#iron pallets | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

henneseyhoe · 8 months

Text

Milk Marie

Unique x BLACK!FEM!reader

WARNINGS: unprotected seggs(wrap before you tap!), dirty talk, after care, soft(ish)!Unique, pussy whipped!Unique, kinda short, das it(I think)

SUMMARY: Unique figures if he can’t get over her, he’ll get under her instead.

✮Prompt✮

✮✮✮✮

Girl, I want everything that come with you. Even if you got stretch marks and even two children. I can’t blame you, girl.

It seemed like he always ended back up here. Right here. In this bed. With this woman. Wrapped up in her sheets with his hands touching all the parts only the luckiest of men got the pleasure of even seeing. He swore they were meant to be, and she almost thought so too. He treated her so well, like the beauty she was, and she couldn’t be more grateful.

They had known each other since the sandbox, his mother always offering to watch her while her mother was at work and since that first time they met, they were connected at the hip.

No matter if they fell out and swore to stop fuckin’ with each other, they always ended right back together. No matter how many times she attempted to leave, he’d just find her again.

He hoped by the last time she left he’d be too tired of her bullshit to follow after her, but he was more resilient than he thought, and withdrawals are a muthafucka. Now he knows how the people he serves feel.

That first taste he had of her? It was like a babies first lick of sugar, addiction waiting to happen. The first time he came was like floating in outer space with no destination or desire to be anywhere else. And as ironic as it was, she looked innocent on her knees for him.

Her mouth worked its way down on him until the tip of her nose touched his stomach and her eyes began to water, her throat capturing his entire length. With no problem, she bobbed her head up and down on him, her mouth so sloppy that spit escaped from her lips and trailed down to his balls, making him shudder.

She took her hand and began spreading the spit around his heavy sack, massaging as she felt him throb in her mouth, the taste of precum already being prevalent on her tongue. He occupies his hands and digs his fingers into the couch cushions, knowing that she would stop and he’d be fucked if he reached for her freshly done silk press that was wrapped in a silk scarf, secure for those rough times.

Flashes of white appeared behind his eyes like stars as that familiar pull in the bottom of his stomach appeared once again, a warm sense of feeling covering his body as he came down her throat for the first time in months since he found out where she had been hiding. Which just ended up being her childhood home in the city over.

It took unique all but a mere few seconds to recover before he was pulling her up from her knees and into his strong hold, giving her that kiss of death before he got to doing his own damage. As he stood from the couch with no care about the jeans and belt still around his thighs, their tongues danced together in sync. Unique could taste every bit of both of them on her tongue, but he was never one to fuss about kissing after head if it was with her. He welcomed it if anything.

Tossing her body onto the bed, he takes a second to admire how the room hadn’t changed one bit since she became an adult. A doll house sat in the corner with dolls still inside, a memory of the last time she had played with them. Teddy bears that had eventually fallen off the bed when she was sat. Pink walls with brown, white, and gold for the future. A color pallet reminding him of something else in particular.

✮✮✮✮

“Nique~” She moaned sweetly, her hands gripping the sheets underneath her as the man above her pushed his hips onto her ass, his piece sinking into her ever so slowly. The stretch was always the same, the thickness of him leaving a burning sensation at her entrance the more he pushed into her, but it only stayed for a few seconds as she adjusted to his size, which was nothing average.

The thrusts were sensual and loving until he leans up off of her and pulls out just a bit further than usual, giving her the room to pull her ass up in the air and put a perfect arch in her back. She began bouncing herself back onto him, gaining speed and momentum as he meets her ass with his hips.

“Oh fuck..” He groans quietly.

His eyes were trained on the motions of her soft skin jiggling with every collide of their bodies. His thrusts only got harder from there, segments of moans falling from the girls lips. He didn’t even have to tell her how wet she was, the squelching sounds erupting from where they connected told her all she needed to know.

Switching the angle of his thrusts, he places one knee onto the bed and leans into her, his hands placed in the middle of her back just to make sure she wouldn’t be able to run from the lethal position. And running, she did not do, couldn’t do because of how he was holding her. Suddenly the bed dipped under them both with the strong force of his thrust making her collapse on her stomach, leaving the girl breathless after calling out to the highest one she worshipped.

“You feel that, baby? I’m in it?” He asks with his breathing unsteady, his balls tightening and her toes curling.

“Yes, Nique!”

She was in shambles trying to keep up with him. She could feel the tip of his dick pressing against her g spot, constantly slamming into it like a button, like he’d get some kind of prize if he pushed it correctly. He fucked her so hard, sweet compliments being the only things that contradicted the rough strokes. She could hear the belt buckle of his pants jingling around his ankles, remembering that they had barely been undressed fully before Unique got impatient and just shoved his pants down and her nightgown up before pushing her to her knees.

As Unique continued on with damn near breaking this girls childhood bed, he thought to himself. This was the pussy that niggas killed for. The type pussy that’d have you bussing back to back without a second thought about a condom. This was the pussy he thought about on those lonely nights when she was mad at him, when he had to take matters into his own hands and desperately jerk himself off, his mouth agape and muscles flexing as he cums all over his stomach to the beautiful thought that was her.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She whimpers. At this point she could feel him poking at her stomach and being pressed against the mattress helped nothing. He would probably fuck her through the cushion if he could.

“Uh-huh. Cum on this dick, Princess. Lemme feel you wet this dick up, show me how good I make this pussy feel” He spoke, punching nothing but a thick 9 inch pole into her spine. The man gave her no choice but to scream and give him exactly what he wanted, which was her release.

✮✮✮✮

Between her thighs were messy and wet, coated with a layer of white cream that was from both of them. Unique gently wiped her down with a wet towel, careful not to swipe over her sensitive clit too fast or harsh.

“Shhh—“ She hissed, her thighs almost closing in on his hand. Unique’s eyes flickered from her core up to her expression. “My bad” He simply apologized before tossing away the dirty rag in a hamper next to the bed. Laying next to her on his back, he sighs. “you gon’ learn to stop running from what you love”

She smiles, turning her head to look at the side of his face, getting a view of that nearly perfect profile. “Who says I love you, Unique?”

He smirks. “I don’t need a second opinion on a fact”

And the cycle continues…

✮✮✮✮

Woke up and remembered I forgot the taglist chile! LMFAO(some tags aren’t showing up, dk why!)

🏷️ @thatone-girly @notapradagurl7 @swavydadon @miyahmaraj @planetblaque @msinterlude @milkiboo @bloodripleygal @stevelacyballs @naj-ay444 @blackelysian @shaolyninferno

553 notes · View notes

daisyful-gvf · 1 year

Text

roommates // by daisyful

18+

*********************************************************

pairings: jake x reader

word count: 5k

tags: sex toys, roommates!au, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, pwp basically, pet names because i can’t help myself, dirty talking

notes: i never thought i’d write this many fics with a vibrator involved, but here we are lmao. This happened bc of this post . minimally edited.

*********************************************************

“You’re fucking kidding me”

Of course, today of all days, the batteries would die. You huff out a few more curses and remove the lifeless vibrator from between your legs, throwing it on the bed beside you.

For a moment you lay there and frown, wondering if this is a sign you should just go to bed. Today had tested you far too frequently, and you couldn’t deal with much more. The thought of trying to get off any other way after you’d been so close with the toy seemed not worth the hassle.

Then, your brain throws you a hail mary: there’s batteries in the kitchen drawer. Perfect.

You tug on a pair of cotton underwear and smooth out your oversized t-shirt. It settles at the tops of your thighs, and you figure that’s decent enough for a run to the kitchen at 2:00 in the morning.

Your body carries you to the kitchen through the darkness, only broken by the light of the TV your roommate must have left on.

It causes you to roll your eyes—an old western is playing. You never had the pallet for them, even in an ironic sense. But Jake—your roommate of about a year now—loved them, for some reasons he had droned on about before when you expressed your disinterest.

You go straight for the drawer by the fridge, full of scissors and charging cords and pennies and mail, fishing around for the AA batteries.

“Whatcha need?”

“Fuck!” Your chest pounds as you clutch dramatically at your shirt, whirling around to see the source of the voice.

Jake blinks at you, eyebrows raised in amusement. He lays on the couch, in his plaid pajama pants and t shirt, feet covered by a throw blanket.

“You up to something sneaky? Why so jumpy?” He grins.

“Fuck off,” you roll your eyes, “It’s dark, I didn’t see you,” you grumble.

“Jesus,” he laughs, “Bad day?”

You just nod, rummaging again through the drawer for the batteries.

“You need help?” He asks, his voice getting closer as he walks into the kitchen.

“Where are our batteries?” You murmur, closing that drawer and trying the next.

He ‘hmm’s for a second, and then answers, “Why the hell do you need batteries at 2am? You building something?”

“Yes, a robot,” you deadpan, “Mind your business. Do you know where they are?”

