#in the voice of a man from a black and white movie | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeyinde · 2 months ago

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bos taurus | dogmeat series pt., i

mafia butcher Simon Riley x Reader

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

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

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

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3

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

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

Meth this time. Oxytocin the last.

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

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

“And if it seems sketchy—”

—run.

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

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

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

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

“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.”

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

You feel sick—

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

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

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

Just like the movies, he'd said.

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

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

It looks almost like—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not as tight as he could.

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

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

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

A warning, maybe. Stop looking—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing to worry about.

Then his friend went missing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well.

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

Or the storm clouds looming on the horizon.

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

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

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

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

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

Like—

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

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

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

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

He sends you instead.

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

Right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's already shaking his head.

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

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

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

That calculative gleam is back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That thread is cut. Snipped.

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

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

And—

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

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

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

Indifference.

Defeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘pected you t’run.”

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

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

Where would I go?

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

“Smart girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That's not fair—”

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

“Life ain't very fair, is it?”

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

And he's just doing his job—

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

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

Trapped like a rabbit. Cattle to the slaughter.

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

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

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

But empty. Barren. No light.

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

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

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

Unlike him.

Disjointed.

You blink in response. Perfectly synchronous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monstrous, you hope.

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

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

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

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

His eyes are lavascapes.

“Are you, birdie?”

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

But the rest—

You'd rather not think about.

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

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

Run, stay.

Smart and stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

Hunger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You think he feels it, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes don't break away from yours once.

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

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

Help, though.

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

Right.

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

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

Either way—

You won't be coming back alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room smells of stale sweat and old cigarettes.

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on now. Strip for me.”

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

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

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

Child's play.

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

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

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

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

It belies the danger underneath. The steel.

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

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

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

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

And you hesitate.

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

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

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

His—

Well.

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

You knew. And now—

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

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

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

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

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

“Gotta do everything f’myself, do I?”

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

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

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

But he doesn't wait.

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

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

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

Until something gives.

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

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

“Not s’hard, was it?”

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

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

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

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

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

He feels big.

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

The muddled wires spark. Heat pools between your hips.

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

It's fear and heat.

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

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

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

“Wait—” but he doesn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't like it. It's too much—

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

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

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

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

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

Go’ a problem, you an’ I

—he does.

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

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

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

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

Mindless, your hips flit, following his hand—

“Needy.”

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

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

It feels good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stranglin’ my fuckin’ finger, birdie—”

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

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

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

A gap.

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

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

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

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

“Now—”

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

Needy, just like he said.

Just a bodily reaction—

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

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

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

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

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

—and he bites.

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

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

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

And almost immediately, you wish you hadn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You jerk at his touch, flinching back—

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

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

He's not—

He's not handsome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quietly amused, and—

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

And he looks.

And looks.

Hungry, you think. Quietly amused and hungry—

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

But the embarrassment burning through you singes all the pain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And deeper—maybe—the bastardized sense of care—

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

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

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

So he gives it to you.

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

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

“Gonna be good f’me?”

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

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

You want his dirty, thick fingers inside of you—

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

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

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

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

It's too much.

Too harsh. Too sharp.

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

It's good.

And that's the problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—than man.

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

On paper, anyway.

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

Normal cocks, you amend. Textbook.

His is anything but.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your silence is loud enough.

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

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

In.

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

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

“You should—”

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

“Need me to gag you, birdie?”

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

Just fucked raw.

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

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

“An’?”

“Um. No–no condom, either—”

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

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

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

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

"Cum—cum inside me—"

“Good girl, birdie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Hungry for something you can't name—)

“And you will.”

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

Stupid, foolish thing—

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

You'll take every fuckin’ inch—

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he knows.

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

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

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

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

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

Every fuckin’ inch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too big.

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

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

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

“Relax.”

You can't. Can't—

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

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

Inexplicably, it pleases you.

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

It was a powerful feeling.

Unwarranted, maybe. But incredible, nevertheless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touch me—”

“Fuckin’ hell—”

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

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

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

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

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

Well.

He'll make room to fit.

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

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

And you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You'll what?”

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

(Run, and run far—)

He huffs. “You'll what, birdie?”

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

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

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

“I'm—”

“Go to sleep.”

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

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

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

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

He wakes up hungry.

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

Filled now with his cum.

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

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

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

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

Simple hunger. An appetite.

He could eat—

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

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

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

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

Rare.

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

Simple. But incredibly difficult to perfect, he finds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His.

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

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

Until Price gave the order to take care of it.

And that he did.

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

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

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

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

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

(So—

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

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

All her stuff is on your porch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink at him slowly. “Leaving?”

He nods. “Get dressed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are we going?”

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

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

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

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

“What? You can't—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can't do this. It's not right.”

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

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

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

“Until the debt is paid off.”

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

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

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

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

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #series: dogmeat #for only being 19k this really took a lot out of me #simon riley x you #ghost x you

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thinkinonsense · 2 months ago

Text

DESIRE ୨୧

logan howlett x mutant!reader

cw: flirty, slightly nsfw

a/n: this was heavily inspired by that scene in the first suicide squad movie where they introduce harley quinn.

"we should all split up before someone finds us." storm tells her team mates as the break into the building.

inside were mutants of all kinds, being hidden and tested on. it was charles plan for the team to get as many as possible and bring them back to the mansion before they can cause any damage.

on the surface, it seemed simple enough. they have done this mission a million times. little did they know that an unspeakable danger awaited them in the basement of the old building.

everyone split up, storm went to the west wing while scott and jean went to the east. logan found his way downstairs, assuming that maybe he could find whoever was running the show here.

beyond the high security metal doors, he can hear the faint sound of an old record playing. the closer he got, the clearer it sounded. nancy sinatra? maybe? logan wasn't quite sure but he figured it was a trap so, he prepared himself for whatever was on the other side.

Way down along the stream

How sweet it will seem

Once more just to dream

In the moonlight

My honey, I know (I know) with the dawn

That you will be gone

But tonight

You belong to me

revealed on the other side is a large metal cage fit for a wild animal. inside was a girl swinging upside down from a line of tied material with her body in an obscene position.

"i've told you before, david..." your voice was angelic to logan's ears. light as a feather. "i don't like to be disturbed after 7."

"i'm not david, princess." logan said, stepping out of the shadows right as your eyes open.

logan's eyes scan over your scandalous appearance. tiny dirty white shorts and matching tight tank top, apparently whoever runs this prison doesn't allow bras either. you twirl down from near the top of the cage until your face to face with the man on the other side.

"who are you, then?" you ask, looking up at him as you hold onto the bars.

"i'm here to get you out of this cage." he says, unleashing his claws, ready to cut through the bars.

"hold it, baby." you purr, reaching out to touch his sharp claws. "don't you wanna play with me?"

"no, we need to leave."

"why should i leave with you? how do i know that you won't put me in another cage?"

even with a slightly dirty face, rings of lavender circles under your eyes, and dried blood on the corner of your bottom lip, logan still thought you were gorgeous. slightly intimidated by your fearlessness to reach out and touch his claws. he imagines that you had seen worse than this.

"tryin' to save you" he grunts.

"i wouldn't picture you as the prince charming type." you giggle, running your fingers up his hairy, veiny, strong arm over the black latex suit.

"i'm not."

logan glares down at you in a way that makes you want to jump his bones. what? it gets lonely being trapped in a cage all by yourself. plus it's not everyday that a handsome stranger wants to help you escape.

suddenly, you grab logan's palm, circling it as your eyes roll back to a dark green shade.

"tell me what you want to do with me." you demand.

this was the moment logan understood why you were held in a cage down in the basement. suddenly, logan's mind feels as if it's being bended and twisting, forcing every ounce of truth out of him.

"we are here to take the mutants to charles xavier's school for gifted youngsters." his voice sounded robotic under your spell.

"charles xavier?"

in a rush of excitement, you release logan from your threshold. he wants to bark at you for invading his mind but seeing you smile made him reconsider.

"so, you've heard of him?" logan raises a brow at you, watching as you hold his hand sweetly.

"of course i have." you answer tracing shapes on the back of his palm. "i've seen him in my visions. been waitin' on him."

visions? what kind of mutant are you? logan asked himself as you spoke.

"too bad i didn't see you in them, though." you sigh, batting your long lashes at him. "wish i had. could've bought us some time to... well, you know."

the teasing flirty tone made logan's cock stir under the tight latex. he felt this overwhelming desire for you fill his head.

"hm... we should focus on getting you out of here first, huh, princess?" he tilts his head to the side, amused by you. "step back."

you obey, walking backwards near your rope. in the blink of an eye, logan cuts through the bars and bends them out enough for him to help you get out. loud flashing sirens go off, slightly startling the two of you.

"guards." you warn him. "they're coming."

logan turns around, claws bare to anyone coming towards the two of you. he steps in front of you, ready to protect like a guard dog. it was quite cute of him, you think. the moment the guards burst in, logan starts attacking, stabbing them ruthlessly.

you allow him to take out a few one by one but as more poured in, you stepped in. your eyes roll back into the same shade of green as a hand raises, some of them fall to their hand and knees, shifting into dogs others were being strangled until they looked blue in the face.

logan couldn't believe it. the only mutant that he thought could rivaled your powers was jean. the room fell quiet except for the record echoing as it replayed.

"it's my favorite song, you know?" you grin as if nothing happened.

"old soul, huh?" logan asked with an eyebrow raised.

"witches are timeless, sugar." you wink, extending your hand for him to take.

logan hesitates but knows he has to get the two of you out of here alive. one look into your starry eyes and he's a goner. logan takes your hand and leads you to the jet, knowing he will never hear the end of it from his teammates.

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pupkashi · 4 months ago

Text

satoru loves you & he’s tired of being your friend

a/n: loosely inspired by taehyungs song fri(end)s i hope u guys like pls lmk what yall think plsplsplspls

word count - 1,764

masterlist

the only light illuminating your living room was from your tv as it played your favorite comfort movie, one you’d seen countless times before. the familiarity of it had you dozing off on your couch, in and out of sleep as you lost the battle with your heavy eyelids.

there’s a soft knock on your door that has you jumping out of your skin, heart racing loudly in your ears. you pause the movie, wondering if maybe you’d hallucinated it and it truly was time for you to go to bed.

knock, knock, knock

your palms are sweaty, checking your phone before standing up. there’d been no missed texts or calls from anyone you knew, who the fuck knocks on a door at 3:24 in the morning?

you grab the baseball bat by the door, peeking through the peephole and being met with tousled white locks. a color of hair you’d be able to spot a mile away, one you’d grown to care for.

“what are you doing at my door at four in the fucking morning?” you whisper-yelled, setting the bat down and opening the door wider to let the man in. he gives you a small smile, one hand pushing his hair back and out of his face and the other holding his side.

“sorry sweet cheeks, didn’t wanna go home just yet” he mumbles, stepping in and standing by the doorway, waiting for your instruction.

“d’you get hurt? are you bleeding?” the annoyance in your voice is gone, and it makes satoru relax. he gives you a small nod, shrugging his shoulders and trying to play it off.

“nothing that won’t be healed by mornin’” you roll your eyes at him, muttering a small ‘come on’ and walking to the bathroom down the hall. “i miss you y’know” satoru says softly, watching as you searched for the first aid kit under the sink, grabbing the box and making him sit on the toilet lid.

“did you really?” you scoff, not meeting his gaze as you grab a soft rag, running it under warm water. satoru furrows his brows, confused as to why you think he wouldn’t have missed you.

“‘course i did,” he replies, opening his mouth to continue but closing it quickly when you turn to face him.

“can i take your blindfold off” you ask, your hands fiddling with the damp rag before setting it down when he nods ‘yes.’ you find the small knot hiding in his hair, gently undoing it.

the black blindfold loosen instantly, and you’re quick to gently take it off his head, setting it on the counter. his hair flops onto his forehead, falling almost perfectly to frame his face. despite the countless times you’d seen his eyes, your breath still hitched in your throat when you looked into them.

you try not to stare too long, brushing his hair out of his face and cleaning the dried blood on his face. satoru doesn’t take his eyes off you, eyes tracing your every feature. his gaze is one you always faltered under, growing nervous when he’d stare at you for too long.

“what” you ask, a small nervous smile forming on your face. satoru shakes his head, a small upside down smile on his face as you wipe the cut on his cheeks with an alcohol wipe.

“you’re just real pretty” he says, watching as you bite your bottom lip, surely trying to stop the smile fighting its way into your face.

“is you side hurt too?” you motion to where his hand is covering, trying to brush past the compliment he’d given you.

“healed it up a good amount while you were cleaning me up” he shrugs, lifting his shirt and showing you the brand new scar, “I’m not completely helpless.”

“no you’re the strongest” you tease, throwing away the used items and washing your hands. “did you wanna shower? you look like you could use it” satoru pouts at your words.

“don’t have to be so mean about it” you laugh softly, drying your hands before you’re standing in front of him again. you let your hands brush through his hair, exposing his forehead before you press a kiss to the skin.

“sorry angel, you’re the one who woke me up” satoru lets his eyes close softly, heart sinking a bit when you pull away from him.

“I’ve got some clothes you’ve left over so I’ll leave ‘em on the counter” you smile, closing the door behind you and sighing softly.

how’d you get to this point? how’re you stuck between friends and something more?

friends don’t feel the way you do about satoru. friends don’t place feathery kisses on their friends scars. friends don’t act the way you two act.

satoru steps out of the shower, smiling when he realizes his clothes smell like you. his heart leaps when he exits the restroom, finding you still awake and waiting for him on the couch.

“waiting for someone?” his voice makes you jump a bit, shaking you head and watching as he sits next to you. “did you have plans for tomorrow?” he questions, watching as you send a text.

