#i was backing into the a space next to a pump and hit one of the pumps with my back light

[nezuscribe]

you should be here.

you really shouldn’t be here.

but you were a good friend, maybe too good a friend one would argue, and one of your girls heard about this underground gig (boxing, fighting?) going on and roped you into going.

and knowing you, this was way out of your comfort range. she was shocked you agreed to it, but you were tired of being perceived as the sheltered on and decided to bite the bullet and tag along.

but now you realize that you should’ve just stayed home and rewatched some stupid show.

because this place was giving you all sorts of signals to just get out.

it was in what seemed like a dingy warehouse that could only be accessed through some sketchy alley. you truly have no idea how she found this place and your betting that it wasn’t some ad she told you she saw on someone’s story.

the vast room was barely lit, with only a few lights flickering as they struggled to stay on. you felt like you’d catch an undiscovered disease if you sat anywhere and opted to stand, but that was another issue.

despite how destitute this place seemed to be, it was packed.

there were so many people standing near the ring, everybody yelling praises or shouts of anger as somebody took a punch. you could hear skin hitting skin, could hear the breaking of tissues and bones even from where you were.

your friend dragged you by the arm, seeming as if there was no worry about this place, and it was too late to go back even though the alarms in your head were going off.

fuck, you start thinking, what is this place? what if you bump into someone weird? what if the cops come? what if the location gets leaked? what would happen to you two? what if….

your mind trails off as your friend wiggles her way through an empty spot, bringing the two of you closer to the ring.

you look at the fighters, mouth going dry at the sight.

one of the fighters, the one facing you, seemed bloodied to no return. his eye was black and weeks shut, nose dripping with blood. his face was salted with bruises, his body sagging as the other fighter, the one with his back to you, took another fighting stance.

“he’s who i wanted to see,” bri mutters excitedly, pointing her finger to the fighter with white hair, “i’ve heard he’s really good,”

you nod slowly, looking around in a skittish way. you knew you should’ve said no, but you really cleave no choice but to support her and her dangerous side quests.

he plants another fist to the injured one’s face, making him stumble back as the white haired fighter angles his body sideways, letting you two get a look at his side profile.

he seemed fine, a little bruising on the cheek but nowhere near the damage of the other guy. he must be as good as bri says you guess.

the people around you hoot and holler, pushing you further into on of the poles as you wince in discomfort, your face twisting in pain a little as some of the men behind you push forward with no concept of personal space.

you look over at bri but she’s just as engaged, shouting for the white haired guy to continue beating the other man up in ways that could only be described as primal and very, very illegal.

it’s only a few more minutes before the match is ended and the two fighters are pulled away from each other, the battered one looking like he was one punch away from becoming limp.

the yells around you grow louder and louder, the sound rattling around in your head. you wince, trying to smile for bri as she jumps up and down. you know this is only the beginning of the night and can’t afford to bring the energy down.

the white haired one turns around, raising his hands as he asks for the noise to grow louder, a smile on his face as his bandaged hands curl into fists, one pumped victoriously in the air.

but that’s not what takes you by surprise.

your eyes widen in shock when you see his face, mouth dropping almost comically when you realize this isn’t a random street fighter,

but the nerdy boy who sits next to you in your neuroanatomy class.

and judging by the way gojo looks around until he sees you, the proud smile on his face faltering for a second before his eyes cloud with utter confusion,

he wasn’t expecting to see you here either.

[melodyofmbaku]

Mind Your Manners (Smoke Moore x Annie/Reader)

First line was was actually inspired by a line in this fic by @szatears, please check it out :)

Preview: “I done told you to watch that mouth ain’t I?” He snapped before undoing his belt and stalking towards you."

Word Count: 2.25k

Warning ⚠️: Strong Sexual Themes + Smut (18+ Material)

A/N I watched Sinners yesterday and pumped this fic out today. I'm back in my writing era 🤠💁🏾‍♀️ ___

If there was one thing Smoke didn’t like, it was an attitude. Whether he deserved it or not. 

So when the man who had skipped town 4 years ago appeared on your door step you knew he’d have something to say about you kissing your teeth, huffing and rolling your eyes. 

“What are you doing here Smoke?"

He took a drag out of his cigarette.

 “Now that ain’t no way to greet a man Annie.”

Your eyes slid over him. He was covered in a tailored tweed 5 piece suit and his bulk couldn’t be hidden. Thick arms, a broad chest and a wicked smile with golds peaking out. 

Smoke Moore. Nothing better. 

You took him in. 

“Ain’t you gonna let me in?” He grinned and leaned on your door frame. 

You squinted your eyes at him. Thoughts of that night at the Juke years ago surfaced. Your breath caught in your throat. 

“You ain’t never needed me to do that before.”

He sucked another mouthful of smoke from his cigarette. And blew it towards you. Your eyes watered a bit and you glared, gripping the doorframe tighter. 

“Maybe I need you to now.” There was a beat. 

“You don’t need an invitation. You just come and go as you please. I’ve given up on trying to keep you away. It’s a waste of time.”

He smirked something fierce. 

“Yeah you right. I was just fucking with ya.”

He flicked the cigarette into the grass and pushed past Annie, not without placing his paws on her body to maneuver her out of the way. 

One hand grabbed her waist, the other palmed her heavy breast before squeezing past her and into her quaint home. 

Smoke had it made for her. For them. 

One of the last things he did for her before he skipped town. 

——

He’d picked her up from her rotten daddies house and told her to pack a bag. He strapped her into that car and drove them over to the tiny plot of land he’d procured. And there it sat, a little home. 2 bedrooms and a “kitchen meant for cooking” as he called it. 

He held her as her eyes watered and whispered. 

“You like it baby girl? It’s yours. You ain’t never gotta worry bout a place to lay your head again.”

And there they spent the next 2 days holed up and christening the house. Even the kitchen meant for cooking. 

_____

Smokes eyes took the place in. The small house he’d bought, you’d made it into a home. You brought in an ice chest and had decorated it, your personality showed in every corner. 

He smelled bacon on the stove and the nostalgia hit him like a brick. 

“You making greens?”

“What’s it to you?” You replied with your back turned towards him. 

He loved your greens.

You didn’t know what to do with him back in your space. You felt activated. Didn't know whether to run to him or away from him.

You took a deep breath and composed yourself. And turned around only to see him fishing for a cigarette. 

“Don’t you smoke that shit in here.” You snapped. 

He looked at you and paused before nodding and sliding the pack back into his jacket pocket. 

He lifted his hands up. 

“You’re right sweet girl. My bad. I know you don’t like that in the house.”

“Thank you.” You whispered to yourself. Feeling relief at the inch of control you had gained back. 

He knew you thought it was a nasty habit and if he wanted to smoke, he’d have to do it outside your home. 

Say what you wanted to say about Smoke, he knew how important this space — your home — was to you. And you didn’t want anyone to ruin it. Even the man who built it for you. 

“Why are you here?” You asked. 

“We’re back now. I’m back now. For good.”

You scoffed.

“What you had all your fun? Running around Chicago with your brother? Fucking all them northern whores?” You sneered. 

His eyes watched you. You hated how they could see right through you. You weren’t jealous. You were hurt. 

His eyes glowered. “Watch your mouth.”

How could he just give you the best few days of your life and just leave without a trace? Leaving you to hear news about him and his brother through the grape vine. 

How dare he tell you what to do?

“Or what?” You snapped back. This was 4 years of pain. Of hurt. Of anger. 

“What, you tired of them? Wanted to swing back on down and fuck your southern whore too? Taste the mother fucking rainbow?”

“You not no whore Annie.” He warned again. 

Your eyes shimmered with angry tears. 

“How you know I wasn't up and down these streets? You not the only one who likes to fuck.”  You snapped back. 

He smirked a knowing smile on his lips. 

“You wasn’t fucking these niggas. You forget that I know you. You wouldn’t let em get a chance.” 

And you hated him because it was true. 

“Fuck you Smoke.” You spat. You could almost see the vein pop from his temple. 

Smoke didn’t like an attitude. Whether he deserved it or not. 

“I done told you to watch that mouth ain’t I?” He snapped before undoing his belt and stalking towards you. 

You backed up against the wall. Fiery defiant eyes staring back at him. 

He bullied his way into the space between your plush thighs. Sticking his face into your neck and breathing deeply. He kissed you.  Once. Twice. 

“Why are you back?” You whispered brokenly. 

He ignored your question and worked quickly to push your dress over your thick hips. 

“You weren’t ever this rude before Annie.” He mused while manipulating your body to be exactly where he wanted it to be. He knew your body like the back of his hand. You was his and nobody else’s. 

That was law. 

His fingers found your sex and you couldn’t help the gasp that left your lips. 

Smokes fingers stroked between your folds before sliding into her. The wetness soaked his fingers immediately. 

He kept his eyes on your face. He loved the faces you made. And right now your head was thrown back and your plump lips parted slightly. 

Quickly the sound of the small home was filling with deep breathing and whimpers. 

“Why? Are you back?” You managed to breathe out between moans. 

Was he here for good or was he just passing by? 

“I must not be doing a good job if you still asking me all these questions…” he mused. He added another finger for good measure. 

Unfortunately, that did shut you up. 

He took the other hand and palmed at your breast and tweaked a nipple and you groaned deeply. 

He smiled, nothing but pure joy on his face. 

“You ain’t have nobody here to tell you… to teach you your manners. That's why I came back.” He stated. 

He bent his fingers within you once before sliding out and replacing them with his tongue. 

He expertly licked into you. Letting your essence coat his lips. 

Smoke loved him some you. When he had his fill he stood up and captured your lips in his. 

You tasted yourself on him. 

He looked down at you. You were thoroughly debauched. “You ready for me?” 

You nodded lazily, you could barely think straight. Smoke liked you this way sometimes. Pliant and easy. He could move you any which way he wanted. 

He graciously turned you around and pressed you into the wall. 

“I’m gonna fuck you now princess. And you gon’ like it.”

“Yes daddy.” You whispered and that’s what drove Smoke to press himself right into you, and he felt you stretching to accommodate him. 

Now it was his time to groan. 

“Fuck.”  He spat out. 

You giggled. That didn’t last long as he pulled out slowly and thrust back in with intention. 

That giggle turn into a graphic sound he would file away for later. You were so responsive for him. 

There you began your dance. Smoke began a slow and intentional rhythm. Whispering sweet nothings into your ear the entire time. 

Still your question persisted despite the pleasure filled fog which filled your head. 

“Why you back Smoke?” You managed to whisper. 

He grunted. You wasn’t letting this go. Could he blame you? 

He changed his pace, to something more punishing. Something that would make you forget you were angry with him at all. 

“Why? I needed to set you straight. That’s why. Remind you of how to act right.” He thrusted after each sentence. 

Your moans got louder with every thrust. But he kept his pace. 

“You got this attitude because I ain’t been here to fuck it outta you. And for that baby I was wrong.” He crooned into your ear. 

“It’s my fault.” He stated. 

He pumped into you relentlessly. And you took every thrust like a champ. 

“Blame me mama.” He whispered. It almost got quiet in the room.

The unspoken "not yourself" conveniently omitted from the end of his sentence. Just two bodies doing a dance as old as time. 

He reached over to grip your breasts again and pluck at your nipples. 

Your broken moans filled the space. He knew your body like no other. You were made for him. 

“That’s right.” He encouraged, he loved to hear you. 

“I’m back now baby. Daddy’s here and he’s gonna take such good care of you.” He breathed heavily into your ear. 

You were overcome with emotion. Your eyes watered. Was that a promise? You couldn’t do another broken promise. 

“Don’t you say that Elijah. Don't you dare lie to me. I can’t take it anymore.” You panted out. 

“You’ll take what I give you.” He snapped. 

Why was he like this? Why did you love this? 

Your head dropped low. Because he was right. You would take what he gave you. Even if it was lies or castles built up in the sky. 

You were a fool. And you loved him. 

He slid his hand into your hair, grasping your curls. 

You were Smoke’s to play with. To have, hold, fuck and scold. You didn’t pretend you didn’t know it.

“Chin up.” You tilted your chin up and his grip on your curls tightened. 

“Good girl.”

You moaned.  

He kissed your ear before speaking. 

“This time I ain’t lyin’.” He kissed your cheek. 

This was feeling good. You were barley listening. He could tell you he could sprout wings and fly right now and you’d believe him as long as he didn’t stop. 

“I’m back for good. I did what I needed to do out in Chicago. For you. For us. We don’t never gotta worry about money ever again.”

“It was never about the money.” You managed to gasp out. 

“Shhhhh.” He coaxed. 

That was another thing that came up in the past. Smoke was money motivated. He didn’t understand that you just wanted him.  Nothing else. 

He never wanted to be under the control of another man because of some money. So he went and got him some. 

“I think…" He pondered for a bit before continuing.

"I think I’m gonna fuck a few babies into you tonight Annie. Your body was made for it. For me.”

Your walls immediately clenched onto him. 

“Gonna have a bunch of em fat and happy running all around this place.”

Tears dripped from your eyes. The pleasure, the visuals, the stimulation. It was all too much. 

He didn’t stop. 

“You want that baby girl? Want daddy to put a couple babies in you?”  

You wailed. Short circuited even. 

Because Smoke knew. He knew that’s all you ever wanted. Him. And a family. And he wouldn’t tease you about that. 

“Yes! Yes! I want — “

“Yeah? You gonna have to say please mama. You how I feel about them manners.” He grinned wickedly. 

How he managed to stay aware enough to play you like this was beyond your comprehension. 

“Please!” You wailed out. 

“Please what?”

“Please make me a mama!”

His finger slipped to your clit quickly and he watched your face in wonder as your orgasm washed over you.  

You clutched onto him desperately to prevent yourself from falling. 

“That’s my girl.” he hissed.  Before thrusting and unloading his seed right into you. 

—

It’s been a few hours and you and Smoke were laid out in a blanket on a cot on the floor. 

Drunk on each other. 

He had fed you peaches from the jar right from his hands and had quelled any fears you’d had about him leaving you again, from in between your legs. 

“If it’s a girl we gon' name her Amiyah. After my mama.” You whispered into his chest. 

He kissed your head. “Whatever you want.”  

“And if it’s a boy I wanna name him Erik Stevens.”

He furrowed his brow. 

“Erik Stevens? Where you get that name from?”

“I don’t know I just like it. You don’t like it?” You asked, looked up at him. 

He scoffed. “That sounds like the name of a bandit.”  

You pinched his skin between your fingers. “Hey.” You frowned. 

He looked down at your big brown eyes and melted. 

“You really like that name?” 

You nodded. 

“Aight, I can be convinced.” He brought you closer to him and you both just sat in silence basking in your love.

He scoffed again. “Erik Stevens…”

“What is your problem?” You asked perplexed. Fingers stroking his chest. 

“I don’t like it. He sound like a boy who ain’t go no manners.” 

“Oh brother.”  ___

I so enjoyed writing this. I hope yall enjoy!!

Taglist

@sarcastic-sunshines @chaneajoyyy

[p1astr81]

Could you do Oscar x Next door neighbor Reader where like he hears her moans through the wall all the time and gets off listening to her, they bump into each other outside one day she invites him over for dinner/coffee/something and eventually confess to him that she let him hear her on purpose then he fucks her brains out?!

Yes? Please?

Thanxx xoxo

Anon I’m sending you to horny jail cuz WHAT

uh anyway, warnings: smut (bye bye minors), everyone is so wrong in this I’m in tears, masterbation (f & m), mean!Oscar (at the end), degradation, sub space, dacryphilia

The first time it happened, he thought he was imagining it. Soft little gasps from the flat next door.

Must’ve been the air vents carrying the sound.

He tried to ignore it, he really did. Tried to go to sleep and pretend he wasn’t getting harder with every little sound. But then a pretty little moan reached is ears and he couldn’t ignore the throbbing pain.

Palming himself through his boxers hardly gave him any satisfaction. So he shed his underwear.

It was already slick with beads of precum. His hand wrapped around the base, and the moan he let out was loud and unrestrained.

It was fully immoral, getting himself off to the sounds his neighbor was making. He knew that. But he wouldn’t dare stop himself when it felt as good as it did.

And maybe all his senses were heightened because of the stimulation, but he could’ve sworn your sounds from next door were getting louder. Needier.

Every moan sounded like you were sat right next to him.

His hand pumped the length of his cock, fast, with a tight grip. He was too desperate to even pretend to tease himself.

Oh! Oh, yes!

The sounds you were making were sinful, and shamelessly loud.

Oscar’s breaths grew ragged, his head thrown back as the pleasure built in the core of his stomach. He was pumping himself without restraint, just chasing his release with no care to prolong the pleasure. He couldn’t stop the groans and curses that slipped past his lips.

Oh yes! Fuck yes!

He could tell you’d cum by the pitch of your moans and the slight knocking against his wall—probably due to your writhing. The thought of it threw him in to a blinding orgasm, groaning loudly, not a care for whether you heard him or not.

Morning runs were never his favorite. He was too tired and it sucked all the energy out of him before he’d even began the day.

He closed his apartment door as he stepped into the hallway, jumping when he realized he wasn’t the only person in the confined space.

“Oh, hi!” You greeted. Too sweet. Too innocent sounding. He knew that was far from the truth, and his face burned red at the reminder of how he’d been getting off to your sounds for the past two weeks. “I don’t see you around much. I guess you’re busy traveling the world, right?” You laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You were acting normal. Not suspicious of him or avoiding him. Perhaps you couldn’t hear his moans through the wall as he had heard yours.

The thought eased him enough to converse with you like a regular person. “Yeah, I guess.” He laughed. “But I’m on break right now.”

“You know, since you’re home, are you up for coffee? I’d like to get to know my neighbor a bit more.” Your smile never faltered.

He didn’t have to think for long. Any excuse he had to not go run was a great one.

“So, I don’t keep up with the sport much. But I know the basics and whatnot. So, around here, how do you not hit the walls all the time? It’s such narrow streets and you’re going so fast.” You leaned forward, a mug of hot coffee cradled in your hands, eyes sparkling with interest.

He tried to find a happy medium between a confident and cocky response. “Well, we’ve done it for so long, and we have simulators that we can use to practice on. At that point, it’s more or less muscle memory.”

Still, you looked fascinated. “Wow.” You paused, then leaned in closer, lowering your voice. “Is it also muscle memory for you to get yourself off whenever you hear me?”

Oscar nearly spit out his hot chocolate at that. “Sorry, what?” He coughed, trying to play it cool despite looking guilty.

You breathed out a laugh. “If you can hear me, I can hear you.” The sparkle in your eyes was no longer one of interest, but of mischief. You recognized his guilty look. “Don’t worry.” You leaned back. “I wanted you to hear.” You grinned.

He stared, convinced his ears were deceiving him. “You… wanted me to hear you? Why?”

“You’re a smart guy, Oscar.” You tilted your head. “Handsome, too.” You bit your lip, eyes trailing down his body. “Why do you think?”

You gasped as he threw your naked body onto the mattress. “So this is where you’ve been driving me insane, huh?” He rasped, towering over you, caging you in with his muscled arms.

A little pink toy sat on your nightstand, catching his eye. He picked it up, holding in front of your face. “This what you’ve been using?”

You trembled, trying to close your legs but his own legs stopped you from being able to. “Mhm.” You nodded. The heat between your thighs was unbearable, more than ever before.

He turned it on to the lowest setting, placing it on your stomach and dragging it lower, lower, lower-

“Fuck!” You shouted when it made contact with your clit. Oscar smiled at that, and the way you whined when he shoved two fingers into your dripping cunt. Everything was so slow with him—the vibrations against your clit, the thrust of his fingers. He wanted to drive you insane, wanted to break you, reduce you to a needy, begging mess.

And he knew he had you right where he wanted you when you thrust into his hand. “Do that again, and I’ll leave right now.”

“No! I’m sorry- fuck!” He turned the vibrator to the next highest speed. Your moans spilled over like a boiling pot. One after the other echoed around the room. You were so close.

Oscar withdrew his hands, leaving you without a release. He licked his fingers clean, moaning dramatically at the taste.

“Oscar,” you mewled, reaching for his bicep. You looked so drunk on him already, and you hadn’t even cum once!

That sure went to his head.

He took both of your wrists in his hand, pinning them to the sheets. “You wanna cum?” You nodded desperately, receiving a devilish grin. “I don’t think you deserve it.”

