#i think his nose turned out a little small

[yeyinde]

bos taurus | dogmeat series pt., i

mafia butcher Simon Riley x Reader

You don't question your brother when he sends you to drop off packages to his friends, but when the enforcer for the 141 shows up to teach the small-time dealer selling on their turf a lesson, you realize there are different ways to pay someone back with pounds of flesh.

(OR: your brother owes them, and Ghost is content to let you settle the debt. after all, if you wanted freedom, then you shouldn't have caught the eye of the butcher of the 141, should you?)

18+ SMUT. noncon. objectification. marking. kidnapping. threats of violence. unsafe sex (manipulation into unprotected sex). rough sex. size difference. breathplay. 10k of foreplay. light pussy slapping. overstimulation. mafia au.

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3

The goal is to be as quick and discreet as possible. 

In and out, he says, looping the baggie around his index finger. Inside, a snowfall of white powder settles at the bottom. 

Meth this time. Oxytocin the last. 

He ties it tight before giving the bag a quick shake, breaking up the clumps. Satisfied with the way it looks, he turns toward you. Levels you with a sombre look, the picture of a concerned older brother. 

You almost fall for it. Believe it. But the clouded, flat edge to his gaze undercuts his worry for what it really is. A farce. 

“And if it seems sketchy—”

—run.

But your knees are locked, soles glued to the pavement. You can't move even though everything is screaming at you to flee. 

The problem, maybe, is that there's nowhere to go. Escape cut off, filled by a body, a man—even though the idea, the mere notion, of thinking this behemoth as human, flesh and bone; blood and tissue, is laughable when he's so clearly a beast. A monster. 

He fills up your field of vision. Your line of sight was eclipsed by the thickness of his waist, the broad expanse of his shoulders. Thighs that are as wide as the trunk of a tree. Arms boxing you in. A prison of obsidian. A black shadow. 

In the panic that surfaces, surging to the top like an oil spill, you catch a pocket where he doesn't root. A small alcove between the bend of his elbow and the slot of his knee perched against the wall. Enough room for you to—

“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.” 

His voice seems to shake the earth, rolling out of his broad chest like the low, brassy roar of a lion; a rumbling thunderclap. 

You feel sick—

The leather covering his hand is cold when it closes around your arm, grip tight. Bruising. Trapping you with just the slightest effort. 

“Go’ a problem, you and I,” he starts, and it's almost conversational. Might be, perhaps, if the clean, sleek outline of his gun inside the unclasped holster around his ungodly thick waist wasn't threatening you more than the grip he has on your arm. “How do you reckon we can fix it?”

You have a meagre twenty dollars in your pocket. Less money for them to take if things go awry. If they decide that the little girl standing in for her older brother was an easier target to rob—money and drugs—than to settle things fairly. Money, goods. Hand over hand. 

Just like the movies, he'd said. 

Just like the movies, you think when he leans in closer, bulk swallowing you whole. 

There is a pockmark in the corner of his crooked, misshapen nose and the crease of his eye. A scar, maybe. It's circular—almost perfectly so; a silver-pink moon on the angular ridge of his nose. Uneven, craggy, like crumpled printer paper. 

It looks almost like—

You think of the mark on your arm. Soot-stained. The smell of burning hair, tissue. The searing pain. 

“I–I can pay you—” you stammer out, tearing your gaze away from the ugly mark on his skin. A cigarette burn. It makes you shudder. 

He cocks his head slowly like a big, dumb dog, but there's something eerie in the ink spill of his eyes. The soft matte of a saltwater crocodile staring at you from beneath the murk. Calculative. Hungry. 

“Pay me?” He echoes slowly, dragging the words out mockingly. “D’you know ‘ow much trouble your brother is in? For sellin’ ‘ere of all places?” 

“No,” you swallow. It feels like your heart is stuck inside your throat. “I–I just—”

“Run ‘is errands,” he finishes cruelly but you can't deny it. “Ain't you a good little sister? Almost makes me wish I ‘ad somethin’ as sweet as you f’myself growin’ up.”

You don't answer. He doesn't seem to be looking for one, really; just empty words to fill space. To echo in your head, barbed wire around any sense of comfort you might have felt. Punishing cruelty. 

He has the upper hand, it says. He's the one who makes derisive jokes while you tremble in his grasp, and try to make yourself as small, as unassuming, as possible. Hiding from the predator in plain sight. Hoping he passes you over for something bigger, more calorie-dense; the effort to catch and consume you expends more energy than the return. Hardly worth it in the long run. The comfort of a risk-reward ratio, right?

But he's opportunistic, it seems. A snacking scavenger. 

Could eat, it says, like a basking tiger keeping a mouse trapped between his paws, letting it squirm and squeak as he slowly licks his lips. Not enough to fill its belly but enough to satisfy the gluttonous urge a predator has to eat. Sharpening its teeth on flimsy bones. Child’s play. 

It's a fitting image, especially with the way he arches over you, looms; fingers looped around the thick of your arm, holding firm, but not—

Not as tight as he could. 

It's a loose-fisted grasp. Lazy, almost. He knows you won't run—or, at the very least, knows you won't get far. 

You peel your gaze away from his, dropping it to the curve of his shoulders—the width of them is just as dizzying as his height; broad, muscular. Pulling it further down the length of his arm, covered in a thick jacket. Black corduroy. Ashes stain the cuffs. A bulky watch juts out from his wrist. Gold. Glinting even in the grey-blue gloom of an overcast evenfall. 

His muscles tense. Hand tightening around your arm, fingers digging hard. Rubbing muscle painfully against bone. 

A warning, maybe. Stop looking—

But something else catches your eye. Blood red. The colour of meat. A fresh kill. 

The back of his hand has a blooming rose. Petals spread out, unfurled. In the middle, a milky skull sits. Stencilled in boxy, yellow letters is ONE-FOUR-ONE—

You know what it means even as your mind whirs, gears turning, turning; plummeting into a tailspin, making excuses as it falls, dragging your heart down alongside it. An area code. Some special date. An inside joke. 

But you've seen the marking around town before. Heard whispers about them from your brother, his friends. 141, they say, and then: mafia. 

The real deal, he said, puffing around a joint his friend rolled. It's too tight. He scoffs, and rips it out from between his lips. Shitty roll, man, make another one—

Mob. Mafia. Gangsters. It seemed so extreme, Hollywood. Fiction, fantasy, all rolled into one. Tony Soprano. Ralph Cifaretto. Michael and Vito Corleone. Tony Montana. Larger-than-life men created on paper. 

You think your brother thought so too. Child's play. Grown men selling weed to kids for two hundred an ounce. Buying themselves sleek, black cars—G Wagons, Escalades, Cullinans—on the Xanax they sell at clubs, parties. Cocaine. Heroin. 

Nothing to worry about. 

Then his friend went missing. 

Sent out on a routine delivery to drop off cocaine to well-dressed men in suits outside of a local butcher shop. A normal, nondescript Tuesday. 

But he wouldn't answer his phone. Texts were being delivered, read, but no chat bubble appeared. Nothing sent back. Calls went straight to voicemail. He wasn't at home. Wasn't at his mum's. No one saw him. Heard from him. 

Your brother didn't call the police. Didn't report him as missing. 

It's just not what they do, he said. You don't involve them. Ever. 

The most shocking part of it was that no one saw anything. He just vanished. Disappeared—stock an’ all, your brother angrily spits—without a trace, picked up off the streets. 

If it was the police, someone would have said something by now. They're hardly discreet. And a rival—

Well.

The biggest problem was that your brother was blindsided by his own small-time success. An accumulation of little wins bolstered his confidence. Overfed his ego. This fallout was tunnel vision. A refusal to see the bigger picture. 

Or the storm clouds looming on the horizon. 

You'd heard of the 141 in passing. Little quips, anecdotes from the passel of friends that congregated around your brother—often getting high on the couch and watching old cartoons; sharing a joint back and forth between gossip. 

Through rheumy eyes, they'd talk about the real gangsters in town—much to the irritation of your brother—and swap tales of run-ins and feats they heard from a friend (of a friend, of a friend). Most of the guys were known already. Soap and Gaz are the biggest names that cropped up on the streets through reputation alone. Both fighters for a gym. MMA, mostly, but whispers of street fighting and extracurricular activities weren't uncommon. 

Liked the thrill of it, they said. But the worst was a man simply known as the Ghost. An enforcer for the 141—a fucking butcher, more like, Liam cut in, jaundiced eyes widening—the guy who took care of problems. 

“Can't be,” your brother scoffed, lifting off the couch to reach in his back pocket for his wallet. A small anthill of white powder poured into the glass table. “They don't get involved in our shit—”

And for the most part, you're sure that's true. Dealing to the same circle of people—outreach spread through word of mouth—seemed paltry in comparison to the scale of an operation that had a money laundering gym. But the problem was that your brother lacked common sense. His ego often got in the way of foresight. The shadow greed casts blocking out the bigger picture. 

Like—

Territory is territory—regardless of what's being pushed. 

You wish there was a modicum of surprise when his friend turned up. Barely recognizable. Sent right to the morgue as a John Doe. 

Most would see the marks on the man's skin—the distinct lack of blood—as an indicator to abandon ship, find the boss, beg for forgiveness, and maybe even try to strike up a deal. But—

That picture is hidden under his anger. Greed. Selfishness. 

He sends you instead. 

You're somethin’ they ain't expectin’, he said. Won't mess with you.

Right. 

He catches the realisation dripping down your brow—beads of sweat gathering at your hairline; anxiety, fear, churning your stomach—and hums. Cocks his head to the side. 

“Was expectin’ ‘im t’show up, though—” he murmurs, hand tightening around your arm. The pressure, the sting, is eclipsed by the gnawing sense of dread biting viciously into you. “Told ‘im if I caught ‘im sellin’ on our streets again, there'd be trouble. Thought we ‘ad an agreement after ‘is friend. But—”

His eyes cut to yours. It feels like a knife to your guts, sinking into soft tissue. A pain you can't breathe around. 

Won't mess with you, you think, and then viciously—sadly—he knew. Was warned by them and still sent you out. Let you take his place for whatever comeuppance they decided he deserved. 

It should shock you. You almost wish it did. Desperately clinging to the threads of surprise that slip through your oily fingers, grasping onto the nothing but empty air. Numbed to the resignation that trickles in. 

Of course he would leave you here to save himself. Letting you fend off whatever they threw at you alone. Leaving you trapped between a brick wall and a wall of a man. 

The excuses are there. They pool on the tip of your tongue—it isn't me, don't do this, it's my (stupid, selfish) brother you want, not me—but you swallow them down and try not to wince at how quickly they dissipate when you do. It doesn't matter in the end because whatever you have to say won't negate the drugs in your backpack. The empty house you'll lead them to—your brother probably squirrelled away somewhere until this blows over. Half-hopeful you'd call him and say everything is fine, the deal went smoothly. You're on your way back. Or that the debt he racked up with them is settled by you. 

It's half-hearted when it slips out again, caught between resignation and dread. A brittle whisper. A prayer—

“I can pay you. Whatever he owes, I can—”

He's already shaking his head. 

“Too late for that, birdie. ‘sides, I don't want your money.”

He moves back, rocking on his heels to put a small measure of distance between your bodies. In that scant space, he drops his gaze, sweeping it over you. His eyes darken.

When he pivots them down, catching yours, you can't stop the shiver that crawls up your spine. 

That calculative gleam is back. 

“But I think we can work something else out.”

Something else turns out to be ushering you into the backseat of an old Ford pickup. 

The door whines when he opens it. Rust flaking off, falling to the ground by your feet. Your mind reels. Spins comparisons to falling snow, dried blood. 

He hauls you in with his hand wrapped around the nape of your neck, thick thigh sliding between your own to boost you up. The protest—a mindless, reactionary squeal at being manhandled—only makes him chuff. A brief flex of his fingers around the skin of your neck is the only warning he gives before it pulls away, and wraps tight around your waist. His thigh flexes, muscle drawing taut as he shifts his foot up to the running board, lifting your feet off the ground and seating you fully on his leg like a child.

(In his hands, you feel like one, too.)

The motion makes you slip, back glueing along his broad chest with a shallow thump. You feel the rumble of his laugh trembling up your spine before you hear it. 

“Careful,” he drawls, oiled with amusement. “Might slip.”

Anything you could say in response is choked back when he bumps the corded steel of his thigh into the seam of your legs, pushing tight to your clothed cunt. His intention is unmistakable this time. Unignorable. And with the rasp of filtered, balmy air against your crown; the pull of a groan when you rock back into his groin, the noise still slicked with mirth, you feel a knot of dread spool tight in your belly. 

Something else is dragged back to the forefront, coiling like wisps of smoke around you. 

And you knew. It's shocking, you think, but not necessarily a surprise. To call it a dichotomy would be lying to yourself, and so, you settle against it. This notion that what he wants—wanted—is flesh. Not money. Not retribution. 

Not to talk things out like you'd hoped he’d try (grabbing onto the idealistic thread, holding it tight to your chest); bringing you in and forcing you to convince your—stupid selfish greedy—older brother that quitting was the only option. Dangling you—baby sister—over his head in an appeal to his emotions. Familial bonds. Love. 

That thread is cut. Snipped. 

Probably severed when they first came to him with an offer. No strikes against him and yet—

The idea of using you to make him bend was expunged from the drawing board. It's not even a plan b, or c, or z. 

And—

You knew. Have known. Maybe that's why it's so easy to swallow around the panic when it lances through your chest, climbs up your throat. You can think and feel and breathe around this dagger in your back like it was there the whole time and you've only just noticed it now. 

Nothing but a small, whispered oh in the roiling polyphony of your emotions. 

It sits there as he manuevers you into the passenger seat of his truck, your head spinning around the indescribable sensation of being woefully cognisant despite the paralysing fugue pressing against the bubble of stark awareness that keeps it at bay. It manifests itself as a numbed sort of shock. Or more accurately—

Indifference. 

Defeat. 

His hand brushes your cheek, the snag of dry leather against humid skin tugs uncomfortably at your flesh, stinging as they dance down to your jaw, the delicate line of your vulnerable throat, skimming over the curve of your breast—

And it's too much. Too present. Too real. 

Autopilot. Dissociation. Derealisation. All of these concepts slip past the bubble of hypervigilance, skidding the surface like a pebble thrown over a lake. Out of reach as he unashamedly gropes you, barely making an effort to mask his actions as just buckling you in. 

You pretend, though. Curl your fists around the sides of the seat, fingers digging into the worn foam. Head lulling back on the headrest. Eyes fixed out the window as he walked around the front, head and shoulders still visible in the windshield despite the height of the truck. It makes your heart leap, stuttering in your chest as the absurdity of his size is brought back into focus. Too big, you think. Grossly so. 

There's a moment when you think about running. Toying with the idea of sliding your hand over the lock, pulling the door open when he's too busy on his side to notice. It'll give you an advantage—a head start. Enough time to slink through the dense forest of concrete buildings lining the industrial zone, and into somewhere safe. Help, a behemoth is chasing me—

But the door clicks. Swings open with a squeal of rusted metal just as your fingers twitch toward the handle. Hope evaporates with each lurch of the cab as he climbs inside, metal creaking under his weight when he settles in the seat. 

From the corner of your eye, you can see his head tip. Chin angling toward you. Staring. Assessing. 

When he speaks, you feel the words like cold fingers dancing maliciously down your spine. 

“‘pected you t’run.” 

It's said idly enough. Nonchalant. Tone even, if a little cruel, and you wonder if this is some test. One that you passed—and failed—in equal measure. 

He doesn't look away. It takes less effort than you wish it did to peel your lips apart, to breathe in the stale, mulch scent of the cab—something overgrown, rotting, and damp—and mumble:

Where would I go?

It seems to amuse him. He hums around a mouthful of mockery before turning away, pawing at the ignition. Gloved hand curling over the wheel. 

“Smart girl.”

You don't feel very smart. In fact, you feel very small. Stupid. Maybe you should have taken a stab at it—running. Tried, at least, to save your own life before the jaws of the beast closed over you like an iron bear trap around your ankle. Fought like hell. Clawed and kicked and screamed. 

When most kids read the back of a cereal box, you learned about secondary locations. You know better than this. 

But the truck sputters to life in a belly-deep rumble, hacking up soot into the air as he pulls the lever into DRIVE. The fight inside of you—however ephemeral it might have been—dies inside the smoke spilling out of his exhaust. Gone so quickly that you begin to wonder if it was even there at all—

Must be, you think, eyes listing outward. Keen. Mapping the twists and turns—a futile effort in the end: he doesn't bother hiding where he's taking you, and you've been down these old, grim streets more times than you can count. 

It doesn't surprise you much when he turns down the street leading to the butcher shop. An old relic that still carries the marks of a booming farming town before it fell victim to industrialisation. Concrete skyscrapers in place of lush cornfields. Warehouses over old barns, ranches. Cattle, meat, produce—it all used to be a mainstay here but now hides under layers of steel. 

The dark windows of the small shop gleam with hazy smears of neon blue, red, when you pull up, catching on the array of rowdy bars across the street. All clubs that belong to the 141. A playground of drugs, sex. More money than you'd ever see in your lifetime. 

It's an uncanny juxtaposition to the quiet, assuming street right across from it. Barber, butcher, accountant firm, antique store. All dark inside and bathed in the smeared stream of glimmering neon as lights flash in the fading glow of twilight. 

He pulls up to the curb in front of the shop. A bold move if the streets weren't so empty. Lifeless. The clubs won't be open for four more hours. Everything else follows the same nine to five as the rest of the world. The shops closed an hour ago, and everyone in town seems to know not to linger here after dark. 

The air seems to stagnate in your lungs when he cuts the ignition. Slips the key into his pocket. 

“Don't get any funny ideas in tha' pretty little ‘ead o’yours.” 

“Funny ideas,” you echo, toneless. Flat. It rolls out with your exhale. Words that might have been smarter to swallow down. “Like following a stranger to a butcher shop?” 

“Lippy little thing, ain't you?” He scoffs. The truck creaks when he shifts. “Ain't go’ no one t’blame but yourself. Told you what would ‘appen if you kept sellin’ in our territory. You should ‘ave known better.”

“That was my brother.” The words slip out before you can stop them. “Not me—”

“‘ow am I suppose t’know that? You were sellin’ where I told ‘im not to—” he has the gall to shrug. Spit these careless words at you like it wasn't life or death. “That's all there is to it, birdie.”

“That's not fair—”

The truck groans under his weight, shaking from side to side as he leans over to push his door open before turning back to you, rolling his eyes. 

“Life ain't very fair, is it?” 

The acerbic words are flicked out from between his teeth; an apathetic, droning curl clinging to each syllable. He doesn't care. Won't. What happens to you next is your choice, and yours alone. 

And he's just doing his job—

“When I get out of ‘ere, you ain't gonna do anythin’ funny—”  

His hand lashes out. Gloved fingers close over the thick of your throat in a blink. Fear lags by a beat, giving him enough time to sink his fingers over your neck, and when it catches up—heart rabbiting in your chest, thudding in your ears; roaring as your pulse thunders beneath the press of his thumb—he’s already got you in his hold. The width forces your chin to lift, stretching up to accommodate the curl of his hand around you. 

Trapped like a rabbit. Cattle to the slaughter. 

He tilts his head down, keeping his eyes on yours as he forces your crown into the headrest, chin lifted up. It's uncomfortable. The curve of your neck cuts off your airways. Constricts your breathing to shallow gasps. An ache grows in your nape. 

The swell of panic, fear, in your eyes makes him hum. But there's nothing echoing back. An absence of light in the deep, placid pits. It looks like still water. A stagnant lake. 

It's unnerving how dispassionately expressive his eyes are. Wild, wild. Vats of ink. Pools of obsidian. Ringed in red-lined ivory. Long, ashen lashes dusting over the smears of charcoal under his eyes. Sleepless nights, maybe. Fatigue. The corners are tattooed with coal, leaving behind a thumbprint in the crease. 

But empty. Barren. No light.

Like black holes. Eating everything around it. Devouring all that gets too close, but giving nothing in return except a bottomless crater in the bruised-plum nebulous of space around it. 

You're not sure you like it. You can't look away. 

But in staring back so hard (getting pulled in deeper and deeper), you catch the twitch in his left eye. A shallow spasm. It throws off the symmetry when he blinks, one eye a sliver of a second behind. Desynchronized in a way that seems so—

Unlike him. 

Disjointed. 

You blink in response. Perfectly synchronous. 

His lid twitches again. Just once. Brief. Pale, pink eyelids drop, unveiling a nebula of indigo veins on the smooth, thin surface as they roll down to half-mast over his eyes, now narrowed slightly in contemplation. Thought. 

Whatever is happening in his head can't be good. It causes a ripple over the lake. Little rings rebound outwards. 

He looks away first. A quick slide of his eyes to the corners, glancing out of the passenger side window. Whatever catches his attention is unknown to you. The anchor on his hand around your throat keeps you still. Immovable.

(Every instinct in your body compels you not to look away from him because nothing outside could ever be scarier, more dangerous, than him.)

A second later, he breathes in through his nose. The fabric of his mask is pulled into his nostrils from the force, forming little black holes under the crooked arch. 

You hadn't really given much thought to his appearance outside of big, massive. But there's a strange asymmetry to the slopes and valleys beneath the balaclava. Trying to map his face, fill in the blanks with just black cloth and vague, lopsided outlines, is impossible. There are too many gaps. Too many missing pieces. You can only wonder, then, what he looks like under it. 

Monstrous, you hope. 

It's just a coincidence that he looks at you the moment the thought passes, but you flinch like a naughty child getting caught doing something you shouldn't when the heavy, dour weight of his impenetrable stare is levelled at you once more. Your heart stutters. It's loud in your ears. In the truck. 

You wonder if he can hear it just as loudly as you do—

Another blink, and his gaze flickers down, settling on the gap between your lips, watching the little tremble they make with each shallow hiccup of air you greedily suck in. His head tilts to the side, eyes never leaving your mouth even as he leans down, masked lips brushing over the beading sweat gathering on your hairline. 

It's a brief touch. A taste. You tremble when he pulls back, fingers tightening around your flesh. 

His eyes are lavascapes.  

“Are you, birdie?” 

You almost forget what he's asking. The conversation hidden between the scant beats it took for him to measure your worth with the blistering intensity of his stare, and the tumult of your feelings still looping around each other in your belly. Knotting up tight into a ball. There's fear, of course there is. 

But the rest—

You'd rather not think about. 

The grip on your throat eases just enough for you to shake your head no to whatever he is asking. Doing anything funny, you think, scrambling at the tangle of memories flipping past, trying to connect the pieces to a puzzle you've already forgotten. 

It must be the right response. Or maybe it's another question like before, a test where there’s no right answer. 

Run, stay. 

Smart and stupid. 

But it seems to appease him—marginally. His eyes crease. Tightening. His other hand folds over your throat, sliding until his palms kiss the sides of your neck in a near-perfect symmetry. 

Something frissons across the blank, placid lake of his expression. Another ripple. A shudder. He leans in for a moment, nose touching the apple of your cheek, and when he breathes in, it’s sharp, reedy. Cold air ghosts over your skin. Long, pale lashes flutter when you swallow. 

He hums quietly under his breath before peeling back. The flatness to his gaze is back; a cold, impenetrable distance widening like a chasm as he uncoils around you. You almost fall for this—this indifference. An icy nonchalance. But you've been eating the minuscule quirks of him just as ravenously as he's been devouring yours. 

There is something there. A fracture, maybe. A splinter. 

But what leaks through from the other side isn't anything close to warmth. It's—

Hunger. 