“told them something came up,” you shrug, “figured you need me more.”

the words tugged on satoru’s heartstrings. there was a never night you hadn’t been there when he needed you. you’d been there for him since the day you’d met him, there to comfort him and ease his racing mind. you were there to calm him from panic attacks and frustrations, help him through grief and stress. everything.

you were a great friend.

he hated that word. you weren’t his friend, you were something more. he knew how he felt about you, he had an inkling feeling you felt the same. so what’s stopping him?

satoru shakes the question out of his head, focusing instead on the tv. the end credits are rolling but you’re not looking away, eyes unfocused and your mind elsewhere.

“should we go to sleep?” satoru whispers, a feathery touch to snap you back to reality. you nod with a small smile, the two of you making the familiar walk to your bedroom, satoru turning off any lights and closing the bedroom door behind him before slipping in next to you.

you’d always liked having your head on his chest, you were able to hear his heartbeat this way. the rhythmic pitter-patter never failed to make you smile or help you relax. it also gave away anytime he was nervous.

“your hearts beating real fast” you state, not looking up, instead continuing to draw circles in the palm of his hand. “what are you thinking about?”

there’s too many thoughts in satoru’s head, so many that he can’t begin to process a single one of them. so instead he blurts out what had been on his mind all night.

“i love you.”

you never thought people were telling the truth about time stopping when something like this happened. you’d always figured they romanticized their life a little too much.

but you felt time stop.

your fingers faltered and you felt your breathing hitch in your throat. your stomach erupted in butterflies, face hot and your eyes wide as the three words landed on your ears.

there was a million thoughts in your head, memories flooding in. spring nights around a fire pit, hot summer days at the beach, cool autumn afternoons carving pumpkins and cold winter mornings drinking hot chocolate. and in every one of them you bit back three words while staring at the white haired man.

“you don’t have to say it back” satoru begins, his heart beating even faster than before, “i just- I’ve been think-” you sit up quickly and cut him off, shaking your head and finally looking him in the eyes.

“I love you too,” you smile, letting yourself enjoy the the moment of euphoria the two of you felt upon hearing the other say the three words you’d dreamt of.

there’s only a second of silence before satoru’s blue eyes are looking at your lips, flickering up to meet your eyes momentarily. all it takes is you leaning in ever so slightly.

his hands are cupping your cheeks, crashing his lips against yours, a sense of urgency as his lips move against yours. he tastes like his vanilla lip balm and toothpaste, smiling as the words replay in your head.

“what’s funny?” he mumbles against your lips, laughing softly, not bothering to pull away from your lips. satoru’s cerulean eyes are fluttering open, completely focused on you.

you pull away a couple inches, staring into his eyes, you can see the emotions swimming in his eyes, love and excitement written over his face as he takes in your beauty.

“just happy” you reply, “never thought you’d put the end in friends” satoru pouts comically at your words, shoving his face in your lap and groaning softly.

“‘m sorry” he grumbles, “new to all the relationship stuff” there’s genuine frustration and remorse in his voice, it makes you smile as your run your fingers through his hair, tugging softy.

“‘s okay” you say, “thought technically I’m not yours since you haven’t asked me” he knows you’re poking fun at him, not rushing him into anything.

“don’t worry,” he says, sitting up and adjusting himself to lay down next to you, smiling when you lay your head on his chest, “gonna make you mine as soon as i can.”

the words make your heart flutter again, a sheepish smile on your face as your cheeks and ears burn.

“alright smooth talker let’s get some sleep.”

funny enough satoru feels the weight on his shoulders grow lighter with your body weight pressed against him. he feels a sense of serenity running his fingers up and down your exposed skin.

you can see goosebumps rise where your fingertips touch, smiling softly and holding back a giggle as your fingers ghost over his abs, causing him to shiver.

it’s different from before, more intimate.

satoru wonders why he was so afraid of baring his heart to you in the first place. he can’t find an excuse as he watches the golden ray of sunshine hit your face softly, causing you to stir. he’s still as he watches you immediately nuzzle your face into his side, falling back into a deep sleep in his arms.

it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep too, a smile on his face when he feels your grip tighten.

lovers, he thinks, it has a nice ring to it.

taglist (send an ask to be added): @chilichopsticks @anime-for-the-sleepless @safaia-47 @nanamikentoseyebags @fushironi @nineooooo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @gojoshooter @beautiful-is-boring @sweetheart-satoru @luna0713hunter @torusmochi @kentocalls @sadmonke

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ichorai · 1 year ago

Text

button ; coriolanus snow. (m)

pairing ; young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader (gender-neutral)

synopsis ; what did make him pause, however, was the very top button of your shirt. misshaped. odd. not matching the rest of your buttons. his gift to you. “you’re wearing it,” coriolanus whispered. his voice sounded strained.

words ; 3.4k

themes ; fluff, mild angst, smut

warnings / includes ; unprotected sex (not very explicit), possessiveness, themes of classism, we meet reader's rich parents !! and grandma'am and tigris appear, coryo's paranoia, he's not exactly toxic yet but the seeds are very much planted, i tried to keep him in character as best i could </3

a/n ; there will be a third part loosely following the events of the movie (obv tweaked for the fic!)

series masterlist. main masterlist.

Your home was the very definition of old money—wealth and grace and high status carved into the marble floors, hung up in the large oil paintings, found within the fibers of the expensive carpets leading into grand halls. Snow had to consciously remind himself to appear unphased. He had this sort of life, too, as far as you were concerned.

It was only expected, especially considering your parents’ high positions: with your father being the top admiral of the navy, and your mother a renowned physicist with several awards under her belt. Dozens of rows of medals and framed certifications from both your parents were more than enough for Snow to gauge the mass of their importance.

He shifted the weight of his feet in his too-tight shoes. Anxious. He wore his dress shirt again, though not before asking Tigris to try and rework the buttons. The buttons hewn from his bathroom tiles. Make them look the same, he had told her. They’re uneven. Snow turned away before he could see her mildly crestfallen expression.

It was a special occasion, hence his dressed-up attire. There was a rose pinned to his waistcoat, a deep shade of red, from his Grandma’am’s rooftop garden. Your father had come home today, after months of military work in the districts. And to celebrate such a momentous evening, you invited him to dinner.

To meet your parents. How utterly fraught.

Though, now that the two of you were officially together (albeit only recently—Sejanus asked if the two of you were a thing and Coryo replied with an instinctive, possessive yes, much to both of your surprise), Coriolanus supposed there was no use in delaying the inevitable.

“Don’t be nervous,” you told him, arm looped around his. The white rose he’d given you upon his arrival was tucked neatly behind your ear, a lovely contrast to your all-black garb. In a light-hearted tone, you added, “Father would be able to smell it on you. The fear.”

Coriolanus shot you an exasperated glance, to which you only smiled. You landed a soft, reassuring kiss onto his cheek, hand sliding down from his elbow to lace with his.

“You look… breathtaking,” he said, lifting your conjoined palms to brush his lips over your knuckles. Of the many lies that he told you, this certainly wasn’t one of them.

Your eyes gleamed with the light from the chandelier hanging above you.

“And you look handsome as ever.” A pause. You seemed bashful all of a sudden, averting your gaze to the gold patterns on the marble floors. “I know this is all very new, so I apologize in advance, if my father asks about our, uhm… our future… He’s a very forward man.”

A smile twitched at the corner of his lips and he slotted his free hand beneath your chin, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly over the side of your throat, forcing you to look back at him. “I have no intention of letting you go, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

You smiled again, all sunlight and warmth, and Coriolanus couldn’t help but steal it away with one last kiss.

“Ready?” you asked, jerking your head in the direction of the dining room.

Snow swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

Dinner was quite a pleasant affair. The food was better than anything the academy ever served—Coriolanus wondered how you could willingly go from eating such delicacies at home to basic, run-of-the-mill meals the cafeteria provided. There were courses, tender peppered steaks (his very favorite), rich mushroom soups, iced lemon cakes, and several sorts of breads and butters were offered all throughout.

Your mother was a delight, enchanting him with stories of laboratory mishaps and her dangerous adventures with radioactive material. You looked a lot like her, he realized.

Your father, on the other hand, was pressing at first, grilling Coriolanus with dozens of personal questions. If you hadn’t warned him beforehand that he was a military leader, he most definitely would’ve worked it out for himself then. There were times where you politely but forcefully snapped at him, telling him to lay off the invasive interrogation and to let the poor man eat. But Coriolanus really didn’t mind—he’d spent hours upon hours preparing himself for this. He answered all of the questions with effortless ease.

By the third course, your father was satisfied. Reluctant, but satisfied. By the fourth, he was already asking about marriage, much to your mortification. Coriolanus smiled down at his plate, and quietly listened to you lecture your father about privacy and civility.

Yes, dinner was quite enjoyable. Several containers of food from unseen servants were wrapped up for him to take home, at your request, despite his polite protests. It wasn’t a common thing to do in the capitol, but your parents hadn’t batted an eye.

He was safe. They didn’t know. It was an ongoing mantra the entire night.

He was shown out the door by your father, who clapped a large hand on his shoulder and told him to take care of you, especially while he was gone. Your mother kissed him once on each cheek as farewell, and you did the same, though your kisses strayed far closer to his lips. He caught the mischievous gleam in your eyes.

The door shut behind him once he strode into the expansive courtyard in front of your mansion of a home. He glanced down at the rose pinned to his coat, wondering if you were still wearing yours behind your ear. A minute later, he jumped out of his reverie when the entrance creaked open once more. You peeked your head back out, eyes alight, pleased to see that he was still there.

You slid out from the entryway and made your way to him with quick strides, wasting no time to rest your hands upon his chest. To his delight, you were still wearing the rose. “Father and mother left to watch television in the estate’s Northern wing. Didn’t want to kiss you in front of them.”

There were wings to your house? Coriolanus blinked at you, accidentally letting his indifferent mask slip for a few seconds. If you noticed, you didn’t say anything about it, leaning forward to kiss him sweetly. It took him another moment to gather his wits, before winding his arms about your waist and deepening the kiss, nearly bending you backwards with his vigor.

He could never tire of this, he thought, fingers curling so his nails dug into the expensive black fabric of your top. Kissing you, touching you, entertaining the notion that you were his, and only his.

When you pulled away, your lips were wonderfully kiss-swollen and your pupils were blown wide, to his amusement. Were his eyes just the same?

“Thank you for being here today,” you mumbled, that smile-frown he was so fond of gracing your features once more. “I’m sorry if my parents were too—”

“They were wonderful. You’re wonderful,” he interrupted, tone soft. His hand lifted from your waist to cup your face. Cold fingers against flushed skin. “I’ll see you at the academy?”

A nod, a grin, and a relieved sigh. “Sleep well, Coryo.”

“You, too.” He pulled away, reluctant, allowing his hands to fall back to his sides. “You look good with it, you know. The rose.” With a final nod, he turned on his heel and walked away from your estate, back to his own cold penthouse, where he had to burn newspaper scraps to keep warm.

The months drew by like a lazy stream of water, gliding over a bed of stones, languid and pleasant. Your time with Coriolanus was nothing short of utter bliss. He was a sweet lover, despite his possessive streaks, always making sure you were alright with what he was doing. The two of you went slow and steady, always asking, always gentle. He kissed you as if you were made of sugar glass, and you held onto him as if he was a fragile ceramic vase.

Exams were drawing nearer with each passing day, and the two of you found yourself studying and cramming more than anything. He would often tell you that there was no need for you to study so hard, especially when you were already at the very top, likely to claim the Plinth prize for yourself, but you always waved him away with a modest laugh. If the two of you weren’t at the library pouring over dozens upon dozens of books, you were finding ways to sneak him into your home: kissing behind stone statues in the gardens, hiding behind velvet curtains, pulling him onto your massive, four-poster bed.

It was only a matter of time until you asked.

His arm was draped over your bare midriff, drawing mindless shapes into your hip. Your head rested back against his chest, mildly sweaty from the lovemaking session the two of you were still dwindling down from. You stared out your window, watching the sun slowly bleed the sky a hazy clementine hue, teeth sinking down into the flesh of your bottom lip in thought.

“Why haven’t we ever studied at your home, Coryo?” you asked. “I’ve yet to meet your cousin. You talk about her a lot… she seems wonderful.”

You felt a cold breath billow over the back of your neck. It sent pleasant chills spider down your spinal column. And you could’ve imagined it, but his fingers seemed to flex over your bare flesh. Twitch. Almost antsy. Did your question make him uncomfortable?

Shifting in his grasp, you turned within his arms so you could face him. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to pressure you, or anything. I just… just know that I’d never judge you.”

His expression was near unreadable, the blue of his eyes even paler than usual with the sunset’s light casting a honey-glow over both of your sprawled-out forms. He kissed you again, hungrily, almost as if to distract you. You let him.

Kiss you, touch you, bruise you. Any of it, all of it.

A low groan barreled within his chest when you fisted a handful of his soft blonde waves at the base of his neck, gently tugging.

“Nothing you could show me would make me love you any less,” you muttered against his lips, nose nudging against his. “Nothing, Coryo.”

And he, in a moment of love-addled weakness, let himself believe you.

Come the next afternoon, you were at the door of the Snows’ penthouse, a basketed batch of warm cookies held in one hand, the other holding a heavy bag full of all your textbooks to study. If the two of you were going to study at all today. Your mother was aghast that you were about to visit his home without some sort of gift, and abruptly shoved the basket of goodies into your arms out of seemingly nowhere, as if materialized out of thin air.

“Coriolanus loves the chocolate chip ones,” she harrumphed whilst ushering you out the door. “Honestly, showing up to someone else’s home empty-handed? Who raised you?”

The irony was not lost on either of you, and you barked out a laugh before kissing her farewell and setting off to visit him.

You rang the rusted doorbell once—curiously regarding the little button once you realized that it was broken. Then, you knocked the door twice, then another two times for good measure. There was a muffled scuffling behind the door, a woman’s voice echoing from behind.

