#help isn’t there a easy way for all these calculations???

[folklore-girl]

stats just got 10x more difficult imma cry

[eowynstwin]

Price x Reader. Age gap. Divorced Price. Older BF Price. Vaguely smutty. Follow-up to this.

Price realizes you’ve never had a reliable man in your life exactly the second time he discovers you looking up DIY home maintenance for very simple projects.

It missed him the first time because he was deployed. You’d mentioned offhand how you were figuring out how to rebalance a ceiling fan, and he’d just automatically assumed that you were doing it yourself because he wasn’t there, so he simply praised you for your resourcefulness and lived for the next three weeks off of the way you’d absolutely glowed at his words.

But then he gets home, and one evening on the couch he catches you googling “how to fix a leaky sink.”

“What’s that?” he asks you, tamping down on the sudden feeling of masculine inadequacy that reared up almost immediately at the discovery.

“Faucet handle’s leaking all over my counter when I turn it on,” you say, not looking up from your phone. “Landlord’s out of town and can’t fix it.”

“I’m in town, ain’t I?”

You look up at him then, brows raised. You hadn’t even considered asking him, then.

“Oh—I didn’t want to bother you, John, you only just got back, and you’re tired…”

You trail off at the droll expression on his face.

Price has learned a lot of lessons from his previous marriage. The foundational one: just because he hasn’t been asked to help doesn’t mean he is believed to be unreliable. Adding that lesson to his knowledge base about you—young, modern, independent—calculates out an obvious answer that curtails any sour mood that might have sprouted up over the issue.

He puts his hand over your phone screen and lowers it down to your lap. “I’m fixin’ the sink,” he says simply.

He enjoys the way your eyes dilate at the assertion.

The next day, he shows up at your flat wearing old work clothes and carrying his heavy toolbox in his hand.

(You don’t live together yet—something he’s keen to rectify—but he has a toothbrush in your bathroom and permanent space in your bedroom drawers. He can be content for now.)

And you—you answer the door in the filmiest of sundresses, the ribbon tie on one shoulder hanging at a loose angle.

“Heard you need some plumbing done,” he says in the gruffest of voices, already understanding the game.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” you say, barely able to hide your giggle, “I’ve been so worried.”

He steps in close to you, close enough to feel the heat of your body radiating off of your bare skin. He has half a mind to put the charade aside and lift your skirt here and now, but another lesson helpfully springs to mind: anticipation of the act makes the finale all the sweeter.

“I’ll show you to the kitchen,” you murmur, looking up at him with warm, dreamy eyes.

When he gets under the sink, he finds the problem easy enough to fix—the cold water supply line simple isn’t screwed in tight enough, and when he wiggles the whole contraption by the valves he finds that nothing has been tightened up to standard. A couple of years knocking the thing around had probably loosened up the locknut.

He elects to fix the whole problem in one go, while in the meantime you stand off to the side, watching him. He feels your eyes on his legs, trailing up to the hair on his belly exposed by his shirt riding up.

“Sir, I’m sorry, I should’ve said before,” you simper, “but I’m not really sure how I’m gonna pay for this.”

His cock jumps in his jeans, and he feels your gaze move to it as if it’s a physical touch.

He levers himself out a little and meets your eyes, keeping a stern expression on his face.

“I’m sure you’re gonna figure it out,” he says. Looking down at his groin and then back up at your face might be a touch unsubtle, but clear communication had been the most important lesson of all.

He slides himself back under, and pretends he doesn’t feel you approach, or lower to your knees between his spread legs. He ignores your gentle hands falling on the closure of his jeans, the pop of the button coming undone, the parting of the zipper as you pull it down.

“Of course, sir,” you say, “I’m sure I will.”

The softness of your hand meets his growing erection, caressing the head of his cock with your thumb—followed very close behind by the wet, liquid heat of your mouth.

next

[eiralunaire]

Headcanos of Damian Wayne.

1. Small Gestures of Tenderness.

Although Damian would never admit it out loud, he always feels inexplicably more relaxed when he's around his girlfriend. He often watches her in silence, observing the small details, like the way she laughs, her expression when she's focused, or how she always has something to say, even when she doesn't feel like talking. There's something about those moments that makes him feel, for the first time in his life, that war and fighting aren't everything.

2. Defender of Her Well-Being.

Damian, who has been trained to be cold and calculating, can't help but become extremely protective when it comes to her. If someone looks at her wrong, even in jest, he'll step in without thinking, making it clear with his gaze (and sometimes his threat of "don't do it again") that no one can hurt her. He's convinced that it's his responsibility to take care of her, but it's more of an internal desire to make sure nothing bad ever happens to her.

3. The Typical Sarcastic and Jealous Behavior.

When it comes to other men, Damian is relentless. Although he would never express it in an obvious way, he feels extremely uncomfortable if any kind of unwanted attention is directed towards his girlfriend. It is common for his sarcastic tone to appear when some guy talks too close to her. "Really? Do you think she wants to hear that?" he would say, with an almost imperceptible smile on his lips, as he takes a step forward.

4. Thoughtful (albeit weird) Gifts.

He is not the type of boyfriend to buy expensive jewelry or flowers (because he doesn't know how those things work), but what he does do is remember the little details about what his girlfriend likes. One day, unbeknownst to her, Damian shows up with a rare book she mentioned in a casual conversation, or with that chocolate she is known to like a lot. The truth is, he's become an expert at listening to her, not just because of his tactical intelligence, but because he genuinely wants to please her, even if his way of showing it is... unconventional.

5. Intimate Moments of Vulnerability.

When Damian is with his girlfriend, his guard is down in ways that only happen with her. It can be something as simple as watching a movie together, or lying next to her after a long day of training, but in those moments, he doesn't have to live up to his last name or his lineage. It's just him, Damian Wayne, simply enjoying her company. It's a luxury he doesn't usually get with anyone else, but with her, it's something that constantly draws him in and comforts him.

6. Interactions with His Family.

Despite his reserved attitude, Damian has found himself talking more to his family about his girlfriend, albeit in a slightly brusque manner. With Bruce, for example, his attitude towards her is a kind of possessiveness that makes it clear that he wants her in his life, but he also knows that his father will never really understand what he feels. With Alfred, however, he seems more relaxed, because he knows that the butler sees what he sometimes can't recognize: how happy their relationship makes him.

7. Subtle but Efficient Jealousy.

Damian can't help but show jealousy, although he does it in a subtle and almost childish way. For example, if his girlfriend talks a lot with another guy (even if he's a close friend), he may make comments like: "Since when are you so interested in what he has to say?" or suddenly offer to take her back to her apartment, as if there was some "urgent" business to attend to, to prevent her from staying too long with that person. It's his way of saying "I want you all to myself" without having to say it directly.

8. He Likes Deep Conversations.

Damian isn’t a man of many words, but when he’s with his girlfriend, he finds it easy to open up and share things he never thought he’d say. He likes to talk to her about topics that have nothing to do with war or fighting, like his views on the future or what he thinks about life. Sometimes, he catches himself talking more than he planned, but he doesn’t mind, because he knows he can be vulnerable with her, something he’s learned to deeply appreciate.

9. The Vulnerability of Being “The Man”.

When he’s with her, Damian feels weird about not being able to show off everything he knows how to do. I mean, with his combat skills and tactical intelligence, he could defend her from anything, but what really attracts him to her is how she calms him down and makes him feel more human. In her mind, that makes him more than just Bruce Wayne’s son or trained assassin. He makes her feel a little more normal, like any other guy in love, and that thought baffles him, but he loves it at the same time.

10. Sudden Moments of Insecurity.

Despite all his training and his confident facade, Damian sometimes feels insecure in their relationship. There are times when he doubts himself: Is he really up to par with her? Will he be enough for someone like her, who has so much to offer? Although he would never admit it, he has those moments of uncertainty that make him more human. However, as time goes on, he realizes that all he really needs to do is be himself, and sometimes, even a more vulnerable and caring Damian can be what attracts her the most.

11. The Unspoken "I Protect You".

Although he never says it outright, Damian is obsessed with the idea of ​​protecting her. If she is ever sad, he turns into a wall of ice, willing to face anything to make her feel safe. This leads to more possessive behavior, but he doesn't see it that way. It's his way of showing her that even though he's not the traditional boyfriend type, he'll always be there for her, even if that means walking away from conflict and just offering his company.

[yua0ra]

𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐎𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝

WARNINGS: mattheo riddle x high!fem!reader, porn with plot, dark smut, blood play, p in v, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex, blood kink!matty, submissive reader, biting, marking, breeding, NSFW, proofread, english is not my first language.

smut 🂡

SUMMARY: Mattheo craves something, a feeling of satisfaction, fulfilment and control. Luckily for him, you are open and eager to try new things, and for once, Mattheo feels like he has found his person.

WC: +4.4K AN: This took so fucking long. I don’t think ya’ll are ready, lol. I’m being so serious: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, for the love of salazar. (also, anybody got the reference form the title?)

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

Touch-starved, love-starved, and attention-starved, Mattheo Riddle is no stranger to the art of indulgence. He thrives on the fleeting comfort offered by the endless parade of admirers eager to bask in his presence. Their adoration, their touch, their devotion—it’s enough to quiet the gnawing ache inside him, at least for a while. But it never truly satisfies. Beneath the smirks, the cocky demeanor, and the effortless charm, there’s an emptiness he can’t seem to fill.

He craves more. Something deeper, rawer, more exhilarating than the hollow affection he’s grown accustomed to. Something that sparks a fire in his chest and sends a thrill coursing through his veins. The superficial games, the fleeting highs, and the shallow connections no longer cut it. Mattheo Riddle wants something real, something that will consume him whole.

And yet, even as he yearns for this elusive fulfillment, he’s not sure he’s ready to face what it might demand of him. After all, it’s one thing to take; it’s another to give. And Mattheo has never been one to bare his soul. Not when the world has taught him to hide behind walls, even when he’s desperate for someone to break them down.

He has tried everything—fucking in public, fucking with a blindfold on, fucking with a leash, chasing thrill after thrill, and losing himself in the chaos of reckless nights. He’s tried drowning the ache with the loud laughter of parties, the rush of danger, and the fleeting touch of hands that mean nothing. For a moment, it works. For a moment, the void in his chest quiets, and he feels like he’s alive, like he’s in control. But the moment always fades.

No matter how many hearts he wins or how many rules he breaks, it all slips through his fingers, leaving him colder and more restless than before. The poor, desperate, girls—pretty faces, eager smiles—don’t even come close to touching the parts of him he keeps hidden. It’s not their fault. They give him everything they can. But it’s not enough.

It’s never enough.

What Mattheo craves isn’t something he can find in fleeting encounters or shallow connections. It’s something more profound, more consuming, more terrifying. He wants someone who sees past the charm, the arrogance, the calculated indifference. Someone who will unravel him piece by piece and make him feel alive in a way that no one ever has.

But that kind of connection doesn’t come easy. And for someone like Mattheo Riddle—guarded, scarred, and stubborn—it might never come at all. Still, he can’t help but hope. Somewhere deep down, beneath the layers of cynicism and self-doubt, he’s holding onto the faint belief that someone, someday, might finally be able to quiet the storm inside him.

Good thing that you’ve noticed, though. Mattheo’s restless energy, the way his eyes linger just a second too long, searching for something even he can’t quite name—it’s not something he hides well. He tells himself he’s a master of masks, of slipping into the version of himself people expect, but the cracks are showing. And you’ve seen them.

You’ve seen the way he leans into conversations as if he’s desperate for someone to say the right thing. You’ve caught the fleeting vulnerability in his gaze when he thinks no one’s paying attention. For all his bravado, for all the careless smirks and sharp retorts, Mattheo is an open book to those who care enough to read between the lines.

And maybe that’s why he’s drawn to you, even if he won’t admit it. You don’t fawn over him like everyone else. You don’t fall into his orbit just because he’s Mattheo Riddle. Instead, you see him. The real him. The cracks, the flaws, the restless hunger for something more. And while it terrifies him, it also pulls him closer.

Because maybe, just maybe, you’re the one who can give him what he’s been searching for. Or maybe you’ll be the one to finally destroy him. Either way, Mattheo can’t seem to stay away.

Which leads to this specific moment—you, sitting pretty on his bed, high out of your mind in the early hours of the morning, the faint glow of moonlight casting shadows across the room. Your head tilts back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, lips parted as if caught in the haze of a dream. You’re intoxicating, utterly untouchable yet so close that it drives him mad.

Mattheo stands a few feet away, leaning against the edge of his desk, watching you with a mix of fascination and frustration. You’re beautiful like this—unguarded, raw, and entirely out of reach. It’s unfair how effortlessly you’ve wrapped yourself around his thoughts, how your presence alone has him on edge.

“You’re not even trying, and you’re driving me insane,” he mutters, his voice low and rough as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair. He can’t tell if he’s more frustrated with you or himself. Probably himself. After all, he’s the one who let it get to this point.

You blink up at him, a lazy smile curling on your lips, the kind that makes his chest tighten. “What’s wrong, Riddle? Can’t handle a little company?”

He scoffs, but the tension in his body betrays him. “Company isn’t the problem,” he bites back, though his voice softens as his eyes linger on you. It’s not company he wants. It’s you. All of you. Every reckless thought, every untamed emotion, every unspoken secret. But he doesn’t know how to say that without sounding like a fool.

Instead, he stays where he is, hands gripping the edge of the desk, trying to keep himself grounded. You’re like a storm, and Mattheo isn’t sure if he wants to weather it or let it tear him apart completely.

You laugh softly, the sound like a spark in the quiet room, and shift on his bed, drawing your knees to your chest. The oversized sweater you’re wearing—his sweater—slips off one shoulder, exposing bare skin that makes his throat tighten. You’re a mess, and yet you look so perfectly out of place in his world that it makes him dizzy.

“Relax,” you say, your voice dreamy and far away. “You’re so tense all the time, Mattheo. Always thinking, always brooding.” Your gaze meets his, half-lidded but piercing in a way that leaves him raw. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

He swallows hard, jaw clenching as he forces himself to look away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, but the words lack conviction.

“Don’t I?” you counter, leaning forward slightly before standing up, moving across the room with an unsteady grace. You stop just behind him, and before he can turn or protest, your hands are on his shoulders. Delicate, careful, but firm—your touch makes him go still, the tension in his body seizing under the unexpected intimacy.

Your fingers work with a precision that sends a shiver down his spine, pressing into the knots in his shoulders as if you’ve done this a hundred times before. It’s maddening how easily you disarm him, how your touch both soothes and ignites something in him he’s tried to keep buried.

“You’re so tense, darling” you murmur softly, your voice low and sweet, like a lullaby in the quiet room. “Do you ever let yourself relax, Mattheo? Or do you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders every single day?”

His breath catches, his grip on the desk tightening as he tries to fight the urge to lean into your touch. “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a mix of irritation and something he can’t quite name.

“What does it look like?” you reply, your tone playful but laced with genuine concern. “You’re all wound up, and it’s exhausting just watching you. Let me help, for once.”

Mattheo doesn’t respond right away. He doesn’t know how to. No one’s ever touched him like this before—not with the intention of easing his burden, of grounding him in a way that feels almost… safe. It terrifies him how much he wants to give in, to let you pull him out of his own mind, if only for a moment.

“You shouldn’t…” he starts, but the words trail off as your fingers dig into just the right spot, coaxing a low groan from his lips before he can stop it.

“Shouldn’t what?” you tease, leaning closer so he can feel the warmth of your breath against his neck. “Take care of you? Show you that not everything has to be a fight?”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he lets his eyes fall shut, his body betraying him as it relaxes under your touch. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he mutters, though there’s no real bite to his words.

You smile softly, your hands continuing their gentle rhythm. “Maybe I do,” you whisper, your voice dipping lower. “Maybe I know exactly what I’m getting into.”

Your words linger in the air, soft but potent, cutting through the haze in his mind like a blade. Mattheo doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but you can feel the tension rolling off him, not in resistance but in something darker—something that borders on surrender.

“Is that what you think?” he finally murmurs, his voice low and rough, almost dangerous. His head tilts slightly, enough for you to catch the edge of his profile, his dark eyes glinting under the dim light. “That you know me? That you can handle whatever it is you’re inviting in?”

You don’t flinch. If anything, you press your fingers a little harder into his shoulders, grounding him, as if you’re not the least bit intimidated by the warning laced in his words. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t,” you reply, your tone steady, unwavering.

Mattheo’s lips curl into something between a smirk and a snarl, his hands gripping the desk in front of him so tightly that his knuckles turn white. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. His voice trembles slightly, as if he’s teetering on the brink of losing control.

Carefully, you lean closer, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as you whisper, “Then show me.”

It’s like a switch flips. In an instant, Mattheo is on his feet, spinning around to face you. His hands find your wrists, pulling them away from his shoulders, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he holds you there, his grip firm but not cruel, his dark eyes locked on yours with an intensity that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

“You think this is a game, don’t you?” he asks, his voice soft but venomous, his face inches from yours. “You think you can come in here, touch me like that, look at me like that, and I won’t lose my mind?”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t pull away. “Lose your mind, Mattheo,” you whisper, your voice steady even as your pulse quickens under his touch.

That’s all it takes for Mattheo to snap. His hands release your wrists only to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with surprising tenderness, a sharp contrast to the possessive gleam in his eyes, he just stares at you, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. And then he breaks. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s all-consuming, overwhelming, like he’s trying to pour every dark, unspoken emotion into it. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the raw, obsessive need in every movement, every touch.

Mattheo isn’t gentle. He isn’t careful. But beneath the intensity, there’s something achingly vulnerable—a desperate, unspoken plea for you to stay, to see him, to claim him the way he’s beginning to realize he wants to claim you. You’re not sure what you’ve unleashed, but as you kiss him back, as his hands grip you tighter like you might disappear, you know there’s no turning back.

Mattheo’s hand flies over your plump ass, gripping the soft flesh with great force, making you moan into his mouth, the vibrations echoing against each other throats.

He swallows your sweet sounds greedily, his tongue delving deeper tasting inch of your warm mouth.

He pulls you even closer, showing you how good you’re making him feel, his hardening length poking you right against your lower stomach.

You can’t help it, you’re so greedy, so selfish, so fucking horny. All you want is him, him and him. Your body moves in autopilot, rubbing your body against his, creating a hypnotising friction between you two. His hand kneads and squeezes your ass even tighter, as he moves your bodies into the bed.

Breaking the kiss, Mattheo’s hungry mouth trails down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing over their racing pulse. He sucks hard, determined to paint your neck in purple, red and pink hues. Not bothering to leave any room for other lovers.

