#i wonder what he’d replace it with if he covers it up

[gaysolangelo]

i’m really looking forward to finding out the fate of jean’s face tattoo. i doubt he’ll wear the number riko gave him forever. so will he get it removed? or cover it up with a different design as kevin did? (and if so, what will the new tattoo be?) or will it perhaps turn out like neil’s four - destroyed by injury?

[postmortemnivis]

no grave can hold my body down, i'll crawl home to her.

simon really meant it, every bit of it, he’d come back to you somehow. he would find his way back to you. wether it was walking through the front door quietly not to wake you up in the middle of the night or cold in a coffin. he’d rather have you hold his dead body than not to have you touch his skin ever again.

that’s what simon was thinking about as his ear ringed so loud he couldn’t focus on his surroundings. he looked up at the sky, so blue it almost didn’t feel right. why so blue when so much blood was being shed?

he occasionally would feel the ground he was laying on tremble, maybe a hand grenade, maybe a body falling next to his. the smell of gunpowder filled his covered nostrils and he could feel his lungs collapsing on themselves from the thickness of the air he was breathing. his eyes weren’t doing good either, filled with dust and sand from the dry earth.

it took him a few more seconds to focus his eyes on something, something that possibly wasn’t moving, his head spinning each time he tried to sit up. something was weighting on his legs, holding him down. he struggled to raise his torso and groaned at the sight of a large body blocking him. he let himself fall back down.

he was ready to go, a sharp pain to his side telling him he wouldn’t last long alone. he’d been through worse, way worse, the scar provided by the meat hook was proof of that, but something was telling him this was as bad. he was ready to go.

the only thing he could think about in his last moments was you. he thought he could see glimpses of you, maybe your hair in the corner of his eyes or he’d hear your laugh as another fire shooting started. his eyes searched for you frantically. he wanted to tell you to leave immediately, scream it at the top of his lungs, but his voice was caught in his throat and you weren’t really there. his mind just playing cruel tricks on him.

your name was repeated like a mantra in his head, repeating it so many times it almost lost a meaning. almost. a prayer, a chant. he sure needed to pray, for you.

he had been shelving the thought that tormented him for months. he wanted to go and confess his sins, he almost felt the need, his palms itching with haste anytime he thought about it. years had passed since the last time he had set foot in a church, so many that he had almost forgotten the reason for the visit. the ghosts of the past never abandon you, especially if they are people you love, especially if they are family, the innocent. its always the innocent who pay the highest price.

‘i wonder what she’s doing now, who’s gonna knock on her door and tell her im gone.’ he thought. ‘hopefully price. he’s the one with tact and the most considerate. he’ll help her when i’m gone, keep an eye on her.’

the sweet smell of your hair replaced for a moment the one of blood and gunpowder, your laughter still echoing in his ears. he pictured your sweet face and big innocent eyes looking up at him.

“promise me something?”

“mhm?” he hummed, surprised you were still up. his hand hadn’t stopped caressing your hair since you laid down on his chest, your hand resting on his collarbone as your ear listened to his calm heartbeat. “yeah, anything.”

“promise me you’ll always come back.” you whispered in the dark room. “promise me, simon.”

he nodded, taken aback by your request. you weren’t the fondest of his job, he knew it, he hated to concern you like he did.

“yes.”

“promise.” you urged. “please.”

he bent his head down and kissed the top of yours, his arm sliding down your back and drawing you closer by your waist. “i will, love. i’ll always come back to you.”

you sighed, the knot of thoughts in your worried head began to untie. “mh.”

“better now?” he softly asked. his voice was hoarse from his constant shouting orders at the obstreperous recruits. you gave a short nod. “i mean it.”

he groaned as he managed to get the body off of himself, struggling to get on his knees.

fucks sake, he couldn’t let you live with him gone like this. it was selfish of him to leave you in such an abrupt way, really. he tried to push away the image of you opening the door to find price with a carton box filled with simons stuff from the barracks with the balaclava and skull mask on top and your knees hitting the floor before he could even say anything.

his legs didn’t feel like they could hold his weight up, he immediately fell to his knees as he heard another rapid fire too near him for his liking. his gun was long gone, he had to manage to survive alone, again.

“crawlin’ it is.” he breathed as he started to drag his tired body with the strength of his arms alone. you had always praised his strength: he could lift you with one arm alone, you loved to be held and hold on to his arm anywhere and at anytime. that was the main reason he always pushed for more while training, and the motivation your sweet compliments always gave him now were gonna save his life. he made a mental note to kiss and hold you a little longer and tighter if he ever made it home alive.

he could see the building his team was supposed to meet up in case things got bad. it looked so far away that it was alarmingly close. maybe it was just his messed up vision, a mirage, but he could swear he saw you from a window looking at him, urgently motioning him to come.

he brought the thick balaclava above his nose so he could breathe better and as enemy gunfire continued to flow, he kept his head low as he moved dead bodies from his way.

he could hear your voice calling for him and he wanted to call you for you back, but the noises of the battlefield were hurrying him to get to the safe zone first.

he stumbled by the door as he brought himself up, one hand stabilizing him as he held on to the doorframe as the other went to press on his wound.

“lt!” johnnys voice called before he rushed to help him. “ye cheeky bastard, i told them not to leave yet, to wait for ye.”

“gaz saw you get shot.” price swung simon’s arm over his shoulder in order to help him to the nearest table, where he laid down.

“he saw that right.” simon bit the inside of his cheek as price inspected his wound, pressing on it. “is he a‘ight?”

“he’s fine, hit his head but had his helmet on, he’s getting checked out by the medics.” price informed him as simon winced at the sharp pain. “there’s at least two bullets in here, didn’t pass through, stuck.”

“just take ‘em the fuck out.” simon groaned. “how’s it lookin’?”

“you’ll live.” price patted his shoulder in comfort before he went to call a medic.

“we really thought we’d lost ye there, lt.” johnny’s face was glowing with sweat and blood, the black war paint smudged messily all around his face and his mohawk dusted.

“helicopter’s leaving in thirty, boys!” price’s baritone voice called from the other room.

simon scoffed, sighing and closing his eyes, finally letting himself relax as your figure started to fade from the corner of the room where it’d been standing, silently looking at him. “won’t lose me, can’t wait to go home, johnny.”

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 1; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately.

Ghost listens because the periods between missions are long and colourless—he fills the time with paperwork, PT, exhausting his muscles in the gym, and dissociating in a booth at the only good pub on base when Johnny drags him along—and it’s better to tune out the thoughts in his head and replace them with something else. Besides, for as much as he gripes about poorly trained dogs barking too much, he enjoys the sound of Johnny’s voice. It quiets the faint ringing that follows him wherever he goes, an agitated humming that leaves him, on his best days, on the brink of rage.

“Tinnitus,” a doctor says when he brings it up during a routine check-up. Can you shut that fucking noise up?

“Best we can do is get you hearing aids.” Apologetic, sincere even. Stained, as always though, by a trembling, noxious unease. It emanates off the doctor in waves. 

Hard not to feel uneasy around a man in a mask, Ghost assumes. That’s all part of it though. He doesn’t cultivate comfort, doesn’t attempt to engender soft feelings or put the mind at ease. His body and persona are designed to put the body and mind on the knife’s edge of fear, and then tip it over. He leaves the sweet talking and charming to men like Johnny, who babbles red language in a tongue like larkspur. 

Ghost’s first language is oil slick. It stains and it covers and it darkens everything it touches. 

And now, Johnny’s talking about a bird.

A couple months after Las Almas, the first picture comes out. Not a folded up keepsake tucked away in the pocket of a bag or a wallet or the inside of his jacket, but right on Johnny’s lockscreen on his phone. He disapproves at first glance. Not of the girl, but at the thought of keeping something so valuable on display for anyone to see. It’s not how he functions. Everything sacred is burned, destroyed, or—if precious enough—buried so deep underground that salt miners might greet it on the way down.

“Pretty, eh?” Johnny goads, nudging Ghost with his shoulder. He’s all wide grin, eyes electric-blue like the flames of Kawah Ijen. 

She is pretty. Pretty as pie. Not a speck of grit or blood on her; if there’s any edge to her at all, it’s tempered by her smile in the photo on Johnny’s phone. A sugar sweet cunt, by the looks of it, sure it’d taste like candy if he got his mouth on it. He angles his eyes with Johnny’s lips and wonders how many times he’s eaten her out, if hers was the last cunt he ate. Likely. His boy’s the loyal kind, hard to shake off once he’s got his teeth in. Swapping spit or blood, he doesn’t leave once he’s got a taste. 

“Where’d you find her?” he asks instead of agreeing, and takes a swig from the bottle in front of him. The bar’s hardly filled out yet; the two of them come early because Ghost’s an old man—that’s what Johnny would say—and doesn’t like to be around people once the sun’s set. It’s a burnished gold now, sun hovering low in the sky when Ghost turns an eye to it. 

“Florist. Met her when I picked up flowers for mam’s birthday.”

Nearly a month then. “And I’m just hearin’ about this now?”

Not in this same pub three times a week since then. Not on the tarmac, suited up and sweating already beneath two layers of gear. Not in the shower beside Ghost’s, fingers reaching over the side for a bar of soap because Johnny can’t be arsed to get his own. Not with his head slumped to let Ghost shave the sides of his head nice and neat, thick fingers splayed over the delicate bone of his skull that Ghost knows would take nothing to break. 

It rankles him until he looks back down at the phone in his hands—the one he’d plucked from Johnny’s fingers even while he whined about Ghost always stealing his shit—and feels his heartbeat slow. It levels out like staring into the scope of a rifle, the molecules of his breath melding with the molecules of the air until even the sound of his heartbeat dulls to the insects around him. 

Johnny purses his lips. “…Wasn’t sure then. Am now.”

“Cunt’s a cunt. What’s there to be sure about?”

“No.” Johnny shakes his head vehemently. “She’s no’ like that. She’s special—I’m telling ye, Lt—” he stresses when Ghost snorts, the sound thick with scepticism, “—she’s a good egg. Smart one. Sweet as pie.”

Sweet as pie. Mutt half-shares his thoughts these days. They must have brought more home than just shellshock and keloids. 

Johnny squawks when Ghost unlocks his phone and thumbs through his photos, trying to wrench it out of Ghost’s hand to no avail. He’s easy to hold back. All he has to do is put down his beer for a second and get a handful of hair and jerk, and there it is. Peace and quiet. A wince bleeding into his peripheral vision while Johnny mumbles something under his breath about him being a mean bastard. 

He snorts again. Even from Johnny, he’s heard worse. 

There isn’t much left of him these days. A tired husk and a taste for Guinness. He bleeds and shaves and wipes it off, smells the viscera still staining his mask that he hardly ever washes, can’t bear to honestly. Waste of fucking time, as far as he’s concerned. Just going to get dirtied again, soaked in blood again within the week. Shaves his head too just to have less to deal with, less to distract him from the single-minded intensity he brings to the job. He’d dematerialize if he could, become a ghost in name and shape, if only the laws of physics allowed. 

Instead he’s saddled with a body that echoes back his age in creaking joints and low back pain. Scar tissue that aches when it gets cold. 

In the months he’s known Johnny, he’s never let himself think about the world outside their bubble. His rank demands a certain level of socialising, and while he doesn’t schmooze with the brass like other lieutenants might, Ghost hardly has the privilege of isolating himself all the time, but still he can count the people he considers close on one hand. 

Not family, but close. The thought of family is sheathed within him; he knows to leave the knife in lest he bleed. Still, Johnny’s fought his way onto the list and now he has to pay with his pound of flesh. 

There’s a switch that’s been off for years, closer to a couple decades, and it flips back on when he finds this man that trusts him without question, that follows his orders and looks up at him with these big, puppy blue eyes. It twists something in his chest. It turns him into a thing that says maybe it’s better to take than just covet. 

There are other photos of the girl in Johnny’s phone, some likely not meant for present company (Johnny flushes red when Ghost flips to a picture of his bird in a pretty little number, lace cupping her tits and ass, sitting on Johnny’s bed back home and looking back at him over her shoulder with a little grin). Still, it interests him to see this side of his boy; he’s maybe thought of it before in abstract terms. He knows that Johnny’s no stranger to a wandering eye, not with the way he’s built and his pretty boy face. He’s well acquainted with Johnny’s dick, hard not to be in such close quarters; it’s a nice, pretty thing, just like him, a good handful. Nothing like the ruddy battering ram in between Ghost’s legs. The one Johnny once got a glimpse of in the showers after a two week long stint in Kyrgyzstan and paled, mouth gaping open while he stared until he could finally laugh it off. 

Ghost remembers thinking detachedly about how lovely that little gaped open mouth would feel around his cock. 