The whine you let out almost made him feel bad. Almost. “Please! I need it so bad!”

He only laughed at your pleas. “I wanna hear you apologize first.”

“What?”

“Apologize for torturing me for weeks. Letting me hear your pretty little noises.” He placed hot, wet kisses along the length of your throat. “Apologize.” He demanded, unsatisfied with your lack of response.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry it was just so hot!” You rushed out, arching your back, trying to entice him.

“Such a slut.” A cruel grin spread across his lips, his fingers dancing across your tits. He gave one of your nipples an experimental squeeze, satisfaction filling him at how you gasped in response.

Handling you like a rag doll, he flipped you over. He pulled your ass into the air while pressing your head into the pillows. You let out a small moan at being handled in such a way. He scoffed.

“If you’re going to act like a slut, I think you deserve to be fucked like one, no?”

You wiggled your hips, shifting back on your knees. Trying anything to entice him. “Please, Oscar! Just please fuck me!” And when he didn’t do anything for a beat.

“Not so fun being tortured, is it?” His fingers circled your clit. Slowly. Teasing. Just enough pleasure to feel it but not get you anywhere.

“Please! I’ll never do it again! I’ll let you have me whenever you want!”

He eased the tip in, earning a high pitched moan out of you. His hands ran along the length of your back, running down your sides before he gripped onto your hips. “Of course you will.” He spat, yanking your hips to slam against his, successfully plunging his cock into your cunt in one thrust.

A loud moan was punched out of your lungs. “Fuck! yes!” You moaned. Oscar gave you no time to adjust, setting a brutal pace right away. He reached places inside of you the you didn’t even know someone could reach before. Each thrust forced another moan from your lips. It was like Oscar’s own personal concert, and his favorite song being played on repeat.

It felt incredible, so good you didn’t even notice the tears rolling down your cheeks. Oscars hand found your throat and he yanked you back so your back was flush with his chest. You moaned louder at the change of angle. Your head lulled back to rest on his shoulder, eyes rolled back in bliss.

“Aw, enough with those tears, this is what a slut like you wants, isn’t it?” He feigned remorse, he kissed the tears away, groaning when he felt you tighten around him. “You like being called a slut?”

You couldn’t answer, too fucked out already.

He pulled out of you, letting your body flop onto the bed. You let out a noise of protest, then gasped as he flipped your body over again. “I asked you a question.” His voice was level, seemingly unaffected by the loss of your cunt around his cock.

“Yes!” You moaned as he slammed back into you. Back arched off the bed, your fists tried to find purchase in the soaked sheets.

“Prettiest slut I’ve ever seen.” Oscars arms looped around your knees, pressing your legs to your chest, effectively folding you in half. The noise you let out walked the line between a scream and a moan.

You couldn’t even warn him before you were gushing all over his cock. Your cunt was sucking him in, begging for him to cum inside you. And he did with a shout of your name, fucking you through both of your orgasms.

He eased out of you, careful of your sensitive body.

“Should I run a bath or do you want a shower?” He asked, already standing in the en-suit.

You didn’t respond.

He came back out, concern etched on his features. You were blinking slowly, unfocused eyes staring at the wall. He smiled softly, taking your face in his hands. “You there, pretty girl?” His thumb stroked your cheek.

Still, no response.

He was conflicted between concern and letting his ego inflate. “C’mon baby.” He took you in his arms, stroking your hair.

When your eyes finally focused on his face, he smiled. “There you are.” You gave a weak laugh at that.

Bath it is then.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Leaving VIII

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: You win Olympic gold

Alexia will be the first to admit that she doesn't understand tennis.

She gets it from an objective stand point like how she gets football. Two teams (two opponents) meet on the pitch (the court) and kick the ball around (hit the ball over the net) to score a goal (get a point).

The scoring for tennis confuses her as does the terminology.

She doesn't get the words they use like ace and deuce and double fault.

She kind of thinks a double fault is like a foul but she still can't understand how because you're not tackling anyone.

Either way, Alexia doesn't understand tennis but this is a final and even though she's got her own quarter final today, she's still travelled to Paris to watch you.

You're against Zheng.

She knocked out Iga but now she's against you.

You've played her once before in at the United Cup and she'd knocked you out as well.

This was revenge though.

You serve hard and fast or, at least Alexia presumes you do.

You're wearing your Barcelona cap and your gold Nike shoes and you look like an absolutely beast on the pitch (the court). You hit the ball viciously, catching Zheng off guard completely with the force of your shots.

"Has she got somewhere to be today?" Eli says, a little laugh escaping her as you breeze through the first set.

Alexia frowns. "No? I don't think so. I think her only plans are to go back to bed."

Alba laughs. "It was a joke, Ale. Mama thinks Y/n has somewhere else to be which is why she's getting through the set so fast."

"Wait, is she going too quickly?"

Alba sighs. "You've been to countless tennis matches, Alexia. How do you not understand it yet?"

"They're complicated!"

"She literally hits the ball over the net!"

You seem anxious to get the match started up again, wiping off what little sweat you've produced and drinking half of your water. You don't even reach for your energy gel or anything of the like.

You're up on the court as soon as you can be, bouncing around on your feet, kicking up some of the clay dust underfoot.

Zheng serves next but that's all she really ends up doing because, yet again, you dominate.

Alexia can feel the atmosphere swell from the audience and gets the funny feeling that she's missing something again.

Her head ping pongs around trying to keep the ball in sight.

There's an uproar in the crowd as Zheng swings.

And misses.

Alba's on her feet, fist pumped up in the air and a cry of triumph out of her mouth.

Eli's got her hands covering her mouth in shock.

Just lower down, Alexia can see your training partner and coaching team celebrating.

You're grinning. You kiss your racket before turning to face your family.

You bow, the exact same pose and the exact same way Alexia did at Camp Nou and at the Champion's League final.

You come up, grinning before bursting into tears.

You move to your coaching team first, being drawn into a hug by everyone including Iga.

"Should I start getting worried about my space as number one?" She teases but all you can do is let out a wet little laugh.

You make your way up to your family next.

Alexia gets to you first.

She may not understand tennis but she knows a winner when she sees one.

She gets to you before anyone else, tugging you into a hug.

You've always been smaller than Alexia. That was to be expected but you'd shot up around puberty, growing like a weed.

She's glad that you're still smaller than her though, still small enough the she can easily hold your face in her hands and kiss your forehead.

You smile at her, sniffling.

"I won."

"Yes."

Your smile widens. "You didn't even realise."

"What?! Yes I did!"

"Don't lie. I saw you. You thought we were meant to go for another set."

"What's a set?"

Laughter overtakes your tears, bubbling out of your throat at the clueless look on your sister's face.

"No, seriously, what's a set? Is it like the two different halves?"

"Don't worry about it, Ale."

"No, wait, I want to know! Did you already have halftime? The match went kind of quick. Surely you should have had halftime before it finished?"

You're properly laughing now and behind Alexia, you think Alba and Eli are laughing too.

"Does it really matter?" You tease," I just won Olympic gold."

"No, I guess not."

There's silence between the two of you for a moment before you shriek.

Alexia lifts you like you weigh nothing, like you're just that little kid again with a scraped knee and pigtails.

Like you're not the Olympic tennis champion.

[cityhxh]

Stall • B.B

— ♆ c.w • mdni, slight exhibitionism, fem!reader, small space, smut 19+, fingering, cunnilingus, pet names, softdom!bucky, unprotected sex, cream pie, hookup, etc.

— word count: 1.2K

She felt her heart racing as Bucky's tongue flicked against her sensitive clit. They were in the middle of a busy club, the music pumping and lights flashing, and yet here they were, engaged in a deliciously dirty act. Her legs were spread wide, her short dress riding up her thighs as she presented her glistening pussy to Bucky.

Bucky had been feasting on her for what felt like an eternity, his mouth and tongue working miracles on her aching hole. He had already made her cum multiple times, his expert tongue knowing exactly how to tease and please her. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she moaned loudly, her hands gripping the back of Bucky's head, encouraging him to continue his heavenly assault.

As her moans grew louder and more frantic, Bucky knew she was getting close again. Her pussy clenched around his tongue, and he could taste her sweet juices flowing freely. Wanting to push her over the edge, he inserted two fingers into her tight hole, curling them to hit that magical spot.

"Oh fuck! Bucky, I'm gonna cum again!" She cried out, her voice hoarse from her previous orgasms. And cum she did. Her body shook uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. Bucky lapped at her juices, loving the taste of her sweet nectar. He gently sucked on her swollen clit, prolonging her orgasm and making her squirm with pleasure.

But as she came down from her high, she realized something. She had been far too loud, her moans and cries of pleasure filling the stall they had claimed as their own. Embarrassment flooded her as she realized the stall next to them was occupied and clearly heard her vocal display.

Bucky noticed her sudden change in demeanor and realized what had happened. But instead of stopping, he decided to take advantage of the situation, enjoying the exhibitionist turn of events. "Shhh," he whispered, his hot breath fanning her swollen pussy. "Don't worry about them, they're not the ones making you feel this good."

Before she could respond, Bucky pushed two fingers back inside her, making her gasp. With his other hand, he covered her mouth, muffling her moans as he began to fuck her with his hand. His fingers pumped in and out, his thumb rubbing circles around her clit. Her eyes widened as she felt a rush of sensations overtaking her body. It was too much, and yet not enough.

Bucky used his free hand to grab her thigh, pulling her closer, so she was impaled on his fingers. He added a third, stretching her, and she whimpered, the feeling of being so full almost unbearable. Bucky's thumb continued to work her clit, and he could feel her pussy contracting around his fingers as she teetered on the edge once more.

"Cum for me, baby," he growled, his mouth close to her ear, his hand still covering her mouth to muffle the sounds that threatened to escape. "Let them see how good I make you feel."

She couldn't hold back anymore. Her body exploded in a mind-blowing orgasm, her juices flowing freely as she shook uncontrollably. Bucky rode out her waves of pleasure, his fingers never stopping their relentless assault.

As her orgasm began to subside, he slowly withdrew his fingers, making her whine at the loss.

Bucky brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, his eyes never leaving hers. "Tasty," he murmured, a devious smile playing on his lips. She felt a rush of heat between her legs as she watched him taste her off his fingers. She was completely spent, but the sight of him doing that made her pussy clench and her nipples harden.

"You like that, don't you, good girl?" Bucky asked, seeing the desire still burning in her eyes. "You're so wet for me.”

She bit her lip, feeling a mix of shyness and naughtiness washing over her. "Please, Bucky," she whispered. "I need you."

Bucky's smile grew wider, and he stood up, pulling her up with him. He backed her against the stall door, his body pressing against hers as he kissed her deeply. She moaned into his mouth, her hands roaming his strong body as she felt his hard cock pressing against her stomach.

Without breaking the kiss, Bucky lifted her, making her wrap her legs around his waist. With one hand, he guided his throbbing cock to her entrance, teasing her wetness with the tip. She whimpered, needing him inside her now.

"Tell me you want it," Bucky growled, his voice thick with desire.

"I want it," She cried out, her breath coming in short gasps. "Please, Bucky, fuck me. I need your dick inside me."

With a swift thrust, Bucky buried himself inside her, making them both moan at the intense feeling of connection. Her walls stretched to accommodate his thickness, and he began to move, his hands gripping her ass as he set a relentless pace.

The force of his thrusts pushed her higher against the stall, and she clawed at his back, leaving marks in his passion. Bucky's cock felt like it was made for her pussy, hitting all the right spots and driving her wild.

"Fuck, your pussy feels so good," Bucky grunted, his eyes screwed shut as he tried to hold off his impending orgasm. "I'm not gonna last long, you feel too damn good."

She tightened her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside her. "Cum for me, Bucky," she begged."I want to feel you come inside me.

Those words sent Bucky over the edge, and he thrust into her one last time as he unleashed his hot cum deep inside her waiting womb. She felt his cock twitch with each pulse, her own orgasm crashing over her as she milked him dry.

They stayed connected for a moment, catching their breath, before Bucky gently lowered her to the ground. She felt his cum leaking from her well-fucked pussy.

———

They both walked out of the club bathroom, the pulsating music quickly filling the silence between them. Bucky gave her a polite smile, his usual warmth present but now distant. She on the other hand, still reeling from their shared moment, found herself lingering on the edge of something she couldn’t quite name.

"Thanks for tonight," she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady. Her gaze searched his face for a sign that he might feel the same way, but Bucky's expression remained unreadable.

He nodded, his smile still in place but his eyes already scanning the room for his friends. "Yeah, it was fun. Take care, okay?"

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat as he turned and walked away, effortlessly slipping back into the crowd. She watched him go, feeling a pang of disappointment as she realized she was just another fleeting encounter in his night, while he had become something more to her.

•

a/n: I have another part to this but I’ll post that once I feel like it hehe. Make sure to follow for more Bucky/Seb stories and post <3

[kabr0ztrousers]

Kabr0z Writes Episode 9: Farm Work

Find the rest of the stories here!

CWs: Noncon; kidnap; lactation play; transformation; restraints; corruption; forced impregnation; forced tf; bondage; probably a dozen things I've missed

Author's note: I'm really not kidding when I say you can help by giving me ideas! Want me to write about something? Drop me an ask or a DM! I'll probably get around to it in the next 350+ days!

######################################

Maybe you stayed out a little late? Maybe you were in the wrong place at the wrong time? All you know is you got jumped.

It was on the way home after work, you hadn't noticed them get off the train behind you, hadn't heard them gaining on you. You only noticed them when the chemical-smelling rag was pressed against your face, and the world went dark.

You woke up already naked and sweaty. Your arms were bound down your back, forcing your chest to push out, showing off your tits in the half-light. You could hear shouting in the next room, then everyone went quiet quiet as a voice called out 

"Next is lot 35, female, mid 20's, recently acquired"

They pushed you forwards and you stumbled, your ankles tied so you could only take small, hobbling steps, your bare feet numb on the cold concrete floor.

You emerged through the door into a spotlight. Blinking against the light you could see the room was full of people but you couldn't see any faces. 

Everyone could see you, bare, glistening, unable to cover yourself. You cowered away from their gaze, and yelped when a man hit you across the buttocks with a cane.

The auctioneer started the bidding, calling out numbers and taking bids faster than your addled, panicking brain could follow them. All the while, the man with the cane was watching. If you slouched? Whack. If you looked down? Whack. If you tried to hide any part of you? Whack.

The gavel went down. You're not sure how much you sold for. You were led off into another room, then into the back of a van.

You weren't sure how long you were in there, gradually coming down from whatever they used to knock you out. When they opened the doors you were somewhere else.

A large man, bald and scarred, manhandled you up and tightened a collar around your neck. He attached a long pole to it and started to manoeuvre you out. You were pulled through a maze of corridors, into a room with dozens of other women restrained to the floor and groaning. A smaller man waited, dressed in riding gear and carrying a crop.

"Ah, the new arrival." He pulled out a torch and examined you by the light, prodding and poking, feeling your tits and forcing open your mouth to see inside "All her own teeth, reasonable build, looks perfectly adequate. Get her settled." He left the room by the door you came in. 

The large man pushed you to a space between two other women and attached your collar to the floor with a short length of chain before going behind you and connecting your ankles to the floor. 

You were stuck there, knelt down with your naked ass in the air, face inches from the floor. 

That's when you heard it. Something was being led up behind you. Something huge and snarling. You could feel it's breath on your behind as it got to you. It was smelling you. Then it was upon you. 

It was heavy on your back, driving your face and chest into the floor as it thrust it's cock over your ass. It felt huge on your back, already oozing fluids. You cried out as it found its mark and started pressing against your pussy. It slid off again and again as it thrust madly, over and under you, until it didn't.

The pain almost made you black out. It was bigger than anything you'd had down there, and it wasn't letting up. Again and again it pounded into you until you couldn't see for tears and your screams turned to hoarse whispers.

Only then did it slow. One. Two. Three last mighty pumps into your quivering, punished pussy before it held in its throbbing cock. How breath on the back of your neck, stale and damp. You could feel the cum filling you up, pooling in your womb. It pulled out, your pose stopping any from spilling out despite your loosened hole. Whatever it was was being pulled away from you. Drawn sullenly back to wherever it was kept. 

You didn't move for the rest of the day. Not that you had much choice.

You woke to a bowl in front of you, filled with a tasteless beige slop. You tried not to eat, the food making your stomach turn. You weren't given a choice. You had your face pushed down into it, forced to eat just to make enough space to breathe.

This continued for weeks.

You thought it was just the food at first, making you sick when you woke up. Then you realised you hadn't had a period yet. Then you felt yourself start to grow. Your belly and your tits both getting larger. You couldn't not notice it. They couldn't either.

You woke to someone hefting your tits. They were manhandling them into plastic cups, suctioned on around your growing nipples. Then they turned the machine on.

You groaned. The machine was suckling you. Gently pulsing the suction up and down to start milking your tits. It lasted for hours. Days. Eventually you felt yourself starting to give milk, you saw it flowing down the tubes leading from your body. 

The food changed. It wasn't just flavourless any more. Now there was something different about it, something strange that made your tits and clit tingle and throb. 

It didn't stop. All day and all night the machine would pump out milk, more and more as the drugs and your own body did their work. You felt something else as well. Your clit kept tingling and buzzing, the drugs and the unending stimulation keeping you on edge, always ready to orgasm at any moment. But the moment never came.

The handlers don't touch you now. You hadn't had the creature since the first night. You're nothing but a whimpering cow, mooing and braying on the machines.

Until you aren't.

The handlers are taking notice of you again. You're hearing them talking about you. You're almost ready. 

You wake to someone behind you. You wiggle your ass to get some attention, and feel something strange between your thighs. Your clit feels big and hard against your legs. It must be at least an inch long after all the drugs and the edging. You feel it. Another tube suctioned over your clit. You hear a button clicking on the machine milking you. The cup on your clit starts pulsing in time with the others.

It's too much.

You cum immediately, the orgasm causing your swollen pussy to contract and throb, begging to be filled with something, anything. You moaned and begged for the man behind you to just fuck you already, you didn't care any more, you just wanted him inside you. 

He walked away. 

You don't know how long the orgasm lasts. By the time you can think straight again you're face down in a puddle of drool, your hips still bucking in time with the suckling on your tits and your swollen clit.

The strange taste is still in your food. It feels like every few days your tits grow another size, your clit another inch. 

Then it happens. You can feel something welling up from within you, pulsing through you. It feels like something is travelling up the length of your distended clit, coming closer and closer until inch by tortuous inch it starts.

You cum. Your pussy cleanches and squirts, your body convulses and you thrust your hips forward reflexively.

You can feel something coming out of your clit. Thick, hot cum is flowing out of you in a steady stream, each pulse makes you cry out in ecstasy. 

The drugs, the humiliating position you'd been stuck in for months, the beast growing in your belly, all forgotten.

This is all you want. To kneel here. To be milked for everything you have. To be knocked back up whenever you finally give birth to whatever it is in your belly.

You won't leave here, not for anything

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter four

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: jack’s feelings for you grew in the dusk. then, a whispered incident shatters the stillness, and he realizes too late that something’s already broken.

⤿ warning(s): none

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.8k

Jack first saw you exactly four years ago during shift‑change—him coming in for the ER night grind, you stalking out after twelve hours in Surgical with three lunch boxes stacked like ammo. Two interns are nipping at each other’s heels until you raise a single finger; the quarrel dies in mid‑air. He watches, amused, then watches again a few minutes later when those same interns turn up in the break room wolfing down a mouthful of poppy-seed muffins that smell like pure comfort.

“Who baked that?” he asks.

They point after you with crumbs on their cheeks and fingers: a hard‑headed nurse from Surgical.

He notices you in passing—but the meeting comes much later, high above the noise.

It is barely dawn, once again shift‑change o’clock. As usual, he takes the stairs to the roof for a hit of cold air before plunging into his ER night. You are already there, arms folded on the railing, watching the river steal the first light. He almost turns back, but you don’t glance over, and the quiet feels too good to waste. So he stands a dozen paces away, breathing steam into the sky. Neither of you speaks. Five minutes later the freight elevator clangs below and you disappear down the stairwell, a ghost in gray.

