#his route was such a pleasant surprise

[punkrock-bottom]

Not enough Darius Maynor fanart on this webbed site for my tastes

[ceilidho]

BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly. 

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates. 

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag. 

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on. 

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year. 

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester. 

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that. 

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up. 

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway. 

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry. 

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat. 

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else. 

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!” 

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place. 

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run. 

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door. 

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom. 

What a bloody headache. 

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite. 

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?” 

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there. 

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again. 

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open. 

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat. 

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be. 

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod. 

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders. 

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable. 

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?” 

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten. 

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism. 

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you. 

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him. 

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner. 

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically. 

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in. 

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time. 

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale. 

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back. 

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for. 

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone. 

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out. 

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.  

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face. 

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling. 

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more. 

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial. 

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says. 

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year. 

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway. 

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.   

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect. 

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy. 

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this. 

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him. 

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room. 

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes. 

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch. 

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words. 

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin. 

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for. 

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though. 

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.  

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.  

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you. 

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone. 

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds. 

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what. 

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear. 

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done. 

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter. 

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed. 

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away. 

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot. 

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor. 

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more. 

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket. 

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed. 

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours. 

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent. 

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults. 

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you. 

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find. 

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?” 

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder. 

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing. 

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it. 

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth. 

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook. 

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business. 

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside. 

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table. 

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open. 

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely. 

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits. 

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset. 

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to. 

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else. 

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA. 

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip. 

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward. 

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?” 

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry. 

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat. 

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence. 

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face. 

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face. 

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism? 

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed. 

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches. 

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch. 

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight. 

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap. 

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist. 

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base. 

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.  

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him. 

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness. 

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room. 

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off. 

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put, 

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips. 

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back. 

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest. 

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?” 

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV. 

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says. 

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises? 

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things. 

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—” 

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable. 

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him. 

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue. 

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch. 

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means. 

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap. 

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes. 

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey. 

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him. 

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn. 

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into. 

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either. 

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand. 

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word. 

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss. 

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open. 

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering. 

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks. 

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin. 

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice. 

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way. 

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open. 

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug. 

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full. 

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected. 

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you. 

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.  

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle. 

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten. 

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms. 

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out. 

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face. 

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air. 

“Simon—”  you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place. 

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too. 

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.  

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away. 

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms. 

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds. 

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom. 

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?” 

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?” 

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.  

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice. 

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive. 

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees. 

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck. 

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off. 

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices. 

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again. 

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight. 

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way. 

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always. 

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does. 

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under. 

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air. 

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway. 

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid. 

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him. 

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?” 

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity. 

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open. 

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.” 

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying. 

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

[stringsbasement]

ngl i 100% thought peri would be an antagonist

he's the first fairy in thousands of years, born directly under the lineage of what has to be the most powerful fairy family line in current existence

(cosmo is a von strangle, and also the very reason fairies stopped having babies in the first place. he's incredibly powerful and nobody talks about it for some reason. it's clear peri inherited that destructive potential)

the second he was born, entire fairy species (including his own kin) were out to get him to use his volatile magic for their own selfish goals. he's nearly kidnapped thrice, and almost ends the universe on the same day

the threats keep coming, and he's being dragged to countless adventures that put him at risk. he literally ceases to exist more than once

anyway, i wouldn't be surprised if some form of expectations were placed upon him growing up. maybe not by his family, but he's famous (a teacher described him as such once); in fairy world, he's automatically adored and celebrated by adults and peers alike, which foop antagonizes (and tries to kill) him for

cosmo and wanda would, realistically, of course try to shield him from all this, but no matter what they do, he's inevitably isolated

people either want to use him, put him on a pedestal, or is a universally infamous human godchild who will forget all about him in a matter of years

(cosmo and wanda becoming godparents and learning (choosing) to eventually let go of their kids is one thing, but it can be assumed poof was still a young, underdeveloped child by the time timmy (+chloe, for what it's worth) got his memories wiped

and he sees that timmy's able to live his own happy life without him in it. he lost his brother just like that, and there's nothing he can do despite all his godly powers)

there's so, so many ways he could've gone wrong

thus, my initial thought was that peri was going to be a somewhat petty, "spoiled brat," and him becoming a godparent would be the result of spite or rebellion, which cosmo and wanda would feel entirely responsible for. I HATE MY PARENTS!! yada yada yada

it was a pleasant surprise to see all those clips of them loving each other. and it's not even because i doubted for a second that cosmo and wanda are bad parents, it's just what you usually expect when seeing shows from the 2000s, even if it doesn't make sense

all things considered, i'm very glad they went for the lighthearted silly family trope. not every show needs such conflicts, and showing healthy dynamics are better for kids overall

still, i find it interesting to think about if they'd gone down another route instead. i love me a pathetic cringy villain who tries (fails) to hate the people they love the most

[randomshyperson]

hi friend!!!

for your drabble thing, could you do

wanda + kisses + number 56?

i have so many i wanted to see but this one climbed to the top of the list immediately <3

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

prompts: angry kisses | warnings: arguing, roughly making out, some angst(ish) conversations, takes place during civil war.

challenge masterlist | general masterlist

You met Wanda shortly before she joined a neo-Nazi organization in search of power, so you weren't surprised that she could be quite the stubborn and reckless person but that didn't mean you couldn't get annoyed by it.

When all the drama of Steve and Tony's divorce that they called work differences fell upon the Avengers, you expected to escape into a comfortable retirement with your girlfriend like Barton did for his family, but you returned to the tower only to find the two of them packing their bags.

The hole in the building's structure and the robot at the end of it were ignored by you as you joined them in the white secure van Barton got for their escape.

You didn't say a word the whole way, and as the route stretched out into the suburbs of San Francisco in search of yet another hero to help Team America, Wanda began to get equally irritated with the silent treatment.

Barton left you two alone in the van, determined to convince Scott Lang to fight for Cap and almost content to leave the tense atmosphere between you even if only for a few minutes. He practically ran away once he was out of the car, but neither you nor Wanda seemed very willing to break the silence.

Sitting with a seat between you, the distance seemed terribly greater than just a few inches of cotton.

Wanda, being the telepath that she is, suddenly groaned in an attempt to read the mess that was your thoughts and emotions right now.

To her reaction, you snorted softly before muttering; "Unbelievable."

She crossed her arms in front of her chest, a defensive position at being reprimanded for her bad habits of breaking other people's privacy. "You can't blame me. You haven't said a word in 12 hours." She grumbled irritably, and you felt a migraine forming from the small invasion from before. Or maybe it was the constant stress of dating a witch with such a difficult personality.

Finally, you snapped.

"What exactly do you expect me to say, Wanda?"

Her frown deepens, but you don’t flinch. Now that it’s started, you have a hard time not shouting out the emotions that have been bottled up for the past few hours.

“I leave you alone for five minutes, and you get a government target on your back!”

She snorts in disbelief, turning her face toward you. "Steve needs my help!"

"None of this is your problem!" You immediately contradict.

"I owe him!" She insists and doesn't flinch at your ironic chuckle. "He gave me a second chance after Ultron, you know that."

"I gave you a second chance!" You retort irritably, your tone louder. Wanda swallows hard. "And a third, and a fourth. All I do is give you chances, Wanda. But you never choose me!"

Her eyes fill with tears. From hurt, frustration, or anger you can't tell. But you know the same tears are in your eyes too.

You don't shout again, but the firmness of your tone makes her shiver as if you were.

"I spent months going to congressional meetings and taking care of all the paperwork to make you a legal citizen of this country. I made a normal, civil life possible for us. And you threw it all away because Clint Barton asked you to. And I can't forgive you for that."

Wanda sighs in frustration. "I really wish you were able to understand that things are not that simple."

She uncrosses her arms, to adjust her hair back in a nervous gesture.

You tilt your head gently. The smell of Wanda's shampoo filled the car as she played with her hair, and you feel slightly intoxicated, as if anger was a background in your mind, and your focus was on the pleasant scent of your girlfriend.

She continues speaking as she turns her body towards you. "Of course I value and am grateful for all the effort you put into our relationship, into our future. But I am still someone who can move things with her mind. I am an Avenger. And when they need me, I have to show up."

"What about when I need you?"

She hesitates, frowning. You hurt her with the accusation, but you don't apologize. Neither does she.

"Don't be like that." She says, risking trying to touch your wrist resting on the seat. You huff, pulling your arm away. It’s your turn to cross your arms, shielding yourself from her attempts to get close, to change your mind. “Baby, look at me.” You turn your face further away, toward the window. 

“I’ll tell Rogers to go fuck himself and find someone else. I’m not going to join this nonsense for the ghost of a man he once loved.” 

“No one asked you to” she mutters, and you gasp in indignation. It’s true, of course. The invitation was never extended to you, maybe because the team knew your neutral stance. Or maybe because you would have told them all to fuck off if it meant putting Wanda in danger, or risking the life you planned with her. She tries to fix her words next. “Even though I’m glad you’re here with me—” 

“Oh come on.” You interrupt her in annoyance. "You said the words, now fucking own it. You don't want me here? Fine. I'll leave you to throw punches and energy balls at each other. Maybe you'll find another city or building to blow up around here."

It's too far. There's no healing a wound like the fall of Sokovia, and Lagos is fresh enough that Wanda feels anger take over her actions for a moment.

The slap isn't hard, but it's precise and burns your cheek.

She feels a hot tear run down her face, but she's busy choking on her own breath when you suddenly lunge at her.

There's an attempt to hit you again, but your hands grab her wrists, and instead of moving forward, you pull her body against yours. That's all there is for a moment; a small war of pushing and pulling, because the black widow trained two great fighters but then, Wanda is pressing her mouth to yours with all the conflicting feelings she's feeling at this moment. From anger and resentment to the burning, pulsating love she's felt for you since the first moment you looked at her. You kiss her back with the same intensity. Your experienced tongue doesn't ask for permission, and the kiss is dirty and sloppy, the sounds of your breathless moans mixing as you push your bodies together in a nearly physical fight for dominance.

Wanda ends up completely pressed against the van's seat, your warm body on top of hers pinning her against the cushion. She can't contain the pleading, whimpering sounds she makes as she feels your hands roaming so urgently under her blouse, and under her skirt. She closes her legs to trap your hand where she wants it, but you clamp your other hand over her throat in warning, and she kicks out a submissive whimper that makes you grunt aroused against her mouth.

Your tongue grows hungrier, exploring every corner of her mouth as you turn Wanda into an aroused, impatient mess beneath you. Just when she’s ready to beg for your hands to stop squeezing her tits and move to where she’s burning, you pull away at once.

She protests with a groan, her body vibrating in all the right places and her mind dizzy with arousal. You look equally breathless and affected, but you do a much better job of containing yourself, especially when the door suddenly opens.

It takes Wanda a moment to disguise her state and understand that you only pulled away because you had heard the commotion outside. You weren’t rejecting her, or teasing her. You were trying to keep it PG13 in front of the other two superheroes.

Scott Lang is talkative. A bit clueless, despite seeming intelligent, he’s too excited to realize what was going on, and he’s the perfect distraction to occupy them while you and Wanda normalize your breathing and heartbeats. 

Still, after Lang falls asleep after spending three hours telling her about how awesome it was to help the Avengers and other prison stories, Clint meets her gaze in the rearview mirror and doesn't say out loud: 

"I'm going to assume the guilty faces and torn clothes are because you girls managed to sort things out." 

She's kind of impressed that the entire team, even Clint who's been nearly one hundred percent retired since she joined, has learned to organize their thoughts enough that she can communicate telepathically with them. But she's too embarrassed right now to focus on pride. With a warm face, she steals a glance at your figure before looking at Clint's reflection again and nodding in agreement. 

He smiles wordlessly.

She turns her attention back to your sulking posture on the other side of the car.

Not wanting to wake Scott, her words echo inside your head.

"Are you really leaving?"

You huff softly, and Wanda is ready to give up on pressuring you to talk when she feels your hand on her thigh, her breath labored as you adjust to let your hand rest there on her warm skin, just at the edge of her skirt for what would be appropriate.

It's not a real apology, but it's a start. She bites back a smile, and risks speaking in her mind again:

"I'll make it up to you."

There's a gentle squeeze on her thigh, that brings a deep flush to her neck and spreads heat throughout her body. She looks forward, almost mortified that Clint might have noticed, but lucky he just keeps driving.

"Yes, you will." That's what you mentally assure her.

[justauthoring]

The Flutters of my Heart.

Request: hey could you do a fic with thanos from squid game: where the reader is apart of gi hub’s group but thanos is really into her and keeps flirting with her loudly. Her and the boys are all suspicious, thinking it’s a trick but they find out he just really likes her

Pairing: Choi Su-bong "Thanos" x F!Reader

Word Count: 2,327

A/N: I did not think the second Squid Game fic I'd write would be for Thanos but... honestly, it feels right.

Two things -> Thanos might be OOC lol he's super hard to write for and you essentially replaced Jun-hee - I love her but it just works better for this fic.

Your first interaction with him had been anything but pleasant.

With blood splattered across his face, from the people you'd seen him knock over during Red Light, Green Light no less, he'd smiled at you with crazed eyes, called you 'Senorita' and asked if you'd join his team. You're positive even if you hadn't seen his actions during the first game, you would've said no. You're even more confident in your outright denial when you see him vote 'O' with a grin.

He's all flirt and false charm. He promises you that he'll keep you safe because he's the one and only great Thanos and does so even as his friend scoffs and tells him they shouldn't bother with someone like you.

You had to admit, he was convincing. If you weren't in a game of life or death, you'd be lying to yourself to say that a part of you wouldn't maybe given in to his flirtations. But, this was life or death and you can't afford to make alliances with someone who is clearly so... unsteady.

Definitely not with someone who so outwardly wants to stay in this terrible place.

You find yourself your own team, somehow survive the second game and really, Thanos hasn't been on your mind since that first interaction. You'd barely paid attention when you'd seen his team win, the only thing really of note catching your attention that he'd seemed to find some other girl to bother instead of you.

Your group, despite two initially voting to stay, are routed in their beliefs to get out of here after the second game. Despite them all being men, they'd accepted you with ease and any little concerns they might have had had been squashed the second you'd won the game of Ddakji your first try.

You feel safe with your group and allow yourself to follow them around, feeling protected with your numbers and at ease with their friendly and inviting personalities.

It isn't until after the second round of voting and Jung-bae's surprising betrayal, that you're approached by Thanos for a second time.

You're in line for food when he approaches you, surprisingly not with Player 124 like he normally is.

"Senorita," he grins, pulling your eyes on him with a blink of surprise. You frown when you realize who it is, and even more so when you register that stupid pet name. "I'm relieved to see you made it through the second game."

Crossing your arms over your chest, you huff; "let's hope I make it through the third." The insinuation is made clear as you raise a brow at the blue 'O' patch on his sweater.

Thanos only grins. "Even though you're an 'X', I still promise to keep you safe." He winks, taking a step closer to you. "All you have to do is let me."

You huff; "I'm good, thanks."

"Aweh, come on, beautiful," he smirks, wrapping an arm around your shoulder before you can pull away. "You can trust me. I would've last game too if you'd give me the chance. In fact, I tried to find you for the last game but you'd already surrounded yourself with all those old men."

You roll your eyes. "I'd choose them over you anyday."

"You wound me," Thano pouts, clutching at his heart. Still, the glee in his eyes in undeniable. "How about this? You sit with me for dinner, I'll convince you I'm not such a bad guy."

Astonished at his relentlessness, your lips part to respond, but before you can, a voice cuts you off;

"She's already got friends to sit with."

You turn your head to find Dae-ho, him moving to stand right next to you. His hand falls on your shoulder in a reassuring touch, sending you a gentle smile before frowning over at Thanos. Behind, you can see Gi-hun and Young-il who are both watching the interaction closely. They've already got their dinners in their hands, clearly having stopped when they saw you and Thanos.

Already reassured by their presence, especially Young-il after you'd seen him take down both Thanos and Player 124 in seconds when they'd tried to attack Player 333, you turn back to glance at Thanos.

His face has faltered slightly at the sight of your group, but he doesn't back down.

"I'm sure the Senorita can speak for herself," Thanos challenges, smirking at you.

"She can," you cut in, confidence gained by Dae-ho and the rest. "And she says she doesn't want to sit with you either. Now, move. You're blocking the line."

Dae-ho lets out a barking laugh and before Thanos can say anything more, you're turning, shoving past him to move up the line.

Before Thanos would ever admit defeat, he smiles back at you, shrugging; "I'll get you to say yes, eventually!"

-

You're making your way back from the bathroom about thirty minutes later, on your own because you'd assured the boys you'd be okay on your own, when your wrist is grabbed.