Surprising that it took this long for him to cotton on to his own desires. 

“Bring ‘er around then. I’ll see for myself how sweet she is.”

Johnny scowls at the sudden uproar from a nearby table. “No’ a chance in hell. Dinnae trust any of these fuckers to behave around her.”

Ghost hums. He’s not wrong to be wary; under the table, Ghost runs a hand over his bulge and gives it a squeeze, lifting his thigh to readjust. She has a lovely mouth too. 

He’s been breathing fire and brimstone recently. Hungering to hear something break. It takes Johnny’s hand on his arm to hold him back, every cigarette puffed down to the filter. The pictures on Johnny’s phone make it seem easy though. 

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately, preening at every opportunity to show her off. He doesn’t know that it takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost’s brain to file the girl in Johnny’s phone under mine, slotting her right under Johnny in that category and isn’t that just perfect because it also takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost to imagine what she might look like under Johnny. 

He hands Johnny back the phone, face down. “You get one week. Then I wanna meet your bird.”

[moonstruckme]

summary: your roommate James plots to befriend a shy you

part 1 │ part 2 │ part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │ part 11 │ part 12 │ part 13

roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 1k words

The apartment is loud and messy when you come home, and James immediately feels bad about it. You freeze in the door like a doe in the woods, a few of his friends pausing their conversations to greet you from where they’re scattered haphazardly about the living room. 

You give a terse smile and beeline for the stairs. You’re wearing your work clothes, dirty and rumpled from a long shift, and it doesn’t escape James’ notice that you’ve bypassed the kitchen in your hurry to get to your room. You seem to have an aversion to being witnessed. He makes a mental note to check that you’ve eaten later. 

“Oh, do you work at Rizzo’s?” Lily asks you, evidently recognizing the uniform. You stall halfway up the stairs, and James suppresses a smile at your obvious reluctance. 

“Yeah,” you reply, voice even quieter than usual. 

“My friend works there.” Lily’s friendly demeanor is unphased by your timidity. The two of you have met before, like you’ve met most of his friends, in passing. “Do you know Mona?” 

You nod, easing up a bit. James wonders at the fact that you’ve lingered as long as you have, but then he notices Sirius noticing you, and he prays his friend doesn’t say anything to make you regret it. 

“Yeah, we’ve worked some of the same shifts,” you say. “She’s nice.” 

Lily grins at the confirmation. James braces himself as Sirius angles his head. 

“What do you do there, lovely?” 

The endearment instantly flusters you. Your shoulders tighten and your hand flexes on the banister as though to keep yourself from bolting. “I’m a host,” you say. 

“That’s nice.” Sirius’ grin is intentionally disarming, lopsided and flirtatious. You look as though you’re not sure what to make of it. “I’m sure it makes for good business to have the pretty girls welcoming customers.” 

It’s your last straw. You mumble something about it being nice to see them and all but dash up to your room. James hears your door shut with a soft click. 

Sirius frowns. “Skittish thing, isn’t she?” 

“Tosser.” Remus pulls him roughly against his side, rolling his eyes when Sirius wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s torso sulkily. 

“I was paying her a compliment.”  

“She’s just shy.” James doesn’t know why he feels the need to explain you, exactly. Your diffidence is fairly obvious now, but he still feels a bit guilty for thinking you just hated him when he first moved in. After knowing Remus for so long, he thought he’d be able to tell the difference between shyness and standoffishness. Now apparently he feels responsible for liaising between you and his friends. “You knew you were going to embarrass her, prick.” 

The conversation turns to Sirius’ tendency to verbally prod at those with quieter demeanors, which he denies vehemently and Remus corroborates with pointed looks but not much commentary. 

Once they’ve gone, James goes up to your room with a sandwich. The door is cracked but he knocks anyway, waiting for your quiet “come in” before he pushes it the rest of the way open. 

“Figured you might’ve missed dinner,” he says by way of greeting, going to set the plate down on your bed. 

It takes effort not to let his eyes roam the room. He can see in his periphery that your desk is cluttered but neat and your walls covered with pictures and art. An effect of your reticence is that, aside from what sort of shampoo you use and how often you need to restock the milk in the fridge, James knows very little about you. He knows you’re a good roommate. You’re clean, you don’t bicker about the thermostat, and you haven’t even seemed cross with him for eating the rest of your oreos (which he’s going to replace, seriously, as soon as he remembers to go to the store). You’re quiet, obviously, but along with that you seem kind. 

Honestly, it makes him a bit uncomfortable that you don’t seem to want to be friends. James is only human; he likes being liked, even more so by nice girls with pretty smiles, and it seems crucial that he be liked by nice girls with pretty smiles who he shares a living space with. If you’re going to brush your teeth using the same sink as somebody, you should be on good terms. James believes this. 

And though he hasn’t had to work so hard for friendship in some years, he is diligent. He thinks he’ll bring you around yet. 

Evidence of progress: the happy-surprised look in your eyes when you spot the sandwich. 

“Thank you,” you say, a tender sort of bemusement lining your words. “You didn’t have to do this.” 

“Well, if you’ve actually missed dinner, you probably ought to eat something more substantial,” James hedges. He pushes his luck, sitting across from you on your bed. “I don’t want to be an accomplice to your snacks-for-meals agenda.” That wins him a small smile. “But I do feel bad, keeping you from your own kitchen because I have friends over.” 

Your eyes flit away at the last bit. You take a hearty bite of your sandwich, chewing to avoid a reply.

“You should know, you are actually paying rent for the whole apartment,” he says, “not just your room.” 

You look chastened as you swallow, but you wave him off. “I would’ve gone down to get something later,” you say airily. “I didn’t want to infringe on your time with your friends.” 

“You?” James actually laughs. “Never. Trust me, we see plenty of each other. They could probably use a fresh face.”

You roll your eyes. It’s a ploy to keep from looking at him, he’s certain of it. “Well, regardless, you shouldn’t worry about it. I wasn’t starving.” 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Your mattress creaks as James stands. Some of the stiffness to your posture eases, and he wonders if you’re relieved to see him go, but you look up with another small smile. Pretty. 

“Thanks for the sandwich,” you say. 

“You should really have another one,” he replies, grinning back because of forces beyond his control. He starts backing out of the room. “Do you want me to make it? Actually, don’t answer that. I’m making it.” 

Your quiet laughter follows him down the stairs. 

[jymwahuwu]

Capitano has me grrrr so ill—

So the heat has been bad and you’re capitanos arranged marriage darling so naturally you fall ill. When u go to a doctor they confirm that you’re expecting a baby and you’re terrified to tell your husband lmao. You have no idea how he’d react so you tell and/or bribe the doctor to just tell capitano for you while you do your best to avoid him as best you can the rest of the day :3

Love this!! The flustered and shy you and the affectionate Capitano… now besides Tsaritsa he has someone to pledge his undying loyalty…🥺💕

cw: yandere, arranged marriage, creampie, pregnancy, fem reader

The marriage to Capitano was arranged - a mission. Your relatives have already been looking for a lifelong spouse for you when you reach adulthood. In the eyes of these traditional people, nothing is more important than marriage and childbirth. What you didn't expect was. An armored warrior slowly walked into your village with gifts, solemnly knelt down on one knee and proposed to you, asking them to marry you to him. Your relatives are shuddering.

Of course, they accepted his gift.

Capitano sent enough supplies for the entire village and set up a heating system to help them survive the winter. In exchange, he got his bride.

You've never met him before, but he seems to know every strand of your hair, every smile and worry.

Fatui? That's too far away for you. You have no deep understanding of his power. Full of confusion, you married him. Your husband is upright, aboveboard, and strong… He is not out of control or impulsive. Sex also seemed like a routine. Always advance in a careful and firm rhythm, and stretch your thighs for several hours until your vagina is swollen and dripping. This is how every battle ends. His balls ravaged your quivering petals, his thick glans pushing into the tight depths. He kissed your lips and the back of your hands intently, his warm breath blowing behind your earlobes.

Maybe he just needed an heir. You wonder in despair. Marriage may be romantic, but it's not yours.

You have recently lost your appetite, vomited, and your breasts are swollen. You start to wonder if this could be…?

Capitano tells you that you need his permission to go out. He is not stuffy and conservative. This is a measure to ensure your safety. You are sick and you just want to see a doctor. That's okay, but you still can't go out. The doctor treats you at the manor.

The doctor's diagnosis and treatment results confirm your concerns - you are pregnant, and a little life is growing inside you.

"P-please tell my husband for me," you plead quietly, sniffing. You don't know how Capitano will react.

The doctor readily agreed. For the next half day, you tried your best to avoid your husband, including hiding in the greenhouse, watering the flowers and plants, searching for a magazine "you are interested in but can't remember the name" in the reading room, practicing cooking, and exploring new ways to play TCG. Just as you were hiding in a corner of the library reading pregnancy books, a rush of footsteps approached. It's his leather shoes.

"Are you pregnant?"

Looking at him as if you were caught in the headlights, you covered your cheek with your book and answered vaguely. "Uh…maybe…"

"Are you pregnant?"

Question again. Even your vision was shaken, your waist was lifted, and Capitano lifted you with one hand. The deep scar on his face has now been replaced by affection, and his chest is roaring with joy, bathing in it. You lowered your head and lifted your legs off the ground, panicking. "You, please calm down…"

"…Sorry, I got carried away." He carefully placed you back on the ground, as if you were fragile porcelain, and then he took the back of your hand and kissed it as usual. Those deep blue eyes exuded energy, like twinkling stars in the dark night.

[fenrislorsrai]

Seven months of searching for her lost son brought Bettersten Wade to a dirt road leading into the woods, past an empty horse stable and a scrapyard. The last time she’d seen her middle child, Dexter Wade, 37, was on the night of March 5, as he left home with a friend. She reported him missing, and Jackson police told her they’d been unable to find him, she said.  It wasn’t until 172 excruciating days after his disappearance that Bettersten learned the truth: Dexter had been killed less than an hour after he’d left home, struck by a Jackson police car as he crossed a nearby interstate highway. Police had known Dexter’s name, and hers, but failed to contact her, instead letting his body go unclaimed for months in the county morgue. 

GEE I WONDER IF THESE ARE RELATED

The decision to call the police was difficult for Bettersten. She did not trust them. In 2019, her 62-year-old brother died after a Jackson officer slammed him to the ground. The officer was convicted of manslaughter but is appealing.  Her family filed a wrongful death lawsuit accusing Jackson officers of excessive force and attempting to cover up their actions, and accusing the city of failing to properly train and supervise the officers. The city has denied the claims and said it isn’t liable for what happened. The officers’ lawyer said they acted responsibly and lawfully. A federal judge dismissed some of Bettersten’s claims; others remain pending in state court.  Bettersten said her mother advised her not to call the police about Dexter.

The whole thing is worth reading, its not that long. But other key points: the coroner IDed Dexter within a few days and gave the info to the police to notify the family. After months of no info, officer in charge of missing persons retired. Within two weeks, the replacement officer notified her of the death and took her to fetch the body from a paupers field where coroner buried unclaimed bodies.

[amongemeraldclouds]

coming undone

Where Mattheo fucks away your insecurities with his mouth. Based on this request.

Mattheo Riddle x f!Reader

Warning: smut, 18+ mdni, oral (f!receiving), established relationship, characters are aged up, plus sized reader

a/n: thank you dearly to my beloved wifeyy @pizzaapeteer for proofreading and helping with pics.

Masterlist | Mattheo Riddle Masterlist | 605 words

“P-please, Matty” soft pleas escaped your lips, your fingers tangled in his curls as you held on to the last strands of your sanity, “need to cum.” Your shallow breaths mingled with the sloppy sounds of Mattheo’s mouth feasting on your needy cunt.

All night he worshipped you with soft kisses, long licks, and slow suctions that sent you right at the edge of the cliff, eager to surrender to the euphoric waves below, but not quite getting the final push you needed.

You tugged at his hair harder and bucked your hips when he ignored you, letting your body speak for you. A chuckle escaped his lips, “oh I’m sorry, your beautiful thighs were covering my ears pretty girl, say it again.” You groaned in frustration and his fingers replaced his mouth, rubbing slow circles around your clit. He stared at you with wild eyes, his face glistening with your slick. You were going to have to beg for it.

“I need to cum, please Matty,” you tried again and squirmed when he gently slapped your dripping pussy. Your soft whimpers filled the air and he spoke, “my pretty girl thinks she can get what she wants when she hasn’t learned her lesson yet?” There was a sharp edge to his voice that pierced through your nerves. “What did I tell you about putting yourself down?”

You closed your eyes and recalled your tears from earlier when you spilled your insecurities to Mattheo and he said he knew how to make you feel better. The pleasure made your toes curl and kept you lightheaded, but you tried to focus and recall what he told you earlier. “M-my body is beautiful.”