That becomes routine: his night beginning where your day ends, both of you claiming the same ten minutes of sky. At first it is silence—two strangers dividing the dawn. Then a nod. Then, on a morning whipped by sleet, you mutter, “Coffee? Again?” Jack snorts, raises his styrofoam cup, and admits it is sludge. You offer no sympathy, only a sideways grin that feels like permission.

Conversations creep in. You talk about nieces who mail you science‑fair photos, about Jack’s improbable knack for fixing malfunctioning IV pumps, about cilantro storage and the best pierogi on the South Side. He learns you feed residents and med students like stray cats. You learn his leg squeaks in the rain and he deals with it by over‑tightening the socket and cursing under his breath. That way, the roof becomes neutral ground, a borderland between the hospital’s fluorescent chaos and the city’s slow river.

Jack falls for you in increments—not all at once, not with fire, but in the way late sun warms cold bones.

The first time is maybe a dry joke you lob over your shoulder in passing. The second, the way your eyes soften when a helicopter banks in low, shadows flashing across your face as you pause mid-chat. And after that, it’s everything.

He hasn’t let himself feel something like this in a long time. Not since… and even that name, even the memory, doesn’t ache like it used to—but it has left behind a hollowed-out space where nothing has taken root since. There have been flings, sure. Company here and there, something easy and understood, but nothing that lasts beyond the night or the need. He hasn’t wanted anything to last.

Until you, that is.

And so, he begins hinting—carefully. A stupid pun scrawled in the margin of a half-finished sudoku you’ve been grumbling over all day. A couple of lumpia he manages to snag—somehow, without losing a limb—from Princess and Perlah’s fiercely guarded monthly stash. A quiet confession, offered one chilly morning, that sunrise feels less sharp with company. Each gesture small, deliberate, afraid that pressing too hard might crack the quiet, steady rhythm you both come to rely on.

Because the roof has become necessary.

And still, he can’t lie to himself: the feeling scares him. The possibility of caring again, of wanting something that can’t be controlled or triaged or explained—it unmoors him a little. But it also makes him feel alive in a way he hasn’t let himself feel in years. You make the hours between dusk and dawn feel less like a stretch of survival and more like something to look forward to.

And that… that is terrifying. But it is also good. Very good.

Then, four dusks in a row, you don’t show.

On the eve of the fifth night, he types a message he doesn’t plan to send: Haven’t seen you on the roof. Everything okay?

Ten minutes tick by before your reply arrives: I’m alright—just busy. See you tomorrow?

Something is off, and it isn’t the hour. He fills his thermos anyway and snags a terrible slice of cafeteria pound cake—knowing you’ll roast him for it if you ever find out—and promises himself that if dawn doesn’t bring answers, he’ll start asking better questions.

For now, he simply shoots back: Works for me. Sunrise tea?

And you, a simple but earnest confirmation: Sunrise tea.

Jack can be reckless, but war zones and widowhood have taught him this: when the strongest person in the room starts acting skittish and absent, you step closer and keep watch—especially if the room is a rooftop at sunrise, and the person is the nurse who once turns five minutes of shared silence into the best part of his day.

. . .

He arrives at the hospital, stepping through the double doors with his usual resolute gait, one hand hooked casually under the strap of his tactical backpack. His expression is calm, composed, shaded by that habitual, guarded optimism he wears for years.

But something is off.

It’s not loud. In fact, that’s what makes it strange. The usual din of residents bickering over charting, wheelchairs squealing across tile, interns nervously chugging coffee—muted. Not gone, just… held back, like the The Pitt is holding its breath.

Jack’s eyes scan the room, already sharpening beneath the calm. He catches sight of Dr. Ellis—one of his best senior residents—cutting across the ER with purposeful steps. Not rushed, not panicked. But something close to tight. Her face is unreadable, grim where it’s usually brisk.

“Jack,” she says as she reaches him. No Dr. Abbot, no pat on the arm, no idle quip. Just a quiet, urgent gesture for him to follow. “Come with me for a sec.”

His brow lifts, but he doesn’t ask questions. Not when she’s looking like that.

They weave past triage, through a set of doors into the cramped staff room. The door clicks shut behind them, and instantly the world narrows. The light feels a little too bright. The hum of the fridge too loud.

Jack leans against the counter, arms folded, expression even. “Alright,” he says, not unkindly. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Parker doesn’t answer right away. She shifts, visibly uncomfortable. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just that rare, uncertain edge Jack only sees when things are about hit the fan.

“Something’s wrong up at Surgical,” she says finally. “Trauma Surgery, specifically.”

Jack doesn’t move, but his gaze sharpens. The inside of him goes still. You work Surgical long enough that his mind jumps without permission.

“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice steady. “Is it about a patient? A case?”

Parker shakes her head. “No. It’s personal. It’s… her.”

She doesn’t say your name. She doesn’t have to. The second she says it—her—Jack knows. The knot that’s been building for days, through missed rooftop meetings and clipped, careful texts, cinches tight, pressing into his ribs like a vice.

Of course he’s heard the way people talk. The way the nurses elbow each other when he walks past. Even Parker, just now, had paused like she expected him to flinch at the mention of you. 

But Jack doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t correct anyone, either. Let them talk.

It’s not that anything’s happened—not really. Not yet. But something’s there. Has been for a while now. He just doesn’t have the time or energy to pretend otherwise.

His jaw ticks, barely. He fights the instinct to reach for his phone, to scroll through that last short message—just tired—and see if it reads any differently now.

“She’s been dealing with something,” Parker continues, lower now. “Something bad. I don’t know the whole story. Not really. Nobody does, I think. But… word’s spreading fast.”

Jack doesn’t breathe, but he listens.

“She broke down in the middle of her shift. Not just a bad day. Panic—real panic. Security got called in. So did Gloria.”

The weight of it settles hard. He turns his eyes to a crack above the microwave. It’s been there for years, a small fracture in cheap cabinetry, but tonight it looks like a fault line.

“She alright?” he asks.

Parker gives a vague nod. “I think so. But here’s the thing—no one’s talking. I mean, not even the nurses.”

That gets his attention.

Parker goes on. “You know how they are. They could tell you what kind of gum a new hire chewed three floors down before HR finishes onboarding. But this? They’re locking it down. Close. Fierce. Like they’re closing ranks over her.”

Jack runs a hand down his face, slow. Subdued, yes—but not at peace.

“Do you know why?” Jack asks, voice low and even.

Parker hesitates, then shakes her head. “No. Not really. Just bits and pieces. Like I said, no one’s giving the full story. Not even the nurses, and you know how they are—usually you can’t get them to stop talking. But now? Radio silence.”

Jack watches her carefully. She’s being honest. He can tell.

“I can poke around,” Parker offers, almost reluctantly. “Ask some questions, feel out what’s being held back—if you want.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, slow through his nose, as if weighing what kind of damage that might do. His fingers drum once against the thermos in his hand. Then he shakes his head, once.

“No,” he says. “Leave it. Maybe it’s not for the best.”

That stops her cold. She studies him, really looks—and the silence between them sharpens.

Because Jack never says leave it. Not when someone’s in trouble. And the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders lock down… that’s not calm. That’s containment. Worry wrapped so tight it’s just short of boiling over.

She doesn’t press. Not now.

Jack straightens, but his expression doesn’t change. If anything, it stills into something harder. More focused.

His name hasn’t come up, and that almost bothers him more. If you’d talked to someone—anyone—why not him? And now that’s too late. The missed rooftop meetings, the clipped texts, the careful way you said “I’m just tired.” It all slides into place with a sickening click.

He tugs his backpack strap a little tighter over his shoulder, eyes distant but burning behind the quiet.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he mutters. “Let’s get to work.”

Parker only nods. She doesn’t add or ask another thing.

And when they walk out of the staff room, there’s no storm in his step, no rush in his pace. But the tension radiating off him—quiet, coiled, dangerous—is enough to make two med‑students step out of his way without a word.

Something’s wrong. Someone’s hurt you. And someone else is going to regret it.

divider credit

[hitomisuzuya]

Thinking about reader getting herself stuck in a wall for some reason and asks Scara to help her out. But because her rear end is exposed at his side, he got horny cuz she's helpless and can't help but fuck and fill her up with his seed before actually helping her out

Scaramouche x fem!reader. Smut.

You stared, wide eyed at what just happened. You'd been reaching for a piece of jewelry to wear whenever your hand twitched. The next thing you knew, it was falling out of your hand, falling in between the dresser and the wall.

You assessed the situation, and gathered that you indeed could fit into the space to retrieve your jewelry. Scaramouche walked into your room just in time to see you bent over in between the dresser and the wall.

"What are you doing?" He asked, crossing his arms as he watched you straining your fingers out to retrieve the jewelry.

"I dropped something," You said, sticking your tongue out in concentration. You smiled somewhat when you picked up the piece of jewelry.

You started to move back, however, you discovered that getting out was a lot harder than getting in. You started to struggle, trying to angle your body in certain ways to see if you could wiggle out.

But to avail.

You were stuck.

You let out a quiet, exasperated sigh.

"What's wrong? Are you stuck?" Scaramouche scoffed, teasing you. You couldn't see the way his eyes were fixated on your ass as he moved closer to you.

"...No," You replied, you could practically feel the shit eating smirk on his face. You wiggled a little before you sighed, defeated. You blushed when you realized what exactly you were stuck on. "...Yes. I'm stuck..on my boobs."

Scaramouche laughed. "It's not funny, Scara. I'm really stuck," You said, trying to move again. Your ass was inadvertently up against his crotch, making him swallow back a groan of lust.

"How inconvenient for you, but," He purred, grinding against you. "Very convenient for me." He pushed your skirt up around your hips, his fingers finding your clit outside your panties. He rubbed and stroked, drawing arousal to dampen your panties.

"Seriously, Scara?! I'm stuck and that's the first thing your mind?" You exclaimed, swallowing back a moan when you felt your clit beginning to swell and throb.

"You are so delicate, so helpless without me," Scaramouche pushed your panties aside, pinching your clit between his fingers. "I'll help you out," He took his fingers off of your clit to unbutton his shorts, "when I am done of course."

Taking out his cock, he pumped his hand on it before pressing the tip against your clit. You could do nothing but moan softly in pleasure, grinding back against him.

"Before I fuck you full of my cum, allow me to tell you how impractical it was not to move the dresser aside some first," Scaramouche taunted, angling your hips before he pushed his cock inside of you, bottoming out with one snap of his hips.

You gasped loudly in pleasure, your fingernails digging into the surface of the floor to ground yourself as he cock kissed your sweet spot. He hit it with well aimed accuracy, bringing your walls to quiver and clamp around his cock.

"You poor thing, you are so sensitive. Your walls always beg to squeeze around my cock the moment I fuck myself inside of you. You know I love it when you are needy," Scaramouche enjoyed the way you were quivering in pleasure, your moans bleeding into broken whimpers and sobs of pleasure.

"That's my good girl, babble about how good I am making you feel," He groaned, shuddering in pleasure from the way his cock throbbed with his impending orgasm.

His fingers found your clit again, he could feel you were close. Just a few more thrusts would push you over the edge, bringing to cream screaming on his cock.

Scaramouche fucked you through your orgasm, his cum painting your walls as it spilled inside of you. His pace never relented while he made sure hardly a drop leaked out of you.

You whined when Scaramouche pulled out of you, grinding needily against him. He chuckled, moving the dresser aside for to crawl out.

[ma1dita]

as above, so below

 a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader words: 10.4k. wow. prev -> asking for trouble summary: (post-TLT) The one where you plead your case with the gods of Olympus. (The one thing the fates didn't expect was how much you'd both be like your fathers; in a way, you and Luke didn't see it coming either) a/n: depictions of overdose/suicidal ideation, grief and then a bittersweet ending. this is the final chapter of partners in crime, and a love letter to everyone who’s made it this far—for all the wonderful comments and rbs! i hope this ending and this story serves as a reminder to all to support writers and their work!!! also a love letter to myself?? and the immense growth i’ve experienced creatively and in my life in the past year and some change of writing this story, it was truly a transformative time. thank you.  to end, i hope you all get the love that you deserve.

— 

—KATABASIS—

Is love in this world a gift or a curse?

Watching your campers file into the Hall of Gods felt like being stuck in a perpetual state of unease. Or maybe how you imagine it would feel to drive in the wrong direction on the Long Island Expressway during rush hour. It felt like staring into an oncoming car crash with your shoulders stiff, bracing for impact as you waited for something to just hit and hurt. 

What else is there to do after a war is won but revel in how it hurts? 

The campers look at you as they pass you on the stairs—a ghost of yourself after the deed was done, and it was almost as if Luke took whatever little life there was in you with him to the underworld. Like moths hovering toward light, the crowd starts to grow, waiting for someone to have the answers on what to do next as the Olympian Council prepares to convene.  

Instead, you mentally do a headcount each time another one of the kids makes an appearance through the marble foyer; you wonder about a lot of things now that you find yourself with the time to think. You haven’t spoken in the hours since Luke died and your heart falls further with every covered stretcher the satyrs carry in.

“Hey.”

Flinching, you soften slightly when you realize it’s Annabeth grabbing you by the crook of your arm, “Let’s go wash up.” It’s not a suggestion. She leads you to a secluded part of the hall and there’s a basin filled with warm water and soap waiting for the both of you. There’s no use in tidying up the mess, you think—we just won a war! But the daughter of Athena tuts and sits you down how you imagine your mother used to when you’d come in from the backyard covered in mud. The pearlescent pool in front of you is instantly sullied as your fingers descend into the bowl—scarlet running down from your elbows, stuck to your skin, and coming off in plumes that drop into the water like miniature explosions. You hadn’t realized there was so much blood—so much of him still left on you.

“Where’s…” You say hoarsely, jerking your hands upward so that the dirty water splashes onto your knees, and Annie clasps your forearms firmly until you stop twitching—sitting still like this suddenly feels like burning coals under your feet.

“Your phone’s in your pocket. We can get it after.” “It’s dead. Uh…I need to charge it, before the Mist lifts.” The thought of calling your boyfriend comes and goes quickly like a balloon in the wind—your mind is filling up the spaces of grief with other things to worry about like Dex, who’ll be driving home soon with breakfast and waiting patiently for your return to the apartment you share. Thinking about what you’ll say to him is better than having to sit with the truth. 

The younger girl is now watching you with half-lidded eyes, scrubbing at your arms delicately with a sponge and trying to not think about how all of the crust and blood that covers you used to be her brother’s. This was blood that pumped through his arteries and through his lungs that produced oxygen, straight back into his stubborn heart that beats no more. Annabeth glances through her lashes at the stoic look on your face—she’s not sure yours is working either, and well, there is nothing more that Annabeth Chase hates than not knowing what to do next.

“Help me help you. Where do we go from here?” she mumbles, but it barely reaches your ears. Any thought you might’ve had is washed away with what was left of him; blankly, you’re staring at your red-hued reflection within the porcelain bowl.

“I don’t know.”

There is nothing left but time now that the war is over—and it buries you, so far into the earth that maybe if you try to sink far enough you’d see where they’ll put his body to rest. A sickening realization hits you like a freight train: your relationship—all of it—exists only in dreams now, memories, the spaces between thoughts, the seconds before someone remembers the reality of how the world almost ended because of a love that you’ll now have to live without.

How, after everything, is this the end?

You knew this was coming, you try to remind yourself. Losing him was years in the making—you’ve been mourning Luke Castellan for almost as long as he let you love him. No one knows when the end is until it’s happened. Or for you—for as long as it takes for you to admit it. It was the end when he left you to wake up alone on his last day of camp. 

Maybe even earlier than that—but now you’ll never know. 

Looking back, all the time spent with and without him was just you trying to keep going as if he hadn’t already signed a death sentence. The lines have always been a bit blurred for you when Luke was part of the conversation. Endlessly toeing the line between your love for your home and your love for him, you couldn’t help but indulge in the hitch in your breath that filled with Luke’s name whenever he would pop into your life. Even when the rest of the world found reasons to hate him, you could not bear to. 

Would it have made a difference if you fought back against him? Not Kronos, him—the boy that didn’t include you in the decisions he made for you, now sauntering towards Elysium leaving you to deal with the rest. Does doing nothing make you worse than his father? Would the results of the war changed if you turned him in? If you found a way to resist the hold he’s always had on you, would Luke still be alive?

Everything after feels like it’s going in a blur—endless questions swirling through your head that make your knees buckle from the vertigo. The gods can’t just expect you to go back to your nine-to-five and pretend that walking away from the wreck will mean it never happened.

“Right?” you exhale, answering your inner thoughts. Annabeth is drying your arms with a pinkened terry cloth and hums in response, before meeting your gaze over the horizon that peeks out to say hello.

The sky seems endless when you’re standing on Mount Olympus watching the gods rebuild the damage that was left behind. Everything moves in reverse—buildings rising from rubble with every floating brick, pathways smoothing with the gentle touch of time, and plants rebirthed from ash. The city will always wake up to move towards tomorrow, but for you, there’ll be no proof that your world ended while everyone else gets to keep theirs. 

Time is being undone before your own eyes, and you suppose you have the rest of your life to fix it—whatever that means now.

“Was any of it real?”

The Olympians will be summoning you any minute now. Percy shuffles over from his spot against the wall where he is watching you both, stoic as a statue—everyone’s made their way inside and the three of you are the last to enter. 

“Doesn’t really feel real,” the son of Poseidon mutters, mindlessly playing with a tendril of Annie’s hair—she lets him with no complaints. The weight of the world hasn’t been lifted from their shoulders like they were once promised. No one wants to celebrate when you’ve lost your friends—your family in the process.

Apollo stretches his arms and pulls a blanket of dawn overhead as if a final countdown before you have to walk in as glimmers of gold spread across the sky.

“I wonder if Luke always knew this is how it was gonna end,” Percy says simply, your eyes meeting his and the boy almost sounds apologetic. Annabeth scoffs, “The jerk always was the type to pull strings.” A crescendo of trumpets and fanfare begins to shake the halls—your cue to enter. Walking slowly behind the pair, you wrestle with the tug deep within you that silently agrees with her.

Grover joins them and all together, the trio make their way to the stage. You find a spot next to your brother who notably has his arm in a misshapen cast decked out in smiley faces—Will’s doing. Your lip quivers at the sight of him.

“The hell happened to you?” you murmur. Pollux kisses your temple and slings his good arm around your shoulders, voice hushed to not distract from Zeus thanking the half-bloods for their efforts of saving humankind, which is a rare occurrence as it is. You couldn’t be bothered by the grandiose display, focusing instead on the big baby next to you.

“Just a scratch,” he says cooly, and you pinch his side in annoyance—”He-OW!” Pollux shrieks, swallowing the sound when the satyrs shush him.

“What happened to you coming straight to me?”

“I’m the least of your worries,” the blond boy mutters, purple eyes meeting your own. Even if so, you disagree.

“Not true! You know that.”

Pollux takes a good look at you from the peripherals of his vision as you huff and try to pay attention to whatever’s going on up front. He wishes you could see yourself how he sees you—completely worthy of love in every capacity, even if life makes you work for it tirelessly like Sisyphus pushing a rock atop a hill. You’ve always been so close to getting what you want…but never quite reached it. He doesn’t know how you do it, but both of you being your father’s children makes him understand why you do. 

Understanding doesn’t make you hurt any less though.

“You know, no one would blame you.”

The longer you stand here feels like someone’s shoved cotton through every open crevice of your body. It scratches at your throat and dampens your ears as you turn your head to face him, eyes dragging up his face in question.

“In fact, no one would bat an eye if you left and never looked back.”

Scoffing, you turn to look at the floor and his hand feels heavier on your shoulder now like you’re carrying the weight of him too, “It sounds like you just wanna get rid of me.” Feeling like you’re constantly at a loss can radicalize anyone—you’ve never felt so close but so far from Luke than at this moment. People turn away from everything they’ve ever known for less. 

And still, you’re here. 

Still.

Pollux shrugs, wincing when his bad shoulder jerks, “Maybe. Do you still want this? Any of this?” 

He thinks of you spending the rest of your days sitting in that tiny apartment burning cookies in that cramped excuse for a kitchen, and how when he visits, he’ll have to say hello to that boring man who’ll greet him with a megawatt smile, so unknowing of the world you come from. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. Your brother thinks you might be happy, if you just let yourself be.

There’s a silence that stretches between you as Grover tumbles to the ground in search of food up on stage, conveniently being caught and attended to by the prettiest naiads you’ve ever seen. You snort at the sight, but your brother’s dedicated to knowing what’s on your mind, continuing to whisper like an angel (or a devil) on your shoulder. 

