#its mostly worn off from when i put it on

[nightmare8-420]

voltaren my beloved 💞

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 36: To The Sea

Summary: It's time to move on. You're not sure where you're going exactly, but anywhere is better than Texas

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 7,811 words

Warnings: ANGST, injuries, medical stuff, descriptions of pain and injuries, brief discussion about strangulation, mentions of PTSD and nightmares, so much crying, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, a very little sprinkle of comfort, language, mentions of medications, still very heavy emotionally

A/N: Not actually a lot of warnings for this one. It's a lot of dialogue and inner monologues. Not a lot happens, just mostly setting the scene for the next chunk of the story. Bring tissues though, the last part of the chapter emotionally wrecked me but also might be the best thing I've ever written.

11/30/24: **This Chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

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It’s warm outside. 

Not even the shade from the building can completely shield you from the dome of heat that seems to surround the base. It seeps into the concrete and asphalt that lock it into place, trapping everyone in a bubble that may as well be an oven. It’s always hot in Texas, though. You hate it. You’ve been spoiled by the cold, rainy seasons in England. You’d gladly take that over Texas. 

You’d take anything over Texas. 

The heat prickles at your skin, your arm starting to get sweaty in the sling. It had been Dr. Keller’s idea to keep your shoulder as still as possible so you don’t continue to cause yourself pain when you move. It still hurts, but at least you won’t instinctively try to use your left arm now.

Despite the warmth, there’s still a chill deep in your bones. The warmth of the pain medicine has worn off and you’ve been left with the perpetual ice that has seemed to coat your insides. Dr. Keller says it's the stress giving you a fever. Every nightmare, every flashback sends your body temperature spiking, your heart beating right out of your chest. You’re not out of the woods yet. It can take a long time to recover from that level of distress and the omega taking over. You almost regret it, but there was no guarantee you would have lived either way at that time. You did what you had to do, and it did work out in the end. 

But at what cost? 

Dr. Keller’s phone buzzes in her pocket and she pulls it out, staring down at the screen for a moment. “Kyle wants to come by.” 

You don’t want to see him. You don’t want to see any of them. 

“I think you should see him. Even if it’s just for a moment.” She squeezes your hand. “I’ll be right here.” 

It’s a predicament. Dr. Keller supports your decision to keep them away, putting some distance between all of you for the time being. Yet, she also says being close to your pack will help your healing. Having your pack around will help your omega settle once again. She needs that safety, that security before she finally lets go completely. 

You don’t want to be close to them, but you may not have any other choice. 

You sit there in silence, picking at the fabric of your sweatpants as you wait for Kyle’s arrival. Sweat has started to bead on your back, the day only getting warmer and warmer as the sun moves higher in the sky. You want to go back inside, back into the cool air conditioned building. You want to crawl back onto the hospital bed and lay there for the next few hours. 

You can’t. 

Footsteps approach, but you don’t look up. You know who it is. You don’t want to see him. 

“Kyle.” Dr. Keller greets. 

“Christine.” He says back. It still throws you off, hearing Dr. Keller's first name. She'll always be Dr. Keller to you. Kyle turns his attention to you, still standing a few steps from the bench you're perched on. “Hi, love.” He says. The affectionate nickname almost makes you wince. You don't look up at him. You don’t want to see his face. “I wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing.” 

You don't move, don't give an answer. You don't have an answer to give anyway. You shouldn't have to give an answer. 

He lowers himself onto the bench, sitting as far away from you as he can. “It’s hot today.” He says, adjusting his hat. Always wearing a hat. Maybe that's why he and Price work so well together. 

He stares at you for a long moment but you don't bother moving, your gaze still on your sweatpants. They're starting to get a bit warm, even with your perpetual chill. 

“I’m not here to apologize.” He says, breaking the silence. “You’ve probably heard enough apologies to last you a lifetime.” He shakes his head. “Words can’t fix what we did. Nothing can fix what we did. All we can do is give you what you need, try and make you as comfortable as possible.” 

Tears burn your eyes as you listen to him. He's not wrong, an apology won't fix what happened. No words will ever be able to fix what they put you through. You're not sure there's anything they could do that would make up for it. An apology still would have been nice, despite the fact you know how guilty he is. Their avoidance of you, their willingness to give you such space in an unknown place just proves how guilty they all are. 

That doesn't make things hurt any less. 

You slowly turn away from Kyle, angling yourself towards Dr. Keller. 

He doesn't say anything further in that regard, taking your movement as an answer to his non-apology. He leans forward instead, resting his elbows on his knees. “I just wanted to let you know that we’re getting ready to leave soon. We’ll be heading somewhere safe, somewhere quiet and secluded. I think you’ll like it.” 

Dr. Keller had informed you of that earlier after she went to speak to them. They've decided what to do, what's best for the pack again. You might have protested, except for the fact it meant you were getting to leave Texas. Where exactly they're taking you, you're not sure. You just know it's not Texas. 

“I want you to know that we’re here if you need us.” He stares at you for a moment longer before pushing himself up to stand. 

If, not when. 

Maybe they're finally getting the message. 

Dr. Keller stands, touching your right shoulder gently before she steps away with Kyle, speaking quietly with him, but you can still hear every word in the nearly silent space around you. 

“In an attempt to remain a neutral, professional party in this situation, I feel it would be appropriate for me to tell you not to beat yourself up too much about this.” Dr. Keller says. “The unprofessional side of me has many words I’d like to say to all of you.” She clears her throat. “That being said, on a positive note I can say you’re all doing the right thing for once, prioritizing your omega and fulfilling her needs, even if her needs require you to leave her alone for now. I know it’s hard, I know every instinct is screaming at you to help her, but just take comfort in knowing you are helping her. You’re doing the best thing you can do for her at this time.” Dr. Keller puts a hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. “Even if it is tearing you up inside.” 

“Thanks, Doc.” He says. 

“I’ll see you soon.” She says, patting his arm before she heads back towards your bench. 

You turn your head just slightly, not missing the way Gaz lingers for a brief moment before he turns his back on you, walking back down the sidewalk. 

It hurts. 

You want to cry with every swallow. No matter how much you chew, it doesn’t ease the pain of trying to swallow solid food. Even the worst sore throat you’ve ever had pales in comparison to this pain. Tears burn in your eyes as you eat, unable to refuse this time in favor of choking down some liquid nutrients. Even liquids make your throat ache, but they are easy to chug to get it over with at once. 

This feels like torture. 

Dr. Keller looks guilty as she spoon-feeds you the soup. Chicken noodle, something simple and easy but still something with some substance. It makes you think back to when you were sick as a child, your mother dutifully feeding you homemade chicken noodle soup until you reached the age you could feed yourself. 

You do feel like a child again, unable to even hold the spoon. Well, you could hold it, but it would have come at the expense of some burns from how badly your hand was shaking. 

So instead you sit here, being spoon-fed soup you can barely stand eating. 

“I know.” She says as a tear finally falls, your inhale shaky from the ache in your throat. “You need something in your system for the sedative. It’s a long flight and you’ll be sick when you wake up if you don’t have anything in your stomach. That’s going to hurt a lot worse than eating now.” 

Yeah. You’ve already figured that out. 

“Strangulation is a tough thing to survive.” She says, dragging the bottom of the spoon against the edge of the bowl to wipe off any soup that might drip on you. “Then again, so is getting shot, and distressing to the point of your omega taking over.” She holds the spoon up to your lips, and you’re tempted to refuse. “You’ve survived a lot, more than most could. And to look this good after...” 

You blink up at her, teary eyed and sickly looking, exhausted and bruised. Your left eye is still almost swollen shut, and your hair is tangled perhaps beyond saving, tied up in a bun at the top of your head. All just reminders of what you survived, all reminders of what happened to you. Of what was allowed to happen to you. 

You’re not quite sure when the last time you had a real shower was either. 

“I know.” She says, spooning more soup into your mouth. “You might not feel like it, right now.” 

“I want a shower.” You say, your voice still hoarse and cracking through your throat. A real shower might solve a lot of problems for you right now. It won’t fix much, but being truly clean would make a lot of things feel better. 

“I wholeheartedly agree.” Dr. Keller says. 

You give her a look. You don't smell that bad. She should know, she’s the one that cleaned the blood off of you and the one who gave you the sponge bath this morning. 

She gives you a look back. “I meant it would be nice to take a real shower. Once we get where we’re going, we can work on the logistics of a shower.” 

Right. You can’t exactly stand for a long time on your own, not to mention the problem of only being able to use one arm without bringing blinding pain upon yourself. That’s where the pack would come in handy. 

The thought of one of them seeing you vulnerable like that, putting their hands on you right now makes your skin crawl. 

A shiver runs down your spine, your body shuddering uncontrollably. You grunt as your shoulder screams in pain, another electric jolt burning straight through your nerves and down through your feet. Fuck. You mouth the word, squeezing your eyes shut. It makes your stomach churn, the soup starting to burn a path back up through your esophagus.

“Breathe for me.” Dr. Keller says, putting a gentle hand on your right shoulder. 

In and out. You focus on your breath, the only thing you can do without feeling like you’re going to go insane from the pain. It’s all you can do in this situation. It’s the only thing you can do at all. Breathe. Just keep breathing. 

Sometimes you don’t want to. 

The pain passes as it always does, leaving behind a subtle ache that will linger until the next flare of pain. It’s a constant, never-ending cycle that you can’t escape from. Weeks, Dr. Keller had said. It can take weeks to heal. You’ll be stuck in this cycle for weeks and weeks. What if it never heals? That is a possibility. It’s always a risk with any injury. 

What if the rest of your life is like this? 

You’re crying again, hot tears blazing a path down your cheeks. They won’t stop, they never stop. There’s a constant stream down your face, even in your sleep. You’ve woken to find your face and neck damp from the never ceasing flood of tears. 

How you can’t wait for the time to come when you have none left.

You’d welcome the numbness at this point, greet it like an old friend and invite it in for tea. Anything over the pain and tears that won’t stop. The depression-fueled numbness that had filled you when Price and Gaz left, then Soap and Ghost would be a welcome relief at this point. Anything would be better than the pain. 

You almost wish you were in a coma right now. Then you wouldn’t feel anything at all. 

Dr. Keller puts the spoon back into the soup bowl before rolling the table to the side. She puts a hand on your head, gently stroking your hair as you cry. The room is silent aside from your sniffles, Dr. Keller not having to say a single word. The silence is almost a blessing. You’re tired of hearing words, of hearing people speak. There’s nothing anyone can say that will do anything to help you, to comfort you, to make it better. 

There’s nothing anyone can do to make it better. 

You’re so tired of being like this. 

The sedative is kicking in before you even reach the airfield. She can see the way your head is drooping further and further forward in the car, your body jostling without any complaint. It had started kicking in before you even got into the car, as you offered very little resistance when Kyle helped her mauver you into the front seat. She chose Kyle out of everyone to help her in hopes it would be easiest on you. Your claimed alpha’s beta is a good place to start in rebuilding the bonds within the pack, and his calm demeanor certainly helps. He is a caretaker through and through, that beta trait prominent above the others in him. He would have made a good medic, had he gone that route. 

Your chin drops to your chest as the car comes to a stop in front of the plane, your body slumping to the side against the door. 

“She’s out.” Christine says, unbuckling her seatbelt. 

“Makes this easier.” Kyle says, getting out of the car. 

They maneuver you into the wheelchair, Christine easing your head onto your right shoulder to avoid aggravating the left. The less pain you’re in when you come out of it, the better, though pain will be unavoidable. Kyle pushes the wheelchair up the ramp of the plane, Christine following close behind. She’s glad she gave you the sedative before you left the med center to avoid as much pain as possible. She almost wishes she had given it to you earlier, as getting you into a sweatshirt had been a battle of its own. Though, the longer it stays in your system, the longer you’ll sleep through the flight. The longer you sleep through the flight, the longer they can delay the inevitable emotional storm of being enclosed in a tight space with your pack. 

If you’re lucky, you’ll be out of it long enough for them to reach the cottage without incident. 

John is waiting near the front of the aircraft, his eyes watching carefully as Kyle helps maneuver you into a seat. Even with the turmoil in the pack bonds, an alpha will always feel protective over their omega. There’s some things that can’t be undone, even in such a fragile state. Some instincts can’t be unlearned, no matter what. 

“I gave her a sedative.” Christine explains as she gets you as comfortable as possible in the seat. “It won’t last the whole flight, but it’ll take a while to wear off regardless.” 

“Is that more for her or for us?” John asks. 

“Both.” Christine says. “Mostly for her. It helps with the pain of moving around, but it will also keep her calm in close quarters like this.” 

“Here.” John says, handing her something. It’s a blanket, brand new by the feel of it. “Johnny made a store run this morning. It’s going to get cold in here, so he got the warmest one he could find.” 

Christine takes the blanket, the fabric thick and soft in her hands. It’s a touching gesture, speaking volumes of their desire to still care for you despite everything, their willingness to do what they have to, to keep the pack together. “Perfect.” She says, carefully draping it over you and tucking it around you before John gets you secured in the seat. 

“It’s going to be a long flight.” John says, taking a step back. 

