would be: "I don't know? Just to get this shit done, I guess?" Not like he would be rude now. After all, he returned as Todoroki Touya after seven years of rebelling. He should keep his damn trap if he wanted them all back.

Even her.

"Do you want to become a better person?"

"Yes."

[burnt-up-stegosaurus]

thinking about how peter pettigrew sold his friends in exchange for his life (becoming a death eater because, presumably, voldemort threatened to kill him/severely torture him if he didn't become the spy) while james and lily potter would have probably endured whatever torture and even death before betraying him...

[chiptrillino]

nothing is more humbling then a 8-years-old telling me i don't know how to draw and then demands of me to draw power puff girls for her all afternoon long!

[unopenablebox]

i was vaguely aware that my family has all kinds of sensory issues, but never really thought about it until just now, four years into living with 🌸, i finally really processed that when 🌸 comes home, they not only don't have to immediately change into pajama shorts if it's at all hot out, they leave their socks on all evening

they generally prefer to wear socks, even if it's not freezing cold inside

meanwhile i had an incident recently where for the first time this summer i walked directly from work to a friend's house instead of my own house, realized i could not just fling off my shoes, socks, and jeans the second i got there, and had to go hide in her bathroom for a second so i didn't just burst into tears in the doorway

[neuroticwyrm]

im in my 20’s with the mind of a broken child just because none of the adults in my life knew how to raise for a kid without traumatizing them. so thanks for that.

[thebestandworstdayofjune]

in the refrigerator light

summary: you are somehow unprepared to run into Logan while on the quest for a midnight snack... in the house you both live in. wc: 1.9 k a/n: to be fair I did warn you that this would happen. I have a few more ideas kicking around in my head, but feel free to send requests if you have any! this doesn't take place during any particular movie, fyi, but you and Logan are both teaching at the school warnings: fluffy fluff, mutant!reader, empathic powers!reader, soft!Logan

You should have been asleep. Even after choosing to stay on at the school past your education, you’d had a hard time shaking habits of the past. It still felt strange to walk freely into professor only areas, and you were always in bed by 11:00 pm every night. Sneaking down to the kitchen to steal one of the chocolate bars you knew Scott had stashed deep in the back of a cabinet felt wrong, but the siren song was too strong to resist. 

You’d been quiet, making sure to avoid the creaky stair (third from the bottom on the right) before shuffling into the kitchen. You rubbed at your eyes as you made your way to the proper cabinet. The only problem being that it was much higher up than you remember. It was times like these that made you wish for a more helpful mutation, like telekinesis or at least a few extra inches of height. You struggled for a few moments, on your tippy toes, stretching your arm as far as you could reach before you gave up. You sighed, raking your hands through your hair and making your peace with the fact that chocolate was not in your future tonight. 

“Scoot over, bub.” You jumped and let out a small shriek, before clasping a hand over your mouth. It was rare that anyone got the drop on you these days, your power more finely tuned and emotions tending to be strong around the manor, but your guard was decidedly down in the place you’d called home for so many years. But Logan was an exception to many rules. HIs hand gently gripped your wrist, pulling you against his chest for a brief moment before moving to stand in front of the cabinet. He reached up into the cabinet, the zip up hoodie he wore pulling up to expose a few inches of his stomach before pulling down a few bars of chocolate with ease. He smiled, the crinkles by his eyes more prominent in the low light of the kitchen. You did your best to appear like you hadn’t just been ogling him. 

“How did you know-”

“Scott’s shit at secrets.” He huffed, rolling his eyes. “You think he’d learn by now to not be such a loud mouth in a house full of people with enhanced hearing”. 

Your laugh was quiet, muffled by your hand in the interest of not waking the others. “Well, in that case, I hope one of those is for me.” 

Logan shrugged, eyes full of mirth. “What’ll you give me for it?” 

You blinked, unsure of yourself. You weren’t used to this Logan, yet. He was usually gruff and reserved, always reluctant to give into the kids in his history class that were trying to derail the lesson with a joke or two. He’d been playful a few times in your presence, and it almost always made you worried that the other shoe was about to drop. Seeing him in pajama pants and a soft grey sweatshirt only added to the strangeness situation. 

For the briefest moment, you considered using your powers. A single touch and you would know exactly how he was feeling. It was a blessing and a curse, to be able to be sure of how others were feeling with a single touch. A god-send on intel gathering or stealthy missions, a terrible temptation at midnight alone in the kitchen of the manor with the man you had harbored a crush on for as long as you’d known him. You make to grab one of the bars out of his hand, but he is too fast for you, quickly lifting them over his head. Your eyes narrowed. 

Fine, two can play at this game. You roll your shoulders back, drawing up your courage. “Depends what you want for it.” 

Logan grinned, dropping his arms and holding the bars behind his back. “Well, what I don’t want is to be an accomplice in your quest for cavities. Chuck’d have my head if he found out I had a part to play.”  

“I’m a big girl, Logan. I can take care of myself” You grab for the chocolate, but he’s too quick for you. For a brief moment, the two of you stare at each other, the moment charged. You lunged for the chocolate again, but Logan is already halfway across the kitchen, waving the chocolate around teasingly. 

“Logan, please” you laugh, following around the island. He cocked his head to the side, smirk playing at the corner of his lips. You were seconds away from stomping your foot and demanding he hand the chocolate over, when his smirk grew into a grin. 

“Alright bub,” he made his way around the island, depositing one of the chocolate bars in your hand. “You know I can’t say no to you.” 

You did your best to tamp down the butterflies that suddenly made a home in your stomach, but his smile was so gentle and he looked so soft, it was hard not to feel a little lovestruck. You snapped a piece of the bar off, and held it out to him. You dutifully busied yourself with breaking off a piece for yourself, ignoring the way that his affectionate gaze seemed to never leave you. 

“You’re not usually up this late,” he says, holding his hand out for another piece. You shrug, dropping another section into his hand. 

“Couldn’t sleep.” 

“Welcome to the club.” You knew that Logan had trouble sleeping, he was usually the first one hunched over a cup of coffee in the mornings, steadfastly ignoring inquiries into how he slept. 

“I, um” You hesitated. Usually offers of using your powers didn’t go well. You took a breath, steadying yourself. The worst he could say was no, right? “I could help with that, if you want.” 

Logan reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. You could tell your eyes were the size of saucers, but you couldn’t find words. After a few moments, Logan took a step back, shaking his head slightly. You blinked owlishly, taking a breath to steady yourself. 

“That’s sweet of you, bub. But I wouldn’t want to tucker you out.” It was no secret around the house that although you had a less physical mutation, it still took some of your energy. Sensing emotions was as natural as breathing, but influencing them was newer, and took much more focus. 

You pointedly glanced at the clock over the stove, noting that it was well past any reasonable bedtime, before facing Logan once more. “That actually sounds really nice.” He mumbled something about not wanting to take advantage of you, but the words died in his throat when your hand found his own. You looked up at him through your lashes, hoping that he would be able to see how earnest you were being. “I don’t want to force you, but I want to be asleep more than anything, and I can tell that you are too wound up about something to even begin to fall asleep.” 

His thumb stroked over the back of your hand a few times, before he stepped around you and led you out of the kitchen. You expected him to turn towards the living room, where you’d caught him ‘resting his eyes’ a few times in the middle of the day. Instead, he turned right making sure to skip the creaky stair (third from the bottom on the right) and right up to the door of your room. 

“A bit presumptuous, no?” You asked, before opening the door and walking through. 

Logan rolled his eyes, leaning against your doorframe. “I was there the first time you tried this. Figured it was best that no one has to pick you up off the floor.” 

You felt your face grow hot, remembering the unmitigated disaster that had occurred the first time Charles suggested that this application of your powers was a possibility. Your chin tilted up, doing your best to project confidence. “Well, it’s been a while since then, I’ve gotten better.” 

If the lighting had been better, you would have seen the faintest pink blush coloring his cheeks. “Rogue’s in my room.” You couldn’t help it, your eyebrows shot up near your hairline. “She and Bobby got into a fight, she wanted somewhere she would be left alone.” His hands were twisting in the pockets of his sweatshirt as he ducked his head down low. 

“Is that why you were prowling around the kitchen?” He rolled his eyes, but nodded all the same. “Well, do you wanna stay here tonight?” He looked like he was about to object, but you held your hand up, effectively silencing him. “You’re doing a favor for Rogue, let me do one for you.” 

“Thought you were already doin’ me a favor, sweetheart.” He protested, all while moving towards your bed. 

You perched on the edge of your bed, consciously doing your best to keep your heart rate in check. The students always joked that between Charles and Jean’s mind reading and Logan being able to hear cheaters hearts speeding up, it wasn’t even worth it to try and cheat in class. It hadn’t occurred to you that if he could hear your heart fluttering, he could definitely hear the measured deep breaths you were taking to mitigate the issue. 

You reached for his hand, and he accepted it readily. His palm was shockingly smooth under yours, it must be from his regenerative powers. Your thumb gently ran across his knuckles, still slightly red from the training session he’d had with some of the students earlier in the day. You tugged on his arm slightly, and he lowered himself down onto the bed beside you. “I thought that it’s important to work as a team, sometimes.” 

“You spyin’ on me, bub?” You sheepishly meet his eyes, but find nothing but tenderness waiting for you. “I’ll try to forgive you.” He drops a kiss on your knuckles, before motioning for you to lay down. “I’ll take the floor.” 

You tightened your grip on his hand. If he really wanted to, he could have broken away easily. Instead, he paused, eyebrows raised and waiting for an explanation. “Not much of a favor if your back hurts in the morning from sleeping on the floor” you shrugged. 

“Only if you’re sure-”

“Just get in the damn bed Logan.” He grinned, pulling back the covers and slipping into the bed. You followed shortly after, and slipped your hand back into his. The both of you laid in silence for a few moments, adjusting to your new arrangement. You were nice and toasty warm, able to feel the heat radiating off him under the covers. You were in the middle of working up the courage to actually use your powers, when soft snores began to emanate from the other side of the bed. You chanced a glance towards him only to find his lashes gently fanned out over his cheeks, and his chest rising and falling with his steady breathing. 

After a few moments, you followed him into dreamland. In the morning, you woke up with his arm firmly around your waist, feeling fully rested for one of the first times in your life. Again, you waited for the awkwardness to come, for your face to flush and your stammer to pick back up, but you were left waiting.

feedback is very much appreciated, as I’ve never written for Logan before! let me know what you think <3

next part

[ceilidho]

prompt: construction worker ghost and his elementary school teacher neighbour who made the poor decision to start feeding him (nsfw, 2k) [based on this old ask] [on ao3 here]

-

They say not to feed wild animals. 

It makes them grow soft, lazy. Alters their behaviour. Takes an animal previously capable of finding its own food dependent on humans for sustenance. Makes them lose their natural fear of humans and nearly always results in an increase in human-wildlife conflicts as they start to seek out people. It’s a known fact. You can’t go to a park without seeing it plastered on posters in the bathroom and on the sides of the vending machines under the gazebos where you purchase your post-hike iced tea and veggie roll to eat on a nearby bench. 

You know this. So you really don’t know what possessed you to leave a cooler full of sandwiches on your neighbour’s doormat before turning in for the night. 

He wakes up preternaturally early and leaves every morning around four-thirty or five o’clock on the dot. Sometimes in the fog of sleep, you wake to hear the door to the apartment beside yours crack open and slam shut, and then the sound of lumbering footsteps down the hall towards the staircase before that door opens and slams shut too. 

He never comes home before four o’clock at the earliest. That’s around when you come home from work as well, meaning that you sometimes catch him at the door, him covered in grime and reeking of old sweat while you come flouncing down the hall in whatever colourful dress you’d donned that morning, inevitably paint-splattered by the end of the day. Always something appropriate to wear at an elementary school but colourful enough to keep the kids’ eyes and attention on you. 

You’ve caught his name in half-whispered conversations with the property manager, but aside from that, all you know about Simon Riley is that he works in construction. He certainly looks the part: big, calloused hands with blunt, dirt-caked nails and cut up fingers, knuckles always swollen and thick. Body all strength and brawn. Hard hat tucked under his armpit and decorated with countless stickers from old job sites, the same way his forearm is covered in tattoos. 

You’ve even passed by his current job site once or twice—some new condo complex going up by the canal that’s forced you and hundreds of other commuters to leave an extra thirty minutes early to account for the road closures. You pointedly don’t bring that up in conversation though. That would just be rude. 

At least it would be something to talk about though.

It’s not like the two of you talk. You’re not close by any means. Though you moved in a few months ago, you haven’t had much luck mustering up the confidence to squeak out more than a hi to him in passing. When he grunts back something approximating a hello, it’s all you can do not to break your key in the lock when you hurry into your apartment and slam the door shut behind you, heart beating frantically in your chest. 

It’s humiliating. You’re a grown woman and you’ve talked to plenty of men before. You’ve dated plenty of men before. Just because this one speaks in monosyllables and stares at you with an intensity that makes your stomach churn and your palms grow sweaty doesn’t change anything. Just because this one is built like a redwood with wrists thick enough that you’d need both hands to wrap around doesn’t make him any different than any other person.

And yet, when Simon asks you for your name on a rainy June afternoon after you’ve come in after him for a change only to find him sifting through letters at the mailbox, you garble out something that sounds nothing like your name before scurrying up the stairs to your flat.

It’s humiliating. It’s humid outside and your dress is sticking to all the wrong places (namely, your nipples and the inside of your thighs when the skirt swishes between your legs with each stride) and now you’ve made an ass of yourself in front of the only hot guy in your building. There are serial arsonists with more charm than you. 

So maybe the sandwiches are an apology letter or an olive branch. Or maybe it just makes your heart race to think of Simon opening up the cooler and finding four wax paper-wrapped sandwiches tucked neatly over ice packs. 

All you know is that when you step out of your apartment the next morning, the cooler is empty on your doormat, the lid propped open. He must have taken them with him. 

You smile. A job well done. Apology served fresh, with cucumber slices in the middle. 

The problem starts when you don’t leave him another cooler full of sandwiches on his doormat the next day. 

You didn’t consider that he might think you’d make it a habit. Perhaps that’s partially on you for not leaving a note on the cooler the first time to explain that it was just a one-off; just a way to apologize for being less than chipper around him. But instead of shrugging it off, you come home after a long day to find him standing right outside your apartment, arms crossed over his chest, thick biceps straining against his sweat-stained shirt. 

“Open the door,” Simon commands, nostrils flaring as he glares down at you. He jerks his head towards your door when you just frown, not following. “Been starving here waiting for you to show up.”

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. You’re at a loss for words, never mind that your whole job involves talking. He leaves you speechless though. 

Simon doesn’t move when you step close enough to unlock the door. You try to keep your body angled away so as not to brush up against him, but it’s inevitable. He doesn’t move when the door opens either, forcing you to squeeze by him. 

He goes straight to the kitchen and drags a chair out, letting it scrape across the floor like men always do before taking a seat. You follow after him nervously, apprehensive at having a man in your space. Not just a man, but Simon Riley. It feels sacrilege—not like he has no right being in your space, but you can’t imagine him here, sitting at your tiny dining room table like he comes over for dinner every Sunday. 

When he catches you standing under the archway to the kitchen just staring at him, he barks, “Well?”

That has you scurrying over to the fridge to pull out the cold cuts and pickled red onions. There’s a loaf of bread already on the counter, the bag twisted and tucked underneath because you had to leave in a rush this morning. You don’t know half of what you pile on the sandwiches, but whatever you serve him must satisfy him because Simon digs in with gusto, finishing the plate off in only a few bites while you wash the cutlery in the sink. You watch him out of the corner of your eye the whole while.