Your lips part to let out a yelp, but any sound is quickly muffled by a hand pressed against your mouth.

You're tugged back, in between two sets of the beds, struggling in the grasp until the person who grabbed you stops. Their hands let go of you and you quickly spin, ready to defend yourself if need be, until your eyes catch sight of a familiar shade of purple.

"Thanos," you huff, shoulders relaxing slightly.

"Hey, baby," he grins, lips spread wide.

"What the hell," you hiss, shoving at him. "What is your problem?"

He has the audacity to shrug. "This is the only way I could get you alone to talk." For some reason, he takes that opportunity to brush back a strand of wild hair from your mild kidnapping he'd done, tucking it behind your ears with an odd gentleness.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you ignore the flutter of your heart. "And?" You question, shaking your head. "Still doesn't give you the right to grab me like that."

"I wanted to know your name," he grins, winking at you.

Your lips part. "You wanted to know my name?"

He nods.

"What exactly is the point of all of this?" You huff, shaking your head in frustration. "This is the third time you've bothered me. I thought I made the way I felt clear at the beginning."

"You did," he agrees, "I'm choosing to ignore it."

You blink, stunned. The actual audacity of this man.

"You're ignoring my rejection?"

"Yup," he nods, popping the 'p'.

"You're insufferable," you shake your head. "I don't want anything to do with someone who would willingly choose to stay in these horrible games. Not to mention, have fun playing them."

Thanos laughs, "I'm here for the same reason as you, baby. I need the money," he shrugs, holding his hands by his side as if in innocence as he pronounces 'money' in english. "Nothing wrong with trying to make the most of it. That includes learning your name."

"You're sick," you scoff, "I saw you push those two in the first game! You're the reason they're dead."

"As if they wouldn't have died on their own," Thanos rolls his eyes. "Besides, I'd never do that to you. I told you, didn't I? I'll keep you safe."

"You think that makes it okay?"

"Of course."

Shaking your head, you push away from him, turning your back to him. "Just leave me alone, Thanos. I want nothing to do with someone like you."

You walk away without looking back, unaware of the gaze that follows you.

-

"Hey, Senorita!"

Pausing in your conversation with Young-il and Gi-hun, you freeze, slowly turning your head over your shoulder to meet Thanos' gaze.

He's stood with his friends, Player 124 glaring at you from behind him, with a wide grin and those same wild eyes that made it clear he wasn't sober. You feel your shoulders tense, all too aware of your groups eyes watching the interaction between the two of you.

"If you need a group to join, I'll always be here!" He calls, pointing his finger right at you as he winks.

Swallowing thickly, you turn, choosing to ignore him.

All the boys look at you, waiting for you to say something. You do, just not about Thanos, eager to move on from Thanos' embarrassing and loud flirt.

"If they call about five, we just need to find people...-"

-

You'd gotten separated from Dae-ho.

Somewhere in the midst of running to a room, you'd been knocked to the ground by someone. They'd shoved past you without a single thought to you, and then the crowd of those desparate and panicked had separated you from your friend further.

Now, with tears in your eyes and your heart racing, you're frantically trying to find him or at least one of your friends, all whilst too aware of the time ticking away by the second.

It occurs to you that this might be it. That fall had been hard and your ankle was screaming something terrible right now. Even if you did find Dae-ho, you're not sure you could make it to him or a room in time.

The tears fall then, the seconds feel like agony and far too quick at the same time as you shake with the reality of your situation.

At least, what would've been your situation.

In the next second, a body crashes into you again, except instead of knocking you to the ground, you feel your feet lifted off the ground. A yelp leaves your lips in response, arms pulling you in a chest, confused, before you realize you're being hurdled right into a room.

The person who'd grabbed you was quick and suddenly, you're on your feet, in a room, with Thanos.

He shuts the door behind him and it locks instantly after.

He's panting, chest rising and falling as he turns to look at you, and you're just staring back at him with tears streaming down your cheeks and in disbelief. The echoes of gun shots that follow barely register in your mind as you meet his gaze.

"You saved me..." You breathe, stunned, voice a mere breathless whisper.

"I told you," he pants, offering a winded grin. "I'll keep you safe. I meant it."

The realization that it had in fact been Thanos that saved you is hard to believe and yet, you're faced with the true as he turns back to glance out the small window of the door.

"In the nick of time too," he laughs, somehow still overjoyed and finding humour in this situation. "I thought you and me were both dead there for a second."

Swallowing thickly, you hug yourself, still shaking and trembling from the situation as you shuffle on the spot. The action immediately pulls a cry from your lips as you stumble forward, tipping head first to the ground.

Thanos catches you before you fall.

"Wow," he chuckles, "you okay there, Senorita?"

The pet name that had annoyed you this entire time suddenly is annoying in a whole different way when you realize you wished it had been your name he'd said instead.

And that thought has you reeling even more.

"F-Fine," you wince, grabbing his arms that hold you. "I twisted my ankle when I got separated from...-oh no! Dae-ho! I didn't see if he he made it!"

The smile fades from Thanos face briefly at the mention of Dae-ho, still he helps you steady yourself and shakes his head. "Saw him get pulled into another room. He's fine. You're the one hurt."

Your face twists at that; "it's not his fault."

Thanos turns his face away, "never said it was."

It's clear he thinks it is.

You just huff, using his arms to help keep you upright. "I'm fine. It's just a twist."

Thanos eyes flicker to your ankle. "You can't walk."

Your lips part to say something, but just then the door clicks as it unlocks. You and Thanos spare one more glance at each other, before he's stepping forward to open the door, keeping an arm around your waist to help you walk out. You let him, trying to ignore the warmth in your chest at the action, limping out beside him.

Instantly, you hear your name being called.

You turn, seeing Dae-ho with Jung-bae, Gi-hun and Young-il in turn. There's a relieved smile on the formers lips and the rest look just as relieved.

"Thank God you're okay!"

You grin at them, forgetting who you're with for a second as you turn to them. "I'm glad you're okay too! When we got separated I wasn't sure..."

"I found Gi-hun," Dae-ho explains. "He hadn't been able to find a partner when Young-il, Jung-bae, you and me went off of our own. I tried to find you but..."

Nodding at them, you gesture to your partner. "Thanos found me," you explain, smiling nervously. "He... Well, he saved me. I wouldn't have survived otherwise."

The four of them look positively stunned but Thanos is beaming at the praise.

"Got my reward for it already too," Thanos smirks from beside you, pulling you closer. "Learned your name as well.., Reader."

He wiggles his brows at you and instantly, your cheeks warm. Leaning back from him, you shuffle back and to your surprise, he lets you slide out of his grip. Dae-ho is quick to help you, wrapping his arm around your waist like Thanos had whilst your group takes cautionary steps in front of you.

Just then, Player 124 comes bounding towards him.

"Thanos!"

With one final look your way, Thanos winks; "talk to you later, Reader." And with that, he walks off, joining Player 124's side as they laugh loudly in the otherwise gloom room.

All four turn to you, but you're too stunned to even begin explaining.

That, and you can't get rid of the fluttering race of your heart.

[satoruhour]

On honeymoon with geto..and while you’ve had sex before, it’s the first time you two do it unprotected. His face lights up when you tell him to do it without a condom and breeding kink goes BRRRRRRRR

a/n: “Newlyweds gojo and reader having sweet romantic nasty dirty disgusting shameless honeymoon sex PLEEK” combining requests since theyre the same premise! anons u two r the biggest brained mfers and bc u all voted so nicely and promptly this is my lil present :3

wc: about 1k+ for each drabble

warnings: SEPARATE drabbles, fem!reader, soft dom!geto that turns filthy at the mention of no condoms lol, unprotected sex, fingering, clit stimulation, creampie / breeding kink, sorta soft dom!gojo but not really established, almost public sex and multiple rounds for gojo, n*sfw under the cut

✶ GETO

the first breath of fresh air is already so pleasant and different from japan, but you’re distracted again by the shiny band upon your finger, staring at it with a small smile. you had your eyes glued on the sterling silver for the whole flight here, only breaking out of your daze when suguru approaches with your collected luggages, pressing a kiss to your temple. “shall we go?” you can’t help but mumble a soft ‘i love you’ before you peck his lips, the coldness of his matching ring on your skin reminding you of your newly forged bond.

geto makes sure you feel its coldness later on your thigh, hand holding down your legs firmly when he first inserts both fingers, cunt easily sucking him in right until you feel the chill of the wedding ring. he’s rewarded with your sweet moans, s’thick and s’good leaving your lips softly while he leaves your clit untouched. it’s throbbing, and yet he tortures you more when he removes his fingers.

“suguru!”

“what?” he grins, a sick grin as he starts to remove his pants and admires the way your pussy just asks for his dick. “want ya to cum on my cock.”

“yeah, but—” you huff, although you weren’t opposed, before you hear the familiar crinkle of the condom packet and you’re sitting up to hold his hands back. now, his what was truly confused, and you bit your lip, wondering if this was really the route you wanted to go down.

you’ve always loved sex with suguru; it was phenomenal always, except the feeling of the rubber in you. it was necessary, you knew, but now that you’re bound by vows and your endless love, you’d think that . .

“can we not use it today, sugu?”

geto didn’t think he heard you correctly, and he’s asked you to repeat it even when you’ve seized the packet and threw it to the side, a hand on his hardened cock that only responds to you — you swear you feel more pre-cum on your thumb when you say it for the third time.

“are you sure, baby?” geto asks softly, hovering over you with his large stature and it’s just like the first time you were intimate with each other. caring and gentle as he always is, “we don’t have to do away with it just cause we’re married now, (y/n).”

you give him a small reassuring smile. “i’m sure, suguru.”

and he proceeds to ask you for two more times before your legs are carried up. surprised, you watch as he drags his tip along your folds, eyes darkening when he watches his pre-cum mix with your juices. and now when he’s given permission to fuck you raw? he can hardly keep his heart rate down.

“hear that, baby?” geto moans, keeping his eyes locked in yours, making you hear just how wet you were and you nod, wanting to have his hand in yours. there’s a mixture of your moans when he first pushes in, with your pussy clenching around him. a loud whine leaves your throat as your hands interlock.

“s-su! feels so—!” you gasp when he bottoms out, a feeling entirely different from the usual — you swear you can feel his cockhead and the veins along his length, and geto knows the same. your gummy walls that hug him, your warmth.

“shiitt . . god, you feel so fuckin’ good—” he grunts out, leaning forward to capture your lips, sighing when he does a light thrust and the drag of your cunt is just too good and he already feels his high approaching. “just so perfect in this pussy— t-thank you, darling.”

geto swears he goes in and out of consciousness when his hips start to move, focused solely on your hand on his cheek and the squeeze of your hand in his, alongside those hooded, drunken eyes of yours and the whimpers leaving your mouth.

“suguru— s’big!” you pant against his lips and the squelch of your pussy is only amplified by how swiftly he rails into you, driven by the raw feeling of your cunt.

“y’can take it, can’t ya?” geto hums, pressing one last kiss against your lips and comes off of you, grabbing your legs and pushing. they’re right up to your chest and suguru reaches so deep, you squeal in surprise. “good girl, takin’ me so damn well.”

you let him use your body, now hanging onto the headboard of the hotel room as his hips move relentlessly into your dripping cunt. you can see your juices splay everywhere from how wet you were and the rough movement of his hips don’t help, “g’na cum, su—”

“that so?” he mumbles, and angles his hips to hit that spot and your head digs into the pillow. although, geto doesn’t like that, “c’mon baby, watch me as i breed you.”

you whine at his choice of words, opening your eyes to see your newly wedded husband look divine. his hair falls all over his face and his lips are parted in little pants, sweat lining his torso and face but his honeyed eyes only look at you.

the way geto’s hips drive into you is carnal, feeling your ass ripple with his thrust to the hilt and the sounds that leave his lips sound like heaven, a mix between whines and moans — “look at how much cum i have f’r you—”

and for the both of you it comes so quickly you don’t have time to prepare for the visions of white; you can feel as geto cums deep in you, feeling each spurt of cum fill you up and you think you’d never want to go back to condoms ever again. geto’s head is thrown back when he shoots his load, hips bucking so much as you cum at the same time, spasming on his cock that the room is full of your lewd sounds.

geto doesn’t look at you when he removes his cock silently, watching as his tip continues to push out globs of semen while your cunt is painted white. it’s clear he’s drunk on it, looking toward you finally with a small smile. the final clench your pussy does is the last straw for him, pushing out his cum that drips down to the sheets and he’s hard again.

“you don’t know what you just unlocked in me, baby,” geto laughs breathlessly, slapping his length along your folds with obscene noises, “but it’ll definitely end in me filling you up with s’much cum, yeah?”

you giggle, wiggling your hips until he’s in you again. hot breath against your ankle and a scrunch in his expression — your pussy’s just too good.

“yeah, i’d love that, sugu. give me all your cum.”

✶ GOJO

your happiness was unmatched running down the aisle, interrupted by the smooth sweep of gojo’s arms under your neck and knees in a princess carry, moving your body up and down like you just scored the final goal of a game — except you did. you’ve captured satoru’s heart and his fourth finger, smiling with glossy eyes as he leans in to kiss you. “you cryin’, baby?” the audacity to ask that when his nose is red too — you only shake your head, hearing the camera click and your relatives cheer.

that sweet sentiment is changed later after your wedding dinner when he hasn’t even got you past the front door until he has you against the wardrobe, dinner gown and panties swiped to the side and you desperately trying not to overturn the hotel kettle.

“can’t keep me from this pussy for long, baby.” gojo’s stamina is exceptional, you were made aware of this from the first time you got into bed with him, and you still weren’t exactly used to it. from here, you only wish to memorise the sight of gojo on his knees and the chill of his wedding ring on your thigh. “looked so delicious in this dress—”

“s-satoru, we haven’t even closed the door yet—!” he hums, skillfully using his free hand to do it and he continues his assault on your pussy. you have one leg propped up on the vanity table, leaking so much juices just from having his hand on your thigh.

it’s no different later that gojo presses kisses on your neck, making you watch yourself in the vanity mirror. your cunt’s already so used to his heavy, thick cock, and yet it still reaches so deep in you, kissing your cervix. there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock from how much he’s cummed in you, pussy gushing so much around his length that he has no problem moving in and out of you.

“look at how beautiful you are, sweets,” he whispers along your skin while you tighten around him, body lined up with yours while his hips continue to ram into you. you can’t even fathom what round exactly this is as his hands knead at your lower back, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes from just how good his cock was hitting your spots. a hand to your clit is enough to get you cumming for the nth time that night, tongue lolling out in the mirror. “you cryin’?”

you whine and nod softly, head dropping from the sudden soreness and exhaustion on a particular thrust, and your husband coos, “went too hard on you, did i?”

gojo places one more peck to your neck and slips out of you, making you choke on a moan as your entrance clenches around air and you’re off the ground like you were at the front of the church. he simply laughs at your fucked out form, knowing nevertheless you loved it when you’re asking him to hurry up. and so he brings you atop him, letting you move your hips until he’s in you and you’re whining into his neck.

“’toru . .”

“what is it, mrs. gojo?”

you stifle a laugh at that, lifting your body tiredly. even after being fucked for four rounds (he counted), you still look as lovely as you did as you first appeared at the start of the aisle, when you were crying your eyes out saying your vows, when you grinned during your first dance.

“jus’ tired baby, help me, pleasee?” the little pout you do is too cute not to resist that it gets his heart tightening up and his dick jumping. 

“hang on, sweet girl, i got ya.” the first thrust up into you is euphoric, skin so sticky from the cum before that you’re sure there’s strings of white connecting your pelvis to his. the feeling of your clit brushing up against his pubes has you moaning into thin air and your hips move back on him to get more friction, “that alright?”

“mhm . .” you mumble, “s’good—”

gojo only lets out a little chuckle, letting you tangle your hands in his hair as he plants his feet down into the mattress and slams into your dripping cunt. he groans softly at the feel of your walls, still so warm and tight, muttering soft praises while your limp body moves along with his rough ministrations.

“oh— my g-god . .” you mewl out when he latches his lips onto your tits, sucking and swirling his tongue and your back arches in his arms; you simply can’t hold yourself up from the overstimulation, falling forward into his waiting arms. “s-sorry, ’toru.”

“what’re you apologisin’ for?” gojo swear when he feels you clamp down, cock twitching and you both know he’s about to cum, “my pretty girl doesn’t need to be saying sorry . . fuck—”

satoru’s his lips meet yours messily and his thrusts turn weak and sloppy while he ruts mindlessly into you with the lewd pap! pap! pap! sounds of his balls against your ass. he’s primal with his hips, with muffled moans onto your lips. there’s drool dripping from the corners of your mouths as he spills into you shamelessly, so much cum spilling from your connected bodies that you reach your climax too, body trembling from the intense feeling.