You can only let deep and low exhales, trying your hardest to maintain whatever is left of your composure. “Mhmm…. You like that baby? Huh?” You nod eagerly below him, still rocking your body forwards, grinding like a mad-woman.

“Words sweetheart, I want to hear you, yeah?” He looks at you intensely, his eyes narrowing slightly, “use that greedy mouth and let me hear you, pretty girl….” He commands, his hands roaming your body in a possessed manner. He just can’t help himself, he knows this was bound to happen, from the moment you two started talking to each other, he knew.

Squirming under his desperate touch you can’t help but smile, “y-yes, ugh,” you whimper when he pulls your jumper off your head. “You make me feel so good….” Your high making you feel things ten times stronger.

He torments you, fingers slowly tracing over one of your perky nipples as he carefully plays with the metal piercing. “Such a sweet girl, who would’ve guess this?” He laughs, his mouth moving from your throat to on nipple, his tongue swirling around the hard bud before sucking it into his mouth.

He rolls it between his teeth, applying just about enough pressure to make you gasp and arch into him. His other hand comes up to roughly palm your other breaths, pacing at the matching piercing.

He alternates, lavishing each nipples with attention. His mouth is hot and greedy, his saliva deliciously coating each one. He bites and sucks, matching your chest markings with your neck ones.

Mattheo’s left hand slides down with ease, expertly reaching your soaked panties, smiling when he feels your wetness. “Shit, baby, would you look at that?” He mutters in between your breasts, “so fucking ready,… dripping wet for me already, just how I like it.”

He cups your cunt, applying pressure on it, making your mouth open and closing with silent prayers. “Fuck, Matty, yeah, just like that…” Feeling satisfied, he finally leaves your sensitive and now colorful breasts alone, focusing on his most prized possession.

Your throbbing pussy.

With a quick movement he gets rid of the lacy underwear, grabbing you thighs and spreading your legs, positioning himself between them. He gets close, inhaling your arousal deeply. The smell making his head spin with pleasure, and he can’t help but try a little.

“Oh God…” You whisper, grabbing his head from the back, one hand teasing your breasts. You push his head further into you, so needy for this touch.

Mattheo grumbles againsts your soaked core, your flavour intoxicating, “take it, sweetheart, show me how you like to be eaten out.” He spreads your folds even wider, spitting into your core, flicking his tongue and diving his warm mouth back at it again, sloppily making out with your cunt.

He looks at you, his gaze never leaving yours. He loves to see your reactions, your body taking his treat so well, loves how expressive you are.

The endless slurping and the lewd noises, make you shake, tremble under his touch. He slides two fingers in, as his thumb rubs circles around your clit. This action makes your thighs pull him closer, suffocating him, but he doesn’t care. Mattheo wants to drown in your pussy, want his face covered in you, your sweet juice dripping down his chin. He’s just so obsessed, so fucking down bad.

His digits curling and pumping you full, in such a good way, such an explicit way, you roll your head back, your tongue darting out as you pant for air. You lungs are so overwhelmed, so full of desire, making you pathetically whimper as you begin to notice getting close. “M-mph fuck! Mattheo, God…”

He abruptly stops, making you whine loudly. “Not yet, my love… I want you cumming with my dick buried in this pretty little thing okay?” He undresses, tossing his clothes everywhere.

“No, please Matty…” you grind your hips in the air, your pussy clenching at nothing desperately wanting to feel his fingers in you again. “No… baby, please! I’m so, so, so close.…”

“Shh… my love,” he quiets you down, his drenched fingers now in your mouth, allowing you to taste yourself. “You need to learn how to be patient, because patient girls, get rewards….” Still sucking on his fingers he positions himself in front of your wet entrance, the head of his dick, so pink, so plump, so mouthwatering.

With his other hand, Mattheo grabs his dick, and slaps it a few times against your swollen lips. “Mhm.” Your arousal more than enough to be able to slide it in easily, but he doesn’t like easy. He wants more. Taking his fingers away from your mouth, he commands you “spit, princess, come on.”

You do as your told, spitting into his hand. Mattheo smiles “atta girl…” following your steps, he spits as well, to then rub the mixture of saliva on his angry cock. It makes it shiny, highlighting the veins and the sensible skin.

“Alright pretty… I’m going to fill you up, hm? ” Finally, Mattheo pushes his thick shaft into you, stretching you in unimaginable ways. He’s fucking huge, ripping your insides apart, as he tries to fit all of him inside your apparently tiny cunt. He can see his dick poking outside of your tummy, the sight making his eyes roll to the back of his head, as his lashes flutter in pleasure.

Mattheo hums lowly, his tone dropping an octave “oh s-shit, so tight f’me. Fuck, angel!” He grabs your legs, putting them in his shoulders, enhancing the heavenly sensation. You on the other hand, feel like you’re going to pass out. You can’t think, focusing all of your attention into the way he feels. Your red tired eyes, barely open, fill with tears as your hands lay lazily next to your head.

Mattheo rocks his body, picking up the pace. He needs to feel you closer, keep his hands busy with something. Him fucking you isn’t enough.

This is the point where normally Mattheo would come down from the initial, horny, high and give up on the search for something more raw, more exhilarating. Until an idea comes through, and his cock twitches inside of you.

He reaches for his wand, maintaining his fast rhythm, pumping in and out with extreme force, hitting spots that have never been hit, reaching beyond the g-spot, making you see stars, reach that almost unreachable nirvana.

He summons a silver, small, extremely pointed blade, and his hand reaches your chin. “Pretty girl? Look at me…” he flashes a shit-eating grin, one that makes you almost come instantly. “Fuck princess, can…can I mark you? Hm?” you barely process his question. “Can I make you mine? Are you going to let me ruin that beautiful skin of yours?” He persuades, but to be honest, you don’t need much, imagining his name carved into your skin, and fuck, it turns you on so much, the way his blood would mix with yours, ugh, you can’t wait, nodding in agreement.

He doesn’t waste any time, and slows down his fucking, turning his fast, rough thrusts into deep, almost loving ones. He makes himself comfortable, spreading your legs so wide, your pussy stretching even more. You’re going to be so sore, you can already feel it.

Mattheo tightens the grip on the blade, as he nears it towards your left inner thigh. “Relax for me, gorgeous… it’s going to hurt a bit, yes? But after, you’re going to feel better… so much fucking better.”

Relaxing your body, savouring the new pounding rhythm, you feel it. He presses the flat of the blade against your plush skin, the cold steel sending you shivers down your spine. He drags it with sensibility, leaving a deep, red line in its wake. The pain is sharp but fleeting, nothing compared to the dark pleasure radiating from his touch.

Mattheo’s leans down, his fingers tracing the lines, playing with the red, dense liquid, coating his fingers in your blood. His tongue flicks up, cleaning his digits, leaving them completely clean.

His eyes shutting for a moment at the coppery taste of you blood in his tongue. “Yes, yes, God, yes! You taste even better than I imagined,” his eyes open, gleaming with a crazed, obsessive light. A wicked, twisted smile spreads across his face. His teeth stained with red.

Mattheo's hand moves to your other thigh, the knife tracing a matching line to the first. He connects the cuts, forming an obscene, possessive mark - a dark, blood-red phrase 'property of M.R' etched into your flesh. The pain only serves to heighten the twisted, depraved pleasure coursing through you.

He groans, the vibrations rumbling through your core, his hips never falter in their relentless, punishing rhythm, driving into you with a force that borders on violence.

"That's my girl," he growls, his voice rough and ragged with lust. "My pretty little blood witch, so fucking perfect. I'll ruin you for anyone else, leave you wrecked and forever marked. You’re mine, you know that?”

Mattheo's hand slides up your body, wrapping around your throat, squeezing just hard enough to make your heart race and your lungs burn. His eyes lock onto yours, burning with a fevered, wild glaze as he keeps pumping inside of you.

The bed creaks ominously beneath you, the blood dripping onto your most intimate areas, stoking the inferno raging inside you. Suddenly, he stills, his body pressed flush against yours, his breath coming in ragged, desperate pants.

He reaches up, his blood-stained fingers brushing your cheek with a sudden, shocking gentleness. When he speaks, his voice is low and rough, rough and tinged with a desperate, aching need.

“Fuck, baby. I want... I need to feel it,” he rasps, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

Mattheo takes the pointed silver, the blade glinting as he presses the cold steel against your palm, guiding your hand to his chest. His skin is hot, flushed, and slick with sweat beneath your touch.

"Mark me, my love…," he urges, his voice a desperate, aching plea. “I want to wear your name.”

Your don’t have time to react as your hand moves automatically and he leans in closer, feeling his pulse race beneath your palm, a frantic, erratic rhythm that mirrors the wild, untamed beating of your own.

Mattheo's eyes flutter shut, a shuddering breath escaping his lips as he feels the cold blade press into his heated skin. He doesn't flinch or pull away, instead arching into the sharp, sudden pain of the steel biting into his flesh. A low, guttural moan tumbles from his throat as he feels the first letter of your name being carved into his chest.

His hand fists in your hair, gripping tight, holding you in place as he guides your hand, urging you to carve deeper, harder. The pain is intense, searing, but it pales in comparison to feeling of fulfilment. Each letter you etch into his skin sends a bolt of electric, white-hot lust straight to his core, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you.

Mattheo's hips begin to move again, thrusting in time with the brutal, possessive strokes of the sharp blade. The dual sensations of your initials being carved into his flesh and his sensitive member driving into your dripping cunt push him closer and closer to the edge. His grip on your hair tightens, his fingers twisting almost painfully in the strands as you both chases the release.

“I'm so fucking close, beautiful. I'm going to fill you up, mark you from the inside out. You'll be dripping with my cum, fucking drenched in it."

His thrusts become erratic, losing rhythm as he teeters on the brink of climax. The knife digs deeper, carving harder, the final letter of your name leaving a vivid, bloody scar on his chest. Mattheo throws his head back with a roar of ecstasy as he comes undone, his hot, thick seed erupting inside you, painting your walls white with his release.

At the same time, your pussy clenches, milking his cock tightly. The final wave of pleasure hitting you, as you drown in it. “Fuck, fuck, fuuuck! Oh! ugh!” You scream, crying and whining, gasping for air.

He collapses against you, his body shaking and shuddering, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He inhales and exhales harshly, his breath hot and ragged against your neck as he clings to you, desperately, possessedly, like a man drowning and you're his only lifeline.

Mattheo's fingers tangle in your hair, fisting the strands almost painfully as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, dragging the scent of your skin into his lungs like a drowning man seeking air. When he speaks, his voice is a low, hoarse rasp, roughened by his exertions and the intensity of his emotions.

"Fuck, baby…," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours. "That was... fuck, that was incredible. You're... you're fucking incredible."

He lifts his head slightly, his dark, hooded eyes searching yours. In their depths, you see a whirlwind of emotions swirling together - the wild, reckless lust that consumed him, the dark, twisted possession that demands your complete surrender, and something else, something softer and more vulnerable that he rarely allows anyone to see.

Mattheo's thumb traces your lower lip, smearing the mixture of his blood and yours across your lips, as if applying lipstick, sealing it with his own. A shudder ripples through him as he leans in closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"Don't... don't go," he whispers, a desperate, aching plea underlying the words. "Stay with me, my love. Let me hold you, let me feel you in my arms. I... I need you, fucking now and forever."

[meazalykov]

the number on my back, and in my heart

vivianne miedema x reader

requested by @jackiesunshines from her old blog

summary: a hard launch on the pitch was not expected from either of you

today is a different day. something different from the games you play for the national team and for manchester city. 

this game against the netherlands isn’t just any friendly for you. for the first time, you’ll share the pitch with viv, your manchester teammate, your girlfriend, you confidant, and the woman who’s quietly become the center of your life recently.

vivianne had joined manchester three months ago, leaving arsenal after a bunch of chaos and borderline abuse from the coach. the move had been a fresh start for her, but not an easy one. to be honest, vivianne did not want to leave arsenal at all. however, she needed to leave after no renewal was offered. 

so, when you were the first to make her feel welcomed at manchester.. well the one that was not already her dutch friends like jill and kerstin… it was no hard to catch feelings for you. 

you were steady,  and grounded, something viv needed. 

your relationship had blossomed quickly but naturally, like it was always meant to happen. vivianne was your opponent many, many times while she played at arsenal, but you would have never guessed that she would be your girlfriend at some point. 

your calmness balanced her intensity, and her quiet devotion gave you a sense of belonging you didn’t know you were missing. the two of you fit together seamlessly, even if you hadn’t said the three special words out loud yet.

standing in the locker room before the match in bingoal stadium, your heart thrums with nerves. you fiddle with the hem of your jersey, trying to shake off the weight of the occasion as sam is beside you talking about the matcha she had this morning. 

this match is just a friendly, you remind yourself through sam coffey’s talk. deep down, you know it’s more than that. it’s the first time you’ll play against vivianne as a opponent… and not with her as a teammate.

when you step onto the pitch with the captains band, as lindsey is getting rest on the bench, you try to not let your emotions show. the dutch fans are loud over your thoughts thankfully, their sea of orange vibrant against the evening sky. 

you scan the field and spot her near the center circle. even from this distance, viv is beautiful. she’s a force, her presence undeniable. 

when her gaze briefly finds yours, she offers the faintest of smiles…a shared moment you thought you would not have during this match. 

the first half is controlled. the netherlands presses hard, with viv helping their attack like the player she is. you watch her closely, both as an opponent and as someone who knows her game inside and out. 

every move she makes feels calculated, every pass precise. you can’t help but admire her, even as you work to shut her down in the mid.

at halftime, the score remains 1-1. the same player on the netherlands scoring both. in the tunnel, your eyes meet hers again and there’s a glimmer of something playful in her expression. 

she doesn’t say anything, but the corners of her mouth twitch, and you know she’s enjoying playing this match just as much as you are.

the second half brings more intensity. the netherlands pushes for the lead, and vivianne comes close to scoring twice. 

in the 86th minute, you spot lynn making a darting run down the left and thread a perfectly timed pass through the dutch defense. she takes it in stride, coolly slotting the ball past the keeper. 

2-1, usa.

when the final whistle blows, relief washes over you. it wasn’t an easy game, but it was a good one.

you make your way around the pitch, exchanging handshakes and hugs with players on both teams. when you reach viv, she’s already waiting after she handshaked with naomi, her jersey untucked and a playful smirk on her face. 

“swap?” she asks, holding out her hand. 

you nod, pulling off your popsicle blue kit and handing it to her. she does the same, and when you take her orange jersey, you can’t help but smile. 

it smells faintly of her perfume, a floral one with amber undertones.

the cameras are clicking and recording, capturing every second of your interaction. 

however, it’s when vivianne drapes her arm around your shoulders and leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head that everything seems to freeze. the world narrows to just the two of you, the noise of the stadium fading into the background.

you glance up at her, your cheeks warm. 

“you’re making this really obvious, you know.”

“maybe i want to,” she murmurs, her voice low enough that only you can hear.

the walk back to the locker rooms feels heavier than usual. part of you doesn’t want to leave her, even though you know it’s only a matter of days before you’re back in manchester together. 

outside the stadium, as the team buses line up, you find her hand and squeeze it gently.

“i’ll see you back home,” you say, your voice soft. 

she nods, her eyes holding yours like she’s trying to memorize every detail of this moment. just as you’re about to step away, her lips form the words you’ve been longing to hear.

“i love you.” 

the world seems to tilt for a moment, her words sinking into your chest and settling there, warm and steady. 

you don’t hesitate, a smirk tugging at your lips as you reply.

“i love you more.”

she laughs softly, shaking her head like she doesn’t quite believe you, but you can see it in her eyes….she does. 

masterlist

[alyakthedorklord]

Omg literally it would be SO cool if you wrote the rest of the playboy bruce trying to kiss the justice league without them realizing it (I know you said figure it out but the way you wrote it was so good and funn I would love it if you gave maybe a couple of scenarios)

Lmao honestly executive dysfunction is kicking my ASS rn and it was intended as a prompt. I will try tho, definitely taking inspiration from the others who responded to the post because I love them.

If you haven’t, go check out the notes on the OG Post above! @britcision, @ivywing, and @help-i-need-a-cool-username all had amazing additions and @foursixtwonineoh-pieces-of-lego wrote a fic:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48325771

As did @scrapcheck, still in progress

And Devilhorn!

Anyways LONG post under the cut

Hal Jordan

Hal is first to prove a POINT, as @britcision decided. Also because the bastard made it waaaay too easy. Remember- Hal was Joking. He genuinely thinks Batman isn’t going to try, because he’s way too straight-laced boring.

So when he’s at a bar in Coast City, and he sees this absolutely ravishing man lounging casually against the wall, bar lighting making him practically glow (he CALCULATED that) subtle makeup making his bright blue eyes pop as he looks Hal up and down… Well. Hal makes the first move.

Hal: “All on your own, handsome?”

Bruce, with “Mastermind” by Taylor Swift playing in his head, smiling sweetly at Hal: “Care to change that?”

They start talking. Hal doesn’t recognize Bruce Wayne at ALL (canonically he does not know who Bruce Wayne is, a point brought up by @help-i-need-a-cool-username) so all he knows is Bruce is a single father who works at a company he inherited from his parents, which is just (brucie voice) “so much less interesting than a test pilot!”

Bruce, grimacing internally but wrapped around Hal’s arm with the awed and interested eyes in full effect: “you have such a nice voice, tell me more about planes…”

He KNOWS what a fuselage is, thank you, Jordan. Whatever. He gets to gush about his kids, when its his turn to talk, good enough tradeoff. He can survive Hal Jordan’s bad pick up lines and pretend he’s into them. At a certain point Bruce breaks and kisses him just to shut him up. One down.

Diana Prince

I looked it up- kissing in Ancient Greece wasn’t always considered romantic, but also a greeting between two similarly-ranked people. Therefore, I think Diana would be pretty chill with kissing and honestly an easy target at a gala if Bruce plays respectful/clumsy/earnest himbo starstruck with the tall pretty woman, just a peck would make him the happiest man alive. But I wanna go a little more in depth.

Now, I’ve seen Flash and Martian Manhunter save Bruce and/or his kids and Bruce lays one on them, but honestly I think it would work well with Diana too, because she loves kids. Dick and/or Jason (whichever you want to imagine, I want them to team up screw canon) are WAY to excited for this, they’ve got a little script and everything.

WonderWoman, a kid in each arm, delivering them back to their tearful guardian: “Here we are, Mr. Wayne. Whole and healthy.”