“It is.” Christine says, pulling out her thermometer. She takes your temperature, letting out a hum at the number that pops up on screen. “I need to monitor her temperature.” She explains as John gives her a look. “It’s been spiking when she gets stressed.” 

“She's not quite out of it yet, is she?” John asks.

“Not quite.” She says, putting the thermometer back in her bag. “I’ve only seen two omegas successfully come back from that point, and I know the number across the board isn’t very high. It takes a long time for the body and the brain to get back to normal.” 

“And on top of everything that happened...” 

She stares up at him for a long moment. “She’s very strong. I knew she was a fighter, but to come out the other side even where she is now...” Christine shakes her head. “I didn’t want to say this at the time, but I was expecting the worst. When that call came in about what state she was in...” She bites her lip, holding the emotions back. “Her resilience and fortitude is what kept her alive. That and Simon’s courage to do what needed to be done.” 

“I know.” John says, looking past her. “We all owe a lot to him.” 

Christine puts a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re doing what’s best for her. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how much it goes against every instinct you have, it’s what she needs.” 

“That’s all that matters to us right now.” John says, staring down at her hand for a moment. “There’s nothing else we can do, so it’s time we start putting our priorities where they should have been the whole time.” 

Christine gives him a small smile. “I’m proud of you for that. It takes a lot to unlearn the things you’ve been told since the beginning.” 

The corner of John’s lips twitch before his face falls into the emotionless mask he’s been wearing for the last few days. “It’s about time we get our heads out of our arses.” 

“I can’t blame you totally.” She shrugs. “We were all just doing what the initiative was telling us to do. We couldn’t have known. There wasn’t any room to question it.” 

“I wish we would have figured it out sooner.” He sighs. 

“Things might have been worse if the truth did come out sooner. If you started digging into the initiative too soon, Shepherd might have gotten antsy and taken more drastic measures to stop the truth from coming out entirely.” She glances down at you. “I think this was all inevitable.” She turns her gaze back to John. “What happened, happened. None of us can change that. All we can do is keep moving forward with what we have right now.” 

He stares at her for a long moment. “The more time passes, the more I’ve come to realize why Kate chose you for this position.” 

The corner of her lips turns up in a smile. “Well, I am rather good at my job, which, among other things, involves advocating on behalf of omegas.” 

John huffs. “Wish we would have listened sooner.” 

“You can’t change the past.” She repeats, looking down at you again. “But you can change the future.” 

You woke from your sedation about four hours from Helston. 

Well, ’woke’ might have been too strong of a word for it. Your eyes opened, but you were still hazy, movements sluggish and entirely unaware of the world around you. You floated between sleep and awareness for an hour before finally gaining consciousness completely. Awareness took quite a while to return, though. Not until they were moving you to the car from the plane. 

Even still you’re groggy, slumped against the door in the back seat of the car. You blink slowly, eyes unfocused as you stare out the window at the blur of green passing by. 

“How is she?” John asks from the driver's seat, glancing up at the rearview mirror. 

“Cow.” You say, blinking slowly as the car passes a field of cows. 

“Still out of it.” Christine answers from the back seat where she's sitting next to you. Your response might have been enough to answer that. “Better than being in pain, though.” 

“How long will it take for her to get out of it?” Kyle asks. 

“Hopefully she’ll be more lucid by the time we get there, but it could take a few hours for it to completely wear off.” Christine says, wiping a bit of drool from your chin. “Probably not a bad thing. This is a big change, and with everything that’s happened, it’s going to take some time to settle in.” 

“Things are going to be rough.” Kyle says. 

“Yes.” She agrees. “Being enclosed in a small space with the people you want to see the least in the world isn’t an ideal situation. It’ll be an adjustment for everyone. I trust all of your abilities to adapt, though. Just don't go in expecting things to be the way they were.”

John's hands tighten around the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. Kyle cracks his window open, prepared for the thickening of John's scent in the air. Christine knows she hit a nerve, but it needed to be said. Even if you were open to forgiveness right now, even if they had chosen to go after you right away, things still wouldn't be the same. Things won't ever be the same. It is their fault deep at the root of it. Those cameras were put up because of them, you were taken because of them. You were chosen for the “initiative” because of them, because Kate thought you'd fit in well with them. Their decisions shaped your life, and will continue to shape your life. 

Can you ever come to forgive them? Christine likes to think so. She has the hope that they can put in the work and regain your trust and earn eventual forgiveness. She knows you'll allow them to try once the initial hurt and emotions begin to fade, once the two of you put in enough work to start processing the trauma around the events that happened. It will take time. Probably a long time. 

She'll be there every step of the way. 

“Ashley did some shopping for us, picked up some stuff to get us until we can get into town.” Kyle says, looking at his phone. 

“Good.” John says, his shoulders starting to relax. “Should wait a couple days before going. Get settled in.”

“She's still working on cleaning up. Probably still be there when we get there.” Kyle says, putting his phone back in his pocket. 

“That's fine. We’ll probably have to utilize her a bit.” 

“Doubt she'll complain.” Kyle says, looking out the window. “Be thrilled to have something to do besides work.” 

You let out a quiet groan, shifting against the door. “Hurts.” 

“I know, honey.” Christine says, carefully adjusting your left arm. “I’ll give you more pain meds once we get to the cottage.” 

“We’ll be there in half an hour.” John says, glancing up at the rearview mirror again before turning his eyes back to the road. 

The half hour seems to take the longest as you continue to become more and more lucid and aware. The pain sets in first, your brain picking up on those signals before anything else. John’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel as you begin to whine and whimper around every bend in the road and turn he has to make, every jostle of the car. Every instinct in his body tells him to pull over and comfort you, but he can’t. It’s more important to get to the cottage, and there’s no guarantee you’d even let him. It might make things worse. 

The last thing you need right now is for things to get worse. 

Christine breathes a sigh of relief as they pull up to the cottage, glad she can finally get you somewhere more comfortable. You’ve been in far too many uncomfortable positions today, moved around too much. She would have liked to keep you in Texas a couple more days, but she knew as soon as you were able to travel, the better. The sooner they could get off the grid, the better. 

The sooner they could get out of Texas, the better. 

Kyle is getting the wheelchair out of the trunk when Johnny and Simon pull up, not having been far behind. They likely took a turn around the back roads to ensure no one was following and to keep things from looking too suspicious. 

Christine keeps you from slumping out of the car as she carefully opens the door on your side. You’re more awake than you were, blinking up at her with almost startlingly aware eyes.

“Crutch.” You pout when she pulls the wheelchair closer. 

She gives you a look. “Honey I'm not sure you could even stand right now.” You may be more aware, but that doesn’t mean your body is working as it should.

You let out a defiant noise as you attempt to get your legs out of the car, trying to hide your grunts of pain and discomfort. 

She's tempted to stand there and let you try, but she knows all hell will break loose if she lets you fall. She's not willing to take that risk, not to mention it will cause you more pain to get you up off the ground. 

“Come on,” She says, stopping you before you can get your feet under you. “Nice and slow.” 

You let out a quiet growl of indignation but you allow her to help you, your legs trembling as she eases you up. Kyle is there with the wheelchair, getting it as close to you as possible so she can sit you down quickly. 

“Ow.” You breathe, eyes pinched closed as you breathe through the pain. 

“I know.” She says, patting your good shoulder lightly. She's glad she put you in the sweatshirt before you left Texas. It's chilly outside, chillier than it was further inland a few days ago. 

It's hard to believe it's only been a few days since you were taken. Barely even a week. So much happened in such a short period of time. It feels like it’s been weeks since everything started, but then again, it had been weeks since John and Kyle first left. It had been weeks since you had been around your whole pack together by the time you were taken. The deep depression you sunk into before the events of the last week had been draining you slowly for weeks before this. It had started before John and Kyle were deployed, back to that day when you revealed the cameras and the secret you had been hiding from them. 

How long you’ve gone in such turmoil. 

How far you still have to go. 

The path up to the door is rocky and uneven, the wheelchair jostling as she pushes it up towards the door. She can picture your face, the way it has to be screwed up in pain. You're silent though, holding it all in. She almost wishes you weren't being silent about it. 

The door is already open, light shining from inside as she approaches. Kyle is in the house already, having gone ahead to greet his sister. John is right behind the two of you as Christine turns to wheel you up the steps into the house. His eyes are on you, focused and ready should you fall.  

Christine would never let you fall, and from the way your hand is gripping the arm of the chair for dear life, you probably couldn't anyway. 

She wheels you through the entryway, the inside warmer thanks to a fire that's burning. It's a nice cottage, far nicer than she had been expecting judging from the outside. 

Johnny lets out a low whistle as he enters behind John, looking around. “Yer parents own this?” 

“It was given to our mum by our grandparents. They did some...renovations before they passed it on.” Kyle says. 

“Yer tellin’ me.” Johnny says. 

It looks new inside. New wood floors, freshly painted walls. The furniture looks like she would expect to find in an English seaside cottage, though. Kyle’s parents went to France for summer vacation instead of utilizing the cottage, and none of his siblings had wanted to use it, he told them. It looks almost perfect, like it came right out of a home renovation show. Kyle’s sister must have worked some sort of magic to get it this clean. 

It is a very nice cottage. It’s small, the door opening right to the main area. There’s two couches and a chair in the middle of the room around a coffee table. To the left of the couches is a fireplace, the fire already lit and crackling. It looks original, likely having been untouched in the renovations. There’s a door to the left of the fireplace closer to the main entryway. A bedroom maybe? To the right of the front door are two doors, one on the far wall and one facing the front door. 

The stairs are in the middle of the house, leading up to the second floor where there’s likely more bedrooms. On the far side of the main area is the dining area and beyond that is a sliding glass door. Around the corner on the far side of the stairs is likely the kitchen. She can see the fridge from where she’s standing. It’s new. Very new. Makes her wonder just how long ago it had been renovated. 

“Everyone, this is my sister Ashley.” Kyle says, introducing the other woman in the room. 

“Hello,” she says, giving everyone a wave and a dazzling smile. 

She’s dressed simply in jeans and a t-shirt, her medium box braids pulled up into a bun on top of her head. They look a lot alike, her and Kyle. Tall and slender and stunning. They have the same smile and the same soft brown eyes. She's wearing scent blockers, but Christine can imagine her having a soft scent like lavender or something fresh like mint. 

“There's two rooms down here, and two upstairs.” Kyle says. “The main bedroom is through there.” He points towards a door to their left. “I figure we'll give that to our omega. The bathroom in there has a walk-in shower.” 

“Perfect.” Christine says. That will make getting you in and out of the shower easier at least, and you won’t have to go far to use the bathroom.

“You should take the other room down here.” John says, looking at Christine. “So you can be close in case of an emergency.”

And so you don't have to be too close to them, so you won’t feel like they’re hovering.

He doesn't have to say that part out loud. 

“I put new sheets on all the beds.” Ashley says. “I also picked up everything Kyle sent on the list. Food, some clothes, some other necessities.”

You let out a quiet groan, Christine patting your head gently. You have to be exhausted and sore after the day. She should give you another dose of pain medicine like she said she would. You’re going to need it tonight. 

“Let's get you laying down for a bit.” She says, wheeling you towards the door. 

Kyle opens it for her, revealing a spacious room with a big window looking out towards the sea. You're going to spend a lot of time in front of that window, she thinks. The bed is in the middle of the room, and there’s two chairs facing the window. She’s almost tempted to sit you in one of the chairs, but laying down will be more comfortable for you right now. 

You're still too out of it now to care much as she wheels you to the double bed. With Kyle's help they get you horizontal, Christine draping the blanket at the end of the bed over you. It’s not very soft, but it will do for now. She’ll have to get the guys to pick up some soft blankets for you when they go to town. She has a whole list of things starting in her head she needs them to pick up.

She leans your crutch against the end of the bed just in case you might need it for an emergency. She hopes you’ll yell first, but you always have been stubborn. Being mostly bed-bound has only made that worse. 

“I’m going to go look through the things Ashley picked up.” She says, patting your leg gently. “Get some rest.” 

Christine leaves the door open a crack as she exits, wanting to give you a little privacy as you nap, or at least she hopes you’ll nap. It’s going to be a rough adjustment, and you’re going to need as much rest as you can get. 

“I’m assuming you’re Christine.” Ashley says, walking up to her. 

“I am.” She says, giving Ashley a smile. 

She can’t help but get lost in Ashley’s soft gaze for a moment. The Garrick siblings seem to share the same magnetic energy. There’s something almost ethereal about them. She could easily imagine them with glowing halos and angel wings. It’s almost like she’s being blessed with the opportunity to look upon her. She could spend an hour staring at Ashley’s face and not grow tired of looking at her.

“I picked up the items Kyle said you needed.” She says, motioning to the bags on the coffee table, pulling Christine out of her daze. “I couldn’t find the exact nutrient powder you asked for, so I got one that was as close as I could find.” 

Christine glances through the bags. She was thorough, getting at least two of everything. 