“Damn, what’s wrong?” you can hear the smile in his voice and you finally look up at him, growing impatient.

“Do you know where they are or not?”

He looks you over, seemingly trying to understand the situation, and then, you realize that you’re in only your shirt and underwear. You can see him swallow and avert his eyes to the cabinet as he seems to realize the same.

“I think so,” he says softly, “Hang on.”

He fetches a shoe box from the hallway closet and brings it back to the kitchen, plopping it on the counter. There’s various tools and nails and command hooks, and then, alas, he pulls out a small container of AA batteries. Gently, he puts them in your hand.

“There,” he says softly, “You good?”

You nod and mutter a soft thank you before making a quick escape, looking forward to no longer being in front of him in your underwear.

You know it’s no big deal, and that you two have gotten comfortable. But there’s this tension, sometimes. Mostly like this, at night, sometimes intoxicated. Where the stares between you two linger a bit too long, and your mind begins to wonder. You always push it down, because it’s not a good idea, and you know that. And when the light of day comes around, you’re always relieved that things feel normal again.

So that’s what you do; push it aside. Back to the matter at hand: you latch your bedroom door behind you and head straight for the vibrator, popping it’s plastic plate off and fishing out the old batteries. And then you realize. They’re the wrong size.

You take a shaking breath, irritated and tired. Without thinking, you throw it back on the bed and walk back out into the living room, where Jake has cozied up on the couch.

“Do we have triple A?” You ask flatly.

“Hmm?” He looks up at you. His eyes land on your bare thighs again, then flick back up quickly to your gaze.

“Triple A? Batteries?”

“Honey, what is this for?” He mumbles, getting off the couch again to help.

“It’s nothing,” you huff out, beginning to go through the shoebox again.

“Gotta tell me if you want help,” he smirks. You look up and he’s got a cocky hand on his hip, standing a couple of feet away. His hair is messy in the dim blue light, and he looks amused with himself.

No longer in possession of any patience to make up a story or fight off his questioning, you answer.

“My vibrator.”

His lips part in gentle shock, and the cocky expression leaves his face at once.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, “You just had to know, huh?”

You laugh, because he looks so shy and unlike himself all the sudden. Possibly delirious from the late hour, he laughs too.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. You can see him blushing even in the low light.

“It’s fine,” you rush out, “I’ve just had a bad day, I’m just—” you give up looking through the box, rubbing a hand over your face, “I’m just frustrated. And I just needed—nevermind,” you shake your head, “It’s dead, I just need the batteries.”

He nods and pulls the shoebox closer to him on the counter, picking through the nails and thumbtacks and tape.

“Well I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Honey,” he says quietly, “But I don’t think we have any.”

“It’s fine,” you sigh, “I’m gonna go to bed,” you pad a few steps away from him, “Goodnight. This didn’t happen,” you point a finger at him.

He salutes you and grins, headed back to the couch. Shoving your embarrassment down, you head to your room again and prepare for sleep. You can’t be bothered to mess with it again.

You’re just picking up the vibrator and putting the back piece back on when there’s a soft knock at the door.

Tucking the toy behind your back, you crack it open to reveal none other than Jake.

“Um,” he holds up the TV remote, “This has triple A batteries,” he says softly.

You look between the remote and him, a furious blush making its way across your face that he would care so much as to come tell you.

“Oh,” you say, eloquence evading you.

He passes it towards you and you open the door further, taking it from him in your open hand. You other stays tucked behind your back, hiding the toy in a way that feels very scandalous.

“Don’t you need this?” You ask, “You’re watching TV.”

He shrugs, “Not as bad as you do, apparently,” he grins and you can’t help but chuckle. “No, but, seriously, I’m probably gonna go to bed.”

You nod slowly, “Okay. Um,” you swallow. You should feel more nervous than you do. More embarrassed. There’s a bit of it, sure, but not much. It feels oddly comfortable. “Thank you.” You murmur.

He nods, and then licks his lip. You stare, because it seems to be almost in slow motion, and his bottom lip is left glossy. Here it is again: the tension. So easy to form in the late hours of the night.

“Mmhm,” he acknowledges your gratitude and he takes a breath, like he’s about to speak, but then his lips shut. He does it again, like he’s working up to saying it.

“Do you wanna make sure they work?” He asks, “Cause I can—if not, I can check my room, or something, um,” his hand grips the doorway and his fingers fidget with the wood. He’s doing a terrible job of acting casual about it, but you find it endearing.

“Sure,” you murmur, “Um,” you fumble with the toy behind your back, “Here, hang on.”

You turn around, just enough that he might not be able to plainly see it in your hand as you mess with it. But you can’t pop open the remote and the toy with both things in your hand, you realize quickly.

“Here,” he says gently, pushing your door open and touching you on the shoulder. He comes around to your side and takes the remote from your hand.

You watch him as he does, and while he looks a little bashful, you appreciate him not acknowledging what’s in your other hand.

With daft fingers, he removes the batteries from the remote as you take them out of the vibrator. You toss the old ones on your bed, and let him place the new ones in your palm. When you click them into place, the toy immediately buzzes to life.

“Oh—shit—“ you breathe, fumbling quickly to turn off the toy. You look at him in a panic, and mutter a soft, “Sorry. Thank you.”

He nods, but doesn’t say anything. He’s got an odd expression, and you think twice before asking, but then you can’t help it.

“What?” you ask.

“Uh,” he chuckles, “I don’t—um,” he runs his hand through his hair and looks back and forth between you and the vibrator, “Nothing.”

He doesn’t move, though. Doesn’t walk to the door, even a little bit.

“Jake,” you sigh, “What is it?”

“I just—“ he starts, and then he nibbles on his bottom lip again, “I probably…shouldn’t…”

You raise your brows at him, wondering what the hell he’s talking about.

“I just—“ he clears his throat, “If—if you had a hard day and you need…I mean, if you need to get off and—and if you just need, y’know, if you don’t wanna have to do a lot of work, I mean, if you’ve had a hard day—“

“Jake,” you giggle at his nonsense, “What?”

He collects himself with a breath, “I can help,” he says finally, “If you’d want that.”

“Help?” Your mouth goes dry at the thought that he’s saying what you think he is.

He nods, “Help. Just this once. Forget about it tomorrow, act like it never happened, all that good stuff, y’know.”

You know you’re standing there with a ridiculous expression on your face, but you can’t help it. You’re stunned.

“Oh,” you finally manage.

He just looks at you, perhaps scared to say anything else.

“You can say no,” he gives you the out, “Or you can say yes. It’s up to you.”

You note how quickly your thighs clench together at the thought, and how your cheeks heat. It’s undeniable that the offer sounds nice. Your day did suck, it would be nice to not have to think about it, just have someone else do the work. Especially someone as attractive as him, who you feel safe with, who you know would take care of you.

“Hm, Honey?” He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “I don’t even have to touch you, I can just use the toy, but maybe—“

“Sure,” you surprise yourself with the answer.

“Yeah?” He trails the back of his knuckles over your jaw, “Sound nice?”

A shaky breath leaves you as his fingers graze softly.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “And really,” he licks his lips, “We’ll forget all about it tomorrow. S’just a favor.”

“Okay,” you agree.

“Wanna lay down?” His voice is lower, gentle still, but almost gravelly.

You nod and sit near the top of your bed, watching him intently as he pushes the remote aside and touches your ankle softly. There’s nothing but the soft whir of the fan for a moment as he looks up at you. Suddenly, he looks so much like himself. So familiar. It puts you at ease, and he must see it.

He traces his palm up from your ankle to the inside of your thigh, where he touches softly.

“That okay?” He murmurs. When you nod, he settles more, laying on his stomach between your ankles.

His palms are large and warm over your thighs, where they work to help you relax through broad sweeps over your skin. The only light is from the salt lamp on your dresser, so he glows soft orange.

You can feel the tension unwind as he sweeps his palm again and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee.

“Can I have that?” he smiles as he nods toward your hand, still clutched around the vibrator.

Quietly, you pass the slender silicone wand to him. He takes it in his large hand and flips it, the side with the button in his palm. He skims it down the inside of your thigh, warming you up to the touch. It steals your breath.

“Relax,” he soothes, kissing your thigh again, “Just me.”

You nod, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

“Help slide these off for me?” He nudges the hem of your shirt up on your hip and tugs at one side of your underwear.

Doing as he asks, you slip fingers under the other side and with him, you drag them down and off your ankles.

He tosses them to the floor and comes back to you, skirting the toy up your thigh again, closer and closer. He’s looking up at you for a moment, and you hold the eye contact and your breath, but then finally he spares a glance to your center.

His breath shudders from him and his eyes close momentarily. When they open, for the first time you see him turned on. You can’t pinpoint what it is in his demeanor, but it’s undeniable. It lights a fire in your belly so quickly you wonder why you didn’t do this ages ago.