“And?” Mattheo pressed on, fingers moving around your sensitive spots, sending sparks of pleasures all the way down your toes.

You took in a deep breath and committed his words to memory, a vow he was desperate to carve through the depths of your soul, if that’s what it took for you to see what he saw. Breathtaking curves, thighs he could get lost in for days, and the tender softness of your flesh. “My body is beautiful and every inch of me is loveable.”

“That’s right,” he flashed you a wicked grin. “Now keep chanting that and you’ll be rewarded. Will you be a good girl for me?”

You nodded, repeating the words. Heat swelled deep in your core and you arched your back as Mattheo entered you with his fingers, coaxing your release. He sucked at your clit the way you liked it, alternating with his tongue and lips. The words rang through you until the final stroke pushed you off the edge, plunging straight into ecstasy, turning you into a moaning mess. Pleasure coursed through you in waves as you shook, walls fluttering against Mattheo’s playful fingers.

“That’s my pretty girl,” he encouraged as you gave him everything you had.

When you came down from your high, Mattheo leaned over you and planted a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Your body is beautiful and every inch of you is loveable,” he repeated once again as sincere eyes gazed into you. He’d never let you forget.

You smiled back at him, at the boy who always dived headfirst into reckless danger with his signature smirk. Yet here he was, sweet and gentle for you. “How did I get so lucky?” you wondered aloud.

“Oh, you won’t be thinking that soon when I have you begging for me again,” he said as he unbuckled his trousers. “Didn’t think we were done yet, love? We’ve got the rest of the night ahead of us.”

Masterlist | Mattheo Riddle Masterlist

[sp0o0kylights]

Indie horror filmmaker Eddie Munson, high off his first big (underground but notable) success, knows the movers and shakers of the film world have their eyes on him. 

They're just waiting to see if he was a one hit wonder before they open all the doors he's been trying to kick down. 

His next upcoming film is his chance, his shot at finally making it. Of being like Rob Zombie and the other creators he looks up to that masterfully blended metal and horror. 

This is his golden ticket. 

The project starts off smooth. His last success has greased the wheels, and things fall into place faster than ever before. 

He's got the best idea for this insane haunted house story, a true "mazes in mazes" type of deal with a queer twist. A real look at how a place can haunt a person just as easily as a ghost can.

 Everything's going swimmingly--until one of his leads drops out the day they're due to start shooting.

No call no show's, and later, Eddie will find out the guy got a last second call back to be a contestant on one of those Love Island bullshit romance gigs (and laugh his ass off when the main love interest takes one look at Billy Hargrove and goes on a five minute rant about ugly mullets on national television) but right now? 

He's fucked. 

He's called in every favor he has for this film. Maxed out every credit card he owns, tapped every contact, got on his hands and knees and begged his rising star journalist best bud to help him market it. (Which Nancy agreed too, for way less cash than she should have.) 

 Eddie can't get anyone on the phone, much less find a replacement actor and the amazing place they rented, that is so dark and wonderfully eerie, is booked out the rest of the year as an AirBnB. 

If he doesn't film now, he loses it all.

Cue the other lead, unknown theater actor Steve Harrington, watching his hair pulling, tire kicking, 'cursing and hopping while holding a toe' mental breakdown and asks why Eddie himself doesn't act in it. 

"Just go full Kevin Smith man. Act and direct." He says, with an easy grin. 

Jeff, Eddie's tried and true videographer, trades glances with Gareth and Grant (Eddie's long used special effects and makeup team, who double for about twelve other jobs because they're also his best friends and they're all in this together, make or break.)

"We don't really have a lot of other options." Gareth hedges. "You're already using me and Grant as background characters." 

Eddie, hands fluttering around his face as though trying to wave away this entire situation, squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a pained hiss. 

"Fine, fine!" He announces with the air of a man running towards a fire. "Fuck it, this is our one shot and so help me I will be shooting it!" 

Steve politely hides a laugh with a cough. 

"Chuckle all you want big boy, I'm going to tragically romance you so hard people will forget both of our characters actually live." Eddie snarls.

Steve, the handsome bastard, just winks.  "Looking forward to it." 

Eddie blushes, but hides it with a surge of frantic energy, conveyed by lots of yelling and moving and getting the ball rolling. 

Two days later, Steve would give the performance of a lifetime down on his knees, covered in a literal pound of fake gore, booty shorts and nothing else as he sobbed about how a lover could become a home. His hands clawed at Eddie's jeans before resting a tear stained face on a slim leg as he bent his body towards Eddie like it hurt to be away from him. 

Eddie would later receive equal praise in his own acting during the scene, with the world and every reporter in it asking how he conveyed an otherworldly panic so beautifully throughout Steve's performance. What was he thinking, to evoke those expressions on his face? 

The way his own pale hand, unmarred by blood and acting as a metaphor for the plot, would come to stroke Steve's cheeks.

Eventually he'd come up with a smooth polished answer that cheekily pleased his audience, but nothing would ever come close to the truth. 

("Eddie I've known you since grade school." Jeff said that night, a scant few hours after they'd wrapped. "You can act man, but not like that." 

Eddie made a wild "shut up" gesture, looking frantically over his shoulder before admitting; "You saw how close his face was to the prince of darkness!? I was seconds away from popping a boner next to his lips, in front of the 4K camera!” 

Eddie bounced into Jeff’s face so he could hiss: “He fucking had his chin on my thigh, Jeff, and I am only a man. A mere mortal!" 

"So we're gonna unpack all of that later." Jeff said finally, when he'd managed to get his mouth working and Eddie back out of his personal space. "But dude, we've talked about you calling your dick the prince of darkness." 

Eddie flipped him off.) 

One year later and critics named Corroded the best horror film of the year, praising the camera work, practical effects, and how there wasn't a soul alive who was surprised to hear Eddie and Steve were dating after their explosive on screen chemistry.

No one ever quite understood the prince of darkness jokes or why Steve mentioning it made Eddie blush, but that was a secret to find out later. 

Today on WIP’s I have no intention of writing, indie horror movie AU!

[salsakiyoomi]

Hiii, I have a request! Ok so hear me out, what if Sukuna finds another woman and replace reader. make it as angsty as possible with a happy ending pretty please with a cherry on top🥹

a/n : absolutely!! you can read this for more context. cw : extremely suggestive towards the end, vulgar language

you couldn’t believe your eyes.

the sight in front of you was one for sore eyes, and it made your heart pang in your chest — sukuna with his arm wrapped around a pretty blonde, a very pretty blonde in fact, with the bluest eyes you had seen and pretty cherry red plump lips.

it’s not the first time you had seen him around with her. It’s been two weeks since he had seen you coming out of that guy’s dorm room covered in hickeys and whatnot, and it’s been two weeks since he had stopped talking to you and started hanging out with that girl.

you weren’t sure why your heart hurt so much and why your shoulders were heavy as you watched him kiss her temple and tug her closer — he never did that to you, in public at least, he insisted that since the two of you weren’t official there was no need for pda, nobody even knew that you had any connections to sukuna, most of the time he’d ignore you in public, but when night came? it was like you were the only girl for him.

so why was he holding her like that? like she was the only girl for him — were they dating? is he in love with her? no, impossible.

sukuna didn’t do love, that's what he always told you.

the only thing left is that he was doing this to spite you — replace you with someone else, and right in front of your eyes too, he was making it painfully obvious.

your heart sinks in your chest as his gaze catches your and there is the tell tale of burning in your eyes as tears begin to well up — why were you crying? for a man like him? he didn’t deserve it.

for a moment, you think you see a flash of pity on his face, but the blonde is up in his lap leaning in for a kiss and — 

you turn away before you could see it.

hot tears stream down your face and you wonder if this is it, if that’s how everything ends — you knew you were getting into a mess once you involved yourself with the infamous drummer, that he wasn’t necessarily a good guy.

but still.

you spend the rest of the day in your dorm room, crying your eyes out for the most of it and eating ice cream — classic, but you didn’t have anything else to do, nothing to take your mind off of things.

it was around eleven pm when you considered going to that dude’s dorm, the one that you slept with two weeks ago — you really needed something to get your mind off of things.

you decide you will, and when you get up to go open the door to get out, lo and behold, it’s nobody but sukuna, and it looks like he was about to knock on your door.

your eyes widen and instantly there is a scowl on your face, “fuck off.” you grit out.

his face is of indifference, staring down at you intimidatingly you could almost shrink down under his gaze — you always do.

“we need to talk,” he says and you scoff, “the fuck we don’t — hey! get your hand off of me —” he’s gripping your arm and leading you back inside the dorm room, maybe manhandling you a little bit, he shuts the door behind him and leans on it, staring you down.

“what do you want?” you ask, and there is a slight wobble in your voice and once more, the burning in your eyes — you didn’t want to cry in front of him.

he doesn’t respond at first, and a moment passes of him just staring at you and you avoiding his gaze, before he is shifting himself off of the door and taking a step closer to you, his hands at your waist.

you try to slap his hands away but his grip is firm, “oh, come on, don’t you have the pretty blonde whore to fuck?” you say bitterly and he cringes.

“she’s nothing to me,” he says and you roll your eyes, “then why was she all over you?”

god, it hurt so much, to have seen him like that with her, and you could only wish to be her in that moment.

he stays silent for a moment and you stare up at him, letting out a noise that was close to a whimper, “you hurt me, ryomen.” you say meekly.

you catch the slight twitch of his lips into a pout, but it’s quickly gone, “you fucked me up, too.” he says, “sleeping with that fuck boy.”

you scoff — does this even make any sense anymore? the two of you agreed it was nothing exclusive so why the hell were you so attached to each other?

“i was drunk that night,” you murmur, and you can’t believe you actually feel bad for sleeping with that guy, “and stupid…”

sukuna huffs, his hands moving up your body and you stare up at him with innocent eyes and god, he can’t resist you like that.

ho he presses his lips to yours in a firm kiss, and pulls you closer to him, letting his hands wander all over your body, “i don’t even like that blonde whore you’re talking about,” he murmurs against your lips before going back to kissing you and your body is on fire.

his hands wander up your shirt and his touch is like electricity to your skin — god, you missed his touch so bad, it’s been almost a month and half since the two of you had done anything.

you moan softly and you feel him smirk against your lips, “that desperate, huh?” he hums and your stomach twists in knots.

he takes your shirt off, leaving you in nothing but your bra and shorts, his hands wander up all the way to your breasts as he trails his kisses from your lips to your jaw and neck.

you shiver under the cold tips of his fingers, your lungs are constricting and there are butterflies in your stomach, and he can tell, he can absolutely tell the way you inevitably melt under his touch.

“bet that fuckboy couldn’t make you feel as good as this,” he murmurs against your skin, before sucking harshly — he’s determined to leave his marks on you tonight.

“ryomen,” you moan softly and oh how the way his name falls from your lips make him so heated, especially when you let out a pretty moan like that.

he fiddles with the clips of your bra as he continues to trail kisses down to your collarbone, and you’re leaning into him, melting under his touch and you forget anything bad he has ever done to you, you don’t care to remember, not when it feels as good as this.

and sukuna is addicted to you too, you were like a drug for him, no matter how much he tried to pull away, he always found his way back to you — he was addicted to the way his name rolls off of your tongue when you were breathless and under him, he was addicted to how soft your skin was compared to his calloused hands, how pretty you sound when he was deep inside and he was addicted to how you completely crumble under his touch.

he unclips your bra and the clothing falls to the floor and he’s smirking against your skin as he can practically hear your heart thumping in your chest.

“let’s go to the bedroom, yeah?”

[pochaccoups]

cw — sfw, fluff, mingi is sick and sulky, reader is smaller than mingi

It’s not entirely weird for Mingi to be waking up at 11:27 a.m. Sure, he’ll get up at seven or eight on a day full of schedules, but there’s also days where he sleeps until two, three, four p.m whether it’s from jet lag or after staying up late writing. What is weird is the fact that he’s been asleep since eight p.m. yesterday.

A text from your boyfriend is what lets you know he’s finally awake, and you’re up from the sitting room couch in an instant, darting to your shared bedroom.

He’s got the covers pulled halfway up his face with just his eyes poking out to stare at his phone screen and you wonder how a six-foot-something man can look so small.

“Morning, baby,” you say, slinking over to his side of the bed so you can sit on the edge next to him.

“Morning,” he replies, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was quite literally in front of you, you’d be convinced that someone had kidnapped your boyfriend and replaced him with a complete stranger—one with a voice so deep that it rumbles when he speaks.