“I got warmer clothes for her too, since it can get chilly out here this time of year. Just some simple things for now until you guys get into town.” Ashley says. “I did some research too and I read that omegas like comforting things so I picked up some extra blankets and pillows” Ashley says, motioning to a couple bags sitting on the couch. “I also picked up this,” She pulls a stuffed dog from one of the bags, holding it up. “It was the softest one I could find. I thought it might help.” 

A small smile forms on Christine’s face, her heart fluttering in her chest from the sweet, thoughtful gesture. Ashley doesn’t even know you, nor did she know exactly what happened to you, and yet she went so far as to pick up some comfort items for you. You have nothing right now, only the borrowed clothes on your back. All of your belongings are still on base, all of the things that you had built to make your perfect nest. Would you want any of them still? Or have they been tainted by the events of the last few weeks? 

That Ashley thought to do this has warmth flooding Christine’s body. You can have some comfort now without having to wait for their trip to town. She almost feels the urge to cry. She wants to hug Ashley, thank her over and over for her kindness. Ashley has no idea how much her small act of kindness means, how much it's going to mean. 

A smile forms on Christine’s face as she stares at the stuffed dog. “It’s perfect.” 

You can hear it. 

In the distance, the quiet roar reaches your ears as you’re dragged from the sweet arms of sleep. It must be a dream, or perhaps the sedative is still clinging to your mind, making you imagine things. 

No. 

You’d know that sound anywhere. 

The effort to push yourself up to sit is a momentous one, every cell in your body protesting after a day of being moved and jostled. The last thing you want is to move right now, but you have to. 

The pain meds have done little to help.

The crutch at the end of your bed must be a thousand miles away as you sit there and stare at it. The ache in your body only increases as you become more and more aware of the pain, almost as if it can tell what it is your mind is planning. 

The door is cracked open, letting in a slit of light from outside. It’s dark in the room, the curtains pulled over the window. It’s a blessing compared to the bright yellow light outside the door. You welcome the darkness as your head begins to throb. You could call for assistance. You’d get more help than you needed. More help than you want. 

No. 

You need to do this. 

The effort it takes to get standing nearly sends you back onto the bed. The pain nearly blinds you as your feet touch the floor, your body leaning against the side of the mattress out of desperation. If you fall, you’ll never be alone again. You can’t afford that. You don’t want that. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

The breaths out of your nose are short and sharp as you reach for the crutch, fingers trembling in the effort to fight the pain threatening to blind you. You’re trembling like a leaf in a storm as your fingers finally wrap around the cool metal. The rubber bottom drags across the floor as you tug it over to you, holding it against your chest for a moment. 

Breathe. That’s what you need to do. Breathe. 

In and out. 

Nice and slow. 

The pain is only a memory. The pain is nothing. The memories forming at the edges of your mind will take over and wipe out the pain and the misery. You just have to be sure. You just have to be certain.

You push yourself upright using the crutch, tucking it under your arm. You should go back to bed. You should rest. 

No. 

You need to know. 

You need to be certain.

The first step you take nearly makes you sick. 

It’s like watching a baby deer walk for the first time, knees wobbling, feet shaking. You lean heavily on the crutch, your determination the only thing keeping you from tumbling to the floor in a heap. That might almost hurt worse than forcing yourself to stand upright. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Inch by inch you move across the floor, silently grateful for the socks on your feet. They allow you to slide across the hardwood, but they also pose a threat. Slide too far and you’ll lose your feet. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

The determination and your desire for certainty is what keeps you sliding inch by inch across the floor towards that strip of blinding light in front of you. It’s hovering before you, threatening you. How do you know there’s not one of them standing guard, waiting for you to try and leave? You can’t know. You don’t have a clue what’s waiting on the other side of that door. It could be nothing. It could be your entire pack. 

Breathe. 

In and out. 

You take a moment at the door, resting your aching feet. Your body is throbbing from the effort to keep yourself upright, the sedative still numbing your brain and your movements. It’s like treading through honey, everything twice as hard as it should be. You can walk. You’ve done it before. You did it in the medical center. 

You can do it here. 

You use the crutch to push the door open more, your free arm still tucked in a sling to keep you from moving it. Reaching for it with that arm would have put you on the floor, would have caused more pain than you needed, would have made you fall. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Breathe. 

The light burns. Explosions of yellows and whites erupt behind your eyelids as you screw them tight against the sudden onslaught. The sun is in the room, shining its rays directly into your sensitive eyes. Your stomach churns, your fingers tightening around the crutch so tight your knuckles begin to ache. The oppressive light makes you want to recede back into the darkness of the room behind you like a vampire shying away from the light of day. 

No. 

You won’t be defeated by the harsh artificial lighting. You need to know. 

You need to be certain.

The others are moving around. You can hear voices around the corner, voices upstairs with thudding footsteps. The air is thick with a mesh of scents, cleaning chemicals, and the burn of scent blocker. Your nose wrinkles at the sudden onslaught against your senses, your sedated brain making it all seem so much worse. 

You need to know. 

The hardwood floors continue and you use them to your advantage as you shuffle your way across the main area. The fire crackles as you pass, the popping of a log making you startle. Your feet slide again, your body pushing up against the crutch to hold yourself steady. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Your target is dead ahead, a mile away but so close you can almost taste it. Just past the dining table and straight on till morning. 

Despite your snail’s pace, no one seems to notice you shuffling your way across the house. It should make you upset, the fact that none of them notice you moving around, but instead it makes you glad. They’d try to stop you if they noticed you, turn you around and shuffle you back to bed. Or worse, they’d carry you. 

How easily you could slip away, though. 

Well...in theory. 

Perhaps that’s why they ‘re not paying you any mind. How far could you really go in your current state? 

Why would you want to stray from the only safe space you have? 

The world outside is more dangerous with the state you’re in. Not just because of your injuries and your status, but also because you know Shepherd is still out there, and for all you know Graves is as well. 

He could be waiting right outside the door. 

No. 

They’d know. 

They’d protect you. 

They failed. 

You push past the fear in favor of certainty as you push forward, passing the dining table in your slow crawl towards the sliding glass door. 

It poses an entirely new threat as you stand before it, staring out the darkened glass. You have to get it open. Getting it open takes strength and you’re down to one hand that’s trying to keep you upright. 

You have to know. 

You have to be certain. 

You lean your weight on the crutch, ignoring the way it digs into your armpit as you reach for the handle. You click the lock, wrapping your fingers around the plastic before pulling. Your body screams with pain as you tug, the door sliding in the track as slowly as you had moved across the small living area. It’s almost as if it's mocking you. 

It’s open only as wide as you need to crutch your way through, doing your best not to knock your left shoulder against the frame. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Breathe. 

You can smell it. 

The salty sea air invades your senses, slipping up through your nose and straight into your brain. Memories come flooding back of childhood vacations back when things were simpler. Back when nothing mattered but the sand and the water and avoiding getting chased by your brothers carrying the piece of seaweed they found. 

Polkadot bathing suits, bright red to be seen easily. Toes in the water, sand everywhere. The nap in the silent car home. 

How simple life was back then. How easy life was. 

Your heart aches for those days again. The days when you could exist without a care in the world, trusting your pack would keep you safe, trusting your family would care for you. Your mind yearns for that sense of safety and security again. 

The world is grey as you hobble across the porch, the grey seeming to go on forever. You missed it, the chill in the air, the gloomy grey overhead. How you yearned for the gloom of England while stuck in the heat of Texas. 

Anything is better than Texas. 

Your forward shuffle pauses at the edge of the deck, your eyes looking out into the grey. Your breath catches in your throat as you stare out into the distance, the ache in your chest intensifying. It blocks out the pain in your body, numbing you to everything else as you stand there, legs trembling from the effort of going the short distance from your room to the end of the porch. 

You can see it. 

Emotions swirl inside of you like a hurricane as you stare out where the grey water meets the grey sky in the line of the horizon. Those emotions threaten to choke you as you stand there trembling at the edge of the porch. There’s a breeze, a cold one that bites through the fabric of your sweatshirt and into the skin below, but you don’t care. 

You can’t care. 

Your legs shake from the exertion, the neverending exhaustion that’s settled deep into your bones. It’s not just a physical exhaustion, but a mental one as well. It’s been a long week. 

Only a week. 

So much has happened in a week. 

You want to sit. You want to sink down onto the porch and rest. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

There’s a pain in your chest as your breath catches in your throat. The emotions are whirling, tightening around your chest, squeezing your lungs until they feel like they might pop. 

Breathe. 

In and out. 

You needed certainty. You needed to know. 

You can hear it. You can smell it. You can see it. 

A single tear rolls down your cheek as you stare out at the sea. 

NEXT ->

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[unetherian]

List of gear ideas because masks and tails are not the only ones that exist

[ PT : List of gear ideas because masks and tails aren't the only ones that exist]

Hi ! Here is a list of all the gears I know and can imagine, I will extend the list as my ideas come!

I mostly know gears for therians, so I apologize to those who don't recognize themselves in the list.

If you are looking for gift ideas for a therian friend, if you want to make yourself a new discreet gear to not attract attention, or on the contrary you are trying to find an original gear to express yourself freely in public, I recommend this list!

Happy reading!

Gears that can be worn :

⚝Mask

A classic: I'm talking about the masks that we see everywhere on YouTube shorts and TikTok. Simple and effective. Plus it's a beautiful art, it doesn't surprise me that many are fans of creating it!

⚝Muzzle-mask, beak-mask

These masks are much less known, but I dream of having one one day! It is a mask that covers the lower part of the face, to make it look like a snout or a beack. Unfortunately there aren't many tutorials (on YouTube anyway)

⚝Fur tails

Another great classic, I would pay good money to have one! It's so... perfect. But be careful! Don't buy tails anywhere! Most of the time they come from very cruel fur farms, so I advise you to watch the videos of Torn (therian territory) or PD on the subject to recognize an ethical or cruel tail.(These channels are on youtube) I swear to you that even dyed or so-called "fake" tails can be real and cruel... Be careful!

You can also make tails out of yarn, there are many tutorials and while it does take a lot of time its so worth it!! The result is often so fluffy! (thanks a lot to @newbornlight who suggested I add these tails to my list!)

⚝Collar

Very effective if you are an alter/nonhuman whose type is domesticated ! And even if you are not, it can symbolize your nonhuman identity stuck/domesticated in a human world. There is a more discreet alternative, if you prefer: chokers! I have one that I made myself with black ribbon and a bracelet clasp. I sometimes add a pendant that looks like a small collar tag !

⚝muzzle

May have the same meaning as collar. It can be a good alternative to muzzle-masks which are quite rare.

⚝Fake ears

So cool and often so realistic...

⚝Gloves/mittens

This can make your human paw look like your type's paw! But be careful when you want to buy some, some are not of such good quality so the glue can come off with use (thanks again to @newbornlight who warned me that this could be the case!)

⚝Paw socks

Very comfortable and very euphoric. I like it. (same warning for glue that can coming off)

⚝Shoes

I've seen some amazing digigrade shoes before (to give you an idea of what it looks like, it's a heeled shoe without a heel) including shoes that look like clogs, but there are some for many different species !

I've also seen beings make lines on the white part of their converse to make it look like paws !!!

Some people buy or make shoes with a certain relief on the bottom so that they make tracks resembling the footprints of their type! (thanks to @sillysatyr for adding it to the list :3)

⚝Different shapes of pants

If your type is imposing, you can opt for cargo pants! For theriotypes with long and thin legs, but big hooves/paws, I recommend flared pants! (I think that's what it's called in English)

I have species dysphoria about not being as big and impressive as my theriotype, but since I started wearing cargo pants and other baggy pants, I feel more confident.

⚝Fake horns, fake antlers

Awwww those are so cute

⚝Wings

Attached to the arms for birds, on the back for dragons/insects!

It's one of the most gorgeous types of gears, and I imagine it's very effective.

⚝Contact lenses

To change the color of your eye, the shape of your pupil, etc.

⚝Makeup

I don't know if you can really consider this a gear but put a little eye shadow under the nose, a line in the little hollow that connects the nose to the mouth, and black lipstick on the upper lip can be very euphoric for some! Of course there are many other different makeup looks for all types... And don't forget, makeup is not for girls, it's for the skin✨

⚝Nails (claws)

I really like growing my nails out, cutting them into almond shapes so they look like claws. No need to grow them out a lot, or make them very prickly, do as you like!

You can also use fake nails!

⚝Paper claws

There are a lot of different tutorials on youtube, usually they are in origami, so I hope you like folding paper ^^'

⚝Legs/arms warmers

To feel like you have fur on your arms/legs, to protect myself from the cold. I made some out of wool, crocheted.

⚝Kigurumi !

A very comfortable and cute little costume, I would really like to have one! For those who don't know, it's a kind of very soft one-piece pajamas with a hood. On this hood there are sometimes animal ears, sometimes horns, at the back there is sometimes a tail, etc. there are some for many different species!

⚝Claw ring

Rings that look like claws. This is so cool! I'm going to buy some soon!

⚝Any accessory with a theta delta on it

Of course !

⚝Any accessory that represents your type

Of course too

⚝Pin's

There are some really cool pins on theriantropy, I recommend it.

⚝Mermaid tail

I've seen costumes like this before, I think the cetacean therians and mermaidkin might like it.