The shift in your throat draws his molten gaze to your neck, still wrapped tight in his firm grip. Your reflection blooms in the vat of black; eyes wide, all white. Pupils narrowed to a pinprick. Mouth slack, corners tugging downward from the pressure of his hand. The tilt of your head. His thumbs press under your chin, pushing you back further until it feels like your neck might break—

He stops. Shifts. You puff out a shallow breath. 

What looks back at you is unremarkable in the murk. A sliver of fear. A slip of unease.

Eye of the beholder, you think when his breath chuffs out shallowly through the mask. When that hunger is ground down to a raw, esoteric fissure hairlining the black of his eyes. The widening expanse of his pupil. 

You wonder if it's your fear that itches under his skin, dredging up something predatory in his hindbrain. The urge to chase. To bite. 

But the nearly indiscernible flicker of his gaze has you brushing that idea aside when it snags on the expanse of his hand coiled around your throat. Easily swallowing it whole with just his palms. 

You're not a small thing, but the indomitable size of him makes you feel insignificant. 

You think he feels it, too. 

His fingers flex over your nape, stretching. Pulling. It pushes the flat of his palm into your throat, ridges crushed against your trachea. But you can still breathe. It's shallow. Hoarse. A touch painful. Dizzying in a way that makes you feel like you're on a rollercoaster. A teacup ride that just spins and spins and spins—

The gap closes. A sliver of air snakes down your throat. Muscles flexing, shifting. Struggling to swallow around the pinch of his hand. A harrowing task when you feel the gloved fingers link to the first, then the second knuckle, tying together in a too-tight, impossible, noose around your neck. Thumbs overlap. Fingers slide into place. It forms a chain of his hands with no gaps between them. Not a single sliver of skin shows from under the leather of his gloves. 

He makes a sound when they meet—a nasal groan in the back of his throat, mouth clenched shut so the air has no choice but to tear through his nose. It's raw. Fractured. The devastating moan of a tiger nuzzling at its meal. 

Your vision blurs. A black fog presses into the edges, seeping over the arch of your peripherals. Dripping down slowly over the hazy smear of the man. The way the ochre sun peeks over the angular roof of the accountant's office illuminates his back and casts swaths of shadows over his front. Drenching him in murk. 

Despite the flickering darkness shuttering over your sight, you don't blink. Even as the tears prickle at your eyes, they stay open. Fixed on him. Black holes, you think, watching as the fever marbling those obsidian pools recedes. Cools. 

He makes that noise again. Softer this time. A purr from deep in his chest. A breath. And then he peels back. His hands go slack. His shoulders slumping back into the lax, easy spread from before as you gasp hard, nearly choking on the flood of air that roars down your throat. 

Your cheeks feel hot for a moment, and then cold. Icy. You don't have to touch them to know that you're crying. That the deluge clinging to your lashline spilt over, dripping messily to the collar of your shirt. 

The placid lake is back. In the stillness, you heave. Mouth hanging open, chin quivering. His thumb lifts, slides over the curve of your chin. You don't feel it. Numbed, maybe, by the brief kiss of hypoxia. But you see it. Watch as he slides it up to the jut of your lower lip, the black, angular tip tickling over your skin. He follows the seam between skin and lip, tracing it to the corner of your mouth. It's slick. Drool pools in the crease, dribbles over the top of his finger. His eyes drop when he mops it up, catching it on the pad. 

He makes another noise. An arid rasp bubbling between the soft tissue behind the roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue. It's ugly. The shiver you try to fight back slinks through. 

His hand peels away from your neck, movements lax. Slow. The unwinding gait of an idling tiger in no real rush, no hurry, because there's nothing in the frigid Arctic that can touch him. 

You watch him with flared eyes as he brings his thumb to his clothed mouth, and rubs your spit into the fabric of his mask. 

His eyes don't break away from yours once. 

Your spit doesn't stand out against the black of balaclava, but the idea of it burns through you. Throwing you headfirst into a dazed stupor. Dizzy. Confused. 

Satisfied with whatever it was supposed to mean, he clambers out of the truck before coming around to your side. Distantly, you're sure this is what he meant by funny ideas when he passes the headlight, head straight and eyes gliding around the empty street. An opening to run. You know where you are. It would be easy to flee. Hide in the construction zone just ahead, tucking yourself into the tightest corner you can find until help arrives. 

Help, though. 

Officer, please. I got caught selling meth in the mob's territory and now they're going to skin me alive. Please hurry—

Right. 

They'd rather help bury your body than get in the way of the mafia. Gangland violence isn't their concern unless it tumbles out into the street. Fat wallets keep even the most compassionate person quiet. Willing to turn a blind eye. 

You'd be thrown in a cell. Or dropped off at their doorstep. 

Either way—

You won't be coming back alive. 

There's nothing to steel, harden, when he pulls the door open, your nerves long since ground down to fine powder. Nothing to fight against, either. He hauls you out of the truck, hands firm on your skin. Bursting blood vessels easily between his fingers. Barely any effort at all to crack your bones. 

The moment in the car seems miles away when he pulls you in front of him, hand curling over your nape. Any flicker of humanity rendered out when he pinches you tight and shoves you forward. Dragging you back to the butcher shop by the scruff of your neck, leading you down a narrow set of stairs to the basement where pale white carcasses hang from hooks on the ceiling. He laughs when you tense. When your heels dig into the brown-stained linoleum. 

Ain't gonna hang you, he mocks, fingers dipping punishingly into the sides of your neck. “Not yet, anyway—”

It brings little comfort when he drags you to a room in the back, kicking open the door with the toe of his boot before pushing you inside with a nudge against your nape. 

It's dark. Walls covered in stains; mould, mildew. Something you hope is just rust. A single mattress is shoved into the corner; sheets stained with sweat and grime. Tinged a pale brown. Two pillows sit at the top, lopsided and matted with use. Threadbare. A twisted, black heap of fabric sits at the bottom. Wisps of cotton poke out from the cigarette burns. 

A pair of muddy, black boots sit against the wall at the end of the bed. A basket of clothes—jeans, black shirts, black sweaters—is piled on the wall across from the door. 

The room smells of stale sweat and old cigarettes. 

You don't want to be here. The thought is abrupt. Immediate. Unease prickles along your nape, warmed and damp under his gloved palm. Between the look of the room—the floors stained the same suspicious brown, the rumpled bed in a corner—and the smell, you know this is not a place you want to stay. To be trapped inside with a man cut from Everest; whose hands are more dangerous than the sharp end of a knife. 

He must feel the tension brimming beneath your skin; the spark of adrenaline surging through your veins. The clamp of his hand on your nape digs in tighter. Holding firm. 

A breath tumbles out, thickening with mockery. “Like I said,” he leans down, pressing the mountainous width of his chest into your spine. The accentuation in your size difference, how big he is in comparison to you, makes you feel like prey. Small. Brittle, thin. He eats you whole. Spares nothing for later. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.” 

Another nudge and you're pushed further into the room. He leans away, foot shoving back on the door until it snaps shut with a noise that cuts through the gossamer that spun around you, bifurcating reality from dream. The haze is wafted away, and all that remains is a barren room with a lumpy mattress, the smeared stain of rotten blood coagulating on the floor, and his body boxing you in. No escape. 

The rumble of his chest shakes loose the cobwebs spooling across your thoughts. A brush of humid air ghosts along the line of your jaw, dampening the skin below your ear as he leans in close, too close, and purrs: 

“Go on now. Strip for me.” 

Each scrap of clothing you slowly roll off of your body is exchanged for a slip of information about him—who he is (Simon Riley, the name rumbled through the split between his teeth; a low, brassy purr as his eyes gleam in the dark, drilling into the expanse of skin unveiled to him)—and what he wants—

Nothing, he tells you, lifting one massive shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug. Jus’ what's owed to me, pet. For stickin’ my neck out f’you. 

You don't think he did. Not really. But you're harshly reminded of the unsubtle threat. The gun balanced on his massive thigh. So wide, so big, it seems to make it look smaller in comparison. Tiny. A toy. 

Child's play. 

It's made worse, somehow, as he lounges. Sprawls out on the bed, legs spread, pulling taut on the jeans that stretch around the thickness of his upper thigh, bunching around his calves in a half-tuck inside his black boots. Arms flexing. Folded over his broad chest. He rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbow, showing off an impressive tapestry of harsh, faded black ink. Crisscrossing lines. All asymmetrical. Guns, barbed wire. A bullet with a wide, toothy grin—

All of it knits together; woven into a tangled mass of muscle. Of man, hidden under scar tissue. Rope burns on his wrists cut so deep that the skin is permanently dented in. More cigarette burns hidden inside the mess of ink. Jagged lines—from a knife, maybe; bullet wounds. 

His skin tells stories of a terrible life. Ink spills over the worst of them, but they're visible under the fading charcoal. A series of burns—acid, fire, chemical—and raw, torn skin. He looks like he's been mauled. Pressed into the cold metal of a wood chipper until chunks of flesh were taken out. But even with these deep gouges, craters of missing tissue, he's big. Bulky. Soft—like a tiger. Predatory muscle tucked away under a thick layer of fatty tissue. 

The pillowed pouch of his belly, the softness around his biceps—

It belies the danger underneath. The steel. 

But as scary as it is, it has nothing on his eyes. 

Glinting in the dim room. Dark pools of obsidian that follow each movement with an almost clinical keenness. Sharpened to a razor's edge. 

They might be pretty, you think, if they weren't so intense. So liquid. His eyes gleam like wet ink, languidly rolling along his lashline as you clumsily shed your jacket, your blouse. Shoes, socks. Pants. Until you're in nothing but your panties.

Swallowing around the influx of panic that flutters like little birds beating their wings against the soft walls of your throat, you slip your fingers into the hem, now or never, and—

And you hesitate. 

There's a difference between undressing willingly and doing so to save your life. It should spurn you on—survive, survive, survive—but you freeze at the apex. The summit is within reach. 

You know what happens when you climb it. Cross over the invisible threshold. 

What you've been trying to ignore this whole time, ever since he shoved you into the room with a huff, taking his perch on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, but in such a terrifying state of vulnerability, nearly nude, you can't any longer. Can't avert your gaze to the stained linoleum in a thinly veiled effort to keep from glancing at the thickening bulge lying prone against his thigh. 

His—

Well. 

You knew what he wanted when he grabbed your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks until your lips pursed, puckered for him to run his finger along the inseam. Prying your teeth apart. Rubbing his finger over your tongue, eyes dark—full; black holes pulling, tugging you in, dragging you closer to the event horizon framed in a ring of arsenic—and locked on to the sight of his gloved knuckle disappearing into your mouth. Wanting. Hungry. 

You knew. And now—

Committing to it is legions above what you’re mentally prepared for. Nausea brims, churns your stomach. Unease curdling inside of you like rotten milk. 

You don’t want this. But you don’t have a choice, do you?

That notion, the idea, prickles along your nape, raising the fine, peach-fuzz there until it stands on end. 

You freeze. Movements still as every muscle in your body tenses. Coils. You can't do it. Can't—

A huff is dragged out of his chest as he sits up, knocking the gun carelessly to the mattress. His eyes daggering, sharpening into needlepoints, as he stares at you. 

“Gotta do everything f’myself, do I?” 

A grunt and he’s up. Pulling himself to his feet with nothing but the flex of his abdominal muscles. 

There's no reprieve. Not a moment graced to gather your bearings before he crosses the distance between you. Once a comfort, a chasm, now conquered in a single stride.  

The tips of his gloves are cold when they brush over your skin, sliding down the slope of your waist until they meet the hem of your panties. The last piece of modesty you have—

But he doesn't wait.

You're aware that this isn't a non-consensual thriller where the lead looms over the hapless love interest, eyes blazing with passion and need. That each interaction is drenched in a thick, palpable tension tethering the two together. Urges coalescing. Threads pulling taut, magnetic, dragging them closer and closer to the brink until they tumble over. 

This is reality. And he doesn't stare into your eyes with an all-consuming desire as he slowly removes that last scrap of fabric keeping him from devouring you. No. 

His skin-warmed fingers push under the elastic band with a rough shove, curling into the fabric until it tightens across your pelvis and thighs, and then he huffs, annoyed, and pulls. Pulls—

Until something gives. 

The lace yields to the tension in his flexing bicep, and scrapes over your skin as it rips apart in his hand, threads snapping. Popping. 

It hurts. Stings. You hiss, but the noise is ignored when he peels the ruined scrap of fabric from your legs, shoving it into his back pocket with a grunt of satisfaction. He looks back to you, eyes rippling like the dark, ink-black surface of a lake during nightfall, and coos, mocking and mean—

“Not s’hard, was it?”

He leans closer to you, a hand skimming up your spine before his fingers curl around your nape, keeping you still for just a breath before he pulls you into him with too much force. Your hands lift, palms slapping against his thick stomach when the movement nearly topples you over and threatens to break your nose on his chest.

“Makin’ me do all the work when y’supposed t’be payin’ me back? Ain't very nice o’you, is it?”

He touches you like he's taking stock of your worth. Grabbing a heavy, rough palmful of your beast in his hand, squeezing. Testing the weight, the softness, how supple you were between his fingers like he might with a piece of fruit. Meat. Prodding into the flesh, feeling the ripeness there. Gauging whether or not it was a piece he wanted to keep. 

It's demeaning. Humiliating. He treats you like cattle; presses into the elasticity of your muscle, examines every inch of your skin for blemishes. Scouring for imperfections. There's no softness in the way he grabs handfuls of your body—squeezing your breasts, pushing them together, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger; pinching your belly, your sides, your waist; curling his fingers under your thigh, lifting it until it hitches over his waist, cunt exposed and pressed tight to the bulge trapped in his jeans. Your ass is handled rougher than the rest. Each cheek sitting in a hand, squeezed and punched and spread embarrassingly wide. 

He ruts into you as he does it. Pushes the thick, fat length of him into your belly, rolling his hips against you with a heavy, ragged puff of air. 

He feels big. 

Everywhere, of course—it’s not so much his height, but the absurd width of him that really digs into your hindbrain, crossing all those intricate wires until they're tangled up, knotted together. Seeing his thigh, the same scale as a tree truck, slotting between yours—a mere branch by comparison—makes your belly flop. Turn over itself.

The muddled wires spark. Heat pools between your hips.

He could crush your head between them like a bear pushing its paw down on a watermelon. 

It's fear and heat. 

The two work in tandem, forming a seamless cohesion, as they flit down your spine, brimming up the urge to sink to your knees, the need to roll over and show your belly. A paradoxical desire to both run and be chased. 

You're not sure if he's tendering your meat to eat later or if this is the usual type of foreplay he engages in, but once satisfied you're softened up enough for him, he shoves his fingers between your thighs with an abrasive hum that reverberates through his belly, tickling your palms. 

“Tired o’waitin’,” is what he says when your head jerks up, eyes widening in shock. Terror. Horror. “Don't look so surprised,” he huffs, dryly. Voice a rough scrap over your cheek. “What'd y’think was gonna ‘appen?”

“Wait—” but he doesn't. 

His fingers twist, pushing through your folds to graze your clit. It isn't gentle. It's sudden, quick. You gasp more from shock than pleasure; the rough slide of leather feels strange on your flesh, and your head is too muddled to separate fear from bliss.  

Despite that, your body heats. Reacts to his touch. Your lower lip wobbles. You bite back another sound that crawls up your throat when his knuckle catches on your clit again, the pressure just shy of too much. 

The burn, the fever, melts the unease. Shallow gasps spill out. Your cunt clenches, fluttering around nothing—throbbing, growing sticky, slick; achy and empty—when he starts to glide his digit between your folds. Little sawing motions drag each groove and stitch of his gloves over your pebbled clit, each thrust of his hand between your thighs making heat pool between your hips. It's done so clinically, so detached, like his hand rubbing over your leaking pussy was nothing to him. An action to get done, a task to complete. 

It's the shame of that, the embarrassment, that makes you want to weep. Your fingers dig into his chest, nails pulling uncomfortably on the pleated bumps of his jacket as you grip the fabric right between your fists, clinging to him like a newborn fawn—all wet-nosed, teary-eyed; knobbly knees threatening to buck. 

“S–stop—” you mewl when the monotonous rhythm melts into something harder, more intense. Heart thudding in your chest, heat burning you up as he turns his hand, palm up, between your sticky, shaking thighs. He rubs his hand back and forth, curling his middle finger up when he passes your hole, tip pushing against your leaking rim. 

The friction aches. The stretch stings. The leather feels strange, foreign when it pries your folds apart and dips inside of you. 

You don't like it. It's too much—

He makes a sound—a tut—when you pull away from him, standing on the tips of your toes until the blunt curve of his finger slides out of you. He sucks his teeth in a mockery of disappointment before digging his fingers, hard, into the sides of your neck. A warning. You whine. Whimper—

It goes unheeded. And when you press your thighs tight together, shivering at the slip-slide of your skin rubbing against each other, he growls. The noise is inhuman. Animalistic. 

Your act of deviance comes with a swift, bruising punishment. 

His fingers tighten on your neck once again. A warning squeeze as he reaches down with his other hand, grabbing your hip. It keeps you still, immobile, as he bullies his boot between your feet, kicking your legs apart. You're not expecting it. When you stumble, he huffs in amusement. Can't hold yourself up? Want me that bad, huh? Needy fuckin' thing, ain't you?

You don't get a chance to respond. His palm splays wide over your hip, leather creaking as he flexes, stretching his fingers out, tapping some soundless beat out against your skin. Touching you like he's owed the privilege. The right. And in many ways—

Go’ a problem, you an’ I

—he does. 

Brute strength, and an unmatched, almost laughable, dearth in your physicality ensures that he has the upper hand—even without the gun he left on the mattress; darker and flat, a full matte compared to what you were expecting. 

(They're always so shiny in movies, aren't they?)

The threat of it—dull as it might be—roots you to the spot as he slides his hand down, thumb brushing over your belly button, dipping in; pressing until your stomach starts to ache—

It peels away when the whine wells up, sloping down, down. Teases your mound with the tips of his fingers, gentle swipes along the sensitive seam of your belly and pelvis, the sensation is an odd tickle that pulls at your navel, pulses at the apex of your thighs. You mewl—a slow, soft thing that barely makes it out from between your teeth—and he lets his hand drop. Palm flat against the soft flesh of your mons, fingers reaching, spreading, until they curl over your folds. Index and ring finger tucked tight into the hollow bend of your pelvis and thigh. The tip of his middle rubs gentle strokes over the skin above your clit. It's a whisper of pleasure. The idea of a touch. 

Mindless, your hips flit, following his hand—

“Needy.” 

It cows you. Douses you in icy shame. There's barely any mockery in his even, observant tone, but you feel it unfurl over your shoulders all the same. 

He doesn't give you a moment to think, to let the ripples of humiliation take over, forcing you to pull away, hide. His fingers trail over your hood, the pebble of your clit. The sensation, the cool undertone in the leather of his glove, is unlike anything you'd felt before. The thick stitches in the fabric catch on your flesh, nerve endings flaring in pleasure. Heat blooms in your belly. 

It feels good. 

You gasp, head tipping back. His hand winds around your waist when your knees buckle, catching you with a rasping huff—

“Feelin’ good, ain't you?” He pulls you tight to his chest, finger rubbing circles around your throbbing clit. Your cunt clenches, empty, and you whine, needing something more. Something to fill the ache inside of you—

His finger slips. Slides easily between your folds, parting your lips around the thick of him until he reaches your drenched hole. The sounds it makes when he taps his finger against your fluttering core makes your toes curl. Has heat blistering over your cheeks, down the slope of your neck. 

It makes him groan. The low growl makes you throb, clenching in needy little pulls, pulses, as his finger dips into the slick dripping out of you. 

“Suckin’ me in,” he grunts, and pushes his finger inside, thrusting up to the last knuckle. Palm tapping against your folds as his index and ring finger close to give him more room to sink deeper into you. The messy, slick squelch is loud, rolling over the mewling gasps that tumble from your lips. 

Heat floods your belly at the belly-deep groans he lets out when you squeeze around him. 

“Stranglin’ my fuckin’ finger, birdie—” 

He leans down, knocking his forehead against the side of your face. It's more intimate than you were expecting. Jarring. The proximity plays a twisted game inside your head—the urge to run, to roll over coalescing into a paralyzing tailspin. Rooting you to the ground when the warm, damp knit of his mask grazes your cheek. 

The intimacy of his head on yours is eclipsed when you can feel the shape of his mouth through the fabric. 

It's softer than you expected. A plush, fleshy give when he presses his lips against your skin. And—

A gap.

On the side of his mouth, there's a gouge. A pockmark. You feel the gap, the absence, of his flesh when he rolls it over your cheekbone. You try to read the asymmetry of his face—mapping all of these misshapen parts; his mauled lips, the crooked nose that digs into your skin and leaves behind a tacky smear of condescension when he breathes out through his nostrils in a heavy puff of air—and convince yourself that you're doing it so you can bring these patchwork pieces to the police later. 

Survival, you think, your head tilting back as he noses down your neck, tickling along your skin. 

(And when your cunt flutters around the rough, thick drag of his finger petting along your walls, you add: a bodily reaction. That's all it is.)

He takes another lungful of your scent before he rocks back on his heels, pulling away from you. Straightening up. Looming above you once more. 

“Now—”

He pulls his finger out of you slowly and you try not to whimper at the empty feeling that brims up. The way your hips rock toward him, seeking and eager. Wanting.

Needy, just like he said. 

Just a bodily reaction—

He holds his hand up to the dim light flickering over his head, fingers spreading apart as he takes in the glossy shine of his middle finger. 

The gleam of it makes your ears feel hot. Shame pools in your belly as he makes another noise—a groan, deep and low, in the back of his throat. Eyes darkening as his pupils bloom, eclipsing his irises in an endless pool of black. They flicker toward you, listing half-mast in a way to leonine, so predatory, that it shudders through your bones. Run, run—

His hand flexes around your waist when you twitch. A warning. A threat. You tremble when he leans in, masked lips brushing over your cheek once more. Breath ghosting through the fabric, tickling the inside of your ear. 

He smells of war. Of fire and brimstone. Napalm and nitroglycerine. You want to close your eyes, look away, but you can't. His proximity alone roots you to the spot. Turns you into a prey animal, frozen on instinct alone as he prowls around, creeping closer. Maw stretching wide, drooling dripping off razor-sharp canines—

“Let's see if y’worth all the trouble.” 

—and he bites.

Knocks his palm into your sternum, roughly shoving you down on the mattress.

His hands fall to the button of his jeans. “Ready?” He asks, but doesn't seem to care about your answer. Opts, instead, to fall to his knee beside you. It pulls on his zipper, tugs it all the way down with a sharp, metallic sound that cuts through the stagnant air as each ring of teeth is pried apart. 

You can't help it. You look. Dragged there by something primal, magnetic—the morbid curiosity to see the monster for yourself as it tries to take a bite. 

And almost immediately, you wish you hadn't. 

The spread of pale skin, dark curls jutting out from the split of his jeans, makes everything feel more real, and moving fast. Whiplash quick. Happening in a blink:

The shift of fabric as he pulls the mask up over his lips, letting rest on the crooked bridge of his nose. A flash of his mouth, mangled. Mauled. Full of ugly, pale pink scars. A gap where tissue once knit his upper lip together. The bite of crooked teeth as he brings the sticky, wet tip of his glove to his mouth, sinking in. Pulling. Tugging. The roll of skin—a rose, a gun, a skull—all encased in barbed wire; thick rivers of blue-green veins. 

Another pull and it's free. Dangling between his teeth for a moment as he reaches up and shoves the jacket off his shoulders. Rolling and thick. Wide. A broad chest. Soft belly. There's an inch of flesh around the expanse of him—biceps, thighs, calves, chest, stomach, shoulders—but it's a buffer for the corded, streamlined muscle beneath. A layer of fatty tissue. 