He leaves not too long after that, only a light warning for you to not miss tomorrow’s lunch before heading back over to his own apartment. You don’t even get a word in edgewise. 

It becomes something of a routine after that and not one you have any control over. Every night before bed, you leave him a cooler full of sandwiches and other things like cut up fruit or slices of cheese on his doormat, and every afternoon you rock up to him waiting on your doorstep, demanding to be let in. 

He takes to giving you a wet kiss before he leaves, all tongue and his fingers curled around the nape of your neck, holding you in place. When you try to cover his mouth with your hand, he nips at your fingers until you move them and let him slip you some tongue. 

The day you make him a casserole for supper, he bends you over the back of your couch and eats you out. Simon eats like a man starving, glutting himself on the wetness between your legs, licking even over the furl of your asshole and chuckling under his breath when you squeal and flail, your toes just brushing against the floor. 

In the aftermath, you sit panting in his lap while he eats. He gets up only briefly to get the bowl of strawberries and cream you left chilling in the fridge before lifting you up and putting you right back in his lap. You stare bleary-eyed when he holds a finger covered in cream up to your lips.

“Clean me up, pet,” he says, then watches you with half-lidded eyes while you lick his finger clean. 

He makes you suck his fingers too, to keep things even. He does it when you’re angled half off the bed, thick digits stuffed down your throat until your eyes leak big, fat tears that he licks away, hungry for those too. The man is always hungry, always keen to fill his belly. 

The arrangement continues on long enough to become normal, even routine. Simon shows up at your door every day after work waiting to be fed, and then makes you come a couple times before he leaves, a little thank you to repay you for the food. He never really says all that much when he comes around, not a conversationalist of a man. His preference is to eat, fuck, and leave, which you’re happy to accommodate, still too tongue-tied yourself to broach a real conversation. 

That’s all before he starts helping himself to your bed for a quick nap after a big supper. Then for naps that turn into a full night’s sleep, snoring like a chainsaw under the covers with you tucked under his arm, naked breasts pressed against his side, keeping you awake most of the night until you pass out somewhere around one A.M. 

Just as you suspected, Simon gets up at around four or five to be at the jobsite on time, but at your place, he gets up a bit earlier to help himself to breakfast. He doesn't even bother waking you up, just turns you over onto your tummy and spreads your legs before sinking his dick into where you're still stretched out from the night before. If you wake up or squirm, he just leans down and murmurs, “S'alright, pet…just need a pick me up before work. Go back to sleep, you’re okay,” and ruts between your thighs until he comes inside you and leaves you all wet in bed with one last messy kiss to your temple. 

The door slams shut on his way out. 

Because you feed him, he keeps coming back. The workday passes in a blur: attendance, a spelling test, recess, maths in the afternoon, and then you’re driving home in the same daze that has you slamming on the brakes before rear ending an old woman who stopped two cars behind the truck at the redlight ahead. 

You’re home earlier than him for a change, so you unlock the door quickly while there’s still a chance to avoid him. No such luck. When Simon turns up, he pounds on the door until you let him in. And you do. 

It’s a wonder you haven’t come apart at the seams, horny and pent up after this morning. You were too sleepy to come after all, rode hard and put away wet. Still, you flit nervously around the apartment, looking everywhere but at him. 

He always smells rich after working all day in the sun, like sweat and dirt. It's not a particularly nice smell, but it still kind of gets you going. He goes for a shower and then collapses on the couch after, beckoning you over to you crawl into his lap and grind yourself on his thigh because he knows of course. Simon can probably smell it on you, the ache. He shushes you when you whine about it, big hands fitting around your hips and pressing you down until your clit rubs deliciously against the muscle of his thigh and your head goes cloudy, cheek mushed against the pillow of his chest. 

When you come, Simon tips your chin up with his knuckle and murmurs, “Knickers off, love. Haven’t got my fill.”

He feeds you your own slick from his fingers when he kneels on the floor in front of the couch, your legs draped over his shoulders. Your fingers scratch helplessly over shorn blond hair, buzzed almost to the scalp. It’s prickly under your fingertips. 

Simon’s a messy eater. Your slick dribbles down his lips and glistens on his chin. It makes the blood roar under your skin, feverishly hot. 

“Please, Simon,” you whine, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It hurts.”

You feel his lips quirk up against the folds of your pussy, the flat of his tongue running up the seam and flicking over your clit. He chuckles when your hips jerk. “Greedy aren’t you, pet? Didn’t even say thank you for getting on my knees.”

“You didn’t make me come!”

His voice borders on mocking when he coos, “Poor little thing. It’s gonna be a lot longer ‘til she gets to come if you don’t say thank you.”

Your brain goes staticy, fingers twitching on his scalp. His words echo back in your head. It’s rubbish, is what it is. All this time and he’s never said thank you once for the countless meals you’ve fed him. Indignation bubbles up in you, rising to the surface like fat on the cream, and you raise a hand to rub the tears from your eyes, a harsh rebuke on the tip of your tongue.

The protest dies on your lips when he meets your gaze. It’s hungrier than anything you’ve ever seen. Whatever animal lives under his skin stares back at you with black eyes, drool leaking from its jowls. It’s mindless, intent only on slaking its hunger. Filling its empty belly. And it is not afraid of you anymore. It knows you’ll feed it until it’s full. It knows you won’t let it go hungry anymore. 

So, always leery of the bigger animal in the room, you mumble out a chest-thick, “Thank you,” and shiver when he grins. 

There’s a reason they tell you not to feed strays. They often come back for more.

[flamingpudding]

Jail Buddies

Once a month, Jason makes an effort to meet Dick on purpose. Sometimes even more. After all, he was a good little brother checking in with his brother. Though he had a rather uncontroversial way of doing so. One that involved getting led into a jail cell of your local police department and loudly demanding to speak to Officer Grayson.

Okay, maybe it wasn't like that it was an effort to check on his brother and just one of his many listed dumb moments of recklessness he got caught for. And he was maybe using his brother to get out without having to call Cass, Steph, Duke, Tim, Damian, Alfred or Bruce, in that order depending who was willing to bail him out every time Dick had his 'Little Wing you won't learn if I keep bailing you out.'-Phases again. Or if Dick was being petty because of a recent prank war.

Either way, while Jason was waiting for Dick to make his entrance in his cell he noticed the teen boy sharing the cell with him staring at him wide eyed. He arched an eyebrow, and decided on a whim to make friendly conversation.

"So what got you here kid?"

The teen blinked as if just realizing Jason had addressed him before grinning a bit feral, his blue eyes having an unnatural glow. "Vandalism."

Jason's eyebrow rose again, but the teen continued.

"Trashed mu place and gave my guardian's car a pretty paint job and some other stuff."

"You vandalized your own place? And got arrested."

"Fruitloop decided an overnight stay was a better punishment then leaving me unattended."

The teen shrugged and Jason couldn't help but feel like he just had heard a red flag. He opened his mouth to question the kid more but than his brother finally made his entrance.

"Little Wing! What did you do this time!?" Jason could see that Dick was out to start a rant but changed tunes when he noticed the teen.

"Danny or Dan? You are here again? When did they bring you in? Trouble at home?" Dick asked, and Jason clearly saw the telltale signs of information fishing bat style.

"Danny and the usual." Danny, as Jason now learned the kid's name was, shrugged nonchalantly like this wasn't the first time he and Dick had had that exchange.

"Seriously buddy? I had a rebellious phase as teen too but to regularly trash your home to the point that someone calls the police or vandalize your guardian's cars, buildings, advertisements or anything that has to do with him is not a solution kid." Jason arched an eyebrow at Dicks tone, feeling slightly reminded of whenever Dick lectured one of them.

"Oh I know. But it's a nice stress reliever, plus you guys are nice here. I get pizza as dinner whenever I stay the night." The kid grinned and Jason couldn't help the snort that earned him a little glare from Dick.

Instead of arguing further his brother let out a suffering sigh and let Jason out of the cell, waving him towards the exit and following him shortly after giving the kid one more look that looked like a mix between stern and pleading to stop being a rebellious teen.

Once out of earshot, Jason then chose to ask. "So what's the kid's deal?"

"Nothing, just a rebellious teen reminds me of Damian when he first appeared. He has a twin and a little sister as far as I know, both of them also known here. Their guardian is an upstanding man, though." Jason heard the hidden but.

"Did someone look into it?" He hummed more as a cover.

"Higher ups don't know, but i am running an investigation." Translation Bruce is unaware, but Dick was using Bat resources for looking into the kid's residence.

"Nice kid, didn't think he was a regular." He only commented.

"Nice and polite, you wouldn't think he did some of the things he was brought in for. Distrustful though, despite his friendly nature."

Jason nodded as Dick went through the papers to bail him out, a thought popping up in his head. Clearly, something was up with the kid that had his brother worried, and it looked like he was stuck on just doing his investigation. So, being the thoughtful little brother he was, Jason decided to help his brother.

In his uncontroversial ways, of course.

"Yo Danny, also here?" Jason grinned as he was led into the same cell the teen was in a week later.

[cookie-waffle]

Uselessly reminding you that these things are all canon in TOTK:

- Riju is super short for a gerudo her age, but still way taller than Link

- Link has a pet koi fish (or multipul depending on how many pools you put in your dream home)

- Being able to name the piss horse golden horse implies that Zelda had not given it a name yet. Perhaps because she’s a perfectionist and must think of the perfect name, or because she rescued the horse very recently before totk, but fell in love with it so quickly that she just had to have a picture of it in her house.

- The amount (and quality) of paintings done by Princess Zelda points towards her being very artistically talented, which is not something shown in botw. Perhaps this is a sign of her feeling more free and comfortable to be herself.

- Link has 8 ear piercings in total

- Link is still very short, but, it’s easier to see his muscle definition than in botw, meaning he did actually grow like a normal person just not… vertically.

- In the original Japanese text, Zelda calls the Hateno house “the house” instead of “my house” 👀

-The elemental armor headgear will allow you to dye Link’s hair at the dye shop.

- Originally, I thought Link could see the koroks in botw because he was only 17, and that koroks sorta worked like the picori, in that only kids could see them. However, he can still see them in his 20s. So, the games could be implying that he sees them because he was raised as one of them in a past life, and that part of his soul is still connected to the forest.

- The game likely takes place around 5-6 years after botw, because there are quite a lot of new child NPCs, none of which look or act young enough to be considered toddlers.

huge spoilers under the cut

- Link was canonically a furry zonai in a past life, but he’s noticeably less humanoid than Rauru or Mineru. Link has a tail, digitigrade legs, and even dew claws. Meanwhile, Rauru and Sonia have no tails and are plantigrade. This makes me wonder if zonai started intermarrying with mortals long before Rauru met Sonia, which could account for the more human-like traits.

- Link being a zonai at one point finally makes it 100% canon that Link does not need to be reborn as a hylian. It is entirely possible that he could have been a gerudo at some point, or may even be one in a future game.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DC x DP fanfic Idea: Side Hustle

Barry needs more cash.

It's not that he is struggling, but unlike Bruce, he had student loans, a mortgage, and all the medical bills for Iris to consider. Even with his wife working, he knew they needed to keep a tight grip on their spending to ensure they didn't fall from the yellow into the red.

This means that sometimes he had to watch Wally's face fall when he admitted he couldn't afford to give him an allowance or even some money to go to the mall with his friends. It's not that his nephew complains—Wally is a very understanding young man—but it still tears Barry up inside to disappoint him.

Significantly when, their hero work cut so deeply into their funds just to keep their speedster metabolism under control. If he hadn't done his foolish experiment, Wally wouldn't be in danger of starvation for following his example.

Blood or not, Wally is like a son to him, and the idea that he can only provide the bare basics is painful. He has a high-paying job now, but it will take a while to get all his debt from when he was a student under control.

Before he married Iris, he was okay with that. He now had a wife and son who depended on him, and he couldn't wait around, hoping things would pick up after a few years.

He managed to pay off most of Iris' medical bills, and the house was an excellent step up from the cramped two-room apartment they shared when they were engaged. Barry knew that these two things were good, but he could do better.

That's how he applied as a research assistant to a strange family company called Fenton Works. The pay was decent, and it was only a short hour's drive from his home—he speed-ran it in five, but he needed a realistic distance to keep his ID protected. And best of all?

He mostly did office work. Half the time, he was allowed to do remote work documenting research data and organizing the owner's inventions and patents.

There were many funds coming from said patents and inventions. If the Fentons weren't so busy spending the money to fund their ghost research—the power grid they needed for the portal alone was almost as much as Barry's entire mortgage—then they could easily be among the few in Bruce's fancy galas.

Barry will admit that he was surprised to learn that Mr. Fenton had a PhD in engineering, applied physics, and robotics. Mrs. Fenton had a PhD in nuclear physics, functional analysis, and renewable energy. Both were currently working on getting a PhD in some form of biology, and Barry was flabbergasted that they spoke about it the same way people casually decided to start a new hobby.

It was hard, but they had the money to just sign up for classes. He wept into his student loan reminders whenever he thought about it.

They made the perfect team- one thought up the idea, and the other created a physical form while they ensured it worked together.

He knew his bosses were certified geniuses who appeared goofy was one thing, but to be confronted with their degrees stuffed away in a storage box was another thing. He hadn't even meant to find them since he had gone in there with Danny- his boss's kid- to find some paper research Dr. Jack Fenton needed.

It was even more shocking to find that Dr. Jack had sold some of his systematics to Wayne Enterprises and that Bruce had used some of his robotics theories in his Batman gear.

It also seemed that most of the Amity Park were unaware of how intelligent the Fentons were. When he was out and about in the city, he kept getting pitying looks for working for the local freaks. It was honestly shocking.

People talked about Jasmine Fenton's bright future, the only hope among the family, in the same breath as calling Jack Fenton an idiot or Maddie Fenton a washed-up housewife. The things they had to say about Danny Fenton were far more disheartening.

Barry knows a thing or two about troubled youths as the Flash, and no matter what the town told him, Danny Fenton was not one of them.

It seemed to Barry that Danny was suffering from blatant bullying and the pressure of his family's shadow. Adding to the confusion of being in the middle of puberty, it created the perfect recipe for Danny to be spirling. It was a rough patch, and it led to him skipping class, dropping his grades, and ignoring his responsibilities.

He overheard the Fentons talking about Danny. Dr. Fentons was starting to grow worried since Danny had never behaved this way before high school while Jazz attempted to defend her brother and excuse his disappearance.

She seemed very aware of why her brother seemed to change.

On the other hand, Dr. Fenton wasn't and mentioned more than once that she and Danny were very close when he was a kid, but lately, he seemed to be shutting her out. Her husband admitted that he figured Danny had gotten a girlfriend- someone named Sam?- but he started to notice his son kept coming home with what appeared to be injuries.

Barry wasn't sure if they were aware that Danny was getting bullied. He was carefully filing some of the old cabinets when it clicked.

"Jazz?" He called out as the Fentons finally stop talking about Dnany's behavior and moved down to the lab. The teenager poked her head into the file office with a curious smile.

"Yes, Mr. Allen?" No matter how often he told her to call him Barry, she seemed determined to keep that barrier between them. Which was fair. After all, he was only around the house three or four times a week for a few hours.

"I have a question, so please feel free to not answer." He starts carefully to keep his tone light. Her smile turns strained at once, and Barry almost tells her to ignore it, but the thought of Wally being Danny's place makes him push on. "What is your family's stance on gay rights?"