And when it swung open, you were met with an elderly woman, shrouded in a too-large, black tunic with embroidered flowers on the sleeves, the threads loose and pulled, the once-vibrant colors faded. She wore a turban, covering most of her white hair save for the few thin tendrils framing the sides of her face.

“Hello, I’m Coriolanus’ classmate,” you greeted, in an ever-so-capitol-esque manner. “You must be his… Grandma’am?”

She appeared confused for a moment, before slow sparks of recognition fired across her blue eyes. Coriolanus had the same eyes, you noted.

“Oh!” she crooned. “Oh, dear me! Coriolanus! It’s your lovely friend!”

There was a bit of commotion down the hall. The brief moment of pause allowed you to finally take in why Coriolanus hadn’t wanted you to come to his home all this time. The penthouse was still quite lavish, as the Snow estate was one of the most expensive properties in the capitol, but it was clear that the space was diminishing with the weight of its upkeep—flickering lights, dusty floors, tears in the wallpapers, mold on the countertops…

Your attention was drawn away from the view when Tigris and Coryo emerged from the same room, and you couldn’t help the smile that threatened to break across your features. His cousin was fretting over his lopsided curls, and he discreetly tried to duck out of her way to get to you.

“My, you are just as gorgeous as he said you were!” Grandma’am said in a pitching tone, wrangling your attention back to her. She lifted her hands to lightly pinch at your cheeks. “Yes, you’ll do just fine.” Her fingers fell away and she scuttled off, murmuring something about the Capitol’s First Partner—

Coriolanus breathed out your name and his hand was on your shoulder, apologizing once, twice, three times (what was he even apologizing for?), before Tigris popped up by his side, bumping him out of the way so she could shake your hand vigorously.

“Hi! I’m Tigris—it’s so nice to finally meet you!”

You shook the blonde woman’s hand, smile seeming to grow impossibly wider. “It’s nice to meet you, too! I love your dress.”

Her mouth dropped open in a flustered manner and a lovely rose shade dusted over her cheekbones. “Oh, this old thing?” She absentmindedly smoothed a hand down the frills of her pink dress. “Yeah, I… oh, it’s nothing, really, I just made it myself.”

“That’s incredibly impressive! You must be a really talented seamstress.”

A sharp clear of his throat made your eyes snap back to Coriolanus.

“Coryo,” you greeted warmly. “I brought you cookies. Chocolate chip. Mother sends her regards.”

The two Snows in front of you eyed the basket with large eyes.

“Thank you,” he croaked, accepting the basket from your extended hands and handing it over to his cousin. “Tigris, if you’d excuse us—we’ve got some studying to do.”

Coriolanus began to tug you down the hall, and you waved back to Tigris, telling her that you’d love to see any of her other dresses later. She’d already reached into the basket and had a cookie halfway to her mouth as she nodded at you with a toothy grin.

His room was in around the same state as the rest of the home. Furniture was old, torn, frayed, or simply broken. There were several boarded-up holes in his dresser. There was a box of rat poison below his desk, which was full with all sorts of papers and stacks of yellowing books. You skittered in and dropped your heavy bag down by his bed, allowing him to close the door behind you. You just barely registered the click of a lock.

“So?” he asked, voice sounding much louder in such a confined space. He seemed tense, as if bracing himself for the worst. “Are you disgusted yet?”

“What do you take me for?” you replied easily, having already gathered why he was so afraid of bringing you here in the first place. “I’m not a leech, nor am I vain, Coriolanus. I don’t want more money, and I’m not here to offer you charity to flaunt my wealth. I thought you’d know that by now.”

He stalked closer, observing you like a wolf would its prey. “What is it you want, then?”

When you took a step back closer to his small, rather wiry bed, he would take two longer strides, crowding you back against it. He dipped forward so that his lips were only a hair’s breadth from yours, but just barely not touching.

“You know, I’m sure.”

“I do.” Coriolanus knew that you wanted him just for him, and nothing gave him more pleasure than that simple fact. His nose brushed yours.

“Would it make me a fool to stay?” you asked, the question fanning over his mouth. Inviting, ever so tantalizing. “You’re not planning on chopping me up and selling my organs for some cash, are you?”

He didn’t laugh at your little joke. Instead, he dove forward, one hand yanking your hips to his, the other winding over to the back of your head. He kissed you desperately, all teeth and tongue, hardened lips and his knee slotting between your thighs.

“No,” he susurrated thickly, as if he’d swallowed honey and soil, pressing you down until you were fully laid down over his rickety bed, back arched. “You’d be mine. All of you, just mine.”

He swallowed any sort of gasp and moan that fell from your mouth. Greedy, lustful, determined to make you pliable. His kisses didn’t slow down whatsoever when he tore himself away from your lips, freckling them down your cheeks, your jaw, your neck, your collarbones.

What did make him pause, however, was the very top button of your shirt.

Misshaped. Odd. Not matching the rest of your buttons. His gift to you.

“You’re wearing it,” Coriolanus whispered. His voice sounded strained.

“Mmh?” You glanced down at the button. “Oh. Of course, I am. I like how it looks.”

His face hovered above yours once more. His stare was so intense you began to shy away, staring at a moldy patch on the ceiling. The silence felt suffocating as you waited for him to do something. Anything.

“I love you,” he breathed out, finally. Upfront and abrupt. It wasn’t often that he said it. Maybe once or twice before, since you said it more than enough for the both of you.

You laughed then—your wonderful, wind-chime laughter. It was more out of shock than anything. He kissed you soft and sweet, momentarily quelling your chuckling. But as the afternoon of so-called ‘studying’ drew on, the laughter melded into sighs of pleasure when clothes were shed, shifting towards wanton moans of desperation when heated flesh slid against one another.

You nearly choked when his length breached your entrance, scratching faint red lines down the expanse of his back as he pushed in, pulled out. Rhythmic. Again and again and again—you couldn’t seem to get enough of him on top of you, inside of you, all around you. Your chest was pressed up against his; could he hear your heart beating through your ribs, yearning to feel his? The coil within your lower abdomen tightened. He read your every microexpression just perfectly.

He’d unbuttoned your entire shirt save for the oddly-shaped one, hands groping all over your bare skin, teeth biting down onto the patch of skin just above the button as he rocked himself into a climax, roping you down into the abyss with him. Ragged groans and broken sighs.

Coriolanus dragged his tongue up your chest and your neck, leaving a cold trail in his wake, and he sucked in a deep breath. When he pulled back to stare at you—flushed, hair mussed, sweat beaded along your hairline, his pearlescent spend between your thighs, your eyes half-lidded… chest only barely covered by his one button…

“Thank you,” he croaked, kissing the space beside your left eye. “For not running.”

“Don’t make me a fool for it,” you replied, looping your arms over Coriolanus’ neck so he could kiss you properly.

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow fluff #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow x you #hunger games fanfiction #coriolanus snow drabbles #tbosas fanfiction #tbosas x reader #young!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow angst

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e-nonsense · 26 days ago

Note

Dahlia with String then Burlap plsss

What about him and the reader being lovers in highschool. After his death ,the reader went mad and stuck at the age of 15 when he was still alive. After he got back,he visits her everyday since he believed there is still a way to get his girl back 😭

COME HOME TO ME

pairing. jason todd x reader

warning. angst to fluff, character death + revival, age regression, reader in a psych ward

a/n. i really liked this prompt thank you

“hey baby,” jason whispered, his hand on the glass separating the two of you, oh how he wished he could break this down and take you home. but he knows that you wouldn’t react well to being taken.

you don’t reply, your eyes are staring forward. they’re so dull now, not like the girl he loved when he was younger, his girl.

you’re wearing one of the hoodies he left here for you. you may not recognise his face and voice but you’d never forget the way he smelt, you used to tease him for the pine smell but now it was all you had left of him.

“baby,” jason calls out again, a little louder this time. “come on, doll. look at me, it’s me. it’s jay.” jason wants to cry, he wants you back, he wants you home, his voice is pleading, there’s a lump in his throat when you finally look at him.

you shake your head at him, “you’re not my jay.”

jason feels like he’s dying again, it feels the same. he feels like he’s dying inside, the breath leaving his lungs, eyes closing and he can hear that bomb again. the maniacal laughter of the bastard that killed him, the sound of his skull cracking under the force of the crowbar.

because he’s not really your jay, is he? no, he knows he isn’t. that boy died a long time ago, but jason can be jay, because you need jay, not jason.

“yes i am, baby.” it’s me, doll.

when did baby turn to doll, he wonders. another sign that he’s changed.

“look at me, really look at me.”

and you do you look into his green eyes— green? that can’t be right, jay’s eyes were an icy blue you adored dozing off to. but there is something familiar in the way this man looks at you, like you could massacre cities and he’d still love you.

but he can’t be jay, your jay died.

you shake your head again, turning away from him to curl up on the bed — jason has to remember to say thanks to bruce for getting you somewhere that takes care of you — to hide from him.

“baby don’t go,” he whispers.

this was routine by now, everyday for the last three months he came here. to sit by the glass that separates you from him. and everyday you do the same thing, refuse to believe him.

“baby, don’t you remember me? remember that day we snuck into the theatre, in the roof and took out that part of the ceiling so we could watch? and you said—”

“—we’re like ninjas.”

a smile crosses his lips, and he laughs. your heart flutters and you peek a look at him, only to find his staring right back at you. “hi baby.”

“jay,” you mumble, he nods.

“that’s right, doll. it’s jay.”

“doll?” you ask.

he shrugs, “maybe it’s time for something new.”

“i like it,” you say.

it takes weeks before you’re discharged. the doctors don’t believe the sudden change in you, the hallucinations suddenly gone, you’re not seeing a teenage lover, you don’t believe you’re 15 anymore.

they run their test but nothing wrong comes back. jason takes you home at the end of it all.

it’s different, the way he walks, or talk, the way he stands. so different yet so familiar. he’s bigger, not the scrawny boy you knew, his size triples yours.

he laughs when you mention it to him.

he keeps his distance, trying to keep you comfortable but you want him closer. you want him to hold you, more than anything you want to curl up next to him, letting some corny horror movie you play in the background, you’d jump despite knowing the jump scares are coming, and he’d tease you, promise to keep the monsters away. before he screamed himself, and you laughed, fingers running through his hair.

his hair was different too, still black but he had that white streak in it. you told him you liked it, he gave up on trying to dye it.

he stays with you at night, holding your hand when you wake up from the nightmares of losing him.

it takes months before he holds you, causally like he used to. hands dragging along your hips when he walks past you. he coddles you months later despite your insistence that you can take care of yourself.

you don’t get over the years of your life you lost, but you both have that in common. your life started and ended together. now you get another chance to start again.

jason won’t leave you again. jay won’t let you hurt again.

#jason todd #[📮] asks #red hood x reader #enzo writes [📝]#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader fluff #jason todd angst #jason todd fluf #2k followers celebration

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klipkillakai · 9 months ago

Text

|pt3|

you laugh when your bestie mia tells you about her vacation in florida, she’s currently telling you about her sneaky links and showing you pictures as you do her nails, you’ve been doing your own nails for years and you’ve extended to doing your friends too.. you softly tap the acrylic onto her nail shaping it neatly—

“ugh i wanna go on a vacation” you say as you start filing her nails.. “you could’ve went with me i asked” she says in a sing song voice slightly teasing you, you roll your eyes “you know how my parents are stop playing” she laughs and nods..

your phone vibrates and you hear a ding cutting your music off for a second and you look down at your phone and see it’s a text from connie, you immediately feel warmth all over your body and try your hardest to fight back a smile..

“unt unt girl you gotta tell me about him now” laughing you say “it’s not much to tell yet, we’re just hanging out you know?” mia gives you a knowing look “mhm” and goes back to humming to the sza song playing through your room

a while later your taking pictures of her nails, “girl hold your hand straight” you laugh.. “i’m trying shit, i drank too much coffee” you giggle and finally get pictures to your satisfaction and sigh leaning back in your chair.. then you start to clean up

“so there’s this house party tonight down the block you trynna go?” you look up “i don’t know, you know ion really go to parties like that” mia groans “please y/n i don’t wanna go by myself and we don’t have to stay long” you think about it… “ugh fine” you say and she yells “period!” you start thinking about what your gonna wear and how your gonna do your hair “so imma leave, the party starts at 6 and i’m gonna go get ready and imma pick you up then okay?” you wipe down the table “okay bet” she comes over and gives you a quick hug before leaving—

“life is better on saturn” you sing while you put highlighter on the tip of your nose while looking in the mirror, you hear a ding and mia texts you she’s outside so you quickly get up looking at your outfit, mid rise jeans and a cropped white halter top, something slight something comfortable, you slip on black kitten heels you thrifted and you put on all your jewelry, rings, necklaces, bracelets, and switching out some of the earrings on your stack..

you drench your body in perfume because that’s the only way to do it and you grab your purse, quickly grabbing your lip gloss and liner before running out the door—

connie looks down at his phone for the 100th time today, waiting for you to text him back, he takes another hit from his blunt, and ignores when his friends try to talk to him about something cause now.. you stressin him out a little bit.. you haven’t gotten to the point in your relationship where your sharing locations so he has no idea where you are or what your doing.. he sends you another text

“wya mama?”

he waits 10 mins and still no response, he sits up a bit and rubs a hand down his face “this fucking girl man” he whispers and gets up, mumbling to his friends he has to go..

you unknowingly forgot to text him back and your in your own little world as your at the party, you dance with mia grinding against each other and singing tipsily towards each other giggling, it’s hot and sweaty and it truly feels like a movie, the beatbox your drinking is running through your veins and pumping false confidence and sensuality, it hinders your common sense a bit so you allow that one guy to touch up on you a little bit, you let him hold your waist as he moves behind you—

you and mia slip away from the dancing a bit going to find more drinks, you lean in the counter giggling with mia watching her pour a bunch of different liquors in two cups for you both and you feel your phone buzz and realize your getting a call, not only that but you’ve gotten several texts, you pick up

“h-hello?” you stutter a bit and giggle

“y/n? where you been i’ve been texting you all day”

you realize it’s connie and you slightly sober up

“im sorry ive been out all d-day, i didn’t see the texts”

connie slightly clenches his jaw as he sits in his car and tries to calm himself down, “where you at now?”