“Honey…” he sighs, then a groan sounds from the back of his throat, “I don’t wanna keep you waiting, is that okay? Or you wanna go slow?”

“No,” you answer quickly, “Don’t have to go slow.”

He nods and hits the button on the toy, sending it buzzing to life. You can just barely hear the sharp intake of breath from him.

A bit too slow, even, for your liking, he drags the toy up your thigh again, before finally letting the it rest over your clit. You try not to cry out, instead biting down on your lip hard, and pushing your hips up into the touch.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says calmly, “You don’t need to be quiet. Helps me know better what to do if you’re not quiet.”

“Oka—” it’s cut off with a groan as he nestles it more firmly against you.

“Feel good?” He asks, voice still low. You nod frantically, “You can—“ you sigh, a bit scared to say it. Too turned on to think much more, you just do, “You can touch me, if you want.”

He looks up at you quickly, and oh, his eyelids are heavy with lust.

“Yeah?” he says, as if he’s not sure he’s heard you right.

“Mmhm,” you nod, “Please.”

“Fuck,” it rushes out of him, “Yeah, Honey.”

He moves the vibrator aside for a moment, letting it rest just to the side of you. He removes the hand that was holding your thigh and licks the pad of his thumb before he brings it to you, greeting your clit with slow circles. The touch burns a trail through your body, immediately heating your face and chest.

“Jake,” the way you say his name is nearing pathetic.

“Yeah?” He sounds almost in pain, his voice is tight.

“More,” you shudder.

“How—Jesus Christ“ he clears his throat, “Do you wanna tell me how you like it, or you just want me to—“

“Just—,” you feel frantic, like your skin is too hot, and you don’t know what you need. You reach for him, and your hand lands in the crown of his hair, “Please, something—I—”

“Okay,” he soothes, “Okay.”

Slowly still, he moves the toy down and eases against the slick of your entrance, and when you push your hips into it, he takes it as permission to ease it into you.

“Fuck,” you bite out.

“Good?” he checks in, kissing your leg.

“Yeah,” you gasp.

“Good,” he murmurs, and then he’s settling down, pressing kisses further and further along your inner thigh, until finally, he meets your clit in a gentle kiss.

“Jake,” you groan, loud, “Ohmygod.”

He hums against you, and then before you can even catch your breath, he licks a full stripe, stealing whatever sanity you could have possibly had left.

“Don’t stop,” you know you’re whining but you can’t help it, not even a bit. He licks and sucks slowly, letting the buzz from the toy and the warmth from his mouth carry you to your end. Your hand stays buried in his hair at the roots, where you try not to squeeze it too hard.

It’s almost humorous, that earlier you were trying so desperately to get off, and now that it's a hair’s width away, you wish you weren’t so close. You don’t want the sweet warmth of his tongue to leave. Sadly, you don’t have a choice.

“Gonna cum,” you warn him, so he can back off if he wants, but he just groans into you, and keeps his motions steady.

You can’t breathe when it hits you, nor can you help the way your thighs tense around him. You’re pretty sure you almost pass out for a moment, as your vision goes all white when your eyes roll back. After it passes, and you can take a deep gasp of air again, he’s coming up for air.

“Fuck me,” he groans, “Fuck.”

You blink a few times so you can finally see him in the dim light again. He slides the vibrator from you and clicks it off, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Almost like he can’t help it, he gets up on his knees and grips the length of himself through the pajamas, his eyes rolling back and his lips falling open.

His eyes snap open to meet yours, and his hand falls away.

“Sorry,” he sighs quickly, “Sorry, I—“ he shakes his head, at a loss.

“It’s okay,” your chest heaves as you recover still from the orgasm.

You try to read him, to know where to go with this. Do you thank him? Do you offer to return the favor? That wasn’t part of this, though, maybe—

“Can I do it again?”

Your eyes meet his in some fiery standoff.

“What?”

He licks his lips, “Can I make you cum again?”

When you’re still silent for a moment, he adds, “Please?”

The groan that comes from you is much too loud and enthusiastic, and before you know it you’re reaching for him.

“Come here,” you plead, and he obliges, slotting with you and hovering over you, meeting you in a warm kiss.

“Fuck,” he says against your mouth, “I promise we can still forget about this tomorrow, if you want—“

“Shut up,” you smile, kissing him harder. He groans back and snakes a hand between your legs, where suddenly he’s nudging two fingers against you.

“Is—“

“Yes,” You answer before he can ask.

You gasp when they sink in, warm and full, so much better than the stupid vibrator.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he says against your cheek, as he’s nipping and licking a trail down your face, “I would—“ he swallows, you can hear it close to your ear, “I would fucking love to be inside you.”

“Oh my god,” it rushes out of you without thought, “Please.”

He groans, but pulls back.

“Are you sure—“

“Yes, Jake,”

“No, Honey, listen to me,” he holds your jaw in his hand, “We can still just pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow if you want, but please think about it for a second. I’m alright with it. Are you?”

You take a deep breath, and yeah, even when you think about it, even when it’s him, you want it. And you know he’d never hold it against you.

“Yeah,” you nod, “Yes.”

His lips curl into a wide grin, and then he’s back against your mouth, matching your fervor with his warm tongue. His fingers work still inside you, curling perfectly over and over.

You want him so badly all at once you can barely stand it, and without a second thought, it comes out of you:

“Can I ride you?”

His fingers halt and he groans so loud you almost wonder if he’s hurt, his head falls to your shoulder. Quickly, he collects himself, pulling his head up to look at you. He’s disheveled, and it’s hot. His hair is everywhere, his lips are swollen.

“As hot as that is, no, babe, this is still about you. Don’t want you to have to do any of the work.”

You’re trying to respond, but the way he said babe rings around in your head deafeningly loud.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he kisses your cheek, “I promise.”

Numb from the pleasure, you nod as he withdraws his fingers. He smiles as he slips off the bed and tugs his shirt over his head. You follow his form, tugging your shirt over yours. His eyes slow for a moment over your chest, and you both take each other in.

You’ve seen him shirtless, as he cooks breakfast, or when he comes home from a jog. You know he has soft sides, a defined chest, and wonderfully strong shoulders. It still makes you speechless.

Even more, when he tugs the string of his pajama pants loose and eases them gently down his hips, letting them fall to the floor, you can’t find words. The curve from his hips to his waist makes your mouth open in an intrigued shock. And god, the thick length of himself that he takes quickly into his hand is enough to stun you forever. You’re shocked you can find words to answer him when he asks,

“You want this?”

It’s low and sultry as he palms himself. His head is cocked just to the side, making dazed eye contact with you.

“Yeah,” you sigh, “I—can I touch you?”

He bites on his bottom lip and nods, stepping closer to the side of the bed so that he’s within reach. Timidly, you reach up to take him into your hand. His hand moves, allowing it, and as your fingers wrap around him, your thighs clench. He releases a slow, shaky breath when you stroke him.

He’s warm, and thicker than at first glance. You can’t resist a peek up at his face as you move your hand slowly over him. His eyes are locked onto your hand, his lips parted in a sigh.

“Feels nice,” he thrusts experimentally into your grip, and his eyes roll back, “Your hand is so soft.”

You can’t help but giggle at that, and his eyes flit to your face. He chuckles too, pushing into your hand again.

“Fuck,” he hisses, “You ready?”

Nodding quickly, you greet him on the bed by sliding your legs back open, letting him kneel between them.

“Slide down a bit, babe,” he says quietly, touching your hip with delicate fingers.

You lay flat on the bed, letting him lean over you and prop himself up with his forearm by your head.

“Hi,” he grins.

“Hey there,” you giggle.

“Gonna kiss you again,” he murmurs as he leans in, his plush lips meeting yours in a lovely embrace. As you’re busy licking at his tongue, he rolls his hips against you, and you’re gasping at the warmth of him sliding against your clit.

“Shit,” he gasps into your mouth, “You’re gonna soak me, Honey. You always this wet, or am I doing that good a job?”

“I refuse to inflate your ego even more this evening,” you smile into the kiss.

“Understandable,” he’s smiling too, “I hope you can tell by how fucking hard I am that you’re doing something to me, too,” he grinds fully into you again and you’re whimpering as he licks at your lower lip.

“Jake,” you whine.

“Tell me, Honey, what is it?”

“Just fuck me, please.”

“Mmm,” he hums as his lips press to your cheek, “Gonna fuck you until you can’t remember the bad day you had, or anything else.”

If you say anything coherent, you can’t recall. It’s mostly a desperate groan, begging without words.

He reaches down and eases himself in, and you force your eyes open to watch his expression as he does. His mouth gapes, his eyes roll back. You wish you could watch it a million times.

And god, he’s warm as he stretches you, as his hips roll flush to you. He’s just big enough that it approaches a mild sting, but it’s welcomed. He props his other forearm on the other side of your head, and his hair falls around you, blanketing you in his body heat.