Dick, playing into his role eagerly: “Oh my gosh, Bruce! Bruce we got saved by a princess! It’s like a fairytale! Except, you know, the princess is the hero this time, which is so freaking cool!”

Bruce, tears of gratitude rolling down his face (and he knows how to still look perfect while crying, its a skill): “I’m just glad the two of you are safe, Chum.”

Jason, big baby blues in full effect, absolutely asked Wonder Woman to be his mom earlier (to set groundwork, no other reason): “You know, usually the princess and the hero gets a kiss at the end of a fairytale, Bruce. But this princess is both. So how will she get a reward?”

Still choked up with relieved tears and now laughter, Bruce looks up at Diana and smiles: “Well, if the Princess wants a reward… then I would be a fool to refuse.”

Bruce kisses her on the lips, Dick and Jason both kiss her cheeks, Diana leaves charmed and amused by the sweet family. Such a good father, humoring his children and thier little fascination with her, so very respectful…

Two down.

J’ohn Jones

Okay, martians are telepathic. So this goes one of two ways, at some sort of charity or something-

Option 1, Batman is a realist: the charity event is a masquerade, and he wanders over to where MM is while thinking “it would be so funny, give me this.” As loudly as he can. And Martian Manhunter, who appreciates the audacity, gives him a kiss. (I don’t like this one because it technically breaks the rules of the bet, bc MM knows it’s Batman, but eh)

Option 2, Batman is a different breed: he manages to up the ante with his Himbo Persona. Creating a “slippery void” mental facade that blocks of his real thoughts and makes him read as really just that stupid. This would require functioning with two trains of thought at once, and making sure that the Martian can only read the surface level, “oh, this one is pretty” “I really wouldn’t mind kissing him” and other such decoy thoughts, instead of “target is approaching, signs of interest present despite this not being his natural form-“

Bruce also researches and copies Martian courting styles and copies them “by chance,” catching MM’s attention. (He offers him Oreos)

Martian Manhunter: “this man… he is so empty headed and yet clearly kind and willing. I would not take him for a life partner, but for some simple fun as he seems to desire…”

(Edit: Maybe, if B is confident enough, he lets through his loneliness. Missing his parents, wanting affection, an ache so strong it’s like a physical wound. J’onn feels the same ache for his lost family, and decides to try this human’s strategy to fill that void. Either way…)

Batman 3, League 0

Barry Allen

I’m strangely blank when it comes to the Flash let me just spitball and let it snowball

As I said above, people have had him save Bruce, had Bruce seduce him at his workplace while taking a tour, I even saw @help-i-need-a-cool-username have Dick set up a petition for Bruce to kiss the Flash. (An idea that I personally think would also go really well with Superman lmao.)

Anyways, I think it would be funny for Bruce to take it slow with Barry. For the irony of it all. Because Batman is doing this to prove a POINT. So he’s in central city, spots Barry coming his way, and “accidentally” slips right into his arms. Ooh, or covered in coffee, like a wealth disparity drama base script, and Barry’s like “omg i am so sorry let me pay you back.” And bruce is all “this shirt costs (stupid amount of money)”

Barry: (fear)

Bruce, rolling with it rn: “yes, it is horrendous, isn’t it? Hows this- I’m in central city for a day. You can pay me back by showing me around?”

He then proceeds to string barry along on an honest to god DATE for shits and giggles. They go clothes shopping, they go to restaurants, Bruce pays for a big meal bc this is after a fight or something and Barry got hurt, his speedster comrade needs to EAT, damnit.

After all this, he gives a cheeky smile and lightly smooches Barry. “Thanks for the fun day, Mr. Allen.”

Barry, bright red and goo brained: “hah- mmhmm. Yeah…”

Batman 4, League 0

Oliver Queen

This one… Oliver is on guard. He’s twitchy and suspicious, turning down men flirting with him, people are starting to notice. But Bruce? Bruce just walks up at a party while “tipsy” and lays one on him. Straight up. He wants to show just how EASY it is. Because Oliver doesn't even register it. He just laughs and goes: “Hey Brucie! Miss me?”

Batman 5, League 0

Dinah Lance

Of course, immediately after above, he turns and pouts at canary.

Bruce: “Dinah darling, you are a saint, I don’t know how you put up with the mess he’s got on his face. He was so much nicer to kiss when we were in (fancy private school name drop) together and didn’t have all this nonsense.”

Dinah, laughing at Ollie’s offended noises: “Oh, I don’t mind it. He’s a good kisser.”

Bruce: “Of course he is, I taught him. Care to compare?”

Dinah: “Don’t mind if I do.”

Batman 6, league 0

Clark Kent

For Clark, Bruce is originally talking to Lois before he turns his eyes on a quiet Clark and croons: “So, Miss Lane, does this lovely specimen have his own questions, or is he arm candy? And if he’s the latter, can I either tempt him off you, or secure an invitation?”

Lois, an excellent friend who will absolutely set Clark up with the hottest bachelor in Gotham: “Well, Mister Wayne, I’ve got all I need. Clark, take a page from my book and honeytrap a good quote out of him, hm?”

With an obnoxious wink, she pats a spluttering Clark on the shoulder, and leaves him with a very smug Batman.

(Bonus Superbat- Clark and Bruce’s conversation is going REALLY WELL and to the point where both of them seem on board with more than a heavy makeout when Bruce puts a hand on Clarks chest.

Bruce: “Stop.”

Clark, freezing immediately: “I’m sorry, did I go too far-?”

Bruce: “No, no. I think I might be though. See, I have all of you now, and I’ve won the bet.”

Clark: “What are you- oh. Oh- HUH?”

Cue sudden and shocked revelation, Clark’s mind going a hundred miles an hour, and then skidding to a stop on- he only did this for the bet. He’s not really interested. He stopped because I went too far-

Bruce: “You only consented to a kiss without knowing my identity. Right now, I’d like to do more, if you’d let me.”

Clark has the dial-up tone ringing in his ears, he has no idea whats going on anymore, the hot billionaire and his reclusive teammate aren’t quite slotting into place, because he wants both but rhey’re so different but they’re the same but-

“Yes.”

Lois doesn’t get Clark back that night and she is delighted.)

Anyways, final results:

Batman: 7

League: 0

Reveal:

Batman talking shit about their secret identities again, Green Lantern is scoffing about it again, says something along the lines of: “You still think you’re sooooo great, huh? Hows the bet going, spooky?” Fully expecting Batman to get huffy with him.

Instead, Batman smirks.

He leans in

And purrs: “So you didn’t notice?”

The League freezes. The implications are dangling over their head. Did he… did he really?

Green Lantern, absolutely terrified: “No. no, there’s no way…”

Batman: “Oh, there absolutely was a way. I’d say you were a good kisser, but honestly? I think it might have been the euphoria of getting you to shut up.”

He turns on the rest of the league, still smirking. “I have kissed every single person who consented at least once in the time since the bet was made. Two of you with tongue. And no one has called me out on it. Now that you know it’s happened, you should be able to figure me out, so whoever can tell me my real name first, wont get thier story used as an example in the brand new “how to avoid honeypots” seminar.”

(If bonus superbat, B shoots Superman a Look and goes “except for you, superman, because I told you my name.” Which just ends up distracting everyone else until they get THAT story)

Diana wins bc she matched up the boys to the robins. Everyone else gets their stories told in excruciating detail. Batman rates them by kissing ability and how obvious he was on his approach. Oliver gets docked points for “texture.” Dinah gets docked points because “i griped about the exact same thing in and out of costume, how did you not notice-“

(Different reveal below)

@chaos-n-kindness @she-went-that-way @geekonaleash @redh00dsbf @howabouticallyou

[gale-gentlepenguin]

I really love Athena’s and Odysseus’ falling out in “My Goodbye”. Because this isn’t a case where one person is completely in the wrong. Both of them have gripes with eachother and it’s clear it’s been boiling up for a while.

Athena is correct, being a warrior of the mind means you are strategic and need to make calculated decisions. Odysseus sparing the cyclops was a stupid decision. And she is right to call him out on it. She warned him about how he was straying from the warrior of the mind, mindset. And it will only result in more dead friends

But Odysseus also puts out a good point. It’s so easy to judge when she isn’t the one on the battlefield, she’s immortal, she has no concept of dying or mortality. She isn’t the one that has to kill the babies or watch her comrades die because of one mistake. What good is being her student if he is haunted by his actions

Athena tells him that she is not his friend, she was his mentor, and it’s clear she was wasting her time with him. (Petty insults here)

Odysseus comes out saying “I know what IM fighting for, you��re just fighting for notoriety.” And his big finish is “Hey if you are so wise, why are you the one who’s alone?” Basically saying that’s what her teachings left her. All alone.

This struck a nerve, and Athena went with a more cold approach, and she basically goes.

“You will regret your decisions. I was your brains. And you won’t realize it soon because you are just a man.” Basically as a way to say he is narrow sited. And then she leaves.

Now after that, she basically went no contact with Odysseus for 10 years. Which to a normal person is a long time. But to Athena, it’s more like 10 minutes. Basically to her, she just had that arguement and realizing “Ohhhh I might have been a bit too harsh.”

Odysseus meanwhile was struggling. Which she was right about. But to his defense, most of those struggles weren’t his fault. It was his crew being stupid. But even after all that. He does call out to her in his darkest hour. Showing how he does wish for her help. How he misses his friend/mentor.

This is also why her relationship with Telemachus was great, because while Odysseus was learning ruthlessness. Athena was learning empathy and compassion. In a way, her arc was the reverse of Odysseus. She realized a warrior of the mind could have emotions, could be caring but also strong. emotions Tempered their decisions.

So when Athena gave her all to save ody in god games. She appealed to mercy of Zeus. She made a passionate plea for him. Something that the old calculating and by the numbers Athena wouldn’t have done.

Athena was changed by Odysseus and Telemachus. Athena even changing her vision of the world she wants. A world of understanding.

So her meeting with Odysseus in “I can’t help but Wonder” is such a touching bittersweet moment. It’s two old friends reuniting and seeing themselves on different trajectories. But having a mutual respect for eachother. There were no apologies given, because they weren’t needed. They both had their next steps set up and they wished eachother luck.

[writerspirit]

Chapter I

Pairing(s): Melissa Schemmenti x Fem!Reader

Series: Schemmenti Family Agenda

Synopsis: After a student makes a comment to Y/n, Melissa takes into consideration what the next steps in your relationship should be.

Themes/Warnings: Fluff, Angst (please let me know if there are any warnings to be aware of)

A/N: I first wrote this part in an early morning surge of energy. I've already started on part two, so be on the lookout for that. I've also started an outline for an Agatha Harkness/Agnes x Fem!Reader w/ "magic baby" trope.

WC: ~ 2.15k

Having kids wasn’t something you thought to ever be on the agenda. It never was with you and Melissa. Both you and her being elementary teachers for Abbott, the only kids you two ever talked about “having” were your students. It has been a nice flow between you professionally. You being the other first grade teacher in the school, a good amount of kids in your class progress to your wife’s classroom in their following school year. These handful of kids are called by the other teachers as the “Double Schemmenti” kids, which you and Melissa find endearing.

These little aspects of your life at Abbott make being a teacher for these kids the best job anyone could ask for. Not to mention having the role of being these kids’ mentor, even sometimes their parent, is a gift in itself. So, whenever babies were a thought, it was more of a subtle whisper, rather than a thought-provoking idea.

That is until Melissa walks into your classroom after school one day to find you with one of your students playing with the deck of cards she so graciously lent for the room. 

“Hey, honey,” she smiles, making her way inside.

“Mrs. Schemmenti!” Aspen squeals. “Mrs. Schemmenti is teaching me how to play Kings in the Corner. It helps with my counting.”

“That’s great, sweetheart.” The redhead looks over at his hand and smiles. “Maybe next year you’ll be able to get a good grasp on poker so that you can beat all the chumps at the table.”

Aspen gives her a quizzical look. You, a furrow of the eyebrows, telling her to test the waters. She mouths a ‘sorry’ along with a low smile. Bringing her attention to your cards, she chuckles. “I don’t know, Mrs. Schemmenti. I think the kid’s hand is just enough to rattle you outta luck.”

Aspen’s smile turns to a little dance in place, in anticipation for his next move. 

You bring yourself to feign a sigh. “I think you might be right. I just can’t believe Aspen is so good already, and it’s his first time playing.”

Melissa shuffles back next to Aspen, who glances at her before she nods. “Take her down, kid.”

He rushes for a card before calculating his line of moves to play. With what seems to be one swift motion, his cards disappear from his hand and onto the floor with the others. “I got ya, Mrs. Schemmenti! Victory is mine!”

You giggle along with him. “You got me!” You and Melissa dance with him, doing your own little dances in place. Once he’s seemed to settle down from his victory dance, you help him pick up the cards.

“Why don’t you practice your shuffling while I talk with Mrs. Schemmenti?”

He nods. “Okay. I’ll go sit at my desk.”

“Okay.”

“He’s a quick little guy, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is. Smartest kid in the class. Maybe the smartest I’ve ever taught.” You peek at him, seeing if he’s focused on the cards in his hand, which he is. “His mom is working a little late today. The divorce hasn’t been easy for either of them, so I told her that I can stay with Aspen a little later than the allotted time for pickup.”

Melissa sighs. “Don’t I know it. Divorce is tough. I can’t imagine the added stress of having a child during the process.”

You quickly take a look at your watch. “You don’t have to wait up for me. Janine and Ava have step practice today, and I’m sure I can catch a ride with one of them if you want to go home. I know you have grading to get done.”

“I can wait here with you and the little guy. Grading can wait a little longer, and besides, I don’t want you catching a ride with either of ‘em as long as I’m here. I couldn’t live with myself if I knew I’d been responsible for another Janine car ride migraine.” Her lips perk up into a smile.

"I swear if I hear another lecture on the benefits of different colored highlighters, I’ll–"

“Mom!” Aspen squeals, getting out of his seat and running to his mother’s arms. She lays a soft kiss on his head.

“Hi, Aspen. How was school?” Dina’s eyes turn from his to yours. “Was he okay?”

You nod. “The little champ beat me in Kings in the Corner.”

“And I know how to shuffle now. So now I can help you when we play Uno.”

“Great job, honey. And I’m sure now you can help me beat Grandpa when he comes to visit next week.”

Aspen seemingly lights up brighter than before. “Grandpa’s coming? Yay!” He envelops her in a hug.

“Honey, why don’t you grab your things so I can talk to your mom?” Your eyes quickly glance at his belongings that sit on and around his desk. 

“I’ll give you two a minute.” Melissa moves towards Aspen. “I’ll help him get his things.”

“Thank you for everything. Really, you’re a lifesaver.” Dina lets a sigh leave her lips. “He’s really been doing great through this whole thing.”

“No disruptions, no problems. I wish I had his positive attitude all the time. And hey, don’t worry about it. I don’t mind getting beat at cards. He’s a smart kid.”

Dina smiles.

“I’m ready,” Aspen says. He walks up to meet his mother’s side, where she places a hand on his shoulder. “Mrs. Schemmenti?”

“Yes sweetheart?”

“You’re gonna make a great mom one day,” his smile widens before he says his goodbyes to you and Melissa. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, kid. We’ll see ya,” Melissa adds. She turns to you. “Ready to go?”

“Mhm,” you grab your bag’s handle, but it’s quickly taken away from you when the older woman grabs it. “Melissa, I can carry my stuff.”

“I never said you couldn’t.” She smiles as you grab hold of her arm.

Walking out of Abbott, you both send smiles and your own goodbyes to a few colleagues. Your hand never strays from her arm, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“So what are you feeling like for dinner?” She asks.

“Are you asking because you feel like cooking, or are you asking me because you want to just order takeout?”

She chuckles. “I was actually asking because I could go for anything you wanted to cook.”

“Enchiladas, then.”

“Well, they’re your signature.” She places a kiss on your temple.

When you reach the car, she walks with you to the passenger’s side, opening the door for you. “My lady,” she smiles watching you take your seat. She hands you your bag, and closes the door.

You reach over to the door and pull the door handle for her. “Thank you, sweetie.”

“Anything for my girl,” you say. Her hand instinctively rests on your thigh as she starts the drive to your shared home. You move a hand to graze her arm.

“So,” Melissa starts up a new conversation when you hit upon a red light. “Aspen gave you a really nice compliment there, huh?”

“What?” You take a moment to think back. “Oh… yeah, he’s a really sweet kid. I hope you get to teach him next year. I mean he already loves you.”

Melissa turns the music up a bit, as your favorite song plays. While you’re jamming, she hums along, singing the words in her head. Unbeknownst to you, Melissa is thinking harder than she’d care to admit to about Aspen’s words. Had you given any thought to having a child of your own? She hasn’t expressed any interest in having a mini Melissa since she was younger, when her sister had her first baby.

As if the memory played out word for word, she remembers how crushed she was when, while holding her then baby nephew, Joe completely shut down the idea of growing their family. 

As if you know she needs a distraction of sorts, you speak up, taking her out of her thoughts. “Oh, honey, I think we need to stop at the grocery store. Is that okay with you?”

She nods and forces a smile for you.

– – – –

Melissa’s hand never leaves the small of your back while you push the cart. Along the journey of getting the ingredients necessary for your dinner, she looks around every aisle that you walk through. Almost finished with the aisle you two are currently in, you start your way towards the registers. As you wait in one of the lines, Melissa picks up bits of the couple’s conversation happening in front of her, talking about their excitement in welcoming their own bundle of joy in seven months. 

“Melissa?”

“Hm,” she turns her attention towards you.

“Is everything okay? You’ve been almost quiet since we left school. The only times I ever experience quiet Melissa is when you’re scheming. Well, that or you’re planning someone’s meeting with justice.”

“I’m fine, hon.” She places her hands on either side of your waist, and places a few light kisses on your temple. “I’m perfect.”

– – – –

“Amore,” she starts.

“Hm,” you hum, sipping your wine.

“Nothin’.”

“Baby,” you reach your hand and place it gently on her own. “What’s up?”

She has a glint in her eyes. One you’ve only seen two other times – when she was too nervous to ask you to be her girlfriend, and then again when she asked you to be her wife. By this, you know she has got something big on her mind.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, her voice not leaving a low tone. She focuses her attention on her plate, trying to collect her thoughts.

“Okay…” you start. “But I will. You have the look.”

“What look?” Her eyes bounce to you, now wide, awaiting your response.

“You’ve only ever looked at me twice like that before, and both times they were because you had something big to get off your chest. Now please…” You place your hand on her thigh. “What is it, Melissa?”

“You ever thought about maybe… I don’t know… it’s just us here. And sometimes I feel it. The… space.”