“’toru—! s-so much cum, haah . .” it’s so hot, entirely sure your womb is full of his previous loads, your mixed juices coating his still hard dick and you might just tap out, but when you feel his cum dribble out of you and down his cock, you’re already wishing for more. you merely reach for the cup of water and gulp down a large amount and your lover only watches you, amused.

“n-need more, satoru . .” you whisper, sitting up and trailing a hand down his body, making sure he can see the shimmer of the expensive ring he bought for you — it wouldn’t rust, either, he told you. eyes fluttering close, you remove yourself from him completely and lie back on the king-sized he insisted on booking, and spread your folds to show him just how needy your cunt still was.

there’s a small moan that escapes gojo’s mouth when you do that, already hovering over you with his heavy cock resting along your pussy, “give me more, baby.”

“oh, when my good girl asks so nicely,” satoru slyly grins, swallowing your whines with a sloppy kiss, “’course i have to give it to her.”

tagging my loves @hyomagiri @jabamin @shotorus @utahimeow @satohruu @na-t0 @lvlybee @slttygeto @crysugu @suguruplsr ❀

[zhenne]

watching from afar | route one : a confrontation

[ intro ]

syn. perhaps it’s time Sylus gives you irrefutable proof of his intentions, and to show you he’s more dependable than that doctor friend of yours thinks.

wc. 3.5k

warnings. smut!! (mdni), i’m gonna just say dubcon bc yea, probably ooc, rough start (i don’t like it tbh), jealousy!, mentions of alcohol, car sex, pet names (sweetie, sweetheart, kitten, baby), cowgirl, clothed sex, bit of dry humping, fingering, making out, sylus comes on your stomach/thighs, he’s a lil nasty (as a treat), teensy bit of begging, face & throat holding (no choking), marking

a/n. ngl i feel like this is pretty rushed, but idk man

now playing : all mine

“I’ll be back soon, have fun.” 

With one final measuring glance at the doctor, Sylus left you in Zayne’s care.

Zayne was a pleasant companion for the remainder of the evening. His dry humor and effortless wit kept your voice breathless with hushed fits of laughter. You were nursing your fourth drink of the evening when you notice Zayne’s relaxed posture shift as an undeniable presence calmly stepped behind you.

Cheerful, and a little tipsy, you turn on your barstool to face Sylus. With warm, rosy cheeks, you beam up at him, ready to explain the comical story Zayne had just finished, “Oh! Sylus, Sylus- you won’t believe-”

“I’m sorry to interrupt your fun, but we’re leaving, Sweetheart.” His firm tone cuts you off. 

You sit up a little bit straighter, brows pinched together, “Did the meeting not go well?”

Sylus’ eyes narrow, looking right past you as they land on the man sat a little too close to you for his liking. Crimson irises flick back to you, studying your slightly flushed appearance. “We can talk in the car.”

Immediately, you knew what that decisive, low utterance dispatched. He was pissed. Seething.

Sliding off your chair, you turn to give Zayne a small bow, smiling as you thank him, “Your company was refreshing, thank you for treating me with your presence.”

—-

The walk to the car was painfully silent. Any tipsy glee you had earlier was gone, replaced by a sobering disquiet. You kept your hands clasped tightly in front of you as you followed just behind Sylus’ striding gait, your own heeled feet barely able to keep up. Your lips were pressed into a thin line. Sylus’ aura radiated quiet fury and your mind careened with thoughts of what must’ve happened during his meeting. 

Did the other man not show up? Maybe he sent a representative Sylus had a previous resentment with? Or did the deal fall through, perhaps? Is it likely that the terms didn’t go in Sylus’ favor-

You’re pulled from your thoughts by your face colliding with a solid wall of muscle. You swallow. The black suit jacket on Sylus’ back obscures your vision, the musk of his cologne invading your senses. He turns to face you, angling his head so that it tilted in a manner that could only be described as penetrative. You wait for him to say something, anything that could hint at the cause of his calloused mood. You get nothing of the sort as he opens the passenger door for you.

To your surprise, he doesn’t slam it after you climb into the seat. If anything, he’s unnervingly silent. There’s something controlled, measured about this anger. And that finding only serves to confound you even more.

You wait until the car is speeding down the freeway to try your luck again. “Wha-”

“Did you have fun?” For an innocent question to be asked in such a forbidding tone, a chill tickles your nape. 

Your fingers nervously pinch the material of your dress, rolling the silk between the pads of your fingertips. Was he upset you didn’t go to the meeting with him? “You know I’m more of a hindrance than a help in those sort of mee-”

“That’s not what I’m asking. Did you have fun with your friend?”

Oh. A piece of this intricate puzzle clicks into your brain. Oh. “You’re jealous.” You don’t even realize you whispered your discovery aloud. 

Sylus chuckles, though it’s void of his usual mirth. “And what was it you introduced me as?...” His eyes narrowed in thought as the car merged onto the road that would take you back to the lawless city of perpetual darkness. “Your colleague, wasn’t it?” You don’t miss the way his jaw clenches. 

There’s a beat of silence, and then, in a moment of brazen stupidity, you mutter, “Is there a problem with my terminology?” Your own challenge, albeit your voice came out far too hesitant to be properly deemed a threat.

The way he looks at you, every ounce of his stare cold and measured, reminded you of your first meeting – reminded you that there was more than one side to the enigma that is the leader of Onychinus. Instantly, you feel regret weighing heavy on your tongue. You want to backpedal, try again at defending yourself.

You don’t get the chance to scramble together some poor excuse before he’s steering the car into the underground garage of a vacant lot. The transmission shifts into parked and the keys are pulled from the ignition as you and Sylus sit in the silent cab of the car, your eyes searching his side profile. The silence is stifling.

“Are you going to talk to me, or just sulk?” You finally murmur with a growing irritation. 

Sylus’ head falls back against the headrest. Finally, his gaze slides to you, the corners of his lips twitch with a frown, and you feel the edges of your frustration slowly ebb away. 

“What did you two discuss during my absence?”

“Hm? Nothing, really..” You hesitate. Sure, Zayne may have asked how you met the enigma that is Sylus, and you may have given a few glossed-over fabrications. And yeah, maybe your childhood friend revealed in passing that perhaps Sylus may not be the best influence, but that would constitute ‘nothing’, right? 

Sylus is nothing if not perceptive. He picks up on your hesitation clear as day. “What did he say?” His voice finds its usual timbre, a gravelly rumble that stirred something within you.

You were backed into a corner, tongue tied as Sylus’ situated his elbow atop the console, his face leaning into your space with acute attention. “Tell me, kitten,” … “Is this ‘Doctor Zayne’ of yours really just your doctor? Because I saw a hint of something that wanted to tell me otherwise.”

Your face warms at the insinuation in Sylus’ perceptive eyes, caught off guard by the sudden accusation. “I.. I mean, we grew up together, but- but it’s not- he wouldn’t-” you take a steadying breath, a futile attempt to quell your rapid heart rate. “Me and Zayne? I-It just doesn’t make any sense-”

“Oh no, I see it – the appeal,” he reaffirms, “he is handsome, well-established, smart.. And seems to care an awful lot..” he trails off, his smirk only growing as your brows pinch together at the open-ended insinuation. 

“But he never has time for you, does he? Dedication to one’s work means less attention to those that really matter.” You’re silent, face hot as you hold your breath, Sylus’ smirk only growing when he sees you ensnared in his provoking web. “You should call me when your ‘friend’ is too occupied to make time for you. I can at least promise not to leave such a pretty girl disappointed.” 

The air in the car feels stifling as you gape up at Sylus, his eyes now shining with a dark gleam. His hand slips into your space, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek before his palm cradles your jaw, forcing you to hold his gaze as he angles his face a breath away from yours. 

Finally, you manage to choke out a whispered retort. “Zayne.. Zayne doesn’t see me like that. He’s just a friend-”

“Just a friend?” He rolls his eyes at your empty logic. “Oh, please.” He practically hums. “He’s so obvious. You’re telling me you didn’t see the way he admired you tonight? Didn’t notice how his eyes practically undressed you, how his hands twitched with the desire to lay claim?” His voice drops an octave, the low rumble of his chest purely seductive as he murmurs, “How he wishes it was his bedroom floor your dress falls to?” You watch with a pulsing heart as Sylus’ eyes flit to your slightly parted lips, the corners of his mouth twitching into a proud smirk at your undoubtedly flustered expression. “I also saw the way those same eyes glared at me, resenting me for taking the one thing he wanted most.”

There’s a self-imposed reticence. You’re frozen in your seat.

“Nothing to say?” He blinks down at you when you fail to form a coherent thought, the cockiness in his tone only making you dizzier. “Perhaps you wanted that too?”

At that, you’re able to manage a weak shake of your head, and it only makes Sylus’ wicked grin grow. “Tell me this at least, are we really just ‘colleagues’ in your eyes?”

You lick your lips, head spinning when you finally let out a shaky breath. “I-.. We…” You feel as though surges of energy are rippling beneath your skin, setting your nerves alight and subsequently frying any semblance of intelligible logic. 

A calloused thumb trails down your jaw before gently grasping your chin, forcing your face up so your lips just barely brushed against his as he whispers, “Just know, regardless of what you say, I’ll still fuck you.” 

Swelling heat thrummed through your veins, catching in your breath and erupting in your stomach. Your thighs squeeze together with a rush of embarrassment as you feel a slick pool of heat stain the thin material of your panties, no doubt soaking through to the seat below. 

Zayne’s words from earlier ring in your deluded mind as Sylus slips a warm hand atop your thigh. ‘Please, be careful with who you trust’, the doctor had muttered in his stoic voice, ‘I wouldn’t want someone corrupting Linkon’s favorite Hunter’. 

You can already picture Zayne’s disappointment, but Sylus tastes like expensive whiskey and tobacco.

It’s possessive, the way Sylus kisses you, like he was afraid you’d slip away should his hands leave you. You shift in your seat as his tongue prods at the seam of your lips. A breathy groan has your cunt fluttering around nothing as he licks his tongue into your mouth, the hand on your jaw cupping your cheek to hold you still. Neither of you shy away as it grows messier, needier. And it’s unbearably hot, the way he grips your thigh, pushing the skirt of your dress up to bunch around your hips. He doesn’t pause the assault on your lips as his fingers tentatively brush over your soaked panties, the thin material made sheer as it clings to your folds. 

Sylus breaks the kiss, chest softly heaving as he looks down at you, his eyes glazed with raw desire. He lets out a low growl, accompanied by the slick click of his fingertip teasing your arousal. "God, Sweetheart..." He murmurs, his voice thick with lust.

Without warning, he’s pulling you over the console, your knees bracketing his hips. His hands roam over your body, tracing the curves of your breast and the dip of your waist before settling on your thighs, spreading them apart to grant himself full access to your cunt.

"Let's see how responsive you are to a real man's touch." He teases, grinding his cock into your slick folds through his slacks. 

Your hand grips his shoulder, desperate for something to stabilize you as the rough material of his pants brush agonizingly perfect against your throbbing clit. “F-Fuck..” you whimper as your other hand gathers your dress, giving both you and Sylus unobstructed view of the lewd performance. It felt sinfully good, as pathetic as it might sound, to be dry humping your (so-called) friend in his car like a couple of horny teenagers. 

This position offered you a front row seat to the debauched expression coloring Sylus’ usually smug face, a sight that only served to fuel your growing desire. He must've felt your peering eyes on him, because not even a moment later, a hand holds your throat, pulling you down for another hungry kiss. This one had no preamble, only a primal mesh of heat and tongue. You whine when he pulls away in favor of trailing searing kisses down the side of your neck, teeth occasionally nipping at the skin before he sucks a mark in the junction of your shoulder. 

You grind your hips downard, circling the hardening bulge in his pants with a breathy gasp, your hand tracing down the muscled panes of his stomach. Eyes roll back into your head when Sylus bucks up into your heat with a chuckle. He parts from your neck, his lips shining with spit as he takes in your disheveled appearance. 

“Would you rather it be your doctor friend making you feel like this?” 

A challenge? A jealous provocation? You aren’t quite sure what fuels it, but you’re unabashed as you whimper, “No.. No.”

Sylus wets his lips, the palm on your throat now holding your face millimeters from his, “Who do you want to fuck you? Whose cock do you want to stretch out your little cunt right now?”

You can barely look at him straight with the way those filthy words slipped so effortlessly from his mouth. “Y-You..” you choke out. “Want your cock, Sy..”

Your eyes blink shut, missing the smug grin that graced Sylus’ reddening features. You're about to drag your hips along the seam of his slacks again when a firm hold on your hips halts you halfway. You’re panting, watching with a lidded gaze as he pulls his cock, red and leaking from his pants. Your mouth nearly waters at the sight of the vein running down the twitching length. 

Your hand begins to reach out, but a larger one gently smacks it away. You find his crimson eyes, your pulse echoing loudly in your ears as the hands on your hips angle you slightly. Your shoulder blades rest against the top of the steering wheel, your back arched, and hands gripping whatever purchase they could find as you finally felt the heat of his dick brush against you.

He barely lifts a finger before a thin wisp of red and inky mist swirl at his touch, shredding through your panties without so much as a sound. You glance down just in time to witness as the ruined garment falls from your body, a mess of your arousal clinging to the maroon material as a string of iridescent slick stretched and snapped. 

It was pornographic, the way Sylus groaned at the sight. “I haven’t even touched you yet..” Your eyes glaze over as two fingers tease your dripping slit, the wet clicking sounds only fueling his exploration. “Fuck..” a husky moaned followed as he slipped the two fingers into your warm, welcoming heat. “F-uck… darling,” he experimentally strokes his fingertips, quickly brushing against the spot that has you panting his name with choked breaths. “Ah..” he breathes out, “There it is..”

His fingertips continue to stroke with a rhythmic press of his palm against your clit. You felt so hot, so unbearably turned on it was starting to hurt. “Please- oh please, Sy- Sylus, please, oh fuck-” you felt like your chest was on fire, burning you from the inside out. 

“Come on my fingers,” he growls against your lips, nose brushing against yours, “show me you pretty you look, let me see how badly you want my cock.” Finally, he brings his thumb to stroke tight circles against your clit.

Your body tenses, muscles taut as your nails threaten to leave crescent scars along his arm. Your head falls back with a wanton moan, thighs trembling as you coat his hand and lap with a pool of your release. You feel dazed, your body still humming with the aftershocks of euphoria he so easily led you to. 

Sylus was far from done with you yet. His leaking red cock stood hard and ready, hot against the wet skin of your thigh. He pulls you in by the column of your throat, planting a languid kiss to your lips, his pace slow and intent on enjoying the feeling of you pliant to his touch. “I’m going to ruin you.”

You barely hear it, let alone hardly make out his muttered promise. It doesn’t click until he breathes out against your swollen lips, his eyes piercing straight through you, “I’m going to show them you already have a lover.” 

Your lashes flutter as his grip tightens, sliding the leaking head of his cock through your dripping folds, just barely teasing your entrance as you whine his name, your own hips stuttering in his hold. Only when he finally – finally – has his fill of teasing you, of seeing you whimpering and clawing at his shoulder with quiet pleas of ‘more, please Sy, fuck me’, does he actually start fucking you like you’ve been craving.

“Fuck.. so fuckin’ tight, baby..” he groans as his thick dick slowly breaches you, the blunt head just barely making it through your tight ring of muscle before you’re keening with a loud, obscene whine. “Relax, kitten,” he drawls out, though he isn’t faring much better. 

You’re little cunt is sucking him in like a vice, and it takes every sliver of self control not to fuck up into your tight heat. His jaw ticks as he peers up at you perched on his lap, quivering and moaning from just the tip of his cock. 

Sylus leans up slightly, catching the breathy gasp that slips from you at the minor shift in angle. Warm lips spur more harmonies to spill from you as he kisses any section of skin he could see. The corner of your mouth, your cheek, jaw, neck and shoulder would all be littered with balmy breaths as he leaves marks sure to linger for days. You feel yourself relax into his hold, eyes threatening to fall shut as he haltingly bottoms out.

Fully sheathed inside your pulsing cunt, you both groan as you search for his lips, mutually swallowing the sounds of unadulterated pleasure when a strong pair of hands gently lift your hips a fraction, testing the waters before they drop you back down, your hips flush with his naval. You’re giddy with bliss, whimpering as your puffy clit drags along his happy trail in a way that has stars bursting in your vision.

“Shit-” you whine, feeling the curve of his cock press deeper into you with each thrust. Your head falls back, nearly resting atop the steering wheel, but Sylus is intent on watching you fall apart. His hand holds your jaw, thumb and finger squishing your cheeks slightly as your glazed eyes meet his, something primal and hungry swirling deep within the crimson depths. 

“Eyes on me, baby.”