Your eyes widen and you giggle, but you can’t say you’re surprised at how he sounds. His voice is notorious for dropping several octaves in the morning. Usually it’s sexy, but given that he’d spent the entire day before complaining about a sore throat, you can’t find it in you to feel anything but pity for the poor boy.

“So, I called your doctor and he said you need to stay home for the next four to five days at the least,” you tell him, reaching for his muss of silver hair to tangle your fingers through it softly.

“What-no, I’m really fine!” he whines, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. “I have to practice for the comeback, I can’t take a break right now.”

“You’re not taking a break, Gi, you’re going on sick leave. You kept me up all night with your sneezing and coughing,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, only to melt as soon as he gives you his big, round, puppy eyes.

“But it’s just a cold…”

“Well, the doctor ordered it. Besides, I’ve already called Hongjoong and your managers. And I took work off today and tomorrow so I can stay home with you.”

For a split second you swear his eyes well up with tears. “You did?”

“Of course,” you tell him. When Mingi is sick, he turns into a four week old puppy because he can’t be left alone, or a newborn baby who needs a pair of eyes on him at all times so that he doesn’t suffocate to death. So when you tell him you’ll go make him some food and tea, he wraps his excessively giant hands around your body and clings to you, like letting go of you would mean he’ll succumb to his illness.

“Gi, you need fluids. Please let me go,” you remind him, but he only holds you tighter and you know it’s partly out of spite and partly because he’s just like this—a velcro boyfriend.

“Mingi, I’ll be two minutes, then I’ll come right back, okay?” you tell him.

“No, you won’t, I know you,” he says, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s pouting. It’s a permanent feature of his face by now.

“I will! Why else do you think I took work off, huh?”

He’s silent then, and a moment later his arms fall loose, and he lets you go, but you leave a kiss on his forehead as an act of promise to him and shuffle back out to your kitchen.

Spurred by your boyfriend’s neediness, you gather leftover rice from the fridge, chicken broth, and a handful of vegetables with haste and start to boil the concoction that your mother taught you how to make, the one that got you through not just fevers but through heartbreaks, losses, and cold winters.

“The most important ingredient,” she would say, “is a sprinkle of your heart”—though Mingi deserved more than just a sprinkle.

The kettle boils away and your stew bubbles with life in no time. It’s also no time before a giant, warm, sniffling body plasters itself to your back and buries his face into your neck, practically bending in half to do so.

You can’t say you don’t see it coming. Still, the spirit of your mother possesses you when you drag out his name to scold him.

“Why aren’t you in bed, dummy?” you question, though you’re careful not to have any real aggravation in your voice toward him. Admittedly, you adore the way his body heat wraps around you like a blanket, although you’re sure that’s just his fever.

“Missed you too much,” he mumbles, nuzzling his nose and lips against your shoulder.

“I told you I’d be two minutes,” you sigh.

“It’s been more than that already. You lied. I knew you’d lie.”

“It was hyperbole for ‘I’ll be super quick’.”

“Then you should have said that.”

You place your wooden spoon down on the counter, turning to face your boyfriend with a fond smile on your face.

He looks adorable. Unbelievably so. Mussed up white hair, a dusting of pink on the apples of his cheeks and the pointy tip of his nose, puffy eyes that still sparkle at the sight of you. You might be the luckiest human on the planet.

You bring your hands up to his face, grabbing at each of his cheeks and squishing them gently between your fingers.

“My poor, sick princess,” you coo, watching his dimples make an appearance when he gives you a goofy, content smile. “Do you wanna watch a movie? Or a show maybe?”

He nods his head, still smiling so sweetly.

“Go pick something and I’ll finish up your soup,” you offer.

“Can I have a kiss first?”

You stare at him, unamused, though you know this very well—Song Mingi cannot live without your kisses. It’s why he was crafted with the softest, prettiest, heart-shaped lips, so that you could kiss them over and over and over again until the end of time. There are exceptions, however.

“I’m not catching your virus! Is that what you want?”

“No, no, on my forehead again!” he clarifies, his features suddenly muddled with worry because he would suffer from this cold for the rest of his life if it meant you would be healthy for the rest of yours. You wonder, though, if he knows how badly you wish you could take his cold and suffer it for him.

“Oh, well then yeah, duh,” you say, standing on your tip toes and gently pulling Mingi’s face towards you so that you can plant an overly long kiss on his burning forehead and pull away with a “mwah!” that leaves him utterly beaming.

Finally satisfied, he shuffles off back to the room, leaving you to brew his tea and serve up the stew into two bowls.

You grab flu tablets from the medicine cabinet, noting that they’re almost all gone and you’ll need to go to the pharmacy to get more. For today you have enough, so you place them on the tray along with the stews and tea and make your way back to your bedroom.

Mingi is curled up under the covers again and it’s so cute that you hate to disturb him, but he unfurls himself and sits up as soon as he sees you with a tray in hand.

“What are we watching?” you ask, slowly settling on the bed next to him and laying the tray down on the mattress.

“I think Attack on Titan, if you want to,” he says, full of fondness as you hand him two tablets to take.

“Oh, right, you’ve been wanting to watch that! Of course I want to,” you tell him, because you could never pass up the opportunity to see Jean Kirschtein in action again. You’ve missed him dearly since the show ended, though you have no doubt of the sulking and pouting you’ll get from Mingi when he comes onscreen.

Your boyfriend’s eyes go comically wide when he tries your soup and you laugh because he almost chokes on it.

“Is it that good?” you chuckle.

“It’s really good,” he responds.

“Good, because I put all my love into it.”

He hums, his face glowing pink as he eats another spoonful. “I can tell. Thank you for making this. And thank you for taking care of me. And for putting up with me.”

“Anything for my princess,” you giggle. “But I’m not ‘putting up with you’, idiot. Is it hard to comprehend that someone cares about you, Mingi?”

He stares up at you with his shiny eyes as though you hand-crafted the very sun, moon, and stars and placed them in the sky yourself.

“I love you,” he says, a mere whisper. It’s three words he’s said to you a million times, but right now, with his walls down and him vulnerable, it’s worth a million times more.

“I love you too,” you reply, leaning over to smack your lips against his temple. “Now watch the show!”

And he tries, he really does—but your little hospital patient is fast asleep by the third episode.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Lost drafts…

Erik Killmonger HARDCORE SMUT.

Within the year they were married, Erik attempted to get his wife to deep throat him. She did on occasion give very wonderful slurping sessions, but she’d always been afraid to take him all the way in. Erik’s ten inch dick was a lot to handle. She’d just gotten used to it in her pussy, now she needed to get her throat and ass acquainted. During their play sessions, she would let him gag her with his fingers. But, Erik had a big fetish for keeping his women gaged and having her deep throat his dick. He kept a hidden file on his laptop in his home office of vids of women deepthroating and wearing gags.

After a long day in the office, Erik entered his home to find it ignited by candlelight. Inching in further, loosening his tie and cuffing his sleeves, he found his way into their dining room to find Tyra, his wife, dressed in deep-purple lingerie. A plate of what looked like brown stewed chicken with rice and peas awaited him. She stood from her seat with those generous curves to greet him. They French kissed and she broke the kiss to take off his jacket.

“Baby, what’s all this about?” Erik questioned with excitement laced in his voice.

“I want to cater to you…here, daddy, have a seat.”

Erik waited for her to pull his chair out and when he sat down, Tyra got down on her knees and started removing his loafers. He watched her with a penetrating stare and his thick lips turned up into a smile. The stress on his face when he’d initially walked in was replaced with admiration.

“Damn, it’s like that?” Erik said.

“I want you to relax. You work so hard, daddy. You spoil me…love me…respect me…how can I not return the favor?”

Erik arched a brow at her, “Hmm…I do…but you must want something. Whatchu want, wifey?”

She giggled. Erik could see right through her. He ain’t mad at it, he just knows his woman. That’s why he works so hard. He thoroughly enjoys spoiling his wife and giving her the life she deserves.

"…I found your hidden vids. I’m not mad, but I will bet you the new car I want that I can learn to deep throat you in a week and you can gag me with a six-inch penis gag whenever you want," Tyra said giving Erik a devilish smile.

His eyes became saucers as he stared down at her. She’d went snooping in his office and found his XXX files on his laptop. Hardcore throat-fucking vids. That’s what Erik wanted to do to her. Fuck her throat with his fingers tangled in her hair. Watch the way her tears streamed from her eyes. Cover her with spit. Pound her throat out with nowhere to run.

She pushed his chair back and started to unbuckle his belt. Erik didn’t hesitate to raised up so she could slip his slacks down to free his suddenly rock-hard dick. Erik watched her pretty face while she took in the sight of his big daddy dick. Looking up into his eyes, Tyra wrapped her hand around his rigid girth and popped that fat tip between her glossy lips. Erik hissed, his low, wanton eyes watching Tyra bob her head up and down, bumping the head of his dick against the entrance to her throat. She gagged each time slightly.

“Tyra, you sure you can get all this dick down your throat in just a week? You had a whole year to master this shit.” Erik teased.

She popped her lips off of his dick to speak, “I want that car.”

“Hm, I can see that,” Erik replied with a lick of his lips.

He tilted his head while sipping his wine, watching her do her thing. His mocha eyes would trail up and down, tracking the movement of her snug lips wrapped around his veiny girth. She twisted her lips and tightened them even more, causing Erik’s nut sack to pulse.

“Fuck, Tyra…come on,” Erik palmed the back of her head, “Still got some more dick to go, ma. Open that fuckin’ throat up.”

She gagged and Erik held her there, testing her to see how long she could take it. He would chuckle to himself whenever she came up gasping for air. Each time that fat dick returned to her mouth, Erik would anchor his hips upward to reach her throat. She pushed at his thighs as a jerk reaction. Erik tapped her cheek with a glint in his eyes.

“Don’t piss me off or ima spank that ass real good…Tyra, don’t pop your lips off my dick, I’m not gon’ say it again…”

Erik’s upper teeth dragged across his bottom lip from the sensation of Tyra constantly gagging on his dick. Her warm, wet mouth tugging over and over made his balls pulsate and his dick throb. He couldn’t control it now. Erik sat up and tightened his grip on the back of her head, using her throat for his own pleasure now. He anchored his hips and thrust into her mouth, balls to chin.

Guck guck guck guck guck guck

“I’m cumming…”

Erik came all too soon, flooding her mouth with cum. Trya swallowed him down and then kissed his tip.

"So, do we have a deal?” She asked after making a show of swallowing his cum, sticking her tongue far out.

"Maybe. What car are we talking about?” Erik inquired with a little smile on his face.

"A pretty pink Bentley Continental of course."

"…So, the deal is if you can learn to deep throat this dick in less a week, then I buy you the Bentley and I get deep throat sessions as often as I want and you will let me gag you as often as I want also?"

"Yes, no limits." Tyra replied.

"That's a lot of car for deep throating and you wearing a gag. I could hire a high priced escort for twenty years for less than that," Erik teased.

Tyra pouted. She was still jacking Erik’s dick with her small hand. He couldn’t believe how hard he was.

"Daddy, please? I can start tonight. I ordered the gag already. I can start wearing it tonight with a soft dildo to practice with. Next Saturday you tie me up and face fuck me as often as you can get it up."

She was begging him. Erik loved to watch her beg.

"Ok, deal," He told her.

His dick was at full attention again, and Tyra took it back in her mouth following her hand with her mouth. Using her tongue on the head, she managed to get Erik to cum again and harder this time. Erik felt her swallow each shot of cum as it erupted from his fat dick. Tyra made a production of cleaning his softened dick before letting it pop out of her mouth.

Over the next few days, Tyra sucked Erik off twice every night. They had a routine where she waited on the floor outside of the shower for his clean dick to enter her mouth, and then a final time before bed with her head hanging over the edge. During the day while Erik was at the office, Tyra sent him short vids of her practicing deep throating the silicone dildo. She was doing so well. Erik couldn’t believe her progress.

For the next few days, Tyra wore the short dildo gag the rest of the time. Each night when Erik arrived home from work, she would slowly remove the gag she was wearing and give him slow, sensual head, taking his dick deep for a few seconds at a time. Soon, it was Friday morning and Tyra had breakfast ready since Erik got home from the gym. He showered and she knew to be right there to service him like a good slut.

“You know it’s time to go up a size, Princess…”

Erik revealed a larger dildo gag for Tyra. It was two inches smaller than Erik.

“You had enough practice with that little shit. Time to really open that throat up.”

Erik didn't give her a chance to speak before he forced the silicone dildo down her throat just far enough that she could still breathe through her nose. She didn't turn away and let Erik push the dildo into her throat as far as it could go.

"Don't push it out. Follow me into the kitchen and kneel on the floor while I eat." Erik said.