“im at a party with mia” you giggle softly

“who tf is-” connie starts his car and speeds down the road.. “where’s the party at”

“ummmm” you hum trying to think about it but your drunk mind won’t let you, “i’m gonna just send you my location” you do so and connie looks at it realizing it one of his buddies house and makes a turn and heads there.. “i’m on my wa- he’s about to say but is cut off when you abruptly hang up” he almost throws his phone but calms himself down—

you accidentally hang up as you get handed another drink and you go back to the dance floor, they start playing vybez kartel and you get it lit asf, you and mia start whining and twerking on each other.. mia records you as you unbutton your pants allowing the ass to move a bit more and you twerk on her “baby, baby mi a plead” you sing in unison and you both are laughing and having a good ass time..

the guy from before comes over and you let him hold you waist as you whine—

connie walks into the party hearing “one man” loudly playing one the speakers, he sees a sea of people dancing, laughing, chatting, drinking and smoking, he daps up a few people as we walks through the crowd looking for you..

he walks throughout the house and he finally sees you, and when he does he looses his fucking mind, he sees some random guy behind you holding your waist, as you whine on him, he sees that pretty ass smile on your face, your eyes slightly glossy and low how they usually are when you smoke together and not a care in the world..

he almost blacks out and quickly walks to you, yanking the guy off and pulling out a gun, and pressing it to the guys head and he says quietly “back the fuck up” you look at the gun and you slightly gasp in shock

“connie?” you ask, softly tugging him back.. connie looks back at you and gives you a look you never want to see from him again “imma deal with you in a second” he says low enough for only you two to hear and goes back to the guy currently trying to act hard infront of the crowd of people, connie cocks the gun and presses it harder against his head “do sumn i dare you..”

he threatens and the guy starts backing off..

connie stares him down until he walks away and he slowly turns back at you and you sober up a bit

“im sor- connie cuts you off and grabs your hand and drags you outside, you try to talk but connie doesn’t respond, he gets to his car and opens the door for you letting you get inside and slamming your door..

you start feeling a nervous flutter in your lower belly and watch as he rounds the car and gets in, starting the car and pulling off without saying a word

“connie” you say softly trying to get his attention but his hand just grips the wheel and he speeds up, you softly try to touch his chin and he grabs your hand and pulls it down..

“talk to me” you whisper, looking up at him and rubbing his arm.. still no response.. you sigh and sit back down looking out the window slightly biting your lip, as you sit there you get an idea.. definitely influenced by the alcohol and weed running through your veins..

you look over at him and you softly start to rub his chest, you lean a bit closer and press small kisses to his shoulder, “talk to me” you whisper again, you start to drag your hand down his chest to his lap and you rub his thigh.. biting your lip you slide you hand over to his bulge and start to palm it and you lean towards his ear “please talk to me papa” you say in the sweetest voice you can muster.. you watch as his eyes quickly flicker over to yours and you slightly smile knowing you almost got him..

you take off your seatbelt, trusting he won’t crash and you undo his belt and unbutton his jeans, you reach down and pull his dick out, he’s so hard and the tip is a painful red and you watch as a singular bead of precum rolls down his tip, you look up at him and he’s watching you with a dazed lustful look, but you also see anger behind them at that makes you feel a multitude of things..

you look back down and press a small kiss to the tip, and you hear a slow release of air come from his mouth, almost like a slow hiss, relying on books you’ve read and videos you watched you do the best you can, softly spitting on his dick and wrapping your mouth around his tip, using your hand with your freshly done acrylics to handle the rest..

connie feels like he’s going insane, he’s angry with you you, but at the same time he needs you so desperately, he quickly pulls into a parking lot so he can focus on what you doing, connie parks and slightly puts his seat back allowing you to have more room, he pushes your braids always from your eyes so he can see them while he looks down at you—

you hollow your cheeks and start to bob your head connie’s eyes nearly roll back and he holds your har up guiding you.. you move faster, taking it deeper while looking up at him for reassurance..

“ugh fuck” connie groans “just like that”

“don’t think i forgot about what you was doing mama, had me stressed all day.. ignoring me nd shi”

you feel connie tug your braids lifting your head up and you look at him, he stares downs at you and grabs your face with his hand and he licks and bites his lip as if he’s holding himself back from something, you watch as he slowly grabs his gun from the armrest and picks it up looking at if before slowly rubbing it on your lips and then slowly raising it to the side of your temple…

this sends a slice of terror down your back, you freeze and look up at connie, your eyes getting teary and blurry.. but.. deep down.. you feel that slow wave of heat pooling in your belly, the slow trickle of your slick filling your panties, and that soft throb.. and that’s what scares you the most.. you like this..

“i don’t ever wanna see you on another guy like that you hear me?”

“i swear to god y/n i will kill that motherfucker and then imma be on yo ass after”

he leans down closer to you “nod if you understand”

you slowly nod, a tear rolls down your cheek and your drunk mind struggles to process the influx of emotions your feelings right now..

he puts the gun down and leans back softly grabbing the base of his dick and squeezing it, jerking it softly before tapping it against your lips.. “open” he whispers and you do… you take his dick in your mouth, sitting up a bit and going as deep as you can, you gag softly and connie groans quietly “there you go” he whispers and you start to bob your head up and down..

you start to drool and let it get sloppy and nasty, you use both of your hands to jerk the base as you bob your head and connie’s eyes roll back and he holds a hand over his face “fuuuuck” he whispers and you respond with soft gags and soft little moans..

you slide your mouth off with a “pop!” and you start to kiss his balls heavy with cum as you look up at him.. “who taught you this” he almost whimpers and looks slightly jealous.. “m-my first time” you say as you drag your lips up and down his length..

“stop fucking playing” he groans absolutely not believing you.. “m’not lying papa” and you take him back in your mouth gagging softly and taking it as deep you can go.. at this point your mascara is rolling down your cheeks and your eyes are teary and red, but connie thinks this is the prettiest he’s ever seen you and he knows that makes him a sick bastard but he doesn’t care..

“your gonna make me-” he quickly pulls your head away as he felt he was about to cum, “shit baby hollon we going back to my place”… you softly whine and he nods “i know baby i know” you sit up and get back in your seat and connie tucks himself back in before quickly pulling out the parking lot and speeding back home..

he pulls into the parking garage and he hops out and so do you, you softly slip of your heels and you walk on your tippy toes to the elevator, connie notices and quickly picks you up bridal style and you let out a sharp gasp and immediately you feel a bit insecure..

“put me down m’too heavy” you try to slip out of his hold..

connie looks down at you and softly smacks his teeth, “stop moving ma, i gotchu” you feel flustered and look away and you nervously chew on your lip and you quietly ride the elevator with him, it dings and he carries you to the door and taps his fob on the door and walks inside, he carrie’s you down the hall and too his room and he drops you on his bed..

he stands at the foot of his bed and stares down at you and you stare back, the tension in the room getting denser and denser, he smiles softly and pulls his phone out and soon after you hear music playing, through speaks all throughout his apartment.. he reaches behind him and pulls off his shirt, your soon met with all his tattoos you love and his gold chain dangling from his neck, you lie on your back slightly sitting up on your elbows and you watch him..

he grabs your legs and pulls you towards him and leans down and traps you between his arms, and softly drags his nose down your neck and presses soft kisses down the path “you want this?” he whispers, and you slowly wrap your legs around his waist “it’s my first time” you whisper back, realizing how intimate the situation has gotten “do you want me to be your first?” he asks looking at you hoping you’ll say yes..

you stare up at him nodding softly.. “words mama” he whispers tenderly as his lips hover over yours, “yes..i would love for you to be my first” and connie smiles the brightest smile you’ve seen from him and that makes your heart palpate.. you both are heading towards dangerous territory and you both don’t give one fuck..

he captures your lips in a deep.. passionate kiss, you both letting out the pent up emotions you’ve both been holding in, his rage and passion.. and his care and worry.. your fear and obsession.. and your love and care..

he pulls away from your lips and slowly moves down, he’s looking up at you.. head between your plush thighs and he softly kisses them.. you get flustered and shy feeling insecure but connie absolutely could not care less, he kisses and bites your thighs likes his last meal on earth, he presses a soft kiss to your waist and drags he knuckles softly down the slit of your panties where he can see your slick pooling, you twitch and let out soft whimpers and that’s music to his ears..

he presses a kiss to your clothed clit before pulling your panties down, watching a string of your wetness still attached to it and his dick throbs against his belt and he lets out and audible groan..

he spreads your thighs and spreads your lips with his fingers before dragging his tongue down your slit then up to your clit, you mouth drops and you let out a moan, you quickly reach down and grab his hair feeling your toes curl, your heart beats a bit faster and he grips your thighs and holds them down before he sucks and flicks he tongue over your clit, completely ravishing you.. he tongues moves quickly and with purpose he sucks, bites, spits in tandem, knowing exactly how to get you where he wants you, he watches your tight hole clench and leak out clear slick and it drives him crazy..

he slaps your pussy and you look at him and moan “you like that?” “hm?” he slaps it again and you let out a quiet sob.. loving the stinging pain “again please” you whine, and he does it again.. over and over until your sobbing.. he goes back to licking and sucking.. until your loose enough for him to slide one finger inside..your back arches and your eyes roll back “im gonna cum” you whimper out and you do.. you toes curl and your ears ring and a flash of white blurs your vison for a second..

connie watches the whole thing and nearly cums in his pants, the face you make the feeling of your clenching around his fingers drives him insane, you slowly come down from your high and connie sits up pressing a soft kiss to your forehead and stands up walking across the room and opening a drawer grabbing a box of condoms and walking back..

you look up at him “i want to feel you” you whisper and his eye snap towards you “you don’t want me to wear one?” “no” you say.. almost sounding like a plead.. “you comfortable taking plan b?” he asks wanting to do what you think is best..

“i don’t mind.. i just wanna feel you” that sends a ping in his heart and he nods and smiles softly, he climbs back on the bed and hovers between your legs, he leans forward kissing you and rubbing your cheek with his thumb.. “tell me if you need me to stop.. slow down.. anything aii?” “want you to enjoy this too” you smile and nod “i will” you whisper..

he leans back grabbing your legs and pulling them next to his waist, he grabs the base of his dick and softly rubs it up and down your slit and back and forth over your clit, you feel pangs of pleasure blooming all over you body, everywhere starting to become super sensitive and hot, and when he starts to push his dick inside, you bite back a scream.. your eyes water and connie keeps looking up at you.. his heart slightly breaking knowing your in pain but he keeps pushing inside.. he knows he’s big and he knows he gonna have to pace himself with you..

“you doing so good for me mama” he coos as he rubs your thigh, pushing the rest of himself inside and letting out a sigh.. “your gonna fucking kill me” he whispers to himself and leans forwards and starts slow and deep thrusts.. rolling his hips into you..

your mouth slightly agape, you feel dazed and you feel like the deepest itch has been scratched, connie feels your pussy throb and pulsate around his dick and he tucks his face in your neck letting out small whimpers.. a whispering all sorts of colorful language.

he starts picking up his pace, now pounding into you, the rhythmic sound of skin slapping together fills the room almost drowning out the music, “that feel good?” he coos “yea?” and you nod “so so good” you stutter out the best you can.. he can tell your almost fucked out and he’s barely started yet, poor thing he thinks to himself.. he pushes your thighs back so far that they reach your ears and slightly burn, and he pounds into you, at an abnormal pace,

“fuck fuck fuck” he spits out as he pounds into.. his body covered in sweat and his brows furrowed.. all you can do is moan and take it, it’s a complete sensory overload and you don’t know what to do, you reach for him and he leans down and whispers all sorts of nasty shit in your ear..

“fucking gonna take all this nut yea?”

“want me to fill you up? nasty bitch”

“taking this dick so good for me”

“all you needed was some dick mama, cs now your being the good girl i know you are”

every sentence makes your clench and tighten around him and you both get closer and closer to cumming..

all of sudden connie pulls out and flips you over, quickly slapping your ass “arch yo back f’me” he says and you do your best, raising your ass and curing your back and laying your pretty head on the bed softly reaching down and rubbing your clit to alleviate the pain coming from your sore hole..

connie slide himself back into you, holding your waist and pounding into you, your mouth drops and connie moans and kneads your ass, he pounds into you from behind, bullying his thick dick into you from behind as he looses his mind, muttering all sorts of incoherent shit, just trying to express in his equally fucked out mind how fucking good it feels..

you just a babbling mess “that feels so g-good”…

“pa i cant- shit~ you whimper out not knowing what to do or say, it feels so wet and full and good, you feel connie kissing your back and grabbing your ass and all you know is that you don’t want it to stop, you feel you belly feel full and warm and you know your about to cum soon and so is he, he picks up the pace and he bites his lip so hard he tastes blood and he feels you tighten so much around his dick he cums..