You’re close. And you can tell he is too with the way his breathing is growing erratic, his neck flushing a pretty pink to match the tips of his ears. Your eyes flutter, a heavy fever settling in your stomach. The squelching noises become louder, more erotic the hotter this fever becomes, surely soaking into the seat below his lap. Your kiss bitten lips gape in an attempt to warn of your approaching climax, but you can scarcely hold back the choked moans as Sylus shushes you, his grip pulling you closer to his face as he grinds his hips into yours.

You come with a hoarse whine, your hands and thighs trembling as he continues to drag your orgasmic haze out for a few more seconds before you feel him pull out, making quick work with his hand as his cock paints your cunt and thighs a pretty sheen of white. 

You stare down at the mess, a filthy mixture of your own release and his lazily dripping down your skin. He lifts his hips slightly, tucking himself back into his slacks before his hands smooth down the bunched skirt of your dress. Panting softly, you try to steady yourself with a hand on his shoulder. You’re about to climb off his lap to crawl out of the car, but he tsks, holding you still with a hand on your waist. 

Your questioning protest stops short once you see Sylus examining your dress with a scrutinizing frown. His free hand holds up a stretch of the garment, and you can make out the faint blotches of stains darkening the material. He studies the blemished spot with an appraising hum.

“Perhaps I should have you wear this at the next event… That should satiate your friend’s interest, no?”

You swat a hand at his chest, blushing and indignant at the teasing lilt in his voice. If you knew anything about Sylus, his mirth always held some fraction of truth, and the mere thought of wearing a dress sullied with come made your skin crawl.

“You’re disgusting!-”

Sylus catches your wrist before your balled fist could make contact with his chest again, a gleam in his eyes that exudes pure satisfaction. “And you’re mine for the rest of the evening… any objections?”

[22ayla21]

I feel like want to prank my husband 😎

The wife suddenly kiss the husband and run away, leaving the husband speechless and then he start to chase after us 🤭✨ then after they caught to us he start to kiss the wife.

Meanwhile the kid when they see the parents kissing start to feel disgusting or anything a reaction a kid make when they see their parents kiss each other

Love is War (with kisses)

A little prank by the wife raised the mood of the husband, but the children are not very happy about it.

It all started innocently.

She came up to him as lightly as the wind, wrapped her arms around his neck and left a quick but tangible kiss on his lips. It was unexpected, but pleasant. The warmth of her lips touched him, leaving something more than just a trace - a challenge.

And then she ran away.

For a second, Mydei was stunned, and then it dawned on him. Her light laughter echoed throughout the house, and something inside him switched on - the instinct of a hunter who did not tolerate provocation without an answer.

He rushed after her. She was fast, but he knew her better than anyone. He knew where she would turn, what route she would try to escape. Her steps were light, but he caught every sound, every movement, narrowing the circle.

And, of course, he caught her.

With a loud giggle, she found herself in his arms, but her joy quickly gave way to surprise - he began to shower her with kisses. Her face, forehead, nose, cheekbones, lips - he didn't leave a single place without attention, making her laugh and resist, but he held her tightly.

- Enough, enough, - she finally exhaled, barely managing to catch her breath.

But he wasn't going to stop. At that moment, the children entered the room.

Their synchronous "Eww!" was so loud and expressive that even Mydei stopped for a second.

The eldest son demonstratively rolled his eyes, the youngest pretended that she urgently needed to leave, and the middle one was sincerely indignant at what was happening.

Mydei grinned, but did not let go of his wife, pressing her closer. The children looked at them with an expression of sincere disgust - parents kissing, how awful.

But he didn't care. Today he won this battle.

She approached him quietly, as she always did when he needed her near. She looked into his eyes, full of fatigue and tension. He said nothing, just noticed her movement, when she rose on her toes, and felt her lips touch his. It was a quick and unexpected kiss - light, but full of feeling. She quickly pulled away, a playful sparkle flashed in her eyes. Before he could say anything, she had already turned and ran away.

He stood there, confused, his heart beating in his chest with genuine speed. This kiss was like a challenge, like a game, but he felt something more in it. He lost the moment, did not have time to answer, and his irrepressible desire to catch up with her intensified. He hurried after her, his steps becoming faster and faster, and her laughter in his ears - louder. Every now and then she looked back and quickened her pace, as if mocking his desire to catch up with her. He couldn't stop, he couldn't just let her go without figuring it out.

As soon as he caught her, she smiled again, but her laughter died down when he couldn't help but lean in and kiss her again. But this time it wasn't the same light kiss, it was a yearning for her, as if she was the only one who could make him forget about the world around him. Her lips were so close, and he felt her body softly give in to his hands.

At that moment, the children entered the room. Seeing the scene before them, they literally froze in place, arms crossed and blushing. The seconds dragged on, and it seemed like time slowed down. The children exchanged uncomprehending glances, watching their parents, as if this was something completely alien to their peaceful and organized day.

The youngest son exhaled, "Dad, Mom... again?"

The middle one shrugged, "I knew they would act like this."

And the eldest daughter frowned and quietly said: "I never thought that adults could be so... well, strange."

But for them it was just a strange moment that they could not understand, but at the same time they knew one thing: their parents were happy again.

Phainon sat in his chair, enjoying the silence. It had been a tiring day, and everyone around him seemed lost in their own thoughts. Suddenly, without warning, his wife came up to him, kissed him tenderly on the lips, and without saying a word, ran quickly towards the door.

His heart skipped a beat. He didn't have time to understand what had happened when she had already disappeared, leaving him in bewilderment. He looked at her, feeling the warmth of her lips on his for a long time. Thoughts instantly flashed in his head - what was she up to? Why did she leave so quickly?

But that couldn't be enough. He got up from his seat and rushed after her, trying to catch her before she disappeared into the hallway. He knew her character: if he didn't catch up, she would keep her distance even longer. His steps were quick, and his thoughts were tense.

His wife didn't have time to disappear to the other end of the house. He caught her by the shoulder and turned her towards him. She wanted to retreat, but he did not let her go. The look on her face said it all - she was not going to give in, but her eyes, full of joy, betrayed her playful mood. He pulled her to him and kissed her again, this time with such passion that she barely had time to breathe.

But the children standing in the doorway looked at this spectacle in surprise. Their faces turned pale, and they turned away, as if they did not want to witness this scene. Disgust and embarrassment were intertwined in their eyes, because kisses from parents are something completely alien and uncomfortable for them.

Phainon, catching their glances, restrained himself. He understood that they would not appreciate this moment, but in his heart he was happy that he was able to feel close to his wife again, despite the childish awkwardness. His wife finally smiled and gently pushed him, running away again, but with a playful look, because she knew he would always catch up with her.

[thedreamlessnights]

Fervency

Non-Ascended Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Synopsis: After falling into mysterious spores in the Underdark, you start to experience some... strange side effects. Astarion is more than happy to assist.

Warnings and tags: 18+ (and I cannot stress this enough), aphrodisiac/glorified sex pollen, established relationship, discussions of consent, fingering, oral sex (both giving and receiving), blood drinking, multiple orgasms. Takes place post-game and includes mild spoilers.

Word Count: 5.7k

There’s not much that surprises you anymore.

It’s true - being kidnapped by illithids, having a tadpole implanted behind your eyes, facing the gods themselves - all of that does make it difficult for mundane life to come anywhere close enough to truly shock you. Your days aren’t necessarily peaceful, but they never seem quite as exciting as that blind haze of companionship in the aftermath of the nautiloid, trekking through the wilderness and shadow-cursed lands and the city, finding yourself in the company of strangers but soon-to-be family.

Still, these days, there’s something every now and then that catches you off guard. The trouble is, you’re never quite left in a space to know how to handle it. Unlike your earlier adventures, things are rarely solved with a dagger in your hand or a dash of flattery in your words. No, the burdens of day-to-day life are much more complicated than that.

Falling into a patch of mysterious spores, for one.

The Underdark is full of various mushrooms. Poisonous. Explosive. Befuddling. You could go on and on. You’ve had your number of close calls with them, but the sensation coursing over your skin feels like nothing you’ve ever experienced - and it doesn’t help that you’ve never seen spores like this.

Hells. Of course this is where your day would end up. 

Just a little stroll, you’d told yourself. It’ll be harmless. And it had been, for the most part. There’s an unearthly beauty to the Underdark that you’ve never encountered anywhere else, one you’ve come to appreciate just as much as the upper surface. But halfway through your usual route, your feet had snagged on a branch and you’d gone tumbling, and now - now you’re in a patch of glowing, red spores, feeling like…

Gods, what do you feel? 

Hot. You feel very, very hot. Sweat trickles down your back. Warmth blooms like poppies in a number of strange places - your cheeks, your lips, your neck. The feeling is spreading fast, bleeding through your ribs as you get to your feet.

Alright, you think to yourself, ignoring the sharp, bleeding panic in your throat that’s threatening to take over. Situations like this call for a sense of rationality. You’re going to get out. 

It takes much longer than it should for you to slowly stumble back to familiar ground. Your movements are jerky, as if you’re being puppeted around, and it’s getting harder to think straight when you’re feeling as if - whatever this is - is slowly consuming you. The heat is in your lungs, coursing fire near your pounding heart, raging with every inhale. 

You need to get this off of you, and as quickly as possible. After that, maybe it will fade and maybe it won’t. You’ll… you’ll figure it out. 

By the time you make it to the river, your knees are trembling so much that you nearly fall in. The water barely scratches the surface of the fire when you splash it over your skin, but the coolness of it is euphoric. You go as quickly as you can, covering area by area - your clothing, your arms, your face and neck - until most of the spores are off, but the feeling pulses and throbs in you all the same. Whatever it is, it isn’t killing you, but it certainly isn’t pleasant. 

You could tell Astarion. He’d tease you a little, but he’d also be certain to search endlessly to find something to stop your discomfort. And you ache for him. His touch, his voice, the fondness in his eyes when he looks at you. 

Had it really been just this morning when you’d last seen him? It seems like lifetimes away - lost to a very, very different type of ache in your veins that won’t seem to fade. You’ve just made up your mind to go find him, rising to your feet again, when the heat rushes to a very specific place between your legs and all thoughts of looking for Astarion are instantly cast out.

Oh, you think, somewhere between dizzy, needy, and utterly humiliated. So that’s what this is.

You’ve read about things like this - plants, pollen, potions -  but most of them had been in bad romance novels, and none of them had ever come with any mention of an antidote. And, needless to say, you won’t be making your way to the Myconid Sovereign to learn more. It’ll have to be handled on your own. 

You could risk going home and pretending to be ill, but Astarion is far too perceptive for that. He’d see through your ruse immediately. Which leaves the only option: hiding in a cave and waiting this out, praying he won’t notice you’re gone and come searching for you before you’re back.

And really, how bad can it be?

Bad. It can be very, very bad. 

You’ve been sitting in this cave for who knows how long, and your sanity is fading more and more by the minute.

It had been manageable at first. The heat spread through you like warm cider on a cold night - a slow, steady increase, the way a candle gradually burns down to the wick. You’d thought it would stop at a certain point (it had to, didn’t it?), but no. It just… kept going. 

Now, every inch of your body feels like it’s on fire, and it’s not slow, or steady, or even remotely bearable. It’s a strange, pleasurable flame, but a flame nonetheless. You can’t even decide whether touching yourself would even help at this point. Even just grazing your hand along the length of your thigh sends the fire rising, and you’re not keen on experimenting at the moment.

Your hands have gone stiff from balling your fists. Your mouth keeps switching between being as dry as sand and overly salivating. Each breath ignites more warmth, and you’ve been trembling for so long that you don’t remember how it feels to be still.

Gods. If you trusted yourself to get to your feet, you’d go see the Sovereign - a lifetime’s worth of humiliation or not. You don’t have any clue what time it is. There’s no sun or moon down here to guide you, no mechanism to spell out the hour. Has Astarion noticed your absence? How long until he’s concerned?

You know enough to know that you should have been back by now - that it’ll be unusual for you to have been gone so long. At least this spot you’ve found for yourself is relatively private. A dark, dry little place with a stone floor; fluorescent ivy in shades of lavender and coral; remote enough that, if your willpower fails and you end up making some noise, no one will be around to hear. 

You attempt to swallow, but the action dies on your tongue. You attempt to breathe, but you can’t seem to suck in any air. You’re just thinking you really might die in this painful, mortified state when the pad of footsteps on stone hits your ears, and your whole body pulls as taut as a rope. 

Oh, gods. Please not him. Anyone else. The Sovereign. The Society of Brilliance. Anyone.

But it’s him, because of course it is. He slowly makes his way inside, pressing through the narrow entrance and around the corner, and when he sees you curled against the cave wall, his brows rise - alarm.

“Wait,” you blurt out, determined to speak before he can. “Don’t come any closer. Please.”

Astarion stays where he is, but his eyes start instinctively scanning you over, searching for ailment or injury. “What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his head. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, even though you’re anything but. You want to say more, but your thoughts trail off as another wave of heat flares inside of you. You’ve started trembling again. Your fingers accidentally graze against your thigh, and you let out a small, involuntary noise.

Astarion hesitates, then takes a step closer. “Darling,” he starts, raising a brow, “you make a terrible liar.”

Of course you can’t fool him. Not even a little. You let out a laugh, but the sound hitches into a strange, choked sob. You pull your knees to your chest and let out a long, shaking breath, trying to get a grip. “I know,” you say softly. “Gods. I’m sorry.”

He takes another step closer, and concern writes itself into his expression. “Gods below,” he exclaims. “Er - my sweet, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look...”

“Horrible?” you finish for him. “I know.” 

“I… was going to say ill, actually,” Astarion replies, laughing a little. “This dark cave lighting looks beautiful on you, my dear.”

You can’t resist another laugh. It’s less burdened this time, but it fades away as you hesitate, very pointedly gazing down at your fingernails instead of meeting his eyes. “I may or may not have fallen into a patch of mysterious spores.”

“And?” Astarion says, lifting a hand into the air and giving a small, contemplative gesture. “Go on, darling. Seeing as you aren’t dead - I’m assuming they weren’t poisonous?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. How the hells are you going to phrase this? “No,” you answer. “I just feel… hot. Not like the explosive ones, just… hot.”

“Well,” Astarion says, “That’s… interesting. Alright - let me take a look at you.”

Half of you wants to protest, but what’s the point? He’ll find out the truth sooner or later. So, instead, you nod.

He steps closer, kneeling down at your side, and you have to ball your fists to keep from doing something stupid. You’re expecting more flame at his touch - a painful flare, like when you’d grazed your thigh - but when the back of his hand meets your forehead, his touch is like a salve. Soothing, cool, sweet. It mellows out the fire, makes you feel sane again.

You shut your eyes in relief, staying as still as you can, and when you open them, you find him giving you a look you know all too well. Smug. Affectionate. A glint in his eye that can only mean trouble.

“My, my,” he purrs. “Darling, I’m no healer, but… a racing pulse, dilated pupils, feverish to the touch? That, I know.” He leans in, his voice low in your ear. “And I can smell how much you want me.”

A shudder runs down your back, betraying you. Astarion leans in to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours - soft and gentle and perfect - and it takes everything in you to pull away.

“Wait,” you protest. 

He instantly halts, pulling away from you and scanning over your expression. “What is it?” he asks. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine,” you say quickly. “But you don’t… I mean - I can manage this on my own, you know.”

His brows rise. “My dear, you do realize I am very capable of helping you in this situation?”

“Gods, Astarion,” you say, biting back a delirious sort of laughter. “Believe me, I’m well aware. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. I can manage this.”

A fondness enters his expression - the rare kind, reserved for the most meaningful of moments. He leans closer, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. “I know,” he says softly, the words tender and delicate. “Trust me. I want to do this.” He trails a finger along your thigh, and you shiver again. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs. “And, unless I’m wrong, you’ve missed me, too.”

After searching his gaze and finding him entirely present, you let yourself relax into his touch. “I’ve missed you more than anything.”

“Good,” he says. “I was almost worried.”

He skims his knuckles over your jaw, leaning in to kiss you once more, and the flame in you seems to bend to his touch. It rages in you like a furnace, bellowing and cruel, but with every frigid brush of his fingers, the feeling subsides. Even the feel of his lips on yours seeps away the discomfort.

He’s slow with his actions, but he doesn’t tease, even though you can see the amusement in his eyes when he pulls away to look at you. He’s enjoying this, and if you’re honest with yourself, you are, too. If only it didn’t come at the price of your dignity - but if it’s going to fall away in front of anyone, it might as well be him. 

His hands slide down to your thighs, and your whole body pulls tight, torn between wanting him to touch you now and not wanting him to stop what he’s doing.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting against your ear. “I’ve got you, darling.”

You let out a shaky breath and try to coax your body into cooperating, shutting your eyes and letting the feel of him drown out the path of your thoughts. The sensation of his mouth, trailing down your neck, ranging between feather-light kisses and the barely-there sting of his teeth against the skin, making every inch of you melt into his touch like clay. His hands, sliding to the front of your top, deftly unlacing it and pulling it away from your skin.