Just when you’re sure his hips are flush to you, he rolls them hard, sending your eyes back into your head.

“You like that, hm?” He shudders, “You feel so damn good.”

You just nod, struggling to keep your eyes open to look at him.

“Baby,” he says, sugar sweet, “Just take it, Honey, you don’t have to do anything else.”

He pulls his hips back and then rolls back into you, and suddenly that sneaking warmth is building in you again.

With his nose, he nuzzles your head to the side. As he begins to work at a slow, deep pace, he sucks gently on your pulse point. Your head is all blurry stars, your eyes rolling back far too often to see anything, and all you can smell is his shampoo and sweat.

You’re not sure if you’re making noise; you don’t think so, it feels like you can barely breathe. But then, Jake says,

“I know, babe, I know, let go.”

And you’re guessing you’ve said something to clue him into the fact that you’re on the precipice of a second orgasm.

With a sturdy roll of his hips, you’re scratching at the soft skin of his sides and drawing a whimper from as you clench around him like a vice, slamming into a somehow even more visceral orgasm than the first.

As it washes over you, you can hear yourself saying his name like a mantra.

“So good,” he’s still fucking slowly into you.

“Don’t fucking stop,” you whine, “Please, Jake, don’t stop.”

“Not gonna stop,” he kisses your cheek, “Gonna give it to you til you’re a cock-drunk mess, Honey, don’t worry.”

You shudder off a string of curses at his vulgar response, and you draw him even closer, one hand on his side, and the other wrapping into his hair. He resumes sucking on the side of your neck, something that makes your stomach flutter. He bottoms out over and over at a wonderous pace, somehow each thrust just as good as the last.

“You like this? Slow and deep?” He murmurs the question against your skin and punctuates the question with a lick.

“Yes,” you whimper.

“You wanna cum around me again?”

“Yeah,” you gasp, “Yeah, fucking—please,”

“Take your time, Honey,” he breathes, “I’m not going anywhere. Just gonna fuck and fuck you.”

“Kiss me,” you plead. He answers you quickly, his warm mouth on yours in an instant, warm and fervent. It’s embarrassingly quick, how soon you feel like you can cum again. But you can’t find the shame; he’s working himself perfectly against you.

“Close,” you confess against his lips.

“Good,” his voice is distant, “Let me have it.”

It hits you slow and unhurried, creeping hot vines up your torso and neck, gripping at your cheeks and burning a bolt of pleasure through you. You’re a floating, dizzy version of yourself when you come down.

“Fucking beautiful,” he’s sighing, “Gonna cum, Honey, you feel too good.”

He pulls out and balances on one of his arms as he shoves a hand down around himself. He looks the most beautiful that he ever has, in your opinion, as he cums.

His cheeks are flushed and his brow furrows, and his bitten lips curse softly when he loses it. For a moment he glances down between you, watching as he makes a mess.

You could watch it on repeat forever, and almost lament the moment before it passes.

Finally, he looks up at you. It’s quiet for a second before he grins.

“Hi, Honey,” he smiled wide.

“Hi,” you giggle. He unsticks a piece of his hair from your face as he catches his breath.

“Gonna kiss you again if that’s alright,” he sighs. You nod quickly, and he’s kissing you soft and slow. It’s so tender, you know you probably shouldn’t want it as bad as you do.

He must be on the same page, though, because he just kisses and kisses, licking slowly at your tongue and your teeth.

Some long while later, he comes up for air.

“Let me get my shirt for you,” he says, easing himself off the bed.

He fetches his discarded tee and cleans you with it gently, then wipes himself quickly before he climbs back beside you.

“So,” he breathes, reaching out to skim a finger over your chest, “Why was your day so bad, hm?”

“Jake,” you laugh. You can’t fathom why he’s asking you this right now, and you can’t recall a single thing that happened before the moment he was in your bed.

“What?”

“Tell me about your day. What was it, hm? That got you so frustrated you had to make yourself cum so bad,” he smirks.

“Jake, Jesus Christ,” you blush, “I have no idea anymore, it was just—“

“So it worked?”

You blink at him.

“I fucked you ‘til you forgot?”

If he was trying to make you laugh, it works, as the giggle that escapes you is borderline maniacal. He joins though, laughing lightheartedly beside you.

“Sorry,” he laughs, “Dumb joke.”

As the giggling winds down, the room is quiet. The thought pops into your head with conviction, and it feels only right to say it aloud:

“You know… I wouldn’t be mad if we didn’t forget this tomorrow,” you offer quietly.

He sighs and smiles at you, his eyes sparkly. He looks like himself; like the Jake you know, but closer, and warmer than before.

“I was kinda hoping you would say that.”

fin.

*tag list in progress of being updated*

#gvf fic #gvf fanfiction #greta van fleet fan fiction #gvf fics #greta van smut #gvf smut #jake kiszka fic #jake kiszka x reader

1K notes · View notes

anime-grimmy-art · 2 years

Text

Papyrus did an oopsie

Being the knight aint easy. But at least he got his totally calm and collected big bro at his side that will help iron things out...somehow.

Another tid bit of the "Papyrus is the Knight" hc/AU cos my brain would have exploded if I hadn't put down a comic, even if I should be resting from animating all week.

I didn't actually wanna colour this but the shapes werent as discernable, but cos I went in kinda mindlessly the colour pallete became really...interesting, I guess. Oh well XD

#undertale #deltarune #papyrus #sans #fanart #au #comic #papyrus is the knight #something more stupid and light hearted #cos imagining this is how sans finds out is hilarious #oh my gosh his bro left the house #oh and he brought about the apocalypse #woops

2K notes · View notes

slowlysoluminary · 3 months

Text

Still working on that chapter. Don't worry, it's coming along! Yesterday i was trapped at a party for 10 hours and, being the introvert i am, decided to take a break from drawing for an animatic by trying to draw for this au instead. don't know why i didn't just do artfight lol

FULL KING REFERENCE PACK + SIFFRIN DUO POSTGAME REFERENCES

Notes and details under the cut

sooooo howsabout postgame content?

the original post talking about postgame can be found here but it doesn't go into too much detail

So post-game resetfrin and gloop. they go with the party, kinda like a lot of twohats aus? resetfrin goes with the party because they know mirabelle and kinda know isabeau from when he would get apprenticed by the king (long story), but also because resetfrin acted so much like the old siffrin they used to know that it felt odd to leave him behind.

gloop, however, WAS the old siffrin! the party knows this, they found it out in the last loop, and they've formed such a bond with them that it's as natural as it is in the original game. the only issue is: gloop has changed SO much. physically, mentally, even a pronoun change - the party wants to help her out, but they want to explore who this New Siffrin is, too. Isn't it ironic that the new addition is the one you know far more of than the old addition?

resetfrin stays siffrin because... uh. because he's always been siffrin? there's no conflict there. gloop, after getting their memory back, ALSO goes back to siffrin, because that's who they really are and they acknowledge that loop is their own person. they don't want to be reminded of their time as gloop, either.

so... they're both Siffrin. And they're both technically the same person. do you see the issue?? the two of them didn't. the party did.

there's a comic I'm thinking about making to explore the processes and conversation that happened to initiate the name changes. the long and short of it is they can't BOTH be siffrin, but neither of them want to be siffrin if the other one can't also be siffrin, so they go on separate journeys to find a new name. they come back together with the party afterwords and they both ended up picking the same name so it's back to square one.

they talk to the party the second time and after a lot of brainstorming land on Orion for resetfrin and Lux for gloop. it helps the party distinguish between them and helps me establish the difference between postgame content and in-game content

(plug moment but these names were suggested by @the-bitter-ocean who gave me like. a whole list of things i could choose from. oh the life saver. i didn't even think about what names they would've picked until xe helped. and ohhh theyre so good. he also has some amazing aus including a miraloops au that you should go check out. pretty please)

the hair thing is SUPER IMPORTANT i originally only did it because they needed a way to separate themselves from eachother, but i realized they would also have done it to separate themselves from the old people they used to be. very poetic. 10/10 thank you brain for the excuse

the colors for orion's alt outfits are just a limited color pallete, they're not actually the colors afaik. (<- says the creator) but Lux's colors are 100% the colors, yes. their star body is different from loop's, where loop's body is solid black and lux's seems to glow on it's own. do you see where the name lux came from.

it's really dysphoric. imagine being turned into a ghost against your will and losing your memories, and them after gaining your memories back you turn into a completely different body AGAIN and it's STILL not the original body you had. i would cry.

gloop/lux's eye is still blind. even as a ghost they lacked depth perception. L. since resetfrin wasn't with the party to lose his eye they don't have any vision impairment

actually, about that. funny little thing. if siffrin wasn't there to protect bonnie, who did? haha hehe. hey why does odile have her arm in a cast...