The rest of this ceremonial shit doesn’t matter to him.

“Dex is not Luke.”

“He doesn’t have to be,” you say through an exhaled breath—he can tell you’re troubled by the idea of choosing to leave everything behind and start over, without them and without Luke, so he says just that—trying to feel out your brain and where it’s at. 

Your heart, however, is evading the matter.

“Now that it’s all over, you can start over again. Without us weighing you down.” 

Pollux watches you furrow your eyebrows, scrunching up your face in the way you do when you want to say no. But your expression is impassive in the next moment like a trick of the light, “I’d have to think about it. It just happened, after all.” 

Once again, Luke Castellan seems to have left you without a choice. What an asshole. 

But what do you want, anyway?

“There’s no time like now. You could if you wanted to.”

Why has every difficult decision you’ve had to make meant giving up something good? 

Shifting your weight onto your other hip, you grit, “Shit. I mean, what good is it to not have what I want?”

“Shit,” Pollux smirks with a knowing glance, “You tell me.” You grab his hand and squeeze it tightly, intertwining your fingers. No god can take away what you share with your brother. You both live this reality, after all—one where you have to go on because your other half cannot. The purpose of Pollux’s message might’ve gotten lost in translation, but the intention hit home. 

“Guess I’ve never thought of it that way.” 

Chuckling under your breath, you take a good look at everyone in this room—the roles they take, and the purpose they serve. There’s not much of a place for you here, not anymore, and Pollux thinks you know that too. You’ve done the best you could offer to the gods despite yourself and the children you’ve cared for. But he wants you to understand that you don’t need to worry about them anymore. All your dad and him do is worry about you anyway. 

“What if I never looked back?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, thinking of the right thing to say but the truth is much simpler, “I love you. That’s a good enough reason to, right?” You’re not sure if he means him or you—but still Pollux’s figure blurs in a vignette of moisture that overcomes your vision. 

Amid your hushed conversation, the room around you has gone silent and everyone’s eyes are suddenly focused on you, making you realize you’re the last demigod to be awarded. A crowd of cheers and war-hardened hands push you onto the central platform, out of the furnace, and into the fire. The spotlight overhead shines so brightly it makes you squint, amplifying the pulsing in your temples; it makes you sick. 

This was finally it—the honor, no, the glory of being recognized by the gods for doing your part and being a great example for all demigods. For fulfilling your duty to Camp Half-Blood. For choosing to protect your home, and keeping your promises. The Olympians look down at you with carefully crafted smiles and what you hope isn’t pity.

“Your gift is a permanent job with Camp Half-Blood. Full benefits, PTO, 401k, whatever you want, I can make it happen,” Zeus says with a grin as if he’s told you that continuing on the way you have would make your greatest dreams come true—like you’d wish for nothing more. 

Swallowing as he continues to prattle on, your figure retreats in itself, hunching over as if you’re hiding something from all of them. You are—the idea that Pollux put in your head festers like an open wound the more it ruminates.

“You’d have a spot here on Olympus too if you wish—our official liaison for demigod communications, actually—goddess of demigods! If Jackson doesn’t want it, it’s yours…” he grins dryly, a beat passing as if…

And like the speed of light, your head jerks up to meet Zeus’ eye to eye, a damning thing as you register that the king of the gods does not remember your name. Almost ten whole years of running around in the same circles and keeping his world upright, and he doesn’t know who you are—just your job, and the consequences you bring.

Something cracks within your resolve then and the pressure shatters like glass into tiny, shiny fractals until what you really want reveals itself to everyone in the room—the Council, the nymphs and naiads, and all of your friends who are staring at you with bated breath, sparkling under the lights. Your chest tightens like a Titan’s fist is wrapped around it; this is what Luke wanted, not nearly anything you’d ever imagined for yourself. He wanted this so-called glory, and the longer you listen to Zeus fumble over his words, only one thing becomes apparent—you just want Luke.  What you want is to be with the love of your life again, no matter what it takes. What you really want is a gift not even the gods can provide…

Unless…

Hera clears her throat, shaking her head in disappointment and simultaneously catching the fire ignited within your eyes—Hestia sees it too, standing up from the flames of her hearth in front of the platform. The former corrects her husband with a stern brow, “...that’s her name. You should ask the woman what she wants, dear.” Zeus repeats it, throwing your name around by the syllable like it’s foreign. Percy Jackson already denied godhood in exchange for a simple promise to be kept for the unclaimed. Anything left for you to choose can’t be that bad, right?

What’s the worst thing a daughter of Dionysus can ask the Olympians for, anyway?

The king of the gods taps his finger on the armrest of his baroque throne, repeating your name this time with a stroke of seriousness.

“Well then, out with it. What do you want as your gift?”

You look down at your feet, feeling Annabeth sneak up behind you to intertwine her fingers with yours—always six steps ahead. Her support is what you need to spit the words out without it feeling like a slur, to have the audacity to want something, someone so bad that the gravity of it weighs you down and makes your knees buckle—but not a single person in that room that really knows you is surprised by what you want. 

You want him, still. 

It is so human of you to still want Luke Castellan, to want your love in physical form even after he’s gone. Maybe they should’ve waited to ask you this question or maybe they shouldn’t have asked you at all—but the time it would take to get over the man who’d thrown his destiny away to save you is immeasurable. 

Growing up, so much of the time you shared with him was spent picturing what the rest of your lives together would look like, and that idea sticks to the forefront of your mind even now—a hole that pierces through the foundation of the walls you built up to try and forget him. Maybe life with Luke and what you’d had before was the real dream instead of something you’d have the opportunity to experience—it feels so far away from the life you live with Dex, who you’ll go home to once you scrape yourself off these marble floors. Somehow, time has passed and everyone in this room—including Luke, wherever the hell is now, has gotten exactly what they wanted except for you. 

What about what you want?

“What I want…” you mutter under your breath, before raising your eyes to meet Zeus’. There is not a single ounce of doubt or fear he can detect as he stares back into your pools of amethyst, hardened by equal parts stubbornness and determination.

“To be completely honest with you, Divine Zeus—all I want is the opportunity to die.”

—

Chaos breaks like the eye of a storm as your statement echoes in the open air of the Hall of Gods. Somewhere, Percy starts to laugh at your flair for the dramatics and Chris joins him until Clarisse jabs him in the gut despite the twisted look that overcomes her face. You hear your father yell his disagreement from his throne, grapes rolling off the gilded vines that adorn it and they bounce towards your feet. The hilarity of all of it makes you smile.

It shouldn’t, of course—your dad looks like he’s about to wreak havoc on Earth itself, but he chooses his words carefully, so quietly under his breath that you almost don’t hear.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Dionysus walks toward you with outstretched hands, beckoning you to him. The strain he puts in keeping his composure reopens the cut on his forehead. Golden droplets drip down past his eye like a stroke of lightning, and your eyes glaze over, lost in a memory. All of your surroundings seem to move slowly then, everyone losing their shit and he just takes a moment to appraise his little girl who in the blink of an eye, is not so little anymore. 

“Dionysus, your daughter better have a good explanation for this!” his father yells, but Mr. D pays him no mind. Hermes is the first and fastest to put your plan together, looking at you with a reverence no would expect a god to have for a mortal. Grover’s picking up the grapes to munch on while Percy pulls at his arm to back away from the center platform. Aphrodite’s swooning over the thought of your devotion, and Athena looks at you holding her daughter’s hand—the both of you strengthened by ambition instead of deterred, making her scoff in amusement. Hera is laughing at the frustration on her husband’s face as he sputters, attempting to regain control of the room. 

The sheer audacity you present yourself with is laughable even to you until you realize that this is the most yourself you've felt in a long time—here in front of the Olympian Council, with the bold request of choosing death over immortality. You were brave once—gutsy even, when you were fourteen. And this feels like that—like coming home. 

A hand clasps your other shoulder. 

Pollux. 

For a moment, you look around the room wildly until you remember Luke’s not here to see this. You hope he’d be proud.

“SILENCE!”

Your father’s voice booms overhead, calming the chaos with a snap of his fingers as everyone has the words choked out of them like a water spout gone dry. Zeus rises to the challenge then, regarding you with an odd curiosity, “You know we can’t bring that boy back. The atrocities he’s committed, the choices he made—” 

“I’m not denying any of that. I guess all I’m asking for is a chance. I’ll take any consequences that come with it.”

No matter how bloodied the path was to get there Luke has always made sure that he gets what he wants, in one way or another—at the cost of sparing no one, not even himself.

“Child, do you think this makes you a hero? Do you think you can go down in history as someone who chooses to die instead of live? Don’t you want to be something more?” His voice booms so loudly that you wince.

“I never needed to be a hero, Divine. I am loved. That is better than any glory I care to receive—I mean look around you,” you exclaim, gesturing around the room, “Your kids don’t want glory. They want love.” Breathing shakily, you look pointedly at all of the gods, emboldened by the momentum of getting it all out once and for all.

“I’m 23 years old. I’ve spent almost ten years of knowing Luke by loving him, even if five of those years were also spent missing him,” you say and your voice shakes with emotion, “To you that’s nothing, but I want that time back, even if I have to go and get it myself… That’s what I want.”

Hades speaks to you for the first time that morning, a simple question falling from his lips.

“Why would you go through all of that trouble?”

You can’t help it— you laugh in the face of the most powerful beings in the universe. For a moment it was like hearing your name in the distance but in reality... it was always the answer; your father knows from the crooked smile that grows on your face that your decision was made up from the second they walked in to watch Luke Castellan take his last breath. Then and there, you decided you would give up yours—and he hates that he understands it so deeply. He was the one who told you so long ago that love is insanity. He himself has done unimaginable things for love. So he’d be a fool to hold you back from someone you truly want.

“The only thing I am sure about myself is that I have nothing left in me but love. And that love gives me what it will take to die.”

“You followed him to Hesperides, all those years ago,” Hermes interrupts with a wistful look on his face, “Do you know what this means—you think you can cheat death?” He is, after all, the guide of all souls. It isn’t rare for someone to try to venture into the Underworld, but it is rare to come back in one piece.

“No. But I can’t not try.”

Zeus bristles once more—insulted by this tirade of human emotion.

“Dionysus, say something! You cannot allow this!”

Ares butts in, “Your ambition’s gonna be the death of you kid. I vote yes!” Zeus slams his fists against the armrests, cracking them in the process, but then Hades raises a hand, “Hold on, my domain, my rules.”

“Brother, you cannot be serious! You’re just gonna let this girl walk in there with no—”

 “We promised to grant the demigods their wishes, and if this is what she wants—well it’s her funeral,” he chuckles at the irony, “Luke Castellan is waiting for his trial at the judgment pavilion as we speak. If you make it before he crosses the threshold for rebirth—he’s yours.”

You swallow, “And the catch?”

The god of the dead quirks his lip into something that resembles a smile. He’s always liked how sharp you were, never letting anything get by you, “You must both drink from the River Lethe and the pool of Mnemosyne. No outside help, only your spirit will go down for the journey. Do that and you earn a consultation at the palace—and I’ll grant you both a single wish. Anything you want.”

“What if they don’t make it back?” Annabeth says sternly, though you know she’s looking at this from every angle—it’s better than the instinctive yes that almost escapes your mouth.

“If you fail to convince him to drink, or if you don’t fulfill our deal, you will find Asphodel to be a lovely resting place. Forever.”

Taking a deep breath, you nod. You know the odds of what you’re signing up for—but your dad’s still looking at you like you’re the last drop of whiskey. He wants to savor this for as long as he can before he has to let you go.

“I can’t… you’re my daughter. I-I can’t allow this…Hestia, is this my debt? My retribution for taking your seat?”

The aforementioned goddess chuckles softly, like sparks of cinders as she drifts over to him, unafraid of breaking any remaining protocol—all of it is thrown to the wind as she pats her nephew’s back, “Dionysus, you are still young compared to the rest of us, and yet you’ve raised her to be the woman she is today. My darling, she is your reward.”

“And you want this, princess?”

“He’s my Ariadne, dad,” you say through a shaky breath, “Let this be my quest,” you beg—you’d get on your knees if he wanted to, shovel all the pegasi shit for the next 100 years if only you had the time, “please.”

Your father nods solemnly. Fate has a way of fooling even the greatest of the gods.

“I do enjoy a good love story. I think you deserve to write your own ending, my sweet,” the goddess of love smiles lazily as she rests upon her palm. The rest of the council murmurs in approval despite Zeus’ insistence that this is not a group decision.

But this story has been told thousands of times before, spanning different millennia, different lifetimes, and different lovers. Everyone in this room has seen how it ends. You were, however, never someone who could resist a good story.

To be or not to be, right? —that is the question.

Guess you were about to find out.

—

There are a lot of ways that a person can die—but when someone makes the choice, it usually means you have the time to think about it. 

Completely serious matter, yes—irreversible? 

Questionable. Of course, you don’t have either the time or liberty to mull these things over. Luke could be a toe into the gates of Elysium by now, and the thought of missing him makes your stomach into a pit you could compare to Tartarus. 

It’s weird to say goodbye and not want to mean it. Even weirder that all of your friends couldn’t say anything other than good luck as you were ushered through Olympus and put into a room to die. Words don’t come easy when you’re unsure of the outcome and death looks different when you’re the daughter of the divine form of insanity. The flame within your soul is lit by what defines him and so it is agreed upon that it should also be the reason for your end. 

This is just a journey—Dionysus tells himself. Death is just a journey of millions of souls returning to dust, star stuff finding their way home. A journey he’s taken before, not once, but twice, and would again if you asked him. How bittersweet is it that you are exactly made in his image, and how blind was he to not realize that when you first came to camp almost a decade ago? If only he could’ve cherished that more in the early years—the stupid pranks, the incessant laughter, and the sound of your voice at nightly sing-a-longs. Your dad knows that he’d face death a million times if it meant that you didn’t have to.

You used to hate it—the similarities that stuck you two like a reflection in a mirror. The feeling of feeding off of other people’s turmoil, or how drink flows through your fingertips as soon as the thought of thirst is formed. It wasn’t comparable to wisdom or war—conjuring mayhem wasn’t cool like Percy breathing underwater, or how Lee used to pull sunlight through the clouds. 

It didn’t come easy, being your father’s daughter.

But as you lay your head onto his lap, you realize that there is no one else you’d want to be. He’s since changed back into his trademark patterned shirt—visions of palm trees and hibiscus dancing in your vision as you get comfortable in his arms, breathing steadily as he strokes your head. 

“I wish we had the time to make it home,” you whisper, “It would’ve been nice to be on the docks, listening to the water.” There’s a tentative quality to your statement, feeling out the silence that’s been enveloping the both of you since you walked out of the main hall. You’re not used to seeing your dad so serious; it’s almost jarring that he’s not being a menace or calling you batshit for your latest—and last crazy idea.

He bites though, murmuring, “That your favorite spot at Camp? Would’ve thought you’d be buried under the covers at the cabin.” Dionysus swallows hoarsely, voice faltering as he comes to think of you being buried under anything. 

“Nuh-uh,” you say through a bitten lip, “I’ve always liked Canoe Lake. Lots of good memories there.”

“What’s your favorite one? Billie Holiday at the cost of Luke’s pocket change?” your dad gruffs, “Or what about falling into the lake after that time you fought over the flag?”

Dionysus hates this—feeling powerless at the hands of mortals. Gods aren’t meant to feel this way, but out of all of them, he understands best because he knows this story. 

He was this story: a demigod boy scorned by his father who wanted nothing but to rescue his mother from hell and who willingly gave up his life for the woman he loved. If there’s one thing he still admires Luke Castellan for—it’s letting him keep you safe while he went off to wreak havoc on the world. Sure, it’s selfish, but the kid has a good heart if all it was made up of was you. The courage of stars and souls is that even time cannot stop them from finding where they are meant to be. To love someone so much that it transcends timelines and angers the gods—your father finds himself ruminating over the fact that Luke’s someone was you. 

Of course, it’s you. 

He looks down at your position as if you’ll crumble into a pillar of salt in the mere seconds it takes to blink. There’s so much hope in your eyes that it batters into his resolve as if you’ve swung into his ribcage with a sledgehammer— it tears down any doubt he might have that you will not come back safely. At least Castor would have company, he thinks morosely—Pollux is somewhere running around the compound trying to find an iPhone charger. Dionysus just wants to sit with his baby and be.

The goblet is heavy in your hands as you look at the golden liquid within. Nectar heals the body and soul, but in excessive quantities—it burns. So much so that demigods that overdose feel their sanity melt away from their brains and separate their souls from the body until there is nothing left but the memory of who they once were.

What a way to go, right?

“Is it gonna hurt?” you say suddenly, cracking your knuckles and tugging at your sweater and he knows what you mean to say is that you’re scared. This is the first time you’ll do something for yourself, by yourself, without your support system. 

“Not if I can help it,” your dad sniffs, “Hermes is gonna meet you once you cross over since it’s not my job to be down there anymore. I’m gonna be with you for as long as I can… Where the fuck is your brother?”

Laughter spills from your lips as you start to drink anyway like it’s a glass of wine after dinner—thick syrupy sweetness slides down your throat. It tastes like crisp apples and the carbonated tang of Redbull, making your eyes water from the punch that hits every one of your pores, “Don’t want him to see. I don’t…” In through your nose, out through your mouth. 

“He saw Castor when he…I don’t want him to see.”

Clutching at your father’s shirt sleeve, his hand gently tilts the goblet further toward your mouth as you take the nectar in painstaking gulps. You’re shaking now, skin hot to the touch under his fingertips as you start to gasp heavily. He models how to breathe slowly, waving away the brushfire that spreads through your veins as best as he can, “It’s gonna be okay, princess. Just breathe.” If your senses weren’t overflooded with flashing red lights, maybe you would notice that he was crying.

“Say it, dad.”

“I love you,” he chokes out then, holding onto you as your body seizes in his grasp. You’re shaking your head, exasperated that you can’t get the right words out when you need them most, “I know that. Say you…I need,” you dry heave, sweat dripping down your face and turning molten to the touch. He still doesn’t let go. 

“D-Dad, d… I need…” 

It comes out in a whimper, and he shushes you, hugging you close, “Anything for you, my heart.”

“Need you to…believe in me.” Nectar gurgles in your throat as you’re white-knuckled around the goblet, forcing yourself to get the rest of the drink down. This won’t work if your dad doesn’t believe it will. You need him out of anyone to believe in you—to believe that you can do this.

With your eyelashes fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings he laughs through the tears; of course, he believes in you, he always has. The sound of his laughter hits your system like the whistle of a freight train, breaking through your ribcage and releasing the pressure as you let it all go in one deep breath. 

Despite the discomfort, you find that death does not hurt—it feels like holding your father’s hand. 

You squeeze him three times for a silent I love you because you won’t let yourself die without saying it back. Dionysus, your father in this lifetime, and hopefully all the ones that come after, leans closely toward your ear to tell you what you need to hear to get to your life’s quest that can only begin after he has to let you go.

“You are my heart’s joy—the most stubborn person I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. I know you can love that boy back to life.”

Death feels like an endless summer in your mind, of pine trees in the North Woods, toasty smores over a crackling fire, and sand between your toes as you run along the shoreline. As your thoughts fade to nothingness and your body is erased from the mortal realm, you think that your favorite memory of camp is floating in the bubble bath you made of Canoe Lake on a summer day nine years ago.

—ANABASIS—

When you open your eyes, all you see is bright yellow and all you can smell is leather disinfectant. You’re in the passenger seat of a taxicab, and behind the gaudy blue dice pendant that dangles on the rearview mirror is Hermes. He pulls his lips into a tired smile, scratching at his goatee as the vehicle speeds down the side of the River Styx. The windows are rolled down and the wind is blowing back against your face.

“I thought you couldn’t meddle,” you croak, dry mouth from sleeping with it open catching up to you. You snap a finger…and nothing happens. Any trace of your father stayed up in the mortal realm with him; his best friend hands you a chilled water bottle to quench your thirst. 

“Your dad said you’d be thirsty.” 

Twisting the cap open, you gulp the cool liquid down with ease as you watch the Underworld pass you through side windows. Cerberus is almost galloping playfully along the side of the car a ways back, all three heads getting smacked by its lolling tongues as he barks in greeting.