“FUCK” he spits out, while you whimper a soft “shit” and you cum together, juices and fluids mixing together making it even more sloppy that it already is, he’s still slowly pounding into you and you put your hand against his belly “s’to sensitive” you whimper out, and he twitches and slowly stops.. he pulls out off you and you shiver, your thighs shaking and you plop down on the bed, immediately feeling exhaustion taking over you..

connie kisses down your back and uses all his strength to get up and grab a towel for you, he softly wipes between your thighs and uses the same to wipe his dick, he pull off the crop top you both didn’t bother to take off and grabs one of his shirts and pulls it over you, he slips his boxers back on and plops on the bed next to you, he pulls you on his chest and softly rubs your back..

he softly rubs your cheek and he feels such a strong emotion take over him that he barely recognizes anymore, and he doesn’t want to admit to himself what it is, so he softly kisses your forehead and closes his eyes, falling asleep with you..

|a/n|

y’all writing smut is absolutely NOT for the weak, that’s why this release took so long cause i have to spend so long visualizing what i want them to actually be doing 😭 but i hope y’all like it fr.. and thanks girl for lil gun idea you ate fr 🩷

[tag-list]

@fairygodbaby

@jun1p3rlol

@ebonydumbslut

@burpzz

@rawr29184

@thegirlyouworryabout

@rnvsxo

@thesmutconnoisseur

@undevidedattentionsblog

@magalimachete

@christinabae

@justazee

lmk if i forgot anyone and i’ll tag you 🩷

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mauvecherie-writes · 2 months ago

Text

when in london: j.scipio

• rating: NSFW 18+ mature

• pairing: jacob scipio x black!reader

• w.c: 4.7K

• summary: a spontaneous decision led to a passionate evening.

• warning: corny flirting, meet-cute, dual pov, fluff, sexual content: pwp, protected p in v sex, dirty talk, oral sex [f!receiving], brief handjob, Jacob talking you through it energy.

• tips: kofi | paypal – please if you can 🫶🏾.

[Jacob]

The roaring of laughter and buzzing of accumulated chatter was all around you as you tried to focus your eyes on the foods menu that was in front of you. A small frown was etched on your features as you contorted your glossed lips to the side as if you were concentrating on the words of the menu as if it was a study on the arts of culinary.

If he hadn’t been so enamoured by your beauty as you passed him by, he certainly was now. Feeling his staring tittering on the line of being uncomfortable if you caught him, he adjusted his cap and decided to approach you instead.

Typically, Jacob was a man who was able to admire a beautiful woman from afar and continue on his way. However, there were times such as now, where his body felt compelled to act. All he needed was a smile and he would be content.

[You]

There were so many options to choose from and you had been struggling to narrow it all down to only two options. If you had more time, you would have tried to sample as much you can, especially the perfectly curated chef’s specials.

You were so engrossed in exploring the menu that you did not notice someone approach.

“Forgive me for intruding darling but it seems like you’re having some trouble making a decision.” A low and deep voice came from beside you. Immediately, your body stood alert, ready to dismiss whoever it was. However, all fight left you when your eyes collided with the most gorgeous pair of hooded brown eyes that you had ever encountered. Even with the stone-brown coloured cap on, you could note that his head was covered in rich, dark locks and his full beard was neatly trimmed. But it was the small smile on his fully plump lips that had your guard completely crumbling.

He was devastatingly handsome and the fact that he had approached you because he noticed you were taking a little longer than usual when reading the menu had you slightly flushed with embarrassment.

“Yeah.” You sheepishly chuckled as you placed the menu down. “The hotel changes their menu with the seasons, but it seems this time around, all of my staples have either been removed of have had their recipe changed.”

“So now you’re being left with choosing something different.”

You nodded your head in agreement. “Normally, I would have taken this opportunity to just sample as much as I could, but I have to be at an event in about three hours, so I don’t want to over do it.”

The stranger’s smile widened, and you could physically feel your heart swooning.

“May I sit?” He asked.

“Please.” You gestured to the bar stool that was beside you and he took the seat. You couldn’t help but let your eyes travel down his body and noted what he was dressed in. An olive green long-sleeved linen shirt over a white vest that was tucked into what looked like blue Levi denim jeans. When you brought your eyes back to his face, his features felt familiar.

“I feel like I know you from somewhere.” You commented.

“Trust me sweetheart, if we had met before this moment – you would remember who I was.” He smirked. You playfully rolled your eyes, dismissive of his words yet inwardly admitting how they wanted to make you giggle.

“Ha. Ha.” You sarcastically said. “No, like a movie or something but I can’t remember what.”

“I’m an actor.” He spoke. “I’ve been in a couple of things over the past few years. I will say it’s early days of my career though.”

Suddenly, you gasped. “You act as that cute guy in the new Bad Boys films.” You said before you could stop yourself.

Your comment caused him to burst out laughing. “I would prefer Jacob, but I don’t mind being called cute too.” He winked at you which caused your cheeks to warm.

“I’ll stick to Jacob.” You replied as you put forth your hand as you gave you gave him your name in return. “I didn’t know that you were British.”

“Islington born and raised,” Jacob’s face held a sense of pride. “And I can tell from your accent that you’re Northern, but I can’t exactly pinpoint where.”

“A lot of people say that.” You smiled. “But I am from Manchester. The years spent at boarding school wouldn’t take away that twang no matter how much my parents tried.”

“Thank god it didn’t.” Jacob mumbled. You bit your tongue to stop the girlish giggle that wanted to spill out of your mouth.

“Anyway, didn’t you approach me because you wanted to help me choose what to eat?”

“Right.” He nodded his head. “Let’s take a look at this then.” You shared a look, smiling at each other before you passed the menu towards him.

[Jacob]

Your smile was breathtaking.

As much as your conversation was full of marvel and increasing interest, he couldn’t help but always be drawn back to your smile and the joyous sound of your laughter. Your mind was like a labyrinth of knowledge, he had come to find out. You were naturally inquisitive by nature, and it was a quality of that he was beginning to be fond of.

Jacob helped you in choosing a starter of sauteed scallops with garlic butter, lemon and with a parsley garnish. Then for your main entre, a lobster thermidor with a side of truffle fries. As an effort to impress you, he ordered a bottle of vintage Veuve Clicquot Rose. A favourite of yours that you had admitted that you only ordered once in a full moon.

On the last pour of the champagne, you had the softest pout on your lips.

“A good bottle like that is meant to softly enjoyed and we finished it all in an hour and a half.” You commented.

“Well sweetheart. How about, when you come back from your event, I’ll be here, waiting to finish this conversation with another bottle. How does that sound?” Jacob boldly asked you. At some point during your dinner, you had detailed that you had come down to London because you had been invited to an album release party of a friend. However, as the night progressed, the more that he was enjoying spending time in your presence, and he could tell that you felt the same.

“Actually, what are you doing with the rest of your evening?” You asked him as you nervously chewed on your bottom lip. Jacob leaned forward and brought his elbows onto the table.

“What do you have in mind darling?” He raised his eyebrow as he watched you also lean closer, and you placed your hands underneath your chin.

“What do you think about joining me for the rest of the night?” Jacob couldn’t help but grin at your question. He didn’t understand why you were so nervous to ask as he had been feeling the same. Jacob had not wanted this night to end just with sharing dinner hence why he had decided to leave things open ended with his invitation. He was staying on the floor above you, and he had conjured up a plan in his mind to use his small, heated pool that was on his balcony to his advantage when you came back from your event.

And now, you had answered his silent prayers.

“For you I’d do anything.” He answered which caused your eyes to slightly widen as a glint of mischief settled in your eyes. It wasn’t there for long, but it lingered long enough for him to catch it.

“Don’t say that to me.” You hid your glee behind biting your lip.

“And why is that?” He cocked his head to the side.

“Because I require a lot and you saying that you’ll do anything for me is just being a tease.” You confessed as you dropped your hands and reached for your champagne flute and brought it to your lips.

“If you tell me to do something, I’ll do it. I can handle you.” He licked his lips before a small smirk pulled on his face. The expression of desire that momentarily passed you was all that he needed.

Your fate had been sealed in that very moment.

[You]

The entire car ride to the event, all you kept thinking about was how incredibly spontaneous and probably stupid your actions were. Had you discussed this with your best friends, they most likely would have talked you out of inviting Jacob. You had just met the man, shared a long conversation over an impromptu dinner and now he was your plus one to a closed event. Yeah, your friends would have been screaming and throwing all types of cautionary flags your way.

And yet, the hopeful romantic within you simply couldn’t ignore how much of a spark was ignited between you and Jacob. The way your conversation just flowed from topic to topic. He didn’t seem put off by your ramblings of your multiple interests, in fact, he would courage you more by asking questions and it left you feeling giddy.

So, you were leaving it to chance. Sharing this night with this perfect stranger and if it turned into something, even better but if it ended with just tonight then so be it. You were going to enjoy the time you spent with each other.

When you arrived at the event, Jacob offered his arm for you to link with and you gladly took it. He leaned down and whispered in your ear.

“I know I’ve said this already, but you look absolutely stunning tonight.” His words and his breath brushing against your ear sent a shiver down the length of your spine.

“Thank you.” You replied cooly as you looked at him. Then you tried to focus on walking on steady feet past the crowds of fans outside of the venue. You waved at some people who shouted your name as they recognised you from your large social media platform. Once you were in the building, you ventured your way through the crowd towards your friend, who was stationed by the DJ booth.

You shared a tight hug and when she pulled away from you, she eyed Jacob, who was behind you talking to someone he seemed familiar with.

“And who is that gentleman with you?” She playfully wiggled her eyebrows which caused you to giggle.

“He’s my date for the evening.” You vaguely explained. She gave you a knowing smirk.

“Okay girl, I see you. He’s cute.” She winked and in turn, you rolled your eyes even though a small smile was on your face. After a few more greetings, you went back to Jacob who was now holding onto two glasses.

“I got you a Paloma. I hope that’s okay.” He said as he handed you the beverage.

“That’s perfect, thank you.” You took a sip and savoured the taste, humming softly as the flavours burst on your tongue. You hadn’t realised your eyes had closed until you opened them and met Jacob’s gaze. It was intense and it left you flustered. You wanted to avert your attention to somewhere else but like a compulsion, it held you captive.

“So, I saw you talking to some people.” You sparked conversation.

“Yeah, I’ve bumped into some people I’ve met within the industry.”

“I forget how much music and film intertwine.”

Jacob nodded his head in agreement. “Especially if it’s people who are behind the scenes. We just pick what job you can get and do so you meet a lot of people. I tend to make it a point to learn people’s names and get along with them. In the industry, your reputation gets you a lot further than people think.”

“It’s the same with content creation. I try to do the same even if I never meet some of the same people again but it’s that word of mouth that can open doors for you.”

“Exactly.” Just as he was about to continue further, the DJ started playing Alibi by Sevdaliza.

“Oh, this is my song!” You exclaimed. “Come dance with me.” You did not give him a chance to answer as you grabbed his empty hand dragged him towards the dance floor with him chuckling behind you.

[Jacob]

He was trying to be a gentleman.

He really was.

He stood by your side the entire event, bought all your drinks and danced with you – keeping his hands in the appropriate places.

However, as your friend’s sultry music blasted through the speakers, the more your inhibitions faltered. You were pressed against him – back to his chest with your head on his shoulder with one arm thrown over his head. At this point, his cap was backward so that he could get closer to you. His hands were still by his side as he swayed along with you to the melodious music.

“You can touch me you know.” You mumbled into his ear. His light chuckle vibrated against your skin which made you shiver, and he felt it.

“I was trying to be respectful.” He replied.

“There you go again with your teasing language.” He saw the corners of your mouth lift and your body shake with light laughter. “Tell me what you really wanted to say.”

Jacob took in a deep breath and let one hand come to your waist. “I didn’t want to touch you because I knew once I felt your skin beneath my fingertips, I wouldn’t be able to stop touching you.”

“Hmmm, you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Because it is, sweetheart. I’m a hard man to get rid of.” His hand trailed up your stomach and settled just beneath your breast, the other came to the exposed part of your skirt and he heard your gasp. The sound made his chest swell with pride. “Turn around.”

Your body immediately shifted in his arms. You pressed your forehead against his and he rested his hands on the lower part of your back and pulled you closer into his body.

“Permission to speak freely.” He mumbled lowly but you heard him clearly and his statement made you giggle.

“Permission granted.”

“I’ll admit that as soon as you entered the lobby, I noticed you and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you. Everything about your aura just captivated me and there was this pull, and I couldn’t ignore it. Then I saw you with your cute little pout as you read the menu, I just knew I had to talk to you.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Then you softly continued to dance, your bodies close as the music consumed you, but your scent engulfed him. Everything about you was hard to ignore and the more he felt your body, the harder it was to suppress his desires. Then you moved your leg so that it was in between his and he couldn’t stop you in time to feel the physical manifestation of his yearning.

You lifted your eyes to meet his. The carnal pools of ardour, so strong that sank deep into his veins, he held you by the neck to stop himself from devouring you right then and there.

“Take me back to the hotel.” You whispered against his lips.

[You]

By the time you arrived back at the hotel, your body was charged. You felt like you were on fire and the only person that could out it out was walking beside you with his arm around your waist. Then you slowly came to a halt in front of the hotel room door.

“You got the key?” He mumbled the question into your ear. You bit your lip, nodding your head as you brought the card out. Jacob shifted so that he was standing behind you. A shiver ran down your back and settled in your abdomen as his hands rubbed on the sides of your waist.

“Do you need me to open the door baby?” He softly spoke into your ear.

“No.” You cleared your throat as you swiped the card and the door unlocked. As you entered further into the room, the only lights that were on were the dimly lit lamps and whilst you could tell that that it was a beautiful suite, you were focused on the man that was behind you.

Jacob left you standing in the open space as he made sure that the door was locked and then he made his way back to you.

“Want me to put some music on?” He muttered. You shook your head from side to side in response. “What do you want?”

“I want you to kiss me.” You whispered. He closed the space that was in between you and cradled your face in the palms of his hands. You giggled as he stared down at you with a darkened gaze that held so much promise. You leaned up and grazed his bottom lip which caused the corner of his mouth to quirk upwards and you were not ashamed to feel the hunger that was bubbling to the surface. Without waiting for another moment, Jacob leaned down and pressed his lips against yours.

The feel of his mouth against yours was so much better than you imagined. His lips were so soft but his motion was forceful as he took control, kissing you as if your breath was his last. You moaned into the kiss as his hands travelled down your back to your ass. The softest whimper left your lips as he cupped and kneaded the rounded flesh.