⚝Tattoo

Whether it's a temporary or permanent tattoo, it can be a great way to get closer to your type. Having your identity or the symbol of it on your body can be very pleasant! I even saw someone with his type's fur pattern tattooed on his shoulder.

I just want to clarify that if you want to get a permanent tattoo, I advise you to think carefully about the location, the shape, etc. to be sure.

⚝Sweatshirts/hats with animal ears/horns/antlers on them!

It's very "normal-like", and it can be very reassuring to feel it on your head.

⚝Deer antlers (in the form of a headband)

Very cute! (credits to @zombi-teeth who suggested it to me in the comments ;3)

Other gears:

⚝Objects that remind you of your habitat as your type

To recreate the atmosphere of your habitat in your house/room!

⚝Figurine of your type

It's funny to have a minature yourself

⚝Blanket whose texture reminds you of your type's fur

Very comforting

⚝Feathers!

I have a collection of feathers at home, I'm not a bird therian but it gives me a "predatory pleasure" to have a piece of prey as a trophy at home! (Without harming an animal, of course! I pick up these feathers from the ground)

⚝Stickers

I will probably give a tutorial later on how to create your own stickers, I will also make drawings to cut out to transform into stickers.

⚝Drawings, paintings, etc. of your type

Art is a great way to express yourself!

⚝A mineral/crystal that is associated with your type

In many cultures, stones are associated with animals. Some even use them for meditation.

Did you know that amber is prehistoric tree resin that has hardened over time? I think this fun fact will please paleotherians ;3

⚝A book about your type or its habitat

Read up on your own species to learn more about yourself.

⚝A prey of your type in plush form!

To hunt or nibble in we get bored.

⚝An object that diffuses the scent of your type's habitat

It could be an essential oil diffuser, a potpourri, or just anything that smells like the forest, for example.

⚝ A Tamagotchi

It's a small virtual animal/creature that you have to take care of. There are many different characters, you will surely find one of the species of your type ! This little retro item can really please anyone who feels lonely as an animal in human society.

⚝A chewable stim toy

For those who have shifts/instincts about chewing/biting things!

⚝A whistle that reproduces the sounds of your type!

I have already seen some very pretty ones in wood for example, they can also be suitable as decorative objects! (credits again to @zombi-teeth who gave me the idea)

Here are all the ideas I have right now, don't forget I'll add more later, there are sooo many different types of gears!

Have a nice day!

[roguelov]

Scars and All

Summary: For a few years, you have been friends with Trafalgar Law. And for a few years you have harbored a crush on his dad, Donquixote Rosinante. You tried, and tried, to ignore such feelings, but perhaps it’s time to put it all out into the open. No more hiding, you will tell him how you feel. You only hope he will let you down gently.

Word Count: ~8.9k

Reader: fem/afab (reader referred to a sweetheart/sweet girl)

Warnings: SMUT (age gap (reader is in their mid 20s and Cora is 40), breast play, oral (fem!receiving), fingering, praise kink, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, cream pie, dirty talk, small breeding kink, mostly dom!cora), minor angst (denial of feelings), pining, fluff in the end

(Fanart and inspo for the fic by levikra)

The idle rumbling of the car was the only thing keeping you grounded, or was the irritable sensation propelling your already splintered mind into more of a frenzy? You pressed your forehead into the steering wheel. The sun’s ray heated the faux leather, unfortunately not bringing you any relief or comfort. Just more irritation.

This is stupid.

Grumbling, you lifted your head, peering up at the picturesque house. It was simple with a small porch with rickety chairs to recline in, and a worn down welcome mat. Shutters muted by the sun. Its attached garage had its mouths open revealing a sleek vintage car and a motorcycle parked inside.

Plain. Ordinary.

Yet, it was frighteningly daunting. You white-knuckled your steering wheel. Your heart pounded feverishly in your chest. Blood pumped so loud in your ears you could barely discern the jumbled voices from the radio. A song? An interview? Why did it matter? Why were you focusing on such trivial things when -

Dumb. This is so fucking dumb and stupid and - and I should just leave. He wouldn’t -

You banged your head - again - against the steering wheel, growing out in frustration. “What am I doing here,” you asked the rhetorical question in the lone space.

You tilted your head, glancing at your passenger and the reason for the afflictions to your spiraling mind: a plastic container of an assortment of cookies. The container sparkled in the sunlight as if smiling giddily eager to be delivered.

You grumbled to yourself, “Why did I talk myself into this?”

*****

“Ooo, it smells amazing in here!”

You peered over your shoulder, looking back at your friend and housemate, Evelyn. She hungrily eyed all the variety of cookies littered across the kitchen counters cooling and some already packed neatly in containers. Giggling, she snatched up a fresh one, biting into it.

She hummed, smiling at you, “It’s so good.”

Your cheeks warmed and you smiled bashfully, “Thanks.”

She plopped down at one of the dining chairs, happily nibbling on her cookie. “So why’d you make so much? And why did you ask me to help?”

You snickered at her tone and small pout. “Ah well, I wanted to make some chocolate chip cookies but then you saw we had plenty of other ingredients so it just spiraled out of control from there.”

She frowned a bit, deciphering your roundabout words. “Stress baking?”

Your eyes dropped to the side. Caught. “Yeah, kind of.”

“Why?”

You added some cooled cookies into another container. “Well … I was thinking about bringing some to Rosinante .. and I know Law is still doing his shift at the hospital.”

She beamed, finishing off her cookie. “Yeah, I bet they will like them.”

You said nothing, you just closed the container, sealing it tight.

Evelyn watched you for a moment. Your hand nervously patted on your pants, rubbing off the flour and sugar. Your eyes darted around counting and recounting all the cookies. “What’s wrong? What do you think they won’t like them?” She asked.

“Huh? Oh, uh … no, that’s not the issue.” You shuffled side to side. “I thought that maybe I could finally do it.”

She cocked her head. “Do what?”

You fiddled with your fingers. “That … that I could tell Rosinante how I feel.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Really?”

She had known about your crush on him, you had confided in her some time ago. She had even comforted you when a few tears were shed under the veil of night. It wasn’t right to have a crush on your shared friend’s dad. You knew this. You tried to drop it, to let him go, yet with every conversation you had with him you fell a bit more.

“I … I just … I don’t want to keep pretending,” you quietly admitted. “If he doesn’t like me, then so be it … maybe I could finally move on once I hear it from him … it’ll be awkward as hell when we go over there in the future but … I should do this.”

No more delusions or what ifs. Your mind tired of these endless running thoughts every single night.

Eve gave you a reassuring smile. “I’m proud of you.”

You smiled, a small one. You placed a hand on your chest, rubbing the spot over your racing heart.

I got this.

Taking a deep breath, you picked up a perfectly packaged container. You held the container close to your chest, however once you turned to leave you froze.

Seeing your hesitation, Evelyn got up and started pushing you towards the door. “Alright, go.”

You dug your heels into the floor. “But -“

“Nope, now shoo.”

“Actually I - I changed my mind. This is a terrible idea and I don’t want to do the adult thing anymore -“

“It’s a wonderful idea,” she urged you, opening the front door for you. “And he’ll love them.”

And you, she thought.

“I don’t care if he likes the cookies,” you grumbled. “It’s the other thing.”

“You can do it. I know he likes you back -“

You vehemently shook your head, pushing back on her attempts. “I can’t -“

She spun you around, grabbing your arms. Her eyes blazed with determination, far more than your own. “Yes, you can. You said you would do it, so no backing out.”

You hung your head, sighing deeply, “… fine.”

She beamed. “Great! And don’t worry, I’ll keep Law away … for a few hours.”

Your cheeks burned. “Whoa, it won’t -“

With one final shove, you stumbled backwards out the door. She chirped in a cheery tone, “Now, go. And good luck!”

The door then slammed in your face.

*****

Fuck it, just do it!

Shutting off the engine and snatching up the cookies, you hopped out of your car. Every step towards the front door, every time your heart jumped up into your throat. You wanted to turn tail and hide, but how could you go back home? Eve will certainly give you trouble.

I could just sneak inside and hide away in my room.

You muttered to yourself. It was at least a decent idea.

Wrong. All wrong, a voice hissed in the back of your mind. You’re a friend of his kid, why would he even see you like this? You shouldn’t have even entertained this for a second. It’s all wrong.

Your heart ached. You shoved that voice back, locking it in the far recesses of your mind. You didn’t need it whispering in your ear. Again. You just needed to get this all off your chest, you couldn’t bear the weight of this secret anymore. The rejection will sting, it will gut you, and you will cry, but then hopefully you could finally move on.

With a shaky hand, you pressed the doorbell. The chime cut through the silence. You flinched. Glancing over your shoulder, you wondered if anyone was watching this slow disastrous train wreck.

This is a dumb idea. Maybe I could -

The doorknob clicked then opened. You whipped around, staring up at the owner of the home, the father of your friend, and the owner of your heart: Donquixote Rosinante. With a cigarette hanging from his lips, he smiled warmly, “Hey, what brings you around here?”

Matching his smile, you held up the cookies. “I made a bit too much so I thought I would stop by and bring some.”

His eyes lit up. “Really? Thank you, here -“ he moved aside giving you space to step in, “- come on in, you know where the kitchen is.”

You nodded, walking in. Smiling, Rosinante closed the door behind you. You passed by the living room and into the kitchen with Rosinante following behind you. You set down the cookies on the kitchen island. Rosinante circled around the island to the other side. He took his cigarette, flicking the ashes into a small glass tray. His eyes darted over to you. He saw the question written so clearly on your face.

“I know I’m trying to quit. Just please don’t tell, Law,” he said, taking a small drag. “I know the kid is almost a doctor now, but it’s hard to break such an old habit -“ he winked “- it can be our little secret.”

Your heart fluttered. “My lips are sealed.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

Joy, unbridled joy and elation, bloomed at the nickname. It brought a warmth unlike any other: sunshine on a snowy winter morning, bonfire on a cool summer night, or a warm blanket wrapped around at night. You couldn’t remember when it started, but you loved it. His deep voice mixed so lovely with the affectionate tone of the name. It was this small insignificant thing that made your heart cling to hope, hope that maybe - just maybe - he felt something.

“Do you mind?” Rosinante pointed at the container.

“Oh! Uh, no please go ahead,” you answered.

He smiled then opened it up. He inhaled the tantalizing decadent aroma. “Smells great.”

He plucked a chocolate chip cookie. Holding his cigarette between his fingers, he took a bite. He hummed. His eyes twinkled with delight. ”This is amazing! You’re a great baker.”

You smiled bashfully. “Thanks.”

Looking at him, your expression softened as he finished the cookie with a smile. However as he ate the last bite, your eyes caught something. “Hey, uh, you have …,” you gestured to a spot on your own cheek.

Rosinante tilted his head. His golden hair swept across his forehead. His innocent face made him appear decades younger.

How can a grown man look so adorable?

You reiterated, “You have some chocolate on your cheek.”

“Oh!” He swiped his thumb across his skin - to where you pointed - then gently sucked the chocolate off. He hummed, licking his lips. “Thanks.”

You kept your voice steady. “No problem.”

He really doesn’t understand what he does to me.

“Any reason you made so many cookies?” Rosinante asked, closing the lid.

You shrugged. “Just wanted some, but then it kind of spiraled into making a bunch of different batches.”

He smiled, leaning on the island. “Well, thank you for sharing. I might eat them all before Law gets a chance to try one.”

You mimicked him, resting your elbows on the island. “No worries, we have plenty back at the house … that is if Eve doesn’t eat them all.”

He snickered and took another drag of his cigarette.

Your eyes skimmed over him. He truly was a golden god, yet wrapped up with some boyish charms. You tore your eyes away. Your heart started to speed up again with the mere thought of spilling everything out in the open. He picked up the cookies, turning his back to you and putting them next to the fridge. It was out of sight, and somewhat hidden for a sweet treat for himself later.

Ok, fuck, breathe. Just - just say it. It’s now or never.

Clearing your throat, you spoke in a shaky voice. “Rosinante?”

He hummed, his back still to you,

I can do it. It’s fine - it’ll be fine.

You took a long deep breath. “I … I have something I want to tell you.”

He froze.

Instantly, he knew where the conversation would go before you could utter another word. The thing was Rosinante wasn’t clueless or oblivious to your infatuation with him. He will admit he didn’t at first, however it all clicked. He saw how you clung to each of his words, how you stared at him when you thought he wasn't watching, how you leaned towards him craving his warmth, or how you always sought out his company. He was surprised, yes, and in heavy denial for some time. But, as weeks passed, his observation and theory only solidified.

He could only hope your crush would pass.

Rosinante twisted around. “Please don’t.”

Most of all, Rosinante hoped and prayed his own attraction to you faded. It started as a small bud in his chest. Yet, the more and more you came around, the more you talked and laughed with him, the more the simple infatuation grew. It rooted its vines deep within his heart, taking hold and control of him. He craved your presence constantly, you were becoming his new addiction.

But, it wasn’t right.

Rosinante sighed heavily. Taking his cigarette, he smothered it out in the ashtray. “I know what you’re about to say.”

You blinked. “You do?”