Jazz blinked slowly, tilting her head. "I don't mind, and neither do my parents, I think. Why sir?"

"Just curious," Barry said, but mentally, he wondered if Danny knew that.

Jazz didn't look convinced, but she didn't push the issue as she wandered away with a respectful by-your-leave. He waited until she was upstairs before abandoning his work to find the Fentons.

Carefully, he started by updating them on his work, then casually dropped the mention of taking Wally to Pride so he wouldn't be able to work the following week. Neither Dr. so much as blinked, telling him that it was fine.

Barry felt it safe to keep pushing just a little.

"Yeah, I still remember how nervous Wally was about telling me he liked girls and boys." He chuckles. "As if though I didn't notice the signs."

Dr. Fenton raises a brow, face twisted in confusion as the large man turns to Barry. "What signs?"

"Mostly, he is trying to think of excuses to be with his friends more. He wasn't sleeping a lot, got into a bit of trouble in school when some kids were giving him grief, and oh, the way his eyes followed young men about." Barry said as casually as one could.

Dr. Fenton looks pensive. "Interesting."

Ah, it seemed she had picked up on the possibility of Danny not being as straight as he claimed. She thankfully didn't seem bothered by it.

"Jack, honey, you don't think Danny could be....?" She asked carefully.

Dr. Fenton ran a hand through his hair. "It could be. But why didn't he tell us?"

"Oh geez, I wonder why!" Jazz suddenly yells from the stairway. Barry twists around to find her standing there with a defensive glare. She has obviously been eavesdropping, but for how long? "What did you two expect with the way you talked around the house?!"

Dr. Fenton looked mystified. "Jazzy-pants, what are you talking about?"

His daughter only raises her fist, lowering her voice to mimic her father. "What are we doing today, Maddie? I know; how about we rip the ghost boy molecule by molecule!"

Barry's eyes grow wide. He had been working for the family for about six months and had encountered Phantom more than once. He even fought him off as Flash a few times since the ghost was hell-bent on robbing and property damage but was less dangerous than his rouges.

Dr. Fenton's face went pale as she clutched to the table. "Jazz you mean....Danny and Phantom...."

Jazz looked ready to fight them all as she bit out, "If you try to do anything to Danny, I swear-"

"We would never Jazzy-pants." Jack cut in, looking off Kindle. "To think my son was dating a ghost behind my back and I...I didn't even notice."

"Oh, Jack, we have to apologize," Maddie started. "Who knows if Danny could ever forgive us?"

Barry was thinking Flash also had to apologize. Based on their last encounter, Phantom would likely not be willing to hear him out. He quickly pulls out his phone to see if Wally and his team could get close enough to have him consider speaking to Barry.

None of the adults noticed the way Jazz froze in confusion, nor did they notice the slow horror growing on her face as they came to terms with Phantom and Danny dating.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

i love your writings so much! i need you to write about könig with maid!reader like i need air and water. könig who needs someone to take care of his house while he‘s gone, returning from his deployment only to find reader huddled up in a soft blanket on the couch, the house smelling of freshly baked cinnamon bread and lavender while she sleeps peacefully. he‘s so touch starved and the domesticity makes his heart and cock stir, he‘s never had any woman cook for him since his Oma passed away. poor reader is oblivious to her boss‘s infatuation until she‘s not, he‘s so awkward around her she thinks he just doesn‘t wanna be disturbed, but she doesn‘t know he uses her conditioner to stroke his cock every night, and now he can‘t help but get a raging boner everytime she passes by and he smells her hair :((((

Banner picture credit: @661ave

possession

noun

the state of having, owning, or controlling something.

Word count: 7 k Tags/warnings: 18+ only DARK FIC. Perv!König masturbating to thoughts of you + your stolen panties. Jealous & possessive behaviour. Dubious consent to having unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, cunnilingus, size kink, breeding kink, implied age difference. Some fluff if you squint.  A/N: First of all, I'm sorry if you expected something sweet & fluffy anon… This thing just came out of me. Also, @gremlingottoosilly wrote the best thing EVER for this trope so please if you haven’t read it yet go give it a read (dark content there too though so be warned!)

He’s good at repairing things. He prides himself in that.

And he keeps his house neat and clean: that’s not a problem. His papers are in order, his office is in order. His home is in order too, and so is his whole life – love life included because there is none. 

He always ensured he’s not dependent on anyone, he never seeked a mother from a partner. Just for self-reliance's sake, he knows how to do his own laundry and meal prep for weeks. He learned to fold his t-shirts with an orderliness fit for the military when he was ten years old, just so that no one would have the chance to say he needed a wife.

He always vacuums the entire house before deployment, does the dishes, takes out the trash. And he doesn’t hate house chores… but he doesn’t like them either. His house is a sad, lifeless, gloomy place to spend time in. It’s big enough for a family, it has everything he needs to host a night for friends, but he doesn’t have any. 

Family, or friends, that is.

When he hears that his co-worker – the one with a frigid wife and five unruly kids – hired a maid to do the cleaning in the house, he pauses to think. He doesn’t have a chaos in his home, but he’s got enough money to make life a tad easier. Besides, it’s only expected of a man of his position to hire an assistant of some sort, is it not?

It’s just that he didn’t expect housemaids to be this… cute. 

There are quite a few applications, and he’s a sick bastard for choosing the maid solely based on the picture attached to the CV. He told himself it was also because it looked like this lady needed the money the most. He's a generous man, so why not help a woman in need? 

Another thing he didn’t expect is how his house would start to smell so nice and look so cozy. It’s the small details, the tiny little things that make his chest burn. The way she uses softener on his shirts and folds not only his shirts but his boxers, too, or places a scented candle on the table when the weather turns cold. It’s clearly for his delight because it’s not one of those overly sweet apple or caramel things but something fresh, maybe spruce or fir. 

She even bakes for him on the days when he comes back. The fact that a beautiful young woman bakes for him stirs something unwanted and long-forgotten in his chest. The sweet scent of home baked buns makes his cock stir, too. His place has never seen a woman’s touch, no one has ever baked anything here…

And he certainly doesn’t expect to find his maid sleeping on his sofa when he arrives home one evening.

She stirs immediately, and apologizes profusely for making herself at home like this. She starts to stutter and explain how she’s had a busy week and difficulty with sleeping, how she simply dozed off while waiting for the rolls to bake in the oven. 

He stops her in the middle of her flustered excuses: she can take a nap here any time, it’s not like the furniture is going to wear and tear from use anytime soon. He’s barely even home, so it’s good that someone enjoys the sofa, right? She can use his bed too if she wants. More convenient that way, ja?

He realizes he went a little too far when she looks at him like he just offered to fuck her on the kitchen table. Which he has thought about, to be honest, for a good long while now. In fact, he’s thought about it ever since she started in this position a month ago. 

It's her fault for being so unsuspecting and lovely, and she's playing with fire when she takes more dangerous liberties by showering at his house. He finds a women’s conditioner bottle in the bathroom and once, he even catches her doing her laundry here too. There’s a pair of women’s underwear in the pile of clothes she politely informs he’d have to fold himself this time because she’s in a hurry to catch her bus. 

He’s far more intrigued by the innocent, blush pink strings greeting him from amidst his black and dark green clothes than by the fact that his maid is breaking the rules. Other employers would give her a warning or simply say she no longer has to come and work here ever again. Showering at his place, washing her clothes in his washing machine and taking a nap on his sofa border on violating the terms of their agreement, but he couldn’t care less. He would carve a hole in his chest if that would make her happy. 

When he finds out she’s busy because she has to work two jobs, he raises her pay, despite the fact that she’s sometimes late and at times, leaves a little too early. She does her job well enough, so there’s no reason to complain. He would simply like it if they saw each other more... Which is ridiculous, he knows, because the point of having a maid is that she cleans his house when he’s away. 

It just feels so nice to arrive home now that she's here. He’s never looked forward to getting back to his bleak modern mansion, but now he’s pining for his leaves like a young recruit who's got a girl waiting for him back home. 

Even if she’s not there when he gets back, he can savour her lingering scent. He sniffs the dark woolen spread she might’ve slept under just moments ago, he eats whatever freshly baked goodies she has made for him. He sleeps with her underwear tucked under his pillow, and reaches for them before sleep. Or then he grabs them in the morning when he wakes up, already hard. 

It’s nice to have an unhurried fap at home than to relieve his needs in some small grey room of a boring military base. It's far more enjoyable to stroke his cock with her tiny, cute underwear spread over his face. Sometimes he wraps it around his cock and jerks himself off to a quick, groan-filled release, adoring the way his cum stains her blushing strings.

His showers last for about 15 minutes nowadays.

It’s unheard of for a soldier, and he read somewhere that lonely and depressed people take longer showers because the warm water is supposed to make up for the lack of human touch and intimacy, and that may very well be true… But he also wants to take his sweet time stroking himself while using her conditioner as lube. 

Coconut or peach, vanilla or argan oil, he lathers it all over his cock and imagines her hot, wet pussy. His hand is too calloused to give him any illusions of softness, but the mind-numbingly sweet scent takes him immediately back to her. Her eyes, her soft smile. The dreamy sway of her hips, the elegance of her wrists as she moves some item out of the way to sweep or scrub or clean a surface.

He faps with slick urgency, wondering if her eyes would go wide if she saw his cock. He wonders if she’s noisy in bed – is she a screamer, or a moaner? Would she claw at his back or simply cling to him if he fucked her? 

And god, how he would fuck her… 

Slowly at first, draw moans out of that soft mouth until she begs him to fuck her hard. He would drag her shirt up and her bra down until her breasts are exposed, then watch how they bounce as he starts to fuck her with purpose. She begins to tighten around him, looking so fucking desperate as her cunt starts to throb and pull him in. The first moan of surrender is needy and tight when she cums around his shaft…

He never gets any further than that because his cock spills with a violent jerk. He cums, long and hard across the tiles. Loads and loads of hot seed go to waste as he groans loudly, not giving a shit about making so much noise. Feeling hollow and deprived for not being able to shoot his cum inside her and then stay there, snug and safe and warm inside her cunt, he allows himself just one single sob. 

He just wants to know how it would feel to cover her whole body with his as he slowly pumps the last drops into her. Sigh afterwards, breathe together, hold her close... Search for her eyes, check if she's in rapture too. Watch her come down from it while still squeezing him down there. Perhaps she’d give him a pleased giggle and a cute, weary smile.

"Scheisse–"

He leans on the wall, knowing that he's lonely, filthy, sick and obsessed. He lives in a dream world, and the thick conditioner takes ages to wash off. The withdrawal phase is worse every time he indulges in his dark fantasies and then has to live without her for weeks and weeks.  

She's just his maid, a hired employee. She’s just an innocent woman with her whole future ahead of her.

He's just a colonel at a notorious private military company… He's just an old, horny, depraved soldier. Calloused, fucked up, depressed. Girls like her don't want anything to do with a man like him.

…

She asks if he wants his house decorated for Christmas.

She asks it with bright eyes and such a lovely smile that he tells her he doesn't own such junk, but he can pay her if she goes to choose him some and then comes back to decorate his place. Their unusual agreement gets more unusual still as she nods with shining eyes, then goes to the city to choose his Christmas decorations for him. He even lets her use his car, which is unheard of. 

Soon, his windows are filled with lights and there are mistletoes hanging from the ceiling. She puts fancy little elves in the window, places Christmas flowers and candles everywhere she possibly can. He walks around the house with a coffee mug in his hand, suddenly awkward and shy when watching his maid put up the most sophisticated, elegant and adorable Christmas decorations he has ever had or seen.

Is this what a home should look like…? Warm, and light, and pretty, filled with cozy, useless things? 

But it's not the items she got him that make a home, no. Home now equals rich, home-cooked meals, or the mouthwatering scent of cinnamon rolls greeting him at the door. Home is a cute girl, returning his obsessive stare with a small smile and telling him to stay safe before he leaves to kill people. Home is a woman who's the perfect wife material, so fuckable and sweet, who's fussing over the fact that he doesn't even have a Christmas tree.

He gets it before her next visit – meaning, her next shift – and decorates it himself. It looks clumsy and uneven and a bit sparse, but she compliments him on it when she arrives. The looks she gives him are so warm and playful that he starts to have some hope – hell, a full surge of it – and he also starts to miss his hood. He's feeling awkward as it is around her, he doesn't need to be blushing in front of his suddenly flirtatious maid... Men don’t fucking blush when a woman flirts with them; they fuck them until their knees give in.

With no small amount of hidden guilt, he finally confronts her with her underwear, telling her she forgot something and that he found these in his laundry pile. Taking sick satisfaction from seeing how she's the one who's flustered now, he forgives her for washing laundry in his place. He's a merciful man, after all. 

There's still some cum on the lace as he returns her possession to her, and he hopes he's just imagining the shock in her eyes when she takes them back. It's his way of saying that he likes her a lot, but the flirting ends immediately, the playful smiles stop, and he knows he fucked up big time. The warm, lively woman is gone, she suddenly resembles an ice sculpture who's about to flee his apartment at any given moment, and he could hit himself in the head with a big metal bat.

What the fuck was he even thinking? That a woman would appreciate it if he returned her panties covered in old, dried cum?

He's a fucked up pervert, and he has lived in a dream world, and now reality awaits.

He shuts down and shuts up after that, keeps the connection pure, pristine and professional. She's just here to do her job. 

The holidays approach, and he's sulking, knowing that he won't see her again in at least six weeks. He'll have to make do without a maid, and he'll have to numb his whole soul to get through yet another lonely Christmas.

Well, not lonely: this time he spends it with the decorations she got him. They can keep him company during the lonely masturbation sessions. They can watch him live on takeout food and remind him what a horny, sad loser he is.

So his last attempt, his last minor sin is that he gets her a Christmas present. She's about to leave, hurrying to some place where she's loved and cherished, or then about to get fucked because she has her hair and make-up done. The jealousy creeps up his spine like a viper as he watches her get all dolled up. 

She's so very grateful to him for allowing her to get ready here and use his bathroom, and he plays the generous, kind gentleman while gritting his teeth, trying to ignore another demanding erection telling him to dick her down and make her stay down. Make her bake for him and sit on his knee as he squeezes her tits and watches her stare turn dumb. Tell her to douse the lights and light the candles, tell her to undress in front of that stupid Christmas tree, order her to lie down on the mat and spread her pretty legs for him…

She's standing at the door, a cute girl turned into a seductive goddess, while he's about to enter into another lonely brain fog. She grabs her coat and grants him one of those warmer smiles as he walks to her with an envelope in hand.

"I got you something... Merry Christmas."

"Aw… You shouldn't have…"

She accepts his gift delicately with both hands, clearly surprised and pleased. When she opens the gift, she laughs and then covers her mouth with her hand. It's a gift card to Victoria's Secret, and with a relatively large sum on it, too.

"Oh god... Ahah, okay. I like your humour," she laughs again, then gives him a wink and an exceptionally gorgeous smile. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." 

He's fully aware that he sounds like an ominous, threatening robot. His voice has an effect on women; most flee, some get curious. She's one of the few who don't know what's good for them at all.

He never had a gift with females, and even with his position, experience and age, he still feels like he’s trying to court a breathtaking alien species whose native language he can’t quite understand or speak. The silence stretches on, and her smile slowly fades, making him perfectly aware of the fact that he should say or do something assertive, something charming, instead of just standing here, looming over her. When the playful stare then turns into a helpless, pitying one, the kind his mother used to wear when she discovered he had been bullied again at school, his hands start to go numb. 