You stay silent, trying to piece together what she’s going on about. Was she getting sick of you? Was this marriage too much for her? She doesn’t skip a beat though. Her rambling is starting to sound like she is convincing herself of something, in hopes you’ll say what’s bothering her, so she doesn’t have to. That’s when in the midst of your spacing out, there is only one sentence that makes you freeze.

“Maybe an addition to us wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“You want to have a baby,” she can’t tell by your tone if you were stating it as if it were a fact, or rather forming it in a question. “Like… a baby.”

“No, wait, I didn’t say that,” her voice rises in pitch. “Per say.”

You wait a minute, in case she has more to say. “Okay…”

Crap! May day! May day! Retreat! Her thoughts tell her.

She downs the beer that is left in her bottle. Her hands grab for your plates and starts her way to the kitchen. “Just forget I said anything.”

“But, Melissa–”

“Please, just forget it, Y/n.”

– – – –

After dinner, you and Melissa snuggle up on the couch. Your face is nestled in her neck, giving soft kisses where you know she loves them. This would usually lead to you ravaging each other until the sunrise spills through your curtains. Tonight, however, doesn’t look like that is in the cards for you.

Your hand begins drawing patterns on her thigh, as you continue your kisses on her skin. “Your thoughts are loud tonight, my love.”

“Hon,” Melissa whispers, her voice almost impossible to hear over the television. As if on cue, the Dancing With the Stars theme sings for you. “Look, the show is starting.”

The rest of the night is much quieter than usual. Adding to your worry, Melissa doesn’t seem as enthusiastic about the episode as she usually is. There’s no yelling at the television, rarely a chuckle, and not even a snack to go with the episode.

As the episode ends, Melissa breathes a heavy sigh. “Ready for bed?”

You take a look at your phone which reads the time. “Yeah,” you say with simple directions. “Just… give me a minute and I’ll be up.”

She nods as she rises off the couch. She makes sure to place a gentle kiss on your cheek before heading upstairs.

At the sound of Melissa ascending the stairs, you quickly grab your phone. Opening your Contacts app, Barbara Howard’s phone number is already in view for you. With a second to think on a decision, a sigh leaves your lips, and the clicking of the power button shuts the device off.

Sleep on it. Whatever it is.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Paper Pirates (Conclusion)

MDNI

Shanks x f!reader

Summary: An unconventional member of an unconventional crew, you finally solve your captain's equation.

Warnings: Smut, fingering, piv, swearing, smoking, allusions to power imbalance

A/N: Merry Christmas and happy holidays! - Ya filthy animals. Thanks for all the support! I have another Shanks piece brewing (a genuine one-shot, even!) that will hopefully see the light of day in the coming week. Til then: stay tuned, drink water, kiss someone you like, and survive the holidays!

Shanks is, as ever, a bonfire on a winter night. Blazing bright and beautiful. A human beacon with a smile so bright it made his hair dull by comparison. He should be ridiculous, maybe even an object of pity with his scarred face and missing arm, but he’s confidence given legs – legs in ridiculous printed trousers, even.

He holds court in the bar closest to the docks. He’d swaggered ahead with all your worldly possessions under his arm, chatting up passing locals. You’d followed, drowning in his wake. The storm inside you didn’t touch him.

You followed him here, met up with the crew after picking open you scabs so he could see how deep the infection ran, and now you’re once again ducking under too many waving hands and wondering how the hell these killers and thieves smile so readily. As he guzzles sake and laughs with Lucky Roux, he feels farther away than ever. Memories are easier to hold close. Now you can only calculate the gulf between your understanding and his plans.

The sea between your feelings and his easy charm.

This must be what a cuckoo chick feels when it realizes it has the wrong feathers.

Cheering voices shake the tavern walls, and you sit among the merry-makers, pretending to enjoy yourself. But you know your voice would come out wrong if you joined in. There’s a reason you never fit the atmosphere aboard the Red Force. Even when they were trying to be kind, your comrades must’ve sensed something strange had hatched in their midst. An intruder in the crow’s nest, so to speak.

You sit, stewing in your own self-pity, taking the barest sips from your glass. You can’t afford to be drunk. Not tonight. Not after your conversation with Shanks.

Maybe things have never been easy between you and the Red Hair Pirates, but everything spiraled after you revealed yourself on a tide of rum and fatigue. Drinking is a solitary activity now. No way in hell will you make things worse. You still hope, a little desperately, for an amicable separation.

You spill your drink twice, fetching refills to keep up appearances.

That game ends when Beck joins you. He lands across the table, filling the corner where you settled with the excuse of eating away from flying elbows and table dancing. The stew smelled so appetizing every other time you passed the place, but you’re struggling to do it justice. Doesn’t help that it gets colder with every bite.

Still makes a marvelous diversion from Beckman, though.

Until he opens his big, stupid mouth.

“Hongo seen the wound yet?”

Which wound? The time you shot yourself with your own big, stupid mouth in his company or the bullet you caught during your year or isolation?

“No wound.” You shovel a spoonful in your mouth, buying a moment of peace. “Just a scar. And he’s threatened me with a thorough exam tomorrow.”

“Shame. Earned your first major scar of on your own.”

He makes it sound like your fault somehow, and that grates. Your tolerance is growing thin, and you haven’t spent more than ten minutes in each other’s company tonight.

It isn’t your fault they left you behind. As always.

It wasn’t your fault the Marines fucked up a good thing. As always.

It sure as hell wasn’t your fault that you got shot in one of the most chaotic battles you’d ever seen.

The world turned and you clung on where you could.

You wonder if Beckman even remembers what it’s like to have no one at his back, no ship to rely on.

He taps out a fresh cigarette. “Would’ve been an opportunity to celebrate.”

You laugh as he lights up, almost genuinely. “Like you’ve ever needed one.”

If the crew celebrated every first scar acquired on the sea, they’d never stop drinking. But maybe they do. It would explain some things.

“Hn. It will be good to have you back on the ship. Never enough good crew.”

“Oh please, we both know I’m average at best.”

“Do we?” Beckman didn’t take his eyes off his match. “Captain talk to you about his plan yet?”

Your spoon circles the bowl’s rim. The vibration shakes into your fingers as metal drags over rough crockery, but the men are too loud for you to hear the chime.

“We talked about a plan. Wasn’t really his.”

One more bite. Just to soak up the drip of booze you’ve choked down. Nothing’s ever as good as you hope these days, and you’re starting to wonder if it’s your own fault.

You push the meal away, hoping no one asks why there’s so much left. The folks behind the counter work hard, and you’d hate to insult a family recipe.

Beckman shakes out his match, and his cool eyes fix on you. For all the bodies in the room, his attention carves out a private space. You might as well be back on deck, drinking in the dark after they party’s over.

You lean back. Cross your arms.

“I do sometimes look up from the books, you know.”

If the Captain agrees to your plan, it will impact Benn’s role most. And you’re comfortable with him. He doesn’t ask for much. So long as you meet his expectations, he doesn’t demand a sunny smile and a performance. You’re grumpy bastards both, the eyes in the back, assessing and measuring. You don’t know what answers he’s looking for at your table in the corner, but you can guess a few questions.

“Shanks only brings aboard people who’ve already… become what they’re gonna be, I guess.” Just saying his name pushes your gaze to find him across the room.

It’s no wonder you fell in love. Doesn’t make you any less of a fool. “It’s why he doesn’t take on apprentices, I think. He knows he’d protect them. They’d get hurt. They’d have to, at some point, or they’d never push themselves. So, he always turns the young ones down.”

Benn doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t twitch. He blinks, slowly, like a cat, and a ribbon of smoke fades into the rafters. You look him in the eye.

“That’s how I know. I am what I am. Good at numbers. Entirely average in every other respect.”

“Tsk.” He looks away. Uses his boot to grind out an old cigarette that’s been cold on the floor since before you arrived. “You see the numbers, but you’ve put ‘em in the wrong places. A transcription error. Get out of your own way.”

Your arms cinch tighter around your chest, and the eye contact slips up and away. The rafters offer an escape. You study graffiti carved by a thousand daggers over endless decades by happy drunkards. Maybe they’re a map to sanity. A star chart of curses, confessions, and promises.

Are you even having the same conversation? It feels like everyone is pushing you to the brink of madness.

Nothing adds up anymore.

“You’re smart,” Beckman says. “And you’re strong.”

He kicks you under the table to reclaim your attention from the ceiling, and you jump, yelping. You regard him with a hint of shock. It’s minor violence, yeah, but it’s friendly violence. It’s a new level of engagement. The routine mandates sitting and snarking over more booze than you want to drink. Beckman isn’t the touchy sort.

The cigarette dips as he grins.

“Let yourself believe in something, girl.”

“I – I don’t – what?” Your tongue is too big for your mouth, and your teeth keep getting in the way.

Beckman glances away, and you follow his line of sight through the shouting, and the drinking, and the rowdy delight to your captain.

Shanks.

He’s in the middle of a story, slapping the bar for emphasis. Part of you wishes you could sneak closer. Hear his tall tales and measure them against his usual bullshit. Bask in his presence. But your overwhelming common sense tells you it would burn to sit beside him. Bonfires can catch.

Seas. He really is beautiful.

You remember who you are sitting beside.

The first mate chuckles, and your face burns.

Flailing to your seat, less graceful than most of the drunks, you cough up an excuse.

“I’m going for some air.”

Cigarette smoke chases you out the door, and you march away from the windows, turning the corner into an alley where you can breathe.

Fuck’s sake.

You press cold palms to your cheeks, horrified by the heat. Did your feelings show? Beckman clearly spied something to amuse himself with in your expression. Who else? How many witnesses to your shame would cackle at your expense in the morning? Maybe they’d just assume you stepped out to throw up. Because you had good manners, unlike the rest of them.

Not a bad thought, actually. You feel like hurling.

Night has settled over the town, and the locals are giving the pirates their space. Normal people have normal work to do in the morning, and even Shanks can’t chat the stars still. A breeze carries whispers of the sea into your hideaway, and you ache for the clean smell of deep water far from shore.

Your resolve cracks like an egg.

Slumping against the brick wall at your back, you accept your truth. It doesn’t even take half a bottle of rum this time.

You love Shanks. You crave life aboard the Red Force. The captain shared a taste of his world and instead of thanking him for the experience, you’ve gotten addicted. Demanding. It will never be enough. Given the chance, you’d die happy at sea, listening to the ship groan creaking lullabies.

You might die if they agree to your proposal.

If Shanks leaves you forever.

Even though that would be safest. That would be reasonable.

That would be good for the crew. For him.

“There you are.”

Think of the devil.

Shanks, framed in moonlight, invades your sanctuary. “Thought you might be sneaking off.”

You freeze. Your mind goes blank with the fear of being caught and the contrary urge to impress. Something spews out of your mouth, but you have no control over it.

“Just breathing.”

What a fucking stupid answer. Might as well tell him there was no air in the tavern when you noticed how his eyes sparkle when he laughs.

“Well.” He picks a spot on the wall across from you, mimicking your position. “Can’t have you stopping that, can we?”

An obligatory smile. You’ll give him whatever he commands, but there’s no joy here.

Believe in something.

Sure. Just like that. Drop all your defenses as you waited for the executioners’ spears.

Shanks smiles at nothing and glances towards the sky.

“Your thoughts aren’t too far from mine,” he says. “The old system needs adjustments. Can’t have you catching any more bullets with just your skin.” His eyes flick back to you, fixing you in place. You aren’t sure whether it’s your nerves or his haki.

“But we have very different ideas about your future with the crew.” His captain’s voice rings between the broken crates and empty barrels surrounding you. He’s found something he doesn’t like and he’s working out a solution, gearing up to state orders and fix his will on the future.

It’s a challenge. You rise to it.

“And what’s your great idea, then?” If he thinks he’s solved the equation better than you can, let him prove it.

“No more layovers. You stay on the Red Force like every other crewmate. The Den Den Mushi aren’t a bad idea, and I agree we’ll need new eyes and ears on shore, but your place onboard is essential.”

If people keep telling you things like that, you’ll start to believe it. You shake your head, knocking the warm fuzzies away before they rot your perspective like mold.

“I kind of doubt that. No offense.”

His eyebrows rise. “You think I’d have brought you on if I didn’t think you could cut it?”

“I mean,” you gesture broadly at the crew that isn’t there, “anyone can do the numbers with a little time and training.”

“Sorry to ruin your rosy view of the world, but they really can’t.” That captain voice is gone. He’s all smiles again. Teasing almost. Like he knows a secret and is watching you walk into a trap. “Not like you. Mathematics are strategy in your hands, and we need more of that. You have no idea how many times Building Snake complains when you aren’t around, or how often Lucky Roux moans about larder management. Your work touches everything.”

He leans forward, eyes glinting in the distant streetlights, and props his arm against the wall just over your head. Heat radiates from him and that stupid unbuttoned shirt he always wears. Can he feel the warmth curling out in answer from your own skin?

“And I agree with Lucky, by the way,” he croons. “You’re very scary.”

Your breath physically stutters. It’s entirely involuntary, and you bite your tongue, eyes wide as you struggle to read him. He still wants you on the crew. Alright. But what else?

Logic strains under the pressure of his regard.

You force yourself to breathe. Hopefully that will help you think. Unlikely, though, with the way Shank’s scent fills your head. It’s dizzying.

“It would still be a problem.” This isn’t reasoning. This is pleading.

His smile flicks to life, and like the helpless little moth you are, you prepare for it to scorch you.

“I don’t have a problem with it.”

One of his feet slides forward, not quite invading your space, but close. His toes linger in the gap between your feet, suggesting a path of navigation you know will take you past whirlpools and monsters.

He doesn’t get it. A quick pity fuck won’t fix this.

“It’s easy to ignore feelings you don’t have, Captain, but it would be a problem for me.” There’s nowhere to look but his eyes or his pecs, so you swallow your jagged anxiety and focus on his face. A strong twitch would bring you together, you’re that close. He deserves a punch. But that might just be an excuse to touch him. And you’d rather do that softly. Fuck.

“If we’re going to talk about it, then let’s get to the point.” There isn’t much space to draw yourself up, but you try, and you don’t miss the way his lips twitch. You want it to make you angry, but the rage just won’t kindle. “I caught feelings. That’s my fault, and you’ve been more than gracious about it, but I meant what I said, and if the best thing for the crew – for you – is to peel off, that’s what I’m going to do.”

That’s it. You’ve said your piece. Now he can make his move as captain. Chide you. Dismiss you. Laugh. Your eyes shut, and you brace for words you don’t want to hear. If he’d just cooperated with your plan and let you distance yourself, maybe you could’ve –

Hair whispers over your face, and Shanks’ temple presses to yours.

Your eyes pop open. He’s right there. Right here. He wasn’t supposed to come closer.

He chuffs, and his breath rolls down your collar.

“So stupid.”

He kisses your forehead as you stand dumb and amazed.

The…fuck?

What?

His little chortle cracks into a hearty laugh, but it isn’t mockery or a mere diversion from your shame. He laughs all the time, for all kinds of reasons. But this one’s real. His shoulders shake with it.

“So smart. But so stupid.”

There must be a proper response to this. But it feels like your first meeting all over again. Your decisions have been upended, and it’s all his fault.

But it’s a good thing. Isn’t it? Wasn’t it even back then, when he arguably ruined your life and turned you into a pirate?

It isn’t bad.

But it can’t be real.

Even though he’s filling your senses, and you’d never dare hope for something like this, let alone imagine it.

But –

Cigarette smoke wafts down the alley with Beckman’s shadow as he turns the corner. “You both are. Makes you well suited.”

The glowing tip of his cigarette is shockingly grounding. The bright red is familiar. It isn’t the romantic, pale moonlight or the dim yellow streetlights that cast everything in chiaroscuro. That’s really Beckman. This is really happening.

Your soul and mind slam back into your body with the violence of a shipwreck. Your defenses splinter, and it feels like your whole chest cracks open to put your heart on display, leave it pulsing and naked for a careless pirate’s strike.

Oh, holy shit.

You have absolutely no idea what your expression is doing at the moment, but Shanks leans even further in, letting his cloak block you from his first mate’s view. His lips hover by your ear.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course, Captain.”

“Do you trust me?”

Trust. Beyond his role as captain. Shanks the man. Shanks the man who said he doesn’t have a problem with your feelings. Shanks the man who doesn’t have a problem with your feelings and dropped a kiss on your head while crowding you against the wall in a dark alley.

Simple answer, really.

“I guess I do.”

He pulls back and grins like a gods damned shark.

“All I needed to hear.”

For the second time that night, he rips the ground from under your feet and flips your world on its head.

Fairly literally, this time.

Between one fluttering heartbeat and the next, he’s ducked, thrown you over his right shoulder and launched out of the alley. Straight into the air. Wind rips tears from your eyes, and your hair stings where it lashes against your skin.

Backman and the tavern shrink below, and gravity yanks on your stomach.

“Shanks!”

His laughter rumbles through his shoulder into your belly. He must’ve been expecting to sacrifice an eardrum to your shriek, and whatever he’s getting from this must be worth it. To him at least.

You’ve only seen him sky walk once or twice, one of many abilities he stores under good humor in case of bad weather. Since the Red Force practically demands fair weather by its very presence, you haven’t seen him break out the weatherproofing often.

Nails sinking into his cloak, your mind blanks on adrenaline. There are no equations in freefall.

Just as you begin to lose altitude, he steps again, and you howl, trying to sink into the man’s flesh. You’re like a cat frantically trying to cling to a human raft.

He touches down on the deck of his command ship, and you can’t unlock your knuckles from where they’ve knotted into his clothes. Just as well, because he doesn’t take his arm from around your knees. A few steps bring him to the captain’s quarters. A kick opens the door. A second kick closes it. And then – finally – he helps you slide down from his shoulder.

Your legs are boneless. You refuse to let go. Your dignity hangs by the thread count of his clothing.

“I thought you trusted me?”

Looking up, you meet his shit-eating grin, and you pant in lingering terror and growing rage. “Fuck you, Shanks.”

He’s practically glowing, he’s so happy. Cackling in glee, he falls back into a wide chair, pulling you to sit across his lap, your back supported by his remaining arm.

Shaking the hair from his eyes, he beams at you. Like you’re finally in on the joke.

“I think I need to keep you closer. Hard to take care of me from so far away, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He isn’t wrong. The distance between you swelled like an ulcer, a terrible little fear you couldn’t help worrying as you scanned the newspapers and bounty posters for an update. For proof he was alright. Safe. Well.