Thank the gods no one is anywhere around this area - if anyone were to interrupt you, you’re sure you’d die right here and now. The simmering need that lies under your skin is bordering on painful, a white-hot delirium of impatience that will not be ignored any longer.

Astarion’s fingers skim across your sternum, further soothing the burning inside your chest, and his lips soon follow downward. You let out a soft noise from the back of your throat, something choked and desperate, and he hums against your skin in response.

When your eyes flutter open again, you find that he’s staring up at you as he kisses down your abdomen, eyes dark and hands curled lightly around your ribs, ardor and affection both palpable in the heat of his gaze.

Your instinct is to shut your eyes again - to shut out the intimacy and vulnerability that comes from holding his stare - but you don’t. Instead, you move the stiff muscle of your arm and coax your hand into working again, gently tangling your fingers into the silky-smooth, silvery curls in your lap.

He gives you a roguish grin, tugging on your bottoms until they finally, mercifully, pull away from your skin, leaving you in nothing but your smallclothes.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, the words dark and heavy on his tongue, but they feel more for him than for you. His brows crease together and his actions turn sure and firm and quickened - as if he can’t wait to have his mouth on you.

Beautiful. It’s the second time he’s called you that word tonight, but it doesn’t stop the heat from rising back into your cheeks, and that feeling of the warmth seems to spark a chain reaction. 

It’s as if his voice is stoking the fire - more heat, all rushing to the very place his lips are heading to now, only to be soothed by his touch. He gently pulls at your thighs, coaxing you to lay on your back, and you’re so desperate that you nearly knock your head against the hard floor laid out beneath you in your effort to obey.

Your mind isn’t processing things the way it usually does: in an even, progressing line of events, every moment spread out from one to the next. Rather, everything comes in bursts of feeling, flashing between being a thousand miles away and all too close, all too present. You barely feel the graze of fabric when he removes your smallclothes and leaves you entirely bare, but the gentle, wet press of his tongue against you feels amplified a thousand times over.

“Astarion,” you gasp, your hand tightening in his hair. 

He hums again, and the feeling of it has you shivering, muscles going slack in pleasure. Short, soft flicks of his tongue over your clit and you’re left a shuddering mess, not thinking to try to be quiet - not really thinking at all, anymore. He grips at one of your thighs, looping it over his shoulder as he pulls away for a moment, nipping at the tender flesh there. Soothing it with a gentle kiss, then returning to his work.

You’re a walking - or perhaps laying - contradiction. Your arousal is lava hot, but your pleasure is cold as ice. You can’t decide if you’re cold or hot or both or neither. You’re not in a place to think, not as blinding bursts of pleasure course up your spine, rendering you a lump of skin and bones and not much more. His mouth is nothing if not fervent.

You aren’t sure how long it lasts - your hand in his hair, his mouth against you, writhing in dizzying pleasure against the hard, stone floor and barely feeling the discomfort. It might not be very long at all - but it feels like hours before his fingers enter you.

You’re soaking wet. If you weren’t so focused on, well, everything else, it’d be humiliating. Still, when two fingers slip into you and meet no resistance whatsoever, Astarion groans. The pace he’s setting with both hand and tongue is torturous, slow and even, and it takes everything in you not to beg him for more. 

But when he goes a little faster, a moan pulls from your throat, and you look down to find him grinning as he pulls away, fingers still at work. “Look at you,” he says, praise lilting the words as he curls his fingers - sending your hips rolling. “You’ll come for me, won’t you, darling?”

And as if he’s flicked a switch in your mind, you’re coming around his fingers, gasping and shuddering and clenching. Electricity seems to coarse through your veins, hot and sharp, flaming and radiant, and when it’s gone, there’s only the slickness between your thighs, a slight breathless laughter that escapes from you without a thought, and the fading warmth of the spores.

For a moment, it seems as though there might be relief. Your thoughts clear and the heat wanes, but after a sparse second or two of relief, it comes back as strong as ever. 

You’d be disappointed at its reappearance, but then Astarion is crawling over you, using his knee to coax your legs apart for him, so how could you ever be disappointed? Everything else slips away except for him. His eyes, dark with want, his lips, molding against yours, his tongue, gently pressing into your mouth as he buries a hand in your hair.

He’s hard for you. You can feel it, and that realization has you grinding against him. He groans, cursing under his breath, then reaches down to undo his trousers. “Are you ready for me, love?” he asks, his voice half-broken with want.

You laugh, still trembling from your climax. “You know I am.”

“Mm,” he hums, his eyes glimmering in the dark. “But maybe I wanted to hear you say it for me, darling.”

Gods. He’s beautiful - always so beautiful - even here, in this dark, cold cave you’ve found. A work of art down to the dark circles under his eyes, the crow’s feet around his eyes, his smile lines. 

You could spend a thousand years studying the art of him and never, ever get bored; not of his voice, and the way his confidence sometimes, ever so rarely, breaks into something real and raw. Not of his hands: nimble fingers and the calluses from his blade and soft skin - and not of his eyes, which seem both dark and light depending on his mood, and which can seem so sharp and severe at times, but sometimes soften into something soft and round. Sometimes. When they’re looking at you.

You could spend a thousand years admiring him and never, ever get tired of him, and never, ever deserve him. And he’d never believe it.

He’s noticed you staring, because of course he has, and he tilts his head. “What’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours?”

You can only smile, deliriously happy and wanting and both hot and cold - hot where the warmth burns uncontained, and cold everywhere his skin meets yours. “I love you.”

Your words must catch him by surprise, because it’s shock that meets his expression first. It fades away into affection, placing itself on his lips in a soft smile. “I - I love you too,” he answers, brushing a stray strand of your hair out of your face. “More than anything.” 

He clears his throat and shifts, and as you feel his erection brush against you, only then do you remember the conversation you two had been having. Him between your legs. You, still needing him inside of you.

“I’m ready for you,” you breathe. “Please. I want you.”

“How could I say no?” he asks, leaning in and biting at the lobe of your ear.

He presses into you slowly, even though you don’t need it - not after the effects of the spores and your first climax still evident on your thighs. Only when he once again begins a slow, torturous pace do you realize that he’s doing it to tease you, and when you look up and find a certain amount of devious intent in his eyes, a shudder runs down your back.

He’s always seemed to enjoy watching you fall apart. How many times have you looked up in the middle of one of your late-night trysts to find his eyes on you, the darkened ruby gaze that seems as starved for you as his hunger for blood? 

How many times has he eased your arm away from your face when you felt the need to hide yourself, and how many times has he gently pulled your hand away from your mouth so he could hear the noises you made for him? 

There’s never really been a question about it; Astarion gets off on your pleasure, and the feeling is very, very mutual. Vulnerability aside, it does something beyond words to you to know how much he enjoys giving you pleasure. And, sure as the hells, you like to give it right back to him. So, keeping your gaze locked on his, you grind your hips down to meet him and let out a moan.

His jaw clenches and he swallows hard, his thrusts deepening as he props himself over you. You watch the lovely path of the action over the bob of his Adam’s apple, then flit your eyes back to his, letting out another noise.

“Gods,” he says, and his pace quickens. His hands wrap around your shoulders and he groans, panting as he rocks into you, his grip turning into something almost bruising. 

Part of you desperately wants him to keep going - but the other part of you wants to give him something, and now seems the proper time for it. So you tilt your head to give him access to your neck and murmur a few, soft words, and he slowly comes to a halt: breathing heavily, nails digging into your skin as he tries to regain some semblance of composure.

He kisses down your jaw, slowly drags his teeth along the skin, then sinks his fangs into your neck. You’re used to the sharp pain of his bite, but it’s different today. Intensified. It’s as if his mouth on your skin, the barely-there pain, is salving through that fire and every single limb of yours goes slack with…

What is it? Pleasure? Affection? Relief? It’s something in between, something warm but not scorching, something sweet but not overly-saccharine. He starts moving his hips again and you’re instantly on the edge, planting your hands on his lower back underneath his scars and resisting the urge to dig your nails into the skin.

He’s drunk from you enough times since you met to know where the limit lies, even on the cusp of his climax. He drains you until you’re sufficiently lightheaded, but not enough to harm you, then pulls away, planting a messy kiss on your mouth. 

Messy. It’s how you know he’s close. His actions are usually so graceful, his movements lithe and calculated. Only on the edge of orgasm do the pretenses fall away - his shaking thighs, soft moans into your lips, panting, blood smeared across his lips and almost certainly yours. 

There’s a blinding moment of pleasure as he thrusts harder, deeper, neither of you caring about the level of noise you’re making, and your nails dig into his back. He lets out a groan of approval, then - gods, you’re climaxing again, your whole body trembling with the waves of pleasure that crash over you. Overwhelming at first, then receding into the brief moment of clarity that lasts a minute or two this time. 

Then the spores start their work again.

The heat isn’t nearly as intense this time, but it’s still there. Part of you wonders if it’ll ever really fade. You lay still, gasping, as Astarion slowly pulls out of you. Then he brushes the damp hair out of your face and kisses you again. 

“Darling,” he starts breathlessly, flashing a mischievous grin at you, “if this is where we’ll end up, you should fall into mysterious spores more often.”

You laugh, sending a playful, light hit toward his shoulder. He catches your hand mid-action, pressing a kiss to your palm, holding your gaze the entire time. “You’re not the one who feels like they’re on fire, Astarion.”

He hums, kissing back down your neck, cleaning up the remnants of blood from his bite. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says, his voice gravelly with want. 

That gives you pause. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says with some effort, propping himself above you, “whatever those spores were - they seem to have entered your bloodstream, my dear. It’s - an interesting sensation, I’ll admit.”

You’re searching his face for a tell that he’s not being serious, but instead you find wide, blown out pupils, flushed cheeks, and nothing beside his usual mischievousness. Any blood left in your face quickly exits. “Gods, I didn’t even think. I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” He presses another soft kiss to your lips, and you see a small smear of your blood on his lips. When you lick your lips, you can taste the iron of it on your tongue.

Astarion is watching you. His gaze darkens, and he lets out another thin, broken groan. “Darling. At this rate, we’ll be going the whole night.”

And, honestly? With the rate the heat is returning - you don’t doubt it. 

Still, you gently ease him off of you to sit up, then make your way into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck. 

There’s something addictive about Astarion - there always has been. From the moment he’d had you against the dirt, a dagger to your neck, he’s been your fix.  

In those first days when you’d had to hide your want for him - not even lust or sheer desire, but want; the ache to run your finger through silver curls, the warmth in your cheeks when he held your gaze just a moment too long, and the rare moments of vulnerability that came more and more as you’d gotten to know him - it had been torture. 

And then he’d propositioned you. And all at once, you’d found yourself in a clearing under silver moonlight, alone with him, long before you ever knew the extent of what had been done to him - and after all this time, the craving for him, the need to lay beside him in the long nights and find him there come morning, has only ever gotten so much stronger.

The heat is somewhat bearable now. Enough to take a moment to admire him, head tilted as he gazes up at you, pure need simmering in his eyes. Dark, glinting rubies. His fangs, barely visible under parted lips. Flushed cheeks. That will fade before long; the rosiness of drinking never lasts more than a few minutes, but you admire it all the same. 

“You’re beautiful.” The words are hushed. You hadn’t even meant to speak them, but your mind isn’t really yours at the moment, not wholly, not as firm as it should be. You feel half-drunk, half-needy. 

The corners of his lips flick into a smile, and he raises a brow. “Oh?” he asks, clearly stealing for more flattery. “Do you think so?”

You lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You know I do.” 

You gather a single, loose curl in your fingertips and gently roll it between your thumb and index finger, admiring the softness of it. You could use the same soaps, wash your hair with the same things he uses a thousand times over, and it’d never matter. It’d never be as soft as his.

“Anything in particular?” he asks. His voice is particularly airy; he’s battling between begging you for what he needs, and the compliments he likes so much.

You think back to when you’d first described him - that night beneath the stars, when he’d tossed the mirror aside and asked how you viewed him. Words hadn’t been enough then, and they still aren’t, but you’ll try.

“Your eyes,” you start, running your finger over his crow’s feet. “They change color in the light. Right now, they’re dark. Hungry. I can tell you want me, and I like that.”

His hands, which have strayed to the back of your thighs, tighten against your skin. “And? What else?”

The heat’s strength is back, clawing its way up your abdomen. “The way your hair curls around your ears,” you murmur.

He frowns, and you know you’ve gone too poetic. To distract him, you lean in and nip at the lobe of one, and any of his upset disintegrates. 

“Gods,” he murmurs, bringing his hands up to your waist. “Darling, I can’t wait much longer-”

You’ve trailed down to his jaw, alternating between kisses and sharp little nips just like the ones he likes to give you, and the words die in his mouth in favor of a sharp inhale. 

You won’t keep him waiting much longer. In fact, you have a plan. A plan that’d hatched from the moment you’d realized that the spores were in his system, too. Since you’d seen the hungry look in his eyes - every inch a predator circling around its prey.

Only, you’re not content to be the prey. You want to disarm him, and if any of the time you’ve spent together means anything, you’ve gotten very, very good at that.

His shirt is still on, so your hands are quick to remove it, tugging it away from cooling porcelain skin, silky under your fingers as you drag them down his sternum. He shudders, and you remember how it’d felt when he’d first touched you. If it’s anything like that, he’s probably dying to beg you for more.

Your lips soon follow the path your hands are sitting, taking your time with the softness of his abdomen before you pull his trousers away. He’s panting now, and a frenzied sort of desperation lies in his gaze when you look up at him.

And he’s hard again. Leaking.

You lightly trace your nails down his thighs, silently relishing in the way his breath hitches - the way his hips unconsciously buck toward you. 

“Gods,” he says again, and though it isn’t a direct request, with the broken way it falls off his tongue, this time it is every bit a plea. 

And you’re in a mood to please.

You take his cock in hand, swiping your thumb over the head, where precum is slowly leaking, and he lets out a long, breathy noise. You hum in response, taking his length between your lips, and the sound becomes strained, more needy. His hand gently makes its way into your hair, very lightly guiding you where he wants, but not forcefully.

You alternate between things: long, even movements of your mouth as you drag your tongue down the shaft, swirling your tongue around the head, then sucking him hard and slow. Eventually, simply following the guidance of his hand. His grip tightens in your hair - not painful, just encouraging - and his noises become more drawn out, less coherent.

When you pull away for a moment, using your hand to continue what your mouth had just been doing, you find him dangerously close. You press a kiss to the head and take him in again, increasing pace, accommodating him as you take him in as far as you possibly can, and he starts whimpering. 

“Please,” he says, and if that isn’t a rare word to hear from him. 

On another day, you might tease him, but you don’t want to. Not now, while he’s begging to have you. Instead, you take him as deep as you can again and suck harder. Astarion tugs at your hair and his thighs shudder and you know he’s close.

“Please,” he says again. “Gods, don’t stop.”

And you wouldn’t dream of it. What you can’t take into your mouth, you use your hand to stroke, and that’s it. He’s coming.

There’s something artful about it - the tremor that runs through him, the salty taste of him in your mouth, and those seeking, breathless sounds that come out of him as he spills onto your tongue. A long, shaky inhale as he pumps his hips, still chasing out his pleasure, then the trembling exhale as his mind starts to come back to him.

He doesn’t soften, and you don’t take your mouth off him. Not yet.

Usually, Astarion can be counted on for two orgasms, but if those spores are doing anything remotely like what they were doing to you, there’s certain to be much, much more than that.

“By the hells,” he murmurs airily, running a hand down your back. “You’re going to kill me, darling.”

You pull away for a moment, kissing at his abdomen, keeping his eyes locked on his as you do. “Does that mean you want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, trailing your nails along the skin of his thigh.

He swallows hard. “Gods, don’t,” he pleads.

And you don’t.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Archive link because paywall but LOOK WHAT'S IN THE TIMES. CLOWNFALL BEHIND THE SCENES. https://archive.is/GdLCM

Oh DAAAAAAAAMN

God there's so much in this but let's start with:

November 7 I am blessed with the use of a car to share with Commons leader Penny Mordaunt. On its first outing, the government car service sends a very pleasant driver who has clearly never been outside the M25 and is totally unfamiliar with the rural, unlit lanes of west Wales. We crawl along, following the verge in and out of every yard and gateway until we get to a road with white lines, where normality is restored.

Lmao.

BUT HOLY SHIT THERE'S SOME GOLD HERE. My favourite entry:

January 11, 2023 Just before PMQs we get a call to say one of our MPs, Andrew Bridgen, has made a Twitter connection between the vaccine rollout and the Holocaust. No 10 is initially inclined to “demand an apology” but due to Bridgen being an utter knob, we agree the more decisive and meaningful course of action is to suspend the whip with “immediate effect”. The antivaxers go spare; to them our move confirms the Deep State is at work. The reality is he is a malevolent creep whom nobody likes, and we really don’t need him in our party. A massive cheer goes up in the whips’ office when I tell them.