KING TIME

okay i got a lot of questions about it so i double-checked on the original post and. yeah it DOES say the king's name. both in the text and on the image. but you'd be forgiven for missing it because it's pretty small on the image and there's a lot of text to read through

anyway pre-madness king's name is Lazare!! he originally looks like the lithe dude on the left. he's scholar-ish, came to vaugarde on vacation before losing his memory, yadda yadda... a lot of his information is on the original post so I won't repeat anything that's already been said

he picked Lazare a few days after losing his memory. he never told his name to anyone in the town he was staying so all he got was "travelling one" and he really genuinely thought that was his name for a hot second until he realized that Vaugarde really likes adding -one to titles

i made his hair curlier! after drawing the king for the chapter cg i realized i did NOT makw his hair curly enough when drawing Lazare. his hair type is almost exactly mine, though mine has more define curls, so drawing it is a BLAST!!

Defender arc Lazare! He bulked himself up to come off more physically and mentally strong. is this a trans allegory? is the King trans or was the body craft just to match his perception of himself? not sure. At this point in time he's already travelled with siffrin for a bit so i like to think he's a teensy bit protective. somewhere between friend snd father figure. cool guy

you know who's not cool? this guy vvv

this is where the King becomes the King :3 his hair is OBNOXIOUSLY long, almost rapunzel-like but nowhere near as bad. it always covers one eye but it doesn't really matter which one.

the crown happens like... VERY shortly before he makes the wish and starts freezing people in time. hes lonely and isolated and its something like coping with his delusions about everyone being out to get him

that's not the way he thought in the original loop, but after the reset his descent is much faster and harder than the last. when Siffrin starts climbing the tower, yearning becomes animosity as he thinks Siffrin finally betrayed him like he "always knew they would." or something.

hey 16yo sif jumpscare!!! wasn't he on the original post too?

anyway!!! that's it! that's all! i swear it's all. inevitably I'll have to make gloop and resetfrin full references but I'm happy with the ones i drew in the original post which I'll probably end up pointing people to if they want to draw either of them. the king was the one i worried about most because he's so different from canon, and same goes for the postgame designs. even coming up with new names was worrying because they're practically not even the same person from canon anymore

but that's the fun thing with aus, isn't it? lol

cya

#resetfrin #isat reset au #ghostloop #to reset a kingpin #kingset #art #references #rambling #post game #orion #lux #<- yeah those are gonna be new tags haha. they won't be added to the directory though

76 notes · View notes

saffronwritings · 11 months

Text

She’s Better Than That - Trickster

Once again, you found yourself trapped in another nightmarish trial within the ceaseless game orchestrated by the Entity. It pitted a disparate group of survivors against the sadistic killers it had carefully chosen to exploit their darkest terrors. Two of the five generators had been completed with minimal effort as it seemed the killer was having trouble with keeping up with Feng. A chuckle left your lips as you remember her passing through your area singing a song about how bad the killer’s aim was. This was the only key you had to the killer’s identity.

You were no trackstar like Meg or the ever elusive Feng, so you kept to doing what you knew how to do best - fixing the generators in a desperate attempt to survive. Your generator was so close to being done when you felt the terror radius getting stronger. A slew of curses left your mouth. You hadn’t been hooked all match, nor had you tried to run the killer. You had let Feng terrorize the killer all she pleased. The killer must have gotten fed up with her antics and left her to find someone else to target.

Unfortunately, you had no one else on the generator with you so you would have to be the one to take chase away from the almost finished generator. You slipped some of the blast mines Jill had handed you at the beginning of the match onto the generator. She said that it was like an extra layer of protection for the generator. As well as temporarily blinding the killer and giving you enough time to escape.

You ensured that the mines were on the generator before slowly creeping around the nearby trees and crouching behind a boulder. You listened intently as the footsteps of the killer grew louder and you heard the ragged breathing from someone who was just running around the entire map. You held your breath as the killer slowed down in front of your generator.

BOOM.

A grin slipped across your lips as you heard the blast mines sound; sending a slew of crows in the area to fly away from all the commotion. You stayed absolutely still as you continued your stakeout near the now regressing generator. Although you hadn’t heard the generator get hit again by the killer and that alerted you immediately. The generator wasn’t actively regressing yet. Maybe the killer got upset and left the area as you hadn’t heard any more footsteps in your direction..

You had peeked around the boulder and something whizzed by your face. The iron scent reached your nose before you felt the blood trickling down your cheek. Terror spiked your adrenaline and you bolted from your spot towards your planned exit strategy. You knew there was a pallet lined up a few meters away from the generator and you prayed to whatever god that would listen that one of the others would quickly get the generator.

You were stopped in your tracks as the killer stepped into your direct line of sight and you had locked eyes with him. How did he get in front of you so fast? You felt your blood chill and all your senses cloud in fear. Using your momentum you had quickly turned sharp right and booked it for the killer shack. A light-hearted chuckle escaped the killer’s lips as if he was getting more excited about the chase.

Blood-lust. He had been chasing Feng for pretty much three generators. How long had it been between the time he lost Feng and he found your little corner of the map? You vaulted over the window in the killer shack. You quickly glanced around the surroundings. Thankfully Feng had not used the shack pallet like the pro runner that she was. The other blessing was that the basement was not at this killer shack. Just a bunch of lockers and a perfect place to loop.

Contemplating your next move you heard a faint humming outside the window you had just vaulted over and noticed that it was blocked by the entity. A curse left your lips as you made eye contact with the killer again. His golden eyes squinting at you and a wicked smile curling at his lips. His fluorescent yellow jacket hanging gracefully on his frame with his spiked bat in his hand. Blood was staining his hands and had some splattered on various patches of his body.

“There you are.” The Korean Idol purred as he rounded the exit without the pallet towards you. Within seconds your feet were hitting the pavement with desperate speed as you made your way to the other side of the killer shack. He was too fast though and ended up cracking his back against the middle of your back. A wail left your lips as you stumbled forward, catching yourself before you fell to the ground.

You sucked in a tight breath, slammed the pallet down and sprinted out of the killer shack. You quickly looked behind you to notice you had indeed landed your stun. When he looked up from the shock of the pallet he met your eyes and you felt your heartbeat thud even harder. He wanted you and he wasn’t going to stop until he got you.

Focusing back to what was in front of you, your eyes darted everywhere as you looked to find your next path. In front of you was one of the generators you and Jill had finished together earlier in the trial. You weren’t really familiar with the MacMillian Estate maps. You knew a few of them like the back of your hand; however this was one of the particular maps you did not excel in.

Huffs of air were desperate to escape your lips as you hammered your feet into the ground in desperate attempts to get away from this killer. Suddenly, you felt a hand wrap around your forearm and swung you to a forced stop against one of the trees surrounding the estate. He had pinned himself over you with daggers that were plunged into the tree in both of his hands that were above your head. You stared wildly at the idol as he caged your injured form into the tree.

He towered over you easily and was able to plant himself in such a way that you were unable to slip from his grasp. His golden eyes bore into yours and a small smirk crossed across his chapped lips as he realized the position the two of you were in. He hummed in amusement at the bewildered look in your eyes and noticed your rapid eye movement and elevated breathing.

He effortlessly pulled the two blades out from the tree and pocketed one of the knives into where he sheathed them. He replaced his right arm to be above you and lightly trailed your jaw line with the remaining blade. A sting of its cut left its wake but your attention was too focused on the killer in front of you. You flinched as he leaned close to you and you felt his breath hit your neck, still feeling the cold of the blade against your skin, as he whispered into your ear, “How annoying”.

Goosebumps had risen on your skin and you felt your cheeks burning as he pulled away from your personal space. It was honestly a miracle that your knees hadn’t given out on you. With the teasing smile that lingered on his lips as he pulled away from your ear you instantly knew you were a flustered mess.

He retracted his blade from your jawline, lowering his hands and slowly walked away from you. Before he turned around to start walking in the opposite direction he threw a wink your way. You felt your heart hammering in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was from the chase, what had just happened or a combination of the two. Taking a few grounding breaths to try and process what had just happened.

“How annoying” You could practically almost feel his lips on your neck. You put your hand on your neck and almost felt weak in the knees. You had locked eyes with a killer and he had spared you. He had cornered you. You were helpless against him.

You liked that you were helpless against him.

You shook your head at the thought. What has gotten into you? Which side were you on? Outside of this hell there were countless murder victims with his hands covered in their blood. Screams recorded on soundtracks. His voice. His sultry voice breathed against your neck. The cold blade keeping your absolutely still and at his mercy-

You pushed yourself off from the tree and shook your head from the onslaught of thoughts. You were better than that.

Weren’t you?