But as the ringing fades from your ears and you take stock of where you’re sitting, you’re afraid to add up the final sum.

“Captain – Shanks.” You catch yourself. His hand rests on your knee, and because you have no idea where to put yours, you clutch one fist to your chest and let the other settle over his wrist.

What is happening? A black and white answer is all you want. You can set a course if you can just find the difference between north and south.

“What is this?”

His nose traces your jaw, and you turn into the contact as eager butterflies cannibalize the anxious moths banging around in your gut.

“What do you think?” He’s lured you close enough, and he steals a kiss. A satin brush of desire that conjures a sigh from his chest. Warm eyes find yours as they blink open, like sunset at sea. “It was never your problem. It’s my fucking problem, too.”

Whether or not he’s lying, there’s only one good response to that.

You know what to do with your hands now.

Taking his jaw, you pull him into another kiss. A proper one that delivers on all the restrained promise of the first. His grip rises to your waist, pulling you into his chest as his lips tattoo his feelings over yours. You’re far from a blank page, but you doubt you’ll ever be able to read old notes under the bold script he prints.

He pulls back to breathe, and he smiles under the little pecks you pepper over his face. Skilled fingers explore everything he can reach, and you know you’ve gotten too close to the bonfire. You’re starting to melt.

“I didn’t mean to leave you for so long,” he murmurs.

When his hand wanders over your chest, firm enough to spark every nerve to life, your head falls back, and he takes advantage. He mouths along your neck, around your ear as he continues.

“At first, I wanted to prove to myself that I could be good, that I wouldn’t take advantage of you. Be a responsible captain.”

He squeezes a breast, and the jolt rushes down your spine, trapping itself between your legs. Red hair twists between your fingers as you desperately explore him in return. He’s too busy talking and tasting to kiss.

“Wanted to give you room to breathe. To come to your senses.”

The wandering hand drifts. Smoothing over your sternum and down your belly, spreading over your trousers’ fastening.  

“But then one thing led to another, and Beck handed me your bounty poster.”

It shouldn’t surprise you that Shanks has a motormouth, even as a lover. His words touch as skillfully as his hand, though, and you’re drunker than you’ve ever been on rum. He doesn’t have to be good. Whatever he wants, he can have. You’ve been a cold pile of kindling for an age. He’s set you blazing to match his heat.  

His touch lingers on the buttons, and you kiss whatever parts of him you can reach. The crown of his head. His temple. You map his shoulders with curious fingertips, pushing under the collar of his loose shirt. He listens to your cues.

The first button pops free.

“I have no doubt you could go out on your own.”

The second button.

He slips his hand under your knee, pulling your leg to straddle him, your back to his chest.

“Make a name for yourself as a pirate. Terrify the world with your numbers and your revolver. But I couldn’t bring myself to be happy for you if you did.”

Back up your thigh, over your hip. He lets you simmer, anticipating his next move. Even as he finally moves under your clothes, he pauses short of the goal, and you whimper. Your head rests against his shoulder, allowing him every piece of you he desires, and he nips your earlobe.

Drunk off him as you are, he wants you to hear every word that comes next.

“I want you to be my pirate.”

Calloused fingertips creep between your folds, and you immediately roll your hips, chasing him the way you’ve wanted to for so long.

He grazes your clit in passing, and your back arches. “I am. I’ve always been yours, you idiot. Please, Shanks!”

Boyish giggles trail over your flesh as he finally touches you, strokes you, finds the proof of your unquenchable infatuation. He hums, beyond happy with himself and the task in hand.

“Poor thing. Have you been aching for me like this all year?”

You gather enough breath to pant, “Longer.”

He croons and licks the first dew of sweat blooming along your throat.

“Poor little pirate.”

Quick circles over your most sensitive spot push you staggering towards the precipice in record time. You’ve never gotten yourself off so fast. No partner has ever managed it, that’s for fucking sure.

But it’s him.

And he’s holding you, and all but purring as you flutter and jerk against him, and you want to…

One finger pushes in, and you buck, crying out. You’re still riding the cliff’s edge, and you aren’t sure if this is better or if you’re going to give him another scar for abandoning your clit. You whine, and the finger pulls back. It returns with a friend at a fresh angle that grinds his palm exactly where it belongs.

“Fuck.”

“Exactly.”

He searches, stretching you as he goes. When he finds what he’s looking for, your eyes all but roll back into your head. The both of you groan as you clench. He shoves you over the border, and you lose yourself. The orgasm rips your mind away, and you float, convinced you’d drift to the ceiling if he wasn’t holding you. Wasn’t still knuckle-deep, drawing out the fall.

By the time you settle back into your own skin, your toes and the tips of your fingers are tingling. He removes his hand and it only makes you want to cry a little.

Until he brings it to his lips. Sucks his fingers clean. Winks as you stare.

“To the bed?” He isn’t even trying to hide how excited he is. You can feel him, long and hard under your thigh, but the roguish glee in his eyes reveals more.

Once you’re in that bed, he won’t be letting you up for the rest of the night.

“Just a minute.” You pet his face, almost slurring as you explain. “I need to catch my breath.”

“Mn. Take your time then.” He nuzzles into your neck, and without the distraction of his fingers curling inside you, it tickles. A lot. His stubbly little beard rubs into your flesh, and you realize he’s doing it on purpose when you flinch and the hand resting over your belly squeezes. He draws his cheek over the sensitive spot behind your ear.

“Hmm? Something wrong?”

“N-no.” Fuck that. You can win this game. Even though you’re already biting your lip to keep the giggles locked in.

His whiskers move down your neck as he aggressively cuddles into the tender skin, hunting for the spot that will break your resolve. He finds it in the gap between shoulder and neck. Laughter tears out of you, and the hand on your belly dances to your side, setting you writhing on Shanks’ lap.

“Alright! Alright!” You go to stand, but his arm keeps you pinned.

“Thought you needed to catch your breath?” He doesn’t move away from your neck as he speaks, using his lips and breath to continue your torment.

“I yield,” you gasp. Tears gather in your eyes as you wriggle, trying to push your way free. “Let me go.”

The tickling fingers smooth flat again, and he stops attacking your neck. Only to place a chaste kiss there. “Never.”

But he does, letting you rise, sliding his grip down to hold your hand. He looks up at you, his heart in his eyes, and everything inside goes still.

It’s like sailing through a Calm Belt after passing through a storm. It’s the same ocean, but everything looks different.

Right.

This is it.

Safely at anchor, the ship barely moves, but there’s always that subtle sway that keeps the light moving. Your sea legs find it a thousand times firmer than shore. A dance that lulls and leaps. Home and heart.

His thumb rolls over your fingers.

Here’s the solution to the equations that never quite fit.

The solution brings your knuckles to his lips for a kiss, holding your gaze until you blink back to yourself.

“Take off some of those layers for me.” He’s all suggestion, in every sense, and nodding, you step back, letting your fingertips slide free of his hold.

You have no idea how to perform a striptease without making yourself ridiculous, so you stay practical. His attention keeps you safe, and you don’t look away as you shed your jacket, pull off your boots, tug away your socks. When your hands drift to your trousers, still unbuttoned from Shanks’ good work, his eyes dip to follow. The fabric falls, and his tongue runs over his lower lip, almost like he’s caught in thought. But his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide when he meets your eyes again, and you doubt there’s anything left in his head besides visions of what he’s about to do to you.

You begin working on your shirt buttons, and he stands. His shirt pulls smoothly over his head, a feat he performs gracefully even with a single arm, and your fingers shake, stumbling in their task as you appreciate the view. Golden skin and a warrior’s build. It isn’t even the first time you’ve seen him shirtless. Damn.

He basks under your appraisal, shaking back his hair and leaning his hips forward so there’s no mistaking his interest as he unbuckles his belt.

It dawns on you, as you struggle with your buttons, eyes lingering over inappropriate places, that it has been a very long time since you got this far. Romantically. With a man who’s clearly well endowed.

Math can be a cruel mistress. Even if physics isn’t your specialty, you understand some things about pegs and holes. Laws of volume and stretch. That sort of thing.

“Stop calculating.” He’s caught you. As usual. And he’s laughing you both past any anxiety. Easy as a strong wind under blue skies. “I can feel those damn numbers stealing your attention from me, and I’m a greedy, greedy pirate. I need it all.”

Your own grin catches, spreads.

A greedy pirate you can trust. Do trust.

Equations be damned. Shanks has always found a way to get what he wants, and you know he wants your pleasure as much as you want his.

He kicks off his sandals as he swaggers up to you and pulls you tight, banishing your calculations and concerns with a kiss. When his tongue begs entrance, you oblige, hurrying to meet him, eager to feel and touch and play in thrilling new ways.

You find the bed together. Or it finds you. Maybe, like Beckman, it has some secret understanding with the captain. A conspiracy to place you somewhere soft and vulnerable. Regardless, you fall back, never leaving your lover’s embrace.

Shanks is more than happy to finish with your shirt, making a show of slipping each loop free with his one hand. Everything else comes off in a rush. The man’s an octopus, groping, squeezing, and surrounding you like he has twice as many limbs as most men.

He has you on your back, bare, one leg hoisted over his shoulder. As he takes his time coating himself in your slick, a moment of clarity breaks through the crush of sensation.

“I really do want to take care of you.”

There’s no pause. He lets your words soak in, rumbling in satisfaction as he slowly breaches your entrance. He falls forward to rest on his forearm, covering you as he rocks in and out, creeping deeper like an incoming tide.

“Oh, you are. You’re taking such good care of me.”

He seals any further complaints away with a kiss, moaning and lapping into your mouth. There’s too much to parse into individual feelings. You’re so full, and he’s so warm. Pleasure thrums through you, and everything tangles into the press of bodies, the unspeakable intimacy of the act.

Some unknown time later, when you sneak a breath and a thought, you gasp, “Not fair.”

Wicked laughter answers, and he pushes deep, grinding up against your clit to chase away any idea of the world beyond how good he feels.

 “I’m your captain. Nothing about this is fair.” He bites your lip and moves faster, gleefully driving you to the brink of insanity once again.

Your body delights in his, and it fights to keep him as resolutely as your mind tried to escape. Every time you flutter and clench around him, his eyelashes flutter over his cheeks. The muscles over his back roll under your grip.

It’s strange and wonderful. A day ago, you expected him to abandon you to your sensible plans. Now, well, it’s a whole new world, isn’t it?

Whispers of his name pick loose strings from his control.

When you crash through your orgasm, burying your scream in his shoulder, he pounds you through it. His mouth moves, full of words he’s beyond articulating, and a groan from the depths of his soul shakes through the both of you as finds his own release.

He falls beside you, hair damp with sweat, meeting your pleasure-numbed eyes with a lazy smile.

“C’mere.”

His arm loops around you, pulls you back to his chest, and the afterglow hums over you like music.

Distant voices remind you of the crew outside Shanks’ quarters.

“I hope you know,” he mumbles, “you don’t have to worry about finding a spare hammock below decks ever again.”

He snuggles into your neck, and you stroke the arm anchoring you.

This dickhead.

How many crewmates saw the captain’s little show? How many put the pieces together after you both disappeared? How many heard you chanting his name?

Gods. You’ll have to find some energy to worry about that tomorrow.

Might be a good reason to get drunk, actually.

[dreamingofaizawa]

Posession

Ulquiorra Cifer x Fem!Arrancar!Reader

***18+ Fic*** If you are under the age displayed, please find your way to another station.

Warnings: Penetrative sex (p in v), biting/marking, fingering, edging, overstimulation(?), choking/breath play, rough sex, VERY posessive Ulquiorra, spanking (ass and pussy spanking), liberal use of 'master' (both sexual and not) squirting, creampie, cockwarming if you squint, teeny bit of praise kink, dom! Ulquiorra, sub! reader, tiny bit of aftercare (ish), brief mentions of suicide (not descriptive, it’s used as a power grab/show of loyalty)

Word Count: 3.6k

Auhor's Note: Yeeeah....I'm making writer's block my bitch LMAO

Anywho, enjoy the depravity~

Being a fracción was a simple thing, really. Obey. Apologize. Obey. Especially under the fourth Espada, your job was easy. He’s reserved, quiet, but his silence does not convey weakness. It’s calculated, like everything he does. So you must be as well. You match his stoic facade, keep everything in check. You’ve learned to read his every fractional expression, most of his thoughts you’re able to read without struggle. Once you’d begun thinking like him, it became infinitely easier to remain as his fracción and remain unpunished, for the most part. 

With all of that in mind, you can’t fathom what you missed. 

He’s cornered you in your personal quarters outside of your usual fracción duties. If he needs something urgently, he can easily summon you to his side instantaneously. Clearly, it wasn’t urgent enough to warrant a summons. So what exactly do his barely furrowed brows and unusually dark glare mean? You stand, awaiting orders of some kind, while he stalks slowly closer to you. His footsteps are measured, as always. He doesn’t stop, however, when his chest bumps your own. His frame pushes against yours as you easily step backward, matching his pace until your back hits the wall. It isn’t often you can’t read his mind.

“A thousand apologies, Master Ulquiorra, I am unable to discern what you need tonight.” His viridian glare flickers over your features, schooled to match his own usual indifference. The silence is long, stretched thin over the seconds you spend trying to decipher the Espada’s thoughts to no avail. All you can do is study his face. Those piercing, unwavering eyes that you could lose yourself in forever. The tiny tick in his sharp jaw, the tiniest pinch in his brows. Dark lines reminiscent of tear tracks streak down his pale cheeks, drawing the eyes down his neck toward the hollow at the base of his throat. It isn’t often he chooses to leave it exposed. 

“Has anyone paid you a visit today?” The deep baritone vibrates through your body, snapping your thoughts back to the present. No other Espada would dare come to you, unless it were urgent or a special case. None of the humans would bother with you either, even Lord Aizen is far above seeking the assistance of a fracción. He should already know the answer to that question.

“No, Master Ulquiorra.” You don’t bother to elaborate, he hates hearing unneeded explanations. A simple answer is all he ever needs. At the confirmation, his features relax. His expression is blank once again, the calculated persona clicking into place like a puzzle piece. You know you’re one of the very few that can read his micro expressions, if he were talking to any of the other Espada or fracción they’d probably never notice whatever inner turmoil plagues his mind. But you do. 

When he turns to leave, you can’t help but want to ease whatever troubles him. It’s second nature, for a fracción such as yourself. You were made to serve him, to assist him, to do anything and everything necessary to help him reach his goal.

“Master Ulquiorra?” He stops on a dime, casually turning to face you once again. He wants this kept short, he always does. So you don’t bother beating around the bush.

“May I be of any assistance? I can see something is on your mind.” His eyes swiftly trace down and back up your entire form. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d have missed it.

“No. Good night.” Swiftly, he turns and leaves, the door to your room closing softly behind him. How odd. 

The next week is spent assisting the fourth Espada with research of the hogyoku. There isn’t much to be gathered besides what Lord Aizen already knows, and each night you wonder exactly what has Ulquiorra wound so tightly. Yes, his mind still lingers on whatever it is he confronted you about that night. Unfortunately, an answer does not come to you, but instead a new series of questions is given to you when you’re visited once again in your quarters. You feel him approaching long before he arrives, that spiritual pressure is unmistakable. But why is he here?

You’re down on your knees before the door swings open, head bowed down, not from the pressure but out of respect for the man. Lord Aizen steps over the threshold, his footsteps heavy and booming, into the small space of your room. You’ve only ever seen him across a hall or room during a meeting of some kind, and he’s never ever addressed you directly. Any and all orders came through Master Ulquiorra, even if they were from Lord Aizen himself.

“So respectful. Ulquiorra has trained you well, fracción. Stand.” You waste no time, standing at full height and keeping your eyes focused on the ground. Making eye contact could be fatal. You have to tense every muscle in your body to keep from flinching when a large hand reaches out toward your face, and you stop breathing when he grabs your chin and begins to turn your head this way and that. He’s…examining you. Releasing your face, he begins a slow, steady pace circling around you as you stand perfectly still. You don’t know what this is about, but you don’t dare ask, his piercing gaze is more than enough warning not to speak at all, let alone move.

“Very interesting.” It takes all of your resolve not to scream and protest when you feel two large hands, suddenly and harshly, grasp your waist and tug your back against his chest. His chin hooks over your shoulder and his voice is too close, too deep, too dark.

“What a darling fracción. Tell me, why is Ulquiorra so distracted lately? One of my most loyal Espada has been faltering lately.” He’s been faltering? Oh no, what could have him so worked up?

“My sincerest apologies, Lord Aizen. I have not been able to discern his troubles. He has hidden all of his mind from me lately. I have failed as his fracción.” You know you’ve failed. If his mind is so distracted that Lord Aizen has noticed a difference in his performance, then you have failed to be of assistance. You were created for it, and yet you have failed. The ultimate failure.

“Oh, don’t be so down, little fracción. You have not failed, yet.” Yet? What does he mean by that? He releases you from his hold in favor of meeting you face to face, grasping your chin once again and forcing your eyes to meet his own. It’s a terrifying thing, those eyes are pure bloodlust.

“If Ulquiorra were to have you kill yourself for any reason, would you do it?”

“Yes.” You didn’t even have to think about the answer. Undeniably, you would. No matter the order, you’d follow through. If Ulquiorra ordered you to kill Lord Aizen himself, you would kill him or die trying.

“Very good, fracción. Such unwavering loyalty is not so common.” Maybe not, but fraccións are created for the sole purpose of mindless loyalty and obedience. It should not be a surprise that you are this way. Though something deep in your psyche tells you loyalty is not the only quality you hold for your master.

Another layer of spiritual pressure falls on the room, but you are unable to look over Lord Aizen’s wide shoulders with your face stuck in his grip. Regardless, you know who has joined you.

“Ulquiorra, I was wondering when you’d arrive.” The Espada’s footsteps halt behind the former shinigami.

“Lord Aizen.” Nothing more than an acknowledgement, but all of the questions you know he wants to ask remain unspoken when dark brown meets deep emerald, their sharp gazes piercing each other. The tension is palpable, for reasons you cannot calculate. Never would you have thought Ulquiorra could level such a glare at the man he’s sworn his loyalty. Your chin is finally released, and a boom resonates through the small chamber, the white fabric on Ulquiorra’s back suddenly filling your gaze as Lord Aizen turns back to face you both. A sonido? Here? Now? In front of Lord Aizen? What is going on with Master Ulquiorra? The thick silence is suffocating, the air itself seems to be vibrating with clashing spiritual pressures and tension. You’re having a hard time breathing, your body feeling heavier the longer the silence stretches. It feels like an eternity passes and you fall to your knees, but you know it can’t have been more than a split second. As quickly as it built, the tension dissipates as you sit there on your knees, panting and sweating in the aftermath.