Like a tiger, hiding its dizzying musculature beneath a thick, loose pelt. 

When he moves, it flexes. His shoulders roll; muscles bunching together, pulling taut under soft skin. The jacket slides off. Falls to the ground behind the mattress. Forgotten, discarded. The glove is next to go. Dropping from between his teeth, landing just beside your ankle with a muted thud. 

He follows after it. Ink spilling over his lashline as his eyes drop, staring at the roll of his skin tucked on the outside of your thigh. Trailing up to your knee. Your hip. The split of your cunt beneath your other leg; knee tucked to your chest. 

A flash of something, a flicker, is the only warning you get before the back of his hand is nudging the glove off of your skin, replacing it with the rough, calloused grip of his palm. 

You jerk at his touch, flinching back—

He's intimidating above you like this. Leaning back on his haunches but still as tall as you are standing up. The sheer absurdity of his height—his width—is dizzying. Gives you vertigo when you look up. 

His throat shifts when you move. A swallow. Coarse stubble grows down the column of his neck, dusting over his lower jaw, chin. The rest is swallowed by the balaclava bunched around his crooked nose. 

He's not—

He's not handsome. 

A smattering of crisscrossing scars, burns, skin pocked and gouged out in deep pockets along his flesh—the slide of a knife carving away at him, you think; digging down to his marrow—all take away from any sense of modern attractiveness you might feel for him with his broad, jagged nose and full lips. 

But there's something rugged about him. Untamed. Wild. Appealing in a dangerous way. 

You don't know if you would have let this happen under different circumstances. If this minacious beauty of his would have worked on you enough to want it outside of this awful, almost unfathomable trade. 

He's too big. Wouldn't even fit inside of your house—

The graze of his thumb on your angle knocks the thought loose, and you're dragged back to the heat of his hand. Rough and coarse; palms slightly damp from the glove. It tugs on your flesh as he draws it up, a rubbery sort of pain as it catches on the soft, dry skin of your ankle. Your shin. 

He follows behind a second later, pulling himself into the mattress with a huff, knees shuffling forward as he crawls over you. The jostling rocks your body. Makes your breasts shake as he lumbers on the bed, hand still sliding up, up, until his fingers curl over the bend of your knee. 

The bed dips under his weight. Your body sagging, rolling into the divot beneath his knees. Tucked under him. Loomed over. He stares down at you through the cutout of his mask, eyes liquid in the gloam. Pools of melting, dripping obsidian. Black holes. Event horizon—

You look away before it drags you in. Submissive. Softened under the harsh burn of his flat, wide stare. He chuffs when your nose brushes over the thin skin of his wrist, mouth sliding over the thick, pulsing vein stretching down from his inner arm and curling into the bend of his hand. Your lips purse, and he makes that noise again. 

Quietly amused, and—

He shuffles forward until the backs of your thighs are pulled over his, spread out on his lap. Bare. Open to him. 

And he looks. 

And looks. 

Hungry, you think. Quietly amused and hungry—

The notion is wrenched out of your head when he shifts his weight. Watches the folds of your pussy open for him as he pulls your knees wider apart, head dropping between his massive shoulders, gaze drilling into the split of your thighs. Gasping at the sting, the sudden stretch, does little to deter him from shoving your leg down until the outside of your knee touches the bed. Muscles straining. Pinching. It hurts; hipbones twinging in agony. 

But the embarrassment burning through you singes all the pain. 

You're spread open under him. Bare. Legs tangled around his waist, stretched wide around the width of him. Ankles knocking into the hard plains of his lower back each time he shifts. 

“Fuckin’ hell—” he grunts. Snarls. The word ripped up from the back of his throat, forced through the twisting channels of his nose. Nasal and ugly when it scrapes out between his teeth. “Gonna ruin this pretty pussy, birdie.”

It's a threat. A promise. You twist, mouthing your protests into the warm skin of his wrist. 

There's something about his voice—that airy, brassy tone—that strikes a chord deep inside you. Makes heat pool between your thighs, leaking out in a syrupy mess—

His hand peels away from your knee, sliding down your sticky, damp inner thigh until his knuckles graze the sensitive slip of skin sitting between your outer lip and hip. That ticklish, belly-fluttering sensation blooms in your groin as he rubs his scarred knuckles over the crease, catching the slick gathered there on his thick, meaty thumb. 

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he groans, shifting his fingers until they cover the whole of your cunt, cradling you in his hand. He holds you like that for a beat, eyes locked on the way you're swallowed up by the broad stretch of his palm. 

The rough drag of his skin over your folds feels good. An all-encompassing heat spreads over your tender flesh from the curve of your ass to the bump of your mons where his middle finger rests, almost touching the strip of skin between your loins and your belly. Held in his grasp. Cradled in his palm. 

Your thighs twitch. A shallow jerk as your knees try to bend over his hand, but you can't. With his thumb and pinkie tucking into each crease between your outer lip and leg, it keeps you from closing your legs. Hinged by the wide, flat cup of his palm. 

And it shouldn't bludgeon through you the way it does. All heat. All want. Need. A growing ache you can't think around. 

(bodily reaction, you think even as the image of his hand—big with thick fingers, scarred knuckles; streaks of faded, ashy ink etched into milky, veined skin—laying over your pussy, swallowing it whole, sears into your mind—)

“Can feel your little cunt,” he grunts, feeling the pulse, the little throbbing pulls of your muscles as they twitch at the sight. The feeling. Clenching down around nothing. “Greedy little thing, ain't you, birdie?”

Anger paints his words as he rasps them out. A teeth gnashing, jaw clenching frustration that needles into the scorn, the fury, forced out between the tight seam of his crooked teeth. 

You don't understand it. Can't, maybe. 

But it's tucked away as quickly as it appeared, shifting into an ugly, mocking derision. Dry. Acerbic. His teeth flash, lip pulling upward in a sneer—a snarl—before he hums, sliding his hand down. The drag of his damp, rough fingers over your swollen folds has your knees falling open wider around his thick thighs, baring yourself willingly to him. 

Want it bad, don't you? He mocks, and the sound of his voice alone has your pussy clenching tight, belly fluttering around the abrasive scrape of his tone. Brassy and full. Gritty. You whine, hips inching up—

His hand peels off of your slit. The rush of cold air drags another whimper out of you, hips pushing up to chase the heady, molten feeling of his skin on yours. And he's amused by it—a laugh echoes out, crackling in the hollow of his throat at your desperation—but you're too achy, too hot, to feel the simmer of humiliation nipping the apples of your cheeks. 

He's not even making a real effort to pleasure you, to make you feel good, and yet—

Your hips twitch toward him in needy, mewling cants; please sits on the tip of your tongue, cradled between your teeth. Slips out on a shaky, breathless gasp when he meets you on the next buck of your hips, palm slapping over your wet slit. 

The crack echoes through the room. Rough, dry skin on soaked flesh. 

And it shocks you more than it hurts. The sting is there, of course, but it's just an afterthought to astonishment. An eye-widening disbelief masking the way your cunt smarts, throbbing from the slap. Nerves muffled behind the burn in your eyes, the searing heat pooling in your sinuses. 

Wrenched open, unblinking as you stare up at him, your eyes begin to sting, to water. You blink, and feel something hot trickle down your cheek. A tear. His eyes snap to it. Pupils narrowing to a pinprick as he watches it slide down your face, little droplets clinging to your jaw. 

“Poor baby,” he mocks, tilting his head as he tracks the teardrop. “Better behave.” 

Behave. Like he's admonishing a child and not an adult. 

It morphs; rots. Becomes yet another thing you shouldn't feel feverish over. The slick, sticky feeling grows between your thighs as your cunt flutters at the humiliation of it all. 

And deeper—maybe—the bastardized sense of care—

(Punishment is affection in its own, special (awful) way and you've been aching for something just like it, haven't you—)

It's pushed down. Swallowed. And you know in the back of your head that if you keep eating these feelings, you're going to be sick. But you can't stop. Barely breathe around the idea of them sometimes—

“Tha’s’it,” he coos like he knows. Sees them bright and burning behind your irises. Little flickers of need, a smouldering want that you'll never grasp at yourself. 

So he gives it to you. 

The rough slide of his hand, all scarred and dry and calloused, scrapes over your slit once more. A full, flat stroke upward until your clit bumps into the ridge of his palm. Then down, down—

His fingers spread. Ring and index prying your folds apart as he pushes up once more, opening your seam to slip his middle finger through the slick, sticky mess that drips out of your burning cunt. 

“Gonna be good f’me?” 

The slide of his fingers drags the tip up to the bump of your clit. You stare down at it, fixed on the jut of his ink-black knuckles threading through your folds. The crease of his nail as he slips his fingers up higher, pad pushing over your pebbled clit. They're dirty. Grey-black under his nails. Congealed with dirt. Blood, maybe. 

Your stomach churns even as your hips lift. Eager, searching. Hating yourself each second of it. It's gross. Disgusting. 

You want his dirty, thick fingers inside of you—

“When I ask a question—” the tip circles over your clit. A shallow roll that pools heat between your thighs. “I expect an answer.” 

“Y–yes,” you stammer out, hips flexing against his hand. Seeking more of that white-hot bloom of pleasure he brings with each pass of his finger. 

“Good girl—” and you hate how it burns you up from the inside out. “Wasn't s’hard, was it?”

The retort is bitten back with the slow swipe of his finger drawing tight, small circles around your clit. His fingers are rough, scarred. Too dry. The abrasive drag over your soft sensitive flesh makes you whine—a drawn-out whimper nestled between clenched teeth. 

It's too much. 

Too harsh. Too sharp.

He rolls your clit under the pads of his fingers in jerking half-circles. Puts too much pressure on the bundle of nerves than you ever would—your touches are always soft, sickeningly sweet; gentling your flesh until you cum—and the sting, the burn, of it makes your toes curl. Body burn. 

It's good. 

And that's the problem. 

It shouldn't be. His touch shouldn't make you so wet, growing slick and sticky between your spread thighs, bare to his hungry, prying gaze. Shouldn't make you moan. Hips twitching with each stroke of his fingers—

And then he peels away from you, but the time to mourn the loss of his touch, the fear of losing this trembling ember pleasure, is snuffed out when he presses his wet, slick fingers against the inside of your knee. The touch is intentional. Insistent. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat before pushing it down to the mattress. The twinge of pain swallowed up as quickly as it forms when he drops to his elbows between your thighs, forearms curling under your legs, and tugs you sharply into him. 

Heat floods your belly when the backs of your thighs press tight to his broad, muscular shoulders, but it's nothing compared to the sight of him on his knees between your legs. It's so obscene you nearly weep—

And then he leans down and licks a long, broad swipe of his tongue over your cunt. 

You hadn't expected it, maybe. His mouth on your pussy, his broken, jagged lips sealing over your pebbled clit. Going down on you seemed too intimate for what he was after. His end goal. It does nothing for him at all—

You realise your mistake when he dips his tongue into your hole and his hips jerk forward. Unconscious. Eager. Seeking. The shifting drags his jeans down his hips, and his cock slips free. 

Most of the cocks you've seen—in porn, pictures, art—jut out from the person's groin. standing at attention, the nasty comments used to say. Jokes whispered on the playground. But his falls. Droops down between big, folded thighs. Skin marbled in shades of red, peach. Deep gouges dot his upper thighs, some sinking deep enough to reach bone. More scar tissue than flesh. 

—than man.

It looks raw. Fresh. Some injuries not too dissimilar to the Wagyu hanging in the front of the storeroom, on display and oh, so out of place in a town where the richest man must be just a hair above the poverty line. 

On paper, anyway. 

You swallow, avoiding his gaze as he pauses, dark eyes watching you with his mouth pressed against your seam. Unmoving. Still as a predator between your thighs, cock visible between the bow of his torso, jutting sickeningly from mangled legs as you gawk at this hideous thing that makes several, half-hearted attempts to spring up towards you, spitting clear, milky liquid all over with each jerk. Tugged down by its own weight. Too heavy to fight against gravity like the rest of the cocks you've seen have done—

Normal cocks, you amend. Textbook. 

His is anything but. 

Ugly, you think again, stomach churning. Roiling. Obscene. An odd thing considering what you're looking at but all too fitting with the way it droops, big, flared head drooling pre-cum all over the bed in long, dangling stands that prickle over your jaws—half nauseous, half hungry, too. Saliva pools in your mouth even though the sight of his cock scares you. Fills your belly with dread. Misery. 

It looks like a bruise. Skin smeared with purples, reds. Patches of pink. Long, thick veins run up from the fattened, full base to the divot of his frenulum. Thick. It hangs low. Drips. 

He raises slightly and shoves his hand down between his thighs, big hand curling over the fat base of his cock. His grip is tight around himself, and he strokes up, from base to tip. It squeezes more precum from the flushed, fat head, and dribbles between your spread thighs in a thick, pearlescent puddle. 

It makes your mouth dry. That twinge in your jaws coming back. Festering. You wonder if he'll make you take that thing in your mouth. Choke you on it. Taste his precum—

“Fuck,” he snarls into your cunt, hand jerking over his cock. “Keep lookin’ at my cock like tha’, birdie—”

You gasp at the rough grunt, the way it seems to tremble through your sensitive flesh. More, though, from the way he sounds. His voice brassy, rough. Unkind, but the words bloom a fresh heat behind your navel. 

His voice does things to you. Things you're not allowed to like. 

Those thoughts are knocked from your head when he bows down again, eyes still fixed on you, and seals his wicked mouth over your cunt. It's hard to compare it to anything else other than being devoured. Eaten in the truest sense of the word. 

His tongue splits down your seam, tip digging into your slick hole. A groan bubbles up at your taste—the soft, fluttering clench of your body trying to drag him in deeper. Needing him deeper. A huff of air ghosts over you, dipped in the same derision as earlier but the harsh slap of skin on skin, his hand working furiously over his cock, makes you acutely aware of how much this affects him. 

“Taste good, birdie,” he grunts, and then sucks your fold into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and teeth until the skin is tender, swollen. “S’fuckin’ good—”

Your breath catches when the crooked arch of his nose presses taut to your clit. Pleasure twisting in a dizzying pirouette inside your belly, winding tighter and tighter—

His nose jerks up on your clit. Lips moulded to your seam, you hear him rasp eyes on me, birdie. Don't fuckin’ look away—

The rough snarl trembles through your body, sinking its teeth into the coil until it snaps under its jaw. Your knees snap around his head as your release locks your joints tight. His name, Simon, a hoarse cry on your lips. You barely have time to bask in the ripples of pleasure throbbing through your body before he rips away from you with his teeth bared, and his chin wet. 

“Fuck—!” he snarls again, shoving your knees apart as he lifts his massive body up from between your thighs. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gotta be inside your tight cunt—”

He towers over you, grinding his cock into the apex of your thighs. The drag of his cock—a little damp from being stuck inside his jeans all day; balmy—against the dry skin of your belly makes you shudder. Shivering beneath him as he huffs through the mask. Head bowing. Dipping to look at the way his cock slaps down on you. Cockhead nudging above your belly button, dribbling a small puddle of pre-cum that gets smeared into your skin when he rocks back on his haunches. 

His hand wraps around the thick base of his cock once more, squeezing tight as he grips himself above you. It makes the head swell, engorged with blood. Thickening in his hand as globs of pre-spend leak out onto your belly. That feeling in your jaws comes back—nauseous and wanting. 

He leans back with a hum. “Like my cock, eh, birdie?” 

The crass words bring a fresh bloom of heat simmering in your veins, creeping up your collar. Like doesn't really cover what you feel when you stare at it—his inked hands running along the long, veined shaft—and the unsettled feeling in the pit of your belly rears when he nudges forward, the weeping head of his cock bumping your mound. 

It's humiliating how much want floods through you just looking at it. At him. Disgust, dread, desire. 

You don't answer. Not that you really need to—

Your silence is loud enough. 

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, the rasp thick in his throat. “M’gonna give it to you, pet—”

And he does just that. Slips the head of his cock down the slope of your mound, letting it graze your clit until you're panting, whining softly for more, and pulls it over your slit until his pre-cum is smeared over your drenched folds. You know exactly what this is even without glimpsing the ugly burn of his possessive desire smouldering in the back of his eyes—ownership. Greed. Hunger. It revels in the stain on your skin, from belly to slit; his, all his. Outside and soon—

In. 

It shocks a creeping sense of worry into you. “Wait, what about a condom—”

He snorts, ugly and caustic. “What about ‘em?” He taunts, and it's flat. Playful. 

“You should—”

He drags his gaze away from the pearlescent smear of his spend on your folds, your clit, and the even, placid look in that stagnant lake tells you everything you already knew. 

“I've never—” you start, wincing at the kernel of fear lacing your hoarse words. “Not without a condom—”

It's the wrong thing to say. Near cataclysmic. He drops his head back with a groan that rumbles out of the slope of his throat, sounding like the rip of a chainsaw. 

“Firsts for everything,” he purrs, and he nudges your entrance with the bare, weeping tip of his cock. 

“But—”

His hand lifts, catching your jaw in the too-wide span of his palm. The force makes your teeth clack together. 

“Need me to gag you, birdie?” 

You swallow. It's not much of a choice. Gagged and fucked raw, or—

Just fucked raw. 

No gag. No condom. You fight back a shiver and wish it was all just from fear. 

“No,” you murmur, like you have a choice. “No gag.”

“An’?” 

“Um. No–no condom, either—”

It's not enough. "What are you gonna let me do to this pussy, birdie?"

You know what he wants. What he's angling for. But there's a line, you think. A delineation between unwilling participant, coercion, and giving into the need that slinks down your spine, and rots inside your belly.

(Being forced to ask for it isn't permission, but what happens when you want it more than your next breath?)

The shame can come later, you think, and feel yourself give in. 

"Cum—cum inside me—"

“Good girl, birdie.” 

You hate what that does to you. How eagerly your body reacts to the dark possessive curl in his eyes when you do something he likes. 

He nudges your entrance again, this time with purpose. Intent. A heavy pressure pushing on your rim. Too tight, you think, and the sting of the first inch he feeds—forces—into you burns, pulsing behind your navel. His tip isn't even in yet, and it's already too much. 

You think about telling him so, offering up your mouth instead, but he leans down on his forearms, and catches your lips in a bruising, biting pantomime of a kiss. A blood-soaked parody with more teeth and tongue—sinking into your lips, nipping hard until the skin splits; catching all that spills with his tongue. 

With his weight pressed against you like this, there's nowhere to run when he cups your throat in his hand, winding the other up above your head, forearm tight on your crown to cage you in. And then he shifts. Bears his hips down on yours until the fat head of his cock pops inside of you. 

Your squeal is chewed up between his teeth, swallowed down with a rumbling groan. 

Caught beneath him, trapped, he works himself into you demanding, heavy thrusts. Each inch burns more than the last. A stinging stretch that brings tears to your eyes. It's already too much and it's not even half. Barely even the tip.

“Can't—” you slur into his wet, demanding mouth. “No more. I–I can't—”

The breath rushes out between his teeth. Your watery eyes drop to the divot above his canine. A permanent snarl. A condescending sneer. 

“You can,” he says decisively, words ground out from between crooked teeth. He presses them to your cheek, nipping at the skin under your eye. Possessive and wanting—

(Hungry for something you can't name—)

“And you will.” 

—Or maybe you just don't want to. Can't look at the thunderous need draped over his mangled, battered face without thinking of the rumble in your chest that echos back against his thundering call—)

Stupid, foolish thing—

The dark promise of his words isn't a threat until his hand tightens around your neck, nails grazing your skin, and he adds, all of me, birdie as he grinds his hips into yours shallowly. Broad chest expanding with each ragged inhale. Cementing his taunt with a steel edge as you try not to come undone beneath him. 

You'll take every fuckin’ inch—

He pulls back until only his glands stretch you open, and you know what's coming when his fingers grip the sides of your neck tight. Holding on. Anchoring you to the bed as he nudges his forearm tighter between your skull and the wall, a protective hold. 

Before you can tense up, bracing for it, or even cry out no, please, don't, you can't take it, he huffs, and then slams his hips forward, splitting you open on the fat stretch of his thick, too heavy cock. 

Maybe it's hysteria, delirium, but the blunt press of his length against your tender, sore walls balms the ache, the sting. The deeper he pushes, the less it hurts. A paradox that leaves you whimpering under his hand, heels digging into the broad stretch of his waist as you struggle to decide if you want to kick him away or pull him closer. 

A war you don't have the power to win when he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt with a growl that shakes the fragile tendons surrounding your heart. Fear, misery. Pleasure, pain. It admixes. Coalescing into a dizzying sense of fullness, unbearable pressure. Catastrophic in its heaviness as your mind reels, struggles to come to terms with the gut-wrenching, heart-aching uncertainty of how you're supposed to go on without having him seated as deep inside of you as he can get. You've never known emptiness before him. Before now. Mere seconds ago. 

And now, the thought of it leaves a palpable hollowness itching behind your ribs. Festering. Rotting tissue and bone. 

“Simon,” you choke, sobbing his name out under the firm press of his hand. “Simon—”

But he knows. 

His arm curls over your head like a crown, and you can easily forget the pinch of each thorn when he holds you tight. Protectively. Possessively. Securing you in his arms before he lifts up, palm sliding over the mattress, touch tender against your cheeks, and then settles it on the indent of your knee. Widening you for him as he spreads his thighs under yours until you're opened up for him. 

Those dark eyes are dragged down to the split of your legs where his cock disappears into your slick, swollen cunt. You follow it down, gazing at the impressive width of his stomach bowing over you until they land on the jut of skin pushing out from a messy smatter of damp curls around the base of his cock. 

The coarse hair of his groin unfurls as it sticks to your wet lips, and he rolls his head back over his shoulders he heaves through the too tight stretch of your walls over his length. You feel the pulse of him inside of you, thudding like a heartbeat. It blooms molten under the feverish weight of his lidded, dark gaze. 

“Fuck, birdie,” he rasps, and it's scorched. Charred. “Look at you—”

As the world is condensed, narrowed down to nothing but the near impossible stretch of his cock seated as deep inside of you as he can get, he leans down, scarred, mangled lips brushing cruelly over your ear, and whispers, see? Told you'd take me. 

Every fuckin’ inch. 

Your hand jerks to your belly, fingers dancing over your navel as if to feel him there, bulging from under your skin. Nearly hysterical as you try to come to terms with the pulsing, white-hot ache of him inside of you, slowly acclimating to his girth, his length. 

He grunts when he sees what you're doing, eyes flaring as your fingers skirt around your navel. 

“It's—” you shudder, gasping for air. “It's too much, Simon, I can't take it—”

He rolls his hips with a groan. “m’cock too big for you, birdie?” 

His usual cadence is flat, droll, but an unmistakable sense of masculine pride, a deep, egotistic sense of satisfaction, drapes itself over his brassy words. Glueing to the scorching rasp of his voice in a way that makes you unerringly certain that he likes it. Likes that his cock is too big for you. That it hurts. 

“Y’can take it,” he prompts, forcing more of himself into you until something snaps. Splits. Makes room. Carves out a space for him to fit. 

The brief flash of pain is soothed when he's seated deep. That same paradoxical balm making itself known as he flattens his hips into yours with a noise—half a grunt, or a growl; a lazy, pleasure-soaked snarl. You're not sure what it is, but the sound knocks the air from your lungs, igniting inside of you like a spark inside a tinderbox. 

It's only when his balls are flush against you that the same masculine pride brims up again. Primal. Animalistic. The urge to present your soft belly rears up suddenly, and it's only stifled when he grunts again, looking down at you with lidded, black eyes. 