Damn, what a kinky sight. The silicone dildo dangled out of her mouth with her body mostly naked and arms trapped in the armbinder. Erik ate his breakfast while his dick bounced and twitched between his toned thighs. While eating, Erik multitasked, taking the silicone dildo and fucking her mouth and throat with it. He watched her throat bulge around it as he forced it in and out. Tyra fought her gag reflex, coughing and drooling.

"Take a deep breath, I’m timing how long you can keep it down your throat." Erik said.

Tyra sucked a breath in, and Erik pushed the dildo in watching her throat bulge. Just moving it in and out a small amount. She started to gag after about 20 seconds, saliva coming out her nose. Erik pulled it out, grabbing a towel to clean her up. He soothed her and kissed her while giving her sips of water.

"You have to stay calm and not panic if you want that Bentley, baby,” Erik spoke softly.

Erik gave Tyra a break for the remainder of the day until nightfall. Erik’s lust eventually overcame his reason and he fucked her face fast and hard, long dick style until he pumped his whole load deep into her spasming throat. Cum and saliva shot out her mouth, her gagging music to his ears. He didn’t want to but he knew he needed to pull out and tend to her. Tyra sucked in a deep breath, leaning against the wall panting and trying to catch her breath. Erik wiped her face and the bathroom floor with a towel.

Suck, suck, suck. Tyra was determined. She showed Erik her mouth full of cum before swallowing it each time, making sure to lick him clean. Erik felt she was more than ready now, but he would wait. Even if it meant that he would be tossing and turning in bed to the thought of using her throat however he pleased. They went to sleep and soon, it was Saturday. Throughout the day they did things around the house but the sight of her walking around in just a thong and titties bouncing was driving Erik crazy.

“Tyra! Come up here! You know what I want!”

Erik shouted for her from the top steps, naked with his third leg pointed straight out. Tyra was in the middle of cleaning the living room. She walked over to the steps and peered up at Erik.

“Let’s go, time to fit that ring gag around your mouth.”

She climbed the stairs, Erik turning to walk away. They entered the room and Erik faced her fully now.

“Suck this dick like a nasty bitch, Tyra. Down. On your knees…”

Tyra hit the floor eagerly, waiting for Erik to gag her. In the closet, Erik returned with the ring gag and an arm-binder. Tyra’s eyes lit up like Christmas. She placed her arms behind her back and allowed Erik to secure her arms since she had no use for them at the moment. Deep throating with no hands was the only way.

"You still game with this?"

“Yes, daddy. I want that pretty pink Bentley. Punish my throat with that big, daddy dick,” Tyra croaked out in between gasps.

She opened her mouth to accept it. Erik worked the gag in and out of her gaping mouth a few times, getting it coated in saliva. He slowly forced it down her throat. It was a bit bigger in diameter than her silicone dildo, so Eirk had to push a bit before it slipped into her throat. It had a hole through it so she could breathe and plug if Erik wanted to cut off her breathing. He could see her throat contracting as she fought her gag reflex. Tyra squeezed her eyes shut, her face registering her discomfort as he worked each inch into her throat. Finally, the base rested against her chin.

"You ok do I need to take it out?"

She shook her head NO. Erik could see her gagging, drool dripping from her chin. Tears are streaming from her eyes, her nose running drool dripping off her chin. Erik pulled it out part way and fucked her throat with it a few times, watching it move in her throat.

She gave him her doe eyes and fought down the panic of not being able to breathe, controlling her gag reflex. She would not have a gag reflex after today. Tyra’s eyes started to water at 25 seconds. Erik let her have a breath at 30 seconds. He waved his finger over the hole. Tyra sucked in a breath and nodded her head, and Erik blocked the hole. He pushed her head back and traced the bulge the gag was making in her throat with his fingers. She had a small mouth, her lips stretched tight around the gag. The bulge it was making in her throat felt larger than it looked.

"Such a beautiful sight that bulge in your throat. Is it uncomfortable?"

She nodded that is was.

"And your still game," Erik asked, a brow arched in amazement at her determination.

Sam nodded ‘yes’.

Erik had enough. She was ready. More than ready. He popped that ring gag out of her mouth slowly. He allowed Tyra to catch her breath for a while, giving her water and throat massages.

“You deserve that car, mama. You’ve been such a good girl for daddy. Now, it’s my turn to have my way with you…”

Erik helped Tyra onto her feet and he picked her up, carrying her to the bed. He placed her on her back and then dangled her head over the edge of the bed. Erik straddled her head and his fat dick hung over her face, his tip leaking pre cum onto her lips. She opened wide and Erik crouched down, a hand on her chest for leverage. His dick disappeared down her throat inch by agonizingly slow inch. Erik set a leisurely pace, watching his dick move in her throat.

“Mmmm, such a good girl. You’re doing so well. I’m finally all the way in your throat now…”

Tyra could only close her eyes and take it.

Ahhh….uhhhh…mmmm….hmmmm…fuuuckkkk…

Erik circled his hips to feed her throat more hefty dick. His balls smushed against her forehead when he leaned over her to face fuck her. Slowly, he increased the tempo of his movements. Erik stared down at her barely covered, fat puss while ramming her throat with big ass dick. He couldn’t help but to slip her panties to the side and give her pussy some attention. He slipped two thick fingers inside of her while sucking her clit. He withdrew his hips from her mouth to allow her to breath. She gasped, and then a series of moans followed.

“Erik, yes, just like that! Mm!”

Erik lifted her hips from the bed and sucked on her pussy. Tyra went back to eating his dick up. Erik’s thick lips would pop off her clit and his fingers worked her hole up to a creamy mess.

“Daddy, make your pussy cum! Make your pussy cum!” Tyra cried out with a hoarse voice.

Erik frantically flipped over, brought Tyra’s knees to her ears, and slurped away. She forced his face further between her plump lower lips, rubbing his nose in it. Erik loved it when she did that. He gave her clit some serious tongue action that had her toes curling and eyes twitching. With her release, she threw that pussy in his face and Erik watched her with a smirk.

“Fuck! I’m cumming!” She shouted.

Fist full of his locs, Tyra trapped his face with her thighs. Erik came up for air and his wet dick still long and thick bounced with excitement. Erik pushed her legs back again with her ankles in his firm grip. His dick pushed past her opening and he tilted her body upwards so she had no where to run while he dug that pussy out.

“Deep in your shit, baby? Hm?” Erik spoke with a hushed tone.

Tyra’s mouth is agape.

“Daddy all the way in there? Huh?”

She could only nod her head.

He picked up the pace and his hips snapped into hers harder. Her mouth unhinged and her eyes crossed.

“There you go…gimme that pussy…gimme that pussy…”

Tyra closed her eyes and her entire body convulsed beneath Erik. He didn’t stop. She could do all that moving around, Erik simply threw her legs over his shoulders and pounded her into the mattress. The sound of wet pussy and ball-slapping filled the room. Tyra sat up on her elbows to kiss Erik and their tongues thrashed while he drove his dick deeper. They stared each other down, occasionally looking between them at the sight of Erik’s dick filling her wet, slutty hole.

“You’re such a nasty bitch, Princess,” Erik sucked her lower lip into his mouth before nibbling on it, “I’m about to put you on your stomach.”

“Unh,” Tyra pouted her lip, “Right there…”

She came again. Erik kissed her neck before slowly slipping out. He didn’t wait for her to get into position because he was doing it himself. Tyra arched her back and Erik popped her on the ass before he was sinking inside of her sweet walls again. 

“Stay on that dick, Tyra…”

Erik bounced Tyra’s pussy off his dick repeatedly. sharp, gut-stimulating, strokes. Tyra looked back at Erik with those sultry eyes. He locked eyes with her and grabbed her by her hair.

“Fuck my slutty, pussy…it’s your hole to fuck…I’m your nasty bitch!”

“Yeah? This my wet, fuckin’ hole?”

“Yes! Oh, yes!”

“Nasty, fuckin’ bitch…”

“Keep putting that dick right there…I’m cumming again…oooh!”

Tyra’s body seized up. Erik pushed all the way in so he could feel the way her walls gripped with her release. They both sigh in unison. He wasn’t through with her. He fixed her arch and picked up like he never stopped. With no hands, Erik tilted his hips and fed her pussy some more dick. Tyra gripped the sheets and moaned.

“Fuck me with that big dick! Unh! Cum in my pussy!”

Back and forth Erik popped her ass with his hand. He could feel himself getting ready to explode. He’s definitely cumming in that pussy. Giving her a baby in her womb and that Bentley. Two gifts for being such a good girl.

“You want a baby in you?! Huh?!”

“Fuck a baby in me, daddy!”

Erik went harder.

“Mhm…mhm…keep that puss right there! Ima bust this shit wide open and nut deep in this pussy, Princess!”

With two wild thrusts, Erik shot off into her pussy, hips pistoning. All Tyra could do is moan. His dick slowly slipped out to the tip. Tyra looked back at him with furrowed brows and a bit of her lip. Erik stared down at his dick pulsating with his release. The tip of his dick was still inside of her.

“‘Mmm, get all that thick nut in me, Hubby…”

Erik looked down at her with a sexy, dimpled smirk.

[leighsartworks216]

Spring Wedding

Sylus x gn!Reader

I am trying to post this so fast before my class begins oh lordy

Edit: changed "my dearest" to "my beloved"

Warnings: past relationship, minor references/implications of emotional/mental abuse, backhanded compliments, protective Sylus, fake relationship

Word Count: 824

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

You hold tighter to Sylus's hand, your other hand wrapping around his elbow and hugging his arm to your chest to keep you as close to him as possible. Sylus notices right away, but before he can ask what’s wrong, a voice calls your name from several feet away.

“Is that really you?”

Despite your obvious signs of discomfort, you turn to the voice and plaster a smile on your face. Sure enough, your ex was there in the flesh. Memories of the backhanded compliments and insistence on pushing boundaries fill your mind, alighting every nerve with the desire to run. “Oh, wow, hi! I didn’t expect to see you here,” you greet with faux enthusiasm.

The person can’t seem to keep their eyes off you, ignoring your partner for the night entirely. Sylus had your outfit perfectly tailored and detailed to match him tonight, but the way they studied you made you want to cover yourself with his jacket. You wonder if he’d let you.

Sylus squeezes your hand, a silent question. You respond immediately, the tips of your nails beginning to dig into his knuckles.

“You look amazing! I haven’t seen you in so long, I almost didn’t recognize you. That training really shaped you up,” they chuckle.

You cough politely, a distraction from answering their… compliments.

“Sweetie,” Sylus pipes up, leaning closer to you, “you haven’t introduced us.” His smirk is smug and intimidating, but you can see the fire in his eyes. Your ex doesn’t notice, too busy taking in every intricate detail of your face like an art curator at a high-end museum.

“Oh, right!” You nod toward them, introducing them by name. “We dated in high school, before I went off to the Hunter’s Association. And this is Sylus, my-”

“Their husband.” You discretely pinch his arm. Sylus laughs. “Sorry, sweetheart, I couldn’t resist. I just love how it sounds.”

The ex blinks, as though they’ve just been rudely awoken from a dream. “Husband? What? When did you get married?” Their question emphasizes the fact it’s you, rather than the union itself.

If this is the game Sylus wants to play, you have no choice now but to play your part. “Oh, it was last spring! It was beautiful! The ceremony was held underneath cherry blossom trees and a full moon.”

They raise an eyebrow, a taunting grin dancing unsurely on their lips. “And you didn’t think to invite me?”

“No,” Syus answers. It’s sharp, abrupt, leaving absolutely no room for questions. It wipes the look off their face.

They look you up and down, frowning. “I don’t see any rings.”

Sylus chuckles again, tilting his head in a belittling fashion. “Rings are hardly enough of a symbol for our love. I crafted them a set of guns. Why don’t you show him?”

You smile as you play along, letting go of Sylus’s elbow to retrieve the gun holstered at your thigh. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? He designed every aspect of them, down to the design on the grip.” With years of firearms training under your belt, you maneuver the weapon skillfully around your fingers, before slotting it back in place, reminiscent of old world cowboys. You replace your hand on his arm, beaming as you look up at him. “Show them the knife I made you, darling.”

“Of course, my beloved.” Oh, he was enjoying this much more than he let on. He pulled out a hunting knife from his belt, deftly spinning it around his own fingers before balancing it by the tip on his finger. “I just need to find an opportunity to try it out.” He tests the weight of it in his hand, as though trying to decide the best way to skin an animal. With the way he’s looking at your ex, it’s clear just who he’s thinking of testing it on.

They swallow at the thinly veiled threat. “Th- They look really nice!” they stammer. They try to laugh it off, but it comes off thick and anxious. Their grin is shaky at the corners. “Well, it was, uh, nice to see you again.” Seeming at a bit of a loss for how to extricate themself from the situation, they land somewhere between bowing and waving, before scurrying away. Sylus tucks the knife back in his belt.