Get fucked Andrew you disgustoid.

Meanwhile:

June 7/8 Harriet Harman calls by to tell me her privileges committee will publish the report into Boris [Johnson] on June 29 and hand it to him on Friday at noon. It will recommend a 20-day suspension, which will almost certainly result in a recall motion and by-election. Brace for impact. I speak to BoJo, who is questioning whether there is any procedural route by which we can kill off the report or at least vote it down. In any normal circumstances, a former PM asking for special treatment would be a big deal but this being Boris, it doesn’t surprise me at all. Worryingly, it doesn’t even annoy me that much either. So I remind him, as nicely as I can, that it was he who set up this process, he who approved its terms of reference and he who accepted Harriet Harman as its chair. “But I was in India and I wasn’t concentrating,” comes the reply. “I left it all to the whips.” Not sure that will wash, even if it were true.

GOD I'm so glad he's gone. Fucking hell, you get away from the crass incompetence of that fucking buffering pig-stuffed buffoon mask for a couple of years and your mind heals and forgets just how bad he was.

July 6 The standards committee publishes its report on Chris Pincher (accused of groping a young man), concluding with an eight-week suspension. He is finished. On the face of it, the sentence seems unbelievably harsh given he has lost his job, all his money and most of his friends. On the other hand, maybe we are all discovering that “squeezing people’s arses” is not acceptable, however fleetingly or however drunken the circumstances.

Yeah, Simon, maybe you are learning sexual harassment is not acceptable, Jesus Christ. I also managed to forget the extent to which Simon Hart is Mammy's Specialest Turd. But that's actually a good thing, because this whole thing is written as him just having the most increasingly stressful year of his entire life as Tory after Tory goes to an orgy and shits on someone's head, or goes to a party dressed as Jimmy Saville and fucks a blow-up doll, or Suella Happens Again. The whole thing is increasingly written like he wants to cry, but also like he's the One Reasonable Man in the whole place; particularly interesting is the way he tries to throw others under the bus when he was all on board with their shit while in power.

Anyway. Christ I'm glad to see the back of them all.

[act-nat-ural]

Gifts (And Feelings) Exchanged

When the Karasuno boys’ volleyball team decided to organize a Secret Santa, you were initially excited. You love the players and your fellow managers, and you were looking forward to picking something out for them. That was, until you picked Tsukishima’s name out of the hat.

You gulp and give a nervous smile before walking back and sitting down next to Yachi. She gives you a sheepish smile.

“Do you already have an idea of what you’re going to get him?” she asks.

You groan internally. “Zero clue.”

She raises her brows in surprise. “Really? I would’ve thought otherwise, considering you’ve been on the team longer than me. N-Not that I meant that in a bad way!” She starts to apologize, but you cut her off.

“It’s okay—it’s just…” You groan. “I don’t even know what he likes.” She hums thoughtfully. “Wanna see who I got?”

“You don’t have to show me—” she starts, but you hand over the slip of paper.

She lets out a quiet “Ohhh.”

“Yeah, I see the dilemma.”

You and Kei had a… certain relationship, to say the least. You provide him with minor feedback; he calls you rude names. It’s all very pleasant. The worst part of it all is, you love the banter. At first, you dreaded practice, but over time, you started looking forward to seeing his stupid, gorgeous face. You think Tadashi might be onto you, too, because last week, when he and Kei started to walk off, he turned and gave you a thumbs-up for some reason. Weird.

You sigh again and stare at Kei’s name on the paper. “What to get you?” you mutter.

Kei hated buying gifts for people. It felt much too personal—especially when it was for people he hardly knew. He could stomach buying a birthday present for his family or maybe Tadashi, but his teammates? No thanks. When he drew your name out of the cheaply made Santa hat, he frowned. He crumpled the paper and immediately walked back to sit next to Tadashi.

“Who’d you get, Tsukki?” Tadashi asked.

“That would defeat the whole purpose of the ‘secret’ in Secret Santa, Tadashi,” Kei replied snarkily.

As Tadashi starts rambling on about what he’s thinking of getting Hinata, Kei’s mind begins to drift—specifically, to his favorite manager. While he would rather die than admit it, he truly enjoyed the banter between the two of you. At first, you were a bit shy and didn’t want to talk back to him, but over time, you started giving him hell. And he loved every second of it.

“Tsukki? Are you thinking about—”

A quick smack shuts Tadashi up.

“Shush,” Kei mutters.

As the days go by, both you and Kei find yourselves with a bit of a problem. Trying to find the perfect gift for each other is harder than either of you expected, especially since you’re both determined not to go the predictable route. You’d die before giving him something as generic as a water bottle or some volleyball gear—Kei deserves something personal, even if he’d never admit to liking it.

Finally, after a lot of thought (and some input from Yachi and Tadashi), you settle on a gift: a small, framed photo of the team celebrating their last win, with Kei in the background, a hint of a smile on his face. You remember catching that rare moment and thinking how nice it would be to remind him of it. You also throw in a mini potted cactus, with a tiny note that says, “Even prickly plants can grow if you give them some light.” You can’t help but laugh at the idea, knowing he’ll probably roll his eyes at the cheesy note, but maybe… just maybe, he’ll like it.

Meanwhile, Kei is just as stuck. He considers a sarcastic, borderline rude gift but somehow can’t bring himself to go through with it. Instead, he finds himself at a music store, almost embarrassed as he searches for something you’d like. Finally, he picks out a simple pair of high-quality earbuds, with a note that says, “For when you need to block out annoying people.” He cringes at his own softness but tells himself it’s fine. It’s practical, he reasons. Nothing more.

The day of the Secret Santa gift exchange arrives, and you’re doing your best to act casual as you hand Kei his present. He takes it with an unreadable look on his face, his usual cool and indifferent expression firmly in place.

As he opens it, you see his lips twitch upward for just a second at the sight of the cactus and the note. But he quickly clears his throat, trying to play it off as uninteresting. “Very… thoughtful,” he says, not meeting your gaze. His eyes linger on the photo frame for a moment, and you’re almost sure he’s touched, even if he won’t say it.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, crossing your arms and looking away to hide your own embarrassment. “Don’t get too sentimental on me, Tsukishima.”

“Please. I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, though you both know he’s trying not to smile.

Then, it’s your turn. Kei hands you a small box, and you open it to find the earbuds. At first, you blink in surprise, then read his note and can’t help laughing. It’s such a Tsukishima thing to say, and somehow, that makes it all the more endearing.

“Thanks, Kei,” you say, softening a bit as you look up at him. “I’ll make sure to use them when you’re being especially irritating.”

He smirks. “That’s probably wise.”

There’s a beat of silence, and both of you look away, unsure of what to say next. Practice is wrapping up, and everyone else is getting ready to leave. You clear your throat and try to act nonchalant.

“So, uh… do you want to grab something to eat after this?” you ask, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I mean, since we’re… already here and all.”

Kei’s eyebrows raise, and for a split second, he looks genuinely surprised. But he quickly regains his composure, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Sure,” he says with a shrug. “I guess I could tolerate your company a little longer.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “How generous of you.”

As you both head out together, walking a little closer than usual, you feel a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the winter cold. You both can’t help but be happy with what your secret santa got you- somebody to be with.

note: i know it’s early november but i want it to be christmas already 😭

[m1d-45]

will you promise that i'll see you again?

summary: your people refuse reason, and their damage refuses to heal. when it seems as if the whole world has left you, your dutiful knight still remains by your side.

word count: 2.3k

-> warnings: implied suicidal ideation (reader + unnamed side character), reader's previous deaths are mentioned in somewhat graphic detail

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @yuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

“you’re one of the only things keeping me going, you know.”

dainslef turned to you in surprise, the even neutrality to your tone a sharp contrast to the rapid pace of his heart. he wasn’t a fool, he knew that the hunt had to be taking a heavy toll on you, but this…

this was more than he expected.

he knew he was one of a pitiful few who saw through celestia’s false puppet, who knew you for you and not their mirage. he knew that the entire world was hellbent on erasing you from existence, that you’d been forced through your own death countless times as teyvat pulled you apart and pushed you back together far from the scene of your would-be murder. he saw the golden scars across your skin, the dried remains of blood lining the wounds you hadn’t been able to patch yet. he’d been the one to wash them away, not minding the refuse soaking into his gloves if it meant your hands could be clean.

he recognized the dull exhaustion in your eyes, the same as the ones he saw in the reflections of lakes. tired, worn, barely there, hanging on by one solitary string that was wound so tightly around a desperate hand.

you had always been his reason for continuing. when the traveller broke down and the ruler of the abyss hid from the sun, you were there. when the chasm’s mud clung to his boots and the memories in his head burned as nails forced between his eyes, you were there. his rosary was kept tight to his chest at all times, familiar prayers pulling him up in the morning and forcing him to sleep at night. he was alive for far, far too long, but you made it bearable. you were his duty, his promise.

he never once thought that he’d be yours. then again, he never thought that he’d have to defend you from the ones you once called friends. time never did pass how he expected it to.

“…leading light?”

you looked down, twirling blades of grass around your fingers. he had led you up to a mostly desolate area of sumeru, west of bayda harbor. it close enough to the sea, forest, and desert that you could reasonably make an escape through any of those routes if need be, while also providing a rather pleasant view. the sky was bleeding red and gold as the sun sank below the horizon, a remarkable sight that fell on blind eyes. there was no use trying to enjoy nature’s beauty when he still kept one hand on his sword and both ears pricked for the slightest sign of danger.

you shouldn’t have to worry about your safety. you shouldn’t have to prioritize based on how likely you are to get hurt, or how easily it would be to make an escape. you still flinched when the wind blew a little too quick, used to it heralding armored footsteps and battle cries. in another life, you were welcomed with open arms, able to enjoy yourself without constantly being on high alert. teyvat did what it could to adapt; the air was still, frozen in time, barely a bird chirping for miles. it was meant to be comforting, he thinks, but dead silence was more unnerving than any breeze.

“i mean it.” he could hear every shift in his cloak around your shoulders, the heavy fabric doing little to soothe your stress. it was yours more than it was his now, to the point he felt claustrophobic wearing it. how long had he been traveling with you? the days blurred.

“i don’t doubt you.” he never would. never could. he’s not sure, even if he somehow wanted to, that his body would allow him to treat your words as anything less than fact. “but i don’t understand what you mean.”

you were a god. the creator, the first, the one that shaped the sovereigns scales and laid the foundations of earth. you predated the archons, celestia, the very skies themselves…

and he, somehow, was a driving motivation for you?

his words must have been funny, a sharp laugh tumbling out of your mouth. it was bitter, humorless, and somewhat raspy. he made note to find some water for you later. “what else could i mean?” you turn to him, some of his confusion lost as your eyes found his. even this burnt out, deep bags set beneath them, you still managed to steal the very air in his lungs. “you’re the only reason i’m still here.”

he didn’t know what to say. what was there to be said, when you were you and he was him? when the world had abandoned you, it made sense you’d cling to what remained faithful. it was merely coincidence he happened to find you first, that’s all. coincidence that you trusted enough not to run from, coincidence that you allowed to care for your injuries. there was nothing to say, because you held nothing for him in particular, only leaning on him out of need. he had to believe that. what was he left with if that wasn’t true? an awkward truth hid beneath his well-known lies, too large for him to see the edges, let alone to contain.

“please… do not say such things again.” to ask of his god what he could not ask of himself was surely some form of heresy, as was willingly laying aside his guard when he was the only one who was tasked with protecting you. he pulled his attention from the tide below, from the rustling trees, holding faith that the world would not be needlessly cruel. he stepped forward, kneeling beside you. even up close, you still seemed painfully small. “it is your own resilience that has allowed you to persevere.”

it’s the earth that leads you from danger.

it’s the water that follows you wherever you go.

it’s the leylines that whisk you to safety.

it’s the wind that warns you of what’s to come.

it’s the you from the past that protects the you in the present.

it’s the you in the present that provides for the you in the future.

it’s you, from everywhere and everywhen, continuing to fight.

and yet you sigh. you look away, across the sea, tracing fontaines skyline. “it really isn’t. i was lucky to run into you when i did.”

you had just crossed the wall back into the forest, burning hot and shaking. he was the lucky one, in truth, to be able to pick your figure out from the sand below. perched on a high cliffside, even mitachurls were reduced to small brown flecks.

you had worn a cryo mage’s cloak, which was what initially drew his attention. abyss activity wasn’t uncommon in the area, but a cryo mage in the desert… that was cause for intrigue. he stepped forward and slid down the steep face in front of him, a slight puff of dust marking his landing in the desolate sand of old vanarana.

he didn’t know what to expect. you stumbled around the jagged remains of a tree, heading for the statue of the seven. he followed, only growing more confused. cryo and dendro did not react with each other, and there was no way to “slow” a statue. a scouting mission, maybe? but why a cryo mage, when pyro would have been far more advantageous in the case of an attack?

he leaned around the corner carefully, prepared for the sight of a staff or the chanting of abyssal magic filling the air. the entire world seemed to be holding its breath, frozen in place and waiting for some trigger to continue.

he saw none of that. you were collapsed at the foot of the statue, faint wheezing only making it to his ears by virtue of the standstill around him. you held no staff, commanded no magic, your chest barely moving with air.

he’d never seen a mage seek out the archons when dying. one hand squeezed the handle of his sword as he crept forward, ready to strike should the situation turn against him. the sand barely shifted beneath his feet, his own heart sounding too loud to his ears. you did not move, showing no signs that you had noticed his approach. he still didn’t trust it.

your cloak was tattered and torn, with thick gloves atypical of a mage. they reminded him more of hilichurl wraps, which was strange considering you wore no mask. your face was instead covered by what looked like eremite cloth, just as stained and dirtied as the rest of your clothes. what he could see looked almost human; in another life, he could believe you were a weary traveller, lost amidst the sand.

he was acting foolish. if the abyss had a human tool, he needed to figure out why. he reached down, undoing the sloppy knot of your veil and letting the brocade fall limply to the grass.

…grass. he blinked, eyes flickering between the ground and your face, not sure which was harder to believe. flowers had bloomed around you, protecting your body from the blazing sands, and he’d be a fool not to recognize the face plastered all over every bounty board.

he didn’t understand. if nothing else, he thought the archons would have enough respect for their creator to know when they were being lied to, yet before him was barely living proof of the inverse. sweat beaded along every inch of exposed skin, deep-set heat exhaustion burning you from the inside out. how could you be a threat? how could they be so blind?

he looked again, the shine of elemental sight straining his eyes, catching flickers of the dendro energy pouring from the statue. you were the only one the archons would feed. you were the only one to make the very earth break its own rules, allowing lotuses to bloom from barren soil. something painfully similar to rage threatened what remained of his rationality, and it took all he had to push it aside.

that didn’t matter. if he went off on some banal revenge quest, he’d be no better than them. your safety mattered more. he picked you up and set aside how calm his curse felt, beginning the trek back to his camp. behind him, the flowers already began to wither, losing their persistence without you to foster it.

perhaps that initial meeting was luck. but these was no luck involved in your trust in him. when you woke up and saw him at your side, you chose to trust him. you chose to believe that he was not like the others, that he would protect you, and he was forever grateful for that trust. nobody could fault you for being angry, for being spiteful about what you were put through and choosing to lash out. nobody would have the right to be upset if you chose to vent your wrath against those that had hurt you.

but you didn’t. you chose, again and again, to believe in the world. you chose to let them live their lives, even if it meant getting hurt again in the process. you chose a quiet life traveling with him over the comfortable life on your throne. to willingly choose to travel with a disgraced knight to spare your people guilt… he couldn’t decide if it was noble or reckless. either way, he was selfishly happy that he was the one to stay by your side.

“i won’t try to convince you. but, please.. do not give up on yourself so easily.” i know far too many who have died by the same hand. “the world and its opinion does not define you. only you get to decide where fate leads.”

you lean towards him, and he thinks you might have passed out- but no, your head lands on his shoulder with far too much precision. he stiffens, not used to existence without a constant pain beneath his skin. “how motivational. you tell all your soldiers that?”

his heart is beating too quickly, thoughts unusually hard to grasp. you’re the only one who could have this effect on him. he only wished it wasn’t now, when your belief in yourself was on the edge. “i mean it. none of this is your fault, and neither are celestial actions the people’s fault. i know that you are hurt, but i don’t want you to accept that main needlessly. you shouldn’t have to view your creation with such pain.” slowly, carefully, he raises the hand closer to you, doing his best not to disturb you as he settles it on your arm. he’s can only hope that the contact brings you as much comfort as it does him. “if nothing else, believe me. promise you’ll at least try.”

he doesn’t think you’ll agree. why would you make a promise to one who represents the heaven’s betrayal? why would you let him hold you close at all, when you can surely sense the bindings of those who tried to kill you wrapped tightly around his soul? he doesn’t know. all he can do is hope.