What a cutie. 

Something’s under your butt—when you dig a hand into your pocket, you find a bright red ball. You smile at the thought of Annabeth Chase placing a squeaky toy on your shroud, just in case. You don't get to bring anything in death other than what's in your heart, and pure Greek tradition, what’s placed underneath your shroud. As you toss it out the window for Cerberus to chase it into the Fields of Mourning, he barks happily, an echo of booms that follow him into the distance. Hermes takes the chance to speak, his eyes flickering to the acceptance on your face. You’re in the Underworld now, and like the EZ-Death line of souls the car passes, you take this news in stride.

“He’s already dead. You— you’re a special case. Had to do something, even if it’s too late.”

“It’s not. It can’t be,” you insist, bravely at first, until you lose your nerve by the end of it, “I…” Drumming your fingers against your lap, Hermes can’t help but snicker, “You know, you’ve always had such an innate sense of how to take care of other people, but never yourself—it reminds me of your dad.”

“How is he?”

Hermes purses his lips. That’s as much an answer as you’ll get from his best friend, so you nod, “Luke’s the opposite, I think. He always knew how to take care of himself, just…he tried his hardest with me.”

Down in the underworld, the sky takes on a tawny hue with grey clouds overhead, and there are no signs of whether it’s day or night. You wonder if you still have enough time—if he’s there at the pavilion, waiting for you. The car jets past Asphodel, and you slink back down in your seat to avoid the view when you remember Hades’ conditions. 

If Luke’s already moved on, that’s where you’ll be.

Hermes is skipping through every song that comes onto the radio—the incessant noises make you want to grind your teeth but you remind yourself he's doing you a favor, in his own way.

“He never fooled you, that kid. You knew exactly what he was and you still loved him anyway. Me and my kids aren’t exactly easy to love, aren’t we?”

You shrug. Small talk is weird—now’s not exactly the time to be close with Luke’s father, and you’re not trying to impress him or anything anymore.

“I don’t think love is easy or hard. Sometimes it just is.”

The car rolls to a stop and you push yourself up on your palms. The judgment pavilion is in the near distance and you realize you’ll have to run the rest of the way. But you don’t move, even when the taxicab is put in park.

“This is your stop,” he says slowly, flicking the button that unlocks the car doors, “I really do mean it when I say that I wish you good luck.” Your eyes soften at that, and when you swallow, you recognize the weight of your two necklaces resting against your collarbone. He can tell you’re scared, but there’s no time to feel anything if you want to catch him. 

Take that quite literally—there’s no time here in the underworld. Hermes says your name gently, and you look at him. If Luke were here, you think he’d be braver than you—running out to fight the unknown if it meant he could take you home. But your hand is frozen on the handle and your legs feel like they’re cemented to the ground.

“After he… He was worried about you.”

“What? Really?” 

You unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to face the god, hesitation making way for shock. Hermes blinks. He technically shouldn’t say more, but there’s nothing left to lose.

”He was worried about what you’d do if he wasn’t there when you woke up. Luke asked if I was sure you’d be able to find him.”

“And what did you say?”

With a subtle move of his fingers, your car door pushes open, and you step out onto the dusty gravel. His father salutes you with two fingers, “Told him you were coming for him.”

“I am,” you chuckle, slamming the door shut and beginning to run. Worry wracks your entire essence—if it’s even possible for a spirit to feel this intensely it might not be normal, but nothing about you is, even here.

“Hey!” Hermes calls out, his upper half hanging out the car window, “If…When you find him, do you think I’d get another chance?”

You turn unsteadily on your feet, looking at him with the roguishness he knew his son fell for, throwing your hands up in the air, “If this somehow works out, I think anything’s possible don’t you?”

Clouds of dust prickle at your ankles as you race back toward everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

Stuck somewhere in the in-between, you trudge toward the entrance of the judgment pavilion—a large titanium structure that stretches towards the heavens quite ominously. The closer you get to it the more your feet feel like sinking into quicksand, your paces getting slower and your legs moving like molasses, but you aren’t lost. It seems to somehow be getting farther the more you run, but maybe your stepmother’s blessing still reaches you down here in the dim wasteland she was doomed to—until Dionysus himself, your father, came down to search every corner of the Underworld and brought her back to life. He’s in there. He has to be.

You can do it, you mumble to yourself. 

You can do this too.

Or maybe the gods are laughing at the mortal woman who was too much like her father, laughing at how stubborn you are trying to save a paradox of a man who almost brought down Olympus. Unlike your father though, there is less bloodshed in your quest to find him, less anger at the gods for having to forsake glory for love. 

But you were never a fighter anyway, not in the traditional sense. The Battle of Manhattan was one you fought in and despite the winning outcome, it felt like anything but. The biggest battle you’d won was hoping he’d still be yours until the very end. Until his very last breath, and then some—if you’re as lucky as his father tells you. 

You almost trip over the stoop, flailing underneath the archway as if someone pushed you straight in front of the lone spirit who’s working on fixing the bulletin board. Catching your breath, you wheeze, “Excuse me, sir—have you seen a boy….uh, or a man? Not sure how time works here…I’m under direct orders from Hades hi—”

“It doesn’t.”

“Hm,” you attempt to sound thoughtful, but the non-answer of the wispy shade that peels letters off the bulletin board painstakingly slowly does not help ease your stress.

“Well, whatever he looks like now, he should have a scar running down the right side of his face…Um…he should at least,” you hesitate. And it hits you just now that you gave your life up not knowing what comes next. Without a semblance of a plan you ran to the underworld fueled by pure spite. Your eyes travel to the board the figure in front of you is still working tirelessly on, letter by letter. The metal clinks as it falls into the bucket.

NOW SERVING:

LUKE CASTE–

Wait a fucking second. Maybe the gods had the right to laugh at you. You push forward, almost ramming the specter into the wall behind him, for a moment you thought you’d run straight through but then your fists are grabbing his shirt, “Where is he?” The bucket falls to the floor with a heavy clang as his eyes widen.

“WHERE IS HE?”

The translucent man shrugs under your rough grasp with no sense of urgency, “He’s on a journey. Aren’t we all?”

Gods have mercy, you’ve never wanted to beat a stranger’s face in so badly—you drop him in exasperation and he crumbles to the floor, “Tell me his sentence. Now.”

“Boy said he was taking the long way home. Skipped the trial completely. Didn’t want Elysium, but he had to go through it to find rebirth. Northeast from h—” 

You don’t need to hear anything else. You’re running away, hands and feet almost flying the faster you go around the perimeter of the building in hopes that you’ll still catch a glimpse of this stupid, stubborn man who does anything for you but never with you. 

Maybe he’s still yours, even here, even now.

There’s a river you have to cross that intersects the courtyard behind the judgment pavilion. It flows towards Elysium with clear crystalline water going upstream and as your eyes follow it, you think you see him in the distance. 

You know it’s him. You could recognize that back anywhere—having spent so many years staring at it as he continued to walk away. As your mouth falls agape, you’re at a loss for words. It can’t be that easy to defy the gods and get what you want, finally, finally—-but the longer you watch him walk towards Elysium with a skip in his step, you falter. 

What makes dragging him out of here any different than what he did to you? 

You’re rooted to the ground then, taking deep breaths as you think of what to do next. Back then, Luke was always the blind devotee, hands and knees bruised from prayer, until the truth was the only sound that echoes back. You never understood it—another wayward child forced to bend under the gods’ will. No one should make a religion out of someone, but as you watch him smile in the fields of death itself…he is your answered prayer.

Seeing that he’s okay is enough—that he hadn’t been damned to Tartarus sets you at ease, worry leaving your body on the exhale of breath that you let go. If you turn around now, well, maybe an eternity in Asphodel would be alright too. You could pick a good spot on the outskirts. Forever might be nice if it means you’d get to look at the gates of Elysium itself for all of it, branches reaching for him until the end of time. 

But Luke hasn’t seen you yet. Does he feel you reaching for him? The twisted coil of fate that yearns for him, the sting in the back of your throat in the form of his name, wanting to bridge the gap from the short distance that separates you. Between life and death, somehow the short traverse of barren land feels to stretch much further than that. 

You turn slowly and walk away, muddied boots grating against the dust with every atom of your spirit resistant as if it fights the magnetic pull it was meant for. He doesn’t even have to know. Meeting him again means you run the risk of losing him again. You’re not quite sure you have it in you; so you walk away this time. This time, you won’t have to watch.

But then you hear him call out to you.

“Hey! It’s you!”

Faster now, faster. 

Your legs move unsteady and your clenched fists propel you forward. Maybe they’ll let you skip the EZ line and get this all over with—Asphodel is the only place you can be with all of this regret. 

But fuck, he’s persistent, even in death. Before you know it—he’s caught up to you, the sound of splashing water making you jerk back towards him in alarm, “Luke! You can’t do that!” He’s grabbed onto your shoulders and the simple touch makes you gasp. Bone-chilling fear wracks through your body as your eyes drink him in, watching the moisture darken his Converse, all the way up to the knees of his cargo pants. He blinks as if his mind is a rewinding cassette and you wonder if the River Lethe has a stronger hold on him now than you ever had.

“Who?”

And out of everything he’s told you in your lifetime to hurt you—that one word is what breaks you the most.

His eyes swiftly move over your face, dark brown and soft like that of a lifetime ago; one of bruised knees, hushed lullabies, and kisses that taste like strawberries. But there’s not a single ounce of recognition in his stare and you wonder if you’re close enough to launch yourself into Tartarus. Maybe you’re already there— he’s standing here in front of you a little lighter, and a lot unknowing. 

“Am I Luke?” he whispers with a playful tone like it’s a secret you share even if there’s no one else around you for miles. He looks at you again, slowly this time—eyes pouring over you, in case your figure is an illusion or a great temptation such as sweet pomegranate seeds before spring. Luke’s eyebrows furrow like he’s trying hard to remember something; it stabs at your heart like he did his.

“Forget it.”  

‘Wait, don’t go,” he starts, sounding bashful as one of his hands tugs at the sleeve of your sweater, the other curled around the nape of his neck, “I uh…the judges made me drink before I left the pavilion. I didn’t even stand a chance. Sorry to disappoint.” He chuckles, and it's a wispy sound that tickles your insides; you find your lips turning up at the sound. Luke, or whoever he is now, finds himself in awe at the sight, muttering under his breath, “I think I’ve dreamt of you before.”

For someone whose mind was washed by the River Lethe, Luke Castellan stares into your soul as he tries to get a glimpse of why you’re so familiar. Looking at you feels like the moments of a dream before he wakes up—a sliver of memory just as Morpheus pulls the rug out from under him. He’s seen your face before and he knows this, somehow.

“I just… I don’t even know why I ran over here, probably looked stupid jumping into the riverbed.. but uh…” he chuckles, biting his lip before blowing a raspberry. His mind is working faster than his mouth, “I just…wow. You’re beautiful.”

Luke’s still holding onto the threads of your sweater even as you try to put distance between you. He holds onto you like a kid catches fireflies, gentle and secure with no space between his fingertips, in case you fly away. 

“I’m no one. Just forget this happened, will you?” Recoiling in what he hopes is not disgust, you turn your cheek, “Have a good life.” Wherever he is on his journey, Luke finds that there are things he knows and things he does not. He knows that he’s a human who died pretty young, someone with a jagged scar that runs down his face, and that his socks are uncomfortably wet inside of his Converse right now. What he doesn’t know is why his plans have suddenly changed, and why every wisp of his incorporeal being does not want to leave you alone. There is something he still has to do.

“Hold on, pretty girl!” Luke says incredulously, “You want me to just…look away now that I’ve seen you? I’m sorry, but no can do.” He holds onto your arm how two people share a lifeline —-it almost makes you want to sock him in the face if you weren’t on the brink of tears.

“And why the fuck not? I’ve got things to do.”

The foul language doesn’t deter him one bit; in fact, it makes him like you even more, “Things to do? Here? Maybe there is no rest for the dead.” You’ve ripped yourself out of his grasp and he dramatically puts a hand over his heart like you’ve wounded him, but by now, you’re stomping away, “You’re funny.”

And he follows you. 

“Am I?”

“No,” you scoff, stopping in your tracks and not turning around. For a reason unbeknownst to him, Luke wants you to, badly. Kicking at a rock, you sniff, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

You’re walking along the river in the same direction you came from and he’s stuck to you like a shadow. You move right, and so does he. You stop walking, and so does he.

“Where are you headed?”

Spinning frustratedly with your whole body, you look up at him like he’s stupid. Maybe he is—was. He has a feeling you’ll tell him anyway.

“You’re being stupid. Go away.”

There we are—he’s grinning at you now, a spark of satisfaction running through him like a match to gasoline, “Can I at least know your name?”

“Not important. Do you think if I pick a spot in Asphodel and stand long enough, I’ll grow roots?”

Luke frowns at the sentiment, “After everything you’ve lived for, you want Asphodel?” He sounds so disappointed in you that you do punch him this time. Your fist is clenched, landing against his abdomen with an oomph that pushes out of his chest. 

“What I want is none of your business.”

“Well I got what I wanted,” he shrugs, like nothing of the sort, tricking you to look into his eyes for the first time in his new existence. His smile softens, almost as if his breath was taken away by the sight of them. Luminous, even in a place with no life or real light. Like a twinkling dusk that he wants to sink into. 

They dart away too soon for his liking, pulling back to him only when he speaks again, “This is gonna sound crazy but…”

“I know crazy, trust me. You’d never believe what I have to tell you,” you mutter with a ghost of a smile—the high he gets from chasing it would be unhealthy if he already weren’t dead.

“Try me.”

“Fine. I knew you. Before. It’s all I’m allowed to say. And I need you to trust me, or I’ll be stuck here forever,” you say under your breath, “But that’s okay.”

“Okay,” Luke says passively, a nod of his head—does he not know what to make of what you just told him? Or does he think the idea of forever in a place like this is alright for a person he barely knows okay?

The element of surprise isn’t lost on him even here, “So what do we have to do?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose then, breathing slowly through your mouth, “Did you not just hear what I said?”

“I did, and I think even in our past life, you must have severely underestimated me,” Luke chortles, grabbing your hand instinctively until he realizes what he’s doing. Even if he’s a little lost, he watches closely as his fingers clasp around yours almost in greeting, like it’s muscle memory, not a handshake but something sacred and secure— it’s a relief to hold your hand and he doesn’t know why, but he also doesn’t let go.

Your mouth falls agape with a shuddering breath, “You always kept me on my toes, that’s for sure.” There’s a pinched quality to your voice and Luke decides to tell you the reason he ran across the River Lethe in the first place.

“I do,” he swallows, “trust you, I mean. I don’t know why, but I just do. I just really wanted to see the color of your eyes…” Luke trails off. Can you feel it? he wonders—a stretching, growing feeling that unearths itself from the pits of your existence, calling for you to stay together like this as if there is no other way to be.

“And what do you think now?” your voice wavers as your fingers subconsciously tighten around his, a rough, scarred palm feeling much more real in his grasp.

“Waking up to them must have been Elysium in itself.”

Falling to your knees, you busy yourself with cupping the water from the river instead of entertaining the overwhelming urge you have to kiss him. Out of the corner of your eyes, he watches you like how he used to hover at camp—wanting to help but also letting you do your thing, an outstretched hand in case you need it.

“I drink…and I’ll forget you,” you say to him, realizing your instructions also have to be your final act of letting go, “and then you take me to the pool of the Mnemosyne under the poplar tree, and we drink from it together.”

“And then?” he murmurs, sitting next to you to cup your hands to your lips. Your mouth begins to water as if the tastebuds on your tongue yearn to forget all of life’s transgressions too. And you watch him the whole while, letting him, trusting him. 

“It’ll be me and you, and whatever comes next.”

Do you trust him? After everything?

“That sounds nice,” he hums, watching the faraway look in your eyes and wanting to join you where your mind is at, in knowing. 

You love him—that in itself is trust. 

Love is the strongest faith you’ve ever cared to know, and both of you are holding it to your lips with matching smiles on your faces. You don’t know what comes next, but this feeling frees you from the worry that’s been weighing you down with every step you took to find him again.

So, is love in this world a gift, or a curse?

Love can be found everywhere and made into everything if one tries hard enough.

Love is biting into the fruit,

Love is turning around,

Love is giving him the knife,

Love is a kiss on the cheek,

Love is reaching for the sun,

Love is making an impossible journey—neither of you is running from this, catching your breath until the air between your lips intermingles with familiarity, harmonious and in tandem. Two spirits share the secret of a life lived and the love that was shared as one wants to forget and the other wants to remember. There are no words that can explain the way your shrill laughter makes the recognition slightly glaze over his eyes like sweet honey, and he looks toward the poplar tree in the distance, itching to take you there afterward. 

In case this is the last time in all of eternity that you’ll set your eyes upon Luke Castellan, you set your forehead against his ever so gently, a kiss of skin against skin as the water ripples from your shallow breaths. 

“I’ll meet you at the poplar tree.”

He nods, and the liquid reaches your parched lips, all of your thoughts dissipating into the air around you. There are no names in this place, no status or glory and memories fade, like sprinkles of rain against your skin, sending shockwaves to your system as you’re fighting to hold on to every wave of nostalgia before it’s taken away. Luke’s smile is like sunlight as he watches the river wash over you completely, and then you settle into his arms as if falling asleep. Neither of you knows the answer to the question that’s tested by time, but here, time does not exist. 

For once, it finally might even be on your side. 

“I think I’ve been waiting for you,” Luke murmurs, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear as he waits for you to wake, for the hummingbird flutter of your eyelashes to reveal your eyes in all of their ethereal glory. This prophecy was laid out and this love was self-fulfilling damnation and he smiles as your breath shifts, hands reaching out to pat him softly as if checking if he was still there even unconsciously, even without knowing him. 

Time stands still here with you in his arms, and Luke is at peace with not knowing all the answers to the universe’s questions if it means he has you to face whatever’s next. Perhaps the answer is clear for others, but until then—whenever that may be, you have all the time to figure it out.

Together.

—

“What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now forever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind.” - William Wordsworth

[backtothefanfiction]

Shhhhh | dad!peter imagine

Summary: trying to seize the moment on your anniversary before the kids wake up

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, smut, lazy morning sex, husband and wife, whispers, needing to be quiet, breeding kink, important discussion, domestic bliss

Word Count: 2kish? (I wrote in app again so don’t know)

A/N: this is a super quick idea I had before bed whilst in my horny feels for dad!peter. Also it took me way longer to decide on a gif to pair this with than write and I only chose this one because… well I gave up. Anyway, enjoy.

You were still half asleep when you felt him roll over in the bed next to you and snuggle closer. The early morning light from the city was already starting to penetrate through the curtains, but you forced your eyes to remain closed, enjoy the feeling of your husband cuddled in tightly next to you and get at least a little bit more sleep before the kids woke up.

However it seemed Peter had other ideas. You felt him shift behind you again, his arms moving under the covers as he pulled you back even further into the shape of his warm body, his morning wood pressing firmly against your ass cheeks through your underwear.

You remained still, feigning sleep, wanting to see how far he would take things or if he genuinely just wanted to have a morning cuddle- and his erection was just an unfortunate inconvenience. But as his hand moved down to stroke at the skin on the outside of your thigh and up under your nightdress, you knew this was more calculated than you initially realised.

“Mmmm,” you groaned as you rolled back into him, letting him know you were awake. “What are you doing?” You asked as he began to snake his hand into the front of your underwear, his fingers wasting no time as they began to rub lazy circles over your clit.

“I’m seizing the moment,” he replied in a hushed and husky tone into your ear. “Mabel had her sleepover at Aunt May’s last night,” he said, dipping two of his fingers inside you and making you let out a little moan. “Ben will be asleep for at least another half hour,” he continued, his body shifting slightly as he looked over at the alarm clock on your side of the bed. “Besides, it’s our anniversary weekend and I’m feeling like I haven’t really shown my wife just how much I appreciate her lately.”

You whimpered as he stopped pumping his fingers inside you and moved them instead, back to messily circling your clit. “Mmmm, Peter,” you moaned breathily as he leant in to nuzzle at your neck, his lips tickling at your skin.