Does he?

He glanced up, staring directly into your eyes. Why were his eyes so sorrowful? Or … pitiful? “You we’re about to make a confession, were you not?”

Embarrassment. White hot searing embarrassment coursed through you. Your eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights. You quickly dropped your head, hiding your boiling shame. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, nails burying into your palms.

“Please don’t.”

His haunting words replayed on repeat.

Fuck, I was right. Shit -

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing back the tears.

Rosinante frowned. Fuck. Maybe, he shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe, he should have let you speak first. But, he was trying to save you some pain. He moved around the counter, hovering by your side. His hand raised to comfort you. However, when he heard the faint sniffles, his heart clenched and his hand dropped.

Damn it.

“Look, it’s -“

You snapped your head up. You smiled, an awfully forced one that didn’t convince Rosinante in the slightest. Taking a deep breath, you tried to swim faster than the typhoon of emotions hurtling through your mind. “No, you don’t have to explain yourself. I - I understand … I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

It was a long shot, an impossible chance. Why did a part of me believe it would work? How delusional could I be?

You spun on your heels to leave, but Rosinante caught your wrist. He tugged you back. His hands cupped your face, forcing you to stay and look at him. He searched in your frantic eyes to see if he overstepped. But, all he saw was pain trying to be bottled up. “I do owe you an explanation, it’s only right,” he paused, trying to gather his thoughts, “sweetheart, it’s cliche I know but it’s not you, it’s me … I’m … I’m not right for you.”

Your heart - your conflicted heart - flipped. “… what?”

He sighed, “You are kind and wonderful and amazing -“

And everything I could ever hope for, he thought.

“- but I’m broken. I’m old. I’m scarred. I’m - I’m not whole.”

Unlike you.

His words swirled around in your head. Broken. Old. Scarred. “So?” You asked in a quiet voice.

Rosinante’s eyebrows furrowed.

Pushing down your nerves, you pressed on. “Not everyone is perfect and - and without flaws, do you think I am? Do you think I don’t have some sort of scars whether etched into my skin or across my heart?”

He blinked, taken back by your words.

Just spill it all. He … he already knows.

“Only you make me feel like this,” you whispered, dropping your gaze. “Only you can constantly make me laugh and smile, and - and brighten my day. You make me feel seen, heard.”

Rosinante’s heart hammered. “Can - can you look at me?”

Your eyes wearily inched back up. Your eyes were glassy with tears threatening to spill.

He smiled sadly, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone. “Hey, don’t waste your tears on this old fool.”

“Why not?” You muttered, desperately keeping your voice calm. “You’re amazing … why can’t you see that?”

Because I have a complicated past, he bitterly thought. I’m old, past my prime. You deserve better.

“Sweetheart -“

“Please,” you cut him off. “If - if you don’t like me, want me, or - or see me in this way then just please let me go. Don’t make me stay here any longer … but if you do … if you like me in some way … then …”

Your voice trailed off, leaving it up to him to interpret. An admission of his feelings? A kiss? It just had to be some obvious sign. You were trying not to crumble before him.

Please, just let me go.

Rosinante licked his lips. His heart raced sporadically in his chest. What should he do? What was the right thing to do?

To let you go.

To save you - one of his son’s friends - from this broken old man.

But what did he want? What did his heart yearn for?

You. He wanted you, he always wanted you. And maybe this was his only chance at happiness.

Why shouldn’t he at least try?

He leaned down slowly as if waiting for you to run, for you to get out while you could. But, you stayed firm. His face hovered inches above yours. His eyes bore into you searching and deciphering any signs, or tells, that meant regret. He couldn’t. He only saw hope, hope that this wasn’t a fantasy, hope that you could finally love and cherish him as you believed he deserved.

His eyes slid down to your lips, so soft and waiting so patiently. He swallowed a nervous lump in his throat. His eyes flickered back, locking with yours. “I want this, but tell me,” he whispered desperately; his hand now wrapped around the back of your neck holding you firmly, realizing he didn’t want you to run away now, “tell me you want this. I - I just need to hear you say it.”

You hesitantly reached up, touching the side of his face. His chin was slightly prickly unlike his usual kempt appearance. Your hand traced upwards, threading through his blonde locks - that nearly covered those beautiful rustic red eyes of his. “I want this,” you breathed out. “I want you, scars and all.”

Rosinante crashed his lips against yours. He claimed your lips, pouring all this untapped love into it. He wanted - needed - you to know how much you meant to him, how much he wanted this, and how long he had deprived himself of it. His lips parted, darting his tongue along your lips pleading for entrance. You shakily parted your lips, still surprised this was truly happening. Rosinante hummed, slipping his tongue inside. You whimpered faintly. With your head tipped all the way back to accommodate his height, you were truly at his mercy.

And you loved it.

He eagerly explored your mouth, swirling his tongue wanting to taste every part of you. You clung to him, feeling your knees about to buckle. Chocolate and hints of nicotine blossomed over your tongue. His tongue commanded your attention, yet so did his hands. His dexterous hands glided down your body. He awkwardly hunched forward, but he didn’t mind. He had you, he could hold you, touch you. His hands greedily roamed over you, mapping out the curves and lines of your body. He sneakily cupped your rear and thighs, making you gasp. Rosinante smirked against your lips. A quick squeeze and jerk urged you to jump.

And you did.

The ex-marine lifted you up quite easily. Your legs wrapped so wonderfully around his waist, and you threw your arms over his shoulders. However, he couldn’t make it quite far. Taking only a few steps, he stumbled into the wall. You were far too distracted by his lips and touch, you hadn’t noticed his quick reaction: one of his hands cradled your head, protecting it from the wall.

He pulled away from your lips, mumbling, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you panted.

He smiled, wide and beautiful, making his eyes crinkled in an adorable way. He was enthralled with you, and this moment. How could you truly be here in his arms, in his grasp? It was a dream, a dream he didn’t want to ever end. “Can we keep going?” He asked, nudging his nose against yours.

“Please,” you answered.

He captured your lips again, but slower. He wanted to memorize the shape and feeling of your lips. There was precision to his movements, a dance. The ex-marine knew how to maintain control, and how to draw everything out. Each stolen breath, each push and pull of his lips, each slow drag of his tongue, each teasing nibble left you clinging to him.

One of his hands slipped under your shirt, skimming up your back. You shivered at his cool calloused fingers. He murmured, “Soft.”

His fingertips drew nonsensical patterns, or so you thought. He purposefully drew hearts and spirals, carving his unspoken love. His hand moved upward before dragging his blunt nails across your back. He so desperately wished to mark your skin, to put his scar on you.

“Can I take off your shirt?” He begged into your swollen lips.

You didn’t answer. Using the wall as leverage, you haphazardly wiggled out of your shirt and tossed it randomly onto the kitchen floor. Excited and dazed, you didn’t bother to wait for him to ask about your bra. You unhooked it, adding it to the pile. His eyes widened, staring down at your breasts with his slightly mouth agape.

Fuck, this is really happening, he thought.

You nervously bit your lip. Your mind began to second guess his silence.

Shit, did I go too far? What if he didn’t -

Rosinante quickly hoisted you higher up then craned his head down. His lips wrapped perfectly around your breast, sucking on it. You sighed, arching your back to better help him. Your fingers slipped into his hair, holding his head close. Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach. His tongue circled around your nipple. Your lips and mouth had just learned his sensual dance. Every swipe of his tongue, your body shuddered. He teasingly nipped at the bud, making you gasp. He removed his mouth with an audible ‘pop‘ like he wanted you to know how good you tasted, how much it pained him to break away. Yet, he couldn’t neglect the other. He kissed along your chest, hungrily capturing your other breast.

“Rosi,” you breathed out.

Fuck, he loves how that sounded. How could his name send such intense pleasure skyrocketing through his body? His cock jumped in his pants. Gods, he needed to hear it again, and again, and again. His hands squeezed your ass both trying to hold himself back and as if you forced it out of you.

And it worked.

You whimpered.

Faint, yet so sweet.

Pulling away from your breasts, he rested his forehead against yours. Your chests heaved in an odd symphony. The thinnest space separated your lips, your shared breaths mixed together. His air was yours and your air was his, souls were mingling in such close proximity. His eyes shone, all his emotions now officially and completely bare.

No, more hiding. No more denying.

He stole your lips once again, unable to get enough of them. Humming, you arched your back, pressing your now spit covered breasts into him. The tiny bit of friction of your perked nipples across his rough shirt sent sparks of pleasure down your spine. However, and unfortunately, he broke the kiss far too quickly. You eagerly chased after his lips, needing them. Rosinante hid his amused smile. He kissed down your neck, swiping that devious tongue of his over your sensitive skin. He whispered, “You taste like sugar.”

“I - ah - I may have made a mess earlier,” you admitted. “Butter and sugar got everywhere.”

He chuckled. He wanted to say he expected no less from his sweetheart. Sweetness seemed to always pour from you, and he always wanted to drink from you - to always have a taste. For a fleeting moment, he contemplated taking you here. He could lay you across the kitchen island, pour honey across your skin, especially your breasts, and have his way with you. But, he shelved such an idea.

Not today, another time, he promised himself.

“Upstairs?” He asked into your neck.

“Up - fuck.” Rosi nipped at your skin, gently sucking and soothing the spot. His lips curled into a smirk, a smirk you felt burned into your skin. Your head tipped back into the wall as he continued his sweet assault. How could such a kind, sweet man be so conniving, so sly?

“What was that, sweetheart?” He teased in a low tone.

“Upstairs.” You breathlessly added, “Please.”

“Of course.” He pushed off the wall, delicately carrying you up the stairs.

However, since he was so focused on carrying you, you decided to return such delightful favors. You started by peppering his face in adoring kisses from his cheeks, to his nose, then his lips.

He chuckled with a growing smile, “Sweet girl, you need to stop or I might trip.”

“We’ll be fine,” you brushed him off.

Your lips trailed soft butterfly kisses along his prickly jaw and down his neck. Your sweetness turned sinister. You placed a single open mouth kiss on the crook of his neck. He let out a soft pleased sigh. Your teeth then grazed over his skin. His grip on you tightened. You lightly bit him, feeling a shudder run through his body. Smirking, you sucked - viciously and without remorse - on a sensitive spot ensuring you left your mark on him.

His reaction was perfect. He groaned and stumbled backwards into the wall by his bedroom door. The thud resonated through the still home, so much so a few pictures wobbled on the wall threatening to fall. “Shit,” he hissed.

You continued your attack listening to his heated swears under his breath. Once you felt satisfied, you pulled away, eyeing your red spot with a triumphant grin. It will only darken with time, a lovely reminder. Looking into his eyes, they were blown wide with lust and desire which mirrored your own. Smirking, you teasingly nipped his bottom lip. He swore again. Using one hand, he brought your head closer, attacking your lips with new energy. He pried himself off the wall and rushed into his bedroom. He used his muscle memory stumbling and swaying into the room until his shins hit the edge of his bed. Carefully, he laid you down on his sheets.

So gentle, so delicate.

His lips skimmed down to your heaving chest, between your breasts and to your hips. His fingers followed after his lips, tracing down your sides. Your breath stuttered at his feathery touches. His breath fanned over your lower stomach, hitting the waistband of your pants. His eyes flickered up, peering through his eyelashes.

“Can I?” He whispered in such a loving tone.

You nodded, unable to muster up a single syllable.

He undid the buttons of your pants and tugged them down while you lifted your hips to help. He bit the inside of his cheek. So beautiful. His hands traveled up your legs, squishing your thighs. She’s really here. He then spread your legs a bit, and didn’t miss the dark wet patch on your underwear. His chest burned with desire knowing he was responsible. His finger hooked around the band of your underwear. If he could, he would have torn them off already.

“Can these go next,” he asked, continuing to ensure he had your consent with every step.

Your heart skipped. “Y-yeah.”

He pulled them off as calmly as possible, and tossed them aside. Your cunt was dripping. He swore his mouth started to water. Swallowing, he silently drank in your figure, still reeling you were here. He wanted to ravish you, he wanted to make love to you, he wanted to do it all.

However, for you, the silence pressed on for too long. His blank stare morphed into disinterest in your mind. Insecurities bubbled up as it dawned on you how you were now completely naked before him. Your hands covered your chest and you snapped your legs closed.

What am I -

Rosinante’s eyes widened at your sudden change. He immediately climbed onto the bed, over top of you, and removed your hands from your chest. “Please, don’t,” he breathed out. “I - I’m sorry … you’re just so beautiful.”

Your cheeks and chest flooded with heat. You quickly turned your head to the side, hiding.

He cupped your cheek, turning your head back to him. “You are. Please don’t hide from me.”

His soft expression and kind smile eased back the fears. You slowly nodded.

“Good. Here, it’s only fair.” He leaned back and removed his shirt, adding it to the pile on his floor.

Your breath hitched. Your eyes darted all over, taking him all in. So many scars. You propped yourself up on your elbow, reaching out. You carefully traced over each of them, outlining the rigids and harsh ragged shapes. Rosi watched you intensely. A shiver ran down his spine. You were so delicate, as if he were made of glass. Your face filled with some kind of concentration, one he didn’t fully understand.