“I like the sound of that.” Jacob whispered as he took off his cap and threw it on the ground before he moved to discarding his linen shirt. Just as your cropped t-shirt was off your body, he pulled you back into his body and captured your lips once more. “Jump.” He mumbled against your lips and you followed his instruction.

When you got to the bed, Jacob softly laid you down, never parting from the burning kiss that was melting you from the inside out. Passion controlled your moment as you stripped each other bare until you were left in just your underwear. You barely had any time to marvel at his physique before his body was covering yours again, landing his lips on yours once more before he turned his attention to your neck as he covered your chest with his large hands. Jacob flicked your nipples with his thumbs causing you to moan and arch into his palms.

“That feels so good.” You moaned and your eyes flattered open just enough to catch his smirk. Without words, he answered you by trailing lips further down onto your chest until one of your nipples was in his mouth and he suckled on it. He soothed the acute pain from the sucking with a flattened tongue and then he moved his mouth to your other nipple. The stimulation caused something fierce to pool in between your thighs. You squirmed beneath him as he paid beautiful attention to your chest. One nipple in your mouth and the other was kept trapped in between his fingers.

As your desire began to dampen your thighs, your need for friction was increasing. So you pushed him away and you softly kissed him as you ran your fingers down the contours of his torso until you wrapped your hand around the base of his girth. Jacob groaned as you tugged at him. He felt so hard, warm and thick in your palm and your mouth was salivating for a taste.

Just as you were about to shift downward, Jacob took your hand away from his dick and pushed you back until your back was on the sheets. He was on his knees in between your parted legs and you were finally able to look over his wonderful stature. His smooth, golden tanned skin. His chiselled, muscular build. He was perfectly sculpted and he was all yours.

Fuck, you were getting wetter just looking at him.

Your walls clenched around nothing as he placed chaste kisses on your stomach. “Tell me what you need Sweetheart.” He breathed against your skin.

You lifted your upper body onto your elbows and looked down at him. Those dark, hooded eyes were staring back up at you as he grabbed your ankle and lifted your leg onto his shoulder and pushed the other wider apart, taking in your glistening pussy. He unconsciously licked his lips as his fingers began to explore, parting your lips, letting the cool air in the room brush against you. You gasped as his thumb pressed on your swollen nub and you nearly buckled but you kept steady.

“You haven’t told me yet.” He taunted with a devilish smirk on his face as his fingers didn’t stop their exploration.

“I want you to eat my pussy Jacob.” You breathlessly let out as your wetness coated his fingers.

“Good girl.” He murmured with a wink before he dropped his head and pt his lips on exactly where you needed him the most.

You were not prepared for the way his tongue felt against your clit. Just as he did to your nipples, he did to your sensitive bud, adding the flick of his tongue.

“Oh fuck!” You moaned as your eyes closed and you fell back onto the pillow. Your hand shot down and ran through his black curls, pulling him closer to your hot core.

He paid attention to what was making you moan, what was making you sigh and what was causing your back to arch. He paid attention to your pleasure and that turned you on even more.

“You taste so good, baby.” Jacob groaned into you. As the vibration travelled through you, he pushed two fingers into your pussy and a sob broke out of you. Your hips rocked into his mouth as he curled his digits just enough to brush against your perfect spot. Your hands moved away from his body and gripped on the sheets as you panted. Your skin was beginning to dampen with your sweat as your orgasm quickly rose within you.

“Baby I’m gonna –.” You gasped a your hips moved faster with the pace of his fingers. The burn of his beard against your cunt added onto the sensation. “Right fucking there!”

Jacob didn’t move from the position that he was in.

You didn’t know if it was the way he was sucking and flicking his tongue on your clit or the accumulation of it all but your eyes scrunched shut as you finally climaxed. The intensity of it was so overwhelming, for a moment, all you could hear was white nose and the sound of your racing heart.

In your haze, you hadn’t felt the bed shift until Jacob came back. You felt his fingers against your cheek and then you opened your eyes.

“You okay?” He softly asked as if he had not just given you one of the best orgasms of your life.

“I’m more than okay.” You mumbled with a grin. Slowly, you opened your eyes to the picture of lust staring down at you. Hovering above you, Jacob leaned down and kissed you, pushing his tongue into your mouth. The reminisce of your essence, lingering on his lips. So dirty and had your pussy pulsating.

You sucked his bottom lip into your mouth which caused him to groan. As the kiss deepened with more frenzy, he climbed back on top of you. With your focus on his mouth, you heard the rustling of a packet. You pulled your mouth away long enough to watch Jacob rip the condom packet open and put it on.

Once he was done, he brought your legs to his waist.

“You ready for me, baby?” He asked.

“Mhm.” With a soft peck to your lips, he guided himself into you.

You both shared a moan.

“Oh my god.” Jacob was stretching every inch of you, the deeper he sank in. You were trying to keep your eyes open, to savour his reaction but he just felt so good.

“Baby.” You whimpered. He took your knee and put your leg back onto his shoulder which sunk him even deeper.

“So fucking tight.” He moaned. You watched his face for his reactions. The slight furrow of his eyebrows, the droplets of sweat beginning to slide down his forehead, the slight parting of his lips as he focused on his strokes.

“Please.” You whispered as you clenched around him.

“I knew you’d be perfect.” He mumbled against your lips. Jacob slowly pulled out and gave you one hard thrust. Your eyes widened with a loud gasp escaping you as he repeated the action.

A scream left you as he slowly set the pace of his strokes.

As the waves of pleasure rippled through your body, the sound of skin slapping on skin echoed through the room.

“Uuuhhh.” You choked on your whines as he pounded harder into you. You couldn’t shake the feeling of him burying himself inside so deep of you, over and over. The arousal overshadowed the pain of the stretch of his girth – the bittersweet feeling leaving you in a dizzy spell.

“Look at me.” Jacob growled as he put your other leg onto his shoulder and dug deeper. Through blurry vision, you looked at the man above you.

You had expected Jacob to be an expert lover but you never thought that he would be so dominating.

He hit one of your spots which caused your eyes to cross.

“There you go.” He licked his lips, chuckling. “Tell me how it feels.”

“So big…” You moaned

“Mhm.”

“So fucking deeep.”

“You’re so fucking wet baby, I gotta make sure I don’t slip out.”

“Oh shhiitt.” You whined, a loud moan quickly following after as he increased the pace. In your delirious state, you managed to catch him grinning down at you.

“Baby!” You hisses as you wrapped your hands on his wrists that were on either side of your head.

“You should have picked up on it now sweetheart, you gotta tell me what you want.”

His hips were moving faster, the slapping of his thighs against yours added more stimulation to your clit.

“I need to come.” You whimpered.

“You need to or you’re going to?”

“I’m going to come!”

“That’s it.” He leaned down, folding you even more so that he could kiss you. Jacob moved your legs from his shoulders and held them apart spread-eagle, giving you slower and longer strokes with an added roll to his hips. His tip was smoothly rubbing against your sweet spot.

The tightness in your stomach quickly took hold and your legs began to tremble. You wee left breathless at the overwhelming intensity of the ecstasy building inside of you.

“I can feel it coming, baby. You’re squeezing me so nice and tight.” Jacob groaned as his eyes rolled softly. “You gonna come for me?’ He asked. But you were too far gone to give a verbal answer so you just frantically nodded her head.

The tight coil quickly snapped and your body seized.

“That’s a good girl. So fucking good.” Jacob groaned. “Come all over my dick, soak that shit.” He spoke through your orgasm and all you could do was grip onto the sheets tighter as wave after wave swarmed your body. He didn’t stop moving his hips and with your quaking, it forced his peak to rise to the surface before his climax overcame him. With a loud moan, Jacob collapsed onto your chest as he filled the condom.

You hugged his body and ran your fingers through his damp hair. You could still feel the tremors of your orgasm as you laid beneath him. The both of you completely satiated and spent.

Finally, Jacob rolled off you and laid by your side. In silence, all you could hear was your heavy breathing.

“Fucking hell Mr Scipio.” You spoke up. “Can I have my soul back?” Your question caused Jacob to burst out laughing, eventually you joined him in the laughter.

“We have three more condoms left sweetheart.” He licked his lips before he turned his head to look at you. “So I won’t be giving you back your soul just yet.”

reading list: @fineanddandy @marzzrambles @murrylove @mineymak @lovedlover @planetblaque @deja-r @kiraonthegooo @apimp-named-slickback @playgurlxoxo @gojosbabyma @heytaewrites @leilaxaliel @dyttomori @tasteofmyrainboe @livvy-lovess @violetmuses @jeanellepatrice @kaisage45 @planetnique @adriennegabriella @deborahspalace @jadawada1z @delusionalbutterfly @msdmc1 @probablyintensemuses @stucklikeglue6 @reci1996 @muglermami @hereiheal @aisharmi @jasvishaawrites @lewisroscoelove @klaussstilinski @avoidthings @g1oba1-s1ore

#mauvecherie writes #when in london:one shot #jacob scipio #jacob scipio x black!reader #jacob scipio x black reader #jacob scipio x reader #jacob scipio x you #jacob scipio x yn #jacob scipio x y/n #jacob scipio fanfiction #jacob scipio fanfic #jacob scipio one shot #jacob scipio imagine #armando aretas #armando x reader

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sweetiecutie · 21 days ago

Text

Warnings: fluff, a bit of smut (mention of tits:3)

I recommend reading part 1 firstly<3

Loser!Metalhead!König who is completely and utterly smitten by you. You, a pretty little thing, big doe eyes looking up at him adoringly, glossed lips kissing him so softly - you make his very bones melt. König is known for his sharp tongue and stoic demeanour, but with his girl he turns into a little teddy bear, all soft and putty and pliant in your hands.

Needless to say that this is Loser!Metalhead!König’s first ever relationship (and he hopes last one - ain’t no way he’s letting you go), so he’s a bit clueless. Not a bit. Okay he’s completely oblivious. I mean, König for sure knows some very basic concepts of relationships, some of them he feels intuitively, some he saw displayed in movies, but in general? You have to give him crystal clear instructions and explanations because this dude doesn’t get damn hints. Yes, it is okay that he holds your hand in public, that’s what you’ve been waiting for months actually. No he can’t punch a guy for smiling at you after you met eyes for a second.

Loser!Metalhead!König who is a member and co-founder of a small heavy metal band with two of his other loser friends, where he is a drummer. They 100% put way too much meaning into band’s name, lyrics and overall aesthetic meanwhile all of their music is about gore and being a hater. It still slaps tho.

They start low - as all music bands do - performing in local rock clubs, soon finding their small, yet loyal audience which grows bigger with time and new records. And even though you’re not actually participating in process of making music - you sure are a member. Those losers surely don’t know how to give interviews - here comes in old little you, answering questions and explaining meaning and inspirations behind songs, process of their creation. Obviously you are the one leading their socials too - before you stepped in their insta page looked more like a mock account filled with ugly ass photos and near to no information about band nor members, account’s description saying “Austria - we make music”

You’re also the one doing their stage makeup, drawing creepy patterns in black and white face paints, making them look actually cool. These losers can’t even do their own significant makeup by themselves - just smearing black paint all over their faces and proudly calling it a stage look smh

Loser!Metalhead!König who definitely practices his singing while showering. He claims it’s good for keeping his voice cords active, “not letting them get rusty”, but just imagine this - you’re getting ready for bed, doing skincare, making your shared bed and fluffing up the pillows, scrolling in your phone - all while devil’s screeching and howling comes from the bathroom, all because that hulk of a man practices screaming techniques.

The more their band gets popular - the more fans start to rave about dynamic of your relationship. Big, burly, 6’10 brute who has to tilt his head down and draw his shoulders together in order to get through a doorframe dating a bubbly princess of a girl like you. Two polar opposites who work out so good together, Mick Thompson and Stacy Riley vibes frfr (god when will it be me)

Loser!Metalhead!König who definitely mansplains all his favourite bands’ lore to you, giving information about every member, how they became popular, what are their most known songs are (and what they got cancelled for but we don’t talk about it okay?)

Loser!Metalhead!König who is still a fucking loser tho. He blushes and stutters every time he sees your tits, his palms getting sweaty, lips ajar as his widened eyes are glued to your exposed chest, Adam’s apple bobbing on his neck. Has he seen them dozens of times before? Yes. Will he ever not be impressed by your tits upon seeing them? Hell no.

A/n: not me dropping this off after a year of not writing and then disappearing again:3

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diejager · 8 months ago

Note

it's always girl dad König or girl dad Simon but girl dad Makarov whose little princess gets away with everything

Cw: mention of assassination, protective behaviour, father!Makarov, tell me if I missed any. nnote: every dialogue in italic is spoken in Russian.

“- could provide you with-”

“Papa, ” you poked your head through his office room’s door after giving it three light knocks.

You knew your dad was in his office, a worker of the house had told you where he was after you asked her, the old lady’s face wrinkling up with her gentle, saying that she saw a Bolivian man escorted to his office, but didn’t know if he left or not. Wanting to try your luck, you crossed the mansion to get to his office, built on the left side of the house, while your bedrooms and study rooms were on the other end of the mansion. He liked to separate his work life and his life with you, for better protection and keep your from knowing the dangers of life —or so he says.

A man sat across him, the bald head of the Bolivian man Old Baba mentioned, wearing a suit sewed in fine looking silk, of rich and luxury that even your father never wore around so carelessly. It would catch people’s attention, right or wrong, he didn’t need any of that, he would rather wear the same black and white attire, clean and normal enough to be unnoticeable by the mass. The dichotomy between the fat man and your father was laughable, a scene you’d only see in your comedy novels or a movie. Your abrupt entrance had cut the man’s proposition in half, turning both their attention towards the door where you blinked owlishly, partly in guilt for barging into his meeting and in shock at the bald man’s heavy perspiration.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were still talking,” you bowed your head, ready to excuse yourself for barging in, “I’ll come back later, papa.”