“Tend to your fracción, Ulquiorra, the way we both know you want to. She may not be privy to your thoughts but I can read you like a book.” Lord Aizen’s smirk is measured carefully, and he’s gone in an instant. You don’t dare move until that spiritual pressure is gone completely, and even then you’re struggling to recuperate. Tenderly, lithe fingers brush away whatever hair had fallen in your face, emerald gaze searching your face as you peer up at him. Searching for what, you don’t know. 

“Stand.” You do as asked, wobbling for a moment while your strength returns. Strong hands, one on your shoulder and one on your waist, steady you. It’s strange, he’s never actually touched you before. Not like this. You don’t know what to do about the sudden feeling in your chest, warmth and contentment spreading like a wildfire to your mind. Even more so you’re left unsure about your newfound feelings, when instead of giving a command he chooses to lift you in his arms. The boom of a sonido is so much different when you’re moving the distance, but not of your own volition. The door to Master Ulquiorra’s quarters is thrown open and you’re unceremoniously tossed onto the large bed.

“Master Ulquiorra?” You can’t help your confusion. The past fifteen minutes have been a whirlwind of unnatural occurrences. His movements are almost frantic as he strides over to the door and seals it shut, locking it from the inside and training those eyes right on you. It’s a predatory glare he pins you with, the viridian swirling with something dark and sultry and filled with an insatiable lust. It makes your carefully crafted mask of indifference crack and splinter, eyes widening as your body curls into itself. You aren’t afraid, not of him. But something in his eyes just screams danger, and you can’t help the blistering heat coiling in the pit of your stomach nor the involuntary squeeze of your thighs. It doesn’t go unnoticed. Before anything else, a tension settles over the room much like earlier.

“What was Lord Aizen’s business with you?” What a strange question.

“He asked if I knew why you were lacking in your duties lately. I couldn’t answer.” His chest rises and falls heavily, a muscle in his jaw tensing momentarily.

“Was that all?” You shook your head, not at all inclined to keep anything from Ulquiorra. 

“He asked if I’d kill myself at your order.” He went eerily still, every muscle in his body tensed and ready like a coiled snake.

“And your answer?”

“Without question. I would do anything you asked of me, Master Ulquiorra.” The glare he levels you with is primal, carnal desire. There’s no question about it, his entire being is consumed by lust. In the time it takes you to blink, he’s got you pinned to the bed with a hand wrapped tight around your neck, his lips claiming yours in a display of barely controlled dominance that has your entire body trembling. Teeth grab at every piece of skin he can reach. Blooming bites and bruises form along your jaw and neck, carefully skirting around the hollow in your own chest, his fingers squeezing around your throat in increments sending your vision blurry. Your clothes are shredded off your body and you’re left completely exposed for the arrancar keeping you pinned to his bed. Pain shoots through you, jolting your body, the sensation of teeth burying into your shoulder and it’s all you can do to bite your lip to stay quiet. The hand on your throat squeezes, Ulquiorra’s voice rattling your brain.

“I want to hear you. Not a single noise you make will be stifled.” It’s a proclamation, a statement of fact, rather than a request or demand. The next bite is accompanied by a sharp pinch, your nipple peaked between his index finger and thumb as he tugs at it, your voice coming out in a yelp and slowly melding into a low moan while he toys with your breasts. 

“Beautiful.” That single word sends shivers down your spine. There isn’t a single moment you can remember being praised in any way, and your head is spinning from it. His mouth continues its assault on your skin, following the curve of your shoulder and down your breasts. You can see the bite marks scattered over your chest, it lights a fire beneath your skin you can’t quite describe. He takes his time marking you, one hand ghosting over you and the other remaining planted on your neck, his lips mapping your body. You’re trembling from the attention he’s lavishing you with, you know he can feel the way your body shakes from all the stimulation. When his wandering hand finally reaches between your thighs, you’re shy knowing how messy you’ve become. His fingers are toying with the folds of your pussy, teasing around the entrance and barely ghosting over your swollen clit, his lips still sucking and biting and marking. He’s claiming you, completely dominating your being and making you his. 

He’s squeezing your throat in longer stents now, giving you short spaces to breathe between the dizzying cut off of your air supply. He can see the effect it’s having on you, your legs weaker as they try to close around his hand toying with your cunt, tears falling down your cheeks, your eyelids fluttering shut the longer he keeps your breathing controlled. And your pretty pussy is leaking so much more now, dripping onto his sheets and soaking his fingers. His emerald gaze stares up at you when you reach up and grasp at his arm, weakly clawing at him for a breath. He loves seeing you like this, completely reliant on him, even to do something as simple and basic and breathing.

The edges of your vision spot black and you’re shaking harder the closer you get to unconsciousness. You can’t fight it much longer, as much as you want to. Your eyes roll back into your skull as two long fingers plunge into your pussy and you’re granted air once again, the gasping breaths you take making your head spin and the fingers buried deep inside you curl up to hit a spot that makes your back arch up off the bed. It’s euphoric. You’re shaking hard, your legs clamped around Ulquiorra’s hand as something snaps in your abdomen, sending you head first into a freefall of blinding pleasure. Your guttural moans bounce off the walls after being ripped from your lungs, a sinful melody in the arrancar’s ears. When you can finally focus again Ulquiorra is standing above you in all his naked glory, clothing tossed into a random corner. He’s a beautiful man, pale skin flawless and smooth, and you can’t help the way your eyes trace down his toned body to lock onto his hard leaking cock as it stands proud.

“Get on your knees. Turn around and present yourself to me.” The command is clear, the dominant cadence of his voice making you tremble as you obey your master. Dropping your chest to the bed, you spread your knees and grip the sheets tight between your fingers, exposing your ass and cunt to the lust crazed Espada. Shivers wrack your body from the groan he lets slip past his lips, you yelp and jolt when a sharp slap lands on your bare pussy. 

“Look at you. So obedient, so submissive. Such a pretty, slutty little fracción for me.” A moan is punched from you at the praise, and your cunt clenches down around nothing. One hand smooths over one of your ass cheeks and slides up your back, reaching all the way to the back of your neck and keeping steady pressure, pinning you in place. Again you clench around nothing as Ulquiorra teases the tip of his cock at your entrance, never delving further, bumping your clit and making you jump with every pass. You know better than to speak out of turn, but you can’t take it anymore.

“P-please…” Everything halts, even your breathing stops at the realization of what you'd just done. A heavy hand slaps your ass, leaving a blooming red mark in its wake, your whole body jerking at the contact and a moan tearing from your throat. Another slap lands in the same place, harder this time, and another. They keep coming until your moans are sounding more like screams, but Ulquiorra knows better, the gush of your cute pussy giving away just how much you’re enjoying yourself. Mercifully, he rubs at the raw skin in soothing circles.

“A fitting punishment, don’t you think? For speaking unprompted,” you nod as much as you can still pinned beneath him, tears staining your cheeks and the bedsheets.

“Y-yes, Master Ulquiorra.” You can’t see it, but you can hear the devious grin in his voice. If only you had the pleasure of witnessing such an expression.

“Good girl, you’re learning.” Your loud moan is swallowed by the sheets.

“Oh? You like the praise, sweet thing?” It’s formed as a question, but it feels like he’s taunting you, like it’s something shameful to enjoy. You can’t bring yourself to answer, embarrassed to be so affected by his praise. His hand comes down again on your still painful ass.

“I asked you a question. I expect an answer.” Between small hiccups and sniffles, you squeak out a response.

“Yes! I love hearing your praise, Master.” Satisfied, he chuckles, deep and dark and dangerous. He doesn’t bother speaking anymore, focused solely on dragging out your torturous pleasure as long as he can endure. His fingers are shoved into your pussy, ripping a groan out of you and he sets a punishing pace, pumping and curling and spreading to prepare you to take his sizable cock. You can feel that sensation again, tightening in the depths of your belly, feel your legs begin to shake like before, whines and moans spilling into the room. But just before that tension snaps, you’re left empty. You could cry, being denied that release. Ulquiorra just laughs again before rubbing tight, quick circles into your clit to build up the tension again. You desperately want to beg him to let you cum, want to sing his praises in hopes that he’ll pull you over that blissful release, but you know you can’t. Your chest is heaving, entire body shaking as he builds you up to the point of snapping, only to stop just before you’re shoved over the edge again. You cry, sob as another orgasm is stolen away from you. Your body is shaking so hard he doesn’t even have to move his fingers to rub at your clit, just hold them while you tremble and let you work yourself to that peak again and again. Then he stills completely, listening to your pathetic sniveling at being denied so much pleasure.

“Go ahead. Beg.”

“Please! Please Master Ulquiorra make me cum! I want to feel it so bad, I need it. I can’t take any more, please make me cum!” You can hear his evil chuckle, he’s adoring this. In one fluid motion he buries his aching cock all the way to the hilt, your scream is punched from your lungs and your vision blanks, his heavy balls slap against your clit as he slams into you with his full weight. You can’t hear anything as you cum hard, feeling liquid gush from your cunt and drip down your legs, squirting all over Ulquiorra’s thighs. He doesn’t stop, leaning over you and pounding into you until he feels his own orgasm quickly approaching. Shaking is all you can do, pinned down and at the mercy of your master as he empties into you, hot ropes of thick cum filling you to the brim as he finally stills. 

You’re both sucking in heavy breaths in the aftershock, slowly he releases your neck and lays the both of you down on your side, cock still plugging your cunt, keeping all his cum inside you. He holds your trembling form close, gently massaging your shoulders, hips, neck and thighs. Every piece of you that he’s sure aches, he tenderly soothes. It takes a long while for you to pick up the shattered pieces of your mind, he can see your eyes regain their focus as he places soft kisses over your shoulder.

“Are you alright?” You blink away some of the daze, nod slowly to answer. The both of you hiss when he slips his soft cock from you, sensitive as ever. He flips you around to face him, tugging your body over his own so you’re laying on top of him. His fingers caress down your back and massage your scalp and neck, further grounding your mind. It’s comfortable, sweet. You don’t want to be anywhere else. Gently, he turns your head to look into your eyes.

“For the last week I have battled with the notion that you were not solely my own fracción and you would be stolen away by another Espada.” A small, lazy smile graces your features. What a silly concept.

“I’m not going anywhere, Master Ulquiorra.” His gaze turns possessive.

“Of course you aren’t, my dear fracción,” his hand grips your chin firmly, eyes piercing your own, “You belong to me, and only me.”

[sorcave]

After spending some time thinking about Peter Pettigrew, I’ve realized there’s a huge disconnect between how he’s portrayed in canon and how the fandom—especially within Marauders fanon—handles him. Let me preface this by saying, I get it. The Marauders era is filled with beloved, tragic characters like Sirius, Remus, and James, who are all charismatic in their own ways. It’s easy to frame Peter as the villain, the weak link in the group, because, well, he is the one who betrays them. But I can’t help feeling like fanon’s interpretation of him has become deeply flawed and even unfair in its simplification of his character.

Peter Pettigrew, as written in the books, is actually a much more complex figure than the rat-betrayer caricature that fanon often makes him out to be. He’s not some mustache-twirling villain, nor is he just a pathetic hanger-on who was lucky to be in the Marauders’ circle. If you really pay attention to the way his character is written, he’s someone who’s constantly underestimated by the people around him, including the very friends he ends up betraying. He’s not powerful in the traditional sense, but his cunning is what allows him to survive the chaos of two wizarding wars. He’s not a mastermind, sure, but he’s resourceful in a way that deserves more recognition than he gets. Canonically, it’s clear that he isn’t just bumbling around until he stumbles into Voldemort’s arms—he’s making calculated choices, and we need to give those choices the weight they deserve.

This brings me to why I think fanon’s insistence on reducing Peter to a one-dimensional villain is so misguided. There's this huge trend in Marauders fandom where Peter is either villainized beyond recognition or, worse, completely written out of the story. He’s often replaced in fanon with a random “better” Marauder, or he’s ignored entirely, as if his betrayal somehow disqualifies him from being part of the story. And here’s the thing: canon compliance isn’t a crime! In fact, canon gives us a far more interesting story. The tragedy of Peter’s betrayal is that he was their friend—he shared their dorm, their secrets, and their history. His actions were not driven by some inherent evil but by fear, survival instincts, and yes, cowardice. It’s a much richer narrative than reducing him to a monster.

In the fandom, there’s often this hyperfocus on moral purity when it comes to the Marauders, especially when it comes to ships and rewriting dynamics. Peter, however, disrupts that neat narrative, so fanon tries to erase him to preserve the integrity of the fan-created relationships. But that oversimplifies everything. Why should we villainize people for sticking to canon when canon is, arguably, what makes the Marauders’ story so compelling in the first place? The fall of the Marauders—this group of young, talented, promising boys—hinges on Peter’s betrayal. You can't just ignore that without losing a fundamental piece of what makes their story so tragic. He’s not a random character you can swap out. He’s the pivot point.

Peter’s character also raises some interesting discussions about how we view heroism and villainy in fandom spaces. For instance, we’re often quick to forgive other characters—Sirius, for all his bravado, is reckless and cruel to people like Snape, but we don’t hold it against him in the same way. We empathize with his trauma, his tragic backstory. So why is it that Peter, who is also a product of his circumstances, is written off? He wasn’t born evil; he was shaped by the same war that shaped all of them, but his path led him to make different choices. There’s something so fascinating about exploring how someone who was once a friend could betray everything. It’s a conversation about human flaws, not just villainy.

And yes, in a world full of Marauders fan content, it’s fine to like your AUs or write your fix-its. But let’s not pretend that sticking to canon, and appreciating Peter for the complex character he is, is somehow less valid. The fandom would benefit from looking at Peter as more than just “the betrayer” and instead as someone who, like everyone else in the story, is a deeply flawed person whose mistakes have devastating consequences. That makes the story richer, more painful, and ultimately, more meaningful.

forgive me for the ramble but Im going insane with my term paper and my thesis, unfortunately I've been diving too deep into the marauders again

[wanderloveshater]

Two smart guys with 80’s tech can only do so much. It took them years to make the portal, one that breaks down everytime it activates.

For Commander Peepers? He can make a portal in a quarter of that time that’s stable.

It wouldn’t break down and would be able to control the excess energy that emits from it.

Peepers is the perfect pawn for Bill. Socially outcast with a crippling insecurity about his height, the desire to be praised and hold power over others, painfully lonely with a brilliant mind- he mirrors Ford in this way. I believe one of the WOY crew members emphasized him being different from the watchdogs.

It’s so easy for Bill; what do we have here? A smart guy who builds evil planet-destroying devices? Handling complex machinery?

He’s got a high IQ- misguided by his adoration for his stupid leader. The need for approval is crippling. So what can we do? Our little song and dance-

Bill’s experience speaks for itself. It would take very little effort, no questioning or anything- kind of boring, really.

Oh and Peepers has just been WAITING for someone to realize his true potential!

It’s all the same with Ford. He wants to feel special. The way Peepers would cling, claw, ride the high of the teensy bit of praise Hater gave him months ago…it makes Bill laugh. Such a sucker. A mathematically talented genius with more weaknesses than anyone can count.

So here we are, Peepers wants power. He wants respect. He wants to be seen. Bill promises Peepers a sense of social validation- to be adored- and eventually feared by his peers, and in extension, the galaxy. In return, Bill wants a portal- instead of spinning it as a “gateway for infinite knowledge of the universe” he can actually be a little more truthful. He’ll tell Peepers it can be used as an unstoppable weapon of destruction, better than what Major Threat had, better than what Lord Dominator had. The Peepers empire- I mean- The Hater empire would conquer the galaxy. Bill can come into this plane and they’ll rule everyone, side by side, Muse by Painter.

It’s a win win! Come on Peepers! Take the deal! When was the last time you played chess with someone that was actually smart enough to compete against you?

Infatuation: We saw how easy it was for Ford to be a Cipherholic. For many others to be. Peepers would unfortunately fall for his flattery. Under the assumption that Peepers is in love with Hater- (idolization if you wish) this prevents him from fully going evil, betraying everyone at once, I think.

But Peepers does get a little tired here and there putting up with Hater’s stupidity. Everyone’s stupidity, actually.

But Bill?

Bill has a lot of knowledge of the universe and intelligence.

Peepers would feel so intellectually stimulated by their conversations- likely about quantum theories, astrophysics, how stupid everyone is. There’s one thing Peepers has going on instead of Ford. Ford isn’t directly malicious or evil (besides the revenge fantasies), but Peepers is. He’d find Bill’s sadistic humor to be funnier than Ford ever did. Bill likes that.

Planting these seeds in Peeper’s brain- like the portal- Peepers would reach worship levels faster than Ford.

“I want to feel tall.”

“I’ll make you feel tall.”

Possession: This one is funny to think about, Bill’s unhinged behavior is exponential. He uses his charisma to gain social approval with the watchdogs and Hater’s favor in Peepers’ body. He probably wouldn’t have to complete all the calculations that Ford needed help with- really the possession is just so Peepers is more likable.

Bill’s feelings: Peepers was the easiest pawn to entrance. Bill finds this rather boring. There’s nothing to sink his teeth into- nothing to tear. Just a hollow puppet. He isn’t weird enough for Bill to enjoy, he seems rather logical and put together. Sure he’s shorter than everyone but was he born with any extra features that makes him an anomaly? But he’s certainly the most efficient puppet, so he’s gotta keep that going.

Peepers would also catch Fiddleford and Ford’s mistakes with the portal’s code.

Sort of like, “Oh haha, whoever did this code is so stupid, have they considered their calculations would blow up the entire room?!”

Bill being Bill, filled with bitterness, would agree in tandem at first. “Haha YEAH my last guy wasn’t up to par!”

Before uh, Peepers gets carried away and Bill’s own complicated feelings about Ford arise.

“Seriously, have you seen this derivative answer?! A traffic cone could have done better-”

“That’s enough”

Ford: I don’t have a set story/timeline for these two in mind, but I would like to imagine Ford’s reaction. Being unable to stop the vicious cycle repeat chokes him. Warning Peepers and all, oh don’t fall for it, he’ll betray you, promise you a galaxy, yadda yadda…

But Peepers only hears that last part.

“My own galaxy…?”

“Yes, he’ll make you ‘one of them’ and promise ultimate power with no law or restrictions- everything you could dream of- but DO NOT fall for it!”