You asked softly, “Can … can you flip over?”

Stunned a bit, yet Rosi complied. He rolled onto his back into the squeaky mattress. You swiftly straddled his hips. Before he could ask, you bent down kissing one scar by his ribs. His heart leapt up into his throat. You then methodically kissed every single scar - no matter the size nor how gnarly it appeared - all over his chest. You finished your endeavor by kissing the one near his heart, an almost fatal hit. His heart thrummed beneath your lips, and you felt the elated vibrations. You peered up to see his cheeks flushed a rosy red and his lips parted as he tried to calm his breathing. You had rendered this man - this near mammoth of a man - into an utter mess. He was putty under such touches, touches he had long deprived himself of.

You smiled, resting your cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, a beat which your heart harmonized with. “I’m sorry, did I -“

“Don’t.” He let out a shaky exhale. “Don’t apologize. I - I just wasn’t expecting that.”

Your hand followed the curve of his chest to a scar on his right shoulder. You, once again, traced the shape. Rosi shuddered. At his reaction, a thought suddenly dawned on you. “Rosi, are your scars sensitive?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, mumbling, “Just a bit.”

Noted.

You held back a devious smirk. Sitting up, you placed your hands on his chest. Your nails raked down.

Maybe I could have some fun -

Rosi’s hands suddenly gripped your hips. He yanked you all the way up his body. A sharp gasp left your lips. Your hands flung out and collided with the wall for support. Your eyes - wide and somewhat confused - dropped down. You now straddled over his face, your knees on either side. His hands wrapped around your thighs and squeezed, letting the fat pool between his fingers. Most importantly, his grip indicated one thing: he was unwilling to let you go.

“Fuck.” He groaned, looking up at your dripping cunt like it was a meal.

Your heart sped up, “Wait, Rosi - I -“

“Sweetheart, I dreamt of this so many times,” he whispered. His breath, each puff of air, sent jolts through your body. “Please, can I have this?”

No one had begged before.

Trying and failing to keep your voice steady, you stuttered out, “I, uh, y-yes - ah!”

Rosinante eagerly yanked you down, unable to wait another second. Humming, his lips wrapped around you. The tip of his tongue swept over your folds, collecting and tasting you. Sparks burst through you.

“Rosinante,” you moaned. How could one single motion left you so vocal?

He smirked at your reaction as he weaved a spell over you. He moaned as he started devouring you. His tongue teasingly traced your folds. You shuddered. He did it once, twice, then pushed his tongue inside of you. He curled his tongue, hitting your spongy walls. You whimpered. Your hands balled up into fists, clawing at the wall. His tongue - long and thick - moved with precision. His age and experience truly showed in his moment. He knew how to work it, how to render you in his beautiful mess.

He hummed. The wondrous vibrations made you moan loudly and unabashedly. A noise you never expected you to make. One of your hands instinctively shot down and latched onto his hair. Mindless on your growing pleasure, you tugged on his strands, making him groan. More vibrations, more dizzying sensations, more of your juices coated his lips and face.

Rosinante nearly rolled his eyes back. Fuck, this was better than his measly dreams. His cock twitched in his pants at each of your sounds. And gods if you tasted and felt this amazing just around his tongue, then how would it feel to be buried inside of you? Precum spilled in his pants at the mere thought.

Pleasure built deep in your stomach. As his tongue expertly moved and curled in and out of you, you lowered yourself more and greedily rocked your hips to chase after the pleasure. He moaned. His fingers dug harshly into your thighs, possibly leaving bruises.

“That’s it, sweetheart, ride my face,” he purred.

Shit.

Rosinante’s eyes darkened. Your walls fluttered around his tongue at his blunt words. He watched your head tip back as a sweet whimper hummed in the back of your throat.

“Dirty girl,” he murmured with a devious smirk.

His words added to the insatiable heat burning you from the inside out. You bit your lip, trying to hold back the pornogrpahic moans daring to escape. He continued to watch, unwilling to tear his gaze away. He loved how your breasts bounced, tempting him to feast on him again, how your back curled so elegantly, how your thighs slowly squeezed around him minimizing his world so it was you and you alone, and how your hips stuttered losing concentration at his words, his pet names, and his merciless tongue.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” his voice was low and commanding, drawing up such a tone from his former marine days.

You shakily glanced down at him. Your eyes drooped with lust and desperation, your chest heaved gulping down air, and your mouth hung open as whimpers and moans poured out. To him, you were picture perfect, a sight to behold and cherish.

He turned his head, kissing your thigh. “Good, now can you lean forward for me?”

With a tiny nod, you tipped your hips forward.

”That’s it, good girl.”

Your whole body pulsed. Such praise, such simple words shouldn’t set your body ablaze, and yet you nearly crumble. You already wanted to hear that honey tone pour from his lips again.

His lips wrapped around your swollen clit, sucking on it. You inhaled sharply. His hand then caressed down between your thighs. It trailed down with such a light tough until one of his slender fingers dragged slowly through your soaked lips. You lurched at the feeling. He gingerly pushed his finger in. You shut your eyes tight and bit your lip, almost drawing blood. His finger moved painstakingly slow, both wanting to be careful yet also wanting to tease you closer to that edge.

“More,” you begged, already pushing your hips back. “Please.”

Rosinante happily and easily added a second finger. The wet sounds echoed in the room from him hungrily sucking and licking at your clit, to his fingers being drenched in your juices. It was all too much. You pressed your forehead into the wall, closing your eyes. It held all of your support. You were panting, nearly drooling as pleasure claimed your whole body.

Fuck, Rosinante could come at the sight of you like a horny teenager. His cock ached to be free, to be buried within your walls, to be stroked by your delicate fingers, to be wrapped around your tongue, or perhaps to be smushed between your breasts. He wanted it all. But, he also wanted this. He needed this just as much as you did. His pleasure can wait, he wanted to devote all his energy onto you. He hummed again.

Another moan fell off your lips.

Cracking open your eyes, you were greeted with Rosinante’s red glowing eyes beneath you. He then kissed your clit, softly as if giving one a kiss on the cheek, and cooed, “Be a good girl and come all over my face.”

“Fuck,” you swore. He chuckled, a rich laugh. He crooked his finger, hitting a certain spot. You gasped, seeing stars. “T-There, fuck, right there.”

Rosi immediately zoned onto that spot. His fingers bullied into you with new purpose. Each curl, scissoring, of his fingers snatched your breath away. His tongue and mouth, however, could not be forgotten either. He sucked and swirled his tongue, guiding you closer to the edge. You tightened your grip on his hair, nails scraping along his scalp. And he could only moan. Pleasure and pain tangled so well together.

You mewled, “Rosi, I - I about to come.”

“Give it to me,” he growled.

The pressure built and built, and you quickly abandoned all caution and care. You began to grind back on his fingers, practically humping his face. A fog was casted over your mind, only able to think of your pleasure. Rosinante moaned, fueling your end.

Yes, use me, he thought.

A few more pumps of his slender fingers, mixed with his constant attack on your clit, you cried out his name gushing all over his face. The edges of your vision blurred with stars. Rosinante swiftly pulled out his fingers and greedily drank you up. He groaned, enjoying every drop. He feasted until your legs were shaking, ready to topple over and you were whimpering and jerking from the intense overstimulation.

He thankfully - and finally - stopped. He lifted you up and off his face, laying you down on the bed. He then littered your heavy tired body with kisses as you came back to your senses. He kissed your cheek then forehead. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, tossing him a lopsided smile. “I’m good.”

Great. Fantastic. Amazing.

He smiled, giving you a short kiss. He continued his conquest kissing down your neck and chest. You sighed dreamily, threading your fingers through his hair. Your desires, however, were being reignited by every kiss. You still craved more, you wanted him all.

“I want you,” you whispered softly.

He lifted his head with some hesitancy behind his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” You hadn’t been more sure in your life.

“Ok,” he smiled, giving you a quick peck on your lips.

Standing up, you finally could drink in the full sight of him. The years had been so kind to him. He was like a Greek god: golden hair kissed by Apollo and Helios, a rugged physique that battled Ares’s, a booming laughter rivaling Zeus’s own thunder, a voice so rich and luscious like ambrosia poured directly from Dionysus’s cup, and all of it wrapped together and blessed by Aphrodite’s touch.

He was beautiful, more than beautiful he was ethereal.

He tugged down his pants, along with his boxers. Your eyes trailed down to chest, to his stomach, to the thin patch of darker blonde strands to his hard cock - long and thick, matching his already intimidating height. His tip red and swollen as precum leaked out, a sign of your effect on him.

You swallowed nervously.

Would he fit?

Rosinante’s ego inflated at your stunned reaction. He kicked aside the clothing, unfortunately his clumsy curse returned momentarily. Getting tripped up, he toppled sideways, crashing to the ground. You immediately sprung up. Before you could think to ask if he was okay, he propped himself up. His cheeks flushed slightly with embarrassment. He huffed, resting his chin on the edge of the bed.

Smooth, he sarcastically thought to himself.

You bit your lip then bursted out into laughter. You know you shouldn’t, yet you shouldn’t have expected anything less. He perked up, and smiled at your infectious laugh. You crawled over to him, sitting back on your knees. You cupped his face, bending down kissing him softly. Pulling away, Rosinante looked at you as if you brought upon his salvation, as if you were an oasis in the desert of his life.

“Are you okay?” You asked, still concerned about him.

“Yeah,” he smiled.

“Good.”

Still holding his face, you gently drew him with you, urging him back on the bed. He listened to your silent command. You fell backward, scooting up the bed while he slowly crawled over top of you.

“Are you sure?” He repeated.

You threw your arms over his shoulders, bringing him down. “Yes, I want you. Like I said, scars and all.”

His heart melted. He kissed your nose. His hand slid down your side, sending ripples of anticipation. He guided your leg over his hip. He gave your thigh a quick reassuring squeeze. He will happily take the lead in this dance, he will ensure you are cared for. There will be no misstep.

He lowered his hips, brushing the tip of his cock over your dripping folds. You shivered at the size and warmth of him. He teasingly rubbed through your folds and over your clit, enjoying how his precum mixed with your first orgasm. Your nails sunk into his skin. Crescent shapes adorned his body with more marks to come.

“We’ll take it slow, ok?” He whispered.

“Ok,” you mumbled, beginning to lose yourself all over again.

He reached down grabbing the base of his cock, and slowly pushed the head of it in. You bit the inside of your cheek. It stung. The stretch was unlike anything you had experienced or felt.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he spoke, reading your expression and feeling the tenseness of your body.

You panted, ”Keep going.”

You wanted this.

Listening, he pushed in further. A sharp hiss left your lips. You clawed at his back, red ribbons added to the jagged pale scars. Rosinante almost stopped, fearfully he was hurting you too much.

“Don’t stop,” you begged. The sting had begun to subside as pleasure whisked you away.

Rosinante again listened to you. He may lead this dance but he had a partner he must be attentive too. You whimpered, shutting your eyes and adjusting to his size. Your heel dug into the meat of his calf, pleading him to keep going. With one final push, Rosinante was completely in filling you to the brim. He panted heavily over top of you. He watched as your face contorted from minor pain to absolute pleasure. Opening your eyes, you were met with pure unfiltered love, a culmination of months upon months of locked feelings, of denial and heartache.

It was finally all unburden, and unchained.

Breathless, you both stared at each other unmoving. Neither of you could. You both desperately wanted to stay here, to preserve such a memory and feelings. He filled you, your senses utterly overwhelmed by the sensation of him. And your body welcomed him in return.

It was as if you were made for each other.

Rosinante hid his face in your shoulder, exhaling shakily. Shit, I feel like I could come right now.

“I’m going to move now,” he grunted into your neck.

“Please.”

Taking a deep breath, he slowly moved his hips. His thick cock dragged through your walls before thrusting back in.

You whimpered.

“I got you,” he whispered. “If anything hurts, tell me.”

“Just - just please don’t stop.”

He let out a breathy chuckle. His hips increased in speed, spurring stars to burst in the corners of your eyes. Your mouth hung open as a silent moan spilled out. His cock stretched and filled you leaving nothing but pleasure in its wake. You wrapped your other legs around his hip, clinging to him. You were immediately becoming drunk and desperate on such pleasures. And Rosinante wanted to give you everything, to have you consumed by pleasure. He curled over you, pressing his forehead against yours. Lifting your hips, he hit a new angle, deeper and far more intimate.

“F-Fuck, Rosi,” you moaned. You clawed harshly at his back. An apology sat on your tongue, but every thrust left you mewling. You could only babble his name or curses.

Rosinante glanced down, seeing your stomach bulge at the size of his cock. “S-Shit, sweetheart,” he moaned. “You’re taking me so well. Look.”

You peered down. The debauchery sight left you speechless. His hips slapped deliciously against yours. Your stomach bulged every time his cock disappeared back in. And when he pulled out, you saw how his cock was slick and coated with your mixed juices. Not to mention at this new angle, the tuft of his snail trail rubbed wondrously against your clit only furthering your pleasures.

Fuck.