Jerk off and kill, those are the only things he ever was good for… 

"Mm... I'm afraid I have nothing for you," she says apologetically. 

Ach so… She’s ashamed for not getting him a present. 

Well, shit. Fuck.

"Don't worry about it."

"No, I mean… I thought about it. You're the kindest employer I've ever had. I really appreciate it... and I love working for you."

"That’s nice to hear." 

"I just didn't know what to get you. I don't know what you like."

He's trying to ignore the pull of his chest, the sick burning in his loins. His cock is stirring just from the way she's looking at him. Inviting, adoring, waiting.

"You already got me Christmas decorations."

"Yeah, but… You paid for them."

"Aber... You baked for me. No one's ever–"

He shuts his mouth before making a complete fool of himself.

"Well, I'm glad you liked my buns," she laughs, then bites her lip, realizing what she just said could be taken in many ways. 

"I truly did."

She guides her stare to the floor and smiles, and the electricity between them… it just can't be only a fabric of his imagination.

"Take care of yourself. Ok?" He says, then swallows a lump in his throat, but it never quite goes down. She’s still waiting for something; the tension between them is petrifying. 

"I will," she says, her voice a bit frail, and far too sweet. "You too. Take care."

She gives her last smile to him; it’s sad and somewhat disappointed as she turns around and reaches for the door.

"Wait," he calls, purely from the hard instinct that tells him to fucking do something about this heavy, sickening tension. She immediately turns with hope in her eyes.

"Yes?"

"I… Ah, glückliches neues Jahr."

"...What does that mean?" 

"It means 'Happy New Year'."

"Oh," she laughs, "I thought it was something naughty…"

Shit.

Shit.

Shit…

"Ich möchte deine Muschi lecken."

She freezes with her hand still on the doorknob. That fucking sentence was so dark it left little or nothing to the imagination... It was thick enough to make it clear that he’s not a kind, generous employer, nor is he a gentleman.

"What's that?" She asks, her pretty voice barely a whisper.

"Something naughty."

Her hand lets go, it falls to the side. She even tilts her head before her voice turns thick and suggestive too. 

"Really…?"

"Yes."

"Well don't be shy. Tell me what it means."

Playful, naughty, dirty. 

She wants to fuck. She wants to fuck.

Is this a filthy dream or is this really happening? 

"I want to lick your pussy."

There's an intake of air, just a soft gasp. Batting of long, dark lashes, just before the stars in her eyes start to shine in full.

"Oh," she breathes. "Is that so?"

"Ja."

It wouldn't be the first time someone offers him cunt just out of spontaneous pity. It wouldn’t be the first time he accepts it. A man like him takes whatever he can get.

Pity is apparently what's happening now, because his maid starts to undress. 

With a victorious shine in her eyes, she drops her coat to the floor, then unbuttons her jeans. Takes away her shirt and bra with shaky hands while maintaining that seductive, downright filthy eye contact. More and more of her skin is exposed as she quickly strips in front of him, finally slipping out of her black, see-through underwear while he's trying not to shake from dark urges and lust.

When she's naked, flush and bare, her fingers start to slide up her thigh. The other hand is pressed against her side as if shy. She’s either offering him a Christmas present in the most elegant way, or then she’s concerned about getting licked and fucked sore. It's like throwing a dog a meaty bone and then putting the hound in a loose chain, just an inch away from the mouthwatering sight and scent. She steals one look at his erection, currently trying to rip its way through his pants. The gross tent is pointed at her, and she knows it: she knows she has him on a leash, but only barely.

"Go ahead then," she whispers.

He falls straight to his knees, and presses his whole face against her softly trimmed hair. When he opens his mouth, she shudders, clearly not ready for someone this starved trying to devour her whole.

She doesn't know she's about to sleep with the devil… If she knew, she would be out the door by now.

It's too late now: he engulfs her, locks her in place by wrapping his arms around her hips. 

Mein.

Mein.

Mein…

He could rub his face in her sweet cunt forever, but that won't do: she said he could lick her, so that’s what he’s going to do. After a few bites and nibs, after inhaling the sweet scent of her and squeezing her long and hard in his embrace, he finally rises and carries her to his den. There’s only loneliness there in his bedroom, just stale sweat and old musk staining the sheets, but she softens on the linens when he goes down on her.

Her pussy is already throbbing and wet when he gives her the first, fat lick. Next up, soft little laps to make her thighs drift apart. Some long, teasing circles on her clit, and she starts to sigh - he’s not an expert, but he knows she won’t find a more enthusiastic cunt licker in this city. Or this whole country… Perhaps the entire world.

And she's not a screamer, she’s a moaner. She also whimpers a lot. He switches between giving fast attention to her clit, then slow tongue fucking to her hole. The scent of pussy fills his room: they only talk to each other through moans and whines and groans. He breathes into her like a panting dog: she whimpers under torture like she actually likes it, and likes him. Like she actually prefers his bed to any other place in this world.

He fucks her with his mouth, sloppy and hungry; he could french kiss her pussy forever like this. He could spend every evening licking her to ruin. 

"Just like that… Just like that… Don't stop…"

He's as hard as can be; he's about to lose his fucking mind. If she doesn't cum soon, he might just die from having to listen to those unhinged cries. 

To help her out – because he's a generous, generous man – he slips a finger inside, earning another spill of filthy moans.

"Oh god ohgod oh fuck–!"

She sounds dumb and helpless as he eats her out like she’s his last meal. His chin is drenched and his cock is hard as the poor girl leaks all over her ass and on his bedding. He adds another finger, starts to fuck her slow and steady. She's more than prepared for his cock, and when he starts to do the alphabet on her clit, she whimpers, whines, and finally, screams. 

The feel-good hormones flood his brain when she cums. He kisses her through it and slows down the torture gradually, gives her some space to pulse and throb and leak against his chin. 

Women need a lot of stimulation; that’s what he has learned. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, and he doesn’t want to ruin the explosion by overriding her senses. When he rises from a job well done, he sees how some of her makeup is ruined. 

Yeah. Fuck... A screamer, a moaner, and a crier.

And he's only about to fuck her…

"Das war gut. Good pussy," he mutters and licks his lips, high above his pretty little prize.

"Oh–oh god…"

Poor thing is so flushed, desperate and helpless; she jerks as he taps her clit with his cock, whines when he forces the fat, leaking tip into her folds. 

"Wait–"

"I will fuck you now."

"Sir… Please, could we use a condom? Please…"

She's still calling him sir like she's at work. Like he's her superior, or worse yet, an officer, a colonel she's not supposed to flirt with, let alone spread her weak little legs for. 

"Hm. I don't have any."

"I do," she's panting heavy on the bed, clearly reluctant to get away from his cock, too weak to get up after his thigh-shaking treatment. It would give him a year’s worth of confidence to witness her in this state, if she would only let him finish the job. Right here, right now. Dip it in raw and blow a load inside that sweet, aching cunt. She might just end up with his child... 

But the moment is ruined: he hates condoms, and he hates it that she has them with her. Jealousy starts to eat his mind like there's a can of worms poured inside his brain.

Who does she carry condoms for? Does she get fucked often...? 

How many does she have, one, two, three? A whole pack?

She rises to get the darned piece of plastic, and the thick thunder in his head is making him seriously consider locking her up and throwing away the key. Women shouldn't be running around like that, hungry and desperate for a dick. She should stay at home, his home, and go crazy when he returns from war. The rage is the only thing keeping his cock from growing soft. 

"It's too small," he laments when the condom is finally in place but barely reaches the base of his shaft. It's going to roll off if he fucks her like he intended to… Good, long, deep and hard.

She bites her lip as she stares at the sad little wrapping trying to render his cock harmless. Surely she can see how stupid and useless this is… Either he gets her a morning after pill tomorrow or then he pulls out, but the condom has to fucking go. 

"It's… okay," she swallows. "It's okay. Let's just… If you're clean?"

"I am."

He doesn't tell her he hasn't had a woman in months. Almost over a year.

And he’s clean; he keeps everything…in ordnung.

He rolls the cursed plastic off, and his cock immediately bounces back up: hard, demanding and ready. He throws the condom away, just somewhere, anywhere, as long as it's out of his sight. Wasting no time, he's back at her cunt, and bullies himself in.

"Ah ja… Das ist schön… Sehr schön."

Nothing compares to the feel of a real cunt, hugging him tight. And fuck… He can actually fit fully inside her. He fits like a glove. 

"Oh ja. Das ist... I'm not going to pull out. It's not an option. Ok?"

It's not a warning, it's a simple, honest statement. She looks at him with a fearful, desperate stare as his balls arrive to press against her flesh. Yes... nothing beats a wet pussy and a frightened stare.

"Ok…" 

"It's better this way," he promises, wondering if it would make him a bad person if he disposed of her condoms first thing in the morning. "Ja?"

"Yes," she sighs. "Feels so good…"

The tightness in his chest falls down, all the way to his stomach and forms a bittersweet knot there. Why does she keep looking at him like that…? He's not hurting her, she's not exactly afraid, it's something else that's making her give him those dumb doe eyes.

"You're pretty," he rasps while trying not to start a complete fuckfest in every meaning of the word.

"O‐oh…?"

"Ja… It's illegal to be that pretty. Someone might want to fuck you..."

"Please do," she almost chokes on the words while looking up at him. "Please…"

If this is a dream, it’s the best dream he’s ever had. She's so perfect, far more needy and helpless than he ever imagined. He moves before he drives them both to madness. 

"I'll fuck you, Liebling. As many times as you want. As hard as you want."

He can't remember when was the last time he sounded so soft. Or reassuring... He can't remember the last time a woman was so responsive to his cock. But he fucks her. He fucks his own sorrow into oblivion, too. He pauses only to take a good look at her and remind himself that he’s truly inside the sweetest pussy he’s ever had. 

He even whispers lies to her ear about how she doesn't have to worry: he'll get her a plan B after this. The girl turns a bit wild now that it's somewhat safe to be fucked by an animal. She lets him lick and bite her breasts, and thoroughly abuse her cunt. At some point she grabs his face with both hands and kisses him, hungry and sweet. Squeals into his mouth as his balls slap against her ass, hugs him like a drowning person when he picks up the pace and starts to lose himself in her pussy. The feel of a woman's hands around his middle is a sensation he's forgotten completely. 

"You like that?" He starts to talk nonsense between her sloppy kisses, pleased with his own soft voice, with her, with everything in his life right now. "You like my cock? Hm?"

"Yes… Oh fuck, I'm…"

Fuck, she's about to cum again... He's in heaven, no, he's somewhere near Eden. She suddenly goes still, and sinks her nails in his back, just before a cry cuts through the air. It reminds him of the aftermath of a grenade detonating; her moans pierce the air, and he can’t get enough of it. He wants to swim in those screams.

He was supposed to make love to her for hours, but it's crystal clear now that this won’t be a long session. He's a selfish asshole for chasing his own peak next by fucking her through her second orgasm like a rabid dog. 

"Oh das ist sehr schön, das ist gut… Ach für–scheisse—"

He sounds a bit too pathetic, and quickly buries his face into her neck to escape her lovely, adoring stare. He fucks himself into a big, fat, blinding explosion, he can barely hear the thundering roar that meets her sweaty neck. 

She's scared silent by his despair, poor little thing. And he just fapped this morning… But the orgasm compares to the first time he came, it's violent, abrupt and rough. Sadly, the descent is too heady, and too quick. Nuzzling deeper into her hair, he tries to listen to her heartbeat but only hears his own beastlike panting.

"Ok… Ok. I guess we both really needed that, huh?"

She's laughing and out of breath as she gathers their pieces and constructs some kind of a new reality out of them. He rumbles in agreement and refuses to pull out – now that he's inside her, he'll never fucking leave.

"Will you stay? For the night…?"

His question is met by complete silence. She just breathes, then buries her fingers in his hair. He feels like melting chocolate; for the first time in his life, he's somewhat relaxed and content. 

"I… I'd really like to but… I can't. I have a party to attend.”

She gives him a quick kiss on the head, then ruffles his hair. She fucking pets him while he’s plunging into some deep recess with the raw, post-nut clarity. 

She just needed a fuck… She just needed some cock. And a gift card, so she can buy nice things for the men she allows to lick her to ruin. Fuck… She's even worse than him.

“I'm sorry..."

"It's ok," he hears himself say. She’s too fucking gentle as she drags her fingertips across his scalp. Her other hand comes to trace his jawline, and her thighs hug his waist so good that he would have no trouble making love to her again. Just start another round with a slow roll of hips. Fuck her until they're both sweaty and crying, fuck her full of his cum and chain her to the bed, for safekeeping as he goes and gets himself a beer in between the sessions.

For some reason, he can't quite bring himself to act on this wish. Not when she just cried from how good he was, not when she's petting him like he's a good dog who's earned his rest.

He gives himself a minute before pulling out, and she leaves his bed in silence, tiptoeing into the bathroom in a hurry. Trust a maid to not want to stain the floor with cum when she just scrubbed everything clean…

She takes a quick shower and fixes her makeup, then picks her clothes from the floor. His heart is hammering in his chest, but his breaths remain even as he watches her get dressed. He even offers her a ride to the party, which she accepts with apologetic gratitude. It’s held at someone's home: a house party is a sight he has only ever seen from outside.

She gives him an uneasy, distant smile and a quick kiss before thanking him for the evening and the ride. Then she half walks, half runs across the pavement and up towards the door to be let in by her already drunken friends. Some man embraces her, and the white rage inside his skull is telling him to grab a gun, rise from the car and start a good old mass shooting. Instead, he guides his stare to the asphalt and drives off.

He goes home and has a beer, the rage and longing giving his insides a good stab every five or ten minutes. He watches some TV, then mulls over whether to sleep on the couch because her scent is still on the sheets.

It starts to rain outside, and reality kicks in. When it rains, it pours… He decides he actually hates Christmas, and he also can't stand the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. Too tired to dump them in the trash, his feet carry him to the bed, cold and soiled and wrinkled from past love that never was.

The clock is only half past ten, and the doorbell rings just before he takes his shirt off. For the umptieth time this day, his heart starts to race, reminding him that it's not wars that are cruel, but women. 

When he opens the door, she's standing there in the rain. Utterly soaked, dripping wet, sad like a stray cat, lower lip trembling from cold.

"Sir?" she declares, "I'm afraid to fall in love."

There’s a spread of wings inside his chest, catching wind like a soaring eagle. It’s a fell swoop and a heady high at the same time, a burning pain right there over his heart as he looks at her, lonely and sad and so adorably lost. Beautiful and wet, like a trampled little flower after a summer storm. She's perfect, just perfect.

And has she walked all the way back here…? There’s no sign of a taxi, no sounds of a car or a bus, and she looks like she's wetter than a wet dog.

"You’re afraid to fall in love…?"

She nods, then bursts into tears. Her tiny shoulders rise and fall with sobs, the rain makes long, wet strings of her hair. He takes a step and tries to pull her in, but she won't come. Stubborn, incredible little thing…

"Liebling... Me too."

"Really?” she raises her sad stare to meet him while trying to wipe her ruined mascara in the midst of falling rain. “You seem like the kind of man who fears nothing..."

"Oh I fear a lot of things."

"Like what?"

"Like… flying, for example."

"But you fly all the time?"

"Exactly."

She's sniffling and pouting and sobbing, like a princess who always got everything she wanted. He wonders if she's the kind of girl who would've laughed at him in high school, or looked him down her nose. If she would've joined the bullies and been the one to say she’d never sleep with a freak like him…

"Let's get you inside. Hmm? You must be cold."