#dbd #dead by daylight #trickster x reader #dbd x reader #ji woon hak x reader #the trickster x reader #ji woon hak #dead by daylight fanfic #dead by daylight x reader #dbd fanfic

272 notes · View notes

ididntknowwhattocallthis · 5 months

Text

Ok I wanna talk about Ethari's clothing/design over all. His clothes and tattoos are different from every other Moonshadow elf we've seen, and he's one of the few that doesn't wear braids. Like:

The recurring elements are intricate patterning; over layers and under layers; multiple colors in the same garment (or at least same outfit); wraparound construction, color contrast between mediums, lights, and darks; and the dominant color is always the medium, never the lightest or darkest color (usually navy, true black is very rare outside of the assassins). Even arc 2 Rayla follows most of these rules and she's been away from her culture for two years!

But then we have Ethari:

He doesn't have an outer layer, he wears almost solid navy, none of those clothes are wraparound, he has no light color, there's not a lot of contrast, and his dark color is true black despite not being an assassin. He bends all the rules, though he only breaks one completely. He still has that patterning, but it's minimal compared to the others. He has plenty of accent colors, more than anyone else actually, but they show up on him far less. He does have light, medium, and dark colors, but his whole pallet is darker than everyone else's. The only rule he 100% breaks is the wraparound construction

A lot of this probably derives from the fact that he's a metalsmith:

For the most part his clothes quite are practical;

Black/navy hides coal dust/soot very well. It gets everywhere, on your pants and face especially, and is highly visible on just about every other color.

Forging is hot work & you do it next to a fire that needs to be at least 1000° celsius, I never wear more than one layer either.

those sleeves, while a bit looser than I'd be comfortable with, probably aren't going to get in the way. Plus I heard somewhere that they're spelled to repel heat (couldn't find if that's actually canon tho), so if that's true they're much better than my gloves.

The crop top isn't great but he's got that belt to stop most embers. Besides he's probably not the type to yelp every time one lands on him like I am.

if he pulls the scarf over his mouth & nose it'll help delay him getting lung cancer in the death trap of a smithy Wonderstorm designed for him (my problems with it are a post all on their own. I have nothing against the artists, its pretty, but by all rights he should be dead)

There might also be a cultural aspect to his clothing:

I think the navy blue, the arm bands, the boot decorations, and his belt & tabard could all be symbols that mean "I am a metalsmith" in Moonshadow culture. (Quick side note, he's not technically a blacksmith. historically blacksmith means specifically iron workers. If anything he's a whitesmith since he usually works with silver.) We see it with the assassins, why not metalsmiths too?

Plus if you take a look at his forge in the art book, there's a design carved on it that looks almost exactly like the one on his tabard. Elements of it also appear on other parts of his clothing:

I suspect that this is some sort of symbol for metal working or fire protection. If he's in a guild it could be their symbol, or it could just be a wider cultural symbol. Either way it has a meaning that relates to the forge specifically. I couldn't find it anywhere else in the room.

I just realized that I never even brought up the metal hems on his sleeves. Then again what is there to say? It's metal, he's a metalsmith. It's pretty, he likes pretty things.

But what about the rule he completely breaks?

As I said, every moonshadow garment has some sort of wrap-and-secure construction to it-- except Ethari's clothes. I seriously doubt this is a metalsmith thing. Basic garment construction isn't a sensible way to differentiate your group within one culture. I fully believe Ethari is doing this on purpose. But why? That why gets even bigger when you realize that no other moonshadow elves we've met have brown eyes or periwinkle blue tattoos.

Put a pin in all that, I need to explain my interpretation of Moonshadow culture for this to make sense.

"Moon Primal creatures can be private and secretive, and are keenly aware of the power of appearances." - from the official website

"Moonshadow Elves obey a rather rigid, honor-driven culture." - from the wiki

To me this paints a picture of a fairly collectivist culture. They place a heavy emphasis on community and duty, two things that are usually more peaceful/simpler when you have cohesion within the group. Cohesion creates less conflict, less conflict makes your community more peaceful and your duty to it easier to complete.

But they know that this cohesion is- to an extent- only an act, so each person has a sub community where they don't have to act. Your inner self is for family and friends close enough to be family. (I honestly think they might have some sort of ritual to formally adopt friends as family) To everyone else you're supposed to put up a front that makes you seem more like everyone else.

OK back to the pin

Even without his clothes, Ethari is already visually different from everyone else. No other Moonshadow elves we've seen have tattoos or eyes the same color as his. It's a subtle difference but it is noticeable, and in a culture so focused on appearances people would notice. Most people's instinct would be to try to hide or downplay it, to prop up that front as much as they can. Yet Ethari doesn't put up a front, not to the extent that most people seem to. He's even accentuating his differences by dressing in a different style than them- and he's respected.

In my comm class the other day we were talking about groups, and one of the things that came up was that cohesion fosters sameness and diversity fosters innovation. Ethari is an innovator, it's literally his job. He invents the wingalings in bloodmoon huntress, Runaan and Rayla's weapons, and probably a bunch more stuff we haven't seen. Maybe for all they value appearances and fitting in, moonshadow culture still recognizes that people like him are important and they aren't as effective when they have to fit in. They can't be too out there (remember, Ethari only bends the rules rather than breaking them) but as long as they stay within a certain radius of the norm they can gain a lot of respect. I think this is what Ethari has done. The fact that his family (Runaan, Tiadrin, Lain) are all pretty traditional probably helped a lot. They keep him from pushing too hard on the edge of the box and he keeps them flexible.

That they aren't there anymore has probably exacerbated the rift between him and the rest of the silvegrove caused by Rayla's ghosting and whatever news has reached them from the storm spire.

I am so excited to see him in S6. I thought about adding some speculation about what his new design might look like, but I honestly don't think he'll have changed that drastically aside from his hair. My biggest question is honestly whether or not he's still in The Silvergrove.

Bonus:

I bet that some of Ethari's relative weirdness rubbed off on Rayla. She didn't have many friends as a kid so, when she wasn't in school or with the assassins, it makes sense that hung out with Ethari a lot. Since he's less strict than Runaan she was probably only comfortable completely unmasking with him. He heard about all her crushes, fears, and insecurities that Runaan didn't. Which goes a long way to explaining why Ethari was the only one who could see she wouldn't be a good assassin; she was hiding those traits from everyone but him.

This also explains some of why he was so willing to believe that she ran away. Ethari saw all of her vulnerability, but he didn't see all of her strength. While she was out training and facing her fears with Runaan, Ethari was in the smithy and only heard about their exploits after the fact. Neither of them saw all of who Rayla is, but both of them thought they did and had to find out that they were wrong in just about the most heartbreaking way imaginable.

#this started as me going “how actually practical are Ethari's clothes?” while I was forging that touchmark stamp #and spiraled out of control from there #also we're ignoring Redfeather because a) she was ghosted b) I didn't remember she existed when I started this #ethari #tdp #the dragon prince #tdp ethari #tdp meta #character analysis #rayla #tdp rayla

110 notes · View notes

lunarw0rks · 1 year

Text

Old Bones | Chapter Three

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): strong language, suggestive language, guns/gun violence, death, gore/medical gore, blood, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: I think this is my fav chapter so far, lemme know what y'all think... sorry if it's medically inaccurate but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ also the bastard finally has a name !!

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ♡¸.•*' ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter | playlist | ao3 ver. ꒦꒷ O.B MASTERLIST

Vaded

“Squeeze trigger slow, don’t forget to breathe.” His fingers are overtaking yours, contorting yours so they’re using the proper form.

Even if you wanted to make a mistake, his frame was caging you in, stomach pressed deeply into the curve of your back. You do just that, firing at the glass jars lined up several feet away. Not a solid hit, but closer than the others.

Simon steps back, lowering the cock of the weapon for you. “You’re hesitating. There’s no time to hesitate or you’re dead.”

“I know that.” You spit back. The fluster of continually missing, as well as being dragged out here nearly every day was getting to you. Not to mention the heat of the sun beating down on you, successfully blinding any shot you take.

“Then do it properly,” He stands near the jars in front of you now, crossing his arms over his chest in impatience. “You think I have time to ponder when I’m holding a gun to someone’s head? I don’t. I shoot first.”

Such a prick—an insufferable prick at that. His words only escalated the sour mood you’d had during this whole morning of make-shift boot camp.

You raise the pistol again, lining up the sights and tracing along his figure being outlined by the rays of sunshine. You exhale like you’d been coached, jerking the sights to the jar closest to him and squeezing the trigger.

The mason jar explodes, laying askew on the pallets he’d set them up on. He doesn’t jump in surprise, or lose his composure.

“Better. You might actually have a chance… If he’s a statue.” His lack of reaction only pissed you off more, practically wiping any form of a smirk you had after your first lucky bullet. You switch the safety back on, for his well-being as much as your own, and toss the iron to him.