“It’s fine,” Makarov waved his hand, nodding his head to let you know he wasn’t mad, your father would never be mad at you, you listened so well and never fought him on anything. You were a gem in his eyes, something precious and untouchable to all but him, “I’ll have someone call you when I’m done.”

When you closed the door, Makarov’s attention turned back to his potential - well, past potential - ally, his eyes darkening after he caught the man whispering something horrid about your interruption. His business was yours as much as it was his, you might’ve been kept in the dark at most time, but you knew enough to know he was a dangerous man. He kept you sheltered, but not naive.

And after half-heartedly listening to what the man had to provide, Makarov dismissed him, giving him a cold apology about those needs being fulfilled by a prior contractor, someone who already provided him with the material he proposed. He didn’t need a rich pig that stupidly flaunted is money, it would attract to many eyes and he didn’t need that if he wanted to reach his goal and build a better world for you.

He flicked his wrist, opening his phone and mindlessly dialling a number, pressing the screen to his ear as he watched the man amble down the stairs, struggling to make his way to the car he had a chauffeur waiting for him. The person on the other side picked his call within seconds, a cool and monotone voice ready to receive his order from Makarov, the unbothered tone at his fury, a personal and petty thing that clawed at his mind.

“Make it known that I will have no one disrespect my daughter.”

“Yes, sir.”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

#x reader #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2 #mw3 makarov #cod makarov #call of duty makarov #vladimir makarov #makarov #dad!makarov #Father!makarov #vladimir makarov x reader #makarov x reader

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thewickedjazzy · 1 month ago

Text

Special week: Blurred Lines for Kinktober.

♡featuring: jjk & bsd x afab! reader.

ᡣ𐭩PHASE 1: geto & chuuya x reader

♡synopsis: being a movie star in the jjk world has its perks and pitfalls, especially when you find yourself face-to-face with four swoon-worthy men. to make things even more complicated, you end up sandwiched between chuuya and geto in one night.

♡warnings: ņsfw, mdņi 18+, established plot, smųt with plot, characters are aged up or in their 20s, threesome, double penetration, cum mentioned, double cream pie, unprotected sex, fingering, degradation 'slut' ... not proofreaded, ig that's it?

♡word count & a/n: 5.2k, a special thank you & a smooch to @remlionheart for helping my ass write this and feeding my brain with her sweet ideas. it was so amusing and fun to write that i couldn't stop giggling. this fic is dedicated to my bbg @bittysuguro

[check the jjk & bsd special week masterlist]

“what do you mean my card got declined?!” a furious voice echoes across the pristine, high-end louis vuitton boutique.

you pause mid-step, glancing over your shoulder. the boutique is one of the most luxurious on omotesando street, and you haven't expected any kind of outburst here, of all places and you can’t help but arch an eyebrow, pondering if he's trying to pay with monopoly money or if his bank account has suddenly taken a nosedive.

the subject of the chaos stands by the counter, fuming—he’s a redheaded man in a black designer coat with a flat cap pulled low over his striking blue eyes. he looks like he just walked out of a fashion editorial, except for the part where he is practically roaring at the terrified cashier and waving a gold card like a weapon.

you find yourself blinking once again—what in the world is going on?

“sir, i ran it three times, and each time—” the cashier stammers, flinching as the redhead leans over the counter like he is about to blow the place up.

“i know there’s money on it! RUN IT AGAIN!” he growls, and you swear you can see veins popping in his neck.

before the poor cashier can even protest further, another man saunters into view, tall, lean, and wearing the most obnoxiously casual yet designer outfit. white hair peeks out from under a pair of dark sunglasses, and despite the clear chaos, he is wearing the cockiest grin you’d ever seen.

“tsk..no need to get so worked up,” the white-haired man drawled, arms laden with five louis vuitton bags. “your poor is showing.”

the redhead whirls on him, eyes blazing. “what did you just say, you asshole?”

the taller man stands there unfazed with his shit grin spreading wider. “you heard me, short stack.”

the redhead’s whole body stiffens, and you half expect him to launch himself across the store. you are only a few paces away, casually browsing the new bags collection, but now you find yourself watching the scene unfold like a deer caught in headlights.

“oh, please,” the white-haired man replies with a chuckle, waving his hand dismissively. “you sure you wanna do this, kid?”

at that moment, the shorter guy’s feet literally lift off the ground as he floats up toward the white-haired man, arm cocking back for a punch. it's like some weird gravity-defying stunt, and you can't help but stare, unsure whether you are hallucinating or if this is a really elaborate prank. you half-expect someone to jump out and yell, “surprise! you’re on candid camera!” while someone else films your bewildered expression.

the punch swings forward but… stops. midair.

“what the—” the redhead sputters, his fist hovering a mere inch from the smug man’s face, like an invisible barrier is blocking it.

“oh,” the taller man snickers, “you actually tried.”

just as things are about to get out of hand, a third man appeared—a taller figure with dark hair tied back wearing a serene expression as if he just strolled in from a yoga session. he places a hand on the redhead’s shoulder, gently pulling him back to the ground.

“hey man, let’s not destroy the boutique today, alright?” he says, tone weary yet unbelievably calm, like he is used to this kind of chaos. his gaze shifts to the white-haired man whilst rolling his eyes. “saturo, stop antagonizing everyone you meet. people are staring.”

the redhead grumbles something under his breath, glaring daggers at the taller man—saturo?—who simply chuckles back at him.

just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, the fiery-haired man still glaring at gojo, like he’d just stolen his lunch money—suddenly turns his gaze toward you as if he can feel your eyes boring into him. “what are you staring at?”

he takes a step toward you, and you feel your body tense up like a live wire. you can't help but blink back at him, because honestly, what are you supposed to say? "oh sorry, just trying to figure out why a five-foot ball of rage is levitating in a louis vuitton boutique?"

before you can formulate any semblance of a response, a smooth voice cuts in, dripping with nonchalance, “now, now, chuuya, no need to take your frustration out on innocent bystanders.”

the ginger-haired man—chuuya, you think you heard—glare flickers with surprise as a tall man with messy brown hair sidles up next to him, his brown trench coat swaying with his lazy steps. you barely register him before he sweeps his hand out, pushing chuuya aside like a piece of furniture. “pardon my associate’s behavior. he’s always a little testy when his card gets declined.”

you blink. “huh…?”

the brown-haired man gives you a dazzling smile, the kind that should come with a warning label. “ahh but you…” he trails off, letting his dark eyes roam over your figure with a look of pure delight. “such a wonderful sight. how can such a radiant beauty even exist in this world?” his voice dips, smooth and syrupy, and you can practically hear the faint sound of violins playing in the background.

chuuya’s eye twitches as he scowls at dazai. “are you seriously doing this right now?”

dazai ignores him entirely, stepping closer to you. “osamu dazai, by the way. and you must be the goddess gracing us with your presence today. It’s an honor to bask in your light.” he flashes you a grin, the kind that looks practiced but somehow genuine, and you’re not sure if you should be flattered or call security.

“i—uh—” you stammer, caught off guard by the sudden shift in the situation.

before you can utter another word out, the white-haired man—saturo, you assume, based on the way the other man addressed him—suddenly whips around, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just enough to reveal his gorgeous icy blue eyes, narrowing his gaze on you.

his entire demeanour shifts in an instant, going from casual smugness to absolute starstruck fanboy in 0.5 seconds. “wait… wait a damn minute—” his eyes widen, and he practically leaps forward, shoving dazai to the side like an afterthought. “you… you’re—no way, it's you! you’re my favourite movie star!”

dazai, now comically stumbling from the shove, frowns, “hey, i was talking first!”

saturo doesn’t even hear him, his attention laser-focused on you as he runs a hand through his white hair, grinning like an excited puppy. “holy shit, i’ve seen all your movies! you’re incredible! i mean, not just pretty—you’re talented too! that last film? chef’s kiss. truly. pure brilliance.”

you stare at him flabbergasted by the sudden barrage of praise. “uh… thanks?”

saturo claps his hands together and then turns to dazai with a smug smirk. “sorry, what were you saying? something about basking in her light?”

dazai, ever the smooth operator, recovers quickly, “wait a minute…” he muses, leaning slightly closer to saturo, “you know, your voice is kind of… nice.” he cocks his head as if discovering a new piece of an intriguing puzzle. “almost like i’ve heard it somewhere before… perhaps in a mirror?”

saturo's eyebrows shoot up, a look of surprise briefly crossing his face before his smug grin returns again. “well, well, aren’t you observant?” he says, hands casually stuffed into his pockets as he looks dazai up and down. “i guess i should compliment your taste then—great minds and great voices think alike.” he chuckles, and you can almost feel the mutual smugness radiating off the two men.

chuuya, who has been silently simmering through the whole exchange, finally explodes. “are ya both fuckin’ serious right now?” he growls, fists clenching at both his sides. “first, i’ve gotta deal with him”—he jabs a finger toward dazai—“and now this jackass too?” his foot taps impatiently on the boutique's polished floor, like he's ready to fight both of them.

“chuuya tsk.. tsk you're just upset because your little card got declined.” he shakes his head chuckling, “i didn’t know the economy would reject you specifically. but you know, you could always start a gofundme or maybe, uh i don’t know, pawn that fancy hat of yours?” he smirks playfully. “i hear they pay well for vintage."

saturo chuckles, clearly enjoying their little banter chaos. “hey, i like this guy! he’s got jokes.” he leans over toward dazai. “you sure we didn’t cross paths before?” then, turning his attention back to you with a teasing glint, he adds, “don’t worry, sweetheart—i’m still your best bet if you’re looking for a hero.” his eyes glimmer with flirtatious arrogance, as if he’s already planned your honeymoon by now.

chuuya throws his hands up in exasperation, shooting dazai an accusatory glare. “this isn’t funny, dazai! how the hell are we even supposed to survive in this weird-ass world when my damn card doesn’t work? not to mention that this is your fault for bringing us to this ridiculous place!”

the bandaged man sighs briefly, slipping into a serious look, “you're right. but I guess it's time to become a street performer. i mean, with your size, you’d make an adorable little tap dancer. might even make some decent pocket change.”

“you son of a—”

“enough!” the hot black-haired guy, who had been silently observing, steps forward, placing a firm hand on chuuya’s shoulder again. “we’re in public. can we try to act like civilized people for five minutes?”

chuuya grumbles, his fists still clenched, but the black-haired guy’s firm grip on his shoulder seems to anchor him enough to stop an all-out brawl. he glares between the two idiots in front of him—dazai still grinning like a smug bastard and saturo, who looks like he’s already planning his next punchline.

saturo straightens, his grin shifting slightly. “ugh suguru..don’t be such a killjoy.” he gestures lazily at dazai, “i was just making a new friend.”

chuuya scoffs. “friends? yeah, right. who the hell are you guys anyway?”

“just… tell them your name already. this isn’t a fight club.” suguru rolls his eyes.

saturo shrugs, turning his attention back to you and flashing that million-watt grin. “well, since suguru insists.” he dramatically puts a hand to his chest as if introducing himself for the first time. “i’m gojo satoru. the strongest sorcerer and uh apparently,”—he glances at dazai with a smirk—“your newest competitor for this sweetheart's attention.”

you sigh, clearly having enough of this shitty situation that feels like the setup for a sitcom episode. the ginger looks more frustrated by the minute, and the sight of him glaring daggers at the so-called companions makes you feel slightly bad for him.

“alright, chuuya,” you say, pulling him toward the cashier, ignoring the stunned look on his face. you feel suguru follow, maintaining a calming presence beside you. the cashier looks just as frazzled as chuuya, but you’re determined to end this nightmare once and for all.

“wait, what are you doing?” chuuya protests, glancing back at you with wide eyes. “you don’t have to—”

“It’s fine, really. it happens all the time,” you insist, shooting him a reassuring smile as you pull out your own card. “this is on me. plus you can pay me back in another way, though.”

dazai, overhearing this, perks up like a dog hearing a treat bag crinkle. he sidles over with that ever-present smirk on his face, leaning closer to you. “oh, you accept other ways? you naughty naughtyyy tsk!”

you roll your eyes, feeling your cheeks warm slightly, and ignore him completely. instead, you focus on the cashier, who looks thoroughly confused but also relieved to see the drama coming to a close. “just run this through, please.”

chuuya crosses his arms, clearly still disgruntled but unable to resist the tide of your determination. suguru shoots him a look that seems to say, “just go with it,” and chuuya huffs, lips pressing into a thin line.

as the cashier processes the transaction, you turn back to huuya. “it's fine, I really get it—everyone has rough days. uh how about you let me help you out a bit? i actually have a project coming up that could use two male leads.”

“it’s a vampire movie,” you explain with a grin spreading across your face as you watch chuuya’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “and honestly, you two fit the aesthetic perfectly. everyone i’ve auditioned so far has been terrible. i could really use your looks and… personalities,” you point toward the redhead and the hot black-haired man.

chuuya raises an eyebrow, skepticism etched across his features. “a vampire movie? seriously?”

“actually, I think you’d be perfect for the role. your features and that hair of yours are perfect for it.” suguro chuckles, nudging chuuya slightly.

you watch as chuuya’s expression softens, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smirk. for the first time, he chuckles, rolling his eyes at suguro. “you wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve had to dress up like one just to save that idiot dazai’s neck.”

suguro chuckles back, shaking his head. “guess it’s time to redeem yourself.”

chuuya huffs but a small smile betrays him. “fine, i’ll consider it. but only if you promise i don’t have to wear any ridiculous costumes.”

“i can’t make any promises,” you say with a teasing grin.

suguro smiles, leaning against the counter. “i’ll accept the offer, too.”

you beam, feeling a wave of relief wash over you finally. “great! i’ll send you both the details later.”

“ugh, why is this so hard?” you can’t help but chuckle at his struggle, it’s not like you're defusing a bomb here—just rehearsing a kiss for a scene.