“Now, be good and let me fuck your tight cunt.”

He's not looking for assent. Nothing you could say at this moment will sway his mind one way or the other. There's a nasty spool of determination welling up like blood on a pricked finger. Beading up to the surface in a clean, neat droplet as he rolls his broad shoulders, and shuffles into a comfortable position on his haunches between your spread thighs. The motion jostles his cock in a way that makes your breath hitch with each jerk. 

It's not painful. Not particularly. But you're overwhelmed by the sensation of utter fullness in a way you've never experienced before. Each grind of his cock against your overly stretched walls deeping that incipient feeling of anxiety brewing in your belly that one wrong move and you'll tear. He's just—

Too big. 

And despite his claims—or rather, in spite of them—you don't think you can do it. Don't think you can take him. It's too much. It feels like being turned inside out and then put back into place. An uneasy sense of discomfiture blooms with each too-tight, too-sharp tug of his cock pulling taut on your rim. 

Almost deliriously, you think you can feel the pulse of his cock inside your goddamn throat. 

“Simon—” you start on a tremulous breath but he cuts you off with a hum. 

“Relax.” 

You can't. Can't—

“Fuckin’ hell, bird,” he rasps, leaning down suddenly until his face was pushed tight into the curve of your neck, breath shallow on your thudding pulse. “Stop squirmin’ ‘round me like tha’ or I'll cum right fuckin’ now.”

Your heart stutters. Gallops painfully in your chest. His words make you dizzy because for as much as this feeling of him, his cock, inside of you dances on a delicate precipice of being more than you can feasibly handle and somehow the most incredible thing you'd ever experienced before, you hadn't considered how he'd feel. 

Inexplicably, it pleases you. 

There's something so strange—so extraordinary—about bringing a man like him, like this, to his knees. Pleasuring him by just heaving through the white-hot stretch of his cock inside of you. Making him bury his head in your neck, groaning about how he was gonna fuckin’ bust, pretty thing, fuck—

It was a powerful feeling. 

Unwarranted, maybe. But incredible, nevertheless. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, and you feel his throat work around a thick swallow. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gonna fuck this pretty cunt so fuckin' hard until you beg me stop—”

And he does just that. Rears back from your neck, and settles again between your thighs—quicker this time. With an urgency that makes you whimper when his cock grinds against your walls hard enough to bruise. 

When he finally pulls out until only the flared head of his cock remains, you knot a fist into the thin pillow, clinging on, and latch the other onto his hip as if that could somehow stop the vicious promise in his eyes about poundin’ you into the goddamn mattress. There's a flash, a brief flicker of his eyes, and then he thrusts back inside of you with a grunt that makes your belly clench, and your back arch. 

True to the promises he gave, it's brutal. Violent. 

Any pleasure you feel is leached through osmosis. A tether bound around his own. 

His arm is shoved under your back, angling your pelvis up. Thighs dangling over the thick spread of his own, ass seated in his lap. He drives into you, thrusts deep—grinds his hips until your moans break into hoarse screams, whimpers. Makes your eyes roll so far back, all you see is black even when you blink your eyes up at him. 

He carves a spot deep inside of you with each delirious piston of his cock, pounding into you with brutal thrusts, and then holding tight when his balls slap against your ass. Digging the head of his cock into the seal of your womb until it aches behind your navel. Each breath feels like glass in your lungs—

“Tha’s it,” he slurs in your ear, mouth damp against your skin. “Take my cock so good, pretty birdie. Little pussy was made for it, weren't you? Tight cunt all mine—”

His gruff words tug on that tether until you're wrapped around him like a bow. Following him down this endless spiral as he slams inside of you over and over again, cooing in your ear about the sounds you made for him, pretty cunt so fuckin’ wet f’me, birdie, hear tha’? all f’me—

“Cum f'me, birdie. Want this pussy cummin’ ‘round my cock—”

“Can't—” you gasp, arching into him, desperate and needy. It rides a line between pain and pleasure; a needlepoint you wobble on. “Need—”

You try to reach down, to touch your clit, but grinds his hips into yours with a snarl. “Cum ‘around my cock, birdie.”

“Touch me—”

“Fuckin’ hell—”

It edges on too much. Pain and pleasure teetering on a knife's edge, split apart by a line the width of a razer. Looping and tangling around each other until you can't differentiate between the two. But it makes sense, you suppose, staring up at him arched above you like a black cloud of smoke. All hunger and fire. Consuming, devouring, everything in its path. A wildfire. 

Butcher, you think again when his hand wraps around your throat. A mimicry of what he did in the truck, forcing your eyes on him. Your life tucked neatly against his palm.

These hands take lives. It's what they're made for. All scarred, and thick. Scar tissue and bone. Muscle and cartilage. Meant to render meat of cattle. Slaughterhouse in the shape of a man. Consumption personified. 

But where there should be fear, all you feel is an echoing sense of hunger. Leatherbound to each other, maybe—

The look that passes over his eyes as he stares down at you, cupped in his palm, seems to fit perfectly into the fractured gaps inside yourself you try so hard to ignore. And what doesn't—

Well. 

He'll make room to fit. 

You reach up, curling your fingers around his thick wrist. His eyes flash, but he doesn't slow his thrusts. Doesn't stop. Just watches as you peel his hand away from your neck, bringing it up to your mouth. 

On his palm, there's a piece of skin that's unblemished compared to the rest of his worn, burnt hands. A strip just big enough for you to sink your teeth into. 

And you do. 

“Fuck, Birdie—!” The snarl is ripped from his throat. His thrusts grow harder, sloppier. Each bit of strength in his muscled hips and thighs is used to pound into you until your vision blacks out. It hurts. Aches. Your heels slip down, catching on the broad expanse of his lower back. And you tighten them around his waist, pulling him closer. Deeper. “Fuck, Birdie, fuckin’ cunt was made f'me, wasn’t it? So cum on my cock. Now—”

Whining, you shake your head. “Can't. I can't. I need—”

You don't get to finish. With a huff of anger, he rips his hand off of the mattress, leaning back on his haunches, and shoves his hand between your thighs, scarred fingers stroking over your pebbled clit. It's rough. Sloppy. His anger hums through his body, skewering into you as he glared down, gaze swinging like a pendulum between the split of your thighs where his cock disappears into your swollen cunt, his fingers rubbing over your clit, and back up the hand around your neck, the tears staining your cheeks. 

There's an edge to his thrusts. A viciousness in the way he pistons his hips into you. Dark eyes catching every flicker—each wince, gasp, moan, whine all meticulously catalogued and exploited. He finds the spots that make your hips jerk, twitching both toward and away from him. Angling into the ones that have your eyes rolling back into your head, drool dribbling past your slack lips as you gasp his name out into the dank, humid air. 

It smells of sweat, sex, and him. Something brutal, bloody, and dark. Rotten leaves. Charred forests after a rain shower. Dangerous. Tinged with a slight acrid, chemical stench—benzene, oxidizing iron. It drips down your throat, and drenches your lungs. Staining you from the inside out. 

And he exploits that, too. Leans in, and breathes heavily against your upper lip, your cheek. Drowns you in his scent. His sweat beads along his jaw, droplets raining down over your brow. Soaked in his essence. Unable to see, smell, or touch anything that isn't him. 

With his hand over your mouth, teeth sunk into his palm, all you can taste is him, too. Leather. Gun oil. Blood. 

The ravenous look in his eye sharpens, turning into deadly points. 

“Such a pretty fuckin' bird.” He rasps, the words shattered, mangled in the back of his throat. They carry the scent of blood when you breathe them in, and you wonder if he forced them through glass. Pushed them out with his bloody fists. 

You bite down harder in response, keening through the white-hot pain of his cock spearing deeper than before, stretching you past your limits. The taste of blood on your tongue, the rasping snarl pulled from his chest, his fingers toying with your clit, push you over the edge once more. Again and again, and again, and—

His hand peels away from your oversensitive clit, dropping down to the mattress beside your face. He follows quickly after several impossibly deep thrusts that shove you higher up on the mattress, pressing in until his balls sit flush against your ass, cockhead battering against your cervix, and he groans—deep and liquid—when he comes, spilling inside of you. Rooted deep, cock twitching, Simon drops to his elbow beside your head, smothering you under his weight as the tension in his body bleeds out. 

Your teeth stick to the divots in his hand, and the sensation of ungluing them from the wounds you gave him makes you shiver. Slowly, you roll your tongue out, chasing the drops of blood, and breathe heavily through your nose as he burrows deeper inside of you, chest shuddering over yours. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, hips jerking into yours with a slap that echoes through the room. “Little tease, ain't you?” 

Even with his cock softening inside of you, it's still thick. Fat. Stretching you open as he yawns out above you, bloodied hand dropping down to cup your neck again, forearm resting heavily between your breasts. He raises slightly on his elbow, black eyes glinting in the shallow dark of the room. Piercing as they drill into your sweat-slicked face. 

It aches when he moves. When he presses his hips harder into yours, the muscles in your legs throb as his broad waist splits them apart. Your feet dangle, sliding uselessly down his back, over his ass, before coming to rest curled around his thighs. Melting into the mattress, tender and sore and all chewed up—

You feel like a massive contusion instead of a person. A pestle. His. 

The thought makes you shiver, and his eyes flash in triumph like he knows. 

The feeling of him pulling out of you draws a whimper from your lips. The drag on your sensitive, bruised walls is a strange mix of tender pleasure and pain. He chuckles at your mewl—dark and low; the sound of nightmares, you think. Crackling sap on charred wood. 

You try to pretend it doesn't make you shudder, but the way he hums in response dashes the feigned oblivion before it can form. All you can do is heave on the bed, and watch him through narrowed slits as he leans back on his haunches once again, head cocking to the side. His dark eyes fixed on the split of your legs. The ache in your cunt growing sharp under his molten stare. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, the shallow groan pulled out from between clenched teeth. You wonder if the mangled curse was unintentional. Ripped from his throat before he could clamp his jaws around it—a crack in the facade. A hairline splinter in the indomitable mask he wears. 

Your heart lurches. None of this makes sense, but your head is too muddled, too syrupy, to think much at all. A quandary for later when he throws you from his bed with a harsh slap on your ass and a and don't think about doing this ever again. 

But you don't think you can move. “Give me a minute,” you start on a trembling breath. “And I'll—”

His brows move but his eyes stay fixed on your sore cunt. You can feel him leak out of you, spilling on the mattress in thick globs. The sensation makes you shiver. 

“You'll what?” 

It looks like he has to forcibly tear his eyes away from you, reluctance forming a cold, angry crater between his brows. The brunt of his ire—white, burning—makes you want to supplicate yourself at his feet, roll over on your belly and show the beast you mean no harm. 

(Run, and run far—)

He huffs. “You'll what, birdie?”

It takes a minute to find your voice through all the panic clogging your throat. “I'll leave, um—”

He peels away from you with a loud, rough snort, and drops to his his elbow beside you. Hands curling possessively over your waist, fingers tight. Unyielding. 

“Not goin’ anywhere, birdie. Told you, didn't I? You're mine.” 

“I'm—”

“Go to sleep.” 

He pulls you roughly to his chest until your head is pillowed on his shoulder, and then rolls on his back, keeping you cushioned at his side. You try to move, but his arm wedges under your neck, curling over your shoulder. Trapping you to him. 

The panic wants to come now. To rage against the shackle of his embrace, to run home and scrub your skin until it bleeds. But the exhaustion collapses over it all until your eyes feel too heavy to hold open. Too painful.

As you drift, aimless and dreamless, his voice cuts through the fog. “Gotta learn ‘ow to cum with nothin’ but my cock inside of you sooner or later, birdie. Or you won't be coming at all—”

It sounds like a threat. A promise. You fall asleep with the words echoing in your head, his arm an anchor around your waist. 

He wakes up hungry. 

A gnawing in his belly pulls him from the thin doze he fell into after fucking you three more times—with your face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air for him to rut against like a beast; teetering over his hips, the spread of them too wide for your thighs to split over leaving you precariously unbalanced and shifting your weight above him as neither knee sat comfortably on the mattress; and on your belly with him crushing you to the floor under his bulk. The memory of which makes his spent cock stir, twisting limply against his damp, sticky thigh. Matted down with drying cum, sweat, the slick wetness of being buried inside your messy cunt. 

Filled now with his cum. 

He groans low in his throat as he thinks about it. The sloppy way you let him take you over and over again until you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore, passing out before he finished. Letting him fuck his cum inside of you as you whimpered in your sleep—

Perfect little thing, aren't you? So good to him.

Simon can't remember the last time he fucked someone, much less when it was this enjoyable (an understatement, of course; in the back of his head, wheels spin round and round as he tries to come up with a plan to keep his cock buried inside of you at all times while still doing his work—), and the overflow of unquenched lust churns in his belly. A hunger he can now slake on your willing body. In the silence, he purrs—

But the effort, the exertion, dredged up a different need inside him. 

Simple hunger. An appetite. 

He could eat—

his eyes slant toward the top of your crown in the dark, and he amends it, quickly, to: in more ways than one. 

He'll go home in a minute. Make himself a steak from the prime cut he butchered a few days ago, leftovers that no one had any qualms about when he took several pieces home with him. 

(and really, why would they argue with the butcher who keeps their wallets fat and their bills paid?)

It was left on the counter earlier before he got the call that your brother was making another move. Now a perfect room temperature as it waits for him to come back. Cook it the way he likes—

Rare. 

The perfect grill is a nice char on the outside, but bleeding red on the inside. Basted in duck fat and garlic. A sprig of rosemary in the pan, but not touching the meat. Just enough to give the juice that earthy, sweet flavour. Let it rest for ten minutes under foil with the rest of the fat poured over it from the pan. Served as is with maybe a dash of salt and pepper on the side. 

Simple. But incredibly difficult to perfect, he finds. 

Everyone tries to make it fancier than what it needs to be, but at the end of the day, meat is meat. And going from picking scraps from the garbage outside of the Italian butcher on the corner to ordering his own pretentious filet mignon still gives him a sense of unease. Whiplash, perhaps. Nothing to something—how about that, Tommy? 

Maybe that's why he prefers to raise and butcher his own cattle. A never-ending supply of meat for him to sink his teeth into even if this whole thing goes belly up and he's back to begging for morsels on the corner. Tommy hiding in the shadows with a baseball bat waiting to ambush the richer men who happen to feel altruistic that day. 

This practice bled over into his current occupation, too. The basement of that same Italian butcher shop he used to sneak expired sausage from out of the bins is now his home base of sorts. A money laundering front of the 141. Headquarters for them to congregate in secrecy upstairs. And here—

A torture chamber for those who tried to cross them. Strung up on meat hooks like the cattle they eat, the ones he feeds them, until he makes up his mind on what he wants to do to them. 

It's where you should have been, he supposes, thumb brushing a spot of dried blood on your shoulder, right below a nasty bite mark on your forearm. The ring nearly black from the clotted blood pooling in the indents. It matches several others on your thighs—top, insides, back—and neck, belly, collarbones, sternum. All chewed up. Marked by the butcher. 

In working for the old Italian man who ran the shop when he was eighteen, he learned that most of the butchers preferred to mark their carcasses when they came in. A little x on the fat to signify they'd be the ones carving up the prime meat. 

He didn't think you could handle his knife, so he gave you his teeth instead. But the implication is clear. 

His. 

It's overkill considering his reputation, and the claim he already had on you. Because even before this, back when he saw you through the window of his shop as he was moonlit as a legitimate butcher and businessman instead of the enforcer, the brute, everyone already knew he was, his interest was clear. You were off-limits. His to deal with. 

And while Price refers not to get involved in small-time street dealers, the warnings Soap and Gaz impressed onto your brother should have been the end of an irritating situation and not the beginning of a fuckin’ headache. But no. He had to push. And push.  

Until Price gave the order to take care of it. 

And that he did. 

(With the added benefit of killing one bird and keeping the other in a pretty cage.)

Price probably won't like his solution, but Simon racked up enough favours to keep a little pet of his own. Been a good boy for a long, long time now, and he supposes he's owed a bone. 

Or a sweet thing tucked tight to his side having passed out some two hours ago after he slaked his dizzying thirst on you over and over again even though it doesn't feel like it's been enough. 

It's rare that he has an appetite for people. Even rarer that he lets this meagre hunger consume him like this. But there's something about you that makes his teeth ache in the same way they often do whenever he's hungry for meat. 

He wants to devour you. Consume you. Eat you alive and save nothing for anyone else to taste. 

(So—

Price will just have to let him keep you, won't he?)

The mattress vibrates under him. His phone buzzing with an incoming text. He reaches over, pulling it close enough to read the notification on his screen. It's from Soap.

All her stuff is on your porch. 

He hums, but doesn't reply. Simply opts to drop his phone on his belly, and tug you closer to his broad chest. He'll wake you in an hour, and the stirring in his groin tells him it'll be for another round. Maybe he'll take you in the freezer. Make you cling to the hook hanging down from the ceiling as he fucks you like that. He has a pair of ties for ox, lamb legs, that he can loop around your wrists and heft you up on. 

It'll hurt, he's sure. The binds weren't designed with comfort in mind, but he can easily bear your weight as he pounds into you from below, your pretty legs wrapped tight around his waist. 

The image, the thought, alone has him thickening against his thigh. He reaches down, gripping the base tight in his hand as he pulls you even closer, burying his nose in your crown. 

At the very least, he wouldn't be lying when he told Price he strung you up. 

Three rounds—on your back, your hands and knees, perched above him like a pretty goddess he stole away from a temple—and he still isn't satisfied. Fuck. He breathes in your scent and doesn't think he ever will be. 

He'll get you out of here, take you home. Make you the steak he likes for a late dinner, rare and simple—the same one he gave your brother weeks ago when he dragged him into the shop, strung him up on a hook, and demanded payment for his disrespect. 

Who'd have thought that his payment would be you? 

(fitting, though, since he'd had his eye on you for a while now—)

He nudges you when his phone chimes again with another message doubtless from Soap telling him all your things have been tucked away. Matters dealt with. 

“C’mon,” he grunts, running his hand down your spine. “We’re leavin’.”

You blink at him slowly. “Leaving?”

He nods. “Get dressed.” 

You're quiet as he turns, reaching for his jeans left in a heap beside the mattress, but he hears the hitch in your throat. The click when you swallow. Unbothered by it, he turns, giving you his back as he wedges his feet inside the trousers, pulling them up his legs. 

The bed shifts behind him. “I—I can walk back to my brother's—”

The hope in your voice is a delicate thing. Fragile like fine china. A pretty, vulnerable tchotchke meant to be seen, admired, but not touched. Not handled roughly. 

Unfortunately for you, he's never had much of a gentle touch. 

When he throws a glance over his shoulder, he's not surprised to find your arm folded over your bare breasts as you kneel on the mattress, your palm resting flat between your parted thighs, wrist and forearm covering the slip of heaven between them from his greedy, prying gaze. 

It paints a startling picture, he finds. One with you looking thoroughly ravaged. Taken. But presenting it in a soft sort of sensuality meant to make a man feel both hot under the collar and like an unrepentant voyeur. 

Pretty bird, he thinks, and feels his cock stir. 

He rises swiftly, hiking up his jeans around his thighs as he goes, and then turns to you with a heady desire to crush that gossamer of hope between his greedy hand like a silken cobweb that will stick to his fingers. 

“Not goin’ to your brothers,” he says, pushing his tongue against his cheek to stem the ache burning in his muscles. 

You shiver, eyes growing wide, frenzied with fear as you stare up at him. The shift of your throat when you swallow makes pre-cum dribble out of his fattened cock. He's never really had much of a taste for it, but he's overcome with the urge to see you cry—

“Where are we going?”

Amid the ache in his loins, the flickering fantasies of your pretty, lachrymal face gazing up at him helpless, hopeless, and needy, he catches the edge of panic when you speak. The razor-sharp tremble of fear. 

But buried amongst it, hidden in the bruised look you give him as he towers over you with his cock bulging in his slacks and his eyes burning with want, he finds a keen sense of eagerness amongst the rubble. Agog, almost. 

And fuck. If that doesn't do something awful to him. 

“What?” He taunts, cocking his head to the side as your breath grows shallow and your eyes wide. “Did you think that was enough to pay your debt, birdie?”

“What? You can't—”

“Don't like it—” he lifts his shoulder up in a cool, indifferent shrug, enjoying the dismayed expression that falls over your brow more than he should. “—go to the police.”

“The ones on your payroll?” You spit, eyes flaring wide like an angry cat. “You—”

Several things might have continued in place of your choked, angry sob, but it's swallowed down as pragmatically as it was the first time he cornered you earlier today. And as beautiful as your ire is, he finds the cornered look on your face to be much more pleasing. Prettier. 

“C’mon, bird,” he mocks, holding his hand out toward you with a tick of his lips. “All your stuff is at home. Don't be stupid.” 

“Stupid?” You gasp in indignation, but there's a bruised look in your eyes. A wounded thing that makes his breath hitch in his lungs for reasons he can't really ascertain, but just knows that he likes it. Likes it a lot. “This is—insane.”

Again, he shrugs, but the indifference this time isn't the same manufactured callousness meant to inspire fear. The conversation is stale already. Grating on him. He's not used to having his orders ignored or questioned. What he says usually goes—either through association or reputation, or just the fact that no one has ever come close to filling the same measure of space as he does—and questioning him like this makes him feel too much like a boy, and not enough like the living ghost he pretends to be. 

“You can't do this. It's not right.”

An appeal to his humanity. Cute. He huffs, reaching down to fasten the button of his jeans. The sound the zipper makes cuts through the room. “You're mine, birdie. Better get used to it.” 

Catching your eye as he says it was only meant to reignite the kindling fear you have of him from extinguishing. A scared prey animal was a better pet than an angry one. But the look on your face catches him off-guard. 

It reminds him of a flightless little bird shivering in a child's shoebox. Tiny broken thing his mum warned him not to touch or its mother would abandon it to die on its own. 

“Until the debt is paid off.”

A statement, not a question. He shrugs, but doesn't respond. Tilts his head toward the door. “Let's go.” 

His lack of reassurance doesn't soften the flint in your gaze, but the prospect of recompense seems to spurn you on. Another wishbone of hope to cling to. And despite himself, he lets you keep it. Lets your little finger wrap around the delicate bone for comfort because as much as you might think there's a fifty-fifty chance of getting the bigger piece, he has no intentions of letting something like that get in the way of his appetite even if you do. 

(And his hunger has always been particularly voracious, hasn't it?)

“Come, birdie. Gotta get you home, and fed, don't I?” 

[eupheme]

— double the pleasure, triple the fun

[part iii of come on and show me | masterlist]

logan howlett x f!reader x wade wilson

rated e - 5.6k

tags: MMF threesome, mutual pining/crushes all around, dirty talk, poly relationship, multi-tasking, the world's worst romantic porposition, oral sex, vaginal fingering, ass play (fingering & rimming), double penetration, creampies, fluff and feelings

a/n: massive thank you to the wonderfully talented @avocado-writing, who kindly beta'd this for me! 💖

“Are you asking me out?” It comes slowly, in a rough rasp. 

It’s you that turns then, your eyes finding his. Your smile is sweet - a swirling heat of hope in your belly, “Depends on your answer.”

There’s something dark in his eyes. A curl of his lips, as his head dips. A kiss pressed against your spine, then lower. 

“Come on Wilson.” Logan husks, “Let’s get our girl ready.”

(Or, your two becomes three.)

“God, I want him to put a baby in me.”

Wade’s sigh rumbles beneath your ear, where your head cradles against his chest. 