He catches it without a second thought, returning it to the sack of weapons he’d brought to train with. A week, and you’d just barely made it to pistols. Not to mention, on your toes the entire time because there’s been nothing but radio silence on your spouse. Not a letter, not a piece of mail, no sign of a tail—nothing.

He begins the drive back from the countryside, somewhere about an hour out of town where none of the trigger pulls would be heard. His eyes are glued to the unpaved road in front of him, as usual. One hand on the top of the wheel, and the other taking up the entirety of his center console, leaving you little room to breathe.

“I’d say, you’re ready to carry one.” Simon’s words nab your attention. “Just don’t shoot at me again, or you’re shit out of luck.”

You don’t doubt the power of carrying, but it’s new nonetheless.

Perhaps his harsh feedback held weight, and you ‘might’ have a chance in hell of defending yourself. Might—as in, nearly none at all.

Thank the stars for that insufferable prick, then, because whether you want to admit it or not, his services are needed.

—

The weight of the piece is something you’ll have to get used to.

You refused the hip holster, to Simon’s annoyance, of course. Instead, it’s going to remain tucked into your waistband, the icy metal of the .38 revolver digging into the soft flesh of your tailbone.

He’s in the shower now, where he usually spends about two minutes anyways, despite you packing now. Bullets were your words now, if necessary. This situation was past legalities, or forms, or numbing and intrusive questions in the courtroom.

Three sharp pounds on the front door, and you’re already at your feet. The shower shuts off, and Simon has walked out with a towel concealing his waist and already started for the door.

“Wait.” You’re looking through the peephole only greeted with the sight of a badge and an impatient officer. Simon steps back a bit, watching the encounter from the hallway as droplets run down his frame.

Once you’ve opened the door, the officer holds out some sort of form. The prospect of an officer at your door has prevented you from hearing his introduction or caring to take a look at the badge. The only words that find you are ‘husband’ and ‘defamation’.

He doesn’t bother to let you respond, just shoves the form onto the entry table and gives Simon a sickened glare. At first glance, probably thinking Simon is your side piece showering off after a night of adultery.

The officer has retreated down the steps of the complex, leaving you unable to process anything. Simon doesn’t say a word, just retreats to his room to finish dressing, as if there wasn’t almost a dead cop laying in the foyer.

Your hands shiver as you skim through the document, seated at the kitchen table. You couldn’t believe the bastard—cops and judges already on his payroll, coming up with some bogus claim of defamation—all while you’re left with no evidence of the latter.

He’s returned quickly, resting his palms on the table as he soaks in the information. “You’re not going to that trial.” The paper is taken from your fingers, forcing you out of your discomposure.

“I’ll go to prison if I don’t show, Simon.” You respond quickly, wondering what the hell he’s getting you roped into.

“No, you’ll be dead.” He leads, the palms on the table turning to tight fits. “Once you’re in the courtroom, he’ll have access to you, or whatever shitty motel you’ll be staying in for months. You’re not going.” His commands are nearing that of a hardened soldier.

“This is my life you’re talking about. I can’t just pack up and run from the federal government. He’s not going to kill me, he’s going to try and put me in jail, then throw away the key.” Your tone has heightened, but his hasn’t.

He takes a few steps back from the table as if trying not to blow his top. “You’re hiding out in a shitty apartment, sobbing in the middle of supermarkets, and you’re confident in that assessment?”

“If he wanted you in jail, he would’ve planted evidence on you. I’ll repeat myself. You’re not going.” Simon sighs sharply, trying to calm himself again. “We need to get out of this apartment for now, before more police poke around and find you packing heat.”

The lack of decor, luggage still in the corner, non-perishables you’d bought—all for the inevitable moment he finds you. That moment was here, and now you were packing it all away. Somehow the place looked less pitiful with it all packed away and stuffed into his backseat.

—

You were somewhere in the countryside, only in the opposite direction of the shooting range you were at that morning. He hadn’t stopped once during the long ride and wasn’t planning to. You were in a small town before you knew it—someplace you’d never heard of, and probably with a population that doesn’t reach triple digits.

The barren landscape you were passing in the near forties seemed to continue forever. The endless crop and winding paths would provide cover, but the scenarios playing in your head depicted worse.

The entirety of the town was in a cluster—a few gas pumps, a motel, a pharmacy, and a diner—all of which much older than you’d been alive, visibly decaying under years of neglect.

His truck rolled to a stop, parking in the empty lot of the motel. You two seemed to be the only ones rooming in this apocalyptic townlet, and you were grateful for that, at least. He retreated into the office and returned holding a key to your room.

You climbed out, retrieving the duffel that had your entire life packed into it. His bag of weapons was slung over his shoulder, and he carried it as if the weight had no effect. He’d stayed quiet the whole trip, and it continued well into entering the shared space.

Two beds, a bathroom, and a kitchenette. Nicer than you expected, albeit the exterior painted a different picture earlier.

Your stiff limbs freed themselves when you sprawled out on the bed you claimed, remaining in disbelief of the situation at hand. You were on the run again, but this time not from him—from the law. How long could this go on? Living in motels, with an overbearing male roommate? Especially one without a sense of humor; the spiteful cherry on top.

He closed the curtains with a jerk, forcing you to stare at the dated floral pattern they had, instead of the secluded view outside. There was no time for error, especially when it was someone other than the law to figure out you’d skipped town.

Just when you’ve begun to close your eyes, he’s loudly rifling through the luggage sitting on the floor, muttering curses under his breath. You sit up in bed in a huff, glaring into his back. Finally, he pulls out the bottle of Kentucky, pouring himself a generous glass, before thumping it down onto the faux-granite counter.

“Seriously?” You sigh, sitting yourself up on your arms.

He takes a few seconds, savoring the burn running down his throat. “Gonna need it. Helps me focus.”

“We’ll need to pick up a few things at that pharmacy, so get up.” There’s no chance in hell he’s leaving you here alone, despite the store only being a few blocks away. Bickering only greeted you with an icy glare, so you grumbled to your feet, slipping into the jacket you’d removed only minutes before.

In usual fashion, he’s a few steps behind you, watching the few people that are out and about at the moment, most of which are retirement age.

You’re inside the pharmacy now, practically tapping your foot at him as he grabs the supplies you two might need. More non-perishables as well as a small kit used for camping. It was clear to you this little “road trip” wasn’t going to end soon—and he was quite used to being on the run.

As soon as he’s placed the bills on the checkout counter, you’ve exited the store, nearly skipping back to his truck. He begins the short drive back, but his eyes keep darting between the rearview mirror and over his shoulder.

“We have a tail.” He snarls, continuing to divert further from town. “I’m gonna make sure we lose it.”

His words make your hairs stand, whatever the hell he meant by that was nothing pretty. He was getting further from town, so whatever his plans were needed absolutely no witnesses.

“Gun?” You ask, looking over your shoulder at the black Mercedes creeping closer.

He nods, still frantically assessing his four corners. The road signs have disappeared again, and you’re back to crops and trucking warehouses. You lift yourself off the seat a bit, retrieving the revolver you previously had tucked away. You check the cylinder, indeed seeing six bullets loaded inside—bullets he’d filed X’s into the tips himself—they “blew a nastier hole” that way, according to him.

It’s in your lap now, as you bounce around from his speed increase. The tail does the same, nearly bumper to bumper with his trunk now. Simon diverts, trying to ensure it can’t clip it, but the unpaved road before you is already unsteady enough when you’re going straight.

The Mercedes clips into the side of his truck, but the size difference between the cars only causes it to swerve. Simon turns abruptly, making the tail believe he’s taking a right. In reality, he swerves left, causing the confused driver to go straight into the metal fence lining the road.

You only see the wreckage briefly; crushed hood, steam rising from the hood, and no further movement from the driver.

He slams the brakes, pulling off to the side. He pulls out his much larger caliber pistol, slamming the truck door behind him. He’s gone to make sure he finishes the job.

Your fingers find the lock button, about to hear that click, when the passenger door is whipped open, and you’re face down in the gravel before you know it. Your gun is askew somewhere, having been ripped from your hands.

The assailant's fingers dig into your scalp, forcing you to kneel on the sharp pebbles. He’s surely one of the men your husband hired. His nose is busted, and there are small shards of glass embedded in his face that he’s too determined to mind.

This was the moment fate caught up with you, just like you’d thought it would. Either with you dead in your apartment, or staring down the barrel of a gun like you are now—disarmed and on your knees execution-style.

He cocks it, pressing the metal into your temple.

The unmistakable crack of a gunshot echoes through the countryside, causing both of you to jump in surprise. Had Simon been ambushed? Was he already bleeding out in the dirt?

He seems to think the same, a lordly smirk spreading, revealing his bloodied teeth. You snap your eyes to the stars above you. His leer is not going to be the last thing you see—the night sky would be.