“…alright, dainslef. i promise.”

twilight has long since fallen, and yet he smiles for the first time in centuries.

[skeletonh0e]

Darling, just start the Chase

Description: You unfortunately go into heat, dealing with that alone is unpleasant but your pheromones trigger each of their own respective heats. Four of the most deadly men in the multi verse are desperate to compete for the right of mate, can you escape or will the boys kill each other trying to get to you? A/N: Extremely self indulgent that's been rumbling around in my brain for a bit, had to write it out. There will be multiple parts, rest assured. Fem Reader with AFAB anatomy, x Killer Sans, Horror Sans, Nightmare Sans & Dust Sans. Everything is consensual (though not safe or sane), but it's a heat fic with the typical elements of dub con/cnc, lost of control, possessive behavior, etc. Reader is a monster, species is vague, kinda went the route of them having an implied romance with all four Sanses going on already but it kind of left all up to interpretation regarding the exact history with each Sans. I did my best to spell check and beta read but it's probably still messy, sworry

MINORS DNI

You're up early, really early. The sun hadn't even properly risen yet, your body felt flush and the moment you went to simply sit up, your nearly groaned as something extremely sensitive coursed through your sex. It didn't quite click yet, you've woke up horny before but as you got onto your feet properly you feel the sheer dampness in between your legs.

Then you remembered the time of month and the year.

Fuck.

This was not the ideal time for this, far from it, your heat cycle was never a pleasant time. You always rode it out alone for better or worse, the thing about it was that once you really got going on it you just couldn't stop. And it tended to go on for a week at best, only cutting short if you managed to get yourself properly knocked up within a few days. Having a kid was one thing but going deep into a craze of non stop week sounded nice at first but it'd leave you tired after the fact as well as throw all current ones out the window.

That couldn't happen you had plans, that's not even mentioning you promised to meet with Nightmares Crew, fuck, those stupid toxic assholes

You nearly whine, flashes of their faces coursing through you and images of being pinned underneath him. Fuck, your insides clench and your can't help but wonder how fucking ruined your underwear is. Your pussy is so fucking ready for this, that instictinual part to be claimed, fucked, breed good and proper. You cringe a bit, it's hard to tell how much that idea naturally appeals to you and how much of it is hormones going crazy. It's probably just both when you get down to it.

No, you cannot see any of them like this. That's not even mentioning how they might react to this news, you could trust Nightmare and Axe to be mature, maybe Dust, but Killer? You're already dreading the thought.

You'll make up some excuse, for now...? You gotta take care of this, wasn't there some medicine that helped with the severity of these? You should get on looking into that. Quickly, your force your feet to your closet, picking out....whatever. It was a pretty boring set of clothes, but it gave you some much needed layers to your sensitive body. More skin covered the better.

The moment you have your bedroom though, there's someone in the hallway. Someone you just decided you were going to try to avoid right now,

"Dust...." you breathe out in clear surprise.

He's leaning against the wall, face completely covered though from his posture it didn't seem like he was looking at anything in particular, he doesn't respond at first but slowly turns to look at you, "good mornin' sleeping beauty"

"I think I'm the one that should be saying that to you....you've been up longer," not that you minded too much, though him visiting was one thing him doing so while you were asleep? That was new, "Do you...uh, need something?"

"boss ordered me and the others to escort you today somethin' happened and he wants look outs on all our resources" he's not telling you everything.

You frown trying to put the pieces together....something was concerning enough for Nightmare to send all his goons to look after you? You'll need to get onto that but, "Where are the others?" you ask, trying once again to ignore your clit throbbing at the idea of the other two here

"on their way here soon I imagine I got here early," he stops leaning on the nearby wall, taking a step closer to you, "seems like a good thing I did"

There was something....strange in how he was looking at you, a brief flash of his multi colored eyes and you felt like prey under the gaze of a far large more dangerous animal, it triggers your instincts to run away but you resist. "Guessin' there's no point in telling ole' Mare that I'm fine for today?"

"cut the shit," his tone was unusually blunt, "I can smell that"

You frown again, about to ask him to elaborate but he motions to your hips, taking another step closer and you take a step back.

"don't think boss knows, would have come to get you himself otherwise, but i'm glad for it I get you all to myself," he presses forward and you're slowly being backed up before you know it.

Your mind is racing, arousal surging through you as you're both scared as hell yet impossibly aroused by the scene unfolding before you. He's already figured out you're in heat? You wanted to hope you had been at least a little subtle but your back is pushed against the wall and loud thuds ring out against both sides of your head. His hands tightly planted on both sides of you as you're face to face with him.

You can even make out a decent chunk of his face from his hood, that's saying something.

"Back off," you hiss out, but he doesn't even falter.

"do you actually want me to?"

You don't respond back instantly, your expression clearly mirroring the flurry of conflicted emotions. You know you want this, need this, but you also know once this starts it's not going to stop. That's not even accounting for other factors like how you liked Dust but you've never gone as far as to sleep with him or even any of them before.

Your lack of immediate response was confirmation enough, as his hands are then placed on your shoulders, an alarming amount of force added just to keep you pinned and in place. Another factor that was added to this already intense situation getting tenser but his forcefulness turned you on even more. You can call it you being a freak or pure instinct but it's there

"you like making us work for it? you like knowing your struggling gets us off?" his voice is nearly a growl, the sound rendering your mind blank enough you don't think about what the implications of 'us' means here, "i'm not much better honestly keeping you here, holding you down, not lettin' you escape, it does something for me"

You're starting to question where all this aggression is coming from, not that Dust was ever gentle in the sense but less violent than Axe or Killer. However his hips grind against your own and you can feel how fucking hard he is through both of your clothes. Heat shoots through your core, further empathized as you manage to fully smell him.

He's in heat too.

You're still tightly pinned underneath him, Dust goes to lean down to bite your jugular, it wasn't extremely painful but it was firm, definitely felt, definitely leaving a mark and the mewl you make in response to it is nearly embarrassing as his hands go to grope at your body, hurtedly burying themselves underneath the several layers of clothes.

How can he be in heat? How? There ain't no way you two both happened to have perfectly synched cycles unless you were truly unfortunately unlucky, did...did you do this to him? Fuck, does it even matter? His smell is making you further messy and needy and your smell is fueling his growing aggression, it's so fucking tantalizing

"Dust," you grasp out, his hips continuing to rut against yours desperate for some frition.

Fuck, what would the others say? They were coming soon weren't they? Is this how it's going to be? The other two walking in on each other dry dumping like horny teenagers trying to hide from their respective parents?

He certainly doesn't seem to care, if you probably asked he'd probably like the idea of fucking you right in front of them. Once again it's hard to tell where these are natural desires you're both having or just getting pushed on by the pheromone filled heat.

"god fucking damn," clearly getting frustrated with all the clothes in-between you two, his hands curl into tight balls clutching your attire clearly about to rip the fabric off you, "inside. i need inside you now."

Was this happening? He was going to rip off your clothes then mate you here probably in front of his other coworkers once they arrive? And how bad was it that at this rate you'd happily let him? Even if resisting would have encouraged him more.

"Dus-" you were going to rasp out his name again, parts of your shirt already torn and the chill of the room hits you, but the scene is quickly stopped as in a blur of red and black, Dust was kicked off you.

Literally. Kicked. And flung across the room.

"You fucking slut," Killer arrived, clearly less than amused by the sight before you. His annoyance at Dust, not you, "You know damn well boss has a soft spot for this bitch, if he finds out you were trying to put your dick in her, he'd be pissed as all hell, especially if I let you."

Dust didn't respond as he got back onto his feet, glaring daggers at the other. Killer already dawning his knife as if expecting a fight already. "And if I'm getting his trouble it's because I put my dick in her, capiche?"

"fuck off" was the only reply that Dust barked back with,

Killer actually looked disappointed, "C'mon your comebacks are usually better than that, don't tell me that-" he froze, smelling something and that's when he turned to look at you. Something...changing in his expression, one that made your stomach twist.

Okay, clearly you and Dust weren't the only one being affected by your heat. Is this going to be the case with Axe too? Nightmare even? That odd mix of both fear and arousal shot through you again, unfortunately Dust and Killer took note of this.

"Oh ho, maybe I was wrong, does Boss know she's all like this?" he took a step forward, you were worried you were about to be pinned for a second time but Dust immediately stands in his way, the two glare at each other but you take the opportunity to shuffle to the other side of the room to gain some much needed distance.

Your pussy was going crazy with want, there were now two other monsters both in heat here and the desperation of your state was starting to show. Mentally you were cursing yourself, at this rate you're starting to think you might as well give up on your plans for the week, the universe was clearly conspiring against you in the best worst way possible.

"I see what's going on here, you were trying to keep her all to yourself? If Boss sent us all to take care of her, we should share shouldn't we?" Killer hummed, though honestly it didn't seem like he actually believed Nightmare sent them out for this reason alone. But it's clear that he wasn't willing to back down and let Dust have you either.

Your eyes scanned the area, you knew your own home like the back of your hand though you weren't aware of how familiar the boys were with your universe in particular. How far could you actually get?

The hooded skeleton let out a huff, "you won't share, I won't share, Axe ain't gonna fucking share either, you know that."

"he's right on that part," the gruff voice startled you as you turned around to see Axe looming off in the shadows, he's....salivating....okay the heat is affecting him too. Fuck, you have not one not two but three lust filled unhinged skeletons in your house, your thighs desperately clenched together.

God dammit....

"H-hey guys, don't I get a say in this?" your voice comes out a bit strained, "I don't want to be with any of you."

That's a lie, it's a bold face lie, the boys can all smell how it's a lie. But you don't want to just give in to it, not yet at least.

"you wouldn't be smellin' that good if that was really the case," Axe informed, his gaze inherently predatory as the others also stalked forward.

"I think she just wants us to chase her? Don't you? She loves being a tease after all," Killer laughed, "Or maybe she wants to see which one of us can successfully hunt her down."

"you both seem to be forgetting that I got here first," Dust added on.

"This isn't dibs, you don't win the game by being first," Killer chuckled, "It's a matter of who gets to her and who keeps her, she's already planning to run away. And when she runs from you she'll run right into my arms."

What is even happening? God, things are escalating, how long can you outrun any of them? They all have shortcuts, maybe Axe uses them far less than the other two but they still have them and how far can you get from three dangerous killers. You feel like easy prey in a growing impossible situation. Maybe you should just summon Nightmare to have him call off his lackies, but that's assuming he wouldn't be affected by his heat.

But honestly even if he wasn't there's no guarantee he might insert himself as a player in this game, despite what he claims he could be just as immature and petty as his underlings.

"You all couldn't even manage to catch me if you tried," you hissed out, playing along for now. If you actually did manage to escape them, then good, you could continue the rest of this week out mostly according to plan. If not well....it took everything in your will power to stop your legs from trembling.

Worst ways to spend a week you guessed.

"so it is a challenge then," Axe hummed, an sinister sounding chuckle erupting from him, "you might wanna be careful with those words, unlike these two i actually have experience tracking down prey and with that scent you won't get far"

"You underestimate me," Killer cooed, Dust pointedly saying nothing. "Let's be a little fair to her, hows about a five...maybe ten minute head start?"

Neither of them interjected, guessed that was agreed upon. Only ten minutes? How much ground could you cover in that time? Does it matter when it doesn't even seem like they're willing to negotiate on that?

"Clock starts now rabbit," Killer informed, pointing to his non-existent watch.

You took a deep breath, this was definitely happening. "Catch me if you can, boys." was the only response you could properly huff out, before immediately turning to book it out the back door. Not before hearing Killer smugly shout out,

"Nine minutes left!"

Silence lingered in the room among the three Sans as they allowed you to at least gain some ground, Dust being the one to break it with a realization.

"boss isn't gonna be happy about this," the one thing Killer was right about.

"What? You gonna snitch?" Killer asked, his tone making it clear that he was against the very idea of this getting back to their boss in any form. "If he finds out, worst case scenario we're all punished for it....best case scenario he joins in on our game."

"you mean he'll cheat," Axe informed tactfully, "already don't trust you on that front,"

"What?" Killer huffed, clearly offended, "I would never!"

"you would," Dust snarled, "so here's the deal, any of us start playing unfairly then we call boss, got it?"

Killer and Axe shared a look, no one wanted Nightmare involved. They were all under his thumb in some form or another and his "soft spot" for you was fairly well known at this point, he'd just steal you away before any of them could come close.

Silently they just both nodded.

"how much time does she have left?" Axe asked, eyes scanning to the door you left open in your haste.

Killer's smirk widened, "Five minutes."

[the-travelling-witch]

bnha x farming sims

katsuki, or bakugo as he insists you call him, is the black smith with the foul mood and even fouler mouth. he’s not happy you’re bothering him so early in the morning and he’ll let you know. still, you make it a point to visit him regularly (and definitely not bc seeing him work by the forge in sleeveless shirts has you looking respectfully) and slowly but surely, he’s starting to warm up to you. well, katsuki’s way of warming up to someone, but progress is progress nonetheless. now take the shovel he totally didn’t make specifically for you before he whacks you over the head with it.

deku can be found running around the general store most of the time. he’s bright and cheery as he greets you, carrying heavy crates of produce like they weigh nothing. if it wasn’t for midoriya, you think you might have had a few more breakdowns, both mentally and physically, when you started life on your farm. you were of course also grateful for his help lugging animal food around but his friendly attitude and warm presence meant everything to you when you moved to a town where you knew nobody.

todoroki shouto is the mayor’s son, unwillingly following behind his father as he comes to greet you on your first day. afflicted by the nerves of your fresh start, you interpret his court greeting as immediate dislike and make a note not to bother him much in the future. however, one evening at the tavern, deku waves you over to their table and helps bridge some of the gaps between you. noting it’s not a dislike of you and just shouto’s natural stoic demeanour, you can’t help but warm up to him, heart fluttering when he graces you with a small smile.

kirishima is intimidating… for about 0.2 seconds. then he’s already showing you a bright smile and clapping a big hand on your back, nearly knocking you over. it doesn’t shock you at all to learn that he does a lot of the physical labour around town, from carrying materials around to splitting wood for the winter. the only surprising thing about him is the choice of his best friend because seriously? katsuki?? nevertheless, seeing kirishima always puts you in a more cheerful mood and he’s always more than ready to help you when you’ve run into a problem or another.

at first, you give kaminari a wide berth. not because he has done anything bad to you, per se, but more so because his reputation precedes him. you wouldn’t think someone could be branded as a flirt in a town as small as this, and yet he proves you wrong. it doesn’t help that, when you introduced yourself, he wiggled his eyebrows and dropped a line that made mina slap him upside the head. though, inevitably you come to find that a reputation isn’t necessarily the entire truth. and denki could really be quite cute, making you laugh with a dumb joke or another, when he wasn’t thinking with what’s in his pants.

keigo is in and out of town like a whirlwind, travelling between your more remote village and the more bustling locations some distance away. you come to learn that todoroki enji relies on his information quite a lot. your farm opens up more possibilities for trading routes in and out of town again, so it’s inevitable that keigo comes up to strike up a conversation sooner or later. his laissez-faire attitude is a pleasant breath of fresh air compared to the mayor’s gruff comments and you can’t help but laugh along with him. as you see more of each other, becoming close enough to chat over drinks at the tavern quite often, he brings you back interesting trinkets from his trips. in your minimalist home, they make the living space feel cosier and actually lived in; not to mention, you can’t help but think of the blond whenever you look at them.

[luvacookie]

talk 2 me baby.

inumaki loves to talk to you... sometimes.

❥ warnings : cursed speech usage, smut, blk fem coded reader, intended use of lowercase.

❥ cookie for ur thoughts ? : inumaki has been floating around in my head for so long i needed to write smthin :’(

“f-fuck ! toge—”

his cock drills into your plush folds, definitely knocking the air out of your burning lungs. he doesn’t let up on you, the sound of skin contacting over powering whatever was droning on the tv.

“feels so fucking good- please don’t stop !” you babble at him, a groan in response to your pleads.

inumaki’s cursed technique left him for very limited words, a routed fear of hurting you always in the back of his mind. the thoughts were eased mildly when you told him it was okay for him to use his cursed speech on you and that you knew he wouldn’t hurt you in anyway.

“louder,” he grunts, the cursed energy seeping into your body.

he rarely did use his cursed speech on you during sex so whenever he did it took you by a pleasant surprise.

your body was compelled for him, your once moderate moans raising by at least ten fold, nonsense spilling from your glossy lips.

“t-toge— g’nna cum, pleasepleaseplease—” you whimper loudly, his hand pushing your face further into the pillows.

his movements increased at this, desperate to let you reach your high and his own. his pelvis consistently slapped against your ass, the ripples giving him something to focus on so he didn’t cum before you.