“Shhhh, baby,” he hummed into your ear, “I don’t want to get interrupted again,” he said, reminding you of when he had tried to initiate sex last week before Mabel had burst in claiming to have had a nightmare. You had of course welcomed her into bed with open arms, much to her father’s frustration. “You owe me,” he had said to you in the dark after she had fallen back asleep between the two of you, and now it seemed he was ready to collect.

He shifted you back onto your side before hiking up your nightdress and slipping your underwear down your legs to get lost somewhere at the bottom of the bed sheets. You could feel him shuffling behind you as he slipped down his pyjama bottoms to expose himself, before lining himself up with you from behind.

You shifted your leg back over his thigh, allowing him space to manoeuvre. Even after all these years and two kids, he still managed to fit you like a glove. “Oh god,” he groaned into your neck before he pushed his forehead into your shoulder.

As he began to rock inside you, you closed your eyes, wanting to focus on feeling him deep inside you from this position. You hummed quietly, trying to hold back the moans that desperately wanted to fall from your lips, but still wanting him to know how much you were enjoying this, especially when his hand moved round to palm at your breast.

“You should come off the pill again,” he said huskily into your ear. “Have another baby,” he grunted, his thrusts hitting deeper and messier as he lost his mind over the thought. Peter had a real breeding kink. Neither of you had realised until you had actually gotten serious about trying for kids a year after you got married. It was something that just happened naturally and only became worse when you actually fell pregnant and began growing Mabel in your belly.

“Fuck, you’re so sexy when you’re pregnant,” he moaned into your skin. “So fucking beautiful when you’re carrying my child inside of you.” he gritted, his thrusts becoming firmer with each word as he lost himself to the fantasy.

“I thought you said we had to be quiet,” you hissed over your shoulder at him and his hand moved down to circle dangerously over your clit again.

“I am quiet,” he whispered, “I said it because you don’t know how to be.” His fingers pressed down on your sensitive clit as he spoke and as if to prove him right, you let out a slightly louder, unexpected and completely uncontrollable moan.

“Shhh,” he hissed into your ear again. “See, I told you-“

“Pete,” you whined quietly as his slow and deep lazy thrusts and circling fingers began to bring you to the edge.

“It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you,” he reassured you quietly and you really had to focus in order to not cry out and wake the toddler sleeping soundly down the hall.

“Come on, baby,” he coached you quietly as your hips began to thrust back into him desperately, needing just that little more to tip you over the edge.

“Peter,” you whimpered, your teeth biting at your lips.

“I know, I know. I’ve got you, baby,” he cooed, his cock dragging agonisingly against that sensitive spot inside you, your legs closing tightly, making the feeling even more intense. Your fingers gripped tightly into the pillow under your head, your eyes screwed shut tight as he continued to lazily fuck into you.

“Gonna make you cum, then fill you nice and good,” he said and your pussy fluttered around him at his words spurring him on to thrust just that little bit faster and firmer.

“Oh shit,” you gritted, your knuckles nearly white now as you waited for that final tip over the edge. His hands moved down quickly to open your legs again and rub at your clit. It was too much, the final straw and suddenly your climax came rushing over you. You rushed to turn your head into your pillow and muffle the groans and obscenities that were falling out of your mouth as he picked up pace and continued to fuck you through it, wanting desperately to finish before Ben inevitably realised you were both awake and came looking for you both.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he gritted. “My wife. So fucking good to me. So fucking good.” You gripped the bedsheets tight as his hips began to stutter, your sensitivity so overwhelming you needed to do anything you could to ground yourself and get through it.

With another two deep thrusts he stilled before you felt him begin to pulsate inside you, thick ropes of his cum painting your insides as his body collapsed over your own.

“I love you so much,” he panted into your ear as he pressed his head intimately against yours.

“I love you too,” you sighed, your eyes blinking heavily as they adjusted to the light of the room. “But you do know,” you said as your breathing continued to steady, his cock slowly softening inside you, “that if we have another kid, the chances of doing this will be even slimmer than they are now.” you sighed, just as you both began to hear thundering steps making their way down the hallway.

He groaned again, thinking that statement over before kissing you on the cheek. He sighed, pulling out of you and adjusting himself back inside his pyjamas under the covers just before the door clicked open and your little boy came bounding onto the bed.

“I don’t know,” Peter said as the three of you lay in bed with toast and juice watching early morning cartoons under the covers 30 minutes later, his eyes catching yours over the top of Ben’s head. He thought of Christmas mornings, the four of you all cuddled into this bed and opening presents. The bedtime routines. The many giggly games of hide and seek. The plethora of finger paintings on the fridge door, and smiled. “I think I’m willing to take those chances.” he said and you sighed in contentment, because three had always been your magic number anyway.

[colorlessjay]

Your Season 6 Dean getting back to his time and slowly coming to terms with the fact that

Cas will be married to some hot cowboy in the future and

Dean’s gonna probably be in love with him anyway so

Dean is gonna be the Other Woman, the harlot, the Jolene, or worse, the Duckie Dale :(

because he WISHES he’s the kinda guy that could just let it go and let his beloved be happy but as he falls harder and harder for Cas he’s like, this isn’t going away, huh? I’m not getting over this, huh? And if I really am still in Cas’s life in the future imma be trynna seduce him like the bastard other guy/the silly comedic relief bestie in romcoms trying to break up the happy couple :(((

Whether or not that would actually be true, who’s to say (tbh Dean is very good at sacrificing his own wants and happiness for others), but with just HOW in love with Cas Dean gets by like season 11, he’s basically unable to imagine gallantly stepping aside.

So does Dean make a bunch of secret mix tapes, one of them about being a gd man stealer? Trying to pump himself up to be THAT bitch that takes her man and dgaf and all that. And then another mix tape that’s about being the guy that didn’t get the girl, the Duckie, the one that let the One get away and is (trying) at least to be happy for the One 😢?

You're thinking about this all wrong

Obviously, S6 Dean would have these thoughts while he's in the future, and then promptly shove all of it in the closet space in his brain next to his bisexuality when he gets back home

The second or third week of being in the future, when Cas has successfully given Dean the biggest blue balls on earth. By that point, Dean is actively thinking about the ramifications of fucking his married best friend

Like he's going through dialogue in his head on how he can convince Cas to have an affair with him. Like he's trying to both justify the act, convince himself he's not gay, while also telling himself this is a bad idea and that he could ruin a man's very loving marriage

All the while, trying to convince himself that Cas isn't hitting on him. Because it's Cas! Castiel! Angel of the Lord! He's weird and has bad people skills. This is just how he acts. Cas is just naturally sexy as a human and is comfortable in his vessel. Cas isn't trying to secretly seduce Dean. No, not Cas. This is obviously just Dean's perverted mind playing tricks on him because he hasn't gotten laid since Lisa

Like, he just misses Lisa and the domestic life they lived together. Dean is clearly just projecting that onto Cas, and it's totally not because Cas is everything he could ever want in a partner.

Dean is just a lil pervert. He's a lil pervert who wants to bang his DILF future best friend. Best friend that's married to some overcompensating cowboy monsterfucker that should know not to leave his sexy husband lonely and alone at home because lil perverts like Dean Winchester would wanna bang them

He's fine

[milf-harrington]

i read a fic yesterday (return of the king) where Steve swapped with Eddie at the last second at the end of s4 and ended up being the one who died and had to be left behind and then he came back as a vampire and it just got my brain TICKING.

So role-reversal AU where steve is the one who comes back basically kas-ified as is the common trope with eddie, but where eddie goes to steve, steve goes to robin.

lets say, for funsies, that they managed to kill vecna and max only ended up hospitalised for a broken elbow and a twisted ankle (from falling on it), so everyone has the time and space to grieve.

Steve’s death hits Robin the hardest because he was her person. He was her i-wish-we-could-just-merge-into-one-being. Her ride or die. Her soulmate. And he’d been taken from her, torn apart and left to rot in the very world he’d tried so hard to protect her from. 

The others give her space to let her mourn quietly in her bedroom, dressed in steve’s clothes and listening to his music like if she just tried hard enough she could still merge them together and let him use her lungs to breathe, her heart to pump his blood, her head to share his thoughts. that she could single handedly go from a me to a we.

And then, one day, Robin starts acting weird. She doesn’t know the Wheeler’s phone number and on her way to find it in the phone book, she found the Munson’s first, and when Eddie picks up it’s too a very chipper Robin asking for a lift to the shops where she proceeds to buy an alarming amount of red meat and refuses to answer any questions.

And she’s just- happy. She’s weird and happy and keeps calling Eddie to ask him about Dungeons and Dragons lore and if he can take her to the library or to the butcher and if he can let her borrow his jumper please? I get cold easily. And then she just keeps stealing clothes, from everyone. Sometimes she asks, sometimes she’ll just take a jacket off of the back of a chair and act like nothing happened, sometimes she just sneaks off to go rooting through washing baskets.

Then comes the day she invites Eddie over, probably a week or so after her initial journey into Weird-Ville, nervously rambling about nothing right up until she closes the front door behind them and runs into Eddie’s back because Eddie’s just spotted Steve-fucking-Harrington peering at him from around the corner. 

Apparently, a not-exactly-dead-anymore Steve crawled through Robin’s window one night and has since taken up residence underneath her bed. 

“He was kinda- not all there, at first.” She tells him, chopping a steak into cubes and dropping them into a blender. Steve, winged and fanged and tailed, leans against the counter and watches her with sleepy eyes. “But we’ve been working on it.”

After the initial pants-shitting shock of having her dead best friend re-appear as a creature of the upside down, Robin had simply accepted it and moved on. Happy to have Steve back no matter what it looked like. 

And what it looked like was blending raw meat, and reading together in the bathroom to bring back his ability to talk, and stealing clothes for the veritable nest Steve was building in her closet. The next step in her plan to re-domesticate her best friend, had been to introduce him to another person: Eddie, evidently. 

Steve promptly spends 5 minutes being a feral little creature, scenting Eddie within an inch of his life like he’d done to Robin, and then attempting to plant him in his nest like a little ornament. 

Just. idk. feral kas!steve seeking out robin for safety, who slowly re-introduces him to his humanity and then his future boyfriend.

[the-californicationist]

The Window (6 of 7)

Ch 01 // Ch 02 // Ch 03 // Ch 04 // Ch 05 // Ch 06 // Ch 07

AO3 Link

TW: lactation kink

The house is lonely without your boys, especially when your breasts are so full and achy. If only there was someone home to help you…

You settled into the house almost too quickly. You each had your own space, but the main bedroom was where you all spent most of your time. The bedroom was huge — one of the reasons John had picked this house — and the en suite bathroom could more than accommodate all five of you, if need be. But, when the boys were away, the sprawling, expansive house was… lonely. 

They tried to leave you in shifts, but it wasn’t like they were logging hours at a normal job; it was war. War didn’t have a schedule. So, you padded around the house, trying to play some music or keep the television on, but it wasn’t the same. It was just you and… who? 

You’d asked the doctor not to tell you the sex of your baby at your ultrasound appointment, and none of the potential fathers had been around to go with you. So, you were in the dark. You’d thought about names, and Johnny had offered a good many family names to keep you busy for a while. But, even though you had plenty to think about and plenty to do – you were still working remote on recon and data tracking – it was just an empty sort of existence. 

To make matters worse, you’d hit a bit of a snare. Right at the sixteen week mark, you’d started leaking more than just a little milk. You’d woken up to a wet, messy situation, and you quickly scheduled an appointment. The doctor had taken some time to assure you all was well, but then, not even a week later, you had swollen, painful blockages and you were back in his office, waiting for more news. 

“Looks like you just have tiny ducts,” he shrugged, looking at your scans. His hands were dry but chilly as he peeked under your hospital robe to examine your sore nipples, “You may need to express them. I know it may put you at risk of an early labor, but we can monitor you in the meantime. Try to only pump when absolutely necessary.”

So, you’d followed his orders. Once every few days, you pumped out the heavy, engorged globes that used to be B-cups, watching as your nipples filled jar after jar. There was no use in freezing it this early, so down the drain it went. 

Now, at week twenty something, you were a walking milk nightmare. You’d never done so many loads of laundry in your life. The embarrassing thing about it though was that you liked it. Just the thought of attaching the plastic suction cup onto your breast was enough to make you slick between your legs, and the act itself was frequently pleasurable enough to send you over a climactic edge. To say that your nipples were sensitive was an understatement. But still, you tried to only do it when need be. You didn’t want to make a mistake. 

When the boys came home, you filled them in on all the updates. Johnny was a little sad he’d missed the ultrasound, but it just added fuel to his fire of picking out names. He seemed even more interested in the pain-relieving, pleasure-inducing qualities of your breast pump, though. At dinner, you caught him staring down your shirt more than once when you tried to speak with him, and when you lay together on the couch, his hand was always massaging your swollen flesh, all under the guise of keeping you from getting another painful duct. 

But, you knew the truth. His cock had never been so hard as when you started to leak through your top and had to go change, rushing to wash and find your nipple pads. Johnny stalked you into the large bedroom, thumb crooked in the waistband of his pants, 

“You alright, bonnie? Need me to help you?”

“No, yeah. I’m okay. Just… dealing with the dairy farm over here,” you said, exasperated. 

He sat down next to you on the edge of the bed, watching you pull out the tubes and machine with all of its parts and cords. His hand fell to your thigh, squeezing you gently,

“Think I could do it instead?”

“You…” You turned to face him, hands still tangled in the pump, making sure you heard him correctly, “You want to try it?”

Johnny adjusted himself in his jeans, his eyes pinned to your cleavage, unable to look away even for decorum’s sake, 

“Aye, lass. More than anythin’.”

“Um, sure. I think it’s fine. It all gets thrown out anyway. I’ll get you a towel,” you moved to get up, your belly now at a round enough size to be a hindrance, but he stopped you, pulling you back down roughly. 

“Hey —” You protested, but he interrupted you.

“Sit down,” his voice was gravelly and heavily accented, almost like when he was drunk, “Let me…” 

“Johnny, wait,” you tried to twist away from his grip, but he was too strong, “It’ll be such a mess. They’re so full right now. Just wait for me to—”

His eyes shot up to yours, pinning you in place, his full lips set in a hungry snarl, 

“I dinnae need a towel, bonnie. I’m gonna taste you, messy or not.”

He let his vow sink in, and you could feel yourself melting, literally and figuratively, at his words. You didn’t fight him as he began to kiss you, smearing his mouth all over you, doing his best to shove down your tank top, stuffing the neckline under your tits, fumbling around the back to unhook the clasp of your bra. 

“Johnny,” you breathed, your voice giving away the wet rush that was flooding straight to your core, “The laundry…”

“Fuck the laundry. I need to drain you fuckin’ dry. Right now.”  

Your whole body responded to that comment. Your skin flushed hot and your sore nipples hardened, eager to experience the way his mouth would feel as he drank from you. You weren’t even sure if he’d know how to draw out your milk. 

All of your concerns were cast aside as he settled you in his lap, pulling off your clothes like a much-desired present, tossing your clothes aside like wrapping paper to get to the good part. He fumbled with his jeans, freeing his thick, curved cock from his pants, pumping it roughly to spread his precome over the heavy head. 

You helped him, angling your body over his dick and lowering yourself down onto him, as carefully as you could, spearing your pussy with his rod, inch by trembling inch, listening to him try to catch his breath. Once you reached the middle, at the deepest part of his curve, you struggled to fit him the rest of the way in, grinding forward and back, looking for that sweet spot. 

Then, impatient and hungry, he finished the job, pulling you down by your hips and forcing himself the rest of the way. It made you cry out from the shock of it. It wasn’t necessarily painful, but his roughness was a stark change from how he had been treating you. When he knew about the baby, he spent a lot of time preparing you, using his mouth to lap at your pussy and prying you apart with his fingers. Always gentle and mindful of your comfort. But, not now. Now, he had his sights set on devouring you in the literal sense of the word.

“Johnny…” You gasped, rocking against his shape tentatively.

“C’mere, lass,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice sharp and commanding. 

His eyes were fixated on your dark, round nipples, and as you rode him, grinding yourself down onto his lap, he latched onto your left breast, taking the meat of your peak all the way into his mouth. Then, he began to suck. 

You thought it would be gentle and sensual, expecting it to be largely for his pleasure and not effective enough to get the thick, creamy milk out of your poor swollen ducts, but you were wrong. Johnny began to suck and swallow, suck and swallow, suck and swallow; a terrifying, rhythmic feeding, drinking from you like his life depended on it. You peered down at him as he delivered this unknown pleasure to you. 

Johnny’s eyes were fluttering closed, the whites of them rolling back into his head, and he began to let out these long, deep, guttural moans. You could feel the relief in your breast the moment he began, and with each suck, you could tell that his mouth was filling with squirt after squirt of warm, sweet milk. 

Your hips humped against him involuntarily at this point, too horny to think straight, and you realized that your right nipple had begun to let down, full as it was. You tried to catch it from dripping onto him, swiping away the white rivulets with your palm, but he caught you, realizing you were trying to take what was his. 

He moved his mouth from your left nipple to your right, letting his score drip down his chin and neck, caring nothing for the mess. Then, he latched onto your right nipple just as he had the left, sucking and swallowing until his cock throbbed inside of you. 

You cradled his head as he drank from you, using his neck and shoulders to keep you steady as you rode him, feeling him suckle against you over and over, your hot milk filling his belly. 

“Havin’ fun without us, Johnny?” Price’s voice rumbled from the doorway, startling you. You tried to turn around, but Johnny had you in a vice grip, and all you could do was ride and whimper from his fucking and his feeding. 

“John…” You moaned, and he stepped around to sit next to his sergeant on the bed, smiling at the two of you, admiring the mess you were making. 

“Can I try, love?” Price asked, leaning forward to drink from you without waiting for your permission. 

All you could do was moan, high and helpless, your pussy so wet that it was practically gushing over Johnny’s thick cock. As soon as you felt John’s mouth on you, suckling from you just as intently as Soap’s, you started to come. You felt yourself clenching around your hungry lover, flooding him with your orgasm, wrecked by their insistent mouths.

“Tha’s it, bonnie,” Johnny pulled away, white streams of cream falling from his lips, looking like he was drunk, “Come for me.”

Price was greedier than Soap, even though you weren’t sure how that could be possible, and he used his strong hand to knead and squeeze your tits, forcing your body to drop even more milk for him to drink. His mustache tickled your sensitive flesh, and you couldn’t see it but you could hear the twisting, slapping wetness of him jerking his fat cock as he drank from you. 

“Fuck, she tastes so good, hm?” Prince crooned. 

“Hngh, Johnny… I can’t…” You whined, feeling yourself start to become overstimulated, “I can’t…”

“You can, lass. And you fuckin’ will,” Johnny grabbed your face in his hand, squishing your cheeks, forcing you to kiss him. You could taste your own milk on his tongue. It was warm and a little sugary, like the dregs of a bowl of cereal, thick and creamy. 

He released your jaw and went back to work, suckling from you with a relentless vacuum, making your head spin. You didn’t know how you were able to make so much milk, but it seemed endless. You were hypnotized by the way his throat bulged as he swallowed gulp after gulp of your body’s gift, sucking you down. 

Price seemed just as hungry, and you saw how, from the corners of his mouth, tiny droplets of milk would escape and wet his beard, the white cream staining his dark hair. He teased you with his hand, leaving his cock to fend for itself as he smeared his precome all over your asshole. Then, as you rode Soap back and forth, thrusting against him with abandon, John put his finger against your puckered hole and let you push yourself onto it. As you canted your hips back, your hole would let your captain’s huge fingertip slide inside it. As you thrust forward, you would pull away, losing the feeling of fullness that he was giving you. 

It was agony. You wanted him to fuck you on his hand, or to take you with his cock — as painful as it may be without prep — anything to make you feel filled up. But he didn’t; he kept his finger right where he wanted it, letting you fuck yourself with just the tip until you felt stinging tears in the corners of your eyes. 

“Please, John… please…” You barely had any words left, but he knew what you wanted. 

He met your eyes with his own as he took a particularly long suck from your sore breast, making you watch as he coaxed your nectar into his mouth. Then, he pulled away with a swift pop, licking across your swollen nipple to soothe the pain he had caused. He smiled at you, patronizingly, teasing you still with his finger,

“Does our girl need me to fuck her tight little arse?”

You nodded, barely able to keep your eyes open, overwhelmed by the pleasure, 

“Yes, please… I need it. Need to come again. Please…”

“Fuck, bonnie. If you come again, you’ll take me with you,” Soap murmured, unwilling to take his mouth away from your tits too far, talking with his mouth half-full.