“chuuya, it’s just a kiss. how hard can it be?” you tease, raising an eyebrow, watching him pace back and forth through the rehearsal room like a caged tiger.

“just a kiss? have you seen your face?” he gestures wildly, and you swear you can see steam rising from his ears. “you make it look way too easy!”

you giggle glancing up as you hear a faint creak from the door only to see geto strolling in and casually leaning against the door frame. you can tell that he just got out of the shower as he holds a towel drying his luxurious black hair. you part your lips trying to take a deep breath as you see his damp hair clinging to his neck in a way that’s... well, distracting, and you're not above admitting that. but as he shakes the water from his hair, your mind drifts back—against your will, mind you—to that moment from a week ago.

technically, it was a regular day. nothing special. just you trying on a costume in one of those annoyingly small fitting rooms. and of course, it had to be the tightest, most ill-fitting costume known to mankind. the zipper might as well have been laughing at your misery as you wrestled with it, stuck halfway like it had a personal problem against you.

after what felt like an hour of struggle, you finally managed to peel the outfit off your body like some weird victory over fabric. and that’s when geto decided to make his grand entrance.

“oh, uh... wrong room,” he said and in that split second, you swore your heart had leaped out of your chest, seeing his eyes go wide, flicking down clearly taking in the delicate lace set you had on and oh, the way he stares makes your cheeks flush hotter than the sun on a july afternoon.

you are friends. just friends. well, maybe more than friends. the three of you are getting along—maybe a little too perfectly, if you are being honest. it is in the small things like how geto always have a lighter handy for you and chuuya, even though he doesn't smoke. you have no idea why, but somehow he’d always flick it open when you reach for a cigarette. that, combined with the lingering glances and casual touches that seems far too intimate to be strictly platonic, says something about where things are heading.

chuuya, on the other hand, is... well, he is oblivious. not that you mind it. he is just so focused on the roles you are rehearsing together that he hasn't picked up on the fact that you’ve been flirting with him for a while now. hell, geto had caught on, but chuuya? the poor guy needs it spelled out. you are going to have to make your moves more obvious—or, in chuuya’s case, maybe drastic.

and if you think back to certain moments—like that night when chuuya got himself absolutely plastered. that redhead brat went from zero to blackout drunk in record time, and of course, it fell on you to drag his sorry ass home. you just couldn't see him stumbling out of a bar, half-laughing, half-cursing, completely out of it and do nothing. to be fair, this all came after his impulsive bank robbery—yeah, you heard that right. a bank robbery. apparently, after the whole boutique incident, chuuya decided he was tired of being broke.

so there you were, guiding this drunken menace through the streets, and contemplating how you could spring him from the charges he was facing. he was barely coherent, mumbling something about the "best wine ever" and how the stars were "calling his name." romantic, right? wrong.

by the time you finally got him inside, chuuya, in all his sottish wisdom, decided clothes were optional. without a word—no hesitation, no second thoughts—he started stripping. pants off, dress shirt shirt flung across the room, and he was about to lose the rest when you jumped in.

“whoa, okay, let’s maybe not do that right now?” you managed to say, trying your best to avert your gaze but also wondering why the hell the universe had put you in this situation. because, let’s be honest, as much as you didn't want to stop him... you really, really should.

and you did stop him, somehow managing to wrestle him back into some kind of decency before he could make things even more harder for you. needless to say, he was so out of it, that he passed out immediately after—half clothed, thank god.

and you thank heavens that he doesn't remember a damn thing the next morning about his one-man strip show.

you blink as the sound of geto’s teasing voice yanking you from your thoughts.

“what’s going on in here? i could hear chuuya’s desperation from down the hall.”

chuuya glares at him. “shut it, geto. we’re just—”

“rehearsing a kiss,” you finish, unable to resist the urge to jump in.

“exactly,” chuuya huffs, crossing his arms defensively and pouting—god he's so adorable. “just a stupid kiss.”

geto smiles softly and steps further into the rehearsal room, “well, it can’t be that bad. show me what you’ve got.”

chuuya rolls his eyes, obviously being tested by geto’s teasing and you can see him mentally gearing up, “alright, but don’t laugh if I mess it up.”

you try to flash him an encouraging smile to ease him a little bit. “just breathe. it’s literally just a kiss.”

he nods stepping closer, you notice his cheeks tinged with a hint of pink. he gets within a breath’s distance and suddenly seems frozen, his confidence evaporating as he stumbles over his own thoughts. “uh... so...”

you can't help but chuckle softly, leaning in a little closer to coax him. “come on, chuuya. just focus on my lips. you can do this.”

geto—who had been watching from the side with a knowing smile—decided to step in. “you know, it might help to ease the tension. let me give you a few pointers.

chuuya blinked, caught off guard but quickly nodded. “yeah, sure. anything to make it look… believable.”

without uttering a response, he strides over and gently cupping your sweet pink cheeks, leaning in to press his soft lips against yours, and oh god, it’s perfect. the world fades away, and for a moment, it’s just you and the warmth of his lips. you let out a soft gasp as he slips his tongue between your puffy lips, tilting his head for better acess making your heart race as your mind wonders if you’ve just been seduced in a rehearsal. honestly you’re taken aback by how natural it feels, how perfectly his lips fit against yours.

geto loses himself completely in the kiss, his fingers brushing through your hair as if he’s trying to pull you closer, as the kiss deepens a low hum escapes his wet lips. you feel a rush of pleasure floods through your entire body, and just when you think it can’t get better, he pulls away, slightly breathless and blinking as he locks gaze with your lips for a bit before averting his gaze to chuuya.

well as for chuuya, the ginger stands there, wide-eyed, his lips slightly parted as if he hasn’t fully processed what just happened. “uh… was the tongue really necessary?” he stammers, cheeks flushed an adorable shade of crimson.

geto chuckles, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. “now you try.”

chuuya blinks again, still looking all flustered but still wants to get it right. he turns to you, hand sliding to your waist in a way that is awkward but endearing.

“fine… i got this.” his voice is hushed as his take your lower lip between his pink ones, trying to mimic what geto had done. it was just a kiss—chaste, careful, like he was still holding back. but then something clicked within you, the ginger's eyes snaps open before growling into your mouth as you slip your tongue into into his before twirling the two pink muscles together. you glide your delicate fingers through his messy strands, pulling him closer for a few seconds before he pulls back, breathing heavily.

“okay, that was… not acting right?” he says, his brows furrowing as he tries to catch his breath. “is that how it’s supposed to feel?”

geto sighs loudly, shaking his head in exasperation. “chuuya, how didn’t you notice? it’s been going on for a few months already. didn’t you realise it? because if you really want us to… you know...”

“ugh, thank you!!! finally someone who can read my hints,” you exclaim, shooting geto a grateful look.

chuuya blinks a few times, his brows knitting together as he processes what’s just been said. “wait, hold on,” he splutter, looking back and forth between you and geto. “are you both... serious?”

“god, i’m such an idiot. i thought we were just—” he pauses

“just friends?” you finish for him, giving him a playful nudge. “come on, chuuya. i thought i was dropping some pretty big hints.”

the redhead runs a hand through his messy hair, looking both at you and geto. “ so..uh..you really want us to fuck you?” he mutters, lips forming into a slow grin.. “like...both of us?”

“uh, yeah?” you say, biting your lip to suppress a smile watching chuuya and geto exchange glances more like a silent understanding seems to pass between them, and before you know it, geto strides over and lifts you off the ground effortlessly.

“wait, wait, wait!” you squeal, laughter bubbling up as you squirm in his grip. “what are you doing?”

“just a little detour to somewhere more private.” he says, glancing back at chuuya, who raises his eyebrows with a sick lustful grin plastered on his face.

“seriously, you guys, i can walk!” you protest, but the thrill of being swept off your feet makes it hard to sound convincing.

“good, ‘cause we'll make sure you won’t be walking straight for days.” chuuya says as he opens the trailer door, stepping inside with geto following suit.

the sound of a zipper being pulled down is the last thing you hear before you’re instantly pressed between the two men, their eager hands working quickly to strip you bare. the fabric falls away easily revealing more of your skin to their hungry eyes.

“damn,” chuuya breathes seeing your skin pebble once they hit the cold air. “you’re even prettier than i imagined.”

your eyes flutter shut as your head falls back on geto's shoulder and you relax for just a second before you feel chuuya's mouth encircled your nipple, his jot tongue swirling around your areola tasting your sweet skin as he groans softly against it.

“hngh—chuuya…” you whimper fingers tightening in his messy hair.

he releases your nipple with a slick pop, then brings his large palms to knead your pillowy breasts. as geto lifts you slightly, guiding your hips down to press against his hard cock. you open your eyes to glance down, breath hitching at the sight of him resting between your slick folds. you can't help but let out a soft gasp seeing how massive he is, tip coated with pre-cum and veins popping and soaked by your essence. you let out a soft moan as he peppers your neck with hot, wet kisses, goosebumps rise across the plains of your skin.

chuuya leans down easing you into geto's embrace and spreading your plushy thighs wider.

“look at her pussy—fuck s’pretty..” chuuya drawls as he spits on your swollen clit drawing lazy cut shapes on it, the warm fluid drooling between your puffy folds.

he then plunges his spit-slicked fingers past the swell of your plump lips, coaxing you to get even wetter for them as geto's large, gritty hands grip your ass, pulling you back and forth on his throbbing, leaky, fat cock.

“such a good slut, sucking my fingers so well,” your cunt clenches eagerly sucking on chuuya's long fingers, once he's truly satisfied, he pulls out of your cunt before smearing your juices all across your folds.

geto grips his cock in his palm, the leaky tip smearing your juices as he positions himself between your chubby cheeks. you never tried anal before and you never expected yourself to gasp that loud feeling the rush of spit pools against the pad of your tongue from him stretching your hole so perfectly. you cry out in surprise before chuuya swiftly plunges his tongue into your mouth swallowing your lewd noises.

“ffuck, i’ve been waiting for this, babe.” you hear geto's soft moans against the shell of your ear from behind, “... thinking of you in those lacy little things... mngh, you have no idea how many nights i couldn’t sleep, wanting to feel you... s’warm and tight around me.” he grips your juicy ass cheeks tighter, thrusting you down against him, as if he can’t wait any longer.

“ready for me doll?” chuuya breathes against your lips.

“yes ahh please chuu—mngh” you try to respond, but your words dissolve into a moan as you feel him slowly push inside your heated core. you had expected him to be gentle—just not this gentle. he languidly slides deeper and deeper, his head dropping forward to rest against your soft breasts, growling as he buries himself inside you.

you dig your nails into chuuya’s shoulders, forming delicate marks on his pale skin as you use him for leverage to push yourself back onto geto's cock. each thrust sends shockwaves through your body, making you shudder as chuuya fills you completely.

“god, you feel s’ fuckin’ good, doll,”

your moans get higher and higher mingling with their grunts and growling, chuuya finds himself thrusting faster than usual, his cock is pulsing from watching you nastily taking him and his friend's cock so perfectly.

“y-you okay doll?” chuuya breathes, his voice laced with awe as he watches your eyes roll back into your skull.

“ffuhmk—yes please more,” you cry feeling geto's pace starting to match chuuya's fast and hard ones, your body tenses up, pleasured from all angles, both with their girthy huge cocks filling you up to the brim, your vision blurs seeing through haze chuuya's eyes roll back, his fiery strands sticking to his face and neck, red hue blossoming under his skin and rapidly spreading to his chest.

“jesus f-fucking christ, you're so hot.” geto breathes against your skin tilting your head so that he can bite down your bottom lip gently before drawing circles with your tongues making the pair of you an even greater mess, both his hands reach up to cup your pillowy breasts squeezing them as they jiggle between the palm of his hands, “mmngh—sugu~ahh” the two of you moaning in unison.

before you can catch your breath, chuuya grabs your cheeks with two fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze. his lips crash against yours with a bruising intensity in a sloppy kiss, forcing his tongue deep into your mouth as his fingers roughly toy with your clit, drawing sharp, almost painful pleasure from the sensitive nub. “you gonna cum for us, mngh? gonna be a good slut and cum?” he growls, cupid's bows wet from your searing kisses as his fingers cut circles into your clit, pushing you closer to the edge.

the world around you blurs as you're finally pushed over the edge with the repeated brush of their cocks against your spongy spots—a blinding white light floods your vision, static crackling in your ears. chuuya watches in awe, like he's witnessing a miracle, as you cum, your body convulsing with pleasure. at the same time, geto spills inside you, his warm release filling your womb to the brim. the intensity makes you feel like you might pass out, a scream ripping from your throat as the knot in your lower belly unravels with chuuya's twitching cock inside you as he too rocks inside you multiple times riding out his sweet release with force that makes your body shake as he paints your walls with his hot shooting cum filling you up perfectly. you three reach your peak together, perfectly in sync.

the world gradually comes back into focus, as you three try to calm down from your release. geto is the first to pull out, and as he does, you feel his cum slowly drip from your body. chuuya follows, watching in awe your ruined holes leaking with their seeds as your legs tremble from the overwhelming pleasure.

chuuya chuckles breathlessly, wiping the sweat from his brow, and gently rubs a hand over your thigh. “i’ll get the bath ready for ya doll,” he murmurs, voice still rough from the intensity of his orgasm, before standing up and heading towards the bathroom.

you nod, watching his bare form head to the bathroom as geto leans in close, pressing gentle, reassuring kisses to your lips while his strong hands tenderly massage your trembling legs. “relax, baby” he whispers between kisses, his lips still deliciously sloppy, “you did so well. let me take care of you.” he strokes your skin soothingly, bringing you down from the high as you try to catch your breath.

you give geto a tired but grateful smile, your chest still heaving, “t-thank you, sugu,” you murmur softly, watching his lips curl into a satisfied grin, and he continues to massage your legs, his fingers easing away the lingering tension.

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