She won’t come, no matter how hard he tries to coax her to come inside his dry, warm house. The rain falls in mats behind her as the city sleeps, vibrant and vigilant. He thought he already broke his heart to the point it couldn’t get more broken anymore, but the look she gives him as he tries to pull her inside is making it burst and shatter into pieces again.

If she's a princess, she must be a battered, broken one. 

"Come on. I'll give you a bath," he tries to entice her. "And then we’ll tuck you in. That sound gut?"

"Yes," her shoulders drop as she finally accepts his asylum. "Thank you, sir…"

"And don't call me sir unless you want to make me hard."

She breaks into a fragile, shy smile while looking down at the tips of her drenched ballerinas. Then she allows him to drag her in. 

He helps her out of her coat and hangs it to dry while his pretty little kitten gets out of her clothes for the second time this evening. A strong, powerful possessiveness settles in his chest as he guides her to the bathroom and draws her a bath. Then he pulls her shivering, naked body against him so that she wouldn’t feel cold while they wait for the tub to fill with water.

What happens next is soft and gentle, the kind of unhurried exploration he never had time to do because the few females he was with were always in a hurry to get away from him and his needs. 

This pretty thing just eases herself into the bath. A timid but trusting little creature, who allows him to study her body like it’s already a possession for him to play with. She lets him rub her tits and tease her clit, caress her neck and face and waist. She does so with patience, love and hope. He’s been extremely tender and extremely slow with her; perhaps that’s why she doesn’t run away from him. 

"You're too good for me," she whispers when his hand comes to rest on her stomach, just below her tits.

"...What?" 

He barely hears what she’s saying, he can hardly hear her speaking at all because he’s there in the water with her, submerged in the hot, soothing liquid, even if he’s crouching next to the tub in reality.

"Oh please... You're everything a woman could want," she complains softly.

"What do you mean.”

She sighs and looks up to the ceiling, as if begging for help. Then she starts to list things.

"You're… Rich? And powerful, and strong. Kind and considerate. Mysterious... With a great body and a big dick, and still wanting to go down on a woman... It's insane."

He tries to remember how to breathe, but she’s not done yet.

"I'm sorry but… No one's ever eaten me out like that. You must be so experienced."

Her praise eclipses everything, even the thoughts of wanting to kill everyone who's had a taste of her.

So, the boys she's been with don't know how to please her… Stupid arschlochs don't understand what true devotion means. Even a fucker like him knows it's better to make a woman cry out of pleasure than out of fear. Although he always had a talent to do the latter…

And he's not experienced, he's just fucking horny. He just likes to eat pussy. 

But that's not something she has to know. Better to have her keep the illusion that he's a dream catch, a rich cosmopolitan of some sort. What a joke…

"You’re literally perfect," she moans from the bath like the princess that she is. "How are you even single?"

"I'm not… right in the head, I guess."

"Well, neither am I."

He can’t look at her. Not when she’s open and trustful and sweet like this. But her hand comes to rest over his, under the water, under the safety of the surface.

"No one is."

"No. Wirklich, I’m a bit sick. Always was. I jerked off to your…" He leaves the rest of the sentence unsaid, risking a look into her eyes. 

"I know," she smiles. "I don't mind… Actually I think that's hot."

"Liebling…"

"I think I’ve had enough now. Can we go to bed…?"

"Of course."

She giggles when he lifts her from the water, smiles as he dries him with his towel like she's a wet little kitten he rescued from rain. And perhaps he did... She caresses his chin when he carries her to bed, and reaches for him as he accompanies her under the sad, steel-blue sheets. 

He doesn’t need to fuck her, not right now. It’s enough that she’s here: soft, trapped, and tame. His, just his. 

Not another lonely Christmas for him ever again…

And she latches herself onto him like he’s the saviour she’s been waiting for all her life. Poor thing doesn’t know that he may be rich and powerful and strong, but he’s not kind. He’s not considerate, and he’s not perfect. He’s her worst nightmare, he's everything a woman would despise. 

He’s single because no one ever stayed. No one stayed after they saw who he really was... Some even had to flee the country.

But he knows she’ll stay. He’ll make sure that this cute one never leaves. No, this one is not safe from him, even if she tried to escape him to space.

"Are you still afraid?"

He caresses her head, pressed against his chest. She’s unsuspecting and lovely, the perfect woman, hugs him so tight and sighs from simple, lamblike happiness. 

"No," she smiles softly. "Not at all... I know you'll treat me right."

[moondirti]

ANGEL OF SMALL DEATH [ john price x f! reader ]

: he sees you when his vices take hold. little love, invented. chimeric, he assumed - until you're not.

mdni. noncon; addiction (nicotine and alcohol); SSRIs; intoxication; breeding kink; daddy kink; hallucinations; kidnapping; drugging; objectification; slut-shaming; sexual harassment; violence; bondage; vomiting; guns; suicide, murder, pregnancy, spanking and branding mentions. 7k.

a/n: have yall seen ruby sparks? yeah imagine that but worse

John's always had his fixes.

He remembers the hysterics. Five and wet behind the ears, lungs scoured raw of anguish when his mum hadn't let him sup the vanilla extract. It's not what you'd expect, hun. But the child-sized idée fixe, destructive in its naivety, turned its head at the implication. He stuck his nose to the bottle's cap, got a whiff of it unfiltered, and revolted; how could it taste like anything but the ambrosia it promised?

Or, who was she to deny he try?

(His resistance to authority can be spoored there. A miasmic trail back to youth, stinking something foul. It had been a Sisyphean effort, pyrrhic, when he enlisted. Burnishing odour only to find, without it, there was nothing left for them to make use of.)

So – red-faced, tousled pyjamas at 2200, balanced atop a chair as his parents snored soundly on the couch – he snuck a teaspoon for himself.

It was foul, of course. A calcine irritation that clawed on its way down his throat, baring raw tissue in its wake. He hid his coughs behind his sleeves, vision cloudy with tears as he put everything back where it belonged – not disappointed so much as he was committed, he thinks. Because the very next night, he came back to try it again.

And again, and again.

Like clockwork, he tipped the small vial up onto his tongue and hoped it would pass into something different. Obsessive. Ruinous monomania. His dreams sprung into caliginous visions that detailed nothing but the phantom touch of it to his tongue; this taste, syrupy sweet like nothing he would find in comfits and puddings and pies.

(In hindsight, all it did was teach him how to embrace the burn.)

It only stopped when his mum woke to him voiding his guts in an old popcorn bowl. Poison control, buoyant levity clipped over the rotary phone, told her that it happens all the time. Kids go looking for a midnight snack and think vanilla will hit the spot. Our suggestion is to settle for alternatives until he's old enough to know better. Hydrate in the meanwhile.

– know better.

It's hard to say he does.

His wants still have wants, have asinine wants, that which keep him so late into the night that it's dawn before he falls comatose. Sunk into a leather wingback, the space of his parlour more smoke than it is air, contemplating keeping a warm body in these hinterlands. Helplessly soft, pretty. Fixated on that faceless something, burrowed beneath his sweet tooth again.

But on the wrong side of forty, he's honed prudence like a well-oiled firearm. Custom so things run smoothly, though not one he finds necessary if it weren't for convention. He knows his job would cut in on the upkeep, month long absences like a disease to whoever he manages to snare. It'll kill them, slowly, holed up in this home alone.

(When his parents did away with the extract, he tore the curtains and scribbled on their walls. A boy's green version of withdrawal, deprived of his favourite vice. He's never considered sobriety for that very reason – he's bad even with a maduro in hand.

And the thing about people, they're never so easy to replenish.)

Age besets everything. Counters them, grown as he is. Pragmatic.

Still. To say he knows better is... faulty, flawed. Not when he fists his cock to those fantasies and stirs on all the ways he can bring them to light. Early retirement (a prompt no; he's just as dependant on the field), or multiple little loves to keep each other company, his house turned an Arcadia of nymphs (though he tires to think of wrangling more than one, and the idea diffuses like sugar steeped in tea.)

It's on his fourth- fifth iteration that John starts to see it for what it really is. That this – a darling wife to curl between his legs – is like the imagined taste of vanilla extract. Too good to ever be made true. At least for a man of his ilk, whose bloody hands slip around nirvana. Unearned. Chained to purgatory so long as he weighs sins against the greater good. He wasn't meant for the finer things in life.

So he sticks to what he has. Old familiars. Noxious inhibitors, palmed for upwards of ten pounds, crafted for old dodgers like himself. Tobacco, dry whiskey. Nicotine to spout fire to his hindbrain. Cheap, easy accesses that sate the itch behind his eyes, so long as he lights another.

Ouroboros. It feeds itself and lasts.

(Until you come off the tail end that is, and sever the loop with your own, clever little hands.)

You pose a different kind of problem.

It starts after Serbia. Hounding across the Carpathian mountains for the better part of a winter has detrimental effects, see. And though he eventually locates the bunker Laswell's informants alerted them to, he comes out of it changed – head fixed the wrong way around, skin flaking over off a mulish swell of anger. Going back home is an ordeal when his body acclimatised to find warmth in the frost, talking to Stygian shadows like comrades. Necessitated madness revoked.

Because all of a sudden, everything is too comfortable. Vibrant. Nothing hurts enough to match the stress still ricocheting within him, and the imbalance threatens to capsize. The doctors prescribe SSRIs, tell him to keep it separate, Captain, when their eyes skim that part of his file that notes him as a habitual drinker – so he switches from bourbon to Canadian whiskey, like the ABV will make a difference.

(That inveterate defiance, rearing its ugly head once more.)

And really, he doesn't get what all the fuss is about.

The static in his head flatlines, white noise taking its slot. It's the greatest peace he's found since his bunkmate at boarding school stuck a joint between his teeth and told him to suck. Like fog wearing over a hill, his thoughts grow muddied, loose and abandoned once he can't tell which way is up or where the sky ends.

And the wants, the very same he's long since buried, come back with a vengeance. Unchanged, for the most part (he doubts they were ever dead in the first place) yet manifested differently, like they're privy to the scepticism that killed them last.

(Reveries no longer disembodied, shuddering old film onto the backs of his eyes, but projected into the dark corners of his house, instead.)

He hears your laugh, first. It is early March and easter endorsements already shade the telly in garish joie de vivre, corporations fighting for a foot in your spring celebrations! Buy an egg-dying kit and get one free, hurry before it's too late! John doesn't remember turning it on, can hardly feel the remote in his hands, but that acedia ebbs once the sound of it meets his ears. The sound of you–

Jingle-bell mischievous, he knows it has no place amidst the foolish ditties of spring. He turns the T.V. off, sitting upright in his chair, ears piqued in every direction as he waits for it again.

From the kitchen: another breathless titter, tapped from a chest too delicate to be mistaken for the howling winds outside. When he rises to inspect the source, he swipes the spare gun he uses to foot a broken table, trigger finger dangling bonelessly by the grip. Good to have it there, just in case, though he's confident he won't need to resort to such measures to neutralise you – not if you equal the Zephyr-like quality of your voice.

(Paranoia, it seems, is another effect of downing his meds with Crown Royal. Had he been less inebriated, he would have remembered that his doors are double bolted, and that there's no one out for miles.)

But what he expects to find, luminous between the birch cupboard rows, is not there. His kitchen is as empty as it's always been.

So, they might have warned him about it. He might have avoided this whole thing had he listened. But things snowball when he grasps what's happening. Calamitous uptake; it invades his dreams again, and his dreams invade reality.

(If he cannot have what he wants within the provident constrictions of life, then what's the harm in indulging himself, if only a little.)

Soon enough, he sees glimpses of you wherever he looks.

Sylphic figure come to haunt him. Light bounces through you, your flesh gossamer-like. Diaphanous. He thinks you cannot be crafted that way if not to accent the dark, wet rims of your eyes. The lightning-branched veins etched to all four extremities. Nipples like petals, touched alluringly to your breasts. He thinks you cannot be fictitious – he's never been an inventive man, and the impish flick of your lips reads as familiar, somehow. Dancing on the tip of his tongue, or a song he's heard once and never again. Like he's taken to it before–

His memory swishes like watered nectar in this state. It's impossible to place.

Still–

So long as you continue to appear as fine mist does, chasing the throttles of his high, John's a happy man. He need not tell you anything; you already know his name, what it is he likes. You sway to imagined tunes (later, he couples it to the erratic drumming of his heart) and jump nimbly around his legs, winding and tangling and falling right through them when he wishes to see you stumble.

You don't talk much, either. He has yet to whet the finer points of your being, work out what makes you tick or how you'd enunciate your words. It's an eggshell process. Fragile. Some nights, he'll imagine you with a cadence that doesn't quite fit, and you'll stutter like a faulty motor before shattering from view. To avoid disillusionment, he has to be careful. Extend a platter of properties for you to choose from, picky thing, and watch as you notch them on your tongue, testing.

You'll get this look on your face as you do. Contemplative, lips pursed for a moment before you shrug and slide down to decorate his feet, arms stretched across his ottoman like willow branches over a creek. It would put him off if it were anyone else, but he's eternally endeared to you.

The first time you speak, it's to call him out on that.

'Naturally.' You giggle, twirling your phantom fingers in the tufts of his leg hair. 'You have to like something in order for me to present it. Or is that not how it works?'

He doesn't think so.

"You tell me, little one. If that were the case, why disappear when I try something you aren't keen on, hm?" His words are slurred, strung together hastily, like his tongue hasn't the strength to articulate each in full. You understand him anyway, of course, scrunching your nose.

'I don't know.'

"Think, then."

You shuffle straighter on your knees.

'Maybe I want to be just right for you, daddy. Not all your ideas are great.'

John jerks his leg admonishingly, the joint of it passing right through you. It causes you to blink out of existence for a second, and his throat twists uncomfortably around the new darkness. Loneliness hurts more, harrows deeper, now that he's unused to it.

But you come back, straddling his hips this time. You always do

(So long as he keeps sipping, the glass in his hand sweating cool condensation into his skin. His cigar slowly smoulders away in a nearby ashtray, waiting for the uptake.)

"Mm, thought I lost ya." And if you were there – really there, he thinks – he'd wrap your hair in a fat fist and angle your head roughly down onto his. His arms lay flat to his sides, however. Restless.

'No.' You don't exhibit the same discretion. You smooth down his bare chest, ironing his scars until he feels brand new again. Whole as a kid. 'Haven't you heard? I have a tongue now, and all I wanna do is talk.'

"Is that right?" He hums, half-lidded eyes watch the space between your knees widen. Like Artemis in her waters, cursing Actaeon to the jowls of his dogs – you love teasing him when you know he cannot do anything about it, destined to be torn apart by his inborn desire.

'Well, what else is there?'

And if not for that one thing, John would be content to live like this forever.

(Two, if you count his prescription quickly running out.)

Routine lasts about a fortnight, if his taking of time is to be trusted.

Staged courting, you call it. A production of how typical romances go. When the sky bruises, opening up like the ripe flesh of a plum, he'll knock back two tablets using the last dregs of his afternoon whiskey and wait for you to come home to him. You look stunning when you arrive; naked, your body soft and creased and effulgent. And while it depends on how his day's been, more often than not, you'll imitate rubbing his feet as he tells you about everything – paperwork and the taskforce and state secrets (does confidentiality count towards figments of his high?) – before he's settled enough to cut to the chase.

Yet he runs out of patience for it as time hauls on. Avidity amasses, tumorigenic need cramping his chest. One day, he stops you from kneeling at all. 