Legs entwined as you stretch out together on the couch - a late-night wind-down after your boyfriend spent the evening picking out his To-Do List at Sister Margaret's.

To kill. Not fuck, apparently. Something he was quick to clarify.

“What are you watching?” Your eyes pull away from your own phone - seventeen chapters into an enemies-to-lovers slow burn you haven’t been able to put down all evening. 

A little stretch, as your head tilts to face him - knuckles propped under your chin, “That video has been looping for like, ten minutes.”

“And yet, still not long enough,” He sighs, flashing the screen at you, “Sir Mix-a-Lot, you never miss.”

The video flickers, a quick and skillful transition of clips - your eyes squinting at the screen from your angle.

“Is that... Logan?”

“Close, baby girl.” His finger boops against your nose, “Huge Ackman.”

There’s a little shake of your head, as your shoulder lifts, “I don’t know who that is.”

“And thank god,” He grins, letting the phone drop onto the cushions. A shift, as his hands dips against the small of your back, “If you did, you would divorce me so fast-“

Your eyes roll, as you bite back a grin, “I wouldn’t.”

“Definitely, maybe.”

Wade grunts as you push yourself with a huff - head dipping to press your lips against his. A low swirl in your belly, as his eyes go soft and his smile goes dopey. 

“I love you, Wade Winston Wilson,” You grin back, “New fake boyfriends and all, apparently.”

He hums, head tilting.

“And what about not-so-fake boyfriends?”

Your brow furrows.

“You are talking about Logan now, right?”

Wade’s knuckles brush your cheek, the humor in his eyes turning searching, “What do you think?”

And what a question it is. 

You’ve talked about it often. The occasional partner had cycled in for a night or two, but there had never been someone that struck you both like Logan had, arriving in your lives like a storm of thunder and lightning.

And you can’t deny that there’s feelings. Obvious ones, apparently, with how you acted in the past. Wade was still teasing you about your jealousy - you never had a handle on that emotion in the way he did. 

That innate knowledge of how he felt about someone, trusted them. Flirting was easy, but you’ve seen the way he looks at Logan, too.

It was different. Special.

“Two musketeers becoming the full set,” He holds his fingers up in front of you, two and then three, “Only unlike them, we’re fucking.”

You let out a sound of dissent, with the lift of a shoulder. 

“Oh, worm?” His brow raises, “Guess Disney wasn’t ready for that, either. Dibs on the religious one, then. I am a man of the cloth.”

“It’s a bad analogy, there’s four of them.”

He chuckles indulgently, “Okay, now I think you’re making things up-“

Now it’s your hand reaching, a finger tapping against his lips.

“I’d like that. I think Logan being our… boyfriend-” The word sends a rush of heat to your face as you stutter over it, Wade’s eyes gleaming.

“Oh my god, you are so fucking cute.” He crows, “We’ve fucked nasty-style and you can’t even say boyfriend-”

Your face buried in his chest, his name a muffled whine. A beat as the laughter still rumbles in his chest, before you peek at him.

“Do you think he wants that, too?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Wade hums, “That man is at least a 6 on the Yearning Richter scale. Felt by all, many frightened.”

You brighten at that prospect - your brain is already slipping ahead, “Do you think we should like, plan something? Ask him together?”

“Oh, don’t worry, gorgeous.” Wade grins.

“I’ll handle it.”

It's strange, seeing Logan in your space.

A good strange. A strange that feels nice - the subtle sweep of his eyes, as he takes in your apartment. The bag slung over his shoulder already tucked in your room, set on the ottoman at the foot of your bed.

He fits in, you think. Tucked into your couch as you put the finishing touches on dinner. Too used to being in their shared space at Wade’s. Of stolen moments when Althea was out. Hushed moments when she was home, muffled moans and bitten-back sighs.  

It will be nice to be able to take your time. 

They had arrived together, and there had been a certain thrill to that, too. 

Wade's knock that mimics the opening beats of "Smooth", before the door burst open. Funny to think about them crammed in a car together - they took Althea's, Wade tells you, when you later asked if they'd walked.

How he was already turning to you to referee, as you tip your head to kiss his cheek. 

"All I'm asking is if we're both sheathing our swords in the same scabbard, then why is he getting his panties in a twist about me putting my clothes in his bag?"

"Ignore him, sweetheart," Logan softens, leaning into the matching kiss you press against his jaw, "Been doing that for the last two months. It's good to see you."

And it is. Good to see both of them, something warm glowing bright in your chest.

The round table that always felt a little big for two feels perfect now - tucking between each other as dinner passes in a warm jumble of savory aromas and comfortable conversation. 

Smiling at the way they're both as engaged with your stories about your day, as you are about the work they've been doing together.

"-absolutely vaporized. It was disgusting, babe." Wade grimaces, "I was fine of course. Red, and all. But Lo here, eeugh. Still scrubbing the blood out of the nooks and crannies."

Logan makes a grunt of acknowledgement, "Had worse."

"Worse? Worse than getting gut-mist blasted across your chest?"

"I'll help, if you want." You offer, "Haven't seen your new suit yet."

At Wade's request, you try to keep out of his business - other than the stories he shares, the occasional repairs of his suit. Doesn't want his life mixing, not after what's happened in the past. 

Dutiful boyfriend by day, mercenary by night. And also sometimes, by day. Evenings, weekends.

It’s an unsteady schedule, but it's one you've grown accustomed to. Maybe that’s what helps make this easy, the way you’ve already adjusted to mutant-regenerative-boyfriend-life. 

But it doesn't mean you're not curious. That you don't appreciate certain aspects - especially when they come in tightly wrapped in leather and lycra. 

And when you eventually rise to collect dishes, it's Logan that beats you to it. A finger sternly pointed towards the couch, Wade's hand at your back - already guiding you towards it, as you protest.

"Least we can do, sweetheart," Logan smiles, "Can't remember the last time I had a meal this good."

"Excuse me," Wade gasps, as he slips on elbow-length mis-matched gloves,"Did my midnight toaster strudels mean nothing to you?"

It's your turn now, to sit on the couch. To watch, as Wade supervises. The quiet talk that swiftly turns to bickering. A yelp and a splash of hot water, before he's retreating.

Sinking down on the seat next to you, as your thoughts swirl. Soft memories of past shared evenings, and the planting of something that you’ll tend to carefully, hoping it will flourish. 

"You're looking at him like he's got balls on his neck," Wade’s arm slings around your shoulders, tone knowing, "Got something on your mind, gorgeous?"

Your nose wrinkles at the visual, but then you turn thoughtful.

"Just like seeing both of you here." Your smile is soft, "It feels right, you know?"

He hums in agreement, and you glance his way, "Do you feel that way too?"

"Feels as right as Ryan Reynolds playing me in my upcoming biopic."

That has you cocking an eyebrow - whatever reference he's making flying over your head, "And that's... good?"

"Yeah, baby." He grins.

"Really fucking good." 

The hunger follows you into the bedroom, after. Your question about dessert gets swiftly turned around on you - hands catching at your waist. 

Threats and promises  to devour you instead - that the ice cream you bought can wait - as lips press against yours. Another mouth at your neck, in your slow and often-interrupted journey to the bedroom. 

Ganging up on you again, almost as if it were planned. 

And you’re not sure if it was, or whether they’ve unconsciously become more in-sync, between their hours together at the apartment and in their work. 

More alike than they are different, at their core - something you’re not sure you’d be able to convince them of, even though you see it.

It’s sweetly familiar, when you finally fall into bed together. Clothes already stripped off, a messy pile mixing together against the woven floral rug as you fit together. 

Spit pools on Logan’s tongue, as he sucks on his teeth. A low tilt of his head before his lips are parting, letting it drop where he has your thighs nudged apart, belly pressed down against the bed.

Warm, where it hits the cleft of your ass. His hand follows - a broad palm curving against soft skin, tugging you open. 

“What do I have to do to let me have you here?” Logan’s thumb smears his spit against the tight ring, voice low and honey-smooth. 

It makes you jolt, a soft sound pulling from your throat. Squirming, as his thumb comes back - rolling the pad against you. 

“She, shit-” Wade groans, as your mouth leaves his cock - the tip glistening as it drops against his belly, “Only lets people she’s dating fuck her ass.”

“Wade!” You whine, as your thighs try to close - Logan’s spreading to keep you open. 

A low rasp of a laugh, “Is that right?”

“Not me though. If you’re curious.” Wade hums, his arm still slung under the pillow, “Sometimes even a first date is too slow.”

Dark eyes drag up, to the shift of hips. Over the leaking cock, lying flushed and hard against Wade’s belly - something like hunger in the slow sweep up to the pulled-wide grin.

“This is you handling it?” You hiss.

“You’re acting like the man invented the elevator.” Wade shrugs - shifting to push himself up on an elbow, “Trust me, there is nothing more romantic than a ‘what are we’ conversation slipped into a discussion about double penetration. We’re multi-tasking, gorgeous.”

Some of the tension eases, with the way he smiles at you. There’s not an ounce of worry in his expression, only the dark shadow of desire, highlighted with humor. 

Waiting until you smile back, before he fixes Logan with a pointed look. 

“Look. I’m gonna level with you,” He sighs, as if divulging something imperative, ”Until you’re ready to commit to being Mr. Y/L/N, then fifth base is just gonna be out of the question.”

There’s the shake of a head, a low huff behind you. The slight stroke of fingers against your skin.

“Are you asking me out?” It comes slowly, in a rough rasp. As if putting pieces together. 

It’s you that turns then, your eyes finding his. Your smile is sweet - a swirling heat of hope in your belly, “Depends on your answer.”

There’s something dark in his eyes. A curl of his lips, as his head dips.

A kiss pressed against your spine, then lower. 

“Come on Wilson.” He husks, “Let’s get our girl ready.”

A moan rips from you. First, from his words - the jolting butterflies in your belly, a pooling warmth. The sound lengthening, as his tongue flattens where his fingers had teased. Your back arches as Wade pumps his fist, before throwing a filthy “I-Told-You-So” smirk your way.

It glances off you. Your fingers curled in the sheets, as Logan shoulders your thighs further apart. A wet swipe that travels from your cunt to your hole, smearing your slick and his spit against your skin. 

A finger nudging against you, as Wade leans - hand fumbling for the handle of the bedside table. 

“You think you can take both of us?” Logan purrs, as he carefully works you open. A fingertip sinking inside you, as you whine. 

”What, you think we were joking about role-playing?” Wade scoffs,”Why did you think all the dinner knives were missing? Lost ‘em all beneath the bed.”

There’s a shuffle, as he works himself further beneath you. A bottle of lube dropped on the bedspread, as his fingers reach - petting against your clit.

“Tried two before, didn’t we gorgeous? Me and the Pulverine, as we call him.” Wade coos, “Not as big as you, of course. But definitely a lot more sparkly.” 

“Toy’s not the same thing,” Logan hums, as you clench around him. Sinking deeper, slowly pumping, “‘s gonna be a tight fit, baby.”

The sensations are already overwhelming. Wade’s fingers slipping down - fitting one, and then two fingers inside your slick pussy. His thumb nudging against your clit, teasing.

Logan’s weight against you, shifting as his hips grind into the mattress. The messy swirl of his tongue, more spit added to the mess. His thick finger already feels like a lot, pressed down to the knuckle. Slow in the way he works you open, the hot embers in your belly roaring brighter.

“I want it.” You moan, “Want both of you.” 

Wanted it for a while now. Wondered if they’d take you like this. If you’d be able to take them, stuffed so full you could barely draw breath. Wanting to know what it feels like to come, with both of them pressed to the hilt inside you. 

Words fail you, soon after. There’s the cold smear of lube against your skin, a second finger notched. Your cry muffled with the press of Wade’s lips, tilting your face to his as their fingers find their rhythm together.

That steady swirl against your clit. How you’re clenching around them, your arousal slick on Wade’s palm. The sharp rhythmic slap ringing through your ears as you pant into his mouth. Logan’s teeth against the soft curve of your ass, a muffled groan as he fits a second inside you. 

It’s a mimicry of later, but it’s enough. Something bright burning in your belly, fueled by their desire. Hot breath against your skin, Wade’s cock grinding into your hip. 

“Come on, gorgeous.” He murmurs against you, “Let me feel you come with his fingers buried in your ass.”

You choke on your moan. Hips shifting, pushing one deeper and then the other as you chase the building high. The sharp stretch long spooling into pleasure, twisting around your guts, shimmering. 

“‘m gonna-” It’s breathed out, your eyes screwing shut. Focused on the countdown  that’s begun inside you, swiftly approaching with each crook of their fingers, “Fuck, I’m-”

Logan shifts, his breath ghosting against your spine, “Come for us, sweetheart.”

For us. 

Your face buries against Wade’s shoulder, as they bring you over the edge together. Working in tandem to take you apart, and they haven’t even really begun - fingers crooking and curling as a bright pleasure blooms in your belly. 

Wade had been right - it’s not the first time you’ve been full like this. But Logan was right, too. It’s different - the way you can feel them move together, as you whine. The orgasm ripples through you, the sensations drawing out as kisses are dropped between your shoulder blades. 

Soft crooning in your ear, but it’s all muted - barely aware of the palms that run across your skin. The press of mouths against your heated skin - until the pulses in your core fades, the room coming back into focus. 

They slip from you - first Wade, and then Logan. You’ve felt empty before but never like this, already missing the weight inside you. Craving more.

There’s a shift on the bed, Logan shouldering himself next to Wade, who you’re still stretched out on. 

“C’mere, baby. Fuck, need to feel you.”

Hand at your hips, coaxing you up. Encouraging you to straddle his thighs, but then Wade is tsking - reaching for you, trying to turn you around.

“Annnd I just gave myself a promotion to Director,” He adds with a long-suffering sigh, “When you want something done right, gotta do it yourself.”

Logan growls, as your weight leaves him, “The fuck you talking about?”

Wade’s brow arches, “The fuck I’m talking about is you doing this all wrong, peanut. When was the last time you partook in the devil’s threeway? Was it this century, at least?”

Hand gentle as he guides you to face away from Logan, your ass settling against the cradle of his hips.

“There you go,” He coos, “How am I going to give your pretty little kitty the attention she deserves if you have her all hidden away?”

Logan’s hard cock nestles against your belly, as your knees press into the mattress. Breath hitching as you gauge the size of him again. Hoping that the prep he did was enough - the soft buzz beneath your skin certainly has you feeling more than ready.

Slicking your fingers with more lube before they wrap around his shaft - a rough hiss sliding from his throat as they circle around, squeezing. Smearing it against swollen flesh, thumbing over the leaking head as you line yourself up. 

Wade shifting to watch, his head tilted against Logan’s shoulder, his fist already wrapped around his cock as you start to slowly sink down. 

“Sit on it, sweetheart, there you go.” Logan growls, as he breaches you. 

A sharp, inhaled breath as the tip sinks inside you. The building pressure and then the give - as you try not to clench down.

Pulling a rough sound from him. Fingers twitching at your hips - set on only steadying you. A rough edge creeping into his soft encouragement, “Nice and easy, baby.”

Another inch, but it feels like double. Sweat beading along the nape of your neck, as you stretch around him.

“Doing so good,” He rasps, “Take it slow.”

“Taking it like a fucking champ, baby.” Wade interjects, “Couldn’t have done it better myself, and Levy knows how often I thought about it.”

Your nails bite into his thighs, but it only makes his hips flex. Twin moans when it nudges him the rest of the way - your breath stolen when he’s seated flush inside you.

Not that different than when Wade’s fucked you, even with the length he’s got on Logan. But it’s the girth that has your lips parting - a ragged moan with the experimental roll of your hips.

“Pretty fucking sight.” Logan groans, through gritted teeth. Palms slipping around, gently tugging you back towards his chest.

His growl low in your ear, as his hips lift in an experiment thrust.

“Gonna stuff you full, gonna let us do the work.” He husks, a hissed breath when you clench around him. “Make you feel good, alright?”

Palming at your tits, as Wade shifts into position. Swallowing your begging, whined out “please-” as he kisses down your throat. 

Over your breasts. The back of Logan’s hand, against the curve of your belly. His fist still working at his cock, an audible moan of appreciation when he settles between Logan’s thighs.

“You look so good full of him.” It’s mumbled out against your hip, “God, I want to jerk off to this and let you use my cum as lube.”

Logan’s fingers tighten - pinching a peaked nipple as you moan, as kisses are peppered against your mound.

“Fuck us into your tight ass.”

You cry out, when his tongue flattens against your clit. Fingers teasing at your hole, dipping inside to test how full you feel. 

“Soaking wet, baby. You feeling good?” Wade croons, “Or does your greedy little pussy need more?”

“Wade,” You keen, desperate. Rocking into the slow pump of Logan’s hips, his breath harsh in your ear.

His fingers crook, and curl.

“You want us to take you there and back again to pound town?” 

“I swear to god,” You pant, desperate, “If you don’t get inside me, I’ll-, I’ll call Nate.”

His eyes gleam, “That right? Still thinking about riding the ol’ Cable car?”

It’s Logan’s added growl that finally gets him moving. A smile still pulling wide, as he slips from you. His own desperation betrayed by the wet smear against his belly.

The slick tip of his cock, as he ruts against your folds. Your breath held, as he notches himself.

His dark eyes on your blown-wide ones, as he starts to sink in. It has your thighs trembling, as you whine. Clenching down without meaning to, as Logan groans.

Feeling the way he inches into you. What little space left filled as your pussy makes room for him. The tight clutch of your walls, a moan at the way he can feel Logan through the thin layer of skin between them.

A choked-out moan punched from his chest. 

“Made to take us both. Weren’t you, gorgeous?” He murmurs, as his hips move, “Goddamn perfect fit.”

They both move inside you. Stilted thrusts, off rhythm as you squirm between them. Logan getting impatient - throwing a glare Wade’s way.

“Stop moving when I do.”

It’s met with a laugh, as Wade’s hip snap a little harder. Filling you, the force jolting you against Logan, as your nails bite into his biceps.

“I’m driving this thing.” He counters, “Call me Sandra Bullock, because I’m not about to let this bus dip below 50.”

His hand catching Logan’s wrist - resistance when he tugs, but then it’s going with him. Fitting the curve of his fingers against the base of your throat.

“You do what you do best and be the anchor. Keep her still for me, will you?” 

Logan’s fingers flex, but he grunts - the slightest pressure against your chest. 

A pat against your hip, with a wink, “Let Daddypool do all the work.”

You huff, but the sound turns strangled as the sets the pace. Hands at your hips, tugging you to meet his thrusts. Fucking you back on to Logan, when his weight presses into you.

“There we fucking go. How you feeling, baby?”

“Feels so good,”You gasp, as the movement gets familiar. The slick slide of them inside you, the back and forth as they stroke your walls, as your arousal gleams against their cocks. 

“Know it does.” Wade grins, “They don’t call me DP for nothing.”

Logan grunts beneath you. Something biting held back - distracted, as his other hand wanders. Slipping across your hip, then down.

Tracing over your mound. Feather-light against your folds, feeling how you stretch open each time Wade goes balls-deep. 

Your moan coming out ragged, when he teases your clit. Soft strokes with the pad of his finger, before two press and circle.

It makes you jolt, his laugh low in your ear.

Finding that familiar rhythm. Feeling the way your hips flex, seeking out his touch. How easily he’s able to wind you up now, from the times he’s taken you apart. 

How it’s almost overwhelming, with the stuffed-full pressure of them inside you. With the saw of Wade’s hips, as his cock nudges against the spongy spot inside you.

A rough hum when you clench down. Unable to do more than take what he gives you, with the way Logan cradles you against his chest.

It only adds to the surge of pleasure inside you. A near-divine pairing of sensations that has your fingers reaching, Wade’s name a soft cry on your lips. 

He flattens against you, to meet the way your mouth tips up. It’s messy, open-mouthed as his hips slow to a grind. Hands skating up your body, against hips and waist.

Letting him in when he deepens it. A groan as he licks against your teeth. Needy presses of his mouth, spit smeared across your lips when it breaks. Another kiss  peppered against your jaw, where Logan groans into your ear. 

A unconscious shift of his head, and then their lips are brushing.

Logan’s cock throbs inside you, as Wade goes stiff and still. It’s softer than it should be - no more than a shared breath, before Wade pulls back. 

The hand at your neck flexes. Loosens, as it slips between you. Wrapping around the back of Wade’s neck as he yanks him back down.

A growled out “fuck” when they meet again, insistant this time. Vicious with the scrape of teeth, the wet swipe of tongue as Logan’s nails bite into skin.

Messy, as they pant into each other's mouths. Calloused fingers drifting down from your clit to split against your folds. Teasing where you’re filled, as Wade’s moan turns filthy.

A matching sound escaping from Logan, long held back. 

“Fucking holding out on me,” Wade mumbles, when the kiss breaks, “Haven’t been this wet since Cap’s beard reveal.”

Eyes dark, when he feels how Logan moves inside you. Forgetting himself, as he chases the pleasure that threatens to peak inside him.

“Bet you love knowing you’ve been in all of our girl’s holes. Don’t you, handsome?” Wade grins. Eyes still watchful - catching the clench of a jaw, as his lips return to yours.

The kiss is sweeter this time, even as he begins to drive into you. Each of your breaths coming in a whining gasp, pleasure once again winding inside you.

His mouth running away from him, determined to send you both over, ”Should let me into some of yours. You know I’d treat you right.”

“Shut the fuck up. C-Can’t come with you running your mouth.” It’s panted out - half-hearted at best, and Wade’s eyes gleam.

“Fucking liar.” He crows, “Bet you jerk it all the time to the thought of us screaming your name.”

Voice pitches up then, in a mimicry of yours, “Oh, Logan. Fuck me right there with your monster dick-”

Logan strings tight beneath you with a snarl, as he tries to bury himself in your ass. The hand at your neck dipping to grasp at your hip, as the practiced rhythm turns sloppy.

Wade shifts - his weight leaned into your hips. Pinning you both down as he fucks into you, stroke after stroke.  

Logan’s touch is sloppy against your clit - but with the way your boyfriend’s cock pounds against that spot inside you, it’s enough.

You don’t even realize you’re whimpering. The way their names string together, the “please, please, please-” that catches in your throat.  

“You gonna come too, baby?” He coos - thrilled, “You’re both so fucking easy, aren’t you?”

Logan moans in your ear when you squeeze around him, fingers pressing harder. A little faster, and with the next plunge of Wade’s cock - you shatter. 

It’s all white noise, the faded star stickers on the ceiling becoming swirling the sky above as you’re pulled under. 

Helpless, with the way you’re pinned between them. Coming again with the tight swirls against your clit, with them fully sheathed inside you. 

The tight pulse of your orgasm around his sends Logan over. 

Even with Wade’s weight his hips still lift as he bows off the bed. A wounded groan, as he comes with you clenching down around him. Grinding himself into your hole as his cock throbs, emptying himself into you. 

There’s a sing-songed and muted “money shot” that has you groaning. Half-exasperation, half-mindless pleasure, as Logan’s hands roam. Holding you against him, ragged breath against your neck as you milk him empty.

Keeping you stuffed full, hilting his cock deeper when you squirm. Leaving Wade to catch up.

Shameless in the way he watches now, as molten pleasure thrums in your veins. Leaning back to see how you take them both. Picturing how you’ll look after, thoroughly-fucked holes that will drip with them until morning. 

Doesn’t notice when his breath turns short, but you do. 

“Wanna feel you come, baby.” You coo, your smile soft and pleasure-drunk. 

Hands tracing over his, overlapping and squeezing. The shallow lift of your hips to meet his thrusts, purposely squeezing him when he inches out - trying to keep him in.

“Make a fucking mess, Red.” Logan growls - joining you, “Let me feel you come inside her.”