Whimpering, your head fell back into the bed. You bucked your hips, matching his thrusts. Rosinante whimpered, almost unnoticeable. “Fuck, just like that.”

He grabbed your hands, prying them off his back and pinning them to the bed. His fingers interlocked with yours, and squeezed your hands. He captured your lips, kissing you sweetly and pouring all of his love into it. His mouth, his hands, were passionate, and yet his hips were so sinful. The trio constantly stole your breath, leaving you in such a messy state.

Breaking the kiss, he smiled down at you. Still boyish, despite the years on him. Hearts danced in his eyes, and you knew you were the same. Every movement, every thrust, every shared breath, every touch - no matter how minuscule - was written with love.

And he was beginning to love watching you squirm on his cock.

He bent his head, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Your eyes rolled back. The stretch of his cock, the grinding on your clit, the swirl of his tongue on your breast, each sensation brought you closer and closer to the edge. Each delicious friction melted your mind, and your body could only react. Your own well-timed thrusts started to waver as desperation sunk into your bones.

You whined faintly, “Rosi, so close.”

He popped off your breast. “I know, sweetheart, come on. Come around my cock.”

You shivered, lolling your head to the side.

“Be my good girl,” he purred into your ear, rolling his hips. “Come on, sweet girl, come on my cock.”

Your walls fluttered around him, warning him. He gritted his teeth, holding back his own pleasure. He needed to feel you come first. He snapped his hips with new fever, hitting the perfect spot. You gasped loudly. Blinding pleasure covered your senses. Rosinante saw your beautiful reaction and continued to hit the same spot over and over. His pace was unwavering, he needed to see and feel you come.

“Make a mess on me,” he moaned.

You tightened your grip on his hands, digging your nails into him. You squirmed and writhed on his cock. You whimpered as your orgasm approached quickly. Rosinante groaned in your ear, whispering such sinful things. You bucked your hips up just as he snapped his hips, and it all came crashing down.

Shutting your eyes tight, you walls clamped down as you cried out his name. He kissed you, swallowing up your moans and cries. He then kissed your cheek where a tear glided down, to your forehead, and finally nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. “I got you, sweetheart.”

His hips continued to pump into you, letting you ride out your orgasm. It was a beautiful sight. Your body convulsed as pleasure consumed you and as each additional pump stole your breath. Your eyes fluttered open to see your god still hovering above you, giving you everything.

But, it was his turn now.

“Fill me,” you muttered weakly drunk on pleasure.

“W-What?” Rosinante’s eyes widened and his hips stuttered at your words.

Freeing your hands, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. You dragged him down pecking his lips. “I want to feel you, Rosi,” you whispered.

His cock twitched inside of you.

“Please,” you begged softly. You arched your back, trying to take him deeper. Your hands glided down his back, pressing into his chest. Your hands roamed touching his scars, the ones you had memorized only moments ago. Your thumb grazed over his nipple, making him hiss. You nibbled on his ear, “Fill me, Rosi.”

His jaw clenched. He kissed you heatedly, pushing his tongue inside to re-explore your mouth. His large hands grabbed your hips, most likely bruising them in the process. But, you didn’t mind. He guided your hips, matching his new pace with more vigor and unrestraint. You moaned, drawing your nails down his chest.

A mere taste of this side of him was addicting. He could be loving, but he could be a monster. A monster you wished to learn in full some day.

Abandoning all his resolve, he pumped wildly into you. He couldn’t help it. Your words let a fire inside of him, and he had been holding back for so long. He muttered out an apology, afraid he might be hurting you. Yet, you took it all. You smiled up at him as he used you.

“Please, Rosi, I want to feel you,” you moaned.

He shuddered. Fuck, how could someone so sweet be so sinful? With a few more deep thrusts, he came, moaning out your name. He slowed down his pace until he buried himself deep within you, coating your walls.

Just like you asked.

Taking a second, you both stared at each other sweaty and out of breath. Rosinante carefully removed himself, and you squirmed at the abrupt emptiness. He rolled off of you, flopping onto the bed. But, he snatched you up, bringing you with him. You yelped, surprised by it. He settled you onto his chest, and your shock vanished. Sigh deeply, you nuzzled into his chest savoring this moment. A lazy smile tugged at the corners of your lips, listening to how his heartbeat slowly evened out. His fingers soon skimmed up and down along your spine.

It was peaceful, it was heavenly.

You each shared one thought: mine. Each of you unbeknownst to the other swore the same vow, to always make sure the other smiled and is to be loved for eternity. Perhaps, later down the road, such vows will be spoken aloud. But for now, you kept these secret promises to both of your chests.

Unfortunately, serenity was short lived for you. A thought, a more drastic one, occurred to you. Lifting your head, you nervously said, “Rosi? I - I think there’s still one thing we should at least talk about.”

He hummed, peering down at you.

“… like how are we going to tell the others? Especially Law?”

Rosinante flinched. He sighed heavily. His arms wrapped around you, firmly drawing your head back down. “We can worry about that later, I just want to stay right here a bit longer.”

You smiled, cheeks warm. You buried your head back into his chest whispering, “Ok.”

Your eyes spotted a scar near your face, specifically the one by his heart. You began to trace over it, memorized by the feeling and knowing you alone could do this.

“I like them,” you admitted quietly.

His heart skipped. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you breathed out. “It means you survived and you’re here.”

With me.

He gave you a gentle squeeze. His lips brushed over your hair, kissing the top of your head. “And I promise I won’t go anywhere.”

Closing your eyes, you smiled and kissed his scar. “Good.”

*****

“Law, please!”

Law huffed as Evelyn tugged on the back of his shirt. She had called him after his shift, asking him to come over. He wanted to go home, and into his bed, but she kept insisting. He agreed, however, as time dragged on doing little to nothing at her home, he decided to leave.

And for some reason, she decided to join him.

She begged the whole time to turn the car around, to go somewhere else, but he kept on driving home. He didn’t care, she could catch a ride back to her own home. Once parked, Law hopped out of his car, marching up the driveway with her bizarrely pleading.

“Look, I’m tired and …,” he paused, spotting a familiar car. One he didn’t see at her home, but oddly was parked here. “Why is she here?”

Eve flinched.

Law peered over his shoulder, staring down at her. But, she avoided his piercing gaze. He glared at her obvious guilty expression. She knew something. “What do you know?”

She blurted out, “Nothing!”

He tsked, “Lair.”

Law shook off her grasp then opened the front door. Stepping in, Eve quickly darted around trying to push on his chest but to no avail. Law walked further into the home. He didn’t see anyone, and nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Where …,” his voice trailed off when he stepped into the kitchen. His eyes instantly spotted something on the floor: a shirt and bra.

Eve whipped her head around. Her eyes widened at the pair of clothing, both shocked and happy for you.

Law’s face, however, scrunched up in disgust at the thought of what his dad had been doing. He huffed, clicking his tongue, “Idiots better not have done anything in the kitchen.”

Scanning the floor, he luckily couldn’t find any pants which brought some relief. Sighing, he spun around, heading back towards the front door.

Eve blinked, “Wait, you’re leaving?”

“Do you want to stay and find them?” He asked, raising his eyebrow.

She blushed, “Um, no … not really.”

“Figured, now let’s go.” He glanced back at her. “You can buy me dinner.”

She gasped, “I will not.”

“I’m driving, so either you stay here and find them or you pay.”

She pouted and grumbled, following after him. However, Evelyn sent you a kind thought as she left.

I’m happy for you.

[ankiebitez]

Can I request?

Avisos boys reacting to you/reader wearing their clothes. Could be their uniform, could be their casual clothing or sleepwear.

Would've added wearing their underwear (the clean ones ofc) but i hc that they go commando so 🤷‍♀️

I hope this lil request hasn't been done yet 😭😔

- 🦐

MC wearing avisos boys clothes

tags: gn!mc , nsft 🔞 , beelzebub stealing readers underwear/clothes for implied nsft purposes , beels scent kink , amons a mischievous little shit

note: im SO sorry this took so damn long ive had it mostly done for months but couldn't figure out how to write for stolas since there aint much for him lmao and then i just kept putting it off. i hope you like it though :>

Beelzebub

imagine trying on his clothes when you think he's gone, maybe he left a shirt or something and you decided to put it on out of curiosity, looking at yourself in the mirror when suddenly beel appears with a happy little smile seeing you in his stuff

coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his nose against the nape of your neck to inhale your scent mixed with his

"hmmm, i didnt know that you were such a thief..." he'd hum while letting his hands slide up under the shirt to touch your skin, looking up at you in the mirror with an even bigger grin

you can mention that he forgot the shirt and that you didn't steal it, or the countless times that he's swiped your underwear when you look away for a second, but he's not focused on that

he'd 100% fuck you while you're wearing the shirt and then take it with him, he'll leave you another one behind at least for you to wear so he can do the same thing again. what he does with the worn shirt is unmentioned, but he probably wouldn't wash it until he gets the next one or its gotten too dirty.

Bael

imagine wearing baels clothes and coming into his office, dude might actually put the paperwork down for a second

just a second though, he'll pull you into his lap to give you kisses before continuing, he'll probably let you sit in his lap while he does it

he thinks its adorable, especially if you wear something of his besides his uniform clothes. he'll like it more since its something not related to beel or his work

will hold you, sniff you, give you kisses and compliments while doing his work

if you'd like to actually get him to take a break though, wear nothing beneath his clothes

Amon

honestly he probably hid your regular clothes while you were changing so that you'd wear his, you'd turn around for a second and when you look back your clothes are gone and replaced with his. he's fast as fuck and definitely used it as a way to lure you into his room for cuddles, if you're mad and scold him thats just a bonus

he'd snatch you up and pull you into bed with him, either to snuggle or if you wanna punish him he wouldn't mind that either. would love it if you wore his shirt and rode him, maybe even cockwarm him afterwards too.

would also think its really cute if you didn't know it was him somehow. come into his room and ask for his help to find the thief, he'll pretend to help you look around which ultimately leads to yall fucking in some random area of the palace. 50% chance of it being stolas' or naberius' room just to piss them off bc he's a little shit and can't help it, he just thinks its too cute seeing you look around even though you're literally wearing his clothes.

if you ask him to wear his clothes, he'd think it's adorable and would let you wear whatever you wanted.

Naberius

not sure how to feel that a lot of this post is about scents but yea he would definitely be into that as well. he tries to act dignified but he can't help giving into his canine instincts, definitely likes that you have his scent on you now from his clothes

might wonder if this is a humans way of choosing a partner or something like a mating ritual, are you trying to seduce him???? he hadnt heard about this behavior for humans before.... but its working.

will indirectly encourage you to wear his clothes or take them more often and pretends to forget them in your room

he really likes it to say the least, i feel like he tries pretty hard to put up a very sophisticated and put together front, but in private he'll be cuddly and nuzzling against you while you're wearing his clothes. its very cute, call him a good boy too and he might get hard though

Stolas

feel like it might depend, he is short tempered so if its something like his crown he might think you're making fun of him which would Not be good

if its something like his coat though he'll probably get a huge ego boost, getting cocky immediately and bringing you to sit in his lap

im just imagining him having you sit on his lap in front of a mirror, his chin on your shoulder while his hands feel what's underneath the coat.

let's just say thats not an extra gun hidden in his pants, he's just very happy to see you in his clothes

[your-nanas-house]

Just a... thong

◇ Pairing: Dad's Best Friend!Cillian Murphy X Bff's daughter!Reader

◇ Warnings: mention of masturbation, age gap (all off age, Cill is in his 40s, Y/n 20s), pervert Cilly, laundry, dad's best friend, cramps

◇ Summary: Cillian decides to take care of the laundry and finds his best friend's daughter's thong.

◇ Note: Sorry for the mistakes and the English. Another piece of the "AU/series" of Dad's Friend. Thank you @drcranessweetestdoe to encourage me to write smt. It's bit shitty but I hope it will "satiate" you a little. 🤭

It had been several weeks since Y/n, his best friend's daughter, had come to stay with Cillian for the summer holidays.

He had rearranged a bit of the usual routine that the man had made his, now that he was in his 40s and considered himself too old for several things.

However, he had adapted quite well, thanks to the collaboration of the young woman who also did not want to cause any disturbance to him and therefore followed his schedule a bit.

They had established little silent rules, such as the times of breakfast and meals in general, who cooked and when. They had also decided without talking about it that they would do the dirty laundry individually even though she was the one in charge of running the washing machine and making sure of the little details like which clothes could go together and which couldn't.

Usually Y/n took care of the sorting too, before Cillian could do anything, so it was the first time for the man to take care of that task.

The young woman was busy on a call with her family and the Irishman didn't have much to do, so when he passed by the room where the washing machine had finished he approached it, deciding to do it himself to take away a task from her seeing how well he was taking care of all the things he had asked her to do in exchange to make her stay under his roof.

His baby blue eyes scanned the object, taking in the different buttons before making sure it was actually done.

When he was sure of it he opened it, rushing to get the basket to put all the wet clothes in there and then go and hang them outside since the weather permitted.

They were mostly his things and a few things from Y/n, just clothes he had seen on her the previous days, some sports tops and... a lacy piece.