"No need for that, sweet thing." He orders with a stiff grunt. There's no justification as to why, though it's clear you sense it already. The fraying strings of his sanity, that which you bat at like a playful kitten, have started to unravel dangerously close to what is holding it all together. "Just do what you do best, hm?"

(The best you can do–)

'Yes, daddy.'

Ever-dutiful, despite the monotony. There are no arguments with you, no taming and fights unless he's in a particularly aggressive mood. The only indication of your disappointment (not yours so much as it is his in himself) is the wet flutter of your lashes, the poking harlequin pout.

Both disappear from view when you turn your back to him and bend at the hip, small hands stretching to dig into your behind. His cock is out in no time – was practically tearing at his pant's seams, really – thrumming painfully hard, leaking onto his stomach when you pull apart either cheek like dough.

Your pussy spreads, glimmering under a matting of wiry hair. Arousal (feigned, imagined, projected–) webs your thighs together, swollen clit budding at the end of your mons. Apple of Eden; his jerks are awkward, uncoordinated, in comparison. Human. There's a twinge in his wrist from working himself almost daily.

His teeth taste like tobacco and spice, sleep clinging to the roof of his mouth. Would you eclipse it with your sweet-sour tang? He pictures taking you; stuffing his nose right below the tight rim of your ass so his tongue can lave over your slit. Working you open with his tongue. You'd soak the hair around his lips, and he'd press harder in response.

John spoils you rotten in his dreams. You know it, too, toes wiggling where you stand a few feet away. How cruel that he shouldn't get the chance to, then – that he has to consume his fixes to stop them from taunting him, and you're God's way of saying that he can't always get what he wants.

Carrot on a fucking stick. He's made an arse of. And worse yet–

He can't cum, no matter how enticingly you stand there. His palms are too calloused, nerves grown bored of their rough drag. Every jerk is a barely-there sensation. Surface level. Shallow. Like a rock skipping across a lake that never manages to sink.

(It never did amount to what you do to him in his head. But it seems as though his body has finally caught on to what the rest of him already knew.

That this – this tragic, autogenous slaking of carnal desire – can not continue on forever.)

He groans, paralysis needling painfully up his neck. It echoes like anger and holds none of the punch.

Breaking position, you twist to assess the newborn tension.

'Shhhh,' You coo. There's no judgement in your glassy eyes, none that can perceive (or wants to see). Rather, it's all pure love, a whisper of distress, and devotion. His little love, so perfect besides this one thing. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

"Not your fault." Hoarse. Broken.

(Who has he become?)

'I'd help you if I could. Let you take whatever you wanted from me, you wouldn't even have to ask.'

He'd been the one to initiate it, but the prospect of his orgasm is long abandoned when you perch on the armrest, laying your head near his. He has nowhere else to put his hands, so he keeps them cupped between his thighs – and if he suspends utilitarianism for long enough, can almost believe that they're yours, instead.

"That's nice, little one."

He imagines your warmth, the soft comfort of your bosom, as sleep encroaches on his periphery. You'd cup the tired weight of his head and lay it on your lap, there to stay until he awakes to birdsong. There in the morning light.

Thus the minutes tick by in quiet melancholy. He's halfway layered in the pelts of hypnagogia before you speak again.

'You should visit town tomorrow. Mail something home for Mother's Day maybe, and stop by the grocer's for eggs. You're all out.'

He hasn't seen greater society for almost a month.

A wicked hangover splits his skull, worming its claws into the soft matter of his brain. John had initially set out to do as you bid him – find a nice present for his mum and stock up for the next few weeks' hibernation – but the throngs of people crowding home goods and the jewellers make his condition worse, so he resolves to call her on the day and heads straight to the market instead.

Eggs, you said. He needs a lot more than that. Water and red meat and perhaps something that leaks grease when fried. Cucumbers, yoghourt, granola, too. Milk or juice, never both because he can't commit to finishing them before their best-by date. Fruit. Cookies.

The list grows exponentially as he surveys the colourful aisles, under eyes tender to the touch. If it weren't for the cart carrying most of his weight, he would have toppled over already, his chest dipped over the handle, wheels barreling forward. The store's empty enough that he doesn't worry about clipping someone's ankles. For now, it's just him.

Always that. Just him, and–

"Ah!"

Fuck.

"Are you alright?" He defaults, lurching to pluck the rolling oranges off the floor. It necessitates far more exertion than he can handle at the moment. The woman he ran into catches what bowls from his reach.

"Oh, yes! So sorry, that one's on me." She laughs, nervous. The nature of it – gentle, shaky like the beat of a butterfly's wing – rouses a near Pavlovian response in him, pleasantries crystallising between his teeth, hard as pearls. He coasts a suspicious look up, but her head stays bowed as she piles everything into her basket, arched baseball cap obscuring her features. "I insist on carrying everything, see, then it gets too much for me and the baskets are the nearest thing, and you know how heavy those can get if you do some serious shopping, don't you?. Honestly, I never learn. How silly."

The wonder shatters. He cringes, eyelids pruning shut to gather his sore thoughts in the sudden clammer. Talks too much, too loud. He finds it hard to tolerate anything but singsong whispers these days.

(On him, he knows.)

Unceremonious, they both stand. John extends the final orange, appraising the products she tucks it between rather than look back up at her. Sugar, butter, eggs, flour. And a hefty heap of citrus, of course. Odd.

She seems to think the same, breaking the awkward lull first.

"Big family?" The question is clearly well-intentioned – posed to the stacked contents of his cart. No well-adjusted man would hoard as many perishables for himself, not with the grocer's as accessible as it is. But John is not well-adjusted in any sense of the word, especially in the past few months. All her prying does, then, is inflame the irritation dusting his throat, kneading salt into the wound.

How incredibly unfortunate timing.

"Gingivitis?" He clips back. His hangover makes regret a hard thing to reach, though given she doesn't take offence to his snipe.

"Ouch, okay." She laughs, more lighthearted than before. It reminds him of you (you, is anything its own thing anymore?) and John feels a fire light his heels. Agitation to get back home. "No, I'm making orange shortbread for the old folks at the nursing home. Needed to replenish a few things. I haven't baked in a while."

"How nice."

"'Tis the season! Erm– I mean. Y'know, with Mother's Day."

(Later, when he's staring at his fingers, sozzled like a cat on cream, he replays this conversation over in his head like he'll be able to change its outcome. Had he been alert, he'd have picked up on it by now. Christmas platitudes in spring – who else did he know with such transgressive peculiarities?

Captain Price wouldn't have missed it. Unfortunately for him, he left that intensity between powdered ice and silver firs.)

"Anyway." She coughs. He didn't realise he was expected to respond, stare lingering on the exit some distance away, keen to see this end. In his periphery, her cap tips down, supply list clutched in fidgety hands as she reads down the line of ingredients. He forces his attention back to the moment, training his eyes on the curve of her skull. "Just one thing left. Um, should be down hereeeee–"

Her head tilts up again, searching for the aisle markers overhead.

And it's–

Painful. Like the rip release of every organ seizes simultaneously, domino discharge down his spine. Ribs flush suddenly into the flaring muscle of his heart, which thrashes wildly against the corral, desperate to see itself out. To reach across this empty space and leech on to the delicate features that come into view. His brain – startled out of its judiciousness – blares I told you so's to the hot rush of blood behind his ears. Marrow melts to oil his joints, unmooring their structural integrity, and his breakfast threatens to disgorge and make for a foul first impression.

(John always thought revelations came kindly, that they blossomed in the neglected forks of life. Like a summer boscage, or the gentle, prying hands of a monarch escaping its cocoon. How can divulgence be anything but soft, and refined? How would the world grapple with them if otherwise?

He sees it now for what it is.

The world would have no choice.)

"Vanilla extract." You shake your list, smiling at him – a vivid, honest smile – before you brush right out of view.

He tells himself this doesn't change things. No matter how you like to argue the opposite.

'I don't see why not, daddy. Don't you want me, too?'

More than he'd like anything else in the world. But it's back again, that reaper of dreams poison control once foretold. Know better. He does, at least to the extent that bringing you here – tying you to his bed posts like he so desperately wants to do – is not the best idea. His age, his job, his incessant fucking wants, all pave their own desire paths; some more practical than others but less tempting as a result.

He knows how loneliness kills. At least he's built for it, but you?

"Work complicates things, little one."

John finds it all unfurling before him, the coffin housing his fears unhinged.

(You, dead by your own hands or worse, made vulnerable to the brutes he works against. Not a possibility when you're linked to him like this, hallucinatory, unreal, but you – the you he saw earlier today – aren't any of those things.)

'You don't really believe that, do you?'

You're never so argumentative. He sucks his teeth, waving a hand through your hips. And it must snub you so, for you disappear like smoke beneath a cloudburst of rain.

No matter. He doesn't need the temptation finding him.

(That is, until an answer finds him first.)

He phones home for Mother's Day, and she asks for updates for any lucky miss he would call his.

In the borders of his vision, you're hunched over the persian rug that was a gift from an associate for a job well done. Your feet cross over each other, fingers working idly at pretending to braid the fringed edge. The sight gets the better of him, adorable, and he briefly considers switching his answer from the usual – wish you'd stop fretting, it's not doing your health any favours – until sense catches on. He wouldn't know how to deal with the questions.

"No."

"What a shame. I know you're busy with that job and all, John," Because his mother never addresses the big risk to her son's life by name. "but you really should work on making me some grandbabies, before I pass on to the earth."

"Please, mum. Don't start with that nonsense–"

"No! It's any day now, you know it as well as I do." She tuts. He remembers her hands – tracing cool patterns onto his scalp that night, back when he was five and only concerned with the best taste his mouth could fathom. He remembers, and thinks of the wrinkled stretch of them now. "Take this as my last word of wisdom! Family will be the one thing you have when those milking tosser's decide to do away with you. Family, John!"

He chokes back a sigh.

"Yeah. So you've said."

Family. So bloody simple, isn't it?

Iron-wrought key, right under his nose this whole time.

His last two pills frown at him from behind their orange confines, two-toned and unassuming. He could get more if he so pleased, but the hope is that they won't be necessary after tonight.

Carried by the bourbon that blazes down his gullet, they go down smoothly. Soon enough, you appear, summoned, as he laces his boots.

"Does it hurt you, sweet thing?" He finally asks, punching an arm through his windbreaker's sleeve. April showers carry bracingly after dusk, weatherproof attire a functional choice. 

That is to say, the towel in his pocket isn’t for him. 

You gain that elvish look to your face, of the same variety he fell in love with when you first appeared to him. He often forgets how otherworldly you can be; radiant, inhuman vision. Your mirror isn't so... remarkable. Frizzy hair, fleshly, bleeding behind round cheeks. Perhaps that's the appeal.

'F'course not. It is me, after all.'

"Is it?" The front door clicks behind him, new-washed breeze pushing it into place. It feels final, like casting his decision in stone.

'Hmm,' You pretend to think for a long, long while, prancing a solid two paces behind no matter what speed he sets. A new moon blights the fields around his home, sparse raindrops reflecting only your glowing figure. It lights the way until he reaches the skirts of town, when street lamps bleed gold down onto him. Only then do you speak again. 'I should think so, yes. Take a left here.'

John does as you say.

'Though she won't be as receptive to it all. Right.'

He turns right.

'You’ll have to decide how to deal with that.'

"I'd appreciate a few pointers."

'What do you think I'm doing, daddy?' You murmur, materialising before him as he comes up on an avenue known for its nightlife. 'Take a right here and keep going.'

"And you?" He asks, though he already knows the answer.

'I'll be there.' 

You are. Though you’re not alone. 

Two cretins crowd you into a brick wall, lanky arms anchored by your head to form a flimsy aviary. John hears their badgering a block away; crowing voices, placatory promises they wouldn’t be able to uphold even if they knocked back a viagra each. The wind carries it, works their whispers into fine dust. Powder. Negligible. He’s seen this dance before – this dreadful caper, a little bit of force behind what is otherwise an insipid show – but he’s usually above such drama. The men he keeps know not to ask for what they want. Not when it hazards a bird flapping out of reach. 

You’ve got to clip their wings, first.

Though you look like you’d be indebted to any sort of hero. The hem of your dress rides up your thigh, snapping away from restive hands. Shortening what is already… He resolves to admonish you about it later, traipsing closer to the scene. Given your ornament, he can’t blame these men beyond covetous reason, but he won’t topple it onto you either. 

Everything flays out before him. Of the bunch, you demand the slyest hand.

“C’mon, love. It isn’t that far of a walk.”

“Yeah. You’re pissed out of yer mind a’ready. Can’t go home now, huh?” 

“Would be so cute between us both.” 

“The best. Look at those wide eyes.” 

“Busy checkin’ out the arse on her, but I’ll get to her eyes in a minute.” 

Your face crumbles in on itself. He’s closer now. Can make out the mascara painting black tracks down your cheeks, lips smeared by the rain – or, the alternative, pecking vultures having claimed them already. Either way, a green-eyed serpent seethes in the curls of his gut, blood imbued venom coursing. He feels it wind, poising for attack, strength compressed into a tight ball of anger. 

Then, when one of them – ginger, juvenile – snakes a hand between your legs, it strikes. 

He rips his gun from the inner lining of his coat. The other kid is shorter, more on edge, so John doesn’t worry about the force it’d take to daunt him. When the cold press of his muzzle fixes to his companion’s temple, he dashes away with a pathetic screech, tripping over the loose ends of his shoelaces. Par for the course. Weasel.

The ginger isn’t so lucky. 

“You get off on scaring defenceless girls, lad?” He barks into his ear, one hand gripping both floundering wrists. The boy cringes, fear rattling his throat. Any response he tries to shape turns out a nasally wheeze. 

“P-Please-”

“Shut your fucking trap. You’d have a better shot at mercy carving your little cock off.” 

“I w-wo– we were just-t having fun. No harm… harm done, right?” The pleas recourse to you. In his periphery, John registers your frown. Half-hearted. Scared still – of both the unfamiliar, violent men. He peels the commotion two steps back to show he means no harm. 

(To his narrow definitions, of course. His plans for you constitute harm in anyone else’s book. He’s sure that, if you were wise to them, you’d slip in the other direction.)

“She doesn’t seem to think so.”

“No! No, p-please, p–” He silences the boy with a pistol-whip, blunt end of the gun breaking skin off his jaw. The message couldn’t have been clearer – twice now, he’s demanded silence – but no one seems to listen. His cries peak, out-of-tune in the pitter-patter shower. Tortured, like a mangled cat.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, yeah?” The air flutters around you. He’s trained to tread carefully, like you’ll disappear at any moment. Better make this quick, then. “You’re going to go home, lock your windows, and try to sleep with an eye open tonight. The young lady’s welfare matters more than your fate, but I don’t forget. There will be a time where I come to break every finger off your hand. Enjoy them in the meanwhile.”

Perfunctory, he shoves him to the muddy floor. Blood joins the streams sluicing to the sewers, inky swirls of gore a welcome sight. He hasn’t felt this alive since–

Well, since Serbia.

And the boy must see the predatory gleam in his eyes. The dead, inbred callousness. Shark out of the water. Knows what’s good for him as the fin breaks the surface, rows of teeth just underneath, because he runs off before they can snap around his clumsy legs. 

(You, on the other hand, don’t have that instinct. Instead, you blubber, seal on a floating icecap. 

And dive headfirst into his jowls.)

“T-Thank you, I can’t thank you enough. I- My friends left me and I didn’t have a ride home and no one was picking up my calls so I thought it would be safe to ask them, but I couldn’t have predicted how nasty they’d be. Really, they seemed like nice guys–” 

John censures you with a stare. 