“Jesus Titty-Fucking Christ,” The rough laugh turns into a groan, “Think I’m going to blow two loads at once-”

Hands overlapping, grasping on, holding you, as his hips pump faster. Head tipping - fitting between yours and Logans - as his back bows. 

Coming inside you with a muttered out “oh fuck. fuck yes-”, cock jerking with each needy rut of his hips. The sound turns into a whine when teeth sink his neck, hard enough to bruise. 

Yours on the other side, your soft moan in his ear as you feel the way he throbs as he spills into you again, and again. 

Intense, in a way you’ve never felt before. A connection that loops through you - from the press of your mouths, down to where you fit together. 

It’s fortunate that Logan’s hands still fit at your hips, with how fucked-out and boneless you feel. Trading one cock for another was one thing, but this - being claimed by both of them, the phantom ache as Logan withdraws- it’s something else entirely. 

Your head dropping back to rest against his shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded as you wait for your pulse to stop galloping. Logan’s nose ghosting against your temple, an arm still thrown around your hips. 

A hiss, when Wade slips from you. You can feel the mess they’ve made, sticky against your thighs. How they drip from your fucked-out holes, when you clench around nothing. 

It must do something to him, the way Wade moans when he sits back. Fingers raising - mimicking a camera, complete with the click of his tongue as the shutter. 

“If that doesn’t win me an academy award,” He hums thoughtfully.

“Then I don’t know what the fuck will.”

Time slows down, after. The low hum of artificial rain from a device on your dresser, layering with the muted city outside. Doesn’t know if it’s minutes or hours since he last moved, and he really can’t bring himself to care.

As long as it’s still dark, then he knows they’ve still got time. 

“So are you going to bake us a sex cake?” Wade yawns, “You know, for completely rocking your shit.”

“A what?” You stir against him - an eye cracking open. 

Logan grunts, his face buried in your shoulder. A hand splayed across your belly, a tug as he pulls you closer.

“Oh my god,” Wade chuckles to himself, “There I go, mixing up timelines again. I infinitely prefer this one, but the way.”

Logan lets the two of you bicker, his eyes slipping shut again. 

Your apartment is quieter than Wade’s. The bed comparable to the one they shared last time. Can’t remember the last time he’s felt a warmth like this. 

Soft, where your back tucks against his chest. His hand shifts to your hip, curving against soft flesh. Wade’s hand rests close enough to touch, fingers just brushing. Facing you, thighs twined together as he sandwiches you between them.

The shower had been nicer, as well. Snug, when you had pulled them in with you. Taking turns under the warm spray. He had commented on it - a way to drag out the scratch of fingers through his hair. The swirl of soap against his skin, and he had been too blissed out to bother with the facade when a second set of hands grabbed his ass. 

Staying just a little longer, as their hands found their way between your thighs. Wade thumbing at your clit as his own fingers fucked the cum deeper into your cunt. Twin marks sucked into your neck, as your legs threatened to give out - still shaky from before.

You stir against him. Words heavy with sleep.

“Wade didn’t say it earlier.” You yawn - shuffling, so you can help over to face him. 

Logan’s brow rises, as you clarify.

“There’s a caveat to our earlier question.”

“Good word choice.” Wade hums, “11 points, and I bet you were a real pleasure to have in class.”

A low chuckle, when your hips press back against his in warning - as your eyes flip up to Logan’s. 

“It’s a two-for-one deal,” The corner of your lips tug up, “It’s both of us, or nothing.”

“All for one, and one for all,” Wade’s chin hooks over your shoulder, ignoring how you elbow him, “And can you really afford not to take that?”

Supposes it’s cute, that you think you have to tell him this. That his eyes haven’t equally wandered, even if it’s only half-admitted. Too caught on wondering if the only something good he had will change, if he truly allows himself to want something. 

That it’s not only the feeling of your mouths on his cock that he revisits, though he does think of that often.

There’s other moments as well. Squeezing hands and smiles and the way you both look at him. The toothbrush that you had ready tonight, just incase he forgot his. The handle blue, when he slipped it in the cup - tucked next to red and purple.

Your words still spark brightly in his chest, settling low behind his ribs. It quells an uneasy twist that’s been lingering there for the past few weeks. 

Something unsteady, finally finding purchase. 

“Don’t know why you’re clarifying though, gorgeous.” His cheek rubs against yours like a cat. Those brown eyes meet his as well, and it’s hard to bite back the low inhale of breath.

“Considering he tongue-fucked the shit out of me earlier, I think he’s good.”

He huffs in reply, but he can’t bite back the curve of his lips. Not anymore - and he finds that he doesn’t want to.

“Yeah.” Logan agrees. That something turning soft inside him, the smile pulling just a little wider. 

“I’m good.”

thanks so much for reading!! 💖 there's a couple more moments I'd love to explore with them in the future! (but in case I'm not able to, I wanted to end it on this sweet note between them all. )

[waves-against-a-cliff]

After the end - Post-apocalypse Omegaverse AU

Summary - You won't be cornered in your territory and that's final. You begin to make little presents for your trespassers should they dare to enter your woods. Meanwhile, the four alphas find something very interesting...

Tags - Omegaverse (duh), alpha/beta/omega dynamics, non traditional dynamics, all of the 141 are alphas, you're an omega. Eventual smut, dub-con, knotting, mating press, polyamory, alphas love alphas. 141 x reader. The reader is officially a bad ass

Prologue

You stared down at the nest you had created and suddenly felt disgusted and angry. These alphas have stepped onto your territory and made you react like this. Three years of near bliss, despite the struggles, gone. The anger rolled over you in waves, it boiled your blood to the point you felt hot all over your body.

No. You weren't about to cower in your cabin and let some stupid alphas wander all over your territory. You were going to do something about it. You marched back towards your living room and opened one of the closets on the side of the hallway. You grabbed the bag full of supplies and swung it over your shoulder then looked at the shotgun leaned against the wall.

You hesitated only for a moment before you grabbed it too. Even in the times before the world ended you hadn't been one for conventionality. You preferred to be alone on your own property living your own life. And no alpha or beta, whether back then or now, was going to take this from you. You shoved the extra ammunition into your pockets and unbarred your door.

The cold winter air nipped at your skin and distantly you could still smell their combined scents. You pulled stuffing from a torn apart pillow and stuffed it up your nose. Happy hunting indeed, you thought as you stepped off into your piece heaven that would become their hell.

"Hey captain," Gaz said as they wandered through the very small town. It had likely been abandoned for ages. The first thing Gaz had noticed was that the windows were smashed in but the doors boarded up. Then he noticed the marks, spray paint in different symbols meaning something or another. "I think this place has been completely stripped bare."

Price hummed thoughtfully and turned to look around at the other buildings. All of them in similar states of disrepair but all with symbols sprayed onto them. He turned to his team, and contemplated their next steps. "Do you think they might still be around?" Ghost spoke up finally.

Price glanced at his lieutenant. They had stuck together when the entire world had completely gone down. First the electricity and then a disease. It apparently didn't take much else to throw the world into chaos. People killed people all the time before but not even Ghost had been prepared for the level of depravity some people dove to. Kidnapping local omegas, killing betas or hunting alphas for sport. Blowing up buildings and ransacking stores.

They had all stuck together as a pack since that was what they had always done. They wandered from place to place and it had taken them a little over a year to make it back to the UK. Bonds grew stronger and their ruts continued. They were all each other's support. Price considered the facts in front of them.

"Negative. I don't think whoever did this is still around," Price said as he eyed the pharmacy. The only building not having been closed off or marked with an 'x'. "Soap, Gaz, go investigate the pharmacy, me and Ghost will try to find any other buildings not marked."

They wandered around the town for a bit with Gaz and Soap meeting back up not long after they had departed. "Over tae counter medicine like Advil but nae much else," Soap tossed Ghost the bottle who looked over it.

"Not expired yet. Good find."

"Wait," Gaz suddenly said and sniffed the air. Everyone paused, Gaz had the best nose of them all. Able to sniff out any scents even days old. He walked over to a telephone pole that had a red smear on it and sniffed with his nose almost on the old blood.

He felt his cock chub up his pants immediately at the scent. At first it smelled like sweat and dirt but underneath that was a tangy, sour then sweet like a granny smith apple or a green grape, scent. An unmistakable smell of omega.

Gaz turned to the three other alphas, "There's an omega around." He grinned.

Hehe I'm gonna have fun writing this

Liked my fic? Buy me a Nutella jar

I do not give any permissions to repost my work, use it in AI, translate my work or any other thing. All rights reserved with me.

[mills-73]

Ok first off I love love love your writings like it just hit the g-spot u know LOLOLOL

ANyway I wanna request you for a Ford x Reader fic where the reader sneaks under his desk as he’s writing / reading smth and gives him the gawk gawk 3000. Absolutely devouring him and Ford just losing it slowly like his hand writing slowly losing it’s curves / getting harder to focus on the paragraph 😋

Thank you so much for this hehehe

i got ya

Ward Willing

Ford has a tendency to overwork himself some nights. You’ve been horny bored all night and he’s been down in his lab, so you do the only thing you can think of to get his attention.

Stanford Pines x reader

TAGS: 18+!! MDNI, smut, blowjobs, gender-neutral reader

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Ford Pines is probably one of the most hardest working men you know.

He’s always cooped up in that damn lab of his, day or night, and it’s never really bothered you up until recently. He’d always come to bed a decent time—and if he was feeling up to it, he’d take care of you. Lately, he’s been working late into the night, and sometimes you didn’t have the energy to wait up for him.

Tonight, however, you need him. But he’s still working.

You toss and turn in the bed, slipping your hand down between your thighs to try and get yourself off, but it doesn’t work. You want him, right here, right now.

You groan into your pillow, looking up at the door with an idea a minute later. You smirk to yourself, crawling out of bed and hurry to the vending machine, punching in the code.

Ford doesn’t notice that you’re standing at the doorway, completely engrossed in writing. He started a new journal after the summer was over and he’s determined to fill it with all kinds of fascinating research. Usually, you’d be curious, but right now all you can see is him, those fingers, that wonderful thing between his thighs…

His hair is messy, glasses slipping down the slope of his nose, and his fingers impatiently tap at the table. His pen is stuck between his lips, lightly chewing on the end of it. (You don’t know how many pens he’s ruined since you’ve met him, but you know it’s a lot).

You walk up behind him, hands reaching out to rest in his shoulders. He jumps slightly, but slouches into your touch when he hears your voice. “Stressed, baby?”

He moans lazily in response but continues to write. You dig your thumbs into his shoulder blades, applying a small amount of pressure, just enough to see him falter a little, but his attention is still strictly on his task.

You roll your eyes, stepping around to the side of him. “Are you coming to bed soon?” You note the amount of coffee cups pushed out of his way. He had a weird thing about reusing cups, which resulted in his desktop having multiple ones scattered about at all times.

Ford gives you a nod but you know he’s running on autopilot right now.

Your gaze falls to his lap, then to the space under the desk, a mischievous smile slowly spreading across your face.

Dropping down to your knees, you quickly crawl underneath his desk, settling between his thighs. You push them open a little so you can be a bit more comfortable, your hands coming up to rub him.

“W-What are you doing?” Ford breathes, rolling back in the chair. His eyes are wide and his face is flushed.

You flash him your teeth, your fingers deftly playing with the zipper of his jeans. “Go back to writing, Ford,” you whisper.

“What? No. You know I can’t focus when you’re touching me like that.”

The bulge in his jeans is already becoming more apparent by the second, your stomaching fluttering in anticipation. While you’re able, you unbutton his jeans, dragging them down his hips with a little help from him and letting them pool around his ankles, his underwear following suit.

Your mouth waters at the sight of him. He’s not entirely big length wise, but he’s thick, which makes up for the lack of a few inches. The tip is a shade of pink that matches his lips perfectly, and you lean forward to press a delicate kiss to it. He shutters from above.

“I don’t care. Go back to your work.”

He gives you a curious look, but does as you say. You hear him click his pen a couple times, the soft sound of ink meeting paper, and you giggle softly.

You poke your tongue out again, licking a long stride from base to tip. His thighs tense at the friction, but settle again. Your mouth wraps tenderly around the pink skin, the salty taste of precum exploding over your tongue. You moan quietly, the vibrations causing him to drop his pen for a quick second.

His breathing becomes audible, the sound of a soft whimper reaching your ears. You grin around his cock and sink lower, taking more and more until your nose is pressing against his navel. You hold your position there for a moment, popping off with a small gasp.

From above, Ford hasn’t been able to write more than three words.

You grin, wrapping your hand around the base as your mouth wraps around him again. You bob your head slowly, running your tongue against the underside of his cock in ways you know drive him crazy.

His leg twitches, hand reaching below the desk to burry it in your hair. He plays with the strands, pushing your head down slightly, silently begging for more. You can’t help but keen in response to his touch, obliging the request.

You flatten your tongue against the frenulum, curling it just enough to draw another whimper from the man above. Your ego blooms, prideful as you continue your ministrations.

Ford groans. “Doll, I-I can’t—” he cuts off with a moan when you suckle at the tip.

You lean back a little, gathering all the spit in your mouth and slowly letting it fall out of your mouth over Ford’s cock, the substance rolling over the tip and down his length. Your hand pumps him once, twice, a third time before you swallow him to the back of your throat.

He rolls his hips upward, causing you to gag at how deep he is. His fingers tangle in your hair, grabbing at your head and pulling up and down.

“I’m—fuck, dollface,” he groans.

You hear the sound of his pen falling, his journal snapping shut, before he leans back in his chair, eyeing you from your position. His eyes are glossy, glasses crookedly hanging on his face, and his cheeks a beautiful shade of cherry. He always looks so fucking sexy when he’s needy for you.

“I need more, baby. Please give me more.”

You nod weakly, your jaw slack as you bob your head. Spit dribbles down your chin, another moan muffled by the intrusion in your mouth.

It’s quite obscene, really. But you enjoy it nonetheless.

His quiet whimpers turn into rough moans, waves of iron-hot pleasure dripping down your spine as you work your mouth over the sensitive flesh, your own sounds a little garbled by the sheer amout of spit building under your tongue.

You flick the tip of the flesh, your teeth grazing softly against the underside, adoring the way Ford shivers beneath you. It’s vulgar; you enjoy it a bit too much, your own arousal causing you to lose yourself in the blissfulness of it all.

You pop off with a throaty moan, a string of spit connecting your bottom lip to the tip of his cock. You meet his hungry gaze for a moment, smiling sweetly at him.

“I want you to start coming to bed at a decent time. Or I’ll be down here every night to interrupt your work,” you say, lazily stroking his cock.

He huffs a laugh. “Don’t tempt me with a good time, doll.”

You roll your eyes at him, slipping him back into your mouth. This time you pick up your pace, jerking him off in tandem of your tongue rolling all over. He preens at the friction, his head lolling back on his chair, mouth parted to allow a plethora of whimpers and moans to escape the back of his throat.

His chest heaves, all six of his fingers grabbing at your hair. “Fuck, fuck. I’m gonna cum, doll. Please don’t stop.”

At his confession, you go harder, slurping and sucking, his grip teetering on the edge of blatantly painful. He catches your eyes again, the sight alone making him explode in your mouth, whimpering softly.

The taste of his cum is salty yet sweet and you swallow it all, a generous smile on your face as you pop your lips off the sensitive tip. He shutters, moving his hand from his hair to the side of your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.

“That was amazing, baby. Your mouth never ceases to impress me.”

You blush. “Thank you…”

You slide out from underneath the desk, the man fixing his pants before standing up as well. In a quick motion, he has you pinned against the edge of the wood, his mouth on yours, devouring you whole. You whimper into his mouth.

“Now,” he nips at your bottom lip, “your turn.”

~

hope you enjoyed, ty for reading!!

[luveline]

James being all cuddly and soft with a newborn baby and reader <3 baby fever is real and very serious rn!!!!!

James can’t believe it. He really can’t. 

Can’t believe you love him. Can’t believe you wanted a baby. Can’t believe you spent nine months of your life growing her, and nurturing her, and here she is. He’s in total ecstasy. 

“You don’t have to keep watching her,” you murmur. “She won’t run away.” 

“But what if I blink and she yawns again?” 

“Jamie…” You reach for him across the bed, careful not to graze the top of the baby’s head. “She’s gonna yawn for the rest of her life. You’ll see plenty of them.” 

“She’s so cute. I can’t stop looking at her.” 

He lowers his head where it’s resting in his hand so you can run your fingers through his hair. Even exhausted, you’re touchy. Love warms your fingertips and the thin skin of his scalp as you rake through his loose curls. 

James curls an arm around the baby gently, so gently. He shuffles closer to her, and you, by extension, where you’re on the other side of her. You might assure him she’s not going anywhere, but you don’t seem to believe it to yourself, glued to her even while you’re half asleep. You trust James to make sure you don't accidentally get too close.

“She’s so beautiful,” James whispers, bringing his curled hand to her face, the flat of his nail against her cheek. He draws a little circle. 

“She looks like her mommy.” 

“Yes, she does.” 

“You think so?” you ask. “I was just kidding. I haven’t really thought about it.” 

James looks at the baby’s face. Her teeny tiny nose, her eyelashes, her perfect skin. He likes to think he can see you in her because of course he can, you made her, you carried her and you grew her. Somehow, the fruit looks like the flower. 

“She’s just as beautiful as you are,” he says surely. 

“All babies are beautiful.” 

“And ours is the most,” James says. She’s barely two days old. It’s insane. 

You’re a tired James has never seen on you, hand sluggish where it continues in his hair. You’re falling asleep again, eyelids blinking heavy and slow, your nose turning into the pillow. Seconds from dreaming. 

James shuffles up the bed to put his head on the pillow with you, the baby between your two bodies. He won’t sleep, he wants you to know he’s near. “I love you,” he reminds you, tapping your forehead with his. 

“Love you… I’m gonna sleep.” 

“I’ll miss you,” he whispers, kissing your top lip in a miscalculated show of total adoration. 

You can’t kiss back. You give into sleep and in minutes you’re snoring lightly, breath a whistle where it slips past your lips. 

James gives your sleeping face a few kisses. He cups your cheek, and he curls toward your baby for more staring. He’s spent years already tracing the slopes and lines of your face, and now he has a new one to memorise. He refrains from kissing her, scared of germs, but he finds the small lump of her hand in the swaddle and covers it with his own. “Pretty,” he praises. 

She lets out a breath. Her snore is yours, too. 

[adayumantium]

Too Sweet

Old Man Logan x fem!Reader Smut

a/n: Y’all LOVED Anybody Seen My Baby, and I’m on an Old Man Logan kick… divider by anitalenia Summary: in which Logan makes you dessert, but the toppings end up being used for…other things.  W/C: 700……..oops tags/warnings: Porn with ZEROOOO Plot, SMUT! MDNI!, Implied age gap (bro is 200+), pet names (princess, doll, sweetheart), titty sucking, LOGAN EATING WHIPPED CREAM OFF OF YOU. 

“This is so good,” you try to enunciate, your mouth full. “You need to try this,” you nod, holding out a spoonful of dessert to Logan. The two of you were snuggled on the couch, the ottoman full of little fix-ins for a sundae; you had a craving, and Logan was the kind of man who’d satisfy it. He shook his head, taking a gentle hand to your chin and wiping ice cream off of your mouth with a smile. 

“That’s all you, doll. I can’t eat all that sugary shit anymore,” Logan shrugged. 

“Since when do you care what you should and should not be putting in your body?” you rolled your eyes, knowing the way he almost exclusively drank whiskey. 

“Don’t talk back to me, sweetheart,” he warned, kissing your jaw. Logan’s beard brushing your neck sent electricity through you. You buried your thoughts in your ice cream, hoping to distract yourself from the heat making its way to your face. 

“I just don’t think it could be that sweet,” you turned with a smile, pressing your lips to his. Logan’s lips were warm against your frozen ones; with a pass of your tongue, you let him taste your sundae, eager to share its sweetness with him. 

“Mm,” he grunted. “Guess that’s not too bad,” he nodded with approval. “But I’d have to make sure,” Logan’s hands snaked their way behind your head, pulling you closer as he went in for another taste of you. “Mm, yeah, that’s delectable, princess,” he reaffirmed. 

As the gears in your mind turned, you pulled your shirt over your head without a second thought, reaching over for the whipped cream canister. You were left bare-chested, the air making your nipples pebble, which intrigued Logan further. You sprayed across your collarbone, the white fluff cooling your skin as the sweet smell filled your nose. Logan started to catch on, everything shifting into place in his mind. 

“Oh,” he muttered, leaning forward to your jaw once more. Logan’s left hand found its way to your breast as he kissed his way down your neck softly; the stimulation was gentle and fiery all at once, making you hazy with pleasure. His mouth traveled down your neck, his tongue lapping at your skin. Logan took a bit of whipped cream into his mouth, smacking his lips, before dragging his tongue slowly across the rest of your collarbone. The sweet smell of the dessert was mixing with the intoxicating smell of Logan on your chest, and it was enough to make someone drool. 

“Shit, yeah, that’s good,” he nodded, taking the whipped cream from you. In his much larger hands, the can looked comically small. 

With a grunt, Logan latched himself onto your neck, taking your skin between his teeth; the way he was consuming you, you’d think he was getting the confection off of you, despite there never being any in that spot. Without looking, he covers your breasts with whipped cream, leaving kisses down your neck as he goes to take one of your nipples into his mouth. 

“Y’know, you were right, this is definitely satisfyin’ a craving,” Logan huffed, his tongue circling your hard nipple in an attempt to lick it clean. “I mean,” he shifted to the other, “hell, maybe somethin’ like this is all I need to kick my other bad habits,” he chuckled, greedily lapping the dessert off of your chest. 

Briefly coming up for air, you giggled at the sight of him. Logan’s nose and beard, slathered in white, were so fucking sexy. You ran a tongue along his cheek, licking a stripe of his face clean. 

“Why don’t we take this to the shower,” you whisper in his ear, kissing him softly. “It’s getting awfully sticky,” you giggle, and he throws you over his shoulder without a second thought. 

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

You and Boone fighting over the passenger’s seat in Tyler’s truck

Pairings: Boyfriend!Tyler Owens x Girlfriend!Reader with the chasers

Summary: You and Boone fight over the passenger’s seat in Tyler’s truck.

Warnings: Fluff, language, one mention of sex (18+), kissing, pet names

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier

GIF IS NOT MINE! Credit goes to the creator.

“I call shot gun!” You say, running out of the gas station before Boone could.

“I already called it!” Boone says from behind you.

You were about halfway to Tyler’s truck when Boone caught up with you. It took everything in you to out run him. It felt like you were running a marathon to get to Tyler’s truck before Boone.

You reached your hand out to grab the handle of the passenger’s side door, but Boone beat you to it. You glared at him, panting heavily.

“I win! That means I get to sit in the shot gun seat.” He says like he just won a trophy.

“That’s not fair!” You whined like a child.

“Life ain’t always fair, little miss.” He says with a chuckle.

You narrowed your eyes at him. You tried to push him out of the way of the passenger’s door with your body, but it didn’t work. Boone is much stronger than you are.

“Move your ass, Boone.” You say, trying to sound intimidating.

“No.” He simply says.

You kept your eyes narrowed at him and glared at him in a way that scares him.

“I’m not giving up this seat so stop looking at me like that.” Boone said.

You whined loudly and crossed your arms over your chest. Tyler seen Boone guarding the passenger’s door of his truck from you. He walked over to you two to see what was going on.

“What’s going on?” Tyler asks, looking from you to Boone.

“I called dibs on the passenger’s seat before Boone, but he out ran me and got to the truck first.” You explained.