You feel like you can breathe again once they’re out of earshot.

You sigh, mask slipping, and lean heavier into Sylus’s side. He squeezes your hand softly. “Thank you for scaring them off.”

He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “Of course. How could I possibly let my spouse suffer their existence any longer than necessary?”

You snicker. “I’m not your spouse, you don’t have to keep pretending anymore.”

“No? Damn. And I was already making arrangements for our spring wedding.” He puts his hand on his chin to mime thinking. “Under cherry blossoms and a full moon, hm?”

“Oh, shut up.”

[caplanbuckybarnes]

In The Lonely Shadows (2/2) Dean W.

Summary: Crowely's always there to help convince you everything's going to be okay after Dean leaves with Lisa & Ben.

the first part of this was requested by my beloved wife @midnight-moonlight-and-mars sometime back in March.

Request: I've got a Crowley request! It can be platonic or romantic. It takes place the year Sam is resurrected and dean is living with Lisa. The reader was close with the Winchesters but after the fight with Lucifer dean abandoned the reader to be with Lisa and cas never answers ( unrequited love maybe?) so the reader teams up with Crowley and becomes like a bounty hunter for him for Lucifer loyalists. 

A/N: It's technically not Crowley x reader since she's pining for Dean. Oops, but I hope you enjoy this all the same, my love.

A/N #2: people were rabid about asking me for a part two. So please, enjoy!

WC: 1.7K

Warnings: mentions of loneliness, and blood, the reader feels abandoned and unloved, crowley’s nice, dean returns. sassy & protective crowley

[READ PART ONE HERE]

Read on Ao3!

--

Dean watched as your chest heaved up and down with every breath you took. The wind was howling outside, with rain pouring down. He was only partially soaked, having run for cover under teh pitiful awning above your hotel door. A suitcase was tucked into one hand and a backpack filled with supplies slung over the shoulder. He'd wanted to say goodbye before he left. But he couldn't. He was a coward, after all. He'd had a few visits from Castiel and Crowley, neither of them saying a word about you.

Though, he asked. He hasn’t spoken a word about Sam, either. The horror of watching Sam fall into the pits of Hell with Adam devastated him. So he ran away. He ran away to the person who would get him away from the hunter’s life, Lisa and Ben. He played pretend for as long as he possibly could.

Until he couldn’t keep up with the facade anymore. All he did was think about you, and the life the pair of you could have had. He’d find himself hovering over your name in his cellphone but never pressing the call button. Oftentimes, he’s stay up late at night, while Lisa laid peacefully next to him sleeping.  He knew he couldn’t lie to her forever about what - or who - truly had his heart.

Oftentimes, when he dreamed, it was about you, your face and your hands wrapped tightly in his as you started behind him on hunts. Thats what he loved about you the most, how much you trusted him to protect you.

So months after he departed, he located you in this dingy motel, where rodents and garbage littered the parking lot, and a few street lamps flickered dangerously in this damned storm. He’d gotten a replacement key to your room, claiming to the sketchy old man at the kiosk that he was your husband and you didn’t leave the key outside for him. So, on the threshold of the hotel room is where he stood, his fight or flight response kicking in the moment he laid eyes on you again.

He hadn’t seen you in months, far too long. But not long enough to forget the way your cheeks puffed out while you were embarrassed or the way your hair always fell into your face when you’d laugh at his stupid jokes. He couldn’t forget the way you would shuffle into his warmth at night, either.

God, did he miss the way you infected all of his clothing with your perfumes. 

He hesitantly stepped into the room, only to stop midway through in almost a panic. What if you moved on? What if you didn’t want to see him? What if you shot him? He wondered at that moment if you held any protection on you, or if you’d thrown all of it away.

But he took the chance anyway and stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him quietly. He quietly toed out of his shoes and turned around before fully surveying the room. He couldn’t see any other person’s belongings in the room, so he assumed you were indeed alone.

Nervously, he tiptoed to the bed and studied your face for a long moment. He remembered everything about you-- your eyelashes, the dimple on your cheek. He wanted to reach out to you, nearly stopping himself as he felt his arm move without his command. He brushed his fingers against your cheek before he knew what he was doing and stepped back as your eyes had flung open in terror.

“Y/N,Y/N, it’s me, it’s Dean,” he said, reaching behind him for the pistol he always carried with him, though, he would never attempt to hurt you in any sort of way. “Hey, hey.”

“Dean?” you blinked through the darkness of the room. You must have been sleeping. Because you thought you heard Dean’s voice. And you thought you seen him standing mere inches away from where you slept on the bed.

Before he could get the chance to respond, another voice filled the room, a voice you’d come to recognize and acknowledge throughout these last few months.

“She doesn’t need you, Squirrel. She’s doing great without you.” Crowley’s voice echoed in the small room. 

Pulling yourself into a sitting position on the bed, you wiped at your eyes before switching your gaze between the pair in front of you. Crowley had been watching you over the weeks, which you had grown weirdly accustomed to, so it was no surprise that he had appeared out of the blue. What had startle you, was the other man standing mere inches away from you. If you just lifted your arm a few inches, you would be able to clasp your hands together.

“You left her high and dry after Moose had fallen into the depths of Hell, where, mind you, he’s been shacking it up with Lucifer. You should hear the agonies and woes from him.”

You could see the agitated twitch in Dean’s cheekbones, even in the poor excuse of light shining through the cracked window curtains.

“But now, back to the matter at hand, hmm?” Crowley snapped his fingers, and the two-night lamps turned on, casting the room in sudden brightness that none of you was prepared for.

“How’s Lisa and Ben?” Crowley smirked as Dean looked entirely uncomfortable at the jabs. “Didn’t want to be a family man anymore, huh? Did she decide she didn’t want your baggage?”

“It’s none of your business, Crowley,” Dean quipped. He snuck a look towards you and almost melted at the sight of tears in your eyelids. He wanted to erase the heartbreak he had caused you. He wanted to erase the pain away from you.

He only wanted you to forgive him. He wanted you and only you. He wished he hadn’t run off after Sam had gone to Hell, but he was broken and insecure. He was scared that you would leave him as well, so he did the only thing he could think of doing at the time: He ran away.

He begged for Lisa to forgive him, and she did. She took him in immediately, even after he explained all that went down with Lucifer and Adam and Sam. She took care of him. And for a while, he could forget all the pain. He could mourn the loss of his brother in peace. But there had always been a hole in his heart that Lisa nor ben would veer be able to fill.

He hadn’t known it at the time until he had sat up the night before and wallowed in misery after having nothing but dreams and nightmares about you for months.

“No harsh words, Not Moose?” Crowley taunted as he took a step toward you, causing Dean to nearly topple backwards onto the bed you were still sitting on. “No quips? Nothing? What do you have to say for yourself? Because while you were playing house, I was left to pick up the piece of her broken heart! How noble of you.  Leave her behind to wallow in misery, and now what? You expect her to swoon because you're back? Pathetic."”

You never thought you would see the day when the king of hell would be red in the face at the Winchesters. But here he was, pointing a threatening finger in Dean’s direction while the other man looked like a kicked puppy. 

You wanted Crowley to stop the insults at Dean. But the fact that he was protecting you in this way meant so much to you. You never knew how much Crowley actually cared about you. 

"I bet she’s just thrilled to have you back. Nothing says 'I care' like a good old-fashioned abandonment, right?" Crowley scoffed.

“Crowley, enough,” you sighed as you finally pushed the duvet away from your body and stood up, causing Dean to look at you with hope. With your request, Crowley quieted down, though he didn’t cease the glare or scowl on his features. Ignoring him, you took a breath, taking Dean’s height in stride. “So, what? You show up at my doorstep and nearly scare me to death, for what?”

“I was wrong,” Dean swallowed, blinking slowly as tears piled against his eyelids. “I never should have left you the way i had. You were mourning Sam as well, and I was a coward for leaving you. I never once stopped thinking about you. I never once let you out of my mind. Lisa knew it, Ben knew it.’

“I’m not forgiving you, Dean.” you held your ground, even as you had to wipe the tears away from your cheeks. “How could I forgive you? Do you know what the hell I’ve been through? You weren’t the only one to lose a brother, you know? Sam was my family as well.”

He opened his mouth, only for you to cut him off.

“It’s been fourteen months, Dean—fourteen long, terrible months. I celebrated Sam’s birthday without you. I celebrated your birthday without you. Crowley was the only one to check with me. Do you know he saved me from death on numerous occasions? That could have been you.”

He looked utterly defeated at the mention of the birthday celebrations. He could only imagine you singing to yourself with some cheap cake and a gas station lighter, wishing for the family you once held as you blew out the candles.

“Dean, I don’t know whether to hit you, kiss you, or put a bullet in you.” you scowled, pushing past him to walk over to the bathroom to wash your face. Leaving the door open, you heard Dean shuffle around Crowley to get to you again. 

“I can’t leave you, not again. Never again,” he watched your reflection as you grabbed for a hand towel and wiped the water from your face. 

Glaring at him momentarily, you sighed heavily before turning around and leaning against the counter. “Crowley will kill me for this. But I can’t help but think that I’m still in love with you. We can talk more about this in the morning. I had a long few weeks, and I’m absolutely exhausted.” 

Eagerly, Dean followed you out of the bathroom, barely noticing Crowley’s absence as he tucked you into the bed before he climbed in himself.

--

**totally up for a part three IF people want it. So please, please, please, if you enjoyed this reblog this & leave comments.

[innerfare]

Blue Balls - Sabo: Part 1  

Summary: Sabo ends up with a case of blue balls; text below the cut

Pairing: Sabo x Afab!Reader

Genre: smut

CW: dirty talk, Sabo masturbating, needy Sabo

Word Count: 1,153

———

Sabo didn’t know what to do with himself. 

The first few weeks you were gone, he’d jerked off morning, noon, and night to the thought of you, but as the memory of your touch grew more distant and the hole in his chest became gaping, he couldn’t stand to touch his cock without you there to run your fingers through his blonde hair and tell him how pretty his scars were, the words leaving your heart-shaped lips, swollen from making out, mere seconds before you wrapped them around his length. 

Not being able to stand it didn’t stop him from doing it, though. 

Feeling like his heart might give out from the pressure built up in his chest, he reached a hand under the covers and grabbed his length. At what point had your skill surpassed his? When had he become utterly useless with his own cock? He fumbled with it like he’d never jerked the thing before, his balls so heavy he worried they would fall off if he stood up. How precisely was he supposed to replace the feeling of your mouth with his stupid hand? 

You were so nice when you sucked him off, so sweet. You blinked up at him with those pretty eyes of yours, smiled softly when you pulled away to catch your breath. His favorite was when your hair spilled down your chest and you wore something with straps or loose sleeves that fell off your shoulder so his eyes could travel the length of your collarbone. 

He could remember all that, so why couldn’t he make himself cum? 

He’d hit a wall three weeks ago, and he was absolutely losing it. He’d always been one to work and train overtime, but he’d become obsessive as of late. Everyone from Dragon to Koala had noticed, and had even tried getting him to relax, until Ivankov made a comment about Sabo’s raging hormones and everyone had dropped the matter. 

He should have fought Ivankov for saying that- he certainly wanted to- but he didn’t even have it in him. He also didn’t want to get any closer to the devil fruit user than he absolutely had to for fear the queen would assess the true depths of his emotional and sexual despair, and Sabo couldn’t stand the humiliation. 

But Ivankov was right. 

His hormones were raging. 

Sabo growled like a wild beast. He kicked his covers off, the sheets clinging to his sweaty skin. He dropped his cramping hand at his side and stared up at the ceiling in the dark. His chest heaved, and his cock throbbed painfully, a drumbeat between his legs that only grew louder with each moment to pass. He wondered if a man could die from blue balls. 

If that was possible, he told himself, it would have happened by now. 

“It has to work eventually,” he muttered to himself. 

He dragged his hand off the mattress and grabbed the length of his cock again. He brushed his thumb over the biggest vein, just like you always did with a coo, and found the head. He pressed down on it and spread the pre cum around, using it as lubricant. But then he recalled how you kissed and licked his balls, treating them like the most precious things in the world, and suddenly, everything he did was lacking. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” 

He grabbed your pillow and shoved it into his face, the scent of your citrus perfume long having faded. He whined, the pillow catching the sound, and gave his cock a heavy tug. He felt it twitch, but he caught the pleasure in his hand only for a second before it escaped him. 

“Do you have some sort of smothering kink I don’t know about?” A voice asked. 