“You should know better than to be out at this time.” 

He’s gotten good at imagining your responses. He needn’t hear what you have to say next. Before you can even open your mouth, the chloroform-doused towel in his pocket is out and pasted to your pretty face. 

There’s a brief pause where he expects you to fall through to the floor. But your body slumps, ragdoll boneless, right into his arms.

That’s what brings him here. 

Here: cotton rope hitching your elbows together behind your back, a column of square-knots parallel to both arms. It was what he managed while you were unconscious. Could have managed more – so much more, tick off the beginnings on a cosmic index of all the things he wants to fucking do with you – if it weren’t for patchy effort. He went a little rabid, see. Clipped off the leash, chain to the doghouse broken. Saw the time better spent fondling your supple curves, your body lax beneath his. 

Weakened or willing, it doesn’t matter so much as you’re corporeal. That he can.

(A book he bought as a much younger man details seven different ways to harness a chest. If he had a grip, he would have seen to it – your breasts purpling, ensnared in a lattice of his own construction. It’s this new, foul fascination. How many ways can a body bend before it breaks? He’s never been mindful of the line before, on the field, but he’s got one to do with as he pleases, now.) 

Little one. New toy, fix. His wife.

You process it all in your own time, sleepy eyes peeling open to find that you’re no longer in some dingy alleyway. Though your hair has yet to dry, he’s made good work of paring the damp dress off your form, the steady warmth of a fireplace making for a gentle come-to. John takes it as encouragement when a tired yawn splits your mouth, lips quirking up. Smiling. 

“Look at you.” He hums, thumb working quicker over your clit. With legs notched apart, your cunt’s been made vulnerable, bared to every ministration he couldn’t wait to inflict until after you woke. Thus you’re already weeping a steady stream of slick, folds lacquered in arousal. Leaking down the line of your ass, too. Desperate thing. He scrutinises the sloppy mess of it, doughy and swollen and wet, shoulders flexing over the possessive swell in his throat.

It’s comical, the turnaround. Reality overruns your face, peaky infestation from his carcass to yours. Your eyes well with teary distress as you take him in. What a monster he must make; frothy longing turned savagery, held too long under the blighted mass of his tongue. Festered. Ugly. He sees it himself in the contrast of his skin and yours. Where you’re satin, all incandescent sweat-slicked stretch, he’s 60 grit sandpaper. Sun-hardened leather and crooked scars.

“Hnmphh!” 

But he can ignore that. Doesn’t have to concern himself with rejection, not when the bit gag between your teeth renders you mute. Simple knot sandwiched by your molars. Subtle. He doesn’t want it to hurt today – not any more than necessary, at least – but conversation has gotten old. There’s a reason he brought you home. Why thick fingers work your hole, breaking it to house something bigger. He isn’t interested in soft-soaping anymore.

(The two of you have had your honeymoon already.)

No. Purpose, he thinks. His mum laid it all out for him. A family to bear you company during those long weeks he isn’t home. Family, linchpin to making this all work. To crowd this house with not just one, or two, but multiple sweet things that’ll extinguish the lonely flame at its hearth. He celebrates it already – boisterous corners, crowded kitchens, the cable he pays for finally being put to use. 

And you–

“Promise I’ll suck that pretty pussy like I promised, little one. Just– fuck- daddy just has to do something first, yeah? You gonna be good for me?” John huffs, shucking his trousers to fish himself out of his pants. 

Your muffled protests launch into something else entirely, feral defiance compelling your limbs like electric shock. It’s fusillade, violent devastation. Your legs flail, unhinged, compensating for the lost mobility in your arms. He manages to slip his fingers out of your clutch and tuck a hand under either knee, but not before your heel connects to his jaw. As is true on the field, adrenaline primes a strong kick. Metallic warmth swathes the inside of his cheek, strength waning for a second.

And through it all, you have the audacity to cry. 

When he regains his bearings, anger has supplanted care. He hoists your thighs up onto your chest, calves upright in the air, and pushes a knee forcefully into the space exposed. It flattens your cunt with the pressure, clit crushing in on itself. Agony bulges fine lines at your temples, veins bloating as a miserable scream tears from your throat.  

“I’ll cane your ass raw if you keep up with this. Strike your hole until all you’ll feel for weeks is your punishment. That what you want, mm? Want the memory of our child’s conception to be filled with pain?” 

His nose fits to yours, beard tickling the canyon of your upper lip. It's intense, the proximity. Heat flush between you, sustained fire you can’t pull away from. John watches the hesitancy flit over your eyes, the reluctance of a burn, breaths erratic and shallow. You didn’t breathe, before. Didn’t need to. But he finds that he likes the new rhythm of it. Like watching the life drain from a quarry, game bleeding out into Serbian snow. He never thought he’d miss hunting for survival – not until he had you pressed to his side, lured from those other predators into something much worse. 

(And perhaps that’s what’s been absent, all along. You used to come too easy, allowed him to grow permissive and lazy. But this– 

His skin fits the moniker again. Captain, revitalised in his bones.)

You shake your head no, just as he rubs his cock along your entrance. 

The feeding is effortless. You practically draw him in, needy for it, walls conforming to the fat intrusion until his head nestles against a hard spot. Steel-wool pubes tangles in your own, scratching the sensitive hood of your clit as he adjusts to the balmy suffocation. Tight. So fucking tight, more so than he could have imagined, your struggle working against you as it contracts the muscles around the area. 

His teeth knock into yours, borderline bruising kiss closing the gap. Should he give it a moment’s breath, his lips would swell blue. But he keeps you to him, your reluctant mouth slow against his own – impeded by the gag and your own stubbornness, snivels sucked into his gluttonous abyss. It tastes like seawater and vanilla, the wires crossing in his brain. 

This, he thinks, is the taste he’s been searching for all his life.

This petty space separating you, a carpet of chest hair laid over our thighs. Breathing one another in, memorising the scars behind your cheeks. Pistoning into your cunt, making room for himself in the years and years to come. He’ll never get enough of you. You’ll never get enough of it – once you learn to embrace the pleasure wrought out of you. 

In due time.

He batters parallel to your cervix, plunging deep as he can go. You’re slippery with the effort, wet where you thrum fierce, depravity stringing the oscillating gap of your mons and his pelvis. Binds you to him like gauze on a day-old wound, sticky and raw, and you must be a masochist if the stiffening of your joints is anything to go by. Your pupils roll, stupid, to regard the back of your head. Fucked dumb. Nerves snapping, limbic system miswiring. 

“Can’t wait to see my seed take, have you grow round and glowing.” He growls, speaking into your cheek. The faint hints of your cologne, long faded under rain and sweat, cram temptingly into his synapses. It’s all he can do not to take a whole bite of you, now that he can. Wants to see the evidence of his ownership mark your skin; violent, a little bloody. Physical. Carnal. Imperfect presence honing in the fact that it is better than none at all. 

“Mmmmff,”  

“Yeah? Want me to keep you pumped full of my cum? Think that would be nice. Plugging you shut. Maybe suspending you upside down so it’s a sure process. How does that sound, sweet thing? Y’like it?” 

Your feet thump weakly on his back.

“Then cum. Go on, be a good girl f’me.” 

And with the orchestration of it all; your already tense pelvic floor, the rippling liquid of your eyes, the stifled voicing of your plight– 

John can’t tell whether or not you do. 

You tire yourself out, eventually. 

It’s much later; the rise of a new morning flooding his home in sheer blues, illuminating last night’s mess. Without the orange glow of firelight, it looks a lot less romantic. Torn clothes, cotton fibres. Body fluids matting the pelts he uses to break up the floors. He would have it in him to blanch at the forfeiture of his self-control, cringe a little for appearance sake. He’s grown, now. Should know better.

But there’s no one around. No one. Just him, christening a loveseat instead of his wingback, and– 

You, knocked out on his lap, rope burns raw up your arms.

(When you wake again, he’ll make it official. A passing of the torch, so to speak, from one fix to the next. He hasn’t a band, or really any certification to make it legal. But–

The lit end of his cigar should do. Touched, fittingly, to the proximal length of your ring finger.) 

John’s always had his fixes. 

He finds he’s finally had his fill when you cradle his child close to your breast, and reach out a hand for him, too.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i post / update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

[petew21-blog]

Friends with benefits

Two long time friends Trent and Brett. A classic story. Met in kindergarten and have been friends since. Grew up together. Spent their holidays together. Graduated together. But then stopped seeing each other as often. Why? Because adult life ain't easy. Brett had to find a job while Trent got into college, graduated and on top of that became a fitness influencer. Brett started his Twitch account and became a gamer, which he had time for, cause how he was constantly doing a different job, depending on what he could find. But both of them always took some time off for a beer with their buddy.

This is Trent

Although he doesn't appear like that, he is a 24 year old male with young looks

On the other hand Brett is also young, but his looks are a bit more mature. Maybe it's because of all the hair

This is Brett

So hairy.

Normal guys, right? Well something was about to change very soon

Friday, August 2nd, 5 PM

Brett:"Hey, dude. Wanna grab a beer later tonight?"

Trent:"Yeah, sure. I am down. Is 8:30 ok? I gotta finish a video"

Brett:"Oh yeah, totally fine. See you then"

Friday, August 2nd, sports bar, 8:33 PM

At the bar Brett waits patiently, only his leg is slightly shaking. Trent comes in through the door. It's kinda funny, cause Trent used to be really insecure and not confident. Now he looks basically like a god. But still, he has this cute shy looking guy whose face doesnt match his body and the fact that he's 24. Brett was kinds jealous, most of the people that didn't know him always thought he was older because of his looks. Trent had the opposite problem. Always had to show ID whenever he went. Yet Brett was probably more jealous about his life in general. He finished school, took great care of his body, which now could help him hook up with anyone he would set his mind to.

Brett:"Hey, maaaan. How are you doing?"

Trent:"Heyyy. Yeah good. You know, single influencer life, haha"

Brett:"The ladies must be driving you crazy"

Trent:"If only it were just ladies. Haha. You should see the messages some of these gay dudes keep sending me. It's insane"

Brett:"You tell me. They always send random shits to my chats while playing. But it's mostly dumb kids."

Trent:"I think we should find you a date for tonight"

Brett:"Nahhh, fuck it. I'm not in the mood. I just wanna chat with my bro."

After a few beers

Brett:"Shut up, you did not!"

Trent:"I swear. She came on to me without a word."

Brett:"So what did you do?"

Trent:"You think I put up a fight? Haha"

Brett:"Maaaan. I want this stuff to happen to me to. That's so hot"

Trent:"Come with me to the gym then, I bet more chicks woukd be into you if you would gain some muscles"

Brett:"You calling me fat?"

Trent:"No, just saying that all that body hair would be good to match with a good body. You're just a walking gorilla right now"

Brett:"Oh shut up twink! Haha"

They finished their drinks, said their goodbyes and went home.

Brett felt amazing. He really needed to get a beer with his best friend. He came back home, sat behind his computer and searched Dark web. He already knew what he was looking for. He wanted to mess with Trent. Just a another one of his pranks. All he needed was Trent's personal item. He found the body swapping website. He read the rules and conditions and filled out his and Trents name. The only next step he had to follow was to go to sleep. And so he did. Only taking off his shirt in the process and collapsing on the bed. Not even brushing his teeth

Brett woke up feeling better than ever. He was used to have a hangover by now, but today he felt great. He opened his eyes and immediately noticed the different sheets. He looked around. This is Trent's place.

Brett:"Trent?" he said, but he heard Trent's voice.

He turned around to get up

His body. He has a different body

Brett:"Holy shit. It worked" he said amused. He looked down at his now soft chest. He got up

Brett:"Oh wow. getting up is so different when you have these hard muscles"

He went to the nearest mirror. And there he was. Trent in his glory. Brett was so happy right now. His prank worked. He is now inside of his best friends body. And the pranks probably won't stop there. Now he can mess with him all he wants. But not now.

He looked from top to bottom how tall and slim his body was. "Almost no hair anywhere. Lucky guy"

He took Trent's phone and snapped a photo to send it to Trent in his body. He knew it would take a while for Trent to wake up so he proceeded in his exploration.

He felt his curly hair. "How come you don't even have widow's peak? So unfair" He traced his jawline, now with tiny baby hair that Brett wouldn't even call a beard. But his sight was now caught by those nice Calvin Klein's. He looked around as if there was someone in the room with him who would judge him. He pulled on the waistband

Brett:"Just as I thought. Also shaved" he grabbed his new dick, that was getting harder and harder by the second, when suddenly his phone received a notification. he let go of his dick

It was Trent. Brett:"Haha, this is gonna be good"

There was a photo of Brett's body, observing his hairy armpits in shock

Trent in Brett's body:"Hey. Got any idea why I am a gorilla now? And why that gorilla looks exactly like you?"

Brett:"Surpriseee. And fuck you"

Trent:"So this is your doing?"

Brett:"Yeah, I kinda wanted to prank you somehow for all the pranks and the gorilla jokes. Joke's on you ape man"

Trent:"Fuck you. So this is reversible?"

Brett:"Sure, man. No worries. We'll meet tonight at the bar again and chat how our day went?"

Trent:"I don't know how to feel about this, bro"

Brett:"Just try enjoying being another person"

Trent:"Do you realise there are some no go things including intimate stuff and hygiene?"

Brett:"Sure I do. I'm already holding your dick in YOUR hands right now"

Trent:"Dude! Not cool. I meant more stuff like shitting etc. But yeah, this too."

Brett:"I gotta say Trent. You have a very nice dick"

Trent:"I'll comment on your size when I find it in the bushes I guess. Have you never heard of trimming?"

Brett:"Keeping it natural, baby face"

Trent:"Fine, let's see each other tonight at 8, ok?"

Brett:"Enjoyyy" Hangs up

Trent:"Jesus, this guy. I hope he doesn't fuck up something or someone"

Starts observing himself. "I must say, It feels good to look like a mature man and not a teenager. All of this hair. And the moustache is hot too. I could never grow this thing"

Trent looked down and had a mischievous thought. "Well, Brett. Since you have already held my dick, I think it's time to step it up. Gonna see if you can last longer than I do" Trent said with a smile and whipped out his new hard hairy dick

Saturday August the 3rd, bar, 8:04 PM

Brett is sitting amused in the bar, eating chips on the table and drinking beer. Winking at the ladies looking at his direction.

A waitress came by his table:"Want another?"

Brett noticed his old incoming body:"Sure, and another one for my friend who just arrived. Thank you, sweetheart" he said as his flirtatious look almost seduced the local waitress

Trent:"You need to stop!"

Brett:"What? I was just flirting"

Trent:"Not that. Stop eating those chips. God knows how many calories you ate already"

Brett:"So you don't mind that I was flirting with her?"

Trent:"Nah, I don't care. I jerked off your dick for like the fifth time half an hour ago"

Brett:"What? You beast. I would have never expected that. Cool. You have a really good dick to jerk off too. I didn't expect to shoot so far tho. Made a bit of a mess"

A couple off bikers started eavesdropping to their conversation and turning heads

Trent:"You might want to quiet down, or we're gonna get beaten up for mistakenly speaking like gay guys"

Brett:"But you gotta admit that my body is not so bad, right? All the hair and everything. You like it"

Trent:"It's not bad, but I prefer being in my own body. I'm used to it."

Brett:"Ok, I'll pretend I didn't hear the part before about masturbation. But what do you say? We didn't even have enough time to see what the life is like in our new bodies. It's only been a day"

Trent:"And your point is?"