“I won fair and square, girly.” Boone says proudly.

You uncrossed your arms and tried to push Boone out of the way with your body, but it still didn’t work. Tyler pulled you away from Boone by wrapping an arm around your waist and pulled you against the front of his body.

“Boone, seriously. Give me the seat.” You say, resorting to begging.

“No.” He says again.

You huffed loudly, tilting your head back against your boyfriend’s chest. Tyler leaned down and kissed the tip of your nose, making you smile. That’s when you got an idea to get the passenger’s seat. You lifted your head, looking at Boone with a mischievous smile on your face.

“I know a reason why you don’t want that seat.” You say.

“Oh yea? What’s the reason?” Boone asks, playing along and thinking you’re messing with him when actually you’re not.

“You’re not gonna want it after I tell you what me and Tyler did in that seat.” You said with a smirk.

It didn’t take Boone long to know what you’re talking about. His hand fell from the car door handle and moved away from the passenger’s door.

“Y’all ever heard of a bed?” Boone mumbles. “I don’t want it now.” He says, walking away.

Boone walks to one of the other vehicles to ride with the other chasers on the team. You giggled, smiling proudly to yourself. You turned around and kissed Tyler. Tyler’s hands found their way to your hips, pulling you against his body.

“You had to bring up the fact that we fucked in my truck, didn’t you, darlin’?” Tyler says with a small chuckle.

“It got Boone away from my seat.” You stated. “After all, I am your passenger princess.” You say with a smile, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I think you mean passenger cowgirl. It has a nicer ring to it.” He says, kissing you.

“Even better.” You say with a smile.

🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️🌪️

Glen Powell characters tags: @cevansbaby-dove

-Bucky’s Doll

[catssluvr]

𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏, spencer reid

spencer reid x fem!reader (870 words)

in which you convince spencer to dance with you in the rain

warnings: kissing, fluff :)

based on this request by my sweet anon 🪼 <3

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

You walk down the leaf covered streets, one hand holding Spencer's while the other is buried deep inside your jacket's pocket. It's not unbearably cold, but enough to prickle your bare hands. The crunch of the leaves under your feet and the warmth of his hand is enough to make you content.

Spencer's rambling on about the history book he finished recently, making sure to tell you every little fact he didn't know until reading it.

This isn't unusual, you take the tub together everyday and he insists on walking you home from there. Even though you're pretty sure he has to walk for two more blocks than he usually would.

Your attention feels like it's divided between listening to him intently and admiring the way he scrunches his nose when he's trying to remember the exact words on the book while quoting them.

"You know, with technology and basic tools, the egyptians built constructions that are more than three hundred feet tall. The biggest question is how they managed to lift the materials up, what's believed is that they used ramps." He occasionally rubs his thumb against the back of your hand as he speaks, stealing glances at you to make sure you're still listening.

"Yeah? I didn't know that." You answer with a small smile.

He pauses as he's about to go to back to talking before saying, "I'm not boring you out, am i?"

"No, never." You reassure with a gentle squeeze to his hand.

You don't blame him for feeling nervous, this is all new to you too, dating him. You're just glad it's him.

"Are you sure? Because you don't have to-" You don't let him finish as you lean to kiss the corner of his mouth. His cheeks turn a dark shade of red and his lips turn upwards into a shy smile.

"I'm sure. Promise."

Before either of you can say anything else, you feel a drop of water hitting your cheek. It's only now you realize how dark the sky is, water pouring down more and more which each passing moment.

"We should hurry." Spencer grips your hand, pulling you to walk at a fast pace.

Your house is still a few streets away and you can already feel the water making it's way through your pants. Truth is you don't think that there's any way you're going to get to your house without getting completely soaked, not even if you actually run.

That's when the idea hits you. You drop your hand from his, waiting for him to turn around with a confused face before saying, "Dance with me?"

"What?" He asks, brows furrowed in confusion but a smile threatening to spill from his lips at any second.

"We're not gonna get home dry anyway." You give him your best pleading eyes, grabbing at the sleeve of his coat to persuade him even quicker.

"We'll end up catching a cold, angel." You know he's probably right, but the idea of dancing with him in the rain is way too tempting to care about getting sick.

"C'mon, Spence. Live a little." You tease with a warm smile, it's quite obvious he's going to give in. "Please?" And that's all it takes for it to be impossible for him to reject your request.

"Yeah, alright." Spencer rolls his eyes to feign annoyance, though his eyes tell you the opposite.

With a triumphal grin, you pull him to the middle of the empty sidewalk. Your arms find place around his shoulder and you take a moment to appreciate the sight of him with wet hair. You don't think you've ever seen him like this before but it certainly is one look that you like seeing him in.

His hands move to rest on your waist, encouraging you to sway gently. He rubs your hip with his thumb over your jacket ever so tentatively, gazing at you so softly you feel like you might melt into a puddle.

It's like you're not even bothered by dancing to no music, the sound of the rain pouring and your breathing against his cheek being enough of a melody to him. He suddenly regrets thinking it was a bad idea.

Spencer pulls you flush against him, barely any space between both of your mouths. "Is this okay?" He asks in almost a whisper.

You barely have time to nod before he's smashing his lips against yours in a feverish kiss. Your fingers tangle themselves in the wet hair at the nape of his neck, nose nudging his gently as you return it just as eagerly.

Your hands fall to his chest after a moment as he moves to cup your face, the kiss becoming soft but just as addicting.

You're not sure how long you stay like that, you don't care. It feels like doing this forever would be a quite easy task.

"We should probably go." You pull away breathlessly, giggling at the way his lips follow yours and your comment almost falls into deaf ears.

"Live a little." He quotes what you had said earlier, all the shyness from earlier disappeared as he smiles teasingly.

You don't have time to answer again as he kisses you one more time.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

love you,

cat 🤍

[allmonstersxarehuman]

Such A Brat

Prompt: 10 Don’t be stubborn

Prompt: 12 Say that Again

From this prompt list that is originally posted by @seungfl0wer

MDNI! Adult content (WARNINGS UNDER LINE)

A/N: Very rusty on my smut writing skills and writing skills in general. I hope you like it. For some reason it deleted your message when I was working on it. 😩🥺🥺 @seungfl0wer

Warnings: MDNI! Smut, unprotected sex (just don’t), established relationship, (reader is called princess, baby, brat, good girl and pup), spanking, swearing just a little, one pussy slap, one gentle throat squeeze, I think that’s it.

A small sound of disapproval escaped when you felt the warm morning sun lightly kiss your face, you tried to ignore it but when the warmth became to much you let out a whine this time out annoyance. You thought turning away from the window would help but how wrong you were because when you turned over you were soon being pestered by Seungmin; he let out small laughs as he poked your cheeks, nose and lightly gave you a soft loving flick on the forehead. The action made you pout and let out a humph, your eyes continued to stay closed as you retaliated by pinching his bare stomach then his nipple. He let out a surprised yelp, the noice causing you to let a giggle as your eyes started to open just a tad; only to be met with him giving you a dirty look. One of the things you loved the most when it came to being in a relationship with Kim Seungmin is it just worked, you both are mischievous though you weren’t as obvious as him; you both are aware when a joke or comment is or has crossed the line.

“Mm, let me sleep.” You hummed closing your eyes and removing the hand that had rested on his upper abdomen, only for him to grab it again before wrapping an arm under you to pull you on top of him. “Min!!” You complained as you lay your head on his bare chest, legs straddled over his torso but made no effort in moving. Resting his hands comfortably on your backside pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Come on bubs, we’ve got to get up remember we told the guys that we’d go camping with them one last time before the weather starts to change. You know how Lee Know hyung gets when people are late.” He said before giving your bum a light squeeze and then a smack that wasn’t hard but definitely wasn’t soft. The action made you sit up pouting at him. “Technically you said you would, my name was never mentioned.” You smirked.

Seungmin rolled his eyes, before arching his brow. “Don’t be stubborn. Let’s get up and get washed up, since we didn’t do that last night.” He stated as he sat up in bed and landed another smack to your right ass cheek before sliding you off him as he stood up. You bit your lip as you watched him stretch admiring ever muscle that showed up as he did. “The only reason we didn’t get cleaned up last night is because you were way to tipsy to make it further then this bed.” You finally removed yourself from where you had been seated on the bed, patting his chest a few times when you walked past and towards the bathroom.

Then an idea hit you it’s been a bit since you riled him up a bit. “Fine I’ll get cleaned up but I was really hoping you would take a shower with me, but you are such a prude and want to be a bore that I guess I’ll just take one myself and help myself out since you are in such a hurry to meet up with the boys.” You said to him over your shoulder as you took off his shirt that you had put on followed by shimming out of your underwear, and turning on the shower, checking the temperature before stepping under the warm water. You knew it wouldn’t take long until Seungmin to follow you, he couldn’t help but lick his lips as he watched your little show. Stepping behind you he soon had a tight grip on your hip then pressing you against the shower wall, you shivered slightly as the cold tile wall pressed against your already sensitive nipples. “You want to say that again? I know what you are doing baby, being a brat isn’t going to get you anywhere; what happens to brats sweetheart especially brats that touch themselves without permission?” He growled in your ear before backing up and telling you to bend over, you wanted to hit him with a smart remark but before you could even get a word out a hard slap was given to your ass; a small warning to do as you are told and not back talk him. You let out a small yelp as you answered his question. “The don’t get to cum until they get permission.” Seungmin smirked loving how obedient you could be sometimes especially when you were becoming desperate. He sat on the bench that was in the shower his cock becoming stiff the mushroom head red and angry. “Spread your cheeks for me baby let me see your pretty pussy.” His words made you bite your lip as you clenched around nothing, you wanted to be filled so badly not caring if it was his fingers, tongue or his thick cock.

You did exactly what he asked of you feeling so desperate that you would anything. Seungmin let out a hum of satisfaction taking both of his big veiny hands he rubbing them up and down the back of your legs. “Good girl. To bad you never remember that before you get mouthy. First you didn’t want to get up, then you call me boring; now here you are bending over like a dog in heat.” He emphasized the last part of his sentence as he gave a small slap to your dampening pussy. “Why do insist on getting my attention by being a brat? Don’t I treat you right princess? Do I neglect you so much that you have to act up to get my attention?” You whimpered and nodded. “Y-you do Minnie, you treat me very good. I’m sorry, please I’ll be a good girl.” His fingers played with your folds then let his thumb play with your tight hole never letting it push inside your greedy pussy. You whimpered trying miserably at grinding against his thumb trying to get some sort of relief.

Seungmin let out a breathy laugh, completely removing his fingers from you. “So desperate.” You opened your mouth to speak, you were so distracted that you hadn’t realized Seungmin stood up until his cock was completely seethed deep in your warm and wet pussy causing a loud moan to escape your lips at the sudden feeling of being stuffed full. You could feel the tip of his cock kissing your cervix, he pulled you up so your back was flush against his chest his long fingers creeping up to your throat giving a light squeeze. He slowly pulled out of you only to ram himself back inside of his, letting go of your throat he bent over again watching his cock disappear inside of you. “So tight but your taking me so well, damn you were made just for me.” He moaned landing a slap to your ass. “So deep.” You moaned clawing at the tiled wall of the shower desperate to find something stable to cling on too. The lewd sound of wet skin on skin filled the bathroom as his thrusts became more faster hitting your gummy center that made you see stars as well made you salivate along it. “That’s it baby.” He groaned holding two fingers up to your mouth, you knew exactly what to do, you opened your mouth and sucked on the digits in front of you, once he was satisfied you felt his arm reaching around to massage your swollen clit with his two of his fingers. “I’m so close. Can I cum? Please Seungmin. I promise I’ll be so good for you.” You whimpered your voice becoming scratchy due to you loudly moaning. “Hold on just a little longer baby, you are doing so good for me.” Seungmin let out a growl as his thrusts became more erratic and less precise. You gripped onto the his arm that was wrapped in front of you desperately grinding against his fingers pussy clenching around his cock that continued to hit the right spot. He threw his head back feeling you clench around him. “Fuck princess you are so good for me. Cum for me baby.” Once he finished his sentence you let go your body shaking your mouth falling open in a silent scream of euphoria. Seungmin was not far behind, giving a few more deep thrusts he emptied his hot load inside of you. Not to long after he finished he slowly pulled out of you, a whimper escaping your lips from being overstimulated. You stood up straight before turning to look at him, both of you wearing goofy smiles. “You know if you just wanted to be fucked all you had to do was say so.” He smirked leaning down finally pressing his lips to yours. Pulling back you let out a soft laugh, I know but this is way more fun. Seungmin rolled his eyes giving you another kiss. “Come on pup. Let’s get cleaned up and get things ready to got.” He said grabbing the body wash. You gave him a teasing pout, he smirked. “Yes we are still going, we promised the guys.” You let out a huff causing your boyfriend to laugh “okay how about this, we’ll get ice cream on the way there. How’s that sound?” You smiled and nodded giving him a light peck. “You are going to be the death of me.” He shook his head a playful smirk on his face.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mad Season 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, social anxiety, chronic illness, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker

Summary: a class project gets messy. (short!reader)

Note: yes I'm being irresponsible.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

‘So sorry I’m running behind. May forgot her wallet’. You reread Peter’s message for the fifth time and check the time under the bubble. More than forty minutes ago. He has to be close. 

You thought of checking but you don’t want to pressure him. Besides, he is doing a favour by bringing you to Stark Tower to let you use the space with him. You turn and pace along the wall, out of the way of the New York pedestrians who wouldn’t even notice if you got underfoot. 

You thought of waiting in the lobby but that’s too much. You focus on breathing. You feel alright for the moment, but a few times, you’ve reached for your inhaler just out of habit.  

“Hey,” a voice draws you out of your mounting anxiety, bringing you back down to just above neutral. “Door’s open, you know?” 

You face Bucky as he holds open of the many glass doors. 

You nod and teeter on your heels. “I know, sir. Just waiting.” 

“Bucky,” he corrects you. Like last time. Oops. “Waiting on the kid?” You gesture affirmatively again. He waves you over casually with a gloved hand, “come on. I can get ya into the lab.” 

“Mm, ahem,” you clear your throat, it’s getting tight. You get closer as the noise of the street makes it hard to hear your own thoughts. “That’s nice but I said I’d wait here.” 

“Busy,” he comments and his eyes roll around derisively. “Should be out here on the street. Let the kid know you’ll be upstairs.” 

There’s no arguing with him, not that you would ever dare. You’re not afraid of him. Maybe intimidated but who doesn’t make you feel small. No, he’s Bucky Barnes, an Avenger. You have no ground to tell him no. Besides, he’s being nice even if his tone remains mostly indifferent. 

“Thanks, s—Bucky,” you muster a tight-lipped smile. 

He holds the door and you flit in ahead of him, your wool jacket flapping and brushing against him. He follows. You hurry ahead then stop short as you realise you don’t know where you going. As you do, a man in a suit huffs and nearly knocks you over with his arm. 

“Watch it, little girl.” He sneers. 

“Hey,” Bucky catches him by his tie, “what’d you say to the lady?” 

You spin around in shock, rubbing your arm at the suddenness of it all. 

“N-nothing, I--” the man blinks in fear. “Nothing, she just got in my way.” 

“You knocked into her and you can’t say sorry?” Bucky pulls him closer, glaring at him with a furrow of his nose. 

“N-no,” the man shows his palms, “no.” 

“Look at her. She’s half your size, pal. You think she could hurt you?” 

“No, no, look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” The man sputters. 

“Not to me,” Bucky slides his hand down the man’s tie and pulls him like a dog on a leash toward you, “her.” 

The man blanches and gulp, “look, miss, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. I shouldn’t have... I should look where I’m going.” 

“Good boy,” Bucky’s snarl comes close to a smirk as he lets the man go and taps his cheek lightly. “Go.” 

He shoves the man by the shoulder and you bat your eyes dumbly. You watch him go as Bucky looms close. You look at him and reach for your bag. You unzip the pouch at the end of the thin strap and pull out your inhaler. You take a puff. 

His expression softens, “oh, is that me?” 

You shake your head, “too many people.” 

“Ah, right,” he points toward the elevators. 

You follow him as he bulldozes through the bodies and pushes the button. You stop beside him and fidget with your inhaler. You peek over at him again. He looks down at you and you wince. 

“Sorry... I...” 

“People usually only stare when I got the arm out,” he shrugs. “I got something on my face? Damn beard catches.”  

Brushes his fingers over the thicket of hair across his jaw. You shake your head again. 

“S-sorry. I... I...” you sniff as the doors open and he beckons you ahead of him. You scurry on and he follows as a slow pace. He spins and jabs the buttons.  

“Thanks for... for helping.” 

“Not at all,” he says. Silence rises with the elevator. He coughs. “You know, I had a buddy with ashthma. Still my buddy but he don’t got the asthma no more.”  

He snorts. You mull his words. You think know who he means.  

“The stuff or whatever... got rid of it?” You ask meekly. 

“Yeah, the stuff. Serum. Poison,” he scoffs. 

“Oh,” you hum. 

“Guess I take it for granted. Never had to worry about much of the being sick part. Sister did. Yeah, she used to always have something,” he clicks his tongue. “Tell me when to shut up.” 

“No, no, I wouldn’t... wouldn’t ever,” you stutter. 

Another lulls fills the elevator as it opens, but the tension remains trapped inside. He points you out first and waits to trail after you. You come out onto the floor. You vaguely recognise some of the acrylic decor and the stiff looking chairs but you don’t know where to go. 

“Left,” he directs you with a gentle caress down your sleeve. “Easy to get lost when you don’t waste your life here." 

You let him guide you. You’d lose yourself without him. It’s exactly why you’d been out on the street.  

That reminds you of Peter. You reach for your bag again and pull out your phone. You check for a message. 

“Kid standing a nice gal like you up?” He asks. 

You flinch, “uh, no, his aunt... there was an emergency.” 

“More important than you, huh?” He pivots and presses his finger to the keypad. The door opens. 

“I don’t... I don’t know. It’s not a big deal.” 

He looks at you, his eyes narrowing, “you’re not a big deal?” 

“No, waiting isn’t... isn’t that bad,” you stammer. “Uh, thanks, again.” 

“Well, you know, in my day, we treated ladies with respect. Let me know if the kid needs a lesson or two,” he taps the doorframe. “I’ll check in, just in case.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“I know I don’t,” he says. “Go on,” he nods through the door. 

You don’t hesitate. You enter the lab with another thanks, eager to have some time to yourself. You go to the table and untangle your knapsack. You look back just as the door starts to slide shut. You only get a glimpse of his eyes before he’s blocked out by the metal barrier. You can feel his gaze staining you. 

You know it must be all in your head but he is so intense. Not as angry as last time but still... a lot. 

[fabydoll]

One Night in the Summer

❪ 🐚 ❫─── It seems like you wanted to keep one another

ಣ՞. ꒰𝒫airing꒱ dilf!himbo!jungkook && bimbo!fem!reader . . . . ۫ cw, cockwarming ˙⠀⋆ needy reader ˙⠀⋆ power!sub!reader ˙⠀⋆ afterglow ˙⠀⋆ softdom, subby!jungkook ˙⠀⋆ simp!jungkook ˙⠀⋆ implied large age gap ˙⠀⋆ reversed cowgirl ˙⠀⋆ implied nipple kink ˙⠀⋆ they fuck in a beach cabin while reader is on vacation ˙⠀⋆ light smut

now playing 💿. summer - pinkpantheress (demo) ⋆ charm - lil hero

The moonlight softly slipped into the dimly lit beach cabin, casting a gentle, ethereal glow. The soft moonlight was the only thing illuminating your angelic, glowing, and damp body. The bed whispered and creaked softly, swaying gently along with the sinful sway of your hips as you rode Jungkook to his breaking point.

The poor thing could only suppress his pretty, little needy and whiny moans by stuffing his pretty face in one of the soft, white, fluffy pillows, your greedy little pussy drinking up every last bit of his sweet cum, like a warm pineapple piña colada, coconut cream on top. He tasted so sweet, like Adonis, the angels, Aphrodite had blessed him themselves; you could practically feel him all the way in your tummy.

You felt so warm, so safe, you felt dazed, lightheaded from how good the pleasure felt.

From how good he felt.

Was this how paradise—heaven felt like?

Lifting up his gorgeous face from the fluffy pillow, he groaned; his voice was melodic, simply hypnotic. “Princess, gotta take it easy on me, don’t know how long I can keep up.” He let out another ungodly beautiful moan as you both reached absolute bliss, your eye lustfully rolled back, fulling you up completely until white, creamy streams of cum dripped down on his sunkissed, perfectly sculpted toned abs. A small, adorable pout appeared on your plush, plump, pink lips, as tiny, perfectly manicured hands daintily played with his swore, reddening nipples.

He was so, so pretty.

Earing you, a soft dazzling smile, as big, tattooed hands reached out to tenderly fondle with your lacey, light pink bra, whose straps loosely hung on your small shoulders, giving a tantalizing view of your blooming, and huge tits “Thought you would want another round or two, snice you know I have to go tomorrow.” Jungkook let a lighthearted chuckle, which softly tinkled in your ears, your heart fluttered. “I know, baby, but it’s getting late, and I don’t think can go for another round, knowing you could go all night long, little minx.” He sweetly teased.

You adorably giggled, lovingly bopping his cute nose. You still wanted more; he was just so addictive. You swore you were going to develop a sex addiction just because of him. But he was right; you could already feel the afterglow setting in. The particles of moonlight dust shimmering in the moonshine looked almost ethereal, not as beautiful as the huge brown doe-eyed, dazed lovesick gaze that stared back at you.

Bopping his nose one more time, laying a needy kiss on his plush lips, as light as a feather, you lightly sighed, “Ok, fine, I guess cuddles won’t hurt. I’ll still get to fuck you in the morning, though, right?” His plump lips between pearly white teeth, cheeks turned a light tint; blushing, he hummed, gently placing a strand of your hair behind your ear. Shifting his position, you whined, losing the contact you yearned for so dearly. “No, no, no, don’t pull out yet; you feel so good, kookie.” Jungkook chuckled as you tucked him deeper inside yourself, laying your head on his damp, warm chest.

Listening to his calm, serene heartbeat, the rhythmic sound of gentle ocean waves splashing against the shore, the moonlight glinting off the water, Jungkook’s large, muscular, tattooed arms wrapped around your petite body, whispering sweet nothings and praises, needy kisses that made you giggle and blush, you wish you could stay longer.

In his arms.

𝜗℘ㅤׁㅤ. . fabrianna's thoughts . . . just wanted to practice my smut writing skills tell me whether or not you guys liked it. may or may not make a small drabble of series of dilf!jungkook getting fucked by a younger sugar baby/girlfriend. etc. i’m open to suggestions so tell me your thoughts in the comments, toddles.

𝜗℘ㅤׁㅤ. . taglist . . . n/a

꒰ ၇୧ ⠀ᅟ𓈒⠀note, if you want to be added to the taglist you must comment ⠀⠀⁺ ꒱

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Wet Dreams [Frankie x reader]

My Frankie Morales masterlist

Fandom: Triple Frontier

Ship: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x you (gn!reader, no body descriptions)

Warnings: Nocturnal emission, lil bit of a handjob and teasing.

Summary: Frankie has a wet dream and cums in his pants in his sleep. That's the plot.

Words: 871

A/N: Thanks to @pazizz and @rambling-in-purple for going YAY when I said I was writing something <3

Something drags you out of dreamland, and you slowly become aware of the darkness surrounding you, Frankie's warm body next to yours. Blinking as you turn your head to catch the time from the bedside table digital clock, you note that it's only three-thirty. Turning your head back on the pillow, facing Frankie, you think that you maybe woke him up with your small movement, because he's moving as well. His hips push against the covers that have bunched between the two of you, and you wait for him to put his arm around you and pull you closer, like he so often does when he wakes up at night.