Sabo threw the pillow off and sat up in bed with a gasp. He saw a figure illuminated in the doorway, a figure with your perfect shape. His gaze fell on your sweet face, and he was caught between the urge to fling himself at you and actually smother himself to escape the humiliation of being caught with his dick in his hands. 

“Y/n?” He watched with wide eyes as you closed the door, leaving only a bit of light to shine in through the bottom, and a bit more through the window. He rubbed his eyes. “What… is this real? What are you doing here? You aren’t supposed to be back for another two weeks!” The embarrassment almost too much to bear, he dragged the sheets over his lap. 

“I finished my mission early and thought I would surprise you.” You giggled. “I guess I did.” You relished the sight of your boyfriend naked in bed, muscles coiled beneath his tan skin, his blonde hair stuck to his forehead, his impressive cock standing at attention. “I can come back later if you want me-” 

“No!” He lurched forward, only to grit his teeth. “Fuck.” 

“Sabo, are you alright?” You hurried to the side of the bed, thinking he’d hurt himself. You sat down on the edge, placing a hand on his bare shoulder; you noticed his skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and frowned. 

Sabo shuddered. “Fuck,” he hissed again. “Fuck.” 

“Sabo-” 

“I’m fucking dying.” With that, he fell back against the pillows. “It doesn’t matter what I do. It’s all wrong. You’re the only one who can do it right, and you’ve been gone forever. And it fucking hurts, y/n.” His voice cracked toward the end. 

You felt bad for him, but you also couldn’t help but smile to yourself. You hadn’t had much communication with your boyfriend in the time you had been away, and you’d worried that he didn’t miss you as much as you missed him, that he didn’t lay awake at night stroking himself but to no avail. 

“And the pillow?” 

“It used to smell like you,” he admitted, the darkness making him feel safe enough to be a little more pathetic than he would normally. “It doesn’t anymore.” 

“Awe, you poor thing.” 

Just then, the smell of your perfume wafted over to him. “Fuck.” He launched himself at you, pulling you into his arms and dragging you into bed with him. He wrapped his legs around you, too, clinging to you like a big baby. “Fuck.” The sound of your giggle as he buried his face in your hair and inhaled almost made him cum, and the weight of his problem came down on his chest once more like a ton of bricks. “Y/n, I need-” 

“I know what you need, big boy,” you interrupted. 

His cock twitched at the sound of the nickname. 

You cupped his face in your hands and pressed those perfect, soft lips to his. You gave him a series of lingering, close-mouthed kisses before brushing his blonde hair from his sticky forehead. “Lay back. I’ll take care of you.” 

Sabo didn’t need to be told twice, crashing back into his pillows with a shallow sigh. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[charlietheepicwriter7]

Teen Villain Alliance Chapter 6

When Fenton had given Damian his task of attending classes and picking a team, he hadn’t expected to start enjoying it. 

Which was a miscalculation on Damian’s part. Damian had always enjoyed learning; his mother had been indulgent with what he learned as a child, sending tutors in everything that caught his interest, from art to world history to veterinary medicine. It wasn’t until his education in assassination began in earnest–around his 7th birthday–that his interests were stifled. And when he’d been sent to live with Father, it ground to a halt.

It took months for Father to deem him “tamed” enough to introduce him to the public, and even then he was  not allowed an education. While Damian was grateful that he wouldn’t endure public schooling, Father didn’t even allow tutors on the premises. Instead, Damian attended “online school” which consisted of video lectures and multiple choice quizzes on topics he’d covered years ago. In addition to the online school, he had daily lectures on “ethics” and “societal norms” from either Pennyworth or Grayson, neither of which were experts in the area. He’d asked. 

The TVA was different. Better, if he were honest, but he’d never admit it aloud. The teachers were ghosts, experts in their fields. Who else could say that they learned chemistry from Maria Skłodowska-Curie, or battle tactics from the first Amazonian, Pandora? The ghosts around him were not stuck in the past, nor apathetic to life on earth; instead, they kept learning, kept evolving, with a careful eye on the world outside the Infinite Realms. 

And despite himself, Damian even enjoyed having classmates. No class was large–most didn’t have more than 10 students per teacher–and many classes involved a debate aspect that allowed them to get to know each other. Just the other day, Damian had spent over an hour discussing the methods for creating a locked door murder with Shadowblade, a 14-year-old ninja from Japan. 

There was no competition, with the exception of combat classes. In the League, and at Wanye Manor, he was always competing. To be the best so he wouldn’t be replaced, to be strong to live up to the name of Al Ghul. Competing for Father’s attention, his approval, over the ingrates that make claims to a birthright that is not their own. With Grayson, Todd, Cain, Drake; each of them stronger, faster, better trained, better behaved. 

Trusted. 

Was it any wonder that Damian had jumped at the chance to prove himself?

Dr. Fenton–Danny, the man had insisted–trusted him. He wanted Damian to lead his team in the field. In his hand was a list of all the members he would work with, and the paper was tacky with sweat. Taking a deep breath, Damian knocked on the door to Fenton’s lab. 

After a few minutes, Fenton opened the door. He looked frazzled, hair astray and lab-coat half on. “Damian!” He said, smiling brightly. “I wasn’t expecting you, come in! I just reached a good stopping point for my latest project.” He invited Damian into the lab. “What can I help you with?”

Damian held out his list. “These are the four members of the TVA that I thought will work best as your infiltration squad.” He’d thought long and hard about who had the skills to join and, more importantly, who he could tolerate working directly under him. 

Fenton smiled. “That’s great! Have you started talking to them? Making friends?”

“...Some,” Damian decided on, thinking back to Shadowblade. “Everyone on that list has skills or abilities that would enable easy information gathering. I have yet to approach them though; I thought you’d prefer to determine if I’ve made the right choice.”

“Fantastic! I’ll give them to Jazz in a bit, see if there’ll be any conflicts. How’s everything going for you? Have you enjoyed all your classes?”

Damian nodded, but looked away. There was another reason why he was here. “May I… ask you something? I’ve encountered a conundrum that I could use advice for.”

“Of course! I’m always willing to ask. But if I may ask, why don’t you ask Jazz? She’s mentioned that she hasn’t seen you in her office once, and she gives fantastic advice.”

Damian made a face. “I see no reason to submit myself to brainwashing when I am already a loyal member of this organization. There’s no need for me to attend.”

Danny’s eyebrows rose. “Okay, we’ll come back to that eventually. But what’s bugging you, Damian?”

Damian swallowed. Suddenly, all the anger from the thought of therapy drained out of him and he sagged. “Is it… bad? That I am happier now than I was before?”

“What do you mean?” Danny asked, leading Damian over to a couch near the entrance of the lab. It was clearly a recreational space, with a gaming system in front of a TV. Damian sat beside him as he considered his words. 

“I… enjoy my time here. I like it more than I’ve liked anywhere else. And I should not. I shouldn’t be enjoying this life while leaving the people who raised me behind. My mother, my grandfather—this feels like a betrayal.” His father would be so disappointed in him if he learned how affected these villains made Damian. 

Danny’s face softened. He took in a deep breath, turning in his seat to face him. “I can understand that. Did something similar to my folks when I joined Phantom, you know.”

“...Really?” No one knew about the Wolves' pasts. Many of his fellows speculated, but no one knew for sure. The top theory for Fenton was that he was a mad scientist on the run from the government. 

“Yeah.” Danny nodded, glancing down for a moment before meeting Damian’s gaze. “When I was your age, I... betrayed my parents too. Not in the same way as you, but... my parents were ghost hunters. They spent their lives teaching me and my sister that ghosts were dangerous, evil. And for a long time, I believed them. But then they built a portal to the Ghost Zone, and ghosts starting coming through, and Phantom happened, and…” He looked away, swallowing. “I realized how wrong they were.”

He paused, gauging Damian’s reaction. The boy was listening, quiet but intense.

“I ended up siding with the very things they want to destroy,” Danny continued. “They want to indiscriminately massacre an entire species. They even co-authored a law that makes it legal to experiment and execute ghosts in American territory.” 

“What?” Damian couldn’t believe what he was saying. There couldn’t be a law that so blatantly breaks the Metahumans Protection Act, right? The Justice League–Father–would never stand for it. 

“It’s true,” Fenton said, as if to counter Damian’s thoughts. Damian boosted his mental shields just in case Fenton was a telepath. “There’s a whole government organization dedicated to ‘researching’ ghosts. Of course, they’re more interested in dissecting them.” Damian shuttered. “See? It’s clear that they’re in the wrong in this instance. That helps me some, when I keep thinking about how I betrayed my parents. But even knowing I was doing the right thing, it still hurts. Sometimes the people who are supposed to protect us and put us first end up hurting us the worst.”

Fenton placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “You’re a good kid. You’re so smart, and you have so much potential. But what your grandfather did to you was wrong. What your mother did was wrong. And you have every right to distance yourself from any situation where you feel unsafe.”

Damian looked away. “They were just trying to make me stronger,” he muttered. 

“Would you ever do what they did to someone else? Even to make them stronger?”

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, his mind swirling with memories of training, the endless demands for perfection, the blood on his hands. He thought about how much he had been shaped by the League, how much he had been forced to be something he hadn’t chosen. And then there was his father. He had felt so out of place, constantly trying to meet expectations he didn’t fully understand, let alone agree with.

“No,” Damian whispered, the answer clear. “I wouldn’t.”

“Then there’s your answer,” Danny said, smiling gently. “It doesn’t matter what they wanted for you. You’re not betraying them by living a better life or by choosing a path they wouldn’t have chosen for you.”

Damian stayed quiet for a moment, absorbing Danny’s words. A small weight lifted from his chest. He didn’t need to feel guilty for enjoying this life—this better life—away from the constant pressure of the League, or from the expectations of his father.

Danny leaned back again, folding his arms behind his head, the familiar goofy grin returning. “And hey, for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing pretty awesome here. You kicked butt in those combat drills last week.”

Damian flushed, suddenly embarrassed. “You saw those?”

“Yup,” Danny popped his lips, grinning smugly. “Sam and Phantom are so jealous you’re on my team instead of theirs. They’re planning to poach you, but I trust that you’ll dismiss their bribes.”

A small, rare smile tugged at Damian’s lips.

[jolalibrary]

the man who has returned home

javier peña x f!reader | masterlist

summary: this week’s sex diary - the man who has returned home under the covers’s sex diaries series asks anonymous men to record their sex lives — with angst, sometimes sexy, and always revealing results.

wordcount: 3k warnings: sex diary. modern!times (for the plot). smut (it's a sex diary) 18+, so the usual explicit things. reader in this has a nickname to protect their identity. an: I've wanted to finish and post this for ages, all because I've read and been inspired by The Cut’s Sex Diaries for the longest time. not sure what this will be, but at most going to be a loose collection of the ppcu boys, but for now, i don't want to run before i walk, so meet javi p.

DAY 1 5.32am

He’s woken earlier than he wants to.

There’s sweat on his forehead, on his spine—it forces the off-white sheets, which are crumpled under him, to cling to him. Worst of all, he’s breathing heavily, his heart angrily thumping in his chest, a tightness that doesn't lessen the more he gulps still-warm air.

He knows it's another nightmare; another shapeless horror that can be added to the tab.

Foolishly, he thought they’d lessen in time, ease a little as time ticks from weeks to over a month of being back.

Instead, it’s only worsening. A thought which ruptures as he digs the base of his palms into his eyes, groaning, before stopping himself.

The last thing he wants is to wake up his Pop.

6.18am

The shower isn't fixing the irk in his bones, it doesn’t wash away the woven annoyance in his muscles as water cascades and slides off the slope of his nose to his chest.

He tries fucking his fist to the memory of... let's call her Cinnamon. Cinnamon is a woman he used to know and now knows in an entirely different way. She doesn't ask questions, doesn't appear to care what he did overseas or not and mostly doesn't look at him like he hung the moon.

It's why he fucked her. It's why he keeps fucking her.

Now, he's touching himself to the thought of her. Hoping it helps, alleviates.

A few tugs and he’s panting, forehead pressed to the cold tiles as he groans her name. It's all acidic, purposeful. It hisses out all coiled around pleasure before it's swirling down the drain.

It does rid the annoyance, but it’s replaced instead by shame. It blooms out similar to the red welts as he dries himself, running the towel over his shoulders, chest, stomach, and thighs.

He doesn’t recognise the person he greets in the mirror when he goes back into his bedroom. The one with dark bags under his eyes and a haunted look he manages to mask every day when he steps into the rest of the house.

He’s barely pulled his jeans up his thighs before a fresh irk swarms him. Wondering, nursing his lip between his teeth whether breaking the new horse in might help. It’ll keep him busy, at least.

Then he spots the number on his dresser. The one staring at him as he tucks his shirt into his jeans—the one etched in lipstick. His phone is next to it, all but tempting, making his jaw jut to one side as he contemplates if he should open that text chain again.