Peepers falls for it. Or rather embarasses himself- Bill does not care for Peepers in this way. He’d never offer this unless it was for gain, so what does Peepers do? Throw himself to Bill and the Henchmaniacs- pleading to be a part of them. All that results from that is being laughed out of the room. Doesn’t help that he's the shortest.

Peepers doesn’t fit in with the watchdogs, or even the crazy weirdos/freaks.

He is truly alone.

[bridenore]

HD fic recs : Curses (part 1)

Here are a few recs dealing heavily with curses. This is part one of three and focuses on shorter fics (up to 30k). Listed in alphabetical order, as always.

Any Kind of Life by jeni_andtheafterthought [7k]

Despite being caught on opposite sides of a war, Harry and Draco find love. They promise to come back to each other once the war is over. However, no one is unchanged by war, and there are some things you can’t come back from. Draco was told to let Harry go, to leave his love behind and move on. He is told that Harry has changed. Draco doesn’t care how different Harry has become. A promise is a promise.

Close To Ever After by  oldenuf2nb / @dianacopland [15k]

When Harry Potter finds he’s been cursed, he withdraws from the world and prepares to die. But when have things ever gone the way Harry Potter planned?

Coming to Terms  by RurouniHime [16k]

Of all the lives in all the world, Harry had to own this one.

The Grotto by Libby Drew / Sansa / erin myecourt [23k]

Three years after Draco’s war crimes trial, the Wizengamot finally decides on his community sentence: help rebuild a village that was destroyed in the war. It sounds simple enough. Until Draco begins to unravel the mystery behind the assignment. 

If It Takes All Night by @tackytigerfic [10k]

It’s not the first time Harry’s been the victim of a botched curse (that’s one of the reasons he doesn’t like crowds), but he feels bad that Malfoy had to get caught up in it too. So they’re bonded. That’s ok, they just have to make sure to be touching at all time. No problem. Because Malfoy smells so nice, and has such lovely shiny hair, and his skin is so very warm. But this isn’t going to be a problem for their friendship at all. Is it, Harry?

In Pursuit of Lost Marbles by Theartfulldodger [22k]

Every night after work, Healer Malfoy follows the same routine, beginning with a familiar flight of stairs that leads to the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo’s. With an air of professionalism, he introduces himself to Harry, his husband of seven years, when a memory curse makes Harry look at him like a stranger. He tries not to flinch when Harry calls him sir, but he smiles when bits of the old Harry emerge. Eventually, Draco leads Harry to the Pensieve where he shows him pieces of the life they’ve built together, what Harry will come home to, one day, when this is all over. Then, Draco waits. He waits, and he hopes.

Landslide by Libby Drew / Sansa / erin myecourt [ 24k]

Harry Potter disappears, taking a sick Teddy Lupin with him. While everyone searches for their missing hero, Draco’s life continues as it always has. Rumors of curses and kidnapping don’t interest him. As Hogwarts’ guardian, he has only one concern: the strange, miraculous events occurring on the cliffs outside the castle walls.

The Lip-Lock Jinx  by cassisluna [20k]

It’s a jinx that renders the victim mute, unless he/she serves the purpose of the jinx and kisses the person that they desire. It’s just Harry’s luck that he’s in love with Draco.

Lubido Mendax by @malenkayacherepakha [17k]

When Harry is hit by an old and alarming sex curse while on a job with Malfoy, he’s faced with an agonising decision. But it turns out that curing the curse was easy compared to everything that came next.

Normal Is the Watchword by lamerezouille [29k]

This story is about love and family and yes, maybe it’s not supposed to be about Jamie exactly, but Draco and Harry are very stubborn and Jamie’s just a kid, you can’t expect him to completely extract himself from a story he’s actually living, right?

Out of Sight, Out of Mind by Winterwolke [7k]

“Grey eyes snap up to him, but they’re not as sharp and calculating as Harry remembers. There’s pain there, making them dull and glazed over. It makes him ache in return, somewhere in a corner of his heart that he wants to rip out immediately after he registers it. It feels wrong to have this reaction to Draco Malfoy, but Harry can’t help it. The house is seriously messing with his mind.” Trapped inside a strange house with no memories of his life past eighth year, Harry struggles with what he doesn’t remember and the only person he can find: Draco Malfoy.

Something Always (Brings Me Back To You) by @kedavranox [9k]

The Centre for Magical Theory and Complex Spell Classifications keeps fucking with Harry’s dig sites, and he’s pretty sure Malfoy has ulterior motives.

A Tail as Old as Time by pervyunitwins [18k]

A tale as old as time. Only not really because Harry’s a werewolf who has run away from home and Draco is trapped in the manor and talks to inanimate objects. But somehow it works. 

Talk to Me by Saras_Girl [15k]

When the usual channels of communication are shut down, the most surprising people can find a way in. A strange little love story.

That which hurts (and is desired) by @shealwaysreads / onereader [19k]

Draco was lying still, and pale, on a bed in a private room in St Mungo’s. The sheets were white, clean, enchanted against stains, vanishing the blood that kept spilling out of him. He hadn’t moved in two days. Not a twitch of his elegant fingers. Not a blink of his fierce eyes. Harry couldn’t even see the faint flutter of his pulse in his throat from where he stood at the foot of the bed, helpless, impotent, furious. There is nothing Harry wouldn’t do for the people he cares about. As it turns out, that might bring him everything he’s ever wanted.

Truffles, Noble Lord of the Sky by megyal [10k]

Fuck fairies; and Longbottom, too.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

[spaceman-earthgirl]

you next to me (is where you should be)

Killing witches is almost becoming too easy, Agatha thinks as she looks at the lifeless body at her feet. Sure, it takes time and effort and some sweet talking and tale-spinning to get them to come to the woods with her alone, but it always works.

The most recent one hadn’t taken long at all, young and naïve and perfect for Agatha to kill.

She’d feel bad, but the power coursing through her veins feels too good.

She’s looking down, evaluating the best way to hide the body when a branch cracks nearby, and Agatha looks up, startled to find she’s not alone.

There’s a woman standing there, half hidden in the shadows of the trees, watching her.

This definitely isn’t the first time she’s been found standing over a dead body, and it probably won’t be the last.

“You have to help me,” Agatha says, switching to the helpless persona she’s used before. No one ever suspects her. “I was just walking and I found this poor girl lying here. What do you think happened? She looks dreadful. Should we take her into the village? I’m sure her family must be worried sick.”

The woman says nothing, just tilts her head as she continues to watch. She almost looks amused and it sets alarm bells off in Agatha’s mind. There’s usually panic at this point, especially when someone sees the dead body.

“You can drop the act,” the woman smiles, taking a step forward, bringing her into the light. She’s pretty, Agatha notes, but now is not the time for that. “I know it was you.”

“Who? Me?” Agatha asks innocently.

The woman keeps staring, clearly not buying it.

She calculates her next move. This woman doesn’t seem scared at all. Clearly, she doesn’t know who she’s talking to. 

“Fine,” Agatha huffs. “So what if I did it?” Agatha asks. If she plays this right, she might get to kill another witch today.

“No judgment,” the woman says, holding up her hands. “I actually just wanted to say thank you. I’ve been following you for a while and I’m impressed.”

Agatha is becoming more intrigued by the moment. She must be good if Agatha hasn’t seen her until now. She can sense her power, and Agatha wants it. But she can tell provoking a reaction isn’t going to get her anywhere. This woman hasn’t shown up to fight, but that’s not going to stop Agatha.

Agatha feels the power crackling at her fingertips as she lifts her hands. She’s going to enjoy this.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the woman says, and still, there’s no fear. She just seems amused.

Agatha is really going to enjoy this.

Maybe this is what she needs. A challenge.

Agatha’s first shot hits the tree beside the woman’s head, splintering bark that sprays across the woman’s face.

She barely reacts, and Agatha is becoming more impressed by the minute.

It’s a bit of a shame she has to kill her.

The woman does move with Agatha’s second shot, diving out of the way.

She’s back on her feet in a flash. “Well, that wasn’t very nice, was it?”

The words are barely out of the woman’s mouth when out of nowhere, a branch hits Agatha square in the stomach, causing her to stumble backwards, winded.

Agatha gasps for breath as she gets back to her feet. She’s barely upright when a vine appears, whipping at her feet, tripping her again.

Agatha huffs out a breath. She’s getting mad now as she pushes herself back to her feet, but she also hasn’t had this much fun in a while.

More purple sparks fly and this time, Agatha does hit her, square in the stomach, flinging the woman backwards.

Agatha expects fear from the other woman as she returns to her feet.

But the woman laughs.

She laughs.

Clearly Agatha isn’t the only one enjoying this.

“Who are you?” Agatha asks, belatedly realising she should have asked this sooner. It usually doesn’t matter, you don’t need to know a name to kill someone.

The woman holds up her hands. “If you agree to a truce, I’ll tell you.”

Agatha isn’t usually one to give up on a fight but this woman is powerful, maybe too powerful. And Agatha still can’t help but be intrigued by the beautiful woman, who’s appeared out of nowhere, and clearly has more power than anyone Agatha has ever met.

Maybe she’ll have to play the long game with this one.

read the rest on ao3 or under the cut

“Okay,” Agatha says after a long moment. “A truce.”

The woman walks towards her, Agatha still on guard in case this is a trick of some sort. But the woman just holds out her hand.

“Rio Vidal,” she says, offering the hand to Agatha.

Up close, the woman is even more striking.

She’s dressed in green, the colour complimenting her dark eyes. She has this easy confidence about her that draws Agatha in.

“Agatha Harkness,” Agatha says, accepting the hand.

Rio’s hand is soft but firm. It’s warm and comforting in a way Agatha hasn’t felt in a long time.

“It’s nice to meet you, Agatha,” Rio smiles, and it really sounds like she means it.

“Who are you?” Agatha asks again, because the name isn’t familiar but there is something familiar about this woman now that she’s close. It’s like she’s seen her before but she can’t quite place it.

There’s this feeling, deep in her chest, that she should know her.

Rio smirks. “Do you really want to know?”

Rio is still holding her hand, Rio’s thumb soothing against the back of Agatha’s hand and Agatha tugs her hand back. She’s here to find out who this woman is so she can kill her, not be seduced by her.

Though, being seduced by her doesn’t sound so terrible either. 

Agatha nods.

Rio’s face changes, a skull replacing the bottom half and Agatha thinks she should probably be scared, but she’s not, as she watches, mesmerized.

“I think you know,” Rio says, voice deeper than before.

“Death.”

Agatha breathes the name, watching as Rio’s face shifts back to what it was before.

“Are you scared?”

“No,” Agatha says, and it’s true. She’s not sure how she knows, but she knows death isn’t here for her. Not yet anyway.

Rio smiles. “I knew I was right about you.” At Agatha’s confused look, Rio continues. “I told you, I’ve been watching you for a while. You’re good for business.”

“There’ll be more of that,” Agatha says, nodding to the dead body nearby. “Don’t you worry.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Rio gives her a nod. “I better get back to work. Until next time, Agatha Harkness.”

---

Agatha was definitely going to kill this witch anyway, but she can’t help but wonder if Rio will appear again this time.

It’s been two weeks since their first meeting and Rio has been on Agatha’s mind more often than she’d like to admit.

If asked, she’d say it’s simply because she wants Rio’s powers, that she’s thinking about how she can obtain them. And sure, that’s crossed her mind a couple of times.

But mostly, she’s been thinking about how pretty Rio’s eyes were, how soft her hands were, and just how much fun it had been fighting with her.

As soon as the witch is dead at her feet, Rio appears.

“You took your time with this one,” Rio comments by way of greeting.

“She had a protective family who was always around, it took a little trust building to get her alone.”

Agatha watches as Rio crouches beside the body.

She says something before she stands, turning her attention back towards Agatha.

“Can other people see you?” Agatha asks. She knows Rio must have been there before, when she’d killed others, but she’d never seen her.

“Yes,” Rio says. “But only if I want them to.”

“Does that make me special?” Agatha asks sarcastically, hand to her chest. “I’m touched.”

Rio doesn’t answer, but the look in Rio’s eyes says that maybe that’s close to the truth.

It throws Agatha off balance for a moment.

Why on earth would Death be interested in her?

“Death follows you and I follow death,” Rio says eventually, leaving Agatha slightly disappointed.

Maybe she read it wrong, maybe she’s not so special after all.

She reminds herself she doesn’t care what Rio thinks, it’s her power she’s after.

(Even she knows that’s not true. It’s only the second time they’ve met and Agatha already wants to see her again).

---

There are two witches this time, Agatha is getting good at this. People are so gullible, but the best part about killing now (besides the power) is Rio showing up.

She does so, without fail, every time Agatha kills someone now.

Maybe she should have killed these two separately, just so she could see Rio again.

Agatha knows this is getting a little out of hand, because what good could ever come of her liking Death, but she’s in it now, there’s no backing out.

Agatha’s digging through one of her victims' cloaks when a voice startles her.

She looks up and Rio is leaning against a tree, watching her.

“You’ve been busy.”

“What can I say?” Agatha says, pocketing the gold she found as she stands. “What's life without a little fun?”

Rio quirks an eyebrow and Agatha’s traitorous cheeks heat.

“Fun, you say?”

Agatha can’t help but wonder what Death is getting out of this. Sure, there’s the bodies but there’s no need for this, no need for Rio to talk to Agatha at all. She's just here for the dead.

But here Rio is, making suggestive jokes and looking at her in a way that no one has looked at Agatha before.

“Yeah, this-”

There’s a snap of a tree branch nearby and Agatha freezes. Before she can decide whether to hide or if she’s going to get to kill a few more people today, Rio is making the decision for her.

Rio tugs on her arm, pulling her behind a nearby tree. Rio crowds into her space, Agatha pressed with her back to the tree, Rio at her front, making themselves as small as possible as they hide, Rio’s finger to her lips so Agatha won’t make a noise.

“Mary! Anne!” Someone calls out, followed by more rustling of leaves. “Where are you?”

The noises get close, and Agatha strains to hear, trying to figure out just how close, but they change direction before they come too near, drifting in the opposite direction. Agatha better hide the bodies before they’re found.

It’s only once she’s stopped focusing on her surroundings that she’s brought back to exactly where she is, the finger against her lips, the body pressed closely against her own.

“I think they’re gone,” Agatha says, though she’s quite content to stay exactly where she is.

Rio drops her hand, but stays close, her body hot against Agatha’s. “I think so too.”

Rio’s eyes dart down, Agatha not missing the way Rio’s eyes linger on her mouth.

Agatha reaches up, tucks Rio’s loose hair behind her ear.

“How many humans have you done this with?” Agatha asks, eyes on Rio’s mouth too. It won’t change what she knows is about to happen between them, but it doesn’t mean Agatha isn’t curious.

“None.”

The response gets Agatha’s attention, eyes darting up. They’re so close that Agatha can see the truth in Rio’s eyes as she meets her gaze.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re like no one I’ve ever met before.”

Rio leans forward, her eyes slipping closed, but before they can kiss, Agatha takes Rio’s shoulders and spins them, Rio’s back now to the tree, Agatha crowding into her space.

Rio’s eyes are dark with want now and it only makes Agatha want this more. She leans forwards, and when their lips meet, Agatha feels like she’s on fire.

For weeks, she’s thought about how a kiss between them might go, but in all her dreams, she never imagined it would be quite this good.

Rio’s hands grip her waist, holding her close in a kiss that’s so mind melting that Agatha is glad she has Rio to lean into for support because her knees go weak.

Agatha’s mouth leaves Rio’s, kissing along her jaw, and when Rio tilts her head, exposing her neck, Agatha knows she’s never going to be the same again.

“Wait.”

A hand on Agatha’s cheek stops her, disappointment joining the rest of the emotions currently coursing through Agatha’s body.

“What?”

“I have to go.”

Agatha presses closer, bracketing her in place.

“Now?”

“Duty calls.”

Very, very reluctantly Agatha releases her hold on Rio.

The air feels cool as Rio steps away. Agatha’s already plotting her next murder, to see Rio again.

“I knew you’d be fun,” Rio smirks, the look making it very hard for Agatha not to just grab Rio and kiss her again. Agatha isn’t known for her self control but she resists this time.

Barely.

Apparently Rio is having the same internal struggle because she steps forwards, pressing another quick kiss to Agatha’s lips.

“I’ll see you around.”

Rio is gone before Agatha can respond.

—

The next time Rio appears, there’s been three dead bodies since Agatha has last seen her. She’d been beginning to think she’d made her up.

There’s a flower in Rio’s hand but no dead witch in the vicinity. Agatha’s last kill had been three days ago and she’d been unreasonably sad when Rio didn’t show up.

“What are you doing here?”

Rio offers her the flower. “I was just thinking about you.”

Agatha debates a moment before she takes the flower. “I wasn’t sure if I'd ever see you again.” 

“I’m sorry.” Rio reaches out, twisting their fingers together. “I’ve been busy.”

Agatha might be a little mad that she hasn’t seen Rio for a few weeks, especially after that kiss, but she melts a little at the touch.

Rio takes their joined hands, lifts them to press a kiss to the back of Agatha’s hand.

Who knew Death could be so gentle?

Agatha is excited to find out more about her.

“Now,” Rio says, stepping into Agatha’s space. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think we left off somewhere about here?”

Agatha’s not going to let her kiss her just yet, she’s going to have to work a little harder than that after being away for so long. But not too hard, because Agatha definitely wants to kiss her too.

“Is that really all you think about?” Agatha says, staying just out of reach.

“I’ve thought about nothing but you for weeks.”

Agatha rolls her eyes at the line but she can’t help but smile.

“So, can I kiss you now?” Rio asks.

“Will you promise not to disappear again this time?” Agatha asks.

“I can’t promise work won’t take me away, but I can promise I’ll always come back.”

As lines go, that’s a pretty good one too.

Agatha bites her lip, drawing the attention of Rio’s eyes.

“Okay, you can-”

Agatha can’t even get the full sentence out before Rio is kissing her. Agatha laughs into the kiss but then Rio cups her cheeks and everything else except for the woman in front of her is forgotten.

She's pretty sure life is about to get a lot more interesting with Rio in it.

[witchthewriter]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐝 𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!  

Warnings: mentions of characters’ trauma, minor spoilers??? I’ll try and keep them limited

a/n: I’ll try to stay as spoiler free as possible! I loved season 2, some bits were a kinda touch and go, but overall I think they made it really interesting. Also I’m not including Wylan, sorry! I love him but ... I just don’t wanna add him...

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ      

𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲: Going along with a plan that Kaz had created, your role was to help the Crows on an extremely difficult heist. But your job somehow ended up being linked with your crush; the very crow that makes your heart flutter. Your persona is their new wife/husband, who has a “rich father”. Meaning that you have to stay in a nearby hotel as a couple on their honeymoon. 