But he doesn't do that. Instead, he whimpers. You frown, more awake now, and wait for the next sign of life. His breathing is a little shaky, but when you carefully put your hand on his shoulder, he's relaxed and indeed in deep sleep. You scoot closer, settling in for more sleep, but as soon as your leg touches his, he moves again, his breath stuttering.

"Frankie?" you whisper, thinking for a moment that he's having a nightmare. He's well-adjusted to being a civilian, but not without ghosts. The nights are usually when he's haunted by the things he has seen and done.

This, however, feels different.

He sighs now, the sound bordering on a moan, he moves his pelvis again. It brushes up against you, and you feel his stiff shaft trapped in his underwear.

You smile a little then, realizing what is going on. Frankie has woken you up in the middle of the night before, all tongue and hands on your sleepy body, but you've never seen this before. Waiting a while to see what happens, you listen to Frankie's breathing, feel the warmth that he radiates, and wait for him to wake up. When he doesn't, you carefully place your hand on his hip. He immediately twitches, rubbing himself against the covers, and now you. You resist the urge to reach for him, to rub him through his underwear, instead opting for a light touch on his hip. Your lower regions grow heavy and throbbing as you listen to his soft sounds, and you hope that he'll wake himself up, wanting you. But you don't want to wake him up yourself.

You inch closer, lifting your head off the pillow so that you can lean in and moan softly into Frankie's ear. He responds with a quiet moan of his own, legs twitching. Very delicately, you trace your fingers over his hard cock, smiling when it trembles underneath the fabric. The covers whisper when you move your fingers over his cock, your gut clenching when Frankie moans again. God, the sounds this man makes! Only he can make you so crazy and emotional at the same time. This man is yours, he adores you, he desires you, and you desire him and adore him and love him and...

Gently, you place your palm over his bulge. Frankie chokes momentarily, then whines, and you feel his cock pulsate. The front of his boxers grows wet, and the salty-musky smell of semen spreads from under the covers. Well, that was easy.

"Oh, my sweet man," you mumble before inching closer and wrapping one arm around Frankie's waist. He snorts out a cute little snore but doesn't wake up, and you ignore the throbbing between your legs, instead letting sleep pull you under.

You drift apart during the remainder of the night. When you wake up in the morning, you have to roll over to face Frankie, who's slowly blinking his eyes open.

"Morning," you mumble with a light kiss to the tip of his nose. "Sleep well?"

"Perfect," he yawns, then smiles at you. "Had a good dream."

"Yeah?"

"You were in it..." He leans in, nuzzles your neck, moves closer, but then stops and checks himself. A frown lines his forehead, and you know he can feel it: the crusty, dried cum in his underwear, the smell of it reaching his nostrils when he moves.

"You okay?" you ask innocently, and he nods slowly.

"M-hmm."

"You don't look okay."

"I'm not sure..." He moves again, hand in front of his pants. Even in the sparse light, you can see the color rising in his cheeks.

"Babe, I think I... had a wet dream about you. And I..." He licks his lips nervously.

"You came in your underpants," you finish the sentence for him, now reaching for his hand under the covers. Lovingly and a little teasingly, you place his hand over his crotch.

"I was awake. You kept moaning and jerking your hips. I barely touched you, and you came."

You kiss him again, this time on his lips, tasting the staleness of his morning breath.

"It was super hot, Frankie."

"Yeah?" Slightly flustered now, his eyes are still cast down, long, thick lashes kissing his cheekbones.

"You remember what you were dreaming about?" you prompt him in a low voice, now releasing his hand and instead rubbing him yourself. "What did I do in the dream?"

He groans, but tells you. And by the time he has told you the entire dream, he's spilled over your hand.

[bbernard-03]

Begin Again

˚｡ ❀ ˚｡The Beginning˚｡ ❀ ˚｡

Summary: The weight of it all finally gets too much, and the decision is made, but will the kind words of a stranger be enough to shine a light into the blinding darkness?

Warnings: use of y/n, mentions of suicidal thoughts/suicide

thank you @bernardsbendystraws for proofreading and being the best <3

**i do not consent to my work being copied, used for inspiration, or republished**

prologue <- -> next part

----------

Two weeks ago, I was prepared to take my own life. The decision made, the plan in place, the letter… almost written. The plan was halted when a brown-haired, ocean-eyed stranger reminded me why life was worth living. Why my story was worth completing. Matt spent hours with me that night discussing everything from dreams and fears to thoughts and memories. He breathed life back into me, and I will never be able to repay him for that. 

Today, I was walking down the streets of the small town I had escaped to, facing the daily challenge that Matt had so graciously deemed upon me: Do something for yourself. After much deliberation and argument, I walked towards an ice cream shop I used to love as a kid. The happy memories were plagued with the dark events in the years that followed. I paused as I approached the double doors, taking a shaky breath. I took out my phone and typed out a message.

Y/N:

I can’t do it. 

I stared at the screen, watching the bubbles appear almost instantly in the bottom corner. 

Matt: 

Yes, you can. Remember, there are things worth living for. You’re working on finding them. 

I sigh and gnaw at my bottom lip. 

Y/N:

I’m trying. I really am. But I don’t think I can do this. It’s too much. 

Matt: 

Look up, sweetheart. 

I lifted my eyes and saw Matt standing a few feet away with a comforting smile as he approached me. He placed his hand on my shoulder, his thumb gently caressing the bare skin. 

“You can do this. You have to do something for yourself. Ice cream is a treat, right?” He asks softly, his words firm and encouraging. 

“Yeah, ice cream’s a treat. I just..” My voice trails off as I stare at the ice cream parlor before me. “I just haven’t been here in a very long time.” My voice is soft, filled with nostalgia and a hint of pain. 

“Do you want to try something else?” He offers gently. Despite my stubbornness and hesitations, in the past two weeks, he has never once lost his patience with me. 

“No,” I say softly. “This used to be my favorite place.. This is for me.” I say with as much confidence as possible, which isn’t much. He smiles softly at me. 

“Lead the way.” 

I shakily grasp the door handle and pull it open, the familiar scent filling my nose as I step through the door, Matt following closely behind. 

“Oh, our little Rainbow!” A voice exclaims from behind the counter. My head snapped up as I saw Belinda, the older woman who runs the shop. 

“Mrs.B!” I exclaim happily as she rounds the counter and crushes me in a hug. 

“It has been too long, my girl. You’re all grown up. Let me look at you!” She states and holds me at arm's length as she examines every part of me. “Your hair is longer.” She says softly. 

“I decided to grow it out.” I smile softly. “It’s so good to see you, Mrs.B.” 

“I love it; it suits you and makes you look like an adult.” She smiles widely and then notices Matt. “And who’s this?” She asks with a slight smirk on her face. 

“This is Matt,” I say with a smile. “Just a friend, Mrs.B.” I giggle and turn to Matt. “She tends to romanticize everything.”

“I can’t help being in love with love!” She exclaims with faux dramatics. “You want your usual, Rainbow?” I can’t help but smile at the fact that she remembers my order despite it having been almost ten years since I’ve set foot in the shop. 

“Yes, please, Mrs.B. One for Matt too,” I say sweetly. 

Five minutes later, we’re both sitting at a small booth in the corner of the shop, sipping strawberry milkshakes. I hum lightly along with the music and glance around at the parlor. Nothing had changed in the last decade and it’s oddly comforting. 

“What’re you thinking about, hm?” Matt asks, looking at me curiously. 

“Just how much nothing has changed here. It’s.. comforting.” I smile softly at him. 

“How often did you use to come here?” He questions gently. 

“Every day, every summer.. Until I was 13.” I glance around again as if trying to memorize every detail. 

“Why’d you stop?” His question, seemingly innocent, creates a heavy pit in my stomach. 

“Mom and Dad got divorced that spring. Nobody was really up for family vacations after that.” I say quietly, omitting most of the details, unsure if it was for his or my benefit. Matt looked at me curiously, almost instantly knowing there was more to the story but choosing to pick his battles in breaking down my walls. 

“I’m sorry that happened,” he spoke softly. “This seems like a very special place, especially to you.” 

“It was.. Is.. This town, this shop, it was the focal point of my childhood. The happiest memories I have.” My voice was dripping with heartache as I recalled all the years spent here before my family crumbled to pieces. 

Matt and I sat in comfortable silence for the rest of the visit. The only sound being the hum of the machine and occasional conversations between Mrs.B and customers. Despite the ache in my chest remembering the happy moments, I can’t help but feel a sliver of relief that I’m here. I’m making new memories, happy ones. I look at Matt, a small smile on my face. He was the reason I was here. 

“What?” He asks with a soft chuckle. “Do I have something on my face?” He wipes around his mouth. 

“No,” I giggle. “I.. I’m just.. I feel a little better than okay right now.” My words are met with Matt's bright smile. 

“I am so glad, sweetheart.” He reaches across and squeezes my hand before pulling it back. He’s made sure to respect my personal space these past two weeks, never having physical contact with me more than necessary. Another fact on the list of why he’s the best person I’ve ever met. 

“I’m grateful for you,” I say simply. He looks at me, and I can see the happiness on his face. 

Once we finish our milkshakes, we begin the stroll back. The air swirling around us, the hint of saltiness from the ocean soothing every ache in my soul. I take in my surroundings inch by inch. A flower had bloomed more than it was yesterday, I saw a new face pass by us, a little girl hugged her Mom after getting a toy. Joy. A feeling I had almost forgotten existed. 

This was where I was meant to be. I think.

[autumnslance]

FFXIV Write 2024: 19 Taken

(Violence, fantasy racism, kidnapping, death)

His side twinged, but he winced and kept tracking his quarry. It was not difficult, given their vehicles and the way they marched the troops and their prisoners.

A surge of anger rolled through him and he pressed on, the pain in his side forgotten. It had been his own fault, when his mentor had pushed him out of the way of the attacking soldiers. It had saved his life, but his mentor’s had been lost.

Along with most of the village they protected; the warders had failed. His shame in surviving could only be alleviated by finding the children that had been taken.

In the smoldering wreckage he had found his dying mother. She had weakly cried out for his sibling, using their diminutive nickname for the child—Ijna. When he made his occasional visits to the village—as a young man, he made more frequent trips than his elders tended to—he would be sure to visit his mother, and had been fond of Ijna, with skin as coal-dark as Mother’s. Their dark hair had turquoise streaks to match their bright eyes. A small, slight child, but he had once been, too, and had often assured the little one that someday they would grow as large and strong as himself—perhaps moreso, if they were a girl.

His sibling was among those stolen.

His nose caught the stench of ceruleum. His lips twisted in a snarl and he took to the tree branches.

The chief had defied the imperial officers who came to make demands, and the warders had harried them. They thought they had made the Garleans leave their valley. They had been terribly wrong, as the invaders had returned in force.

He did not know what he would do, when he rescued the children. He would figure that out once safely away from the camp.

They had stopped for the night, a pavilion set up for the officers to dine and sleep in. Troops who were not attending to their superiors patrolled the perimeter, or guarded the vehicle where the children huddled. They had been allowed to relieve themselves in a trench, and given some rations to eat the same as the soldiers. Then returned to the bed of the truck, where they huddled together for comfort and warmth under not enough thin blankets.

“Wretched little beasts,” one of the soldiers under his chosen branch said to a fellow. “And the Praefectus thinks they can be citizens?”

The other shrugged. “That’s the Emperor’s idea. If they will not submit, make them wish they had, as one way or another, they will be civilized. These brats shouldn’t be as feral as the adults, and there’s a school where they’ll be tamed of their savage ways.”

The first made another derogatory sound. “Even so, no one will mistake them for anything but beasts with those ears.” The two laughed and continued on their patrols.

He grit his teeth and waited.

Eventually the camp settled in for the night. There were soldiers taking their turn at patrol, at guarding the children. They were more lax than they could have been, thinking they had dealt with all of the village’s adults.

He handled the wandering patrols first, with careful, silent arrows for the first, and a dagger across the throat of the second. The high collars of their lightly armored uniforms, in addition to the rounded helms they wore, made it difficult, but there was hardly any sound, and no one came to investigate. He deposited the bodies in the woodline and crept toward the truck.

The children heard him coming, even if their Garlean guard did not. He gestured for them to keep quiet, uncertain if they could see him in the dark. Even silent, their stirring and looking around put their guard on alert. He would have to be swift. He drew his bow and—

A light snapped on, blinding him as he was exposed. “I knew it!” one of the officers growled. “Kill him, and search for more! He may be a scout for a war band!”

They were already firing their weapons as he dashed into the woods. The children screamed and shouted, their guards yelling at them. His ears picked up Ijna’s particular keening cry before it was cut off, the child struck by a guard.

A bullet hit his calf, another his bicep, and one tore a long graze along his side. He cried out as pain erupted through him and he fell, tumbling down a bank, bruised and cut from the fall. The soldiers were above him, he had to move but gods help him everything not bruised was on fire, and his older injury had reopened.

“Been awhile since I’ve been on a rabbit hunt,” a distant voice said, cruel laughter answering.

He tried to crawl forward, into the thorny bramble and the swift stream he heard on its other side. He had to get away, had to heal, had to pick up the trail later and find the children. He owed it to his mentor, he had promised his mother…

More gunshots, more fiery pain blooming across his body. His blood flowed freely, pooling around him, his leathers and green clothes stained. He couldn’t move, no matter how he wanted to.

He had failed.

Boots tromped close. His vision faded.

“Ijna, I’m sorry,” he tried to say, hardly enough breath for it.

“Damned savages,” a soldier said, pressing the muzzle of a weapon against his head.

[klintoris]

Can I please get some fluff with Schlatt? I got into a really bad fight with my parents and need something to take my mind off of it. Thanks <3

ofc pookie!! hope all is well :( ! i have never written fluff so ill try!

Jschlatt X Reader - "it'll pass"

after having a fight with your parents your loving boyfriend picks you up and comforts you..

I storm out of the house, sobbing as tears run down my face and snot leaks from my nose. 

Slamming the door behind me I hear the faint yell of my parents fade as I walk down the street. It's a September night so I wrap my arms around my body trying to keep warm.

I pull out my phone and click on my boyfriend's contact, trying to slow my breathing and inhaling all my snot to sound a little normal. 

I hit the call button hearing it ring 3 times losing hope, it is around 10 pm so i'm not too sure he'll pick up, but I hope.

The line clicks and he picks up,

“Hey toots’ whats up” he peps,

I let out a shaky breath “hey’.

“What's wrong, where are you? It sounds windy, Are you ok? Are you cold??” on the other end of the line,,

I hear him get up and grab his keys. 

“Im ok, just uh” i look around as i stop in my tracks “i don't know, i had a fight with my parents-” i start to tear up more thinking about it, “could you- uhm, could you pick me up?”. 

“I'm already on my way princess, i'll be there soon” i hear his car start over the call. 

“Ok i love you, thank you” i hear my voice crank as i lick my lips to collect the drool from being so distraught. 

“It's ok doll, i love you too” the call ends.

Schlatts car pulls up next to me on the road after about 5 minutes of waiting.

He unlocks the door and gets out, walking over to me and giving me a bear hug, the sheer size and heat of his body makes me feel safe. 

He opens the car door for me to step into the warmth of the car, the radio on a low volume. 

The car ride was silent, with his hand on my thigh rubbing small circles with his thumb, my hand over his.

I stare out the window, watching as the trees appear and disappear from my line of view.

~~

We pull into his driveway, as he shuts the car off and turns to me. Frowning while he smooths the hair on the top of my head. 

Seeing me in this state almost makes him want to cry as well.

He gets out and comes to my side of the car, opening the door while holding my hand to help me out. 

Bringing me to the door and into the house, he gets down and takes off my shoes for me.

Once he's done he picks me up and bridal style, walking through the house. Schlatt walks up to his room, carefully pushing the door open with his foot, walking over to his bed, he gently places me down. 

He walks over to his closet and grabs a hoodie, taking it off the hanger and walking back over. 

Schlatt then takes me to his bathroom, running a bath. 

All while silent, he takes off my clothes for me. 

Sniffling, I slowly get into the warm bath sighing at the feeling of being engulfed from the warmth.

Schlatt grabs a loofa and starts washing my back for me, the silence is broken by the sound of the water.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I shake my head at his question, he nods in response.

~~

After the bath, schlatt dresses me in his clothes.

Picking me up and placing me under the covers, tucking me in and then getting in pulling me into his chest.

The soft beat of his heart, the warmness of his embrace, the slow breathing, lulls me to sleep.

I feel safe. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

sorry if this is ass, i dont write fluff ever so LOL

[adverbally]

Sway Through the Crowd to an Empty Space

Written for the @steddiesmuttyseptember prompt “clothes on” | wc: 1,347 | rated: M | cw: none | tags: in public (alley behind the club), outdoors, making out, dry humping, teasing, not very smutty actually but they’re on their way there | background buckingham, drinking mention | title from “Let’s Dance” by David Bowie

———

Steve knows exactly what Eddie’s planning when he asks Steve to follow him into the alley behind the club. They’re both sweating a little, packed into the small space with too many other people, and they’ve been dancing for what feels like an eternity. Eddie spent the whole last song with his hands on Steve’s hips, looking at him like he wanted to eat him alive, and Steve wanted to let him.

He was about to invite Eddie into the bathroom with him when Eddie leaned in and shouted over the music, “I’m gonna go outside for a cigarette. Wanna come?”

And now Steve is pushed up against the dirty brick behind the dumpster with Eddie’s tongue in his mouth and his hands sneaking beneath the hem of his shirt, cigarettes long forgotten.

Eddie’s warm, draped all along the length of Steve’s body like a heated blanket, but it’s not enough to block out the chill of the late fall evening. Their cold noses bump against their flushed cheeks, and Eddie lets out an honest-to-god yelp when Steve’s hands come up to his jaw as their kisses deepen.

“Jesus Christ! Why are you so cold?”

“I’m waiting for you to warm me up,” Steve tells him with a suggestive smile.

Eddie frowns. “This isn’t going to be very sexy if you get frostbite and lose all your fingers.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Robin.” Steve drops his mouth to Eddie’s neck to rewarm the spot where his hand had been. Just to be safe, Steve makes sure to suck hard enough to bruise. Bringing more blood to the surface will help them stay warm, right?

It’s enough to make Eddie’s hips jolt, rubbing his erection against Steve’s hip through two layers of denim. “Please don’t talk about Robin during sex,” he groans into the empty alley.

Steve pulls back to look at him in disbelief. “Baby, it’s literally freezing out here. How are we supposed to have sex if my dick is turning into an icicle?”

“Oh, is that why it’s so hard?” Eddie’s smile is adorably crooked, but his eyes are like fire beneath the shadow cast by his bangs. He sways back into Steve’s space to kiss him again, swallowing his gasp when their clothed cocks meet. “Let me fix that for you,” he says against Steve’s lips.

It takes all of Steve’s willpower to press his palms to Eddie’s chest and gently nudge him back a step. “What’s your plan here? Because I have a feeling that it will involve me coming in my pants and going back inside to be wet and sticky for at least another hour before we can leave and drop off Robin and Chrissy. And don’t say,” he points aggressively when Eddie opens his mouth, “that you’ll clean me up, or that you’ll just let me come in your mouth, because you already made me too aware of the possibility of getting frostbite and these pants are closed for business.”

“What if,” Eddie muses, holding himself up with a hand against the wall next to Steve’s head, “I make you come in your pants and we can make up a spilled drink emergency to convince Robin and Chrissy we have to leave early?”

“Or we jump to the fake emergency so we can go home early and have warm, comfortable sex in our bed instead of this disgusting alley?” Steve smooths his hands over the lapels of Eddie’s leather jacket.

Eddie narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “Compromise? Ten minutes of making out in this disgusting alley and then we can leave?”

“Five minutes. Just ‘cause I think you’d be really sad if my dick fell off,” Steve says with a sympathetic pout.

“Mmmm, I would be,” Eddie agrees reluctantly, with a fond glance down at the straining fly of Steve’s jeans. “Five minutes it is.”

Steve doesn’t waste any time pulling Eddie closer by the collar of his t-shirt and devouring his mouth. Now that they’ve put a time limit on their makeout session, there’s an urgency to their kisses– Steve has a deadline if he wants to take Eddie apart, leave him panting and desperate and hard in his pants. He wants to tease him now so he can blow his socks off later.

Eddie doesn’t resist, equally eager to crowd Steve against the brick until they’re pressed together head to toe. They’re basically the same height but Steve is slouching against the wall, making him feel small and safe with Eddie’s arms caging him in. Steve’s own arms wind around Eddie’s waist, settling his hands at the small of his back. Over his clothes, of course; he doesn’t want to cross the line from ‘teasing’ to ‘annoying’ by getting his icy fingers on Eddie’s skin again.

They physically can’t be any closer together with the layers of fabric between them, but Steve still tries, grinding his hips against the denim-clad thigh Eddie has pressed between his legs. It feels so good when they fit together like this, like they were meant to interlock, and Steve's grip at the back of Eddie’s jacket tightens in a futile attempt for more. He can tell Eddie feels the same from the tight hold he has on Steve’s hips.

The alley is quiet around them, save for the distant thumping of the bass from the speakers inside. They can’t hear much over the sounds of their mouths moving together wetly and their ragged breathing. When Eddie shifts to adjust their angle, Steve can see their exhalations turning to foggy clouds in the cold air.

“Okay, I can see our breath right now. Time’s up,” he announces.

Eddie drops his head with a resigned sigh. “Already?” he whines, nuzzling his cold nose along Steve’s jaw and making him shiver.

“I won’t be able to suck you off when we get home if I get hypno— hippo—” He looks at Eddie expectantly when he can't find the word.

“Hypothermia,” Eddie informs him with a final chaste kiss to his lips. “And you have a point, unfortunately. I think parts of me are going numb.”

Steve is about to make the obvious joke about restoring feeling to Eddie’s sensitive spots, but he’s interrupted when the back door of the club crashes open with a violent metallic creak.

He and Eddie all but leap apart, trying to look like anything but two queer boys who were just playing tonsil hockey.

“Steeeeve,” the newcomer whines. “We’ve been looking for you foreeeeeever.”

Steve breathes a sigh of relief when it turns out to be Robin, enjoying the loose and enthusiastic stage of drunkenness while Chrissy tries to keep her propped up like a scarecrow. “Rob, we’ve only been gone for, like, ten minutes max.”

“Yeah but I wanted to dance with you!” She blinks at him like she doesn’t get what he’s not understanding about her obvious motive.

Beside her, Chrissy is shaking her head emphatically and waving her hand in front of her throat, indicating that Robin is cut off for the night.

“You know what? That’s a great idea.” Steve uses a hand at the small of Eddie’s back to usher him forward. “I just need to get something first,” he lies.

“Oh! Can I come?” Robin asks excitedly, like this is some kind of epic adventure out of one of Eddie’s campaigns.

Steve ducks under Robin’s other arm, helping Chrissy to keep her upright as they walk down the alley in the direction of Steve’s car. While Robin is babbling away to Chrissy about how much fun she’s having, Steve turns his head toward Eddie and whispers, “See, no emergency needed.”

“She’s kind of her own emergency, isn’t she?” Eddie’s voice is low and husky with suppressed laughter.

It’s unfair how quickly Steve’s face heats up at the sound. “Stop being sexy until we get home. Twenty minutes, tops.”

“Twenty minutes,” Eddie repeats with a wicked smile. It’s a promise when he says it.

When Steve speeds the whole way back to Robin and Chrissy’s apartment, Eddie is the only one who notices.