He doesn’t.

He wonders if he’ll crack sooner on this than he did smoking.

6.38pm

Twelve hours could be a new record.

Cinnamon’s fingers claw, scratching at the back of his head. Each slap of his thighs against the back of hers makes her whine. A delectable noise, a sight for sore eyes. Especially as she’s smothered in a faint sheen of sweat and perfume, neck bowing as he pants against her neck. Inhaling her. Feeling her pulse against his tongue.

Each plunge of his cock, each press of his fingers into her supple skin makes him grunt. The feel of her, squirming, desperately rutting back into whatever he gives you only makes him more desperate to fuck her so hard he hopes it’ll fuck the bad out of his head. Loud, sinful noises come from where the two of them are joined, the sheets a mess under the two of them.

He can still taste her on his tongue. He’d delved, made her thighs stretch around his broad shoulders as he buried his face into her pussy, fucked her hole with his tongue as her breath hitched and her fists clamped around her sheets.

He suspects she knows that he’s not sleeping, but she doesn’t ask. Likely has little care about how he’s using her, because he suspects she’s using him too.

Dragging his mouth to hers, she moans against his tongue. She pants out harder, as though knowing he needs permission. He does. Makes her skin ripple with the force of it as more sobs and mewls are punched out of you as your pussy clenches, flutters and pulses.

Fuck, he groans—quickening his pace, desperately clinging to not come just yet. Needing her to. Wanting her too. Feeling her squeezing and bearing down as she nods, as she tells him she’s close, I’m close, fuck I'm c—

When she comes, she arches into him. Tensing before becoming boneless and limp. Wrapping her tight, fucking heat around him that makes his morning feel futile.

And it is, because he never wants to leave this. A need. A desperate, hungry need. One he can never replicate this as a moan is forced from her throat and her pleasure crashes over her in a thick, heavy wave. It pushes him over with a few more thrusts until he’s groaning into her neck, bruising her hips to the point of no return as he pulses inside of her, fucks his spend into her until he’s softening.

Fuck, she says, panting.

Fuck, he replies, before he finds his mouth is latching to hers and the two of them become a heap in her bed.

7.12pm

He suspects there should be some guilt that he keeps doing this with her.

A thought that ruminates as his fingers twitch for a smoke. A need for it. One she must tell because she smirks and says nothing.

He won't admit it, but he likes it when she smirks. Has some perverse reaction to it. Because it reminds him she took him in her mouth behind the bar, his nails scraping brick, coming forcibly down her throat as she looked at him like she somehow expected more from him.

All that's to say, it's ruined her smirk now. It makes him hard now whenever she does it, like some sick Pavlov's reaction.

She may have a new number, a new look and an apartment, yet she’s the same girl he’d once known deep down. She's been shyer then, but he knew she wasn't innocent, not like she let others think.

But, he supposes that's the meaning of a true friendship. When you know a person intimately, like he knows her. Like he knows that she hates heights because of the time they climbed a tree and knows she sobbed when she tripped and broke her arm on his ranch. In the same way, he knew for a long time what oversized tees she owned, could almost predict which she'd choose, until one day there was suddenly a sundress that made his cock hard and his brain malfunction.

Fuck, she still has nice legs.

A thing he had witnessed when he was a teen. When she began dating a friend of his and wore their jacket on cooler evenings with him on the ranch. We're ranch friends, she used to say, hooking her pinky with his.

Now he’s fucking her.

Spearing her and making her fingers clamp around his as she needs him for leverage as she careens towards another orgasm. Those glorious, beautiful, stunning fucking legs wrapped around him or pressed to her chest as he sheaths his cock inside of her.

She reminds him of how good they are when she slips from his arms to retrieve water. Naked. His and her slick likely still smeared between her thighs.

His arm comes up over his forehead, muscles relaxing into your mattress and flower-scented sheets. He shouldn’t sleep.

He shouldn’t sleep over.

He falls asleep anyway.

DAY 4 9.12am

He’s not sure whether to be offended that he doesn’t hear from her or if he’s out of practice.

Before, back in Colombia he supposed it was more scheduled. A need for info and a need to forget. Routine, almost booked in. I’ll be here to hear what you have to say and then hear how you say my name.

Back home isn’t like that.

Cinnamon does have a job—a good one, from what he has been able to pull out of her. She keeps things locked down. Any time things toe the line of getting too close, she clams up and shifts the conversation.

There’s no faded tan line on her finger, though. No gossip when he enters stores about her.

He thinks he could ask his pop. Quiz him.

He decides against this ten minutes later.

4.12pm

Cinnamon is busy tonight.

He kinda hates that he was the one to ask. He hates it more than she only replies with the word can't.

10.48pm

He hears his phone go off when he’s doing his best to pretend the world doesn’t exist.

For one, he should be asleep. A thing he knows but hasn’t quite managed to get more than five hours since he came home.

The sound of nothing bothers him more than the old sounds of busy streets, guns and shouting. It crosses his mind he should check in on M tomorrow. See how he coped when he came home.

His phone sounds again. Jaw grit, he checks it, and sees a photo from Cinnamon.

Felt bad not being available is accompanied by her holding a towel in a way he’d describe as art. He can almost feel the condensation from her skin, how the droplets would feel on his palm and how he’d collect the beads from her perk breasts. She’s chosen her angles, even made sure to twist her hip toward him, casting a shadow that leaves your perfect pussy hidden.

He’s hard before he can wrap his head around it. Palm around his velvet skin, tugging, hips meeting his movements.

He comes hard, phone in one hand, fist around his cock.

You’re forgiven, he texts back when he’s cleaned up.

He sleeps for six hours.

DAY 13 9.02pm

It’s been days.

Odd texts, a phone call that lasted 18 minutes. But otherwise, silence. Awkward, weird silence that makes him feel shitty.

He wonders if he’s the other man. If there’s a whole life that she lives and he’s the break for her. It makes him think, question, ponder. Delve into a side of his thoughts he shouldn’t do sober or without a smoke.

Then, like the sun after a storm, Cinnamon asks if she can come to the ranch.

A thing she has yet to do since this thing began. There’s a white line, he imagines, between the road and where he sleeps.

She looks upset when she exits her vehicle, with red eyes and a sternness he thinks is forced. He asks her what she needs, and she responds with a shrug.

He doesn’t think when he places his hand on her lower spine, when he leads her down the beaten path—when he scoops overhanging branches from her face and takes her to the edge of the ranch.

It’s crosses his mind that he should ask, that he should check she’s okay, but then her mouth is on his. Hot, fervently, breathing him in as her fingers slide into his hair and pull him as close as she can have him.

Stop with the puppy eyes, Peña. You don’t have to… we’re not like—

He kisses her instead of letting her finish her thought. Better that than ask why not. Choosing to part her lips with his tongue, moan into her mouth like he’s starving, like he needs a taste of her as much as she needs him.

Maybe he does.

Maybe that’s why he can’t fucking sleep again.

Wanna taste you on my tongue, Javi…

And her hand is undoing his belt, not even needing both hands, managing with one and a smirk. Easing his jeans down to his knees, licking a stripe up her palm before he’s grunting, shifting his hips into her hand as she kisses his lips, his jaw, before descending down to her knees.

Can I?

He snorts before nodding, because how could he refuse her? A thing he almost says but Cinnamon has the sweetest mouth.

She takes as much of him as she can, right down her throat. He knows if he reached his hand around, he’d be able to feel how determined she is, trace his fingers over the bulge of him there.

The thought makes him grunt her name—her real name. Hissing it into the quiet air that only is interrupted by the cicadas.

He bites at his lip as she swirls her tongue, gazing down to find her cheeks hollowed and her eyes staring up at him—uncaring that her knees are in the dirt and she’s slobbering over her chin.

Her breaths are measured, nostrils flaring as she bobs up and down, and the sounds of it meet his ears.

And shit, fuck—she looks wrecked, fucked, and he’s not even touched her.

Suspecting if he did, however, he’d find her soaked, dripping, desperate to be stuffed full of him.

It’s that which almost makes him confess that he can’t stop thinking about her. He’s almost become sore from how much he’s stroked himself to the memory of her, to the image she’d sent and the one she’d let him take.

His photo album is becoming dedicated to her, to them. A shrine. Images of her in lace or nothing; her body contorted and her face hidden. Then, the latest one, her body splattered in shadows from her undrawn window, skin wearing only moonlight and the light sheen of their activities—one covering a breast, the other dipped between her legs, doing as he said, two fingers swirling around her clit, chin tilted up, take the photo, Javi. Just take it.

He wonders if she’d let him take one like this. Or if he’d have to settle on a memory.

A grunt passes through his clenched teeth, hand firm on the back of her head as she takes him deeper, as she bobs her head and sucks and swallows—

A louder noise leaves his throat soon after. One that rips from it as he spurts down her throat. When his body is licked by flames and something has tightened to an impossible degree in his lower stomach before he’s hissing, feeling her cleaning him up and releasing him with a pop.

Then, he’s treated to another prize, another treat. Cinnamon’s mouth opens, seeing the white ribbons swirling in her spit. Her tongue almost outstretched as though presenting him with a gift wrapped in a bow.

Swallow, he commands.

And she does.

He wonders if it’s romantic to fuck her in a field.

He does so anyway.

DAY 20 7.02am

There’s something about morning sex he can’t put his finger on.

Whether it’s because it’s a thing he hasn’t indulged much in. In Colombia, he’d only encountered it a handful of times.

He suspects it’s Cinnamon.

Her soft thighs on either side of his waist, the way she arches into him, contorts so her chest is flush against his as he finds himself deeper like this, hitting that spot inside of her that makes her look at him with nothing but lust.

It’s slower, less rushed. The pace not punishing, but controlled thrusts that somehow make her slicker, tighter.

He comes to the conclusion it’s her when she grasps his forearm, feels it flex under her fingers as she splutters his name and splinters around his cock. He realises this because he understands her, and knows what she needs. Has her figured out as he shifts her muscle-slacked body to hit the angle she needs to see stars again. It makes her eyes and her whines become desperate moans. He wishes she’d bury the sounds into his skull, into his brain. Wishes they’d cover screams and the sound of a life being taken.

For a moment they do. She makes sure of it.

Heat becoming blistering in his lower stomach, a need to increase his pace as she keens and whines, fingers digging into his shoulders, cut me he thinks, dig your nail down he silently pleads.

Her orgasm crests and he becomes dizzy from it—pushing a thigh closer to her chest, staring down at the place the two of them conjoin. Seeing the mess he’s made of her, how she takes him, how her slick coats around the base of him and the tight curls.

Then his own breathless moan forces itself out, small jerks followed by a stillness before her lips find his. The taste of him there, evidence of what began the entire morning thing.

12.33pm

He has a call with M, one he takes in his truck—overlooking the place he’s from.

It’s quiet here. A favourite from when he was at school, a place he brought people to so he could impress them.

Once, a long time ago, he’d brought Cinnamon here too.

As a friend. To make her smile—cheer her up.

He thinks about that when he should be listening, a thing he seems to do more and more of lately.

He hopes M hasn’t said anything helpful.

8.24pm

Do you fancy grabbing food?

Five fucking words that he regrets typing out, never mind sending. Biting his nails, rocking on the two legs of a garden chair as he prays his weight won’t make it buckle beneath him.

He stares at the slight curve of his stomach under his tee. The one that had formed as age caught up with his horrendous diet and his lack of fitness out of running and fucking.

He almost launches his phone when it beeps, and he sees a reply.

Now or as a date?

He contemplates his reply.

DAY 24 7.02pm

Cinnamon arrives looking fucking beautiful, just as he expected she would. Her eyes latch and dig into him as she moves between tables and he finds himself on his feet to pull her chair out.

She’s wearing a different perfume, a different lipstick than the night they’d reunited. She also looks nervous, politely asking for water before turning her smile to him. She likes his shirt, and teases him about not wearing a tie—he laughs. Finds it slips from him with ease.

He keeps laughing, interspersed with hers.

She finally shares that has never been married. Engaged though, once. He asks her if the breakdown of it is as rememberable as his, and she smirks, eyes shimmering, nothing can be as memorable as you, Javi.

He hopes she chose her words carefully.

She confirms later she did, dragging him through her door, his fingers undoing her dress.

Finding her wearing his favourite colour. A thing he’d said offhand the night they reconnected in the bar.

I remember, Javi, she had said then.

Now, he realises he maybe should have believed her back then. 

an: hope you like this different styling. I've had this half-done in my drafts for ages, trying to find the courage. so a huge thank you to @thetriumphantpanda for always believing in me, cause without her so much of what i'd write would find its way into the bin.