𝐊𝐚𝐳

・His faked joyful smile dropped once the bellboy left the room

・Watching him, you saw his calculated movements - the way he rested his cane against the desk, and took two steps to sit down on the bed

・His gloves stayed on as he said, “I’m sorry there’s one bed. Too suspicious otherwise.” Kaz’s tone was even, but it hitched on the word ‘suspicious’. 

・You knew Kaz hated physical contact, hells, he hated when someone stood too close 

・In that moment, you didn’t know how to respond, surely Kaz, Bastard of the Barrel, wasn’t going to sleep on the floor. The absence of a couch was obvious, and you knew he had to sleep somewhere comfortable because of his leg 

  “Kaz, I can take the floor. I know physical contact isn’t an easy thing for yo-” 

    “No, I’m fine.” He cut you off, a sharp look in his eye. You could see that his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere dark. 

・The night was awkward to start off with, like two magnets being pulled and pushed apart

・But then you asked about the plan - getting all the details. Well, what you thought were all the details. 

・He loosened up when he was able to talk about logical subjects

・Once you realised that, the atmosphere started to ease and you could see Kaz start to relax ... (his version of relaxing)

・With each hour a piece of Kaz’s clothing was taken off. His jacket, his shoes. As if he was slowly getting ready for bed. 

・There was always something heavy in the air though, like something was unspoken. It hung like grey clouds, ready to let rain fall

・But time ticked by, and eyes began to feel heavy

・At first you both laid down and kept a pillow between you, but then there was hardly any room to move. 

・So you came up with the idea that you could sleep the other way. Instead of your heads at the top of the bed, they now rested on the sides. It meant your feet were dangling off the side, but it gave you and Kaz a lot of room. 

   “Do not tell anyone about this.”

“Kaz...you know I wouldn’t.”

・His voice was low when he said: “I know.”

・In the morning, when you awoke, Kaz was already awake. Already planning. 

    “I got you some breakfast.” 

  𝐈𝐧𝐞𝐣

・It was you who said you would sleep elsewhere. 

・You were so close to falling in love with Inej, and she had no clue. The sore joke was that she felt the exact same. And neither of you thought the other even cared. 

   “It would be too obvious if we weren’t sleeping in the same bed. I have a feeling they’re already suspicious of something.”

・Even if that wasn’t the truth, you didn’t care. When was an opportunity like this going to arise? 

・Kaz didn’t need either of you tonight, so you were both able to unwind. But past experiences meant neither of you could fully do so unless you were in your trusted homes. 

・The room was quite spacious; painted white and pale blue, it felt completely different to hotels in Ketterdam (which were dark, dingy and usually had a weird smell.)

・This one had a balcony that overlooked the famous lake that ran through the clean city

・The bathroom matched the colours of the rest of the room, with a rectangular window that let in the morning light but was high enough that no one would be able to see in. 

・It was a gorgeous room; airy, light and inviting. Exacly what you thought a summer holiday would be

    “Nina would absolutely love this,” you called from the lounging room. Where stacks of books, games and other various entertaining devices lay. 

“I almost feel bad...” Inej trailed off, appearing right behind you (scaring the sh*t out of you).

・There was a wordless conversation between the two of you, where you hinted at sleeping on the lounge. But Inej shook her head. 

・Too suspicious. What if they walk in?

・You were glad she was okay with it

・And when the night was late, and you couldn’t stop yawning, Inej laughed and motioned toward the bed

    “You don’t snore do you?” You asked, with a wry grin. You knew the Wraith didn’t snore. She barely made a sound during her waking hours.  

      “Of course I do-” she replied, catching onto the irony

・When you were in bed, Inej faced outward, but for some reason you decided to grasp onto this opportunity 

    “Inej, why are you a Crow?” 

・From then on you kept talking. Face to face, her brown eyes capturing yours. 

・You both spoke low, as if someone was trying to hear

・Neither of you wanted to stop talking, or to stop asking the next question. Like either of your lives depended on it, you kept trying to know more. 

・It wasn’t until Inej stifled a large yawn that you both decided sleep was needed

・And the next morning, you found yourself in the same position - facing Inej, and she hadn’t moved either. But your hands must have drifted in the night, because they had clasped together

  𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐚𝐬

・Ever the gentleman, he gestures for you to have the bed. And without a couch in the room, he offers to sleep on the floor - far away from you to be as respectful as possible. 

   “Don’t be stupid,” you retort, flinging yourself on the bed. You pat the space next to you and he blushes. Deeply. 

・The giant of a man moved the bags out of the way and flared his nostrils

       “Have we not established a relationship based on trust, dear Helvar?” 

・He rolled his eyes at you. An occurance that happened all too often. 

・But you knew him. More than he thought you did, however, you were always still blown away by his gentle ways. There wasn’t a time when he didn’t open a door for you, or helped you up or down from high places. But his kindness didn’t stop there

・He always stood in front of you whenever there was danger. 

・And made sure you were never left alone in dangerous situations. 

・If someone tried anything with you, Matthias was there to step in. 

・Jesper started calling him your bodyguard

・And although all these things happen, you still didn’t think Matthias was attracted to you. 

・You were never the traditional beauty. So you didn’t think someone like Matthias, who was this godlike man, would ever be interested in you

・And the fact that you were his pretend wife/husband, created endless flutters in your stomach. A feeling that was foreign, until you met Matthias. 

   “Are you hungry?” Matthias asked, dropping to unzip something from his bag. 

“Oh no no, I’m okay-”

   “I could hear your stomach rumbling from here.” Matthias grinned, and passed you some dried jerky that he bought from a vendor hours before 

・He was always doing things like that. Thinking of you and what you might need...or want. 

・You couldn’t help but blush. Even though you tried to keep up your jaunty attitude, you ... couldn’t

・And when he sat on the end of the bed, nibbling on his piece of jerky, and asking about you, your heart was beaming 

・After an hour, Matthias still hadn’t moved and you realised you had to tell him what was okay. 

   “Move up here,” once again you patted the space next to you. 

・You had wriggled underneath the blanket and watched Matthias take of his shoes and get into bed

・Your heart was in your throat. A thumping, fluttering mess. 

・You started up the conversation, as he turned over to face you

・When your eyes began to droop, and Matthias started mumbling when he spoke, you two fell asleep in the King sized bed. 

・You thought you were the first to wake, but you could hear the change in Matthias’ breathing

・However, you tried not to move as well. His strong arms had moved you onto his chest, and there you lay. Your head exactly where his heart was. 

・At times you could feel him rub your back and those goddamn tingles never left your body

  𝐉𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫

・You already know this cheeky motherf*cker is grinning like a chesire cat

      “I guess even fate wants us together...”

“If by ‘fate’ you mean Kaz, and by ‘wants us together’ you mean doing our job. Then yeah Jesper, that’s exactly what’s happening.” 

・Your exterior was hard, but inside you were melting. Ever since meeting Jesper your insides melted whenever he was near. 

・Inside the room, you turned to put your weapons on the bedside table. Twin daggers, your personalised gun, a small knife you always kept in your boot (you put that one underneath your pillow) and small hatchet that you usually kept on your back. 

    “There’s something quite comedic about this-” Jesper said, with his legs up on the bed, boots gleaming, and his arms around his head. 

  “If you don’t take your goddamn shoes off the bed-” you countered, with a small fury. 

      “Ooh, yes boss,” Jesper complied with a grin. 

・It was a battle, trying to keep that stupid smile off your face. Somehow Jesper was always able to bring it out

・You didn’t have ocd, but you did have problems with outside clothes coming into contact with inside items. Jesper was used to the Ketterdam life, so keeping things clean was always difficult. 

・The room was cosy, and a fire was lit. A steady flame burned while you and Jesper talked about your next actions. 

・But somehow the conversation took a turn and you were talking about yourselves, your backgrounds and lives. 

・Time flew by as you spoke, and soon night turned into day. 

・The once roaring fire had dwindled into ashes and it wasn’t until Jesper yawned that you realised. 

・You were going to shout obscenities but there was a knock at the door

    “Did we just...?”

“Yeah! Sh*t, Fuc-” 

     “Wake up call!” 

  𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐚

・She gave a hearty laugh before looking at you with a sly grin. But her attention was grabbed by the food menu

   “Ooh, I hope they have waffles...”

・Completely unbothered by having to share a bed with you

・Behind her bravado is a heart that has been captured by you. She’s just very good at hiding it. 

・You, on the other hand, are a bit more quiet. Well, anyone is quiet compared to Nina (with the exception of Jesper). 

・So you are a bit hesitant when it comes to showing emotions. Especially since you’re afraid of seeming weird. Growing up, you had heard that word to describe you many times 

   “We don’t have to share a bed, it’s okay if you don’t want to,” Nina says after a heavy silence. Her eyes flick toward you, a half grin appearing on her face. It was almost ... sad? 

・You shake your head, “no no, it’s fine.” Inside you are DYING. Nina?? Sad??? You would burn the world to the ground before you made her sad. 

・Perking up (slightly, as she’s never truly sad), Nina moves through the room, looking at all the objects and items. Scowling at the lack of entertainment. 

   “Really, Kaz could have picked a nicer place...”

・Pulling out a waffle that you had saved from breakfast earlier, you turned around and held it high in the air. 

     “I have saved thy favourite snack. Please take this as a token of my friendship,” you bowed slightly and waited for her reaction. 

・Nina bowed low in response, a large grin on her pale face. 

      “I accept thy token, with immense gratitude.” 

・But the act was quickly forgotten about as she squealed and ran over to you. 

・ “I don’t know how well it’s going to taste...” You mumbled, showing the crumbled waffle. 

・Nevertheless, you were now her favourite person. 

・And the night was one you would always remember

・Like a sleepover with your best friend, you felt like you had known Nina since childhood 

・The next morning, you were the first to wake. 

・Tangled together Nina’s arms were firmly wrapped around you, snuggling her form closer to yours. 

[cum-a-calla]

roman somno ??

Oh, wow.

You look good like this.

Roman comes in late - or is it early? At what point after midnight does night turn into morning? In any case, you’ve fallen asleep sprawled across the bed. It’s almost cute. Just a loose tank top, little shorts that do the very least to hide your figure. He doesn’t turn on the lights, instead shutting the hotel room door with a quiet hush, waiting for the soft beep as it automatically locks you both in. Safe from the outside. You’d left the big, beautiful windows open, opting to turn off every light in the room in favor of the glowing lights of the city. The sky is still dark, hazy with all that glorious, glowing pollution. It’s beautiful. It’s awful. Roman muses on this only briefly, the vision of you dead asleep taking up most of his mental processes.

He rounds the bed and runs a hand through his hair, mussed by sweat, by smoke. Anything that held it in a respectable coif is long worn away by his nervous gestures. He gets nice and close, standing at the side. Close enough to reach you.

Yeah, you’re definitely cute like this - mouth agape, not really snoring but breathing in that deep, even way people do when they’re absolutely knocked out. No one home.

Well… Roman’s home, though, isn’t he?

It had been a really exciting night, and he’s used to this kind of thing - boozing, schmoozing, staying out til ungodly hours to do all the wheeling and dealing bullshit his family has to do. You’d bowed out after suffering most of the night, and Roman had been impressed. Most people - especially underlings, as it were - can’t really hang. But you did your best. He smiles in the dark, enjoying the way it feels to be cloaked in it. Hidden. Unseen, unheard, unknown.

He snaps his fingers once, twice, and nary a twitch from your sleeping form. Not even a pause of breath. You lie absolutely prone. The curve of your ass is visible through the way your shorts have ridden up, the curve of your breast as you lie on your side. Roman unties his tie, unbuttons his shirt until his skin is like moonlight in the soft dark. The belt goes next, the slacks in a pile on the floor that he steps out of. He can’t help it - he reaches down to pet the growing length in his underwear.

He lowers himself to a squat on his fit, slim thighs, sitting on his heels as he peers at you. He tests a stroke against your cheek, pushing a lock of hair away from your face. Nothing. Just warmth, just the serene relaxation of your face. Not looking so stressed or scared, not rolling your eyes, not wrinkling your nose in that adorable way you don’t realize you’re doing when he starts to piss you off. He smiles at himself. He feels increasingly manic about the situation, heart thundering in his chest. He’s got to make a big, calculated risk, something explainable.

He shoves you by the shoulder, effectively rolling you to your back. Your features finally dissolve into a furrowed brow, a little frown before you wriggle a little and turn your head to return back into slumber. Holy fuck - how much had you had to drink? How long did you sleep last night, if at all? Roman waits a moment, ready to blame shaking you on a snore or something. Plausible deniability. He wasn’t stroking his dick through his briefs and testing your depth of unconsciousness - he was shaking you awake from that godawful snore. Roman clings to this idea as he stares at your breasts, tank top already ridden halfway up your torso. What’s a few more inches or so?

It’s too easy to hook his thumbs feather-light under the shirt’s edge and peel it up, up, bunching it above your naked breasts, watching your nipples stiffen in the cool night air. Fuck. Oh, fuck… Roman swallows back a moan before he brings his shaking fingers to them, testing a touch, testing his palm against the curve of them. Pushing just slightly, feeling the bounce of give as he kneads his hands. He could cum like this, right here, watching you sleep, thumbing your nipples, knowing you have no idea and can’t say yes or no to him. It’s not up to you, and it’s not for you - this is for him and him alone.

He looks down at those shorts, and they’re not even shorts - they’re almost like boxers, or boxer briefs. Small, thin, barely hiding the shape of your sex. He traces a fingertip up your thigh and over the seam of your cunt, and curls his fingers so that his knuckles graze you there instead. He pets you lightly, carefully. Feeling how soft and fucking hot you are between the thighs. He presses a little, desperate to feel between the plush lips of your pussy. Can he? His cock throbs, neglected. His veins throb too, fire racing through every inch of him until all he can hear is a roar of blood screaming desperately in his ears like a tidal wave.

It’s now or never.

The little shorts come down, and he moves in a kind of numb trance until they’re… off. He looks at your naked body with a sense of wonder, of unhinged, giddy excitement as he pulls them lower over your thighs, your calves. He lovingly hooks them around one ankle, leaving them hanging on the other so he can attempt to fix them back up later. No time for planning that now, is there? He’s got to focus on the moment, consequences be damned. He’s too fucking far in to not get what he needs, now, and GOD has he dreamt of this. Exactly this, having you where he wants you without the nuisance of you having to make a choice, to think or decide anything at all. All for him, only him. Just for his pleasure. No rejection, no resistance. No worrying about whether you feel good or even fucking enjoy it. You’re the object of his desire, and that’s all there is.

Roman pulls his own underwear completely off - fuck it, he usually sleeps in the nude, anyway. You’d known that. You know more about Roman from being his assistant than most people around him, and you should have known better when he booked a hotel room with you inside. Two beds - so what? No walls to keep him from you, no keycards. Just the cover of the night, the happenstance of your comically deep sleep.

He tries running his fingers along your cunt again - even the stubble on it is soft, reaching a stage where it’s not prickly anymore but still well-kept, sparse. He likes the tickle of it on his fingers as he parts your open. The pink flesh inside shines even in the dim. You’re already slick - Roman smirks. Are you naturally this fucking slutty, or somewhere in a dream are you imagining this very situation? Is there a version of himself in your mind right now, licking his lips as he strokes your clit slowly, licking his fingers before plunging them inside of you? Fuck, all that tight, hot flesh, pillowy and plush against his fingers.

He can't risk too much, here - he can't fingerfuck you like he wants to, not really. He can't fuck you hard in any real way, so he settles instead to feel all that secret, pulsing flesh while he can, softly beckoning into it and listening to any slight change in your breathing. Are you dreaming of him? Are you dreaming of being raped by some shadowy man, dreaming of being demeaned, used, abused?

Roman pulls his fingers out and licks them, savoring the clean, natural taste of your unwilling flesh. He can't help but bow over your body and rub the wet head of his cock - and at this point, he's more wet than you are, certainly - and rubs it against your nipple, wishing he could straddle your ribs and fuck your tits. He imagines shooting his cum all over them, how pretty they'd look. How nice they'd feel pillowing his dick while he fucked them, how his thrusts would make them jiggle against him. Another time, perhaps.

So many things to do to you. So much time to figure out how, to finetune what to do to get you totally fucking passed out.

For now, he settles on spreading your thighs just a little further apart. It takes time - enough time that it makes him sweat, makes him nervous. By the time he crawls gently between them, he's sure you'll wake up, eyelashes fluttering open, a look of perfect shock and anger and fear on your face.

It's the fear he keeps in mind - that one is his favorite to conjure up. That's fun for him; it makes his cock jump, it makes him want to moan, makes him want to clench his jaw. He has to take a breath before he cums without even feeling your cunt against him, and wouldn't that be a fucking shame?

Roman leans over your body, taking his time to really get an eyeful once more. Your pretty, relaxed face, your tits gently rising and falling with your ribcage in your sleeping breaths. The gorgeous curve of your belly, the way it leads in a delightful little slope to the pillow of your cunt. Your thighs, the secret, pink flesh hiding inside those plump lips.

He runs the head of his cock between them, hole to clit, up and down. Slowly. Gently. The feeling in his balls has him wanting to burst - he toys with the idea, slotting the head up against your hole for one glorious moment. He even pushes, just a little, just to feel that tight resistance. He imagines pushing through, sliding his way into that impossibly molten core, but he knows better. He knows he has to play the long game if he ever wants to do this again. So he rubs, he circles around your clit, watching himself slide along all those slick folds. He's so close now, nearly hyperventilating; his small, soft breaths are almost moans, gentle, whining sounds in all that dark, desperate little hums.

As his orgasm approaches, he panics - with the deftness of a thief, he swipes your little shorts from your ankle and sits up, stroking his cock so that his high-pitched breaths are masked by the wet pounding of him fucking his own fist. He shoots thick, pearly ropes of release into the shorts, wrapping them around the head of his cock so he can at least fuck something of yours if it can't be you. His eyes are fixed firmly on your face, unknowing, blissfully ignorant.

Roman catches his breath and, in a moment of erotic delusion, decides to thread your used garment back up your legs. He does so gingerly, so absolutely slow that several minutes have passed before he manages to get them under your ass, fitted properly back on your body. He pulls your tank top back down with a sense of sadness, dedicating a last moment to admire your breasts before they're shielded from his view once more. He throws a blanket over your form and pulls his own underwear and an undershirt back on - no sense in making things any worse. The knowledge that your scent is on his fingers and his cum is in your underwear is thrill enough.

...for now.