The ring in your ears is louder than the gunshot itself. Warm sprinkles have splattered across you now, dripping down your neck. But you’re not dead. Not clenching a bullet hole either. You have to look down to be sure, examining your body with sanguine hands.

Instead, it’s the man with a hole in his head crumbled in front of you, still your pistol in his dead fingers. The ringing subsides, but your eardrums are muffled slightly like you’ve just had your head underwater.

“Bastard got me,” Simon stumbles back, making you sigh in relief, “—came out of the fuckin’ backseat, didn’t see him.” He’s sputtering, putting a flat palm against the stab wounds on his stomach, while the other is against the door of the truck.

You use the truck for support as well, feeling the stray pebbles that were still digging into your knees, not to mention the crimson seeping into the fabric of your clothes, sticking to you. You snatch your pistol back, stuffing it back into your waistband.

He’s barely upright now. An uncanny sight at best, seeing him struggle to hold his own weight.

“We need to… Clean this up…” He takes his palm off the truck, but it’s returned when he nearly stumbles again. He’s fighting himself, forcing himself to be the one in charge here. Simon glowers down at his abdomen, lifting the saturated fabric. It’s worse than you expected, not in the deepness of the punctures, but how much blood he lost in the scuffle.

You can tell he wants to speak, to give you some sort of instruction, but the pants coming from him are too severe. He slides down the truck, leaning against the large tire for support. He’s gone even paler than usual—you can tell through the eyes of his mask.

His chest is rising and falling rapidly, at least. But it won’t be soon if you don’t do something.

It’s a blur; grunting and using all your might to put the dead man into the bed of the truck. You open the door to the backseat, finding the foil blanket in the camping kit Simon bought. You cover the bed, so his corpse looks like nothing more than a lump of firewood, or hay, or something other than what it is.

The skinny flashlight finds its way between your teeth, as you scoop and kick the dirt around to cover up the blood. The storm clouds forming are your only hope of washing away any evidence of this bloodbath. You shine the light on the side of the car, where some of the splatter had cast. You wipe it away with your sleeve, leaving only small traces of it.

Finally, it shined on him. A half-conscious Simon, who you can barely lift into the truck. He gives a little way, but your arms are putty by the end of the ordeal. He’s slumped in the seat, and you haven’t bothered to buckle him in.

You climb inside the driver’s seat, reversing quickly to make it back to the motel. The lack of guests will make patching him up easier, but the prospect of what unfolded is not providing much comfort. You’re speeding down the strip of unpaved road, eventually greeted by the few street lights illuminating the town.

You slow when you reach the parking space, claiming the one directly across from your room, so transporting Simon is easier. Luckily, the few residents that live there have retreated in for the night, leaving no prying eyes around.

You palm his pockets, locating the room key. There’s no time for slippery fingers or trembling hands. You make way for yourself and him by opening the door first, then pulling him out of the truck. He’s putting as much weight on himself as he can, but you’re left to do most of the literal heavy lifting.

Simon was otiosely dropped onto his bed, left to writhe only for a few seconds while you grabbed the rest of the camping kit from the backseat. When you return and lock the doors behind you, you’re quick to dig through the luggage for pieces of clothing. Ones you can put underneath his torso to prevent the mess his wounds are going to make.

You fish the knife he kept in his pocket out, cutting through the soaked t-shirt fabric. It glides off easily, allowing your amateur eyes to feast on the punctures. They aren’t deep, clearly not done with enough force to do serious internal damage, but there’s enough for the blood loss to be his biggest problem.

Simon must’ve finished him off before he could rough him up more—you could tell by how jagged the last stab was—like the man’s blade had been ripped away hastily.

“The bourbon…” He murmurs, bringing the bottle to your attention. Something you’ll be able to use. The self-medication that was slowly killing him might just be his saving grace.

You zip to the counter, unscrewing the cap from the bottle. He nods his head, bracing himself like he’s been through his a hundred times. He probably has, for all you know. The fawn-tinted liquid sizzles at his wounds, both disinfecting and irritating the reddened, puffy flesh.

He’s gritting his teeth under the mask, clenching one of the towels you laid out for dear life. Still, handling the pain better than you expected. You, on the other hand, were minutes from spewing.

The blood was coming out faster than you could keep up with, and no matter how many times you dug through that camping kit, it was only small bandages and ointment. You had no choice, you had to get to that pharmacy.

First, you’re hunched over the sink, scrubbing away the crimson coating you. You take off your jacket, ridding yourself of your bloodied clothes. One of his hoodies will have to do, and it will cover the remnants remaining in your hair. From how squeamish the sight was making you, you could swear you were paler than the man actively bleeding out.

Next, you’re out the door again, darting down the slick streets. Those storm clouds you saw earlier had begun to rain down on you. Good for the crime scene miles away, but not for your joints. That taste of blood, pinching in your side as you forced yourself to keep going, closing in on the pharmacy eventually.

Heaving in the first-aid aisle, grabbing any sterile gauze you see, then a box of gloves. Of course, the selection is limited. The townsfolk probably aren’t playing mob doctor like you are right now.

Once you’ve made uneducated guesses on what to get, it’s like you’re reminded of the dying man in your hotel room. There’s no time to pay, and no active cameras—no time to question the logistics of it all. Besides, the geriatric clerk barely gave you a passing glance when you stormed inside.

You’re out the back door, looping around the building until you’re back on the sidewalk again, racing with the supplies hooked under your arm. You’ve only been away minutes, but those were precious minutes where he could’ve hemorrhaged even more.

The rain putters heavily, coating your lashes like it did in the parking lot of the supermarket, daring you to stumble in disorientation.

You fiddle with the key, nearly kicking the door down when it struggles. It gives way eventually, and you’ve slammed it, already sitting on the edge of the bed. He kept a hand on his wounds while you were away, luckily, but he’s starting to slip again.

You peel Simon’s large fingers away, then look at the supplies before you. You rush to the sink and sterilize your fingers, darting your gaze from the sink back to him.

You look down at it—the engagement ring you haven’t been able to take off all this time.

“Fuck it.” You mutter, tearing it off your finger. It clatters somewhere in the sink, and you leave it there to get back to Simon. You tear the cardboard encasing the gloves, slipping them onto your trembling fingers—partially from the cold rain, as well as the know-nothing decisions you’re going to make to treat him.

Stitches are out of the question, so you’re going to have to pack the wounds—something you've seen on a medical show once. You unravel the roll of gauze, cutting off small sections of it with the knife, and then get to work.

He’s lucky he’s knocked out because he’d probably cringing right now—from your medical care, not your fingers digging around at his wounds.

You loop the bandage around your index finger, trying to recall the steps. You push it deep enough to prevent it from bleeding through, stuffing the gashes in a zig-zag pattern. One by one, you move to the next wound until they’re all packed.

If these stabs had been any deeper, there would be two bodies in the bed of the truck right now—one of which would be the owner. Opportunely, they hadn’t bled through the gauze so far.

The exhaustion caught up with you quickly, but you were determined to keep an eye on him. Without him, you were screwed, plain and simple. He wasn’t going to die and leave you with this unexplainable mess, one that he got you into when he took you on this hellacious joyride.

—

You must’ve dozed sometime in the night because the sunrise was peaking through the gaps of the curtains when your eyes opened. Not to mention, Simon was shoving you away from him, grunting as he was finally able to sit up.

He peered down at the evidence of the unpractised medical attention you’d given him. His fingers found the bottle of Kentucky still on the nightstand, and he took a slug from it, feeling the tension release a little bit.

The sight of the room surprised him a bit—the medical supplies and luggage thrown around, the clothing laid out below him, and not to mention the blood still dried on your fingers.

He finds his footing, despite the frazzled expression you’re maintaining. He’s been here before, in fact, been closer to death many times. This was nothing to Simon—“just a scratch” as he’d say. He grabs one of the only clean shirts left, slipping it on to cover himself.

After he’s taken another drink, he turns to you, standing above you with authority. This was no longer a game of cat and mouse, it was past that now. He had bigger problems, like the corpse in the bed of his truck, and the prospect of more of those men coming.

He finally finds the words when he sees you’re no longer wearing your ring. “What’s this bloke's name, the one who sent his dogs on us?”

You shake your head in confusion, but his clenched jaw is persistent and only going tighter. You’re forced to swallow the lump forming in your throat. You, too, can tell things are changing, and it’s become more personal for Simon than he’d like to admit.

You utter his name, as he’s forced you to reveal it. “Cal. His name is Cal.”

He takes a sharp inhale, taking in the information. The hands that were resting at his sides have now turned to fits. “After we take care of that problem in the back of my truck, we’re gonna find this bastard.” You could swear steam would be coming out of his ears by now.

He grabs his truck keys off the table and starts towards the door, growling something under his breath that you didn’t make out,

“I’m gonna find this bastard…”

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011

#mw2 fanfic #mw2 #simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty #ghost mw2 #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst

413 notes · View notes