Price bent his head, returning to his rough suckling, filling his cheeks with more of your milk. But, this time, as you thrust yourself against Johnny, you felt two, curled fingers shove themselves deep inside of your asshole. Your whole body convulsed, your pussy clenching and gushing with wetness, twisting its muscles around Soap’s dick, trying to get him to fill you with his load. Your legs shuddered, unable to keep from shaking as you rode him, feeling numb as the tantalizing sensation of your stretched holes washed over you. 

John fucked you without mercy, pulling his fingers all the way out and stuffing them all the way back into your ass everytime you thrust forward and back. You were screaming, and your poor, well-used cunt was pumping itself against Soap’s rod, making heinous slick noises as you rode him. Beyond any sort of politeness or gentility, your men were noisy in their feasting as well, slurping and sucking loudly, grunting every time you clenched yourself around them. 

When Price added a third finger, you came again, your pussy quickly running out of room to accommodate them both. Soap’s hot seed burst inside of you just as he’d promised, burning your core and painting your walls with his come. 

“Oh, fuck! Johnny, fill me up. Fill me…” You slurred, letting your head hang back limply, basking in the feeling of his orgasm. 

Price took the opportunity to haul you off of Johnny’s lap and onto his own, replacing the emptiness in your pussy with his fat cock, sliding through his sergeant’s come and keeping his fingers in your ass as you rode him. 

Even though he was spent, Johnny didn’t let up on his feeding. He’d ripped a page out of Price’s playbook and was massaging your breast with both hands, squeezing out every last drop from your body. When he finally stopped suckling from your bruised nipple, he licked you, over and over, running the warm flat of his tongue across your nipple to swipe up any stray drops, chasing your peaks as you bounced on your captain’s dick. 

Price squeezed your tits in his hands, letting the one that was still full squirt all over his mouth and nose, covering himself in your cream. When he noticed Soap’s desperation, he switched positions. The sergeant fell onto his back, resting against the mattress, and the captain threw you on all fours, letting your tits dangle over Johnny’s open mouth. Then, he climbed up behind you, feeding himself back into your pussy. 

As Price fucked himself into you, your breasts swayed back and forth, your nipples rubbing across Soap’s mouth as he moved from one to the other. You felt him latch onto the left one, drinking from you in thirsty slurping gulps, his puckered lips pressing onto your flesh with as much suction as he could muster. Meanwhile, your stretched cunt was being stuffed with Price’s shaft, his head invading your deepest parts, filling up your hole over and over and over. 

Finally, when you were out of milk and practically sobbing from the brain-breaking orgasms you’d been given, he pulled out, flipping you onto your back and laying you right beside Soap, aiming his load at your bruised tits. His teeth were clenched as he grunted out his climax, painting long, white ropes of come all over your nipples. 

You looked down, unable to tell what was his and what was yours, your breasts messy and covered in cream of all kinds. John’s hands came down and rubbed his spend all over your nipples, smearing it around them like a salve. Johnny leaned over you, licking up Price’s come just as greedily as he had your milk, latching and suckling from you over and over, even if you were empty, like a greedy puppy. 

Exhausted, and with a belly full of breast milk, Price crashed to the mattress beside you and Soap. 

Standing in the doorway, Gaz and Ghost looked down at you with smug, satisfied expressions, and Garrick chuckled, 

“Better recover quick, babes. Got me workin’ up an appetite.”

[slut4megantheestallion]

"Louder Than the Music"

Summary: After an exciting concert, you and Chloe have sex in her truck, away from the chaos of the world.

Warning ⚠️: fem! reader, fxf, truck sex, mentions of cigarettes, concert, making out, smut, fingering, men dni.

The crowd buzzed with excitement as you and Chloe stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the packed venue. Neon lights bathed the space in bright shifting colors, and the thrum of anticipation was nearly as loud as the bass of heavy music pumping through the speakers. Chloe looked alive in this setting, her blue hair glinted under the strobe lights, her leather jacket slung casually over her shoulders, and her lips curled in that 'devil-may-care' smirk that always made your stomach flutter.

"This is gonna be so fucking sick!" She shouted over the loud noise of the music, turning to you with a gleam in her eye.

You grinned back at her, feeling the infectious energy radiating from her. " Do you think we'll get close enough to the stage?" You teased.

Chloe scoffed, grabbing your hand and tugging you forward. "Close enough? Babe, we're getting in the front row."

Her determination paid off, and by the time the opening band finished their set, the two of you were pressed against the barrier. Chloe was practically vibrating with excitement, her arm slun protectively around your waist as the headlining band came on stage. The first note hit like a lightning strike, and the crowd erupted, jumping and screaming along to the music.

Chloe was in her element. She screamed the lyrics to the song at the top of her lungs, her voice rough and raw, but she didn't care. She danced like no one was watching, pulling you along with her as you laughed and sang, the two of you completely lost in the moment.

At one point, she turned to you, her eyes wild with exhilaration. "You having fun, babe?"Hell yeah!" You shouted back, your voice hoarse, but you smile wide.

Chloe leaned in, her lips brushing your ear as she whispered, "You look so fucking hot right now. I can't stop staring at you." The funny feeling crept up your neck had to do with the heat of the crowd, you turned to her, your faces inches apart, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away. Then the next song started, and Chloe laughed, pulling you back into the chaos.

By the time the concert ended, you were both sweaty, exhausted, and riding a high you didn't want to come down from. Chloe held your hand as you wove through the crowd, leading you back to her old truck parked at the edge of the parking lot.

"You're insane, you know that?" You teased as she unlocked the door for you.

"Insane for you, maybe." She quipped, winking as you climbed in.

The truck smelled faintly of cigarettes and lavender, and as chloe slid into the drivers seat, she turned to you with a look you couldn't quite place.

"Tonight was amazing." She said softly, her voice rough from screaming. "But you're the best part of it." You smiled, reaching out to brush a strand of blue hair from her face. "Chloe...."

Before you could say anyone else, she leaned in, her lips capturing yours in a kiss that was soft at first but quickly deepened. Her hands cupped your face, her touch both tender and possessive as she pulled you closer.

The kiss ignited something between you, a spark that quickly became a wildfire. Chloe's hands slid your waist, tugging you into her lap as you straddled her, your knees pressing into the worm leather seat. The gearshift dug into your thighs, but you didn't care - nothing else matters except chloe and the way her lips moved against yours.

"You're so fucking beautiful." She murmured again your lips, her hands sliding under your shirt to caress the bare skin of your back.

Her touch sent shivers down your spine, and you gasped as her fingers trailed up your side's, pushing your shirt up in the process. She pulled back just enough to tug it over your head, her eyes raking over your exposed skin with unfiltered desire.

"Goddamn." She muttered, her hands finding your hips as she kissed you again, harder this time.

You reached for the hem of her shirt, tugging it off and tossing it onto the dashboard. Your fingers traced the lines of her tattoos, and she shivered under your touch, her hands tightening on your hips.

"I want you so badly~" She said, her voice low and rough. "Right here, right now."

"Then take me." You whispered, your voice trembling with anticipation.

Chloe didn't need any more encouragement. Her hands slid down to unbutton your jeans, her lips trailing down your neck as she worked them off. You helped her, kicking them off along with your underwear, leaving you bare in her lap

"Fuck, babe." She breathed, her eyes dark with lust as she took you in. "You're so fucking perfect."

Her fingers slid between your thighs, teasing you as her lips found your collarbone. You moaned, your hips bucking against her hand as she circled your clit with slow, deliberate strokes.

"You're already so wet for me?" She murmured, her voice thick with desire. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes." You gasped, your hands gripping her shoulders as she slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right.

Chloe's lips found yours again as she set a rhythm, her fingers moving inside you whiles her thumb pressed against your clit. You were completely at her mercy, every touch and kiss driving you closer to the edge.

"You're so fucking perfect." She muttered against your lips. " I heard the way you feel around the me."

Her words sent you spiraling, and with one final thrust, you came undone, crying out her name as she pleasure washed over you. Chloe held you through it, her lips pressing soft kisses to your neck as you trembled in her arms.

When you finally came down, she pulled you back just enough to look at you, her lips curving into a soft smile. "You okay, babe?"

"More than okay," you whispered, leaning in to kiss her again.

Chloe chuckled, wrapping her arms around you as she leaned back in the seat. "Best concert ever." She said, her grin wide and mischievous.

You laughed, resting your forehead against hers. "Yeah." You said softly. "Thanks to you."

The two of you tangled up together, and you wouldn't have had it any other way.

[1-49]

bare sugars

╰► that’s my baby, that’s my sugar, i don’t need no honey on the side . . . that’s unconditiona-nal.

pairing: f!reader × jaehyun ⁝ tags: motel. lotta tension. jae likes to show skin lol. history i allude to but never explain sry. short scenario inspired by this teaser photo. diabetes keep away 5k

It ’s a place in between places, on the outskirts of some sunbaked desert town. What began as a hopeful promise, somewhere in the chaos of the last seven days , has faded into obscurity.

When this road trip kicked off, the entire crew was pumped on the : ‘No one’s getting ditched; everyone ’s got to be part of ─── no matter how intense the next adventure gets.’ Yet, here you are , left behind with the one person you were hoping to dodge.

A velvety green sofa sets the scene & the honey glow of golden hour falls on wood - panelled walls ─── Lying on his back , Jaehyun rocks yet another one of his 250+ crumpled print tees, retro lettering in: ‘The Grateful Dead.’ Its fabric hiked up , intentionally or not , giving his casual style a little extra edge.

─── This specific old shade of blue denim jeans, those grey Calvins, the belt that struggles to keep the outfit together ... His belly that just kind of vacuums in whenever it wants ... A plush land really ... The faux freckles on his cheeks which mimic sunflower seeds, and his hair that shines like a field of gold ...

A babe , though the design guilt he wears in his dark eyes remains as you capture yet another moment with your camera.

The two shy cuties in his cheeks and his keys lying abandoned on the pink carpet. His languid binks & perpetually movey lips. His Converse’s loose laces.. The unhurried. The lazy. The slow...

It’s all captured on film & as you pull the camera away from your face, he still keeps an eye on you, not necessarily looking for a reaction but... 

Well, you better... drop that feedback, or things might...

take a turn for the worse... 

And—

And they do... with him tucking his hand under his head & his shirt riding up thoughtlessly even more...

And it’s bad. It’s—It’s like he’s in charge of how you feel and is directing the scene. Like as if he’s your television & there’s no turning him off.

This almost ever so present paradoxical quality to him—a blend of approachability and impenetrability that’s hard to elaborate. Or his lazy attractiveness which simply defies logic: for he’s simultaneously doing nothing and everything, drawing you in completely without lifting a finger.

Or... how these are just a few of the countless reasons why you’ve never asked him to bring you the horizon, or, hell, dared to dream about having him.

Of how the four walls and the door close on you and how looking at him strikes you with a funny fear, making you want to melt deep into the contents of the floor.

Oh, to fuck with that...

-

Gently, you adjust the fine black lace along the hem of your brown silk dress; draw in the fluffy cardigan tighter around you; and to escape the perfect features of his perfect face, you walk up to the window. 

Yet, no matter how hard you search for a way out, the four walls of this claustrophobic room offer little in the way of escape. You’re fucking stuck... Counting your fingers anew whenever gets nothing done, and flipping through the channels on the tiny TV does nothing to clear the monotony. The minutes drag on endlessly, and no matter how many board games you play or photos you take, the clock seems to mock you. Each moment drags as if the world has hit the pause button, leaving you with him in this quiet space.

“Uuggh, coome oooon!” You stomp your feet, looking out the window. “The losers promised they’d be back by six!”

Jaehyun blows a bubble that bursts with a loud snap, grinning at you. “Ummm—You realize promises aren’t really being kept here anymore, right?”

Yeah, right... Fuck promises! You told yourself you wouldn’t get attached to him but look at you now...

Rolling your eyes, you glance out the window again, right as he asks,

“Why? Are you hungry?”

And sure, they were supposed to be the ones bringing the food, but it seems their adventure has taken a detour into yet another town at the end of the world; said, ‘This is what happens when you skip out—So, you two sort it out.’

“Some sweets would be nice. But no, um,” you tensely pull at your cardigan’s sleeves, clenching the ends in your fists. “Are they okay? I’m a little nervous.”

Though all he does is just casually burst another ridiculous bubble...“I’m sure they’re fine.”

Right… So next you’re left to watch him scrape bits of pink gum from his lips, and before you know it, a wave of irritation pulls you back to his side.

You’re barely balanced on the edge of the sofa, aiding in his clumsy efforts. Your thumb brushes against his bottom lip, and the air around him gets to your head just instantly, thick with the sugary scent of the sticky residue that you find yourself obliged to help remove... It’s so sugary that it borders on being revolting! Or perhaps it’s your sweet tooth that’s igniting this feeling?

Silly, cause you feed into this quirky theory that butterflies taste like bubblegum, and now that notion takes on a funny twist, well... considering the butterflies dancing in your stomach.

As you pull your fingers away from his lips, a rush of blood roars in his ears and he quickly adds, “Might have something in my bag, let me see.”

And totally! The bag that somehow collected a ton of pendants during this road trip does sit by the sofa, and with Jaehyun lounging back, stretching his arms overhead to grab it, his shirt gets pulled up even higher, & just like that, it becomes the cause for another thing you wish you never said.

Definitely not the sight you were hoping for... The tee hiked up, way above his ribs, exposing a good portion of his slim waist as he giggles, showing off that boyish grin while rummaging through the bag behind... still looking at you.

The eye contact ****

The fcking gum that just so erratically becomes his plaything, getting relentlessly crushed beneath the pressure of his teeth, repeatedly transforming into a sticky mass that fills his mouth, stressing the rugged contours of his strong jawline...

His fucking belly...

The happy trail...

Godsent personal hell!

Your heart is thumping away in your chest and your ribs aren’t exactly doing much to protect it. The stressed thing seems ready to pop like one of his balloons and leave you in an ever-sticker mess...

“Mmmmm...” he hums, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth and pulling a handful of candies from the bag behind him. “Let’s see what we have.”

Placing each treat onto his stomach as if the world were about to erupt in a frenzy of sugar-fueled chaos, Jaehyun carefully begins to arrange each piece, making sure they’re spaced out just right and sorted into rational portions in case such an outbreak actually happens. In no time, a vibrant array of treats sprawls across him and his funky-ridden shirt, everything from lollipops, chewy gums, gummy bears, and sour candies, to little chocolates.

Imagine a carnival! The flashy colors are super distracting, and those chocolate bars are practically begging you to grab them. Still, you can’t help but tease him a bit to annoy him, specially since you’ve been going back & forth for the past three days.

“Really,” you pout cynically, “You took this many?? You’re such a…”

With a burst of laughter that is hearty & sweet, Jaehyun sends the poor candies resting on the very sides of his waist to tumble down onto the sofa as if that earthquake had REALLY made its presence felt.

“Mmmmm- Why would I want to spend money on fancy treats? Besides...” He spaces out for a bit... then remarks with a smirk, “My theory is basically sweets are sweets.”

And he tightens his lips to seem all serious, but honestly, it just makes everything worse. The dude doesn’t even lift a finger to be funny; it’s like humour just radically appears around him, and the stuff he comes up with...

Poof! A total goof or a creative thinker? It really just comes down to your mood at the time.

You grimace once more, shaking your head at him, and subtly shift your weight to your legs rather than sitting on the sofa, your body ready to leap away at the slightest hint of contact.

With an adorable, surprised expression his eyes grow round as he stares at you, “What!?” His brows shoot up too in effort to justify himself.

“That piñata was there for everyone to go wild and, umm- grab whatever they could!” Lifting his hands defensively, he pouts, “Not my fault!”

Aaaand that fucking shirt of his?

Isss at it againnnn!@#£%^*

Your mind is reeling as the candy mountain spills over in a fun avalanche.

No, because why go through all that trouble to arrange them perfectly just to wreck it himself!?

Yeah,

anyway, you find nothing to match that, indeed it was up to anyone to snatch whatever they wanted, it just looks like he had deeper pockets than the rest of you idiots to stash all that stuff, that’s all there is to it. So you give in to the urge to ‘screw it,’ let out another eye roll, and grab a tiny bag of gummy bears.

-

As if he’s achieved something, Jaehyun’s hands find their way back beneath his head, and the flirtatious smile continues in his eyes. He just basks in the moment until your frustration—the sting of yet another cheeky defeat—causes you to fumble to open the bag and so all the gummy bears go flying everywhere. 

Add chaos?

Check!

Is he into it? 

Also, check.

The pack is but what that piñata was a few days ago, bleeding in beautiful colors and gushing all things sweet.

“Ugghhh!!” Tossing your head back, you groan dramatically.

And understandably so!!! While Jaehyun?

He beams as he sticks his tongue in his cheek, and snatches the empty bag from your hands. He casually spits his spent pink gum inside it, takes a pair of gummies from his abs, and gently runs them against his lips before sliding them in...

And t

And it’s so fucking frustrating that this guy has no clue about the importance of breaking eye contact! You’re always left searching for a word that’s stronger than ‘insufferable,’ but really, the dude just constantly goes all out with everything. Legit! 

It drives you crazy. He—

Munching on them playfully, Jaehyun thinks for a moment, swallows, & then quirks an eyebrow, smirking,

“Wanna hear what the gummies just whispered into my mouth?”

What the gummies have what??

You shake your head at his nonsense but arch a brow back. Because if you had to be honest, those jelly babies aren’t the only thing looking to spill some secrets in his mouth... So, yeah, you’re JUST listening! As a matter of fact, you’re all tuned in to catch what absurdity he’s about to dish out next.

Pushing his lips together, a bratty shape that just begs to be kissed, he sits with his answer. There’s something very precious and terribly frustrating about how he keeps his responses close like they’re the best puns ever. Then he eventually smiles, “Thank you for releasing us.”

........ Woaah, they’ve at least been honest with him! Which is... cool...

Cool! Great! Awesome! You next!

“Mmm-hmm,” for dummies, some skeptical eyes and a cynical head nod are all you have...

When the magnitude of his languid x menacing should be studied!!!

Really, a quirky cotton candy man! A sugar. A delicate toxic substance.

Like, fuck! He—He’s just- unbeatable. 

That’s an overwhelming amount of power for him to have... Like, that’s too much hot... Too much sweet… It’s no good… 

Like-

Like the doses got all jacked up when he was made... Accidentally spilled too much of each, and now he’s just a walking health risk.

Catch it!

-

The disease spreads just like it always has—quickly and definitely. This earthtone babe just knows exactly how to get under your skin.

So hard to resist... So hard to not take a bite...

It’s just how it goes, you know?

Things...

Eyes...

Fingers...

& before you realise it, your fingertips glide past his jeans, over to his skin, igniting a rush of sensations with each line you draw across his abs.

Inevitably, the air gets charged with an energy... that’s not innocent. You feel the sparks. Not the good kind of sparks, but the sinful ones... The—

-

It’s like a dream at first, experiencing the thrill of someone yearning for your touch so badly.

Jae is every bit as tough as he looks, but the moment your fingers brush against him, that narrative shifts entirely. It feels like he’s been craving your touch, and those days without it have been an unbearable! fucking! stretch!

Gentle, sensual skin, a supremely royal shade of luxury milk. Everything that’s connected with a beautiful sweet, sweet & touching is associated with him. 

He’s just spot on! And your stomach is growling. And you’re looking for a bite to eat...

In fact, you’re so down bad, your sweet tooth’s at an all-time high; honestly, you’d probably go as far as to start licking him right now.

In a straight line? Curved? In any manner that sparks your creativity? Anything real—

...The hot transference from his skin onto your hand? The way he teases his lip!?? The way he shyly and discreetly raises his hips against your touch as if silently pleading for

Thisss baddieee!!

Reading into all these crazy action bits has you all jittery that you completely jump when his hand lands on your bare thigh, right at the lace border.

nononono-

With a gulp, you instantly! rise from the couch. How—Just why did you end up falling back so e

-

Fast, desperation kicks in- just- again like those moments ago... and you’re back to pacing this same motel room, seeking an escape from him. Except every aspect now feels as if it’s been cranked up to ten times the difficulty.