Brett:"Let's stay swapped for a while. We can swap back anytime we want. It's reversible. We know almost everything about each other, so pretending to be the other one will be easy. You'll just teach me your workout routine, I'll show you... what games to play and how to set up a livestream and we'll figure it out"

Trent:"Livestream? That's all you got?"

Brett:"Come on, man. We got nothing to loose"

Trent:"I don't know man. It's gonna be complicated. I agreed to leave for a few weeks to work at one of our gym branches in another city. And now you'll be the one that has to go. I think now is not the best time"

Brett:"So? I can update you about everything. We can chat all the time. We can call. And I got nothing to do. Actually, you might need to find some job for those few weeks. And there's never gonna be a better time then now. We're single, ready to mingle. So let's enjoy that month"

Trent:"You wanna stay swapped the whole tíme I'm gone?"

Brett:"Yeah, I'll be a fitness instructor/viral star and you'll ne enjoying my chill life"

Trent:"Chill life. Man, you won't even recognise your life when we'll swap back"

Brett:"So you agree?"

Trent:"Yeah, what the hell. I'll be a gorilla for a month"

Brett:"Deal. Now, let's see if you'll have a better game in finding a hookup then me"

Sunday, August 4th

Brett sends a text to Trent:"Why do I feel like my body still hasn't gone through puberty?"

Trent:"Piss off. Yours looks like it went trough yours several times."

Brett:"Nah, gotta be honest. I'm really enjoying this lean figure and hairless body"

Trent:"And my dick..."

Brett:"Haha, yeah and your dick. How are you doing in my body?"

Trent:"Feels pretty weird to be so hairy, but gotta admit it's a nice change. Like... feeling so manly"

Brett:"Yeah, but tip for that hairy stomach. Don't cum on it. It's really irritating to get cum from it"

Trent:"Never had the issue in my body, so yeah. Thanks for the tip"

Brett:"No problem. I had to try it out in yours haha"

Trent:"Doesn't this feel kinda gay to you? All the dick and jerk off talk. Appreciating each other's bodies"

Brett:"Nah. We're exploring, man. Who knows if we ever get that chance. Gotta enjoy it"

Wednesday August 7th

Trent:"How are you settling in?"

Brett:"Yeah. Pretty great. I just jerked off to some porn"

Trent:"Ew. I mean the appartement"

Brett:"Whooops. Sorry. Right. Yeah it's nice. Very clean. Very modern"

Trent:"It's yours only for a month so don't destroy anything there"

Brett:"It's kinda poetic right. New appartement, new body, new job"

Trent:"I don't see anything poetic about me playing games in front of a camera"

Brett;"Dude you have to. My fans are gonna wonder what happened to me"

Trent:"Fine. I'll log in tonight. By the way. Dude your feet smell so much when you work out."

Brett:"Work out? You took my body to the gym?

Trent:"Yeah. I had to show off these bushes somewhere, right?"

Brett:"Ahhh thanks man. Looking good"

Trent:"And I think oke girl was checking you... me out"

Brett:"If you can score than go for it. I'm actually late for a date. Or... how do you call it if you're just gonna have dinner and fuck?"

Trent:"Standard hook up man. Please be safe. Wear a condom. And watch our foe those carbs, man."

Brett:"Sure thing, bye"

Monday, August 12 th

Brett:"Dude do you like ever have to shave your face?"

Trent:"Sure I do. I just don't have to do it so often as you. Btw can I please shave off this moustache?"

Brett:"Absolutely not. You'll learn to love it and appreciate it. Just like I will your baby face"

Saturday, August 17th

Brett:"I have to admit I really love showing off your muscles man. I have been doing it constantly at every occassion. So many people turn their heads to take a peak"

Trent:"Yeah I get it. It helps with the confidence a bit"

Brett:"A bit? I feel like I can beat any fucker whk crosses me"

Trent:"Brett, please don't beat anyone in my body"

Brett:"Just kidding, man. How have you been"

Trent:"Well I tried being consistent with the gym. I think your body is doing pretty well"

Brett:"Daaaamn bro. I look good. You really do take care of my body really well"

Trent:"I was actually thinking I could offer this for money. Swapping with people, doing their routines and then swap back. But that's a talk for another time after we swap back"

Brett:"Yeha, sure. Cool idea. Anyway... how was the streaming?"

Trent:"I don't know, man. I think they are desperste for me to say your catchphrases, but they are so cringe."

Brett:"Nah, you have to do that. That's how you get into Tiktoks and become viral"

Trent:"Honestly. I can't wait to get back to my body and to my life back. So we will swap on September 2nd?

Brett:"Yeah. I suppose. Depends how the work will be etc. Anyway I gotta go man. Talk soon"

Trent to himself:"It feels like he's avoiding me with amswering more and more. Trent rubbed his hairy chest, recalling his sweet soft pecs that he missed.

Thursday, August 22nd

Trent:"Hey, man. How is it going?"

Friday, August 23rd

Trent:"Hey. I just wanna know if you're ok. I just wanna talk about the reversal."

Saturday:"please call me back as soon as possible"

Sunday, August 25th

Brett:"I'm ok"

Trent:"What the hell happened?"

Brett:"Nothing I just felt like I needed a break from phone and that stuff"

Trent:"Brett you didn't answer the phone for 4 days"

Brett:"Ok, I was avoiding you, cause I kinda fucked up and was afraid to tell you"

Trent:'What did you do? Is my body ok?"

Brett:"Yeah your body is unharmed. Nothing that bad. We just had a party in the appartement. Broke the TV and... I had unprotected sex with one girl. She didn't know if she was pregnant or not. So I was waiting. And congrats. You're not gonna be a dad"

Trent:"Brett..."

Brett:"I know. I'm so sorry. Won't happen again. Promise. I just got drunk once and it led to this. I'll be good now"

Trent:"Please, don't do anything anymore. I want to switch back"

Brett:"Nah man. We still gotta week to finish. You said until September 2nd."

Trent:"I didn't know you'd do something like this"

Brett:"Please Trent. I'm begging you. Just that one week"

Trent:"Fine. But don't do anything else!"

Sunday, September 1st

Brett:"Hey. Are you packed yet?"

Trent:"Hey. Not really. I planned on packing tommorow. You can come and help if you got time"

Brett:"Sure. I'll come by"

Monday, September 2nd

Trent arrives to the appartement. Brett is on the couch playing video games

The TV is new and there is a PlayStation on the table

Trent:"You didn't tell me you got back into gaming and that you bought all this."

Brett:"Yeha, I missed it. I thought to myself that you'd like it too. So I bought it. By the way. You should see how the fans dig it"

Trent:"Fans? You're live streaming in my body?"

Brett:"Yeah. The gamers are so into it when I'm flexing in the spare time. I even got a viral Tiktok already!"

Trent:"I think we should swap back, Brett. My life is out of your control now."

Brett:"I'm just using all the goods, man. You don't like my body anymore?"

Trent:"Stop changing the subject. I want to swap back"

Brett:"Ok... but on one condition"

Trent:"You want money?"

Brett;"Nah I want to have sex with my body. I want to have sex with you."

Trent:"You have lost your mind"

Brett:"Oh come on. Admit it, that you thought about it. Who gets the chance to fuck their body? To watch their body in the most animalistic moments from somebody else eyes?" Brett flexes his biceps to let Brett watch

Trent:"Brett..."

Brett stands up and goes towards Trent

Brett:"You know you want to kids thus face. To suck this hard dick" he says holding tightly his hardening bulge

Trent:"I... I do. I want to suck my dick"

Brett:"Atta boy"

They begin making out. The fast movements heading towards the bedroom could be described as chaotic, but for them it was a dance of passion. Brett was ripping his old clothes from his old body was all over his body, kissing his neck. Sucking each part of his skin

The kissed even more

Brett began to be more dominant. He gripped Trent's now receding hairline and pushed him down to suck his dick. Trent was choking. But did his best to swallow most of the shaft he now had. He had his dick in his mouth. He couldn't believe it. He is straight and he is sure of that. But this is absolutely different

Brett took his old body by the neck, choking him. "Say you love being in my body"

Trent:"Brett I can't breathe"

Brett:"Fine, let's do this the hard way"

He turned him around. Trent now on all fours. He knew what was coming, but he wasn't ready

Brett spit in his hand and spread it all over the head od his dick. Ready to penetrate his old hairy hole

Trent:"Brett wait... I... Ahhhhhhhh". Trent screamed in pain

Brett:"Yeah. Sorry about that. I'm just so horny. I love your body, Trent. I love every inch od it. Admit you like mine"

Trent:"Brett, please slow down"

Brett:"Naaah, you'll get used to it in a sex"

Trent:"Please, get lube or something"

Brett spit again to where his dick was penetrating Trent's ass. Brett:"Should do it"

Trent was still in pain, but now a new feeling was making him feel better. The pain was now... pleasant? He wanted to feel more. With every thrust from Brett. He felt like shitting himself and cumming at the same time

Brett:"Admit it. Admit you love being in my body" he sped up. Thrusting painfully.

Trent:"Yeah.... yes..."

Brett:"Louder"

Trent:"I do... I love your body. I love being you"

Brett:"Ahhhh. I'm gonna cum. Turn around. I want to cum on your chest"

Trent turned around. He could feel cum leaking from his dick. And now he saw his old face like he never did before. Brett was so into it. His face was full of lust, rage and mischief.

Brett:"Ahhhh. I'm cumming!"

The cum shot all over Trent. Not only on his chest, but also on his mouth and face

Trent watched in awe what just happened.

Brett:"Whew. That was a ride wasn't it? First gay sex. Am I right?"

Trent:"Brett... I?"

Brett:"Oh sorry. I have to catch my breath. You look so funny with my cum all over you. Haha. By the way. I'm glad you love your new body. You get to keep it"

Trent:"Brett, you said we would swap"

Brett:"Yeah I did. That's true. But after this little 'cum over your face' and 'dick in your ass' we made it permanent"

Trent watched in shock as his old body was still standing on top of him. Breathing rapidly and laughing.

Several months later

Hi my name is Brett. Welcome to my only fans channel. If you got any hairy request, hit me up

Brett in Trent's body:"Well this is just pathetic. Man, I knew you'd crumble. But this just seems you lost your mind"

Trent's massive colleague came next to him:"Hey, bro. What are you looking at?"

Brett:"Just looking how one of my friends threw away their life, kinda sad. But whatever. Their life, not mine"

Friend:"Hey, wanna grab a beer later this evening?"

Brett scanned his friend from top to bottom and smiled:"Sure thing. Be there at eight"

Brett thought about switching it up a little. That body would be amazing. But then he turned around and looked at himself in the mirror. And flexed

Brett:"Nah. I'm Trent. And I'm keeping this body"

A request from messages (another one who waited for a LONG time, sorry guys) for @swappwas

Hope you like it :)

P.S. written late at night on a phone with a very irritating autocorrect, so please excuse the mistakes

[mermaidfanficlibrary]

Pancakes, Coffee, And Kisses || Yan Husband x GN Reader

Characters: Julian

Summary: Your Husband is a literal dream! Why is there blood on his coat?

Warnings: Yandere themes, possessiveness, violence

a/n: He has no rival, he's too clingy

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦

Yan Husband who you met in a coffee shop some time ago. You two bonded over a shared favorite drink which turned into finding out you two had gone to the same school and even shared classes. This just pushes you two into a relationship and a short few years later, he's at the altar with you sharing wedding vows with you.

Yan Husband who made sure your wedding was extravagant. Nothing compares to his love for you so whatever you wanted for your wedding was a must! He had the money and his parents were more than willing to help him out. They adored you and were so happy to have you as a child-in-law. Their son was happier about having you as a spouse.

Yan Husband who plans the honeymoon perfectly. Your dream location. Your dream hotel. Your dream everything! Both the wedding and honeymoon were like dreams for you, and he couldn't have asked for more. Anything to make you happy. And it shows through all the hurtles he was going through for you.

Yan Husband who takes pictures of everything from both the wedding and honeymoon. He just wants to be reminded of the happiest moments of his life. All the pictures have been framed and cover a whole wall of the house you two live in together. The house was bought before you two got married.

Yan Husband who would rather be the working man while you stay home. Oh the image he has in his head. You in a cute little apron baking sweets for him while he comes home from a long day at work, de-stressing with the treats you made and you in his lap while he tells you about his day.

Yan Husband who would respect if you want to keep your job, but he makes it clear that he's jealous of your coworkers. He gets so mad when you come home late claiming you had a business project with someone else. Why can't you two work the same job within the same building?

Yan Husband who secretly wouldn't mind being the house husband. Vocally, he's adamant about being the stay at home caregiver but the thought of taking care of you the way a house husband would make him see hearts. However, he always wants to provide for you.

Yan Husband who pampers you every weekend no matter what. He has to make sure you're happy. When you aren't, he gets so scared. When you aren't happy then he isn't either. You don't realize how dependent he is on you to feel emotions.

Yan Husband who is on the fence about kids. He does want them albeit through pregnancy or adoptions (if you can't have kids), he doesn't care. His issue is that they would take away from the time you two have and consume more of your attention. He needs to be your number one priority.

Yan Husband who doesn't mind pets as much. They're just animals, there's no way you would love pets more than him! And he can stick pets into a room or outside with the excuse that the animal needed it, or they were being too much so he needed time away from them. Since the pet is out of the way for a bit, why don't you two cuddle?

Yan Husband who is a petty little shit whenever you make plans with other people. He pouts when you get home from a friend's night and just tells you to leave. It's clear you don't need him anymore! You have your good friends and drinking buddies.

Yan Husband who holds grudges against the people that take your attention away but controls his urges well because he's married to you! You're not going to cheat on him! You two are bonded till death do you part, and not even death will keep him away from you.

Yan Husband who requires constant reassurance that he's still enough for you. Even when he becomes tired and can't do the usual when he's with you, which is worshiping your entire being, that you still want to stay married to him. Just hold him close in bed and pamper him with affection.

Yan Husband who takes milestones very seriously. Date nights, birthdays, anniversaries, you name it, and it'll be all about you in an enchanting evening. Flowers and treats along with gifts. It's all for celebrating you! The love of his life!

Yan Husband who will spontaneously bring you flowers when he gets home. He always gives you a compliment that's flower related when he gives them to you. You're more lovely than the flowers he brought.

Yan Husband who spoils you with breakfast every morning. It's amazing if you two start your days at the same time and get home around the same time. It's like you two are in sync, and it furthers his belief that you two are soulmates.

Yan Husband who will push your family away from you by taking you to his parents and show how loving his family is with him. See? This is how a family should be! You don't need your family, you have him and your in-laws. You don't need anyone else.

Yan Husband who slowly gives in to his delusions the longer you two are married. He uses the wedding rings as a way to stake his claim on you. His name is engraved in your ring, and he got you a matching necklace. Anyone who walks by will see how loved you are.

Yan Husband who loves when your friends are jealous of him. He relishes in the fact that your friends see him as a loving husband and wish their partners were like him. It further proves that he's treating you so well, and you could have been with some loser.

Yan Husband who keeps tabs on you through your texts. It's a lot less suspicious since you're both married to each other. You trust him enough to go through your phone. In fact, you would think it's cute how he takes selfies of himself with your phone. It's his way of keeping others away when you show people your photos.

Yan Husband who would burn the world for you, his lovely spouse. Nothing is too much for him in his eyes. If it just brings even the smallest of smiles to your face then he'll do it. Anything you ask. Just love him forever, until you're both buried six feet down, and he can guarantee a happy life with you.

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