“cum for me princess,” he mumbles lowly, his movements stuttering.

a white hot wave of pleasure sinks you, the orgasm making your thighs shake uncontrollably, inumaki’s moans increasing in pitch as he paints your insides a pearly cream.

he slowly drags his cock out of you, making sure that you can feel everything as he goes. you shudder at the feeling and slump on his bed, your chest rising heavily as he slips next to you.

he nudges your arm gently, garnering your sleepy, undivided attention.

‘you okay ?’ he communicates with you, tracing small circles on your smooth back.

you nod, “i love you toge.”

he holds up the sign for i love you, giving you a small kiss on your lips and pulling you in closer so he can cuddle you to sleep as his cum drips out your cunt.

[tryingahandinholdingapen]

let's combine some tropes

- red eyes are blessed (and therefore Tobirama has been hiding his face (and possibly generally his appearance via seal) bc they're not sure what Uchiha do with red-eyed people)

- Tobirama is a v strong sensor

- He finds Uchiha chakra in general and Madara's chakra in particular to be v pleasant

- He sometimes hides at the edge of Uchiha land borders when he's having a bad day, or just when he feels like it, in order to better immerse himself in chakra he finds comforting

- (and also Butsuma Sucks. he's abusive to his kids, esp Tobirama bc woe red eyes akin to sharingan and Butsuma's never been the most rational about his hatred. on a related note he's a passable clan head but he'd be a lot better if he didn't let said hatred guide his actions more than his reason)

...I don't think this post will get too long but I say that every time and then it does so maybe I should just preemptively stick a read more here??

basically au in which, from a p young age, Tobirama sneaks off to chakra bathe when he's sad or stressed. the Uchiha clan haven't actually found any red-eyed people in a while so the Senju aren't sure what they do with them but rumours still abound and all the rumours Tobirama have heard have generally been... well they've been bad. very bad. but they've also all had a common theme of 'the red-eyed person is not immediately killed on the spot', which is better than Tobirama could hope for from Uchiha as the Senju surety heir. so anytime he's hiding/skulking around the edges of Uchiha land, he makes sure that, unlike usual, his true appearance+eyes are on display as well as ensuring he doesn't have the Senju mon on him anywhere

he absolutely does not want to get caught by the Uchiha but also it's only sensible to take precautions so that if the worst case scenario happens and he IS caught trespassing, he should at least have a bit more time to try and escape, bare minimum, right?

so that's Tobirama's side of things

the Uchiha side of things is more like

okay they haven't found a Blessed in some time now and it's not like there's a strict manual what you should do if you find one. it's more like "these people are important, don't hurt them if at all possible, help and protect them if at all possible, bringing them into the clan and teaching them abt all things Uchiha including our religion would be a very good thing". so there's like some guidelines but it's fairly vague

this means the patrol predominantly made up of fairly new shinobi has absolutely no idea what to do when a while after sun-down they come across a Blessed child fast asleep, but slowly blinking awake, in the branches of a tree near the edge of their lands. like. hello?? small child?? why are you here how are you here do you want some soup

they're only standing around in confused and slightly awed shock for like, 3 minutes MAX but unfortunately that's long enough for the child to wake up properly, take one look at the patrol and then fucking bolt off Uchiha lands

cue surprised and self-recriminating cursing from the Uchiha shinobi. they can't just abandon their patrol route and they're somewhat wary of a potential trap for (relatively) newbie shinobi, so they don't all go after the child. but they do send their fastest after the kid because cmon that's a tiny Blessed!!

no luck, they return empty handed

apparently the Blessed child is unreasonably fast and tricky

damn

what now?

baby Tobirama returns home absolutely furious with himself. he can't believe he fell asleep!!! of all things! yeah he was exhausted and yeah he was snuggled up in warm comforting chakra but to fall asleep in enemy territory! he's so mad at himself. it was stupid and it was reckless and it was incredibly selfish of him to risk such a thing when his family, his clan, need him and- (continues telling himself off for like, 3 hours, until his brothers eventually manage to distract him from his horrible mood)

he doesn't return to Uchiha lands for ages after that. but he does, eventually, return

he isn't spotted every time he sneaks onto Uchiha lands, far from it, maybe one time in twenty or less, but it definitely happens enough times that they must know there's a little red-eyed child who keeps skulking around their territory and then bolting whenever he's spotted. oops. regardless he's very stressed and very sad because one of his little brothers is now gone (I kind of want this to be an au where his brother lives but is now stuck in an arranged marriage/learning to be a diplomat in the capital or smth, but regardless of how Kawamara is gone now and baby Tobirama is very sad abt it) and despite how many times they've spotted him, none of the Uchiha have actually managed to catch him yet, so he deems it worth the risk. (he maybe is not thinking incredibly rationally rn and just willfully disregarding anything against what he wants to do. give him a break his life sucks rn let him have this one thing)

meanwhile the Uchiha are like. where is this tiny Blessed child coming from/going to and why does he keep running away from us? like okay we know there's some horrendous rumours abt what we do with Blessed and we can't correct those rumours bc doing so risks others using Blessed against us but like....if that was the reason this kid was running from us then surely either he'd be trying to hide his features or he'd stop sneaking onto our land?

.....maybe he's not worried abt us noticing there's a Blessed child on our lands. he doesn't seem TOO bothered by us getting glimpses of him in the relative distance after all. so...he doesn't want us to see him close up? why?

..maybe he's like, really obviously from a neutral/enemy clan or something when you get a better look at him? hmmm

maybe he'll let us talk to him/catch him eventually if we keep trying. I mean it doesn't seem like he plans to stop sneaking onto our lands and WE'RE certainly not going to stop so surely its only a matter of time before he realises that if we wanted to actually hurt him we absolutely could have been throwing jutsu or weapons at him from this distance or senbons laced with sedatives or-

(should we do that instead actually? hit the kid with a sedative, deal with the rest later?

no, then we might permanently fuck over any chance of him ever trusting us and that would make helping/protecting/integrating him SO much harder

urgh. you're right I guess. okay)

anyway. maybe the little Blessed kid will relax eventually

(Tobirama does not relax eventually)

they've fallen into a frustrating stalemate in which Tobirama will fairly frequently lurk around Uchiha lands and occasionally an Uchiha will spot him and halfheartedly attempt to catch him, only to fail because Tobirama is unreasonably fast (....part of me wants to start spouting my mokuton secondary agenda again here to explain his Speed) and also they're trying not to hurt him in any way which makes it a lot harder

Tobirama has technically relaxed somewhat in that he's now significantly less worried about the prospect of the Uchiha hurting or catching him (as long as he's obviously red-eyed and absent any Senju mon, at least, all bets are off on missions/battlefields) and has as a result started to a) gradually creep further into Uchiha lands each time bc hey if the Uchiha aren't too much of a threat then it's better to be within the patrols who would stop any bandits or rogue shinobi right? and b) has started wandering off to Uchiha lands whenever he feels like it instead of just when he's near his breaking point. like now whenever he has a free moment he's like 'hmmmm do I want to spend time fucking about with research or with Touka/brothers or do I want to go chakra bathe' and they're all weighed up near equally in his mind

(assuming that said free moment would also give him the time/cover/distraction needed for him to reach Uchiha lands and back without Butsuma noticing, ofc. he isn't stupid nor does he have a death wish. That Man assuming he'd gone traitor would be.............bad.)

so I mean the Uchiha were sort of right in assuming he'd relax once he realised they weren't incredibly intent on hurting/catching him. they were just wrong in hoping he'd relax ENOUGH to let them catch/talk to him

they're very disappointed. however they're also cautiously pleased that the Blessed child has not stopped coming back over and over again, and also that he is gradually coming further into their lands and two months ago when some (significantly less welcome) trespasser turned up and tried to attack the kid he even ran to an Uchiha patrol for help! Admittedly he didn't say anything, or stick around after, but hey he at least trusts them a tiny bit to go to them for help against an enemy, right? Progress! It might take a billion years at this rate but they WILL win over the Blessed kid eventually!

at this point it's been like, at least two years since Tobirama was first spotted. probably significantly more. the stalemate truly is getting a bit ridiculous but neither party is willing to break it for fear it would end badly (and probably specifically end badly for Tobirama/little Blessed child, realistically. given he's a small child and they're an entire clan whose land he is trespassing on, there's v few ways they could break the stalemate which wouldn't risk - at best - the kid simply never returning again or at worst the the kid/Tobirama dying or living but hating+distrusting the Uchiha forever or Tobirama getting kidnapped and suffering [unspecified bad fate bc Tobirama doesnt know which rumours may be accurate but he hates them all])

eventually, fucking years later (I'm imagining Tobirama somewhere between 11 and 16 but truly can't pin it down further it depends if/what plot I include later in this theoretical fic) the stalemate does get broken, but not exactly by choice

Tobirama was on a mission and fairly badly injured. not enough that he's at risk of dying, unless he does something truly incredibly stupid + fucks up his own condition further, but he's in a lot of pain, his adrenaline is sky high, and he generally had a shitty time on the mission. he completed it successfully- barely - but it sucked and he's pretty miserable at the moment. he knows what he SHOULD do is go home and report to the healing hall to be fixed up and then go recount the mission (and his many failures/perceived failures on said mission) to Butsuma but.

but.

he doesn't want to do that

to put it mildly

anyway, the Uchiha is significantly closer than his own clan due to the direction the mission led him in, and he's exhausted and hurt, and his disguise is compromised..

(if it's something physical like a mask/contacts/dyed hair/etc then he lost it on mission or it got washed out due to how So Many Things Happened. if it's something chakra based like a jutsu or seal then he's too low on chakra and too hurt/distracted to maintain it)

...so trying to get all the way past the Uchiha, in his Senju armour but clearly a red-eyed child, when he's too exhausted and injured to guarantee he could succeed in doing so, would be a really bad idea, right? right. like they'd probably see him at best and then they'd know there was a red-eyed Senju kid and far more realistically they'd successfully catch or kill him in this state

so obviously it makes more sense for him to discard everything that marks him as a Senju, whilst he's still conscious+has the chakra to seal it away surreptitiously, and then go nap on Uchiha lands until he's recovered enough to make it home safely

yeah, that's a good idea. he'll do that

(tbf this is a fairly decent tactic but he's also trying to convince himself because when the options are 'soak up the most wonderful chakra he's ever felt and have a nap safely on territory he knows he probably won't be hurt on' or 'go home and get horribly mistreated by Butsuma for doing so badly on a mission before he even gets a chance to rest' he knows which one he wants to pick)

so Tobirama discards his armour and most of his equipment (urgh why is the Senju mon on EVERYTHING he complains to himself) and seals it away, making sure said seal also isn't at all obvious. all the moving he has to do to get this done really sucks because ow. injuries. most of them aren't that bad, a lot of surface wounds, and none of them are fatal, but OW moving so much aggravates almost all of them

this more or less just leaves him in pants, an undershirt, shoes and a kunai pouch. it's....Not A Lot and the paranoia and vulnerability is prickling at him even once he's within Uchiha patrols on their lands and he keeps trying to assure himself he's safe there but it's not working. he's hurt and exhausted and he barely has any chakra left and now he's not even wearing his armour or most of his weapons and he doesn't USUALLY wear his armour on Uchiha lands but he's also usually wearing more and NOT INJURED and more heavily armed and-

to appease his panic so he can actually rest like he'd intended to, instead of just kind of hanging around or scaling some branches/outcropping, he instead finds a tree that has a small burrow at the roots, just big enough for him to fit and evidently not currently in use by whatever animal made it, and curls up in there. he's careful of course not to let any open wounds meet the dirt, that's just asking for infection - thankfully his pants are long and his undershirt has long sleeves, so he just has to curl his hands up in his sleeves and ensure his head is cushioned on the lightweight cloak that thankfully had no clan mon on it - but he feels a lot safer when he's hidden away in an enclosed space

he reaches out to the warm-spice-passion chakra signatures within the Uchiha compound, shifts a bit for the comfiest position he can find in his little hiding place, and finally feels able to relax for the first time since that horrible mission started

there. safe

he falls asleep

meanwhile a Uchiha patrol has found spots of blood and a lot of scuffed up footsteps along their border, plus one spot that's just, a mess of leaf litter and kicked up moss (Tobirama tripped over a tree root when trying to take his chest plate off, immediately felt irrationally angry about it, and kicked at the stupid root to get it back. he then felt stupid himself and pretended it didn't happen. the rest of the mess is bc he was p carelessly dumping his shit on the floor before sealing it away) and they're concerned about it

is this from a fight?? no signs of jutsu tho, or discarded weaponry....hm. at the very least, someone was injured and (given that as far as this patrol knows, all their clan members are accounted for or shouldn't have returned from their missions yet) probably also trespassing

better go investigate

so they do and they find....that's a Blessed. that's the same Blessed that keeps wandering onto their lands, and he's asleep in a fucking hole and bleeding everywhere. oh shit. also where the hell is his shirt?? that is not a proper over-shirt that is underclothing what-

ah fuck what do they do

ah fuck

they know they're supposed to help this Blessed but they also know that a) he's scared of them for some reason. possibly bc he may technically be an enemy to their clan? they have no proof but its a persistent theory over the years and b) he's definitely a shinobi there's no way he could have outran that trespasser without training nor ended up in some of the ridiculous places he's been (hello?? tiny Blessed?? why are you 30 feet up a tree) without the ability to tree-walk

so like. they want to just take him back to their healing halls or something, but if they try that they'll probably just scare the shit out of him and he'd likely hurt them - and more crucially - himself in trying to get away

so they probably shouldn't do that. but they also can't just leave him injured in a hole. he's a Blessed! they can't leave him like this!

so

what do they do??

they have a quiet argument/discussion and ultimately determine that some of them will stay guarding the injured Blessed and some(one) will run back to the compound to firstly explain what's happened + that someone else needs to take over their patrol route and secondly gather what medical supplies they can spare and bring those back here

when the assigned shinobi returns with the supplies they end up accidentally waking the Blessed, which unfortunately immediately confirms their worries because he freaks the fuck out. he seems to want to run but swiftly determines he couldn't get out of the fucking hole + past them without them letting him, and instead twists with a pained hiss, bringing his hands up to hide his face and build as much as possible

which is interesting. he doesn't go to hide his hair, nor specifically to hide the red eyes that mark him as Blessed, no he goes to hide other potential identifiers....which kind of suggests he is indeed from an enemy clan. hm. damn. doesn't make him any less a Blessed but oh boy that may complicate things later on

(hc for the purposes of this fic that as a kid/early teen Tobirama looked fairly generically (mainline) Senju, apart from his colouring, and it wasn't until mid teens when he got a massive growth spurt and his face started changing more that he began to look more like his (outclan) mother and taller+slimmer+narrower than the average Senju, with pointer facial features, and just generally look a lot less like Butsuma+less obviously Senju)

the Uchiha silently and unanimously agree that this would go better if he DIDN'T feel like the wounded cornered animal he currently is, so they get the fuck out of the way. they don't go too far away, still within view, but they make sure the Blessed has a clear run out of the hole and off/away, if he wants. they also ensure that the medical supplies are very visible within that cleared space

a minute or so later they're rewarded when the Blessed stops cowering, and shoots past them faster than they would have believed possible. he takes the medical supplies on his dash past though - victory! woo!

they have a little discussion whilst they wait for him to get whatever he feels is a safe distance away, and decide that yeah that behaviour definitely indicates he thinks some sort of familial resemblance or something is a) noticable and b) gives him reason to fear the Uchiha's discovery of such. so. probably from an enemy clan

but...he's Blessed, and he hasn't tried to hurt any of them or actually get far enough into their territory to spy, or anything like that at all as far as they've noticed, so...?

plausible deniability, they decide. plausible deniability is going to be the name of the game, here

they'll just pretend not to notice he's present/a potential threat and hopefully he'll pretend right back

(also, interestingly, when they send someone to try and follow after the Blessed from a distance, they find that he hasn't bolted away from Uchiha lands as he has every time previously he was spotted. as they expected him to do now, when he's probably feeling cornered and threatened as well as being injured. no, instead he's stayed well within the area the Uchiha patrol (if anything he's actually gone further within Uchiha territory which, what?) and has found another substandard hiding place in which he's using the offered medical supplies to clean and tend to what injuries he can, and then he actually goes to sleep right there. he leaves when he wakes up a few hours later, and they don't try to stop him - REALLY not the time - but. hm. interesting)

anyway that whole encounter pretty thoroughly breaks the stalemate

after that, the Uchiha clan (specifically their patrols) and Tobirama somehow develop a whole new dynamic which honestly is almost identical to the Uchiha attempting to gradually befriend and lure a feral cat into their home, meanwhile Tobirama gradually starts leaving metaphorical dead mice on their doorstep

it's...yeah, it's really weird, actually, but. it's working?? so??