The reddish-brown timber panels on the walls give off tough prison steel, and the pink carpet feels all squishy and weird under your bare feet right when you need a stable solid... All while Jaehyun is- just- there... planted in place, now seated, legs all spread, on the green sofa. There’s really nothing you can do but hope he stays right where he is. 

But! once something’s set in motion, it stays in motion. Like a wildfire racing thru dry lands, fierce and unstoppable. And you just happened to let a match slip past your fingers a heartbeat ago, screwing everything up...

Naturally, he gets up. Also, that belt of his really accomplishes nothing... it’s just there to be there, so he’s just got to pull up his baggy jeans himself before he can even take a step forward.

& what his rising does is kick off a frantic chase as you two whirl around the room in a relentless spiral, & he’s hot on your tail... The very thought of him catching up on you sends dopamine through your veins, making your pulse quicken.

Plus that stunning smile? Plus his unconditional happiness? Well, both make him even more irresistible but both also complicate things for you. The excitement mounts as he approaches in the chase, each heartbeat making the thrill even stronger; that once he abruptly stops, the sprinting exertion takes its toll.

His breath comes in heavier gasps, his cheeks are flushed with a pinch of peach, and his bangs are a tousled mess, dancing around him like dandelion fluff does in the wind. Just a pure, natural and effortless elegance. He’s so incredibly attractive it almost hurts to look at him.

The tension though peaks as his words build to a sharp climax of a fact.

“You-um- You’ve been avoiding me this whole trip.”

...That sinking feeling in your heart like a rock just hit it? Yeah...

Yeah, you wish that voice of his didn’t resonate through your very being, scraping against every nerve ending, but that’s what it always does. It freezes you in place, making you overwhelmed and powerless. 

It’s kind of wild how bringing up a heavy topic during a playful moment can make it feel that much more sincere. With so many choices, he went right for the thing that drives him crazy, and that should show you what’s on his mind... at least-

But, you-you

Instinctively, you pull the same fuzzy cardigan around you, clinging to it as though it were a barrier against him, and softly slide your hand from your sleeve, unveiling a lollipop—the only item you managed to pocket earlier.

And this should sweep everything away, right?

-

“Mhmmmm,” Jaehyun hums, back on trend —

acting like he didn’t just mention something that could spark a whole conversation...

— though this time he picks up the bat resting by the bedstand which at the beginning of the week tore through that heart piñata...

And currently, with the sun set, the moon in the sky, and the desert sky glowing a delicate lilac blue, his eyes narrow and his sly grin comes in the same old style as he twists the knob of the yellow lamp, teasing, “So... a thief, huh?” 

...It’s as if he’s putting you in the spotlight, pointing out your crime, and calling you out for being a naughty girl.

& sure, he’s got you in that tight spot he wants you in, okay? But you still tilt your head and nibble on your lip, still going at it, “Maaybee.”

-

& as you start to walk backwards, everything is still beside your breath and the gentle thud of the bat as he taps it against different surfaces. Only muted noise of what seems to be Spanish drifts in from the neighboring room, but neither of you pays it much mind.

His hands fist around the bat tightly, consumed with angry adrenaline, & veins bulge along his smooth skin, sending filthy pulses up his arms. 

It’s a sight that attracts goosebumps all along & across your skin, igniting a warmth that curls from your legs to your belly. The same very electrifying rush of adrenaline wraps around you as if he’s pulling you into the grip of that wooden bat... 

Hiss, twist, loosen, and turn, just like how his hands manipulate that wood...

And you know... it doesn’t take much to find yourself backed up against that mahogany wall.

At once, ‘trapped’ takes on an even greater weight than what it meant before. You feel twisted and turned in advance, completely taken apart by the sheer passion in his deep brown eyes.

Jaehyun lifts a brow. He’s all about this vibe. That big toothy smile of his. The way he’s locked in on you. The ‘Just a couple of steps away, baby.’

Uh-huh, but what about that horrible, horrible crave you’ve told yourself you CAN’T have!??

The itch sits on your tongue, fruity in flavour—perhaps strawberry or raspberry—you aren’t sure. A tang that lingers in your memory, the same as of candy gum that had been in the air around him earlier and one which grew bolder with each step he took toward you. This sickness makes you wish that your tongue is already wrapped in his, tightening for a deeper inspection. 

Yikes! Please, let’s just avoid that!

-

To drive away the feeling, you look down to your toes in the cotton carpet, shift your weight, and then peel away the wrapper of the lemon lolly, seeking a bitter flavor to replace the trace of his scent.

Then eventually, accept the proximity between you two as it is - as you let your back land against the wall, hoping the tension will melt away. 

Feeling the lolly along your lips, you grimace at the acid but take it...

And as you look down, even in your peripheral view, it’s clear that Jaehyun is still watching you, & you realize he’s focused on your mouth. & after giving the lollipop a couple of spins on your tongue, you proudly look up, thinking you’re good and that you’ve totally neutralized the crave for him...

-

Because the suddenly too sure of itself face?

Your neck, your collars, the hard candy prodding at your cheek?

The sleek brown silk and the intricate black lace trim which ascends higher on your thigh as you shift your weight to one leg, elegantly placing the other in front as you find your stance? And then the glossy black polish on your toenails as you draw them from a point in the carpet, just barely hovering above it, & in a straight line with him... As in ???

Yeah, absolutely not; that’s far from a quiet invite...

No! You’re totally not just ‘asking for it.’

On the spur, the dynamics shift... As you let the lemon hang in your mouth, Jaehyun abruptly brings his bat up & uses it to delicately move a piece of your hair aside, and then the very tip of the bat makes a gentle tap at the heart of your collars.

Your breath catches in your throat, a fragile spectacle he zeroes in on as your cords constrict, and then, with knitted brows you swallow in the sour juice of the sucker. 

Really!?? What more does he want of your sorry soul when you’re just trying to get through each breath?

But no! You certainly didn’t ask for it… Just remember he’s not one to give up when told to quit. So, either pack your things or choose a better design, Sugar.

Though that’s the very thing... You can’t deny the magnetic pull of Jaehyun’s game...

Sure, you’re feeling the heat from your toes to the top of your head, but let’s keep things in check, yeah?

Feeling the groove, as you pull out the lollipop to give your lips a little lick, your eyes wander down to what could be seen as a ‘dangerous tool’, and you smirk.

Jaehyun sucks in on his lip, very slowly, very cheekily. The guy’s clearly amused with you. 

“Are you seriously just going to keep looking at me like that?” you ask eventually, taking a moment before adding, “I’m not a fan of it.”

“Mmmmm,” he gives his hundredth low hum, tilting his back head just so, & flexing that tight jawline that always seems to be up for something... something explicit and offensive.

However you pout and slide the lollipop right back in your mouth.

“Tasty?”

...You had to know that was coming, right? And so, as the duel continues, you shrug, allowing a slight grimace to escape your lips, piquing his curiosity about the taste he’s missing out on.

& it runs like a charm.

As Jaehyun lets his eyelids droop in the slowest blink imaginable, &, in his infamous deep voice, says, “I waaanna taste.”

Nuh-uh, even if you tried to reject, it wouldn’t make a difference since he’s right in your face; his mouth hanging agape, eager for absolutely, really absolutely! anything you might have to offer... Cause, there’s always room for a shift in sentiments, wouldn’t you agree?

Though the ‘weapon’ somewhat still stays pointed at you...

Take notes!

For sure! But being the fantastic person you are you tap into your generous spirit & pull out the candy with a satisfying pop while Jaehyun stares at you, mischief even spilling out of his open mouth.

With only inches between you, you gently slide the bad sugar in, pushing it along his tongue and unconditionally savoring the moment and the view.

-

His slightly downturned, sultry eyes as you still hold onto the other end of the white plastic, & he keeps sucking on the lemon in his mouth.

Those damn sunken cheeks of his. The tiny scratch on his nose from a few days ago which has mostly healed, but you can still see it.

The dense, dark brows in disagreement with his bleached hair with a still lingering odor of ammonium hydroxide... Really, a look born from a reckless bet on a chaotic road trip—a decision that seemed utterly foolish but now is somehow working in his favor...

In a way, it’s even funny how the flashy hair is soooo out there… but it’s there, being just one aspect of him. Still, you have to admit its impact is real. A gutsy choice that jazzes him up a notch. This new arc he’s projecting, where it seems, he’s flirting a bit more with his impulsive side? Yeah...

Somewhere between handsome and creamy tabby cat... He’s just bursting with the most obnoxious playfulness, and he’s paired with a smile that raises up his dimples.

The way he’s making you curious and wild >>>  He’s so sexy, it’s unmatched...

And you understand the gravity of wanting such a fine man! The—

(!) The despite knowing, yet failing... or at least in what you think you know and what you think is better.

-

You’re completely focused on his lips, and in an instant, reality just seems to melt away like it’s under a spell.

Tis a state... A mood! The ninth cloud where you can’t feel the air or the ground... All there is is his insane eyes scrutinizing your reaction to what he does to the lolly, and it’s honestly the worst kind of pressure.

Finished savouring, Jaehyun’s tongue casually circles his sensuous lips, collecting all possible leftover like he’s just finished you in style.

“Ummm…” Scrunching his nose at the flirty, piquant taste, he takes a step back. Mulls over the candy choice; pushes his cooked bangs; and hesitates before he says, “Nah, this isn’t the one... I-um... I bet there’s something better out there... It’s likeee” suppresses smile in advance of saying it, “It’s just on the tip of my tongue.” His brows flatten too, mans serious! “Help me think?”

OH, Sir!

A treat that can out-beat this bittersweet taste? A goodie that packs an even bigger surprise?

Your always rambling mind goes thoughtless, & that burning need to press on drops off like a light switch. The coming panic. Your gotcha moment. You go quiet. It hits you that this is the first time your playful teasing has backfired and that maybe you can’t be bailed out of what’s to come.

Worse, as it’s one of those silences that just hangs in the air, making things feel more tense. Your self-imposed rules about ‘what you think you know’ and ‘what’s better’ dissolved, leaving you fully present and stimulated.

& Jaehyun digs right in, spreading the cavity...

He lifts the bat again, its tip gently pressing into your belly, and it’s like you can almost feel his warmth seep through it, then past the fragile silken fabric to your skin. 

You get so hot. This bizarre ripple from your legs to your tummy as you tightrope between pleasure and unease, joy and hesitation... It’s like you two are finally on the same wavelength, knowing what the other is about to say before the words even come out.

A delicate crease develops between his bushy brows which deepens as he tenderly whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Jae- don’t.” you murmur, your lips curving into a sorrowful pout as you gently shake your head ‘no.’

Needless to say, something nuanced only you and him know...

The result of everything that’s happened...

The ‘this whole trip has messed up the trajectory of our friendship.’

The reason why he chose to hang back today...

The tactics which kicked in since everyone piled into that Jeep truck this morning & sped away. 

The from ‘getting schooled’ in all the board games to the countless Polaroids he let you snap of him, to that little “I’m sorry” hand peck he gave you that had you making the death stare, and the “Don’t ever try to do that again!”

The rude ‘skin-feeding’ masked behind the pretense of a ‘generous’ food provider.

And how you slipped past every move, pushed back, and resisted until he has put you up against this wall... and now ‘the-no-escape’.

Still and all- your pushback’s like a sport. Be afraid of what follows...

-

For Jaehyun gnaws into the very walls of your sensitivity as if sensuality were his chosen medium. Each deliberate motion of the bat becomes a brushstroke in the masterpiece of your downfall...

He glides it along the contours of your waist, teasingly skimming over your curves, trails it down your legs and inners, and even lifts the hem of your dress just enough to make your skin hurt in anticipation.

Then, it finds its way to your stomach yet again, as if to indicate something deep & unexpressed, before tracing a direct path up your sternum, sweeping along your collarbone until he’s made your cardigan slip down your arm, taking the delicate strap of your dress with it...

So much of ‘Jae, don’t,’ huh? Oh, sweetheart… 

-

Certainly, the last thing you hope he avoids is the very thing Jaehyun does...

Trailing the bat along your jawline, ultimately he rests it under your chin... Something something about a ‘clear display of dominance.’ His insane eyes about render you completely motionless as he insists on glancing between your eyes and your lips the way one searches a dictionary for definitions. Again and Again... And then gravity happens...

In an instant, the bat slips from his grasp and tumbles to the floor, making you flinch as his lips finally find their way to your bare shoulder, where seems like he’s achieved something.

Oh, the bite-

An insidious heat stroke as you moan the most promiscuous hiss there is.

“Jaee, we shou—”

“Baby-”

Vibrationssssssssss...

It comes out even more whiny as he gets all of that word muffled against your neck. It roughly cuts into your focus, seeps into your ears, and goes straight to the wrong place.

The very last thing you feel yourself do is slide left against the wall, scraping for any last escape routes, but he just moves in sync with you.

Up to the moment he—

The sound of yearning?

Jaehyun’s palms slamming into the hardwood, spreading out like wings on either side of you, creating a cage of flesh. Brushing off the idea of consent, his hot body presses against yours.

With his hands up, that whimsical teddy bear tee yet again peels from his jeans. It constricts around his arm sleeves, flexing the impressive curve of his biceps. His veins, too, scrumptiously pushed in motivation: ‘All mine! You can’t outrun this, baby. I’m keeping you right where I want you.’

Really, the rest it’s all in your perception—either a trap or a safe spot.

-

A little motel inside a world of sand... you’ve never felt smaller than you do now with him towering over you—not literally, size in drive and ambition.

You watch yourself fade&wilt in his unsettlingly lazy eyes like Valentine’s flower petals from their vase falling onto the white desk dirtied with graphite from pencil shavings and candy wrappers. 

It’s so desertly calm, that your nails accidentally strike a chord in tune as your hands casually fall past his belt buckle...

A beautiful melody that makes his dimples grow deeper, though he still tilts his head, frowning adorably as he perpetually continues to figure things out just for the sake of figuring things out...

Yeah?

Cos, what is the motive here? As your hands do settle gently at the hem of his jeans, fingers teasingly dipping into the softness of his navel?

Hook + Pull = Gravity.

Oh, man, do you make him feel insane things? Cause you’ve been on your guard for the whole day, some goals are hard!

Are you coming ahead of all his sneaky schemes? Are you a baddie too?

Cause now you’re just holding up a higher card like you’ve been doing in every game today. Maybe you... are... on top of your game... The candy of victory is better when it’s hard...

Gravity... Your lips inch closer. 

Your slightly parted lips & that parched swallow might just give Blondie a hint of how desperately you want him to melt on your tongue. And you’re over worrying about it. You even yank at his necklace.

The way his hair falls over your lashes creates a delightful distraction as your noses nearly collide. And the best you can pretend in this intimacy is filthy, “I still haven’t forgiven you.” 

“Ummmmm...”

On brand! Disturbingly sexy hum that flows like honey—a sugary glaze, coating your lips in a deliciously gooey way. You’re hit with the sting & the toxin even before Jaehyun has a chance to consider kissing you or taking any steps. He smiles, he’s just that awful...

“You will.”

-

Alas,

the abrupt grating noise of tires screeching to a stop cuts through the dull ambience outside. A lively group seems to spill out of the truck, loud and as if they’ve just been recharged. A voice you both instantly recognize calls out, saturated with sarcasm and clearly wanting to grab ‘someone’s’ ears. 

“Greeat! We’ve just rolled into ‘Losers Place!’”

-

What a Dullass Bullshit Scenario... for Losers.

Jaehyun scoffs lightly, giving a flimsy half-eye roll, his lips pursed in a way that shows just how unimpressed he is with the moment... Inexplicable urgency drives his body into yours one last time, likely a final act of connection.

He hadn’t even had the chance to pin your hands above your head or hold your jaw in a way that would leave you feeling completely—

There was no pulling of hair, nor did you wrap your arms around his neck to-to—

Nor did your tongue map out the crossroads on his stomach...

Or—

Clear anger paints your temple, too, each line bearing frustration... Just there’s something about keeping it a secret that bodies the danger factor, making everything feel so much more smoky and intense.

& you pout as much, nudging your nose against his as to where you feel all deprived but electrified by simply- just- doing that, softly whispering against his lips, breath all drenched,

“Do you think they know?”

Girlie, Fuck! Do you know what you do to him?

© 𝟭-𝟰𝟵. do not copy, translate, repost, and modify my works.

[thomaslittlegirl]

sleepy. cillian murphy

warnings; sleepy sex, creampie.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

it was late at night when you finally consider that you've spent enough time watching your series and get ready to go to bed.

you had started a new show and you had been so caught up in the plot that it just flew by and you didn't realize how late it was.

the clock on the living room wall read 3.50 am.

you let out a sigh and headed to the room you shared with your fiancé, the comfortable blanket wrapped around your tired body.

cillian had been asleep for quite some time, with his body completely spread out in the center of the bed. there was no place for you to get in without waking him up so, carefully, you placed the blanket on the edge of the bed and began to crawl over his body, your hair tickling his face.

your lips went to his cheeks and you began to kiss them softly, trying to wake him up as peacefully as possible.

“love…” you whisper, continuing your kisses.

"mhm?" he murmurs sleepily, his eyes opening slowly when he feels your wet lips trace a path on his neck.

"you're on my side of the bed, again." cillian gives a nasal chuckle and wraps his arms around your waist.

somehow or another, the man always managed to end up in your space; as if his body was unconsciously searching for your smell when you weren't lying next to him.

"im sorry, i cant help it."

your lips finally reach his and you give him a peck, smiling sleepily.

murphy steps aside and makes room for you to lie down. your back hits his chest and you feel his large arm reach across your side, holding you in a hug.

eyes close with pleasure when you feel his mouth place small kisses on your neck, returning the treatment you gave him minutes before.

his tongue moves with experience and knowledge on your skin, knowing which places drive you crazy and melt you like sand in his hands. as your boyfriend kisses the back of your neck, you feel one of his playful hands slipping into your underwear.

his middle finger runs up and down between the space of your folds a few times, testing the waters before sinking his finger against your clit.

"cillian..."

the man touches your cunt to his liking, caressing it as if it belonged to him.

"yes...?"

"what are you doing?" you ask, feeling your bottom heat up at the intrusion on your panties.

"just playing with your pussy." he points obvious. you press your lips together to not let out any moans. "can i taste it, my love? can i eat your cunt?"

the sweet question makes you gasp, the pad of his middle finger rubbing your clit making you even wetter.

the idea is tempting, even more so when you have too much knowledge about how good the irishman is at eating pussy: as devoted as a hungry man.

however, you feel too tired to let that happen, knowing that once he sinks into your wetness, he won't stop until you can't squirt any more juices onto his face.

"im tired, love." you reply, hoping not to disappoint him. "can you just put it inside, please?"

he nods, placing one last kiss on the back of your head. the man takes his hard cock out of his pants and boldly takes off your own pants and underwear. cillian spits into his hand and pumps his erection a little; he knows you're wet enough to take him but he tries to make it easier for you anyway, like the gentleman he is.

the head of his cock positions itself at your soaked hole and he squeezes your waist, letting you know that he is ready.

as you nod he sinks inside you, deep inside, the way he likes. he waits a few seconds for you to adjust to the intrusion before starting to move.

"do you feel me, baby?" he asks, his hand groping your tits as he spoons you. "do you feel me inside you?" you nod, eyes closed in pleasure as you feel him fuck your cunt heavenly. "yes, i know you feel me deep inside you... im so deep i could leave a baby if i wanted to."

you moan and bite your lips, making them bleed. the idea of ​​cillian fucking you a baby was a topic that always helped both of you cum quickly.

his sleepy thrusts become erratic after a minute, big hand leave your tits and starts making circles and patterns on your clit, stimulating you while he doesn't stop fucking your pussy.

the way you moan his name and your insides suck him in drives him completely crazy, bringing him closer.

"can't take it anymore." you warn, feeling how you begin to cum in his hand, dripping all over the sheets. your boyfriend grunts, fucking your pussy through your orgasm.

"good girl, you're making a mess for me." he praises.

you coming so hard always made him feel proud.

"inside." you ask, breathless. "cum inside."

he can't refuse when you ask so sweetly, so after a few seconds he cums inside you, leaving his seed on your body.

cillian presses a kiss to your head, caressing one of your legs gently. you can't keep your eyes open any longer and neither can he, sleep taking over both of you after sex.

that night, you both sleep connected, with cillian's cum resting deep inside you, his cock keeping your pussy filled.