A lacy... A lacy piece of clothing, Cillian repeated to himself before his eyes snapped quickly back to the undergarments he was holding in his hand. His breath catching in his throat as his mouth dried, his heart started to beat faster, drumming against his chest at the realization.

A thong.. it's just a thong, Cillian, get yourself together, he thought, scolding himself, as his eyes snapped towards the door and back to the fabric when he was sure that he was still alone.

Her underwear was soft under his fingertips, smooth and silky except the lacy part that decorated it in an innocent but provocative way.

There was little fabric... he really wondered why she worn something like that since it covered barely her cunt, exposing probably fully her round ass cheeks.

"Fuck" the older man murmured under his breath, his breath becoming heavier as his mind wandered, imagine his best friend's daughter wearing something like that... just that, her body completely bare, her breasts on full display as the thong hugged her hips, teasing him with its little see not see game.

His body reacted pretty quickly and he was hard.. again.

It had been happening quite frequently since she entered his life in a daily basis. He really felt like a pathetic teenager by the way his body acted at the mere display of a bit of her skin.

Cillian bite his lip, taking a deep breath as he stroked the fabric in his hand for a couple of seconds, groaning softly at the feeling while his other hand moved slowly to his boner which was quite noticeable because of the sweatpants he had choose to wear that morning. His thick fingers slowly brushed his clothed hard lenght, before palming it... his bottom lip caged by his white teeth as his mind started to play different scenarios.

"Fuck" he cursed lowly, moving his hand again to pull out his cock irrationally, following the wind of his carnal desire with no shame, too blinded by lust.

"Is everything okay? Is it your back again?.. I heard you curse" Y/n's sweet voice interrupted him, making his blood run cold and move quickly up.. stretching his muscles in the wrong way.

He really was too old for this kind of things, he thought dramatically while cursing softly.

A shock of pain hit him, making him lean against the washing machine in an attempt to regain himself.

Karma.. just Karma, Cillian repeated in his head while inhaling deeply, now feeling pretty much self-conscious about his actions. Luckily she didn't look like she had noticed the perverse actions he was about to comply.

Her look was one of worry and not disgust, even when she moved quickly closer to make sure he was alright and help him sit on the sofa to relax a moment while she continued the task, not noticing the piece of clothing that was missing since he didn't have the opportunity or the time to throw it back in the basket before she took it to another room, warning him that she was coming back to check on him and his back.

[boop-le-snoot]

kinktober #3

Strangelove

kinktober day three | restraints, bratting (if you squint, he's very polite) | cw: 18+, sub!Gil, service dom!gender neutral! Reader, inappropriate use of Elvish rope, mouthy princess gil, oral sex (m receiving), safe sane and consensual | word count 4,1k | author's note under the cut | click here for the full kinktober list |

“Now,” a majestic voice rolls over the room like thunder.

You cannot see its owner for that he is hidden behind several of his advisors but your mind paints a picture familiar and amusing.

Face scrunched in petulance, crown slightly askew, the High King bends down to bring his face closer to the dignitary. “I have spoken all there is to say on the matter. Do not make me repeat myself!” He straightens promptly, dark eyes flashing in flickering golden light, and addresses the expectant crowd. “I have exceeded my quota of patience for today! Take your leave! Ego!” The command comes off as harsh even for the King when he is in one of his moods, so he hurries to soften the blow. “We shall continue on the morrow.”

Golden robes billowing out behind him, High King Erenion Gil-Galad takes his leave without sparing a second glance towards the disappointed Elves. Some nod in understanding, knowing just how heavy-handed some of the advisories can get when vying for the King's favour. Some frown and rush off towards the main exit, muttering displeasures to themselves. You linger, letting the crowd disperse into smaller groups, and nimbly make your way towards the side exit, unnoticed amongst various discussions and arguments.

The narrow hallway greets you with a silence and a chill, this year's autumn exceptionally windswept and grey. Erenion's abandoned outer robe stands out like a sore thumb: carelessly thrown over a toreutic statue, it glistens with what little sunshine pierces through low-hanging clouds pregnant with rain and fog. You pick up the garment and fold it at the waist before throwing it over your shoulder, adjusting the pile of notes to your chest. Well-worn soles of your shoes make no noise as you near the King's private study.

The door stands open, no more than a hand's width, and most of your field of view inside the room is occupied by the broad back of your King. It is tense, hard at the nape and taut at the seams of his shirt. Often, you have privately wondered of the possible incident that may finally cause him to burst out of his clothing - once or twice, you were sure Lady Galadriel had come very close to causing Erenion to simply spontaneously combust.

Such he stood with his back turned to you. Pent up, hard-boiled and simply done. A mostly empty carafe of wine at his left hand, a drained glass in the right.

“More wine,” he said the moment you announced yourself with a light step and a creak of the door.

“Yes, my Lord,” you replied evenly, racking your brain for the probable location of the nearest servant. Erenion Gil-Galad was a fair king and a kind ellon but that did not stop all servants from clearing his path when he got into a particularly sullen mood. A sulking King was no good company to anybody.

You trotted over to the nearest chair to place his outer robes onto. He turned swiftly. You needn't raise your eyes to see him struggle to swallow whatever bitter remark had been curling on his tongue; even so hotly angered, stupid he was not. Erenion knew better than to bestow unjust abuse towards his most dutiful and loyal attendant.

He spoke your name and you nodded in acknowledgement before smoothing out his robes and placing your stack of parchment on a nearby table. Not engaging in chit-chat but simply offering a quiet, steady, ataractic presence to the disgruntled King. Soft swishing of the parchment as you rearranged it invited a soothing ubiquity into the cool room. You felt, not saw, your King's shoulders drop. The clink of an empty glass being put down followed suit.

“These noxious vultures!..” Came the predicted grumble. Erenion's footsteps, unusually heavy and resounding for an Elf, traced a path from that corner of the room towards his desk. “Arguing for the sake of it...” Some of the more passionate choice words got lost in the pull of drawers being opened and paper bags' crinkling.

You hid a secretive smile. The Royal Snack Shelf, having been restocked by yours truly, was doing splendid at its job. A whimsical, silly detail even, but nevertheless quintessential at easing the burden of your King's day-to-day routine. A mentor in your past had given you valuable lessons on sweetening the bitterness of all that is tedious and mundane and you had taken them all to heart.

Periodically interrupted by crunching, the King's mouth ejected a day's worth of vitriol into the world, onto you and onto nobody at large, as he paced the long, spacious office like a caged lion. With every sentence he seemed to deflate a little and you counted every tiny victory as you mindlessly sorted and re-aligned your pages. The ranting was a canonical event and you did not interfere.

“... Grach! What secret information do your scrolls contain that is more important than listening to your King?!” Erenion's exclamation was not loud, but his deep and rich voice made it sound petulant and harsh.

Ah. One of those nights.

You straightened your back, taking your sweet time to readjust the muscles of your spine that were beginning to cramp from your hunched position and rapidly evened the stack that had previously preoccupied all of your attention. The bottom of it connected with the table with a sharp, resound tap, and Erenion immediately froze in his tracks.

You turned around slowly, body coiled in perfect precision, a masterful image of picture-perfect regard. Wide-eyed, Erenion frowned, dark brows creasing over the bridge of his nose. Your voice was even when you spoke.

“I am your dutiful servant, my King.” Bowing at the neck and not at the back, you crossed your hands behind yourself, looking him directly in the eye. “It is my job to thoroughly inspect all that concerns you and see to your comforts, which includes your spiritual well-being. At the present moment, it is imperative I allow you to vent your frustration without risk of scrutiny and judgment.”

Erenion, ever the imperfect perfectionist, scoffed. A knee-jerk reaction you harboured no ill will towards, for that you knew it would serve to be so much more rewarding when he finally decided to yield. As the King's brow darkened further with peevishness, his body language spoke of unmistakable interest. A creature of greatness and great contrasts was your King, most exhilarating. Bittersweet, like sour cherry wine.

“You think you know me better than myself?”

You pretended to think about it. “In certain areas, yes.” Jerking your shoulder a little, you took small, short steps towards him, observing him for any changes. Although his face was now contorted in a kingly version of a pout, his chest remained open and shoulders lax.

Looking down on you, Erenion seemed almond amused. “And what is it that you think I presently require?”

“Temperance,” you crooned. The air between your bodies thickened. With your eyes, you traced the fluid lines of his arms covered by his form-fitting undershirt. The hills of his biceps tapered down to wide forearms and sturdy wrists; towards broad palms, adorned with multiple rings but calloused from practice of warcraft. Erenion Gil-Galad was a beautiful King, all smooth lines and luxuriance from the regal curl of his plush mouth down to his shaking fingertips. “You need a lesson in temperance, my King.”

“Is that so?” He inquired lowly. Amusement, intrigue and apprehension all mixed up in his voice, colouring it with hoarseness usually reserved for lovers of a capricious occasion. Erenion was not known for those, but then again, it was unbecoming of a Noldorin High King to voluntarily overturn control of his persona to an assistant, even if it was temporary.

But you were just so good at what you did. How could he not surrender? With a gentle touch and a sharp word, you beheld the King within your eye as if nothing else outside it existed at all. The usually reserved personal aide, you became anything he needed you to be behind closed doors, be it a punching bag filled with sharp nails that cut him right back at every snap or a firm palm, offering rich handfuls of well-earned praise.

There was no diplomatic school advanced enough to lecture anyone on how to handle a King, so you could say that it came naturally. And proof was in the (re)actions: the willingness of Him to acquiesce, the intensity with which you handled him and just how far you were willing to go.

Erenion Gil-Galad stepped back. Again, and then again, until he landed noisily in the nearest chair, his broad, tall body sagging into the comfort of soft upholstery. Like this, you were just about eye-level with each other, and you beheld him with genuine sympathy and utter devotion. He stared back, eyes wide, deep irises seamlessly blending into dark pupils.

A cursory sweep around the room while he was contemplating your expression revealed an unexpected treasure: a thick roll of elvish rope laid on a nearby chair, likely accidentally left behind by a commander rushing in to receive or confirm orders. You smiled and looked away, least your plans be ruined by Erenion's inherent reaction to do the opposite of what people wanted him to do.

Carefully, you raised your hands to rid him of the crown. It always had to go first - dutiful servant as you were, it was most cumbersome to be reminded of his higher status when doing something scandalous with the King's body. Not that the situation lacked appeal, as a concept, but the crown had a weight attached to it. You were set on freeing the King of his burdens, after all.

Erenion's eyelashes fluttered as you gently carded your fingers through long, thick chocolate hair. Tugging lightly at the roots and brushing over the shortened warrior's edges at his temples. Tracing his strong jawline to brush a teasing thumb over his lips just to withdraw before he licked it like a playful kitten. You caressed the sensitive leaf shape of his ear and were immediately rewarded with a pleased rumble coming from the depts of his chest. For now, Erenion was much content to sit back in his chair and hold the outside of his palm against your leg, but it would not last.

Not when your fingers made swift work of the laces on his shirt and freed him from it. As the fabric landed on a nearby ottoman, his large palms settled over your hips, possessively kneading the meat there.

“Impatient,” you chided with a gentle shake of your head, eliciting a displeased grumble from the King, followed up by his fingertips digging deeper into you, clinging to your bones. A tap on his nose caused his eyes to shoot open. Your smile only grew. “Impertinent.”

Opening his mouth, Erenion's eyes shot to his crown abandoned nearby and back at your face. He pursed his lips, and, in lieu of a response, leaned in to rub his cheek over your clothed chest. You stood still, letting him find his comfort, but did little else. Until the very moment Erenion withdrew, his famous kingly pout back on full display.

“Melmë.”

“Erenion.” You echoed, matching his tone. “Are we in a rush?”

“Yes!” He grumbled. Looked at the window, where the clouds had obscured stars and the moon, blanketing Lindon within an impenetrable darkness. Several candles illuminated the room and that was it: not a single torch was lit outside the window. Erenion sighed. “Well, no, alas...”

“We are not in a rush.” You placed your palms atop his own, squeezing them once: a wordless command to release you. He did so and you stroked his face, his eyes, which he closed. Placing a kiss on his forehead, you swiftly grabbed the rope and returned with it, unfurling the roll as Erenion grew visibly more restless from the lack of touch. He dared open his eyes and immediately gasped, aghast. “Temperance,” you reminded him.

“No!” He protested, but made no move to get up or otherwise interrupt your planned activity.

You were sure many would call you mad for enjoying this exact moment of your games: the feigned resistance. Erenion would gripe and groan and complain and inevitably ruin his trousers in the process and there was no sweeter reward for your troubles that could be. The more he objected, the higher he riled himself up. That final leap over the edge beckoned you both in the distance. Erenion fell apart beautifully and...

A sigh. “Yes,” you stressed, wrapping the rope around his chest and the back of the chair before weaving it swiftly and delicately over his forearms, effectively securing them to the armrests. The length of the rope allowed for a safe amount of movement and several pretty knots.

It should withstand a good deal of resistance; Erenion's awareness of his own size and strength and their comparison to yours put an upper limit on just how physical these games would get. Ever cognisant, Erenion would flat out refuse even the possibility of causing you pain with his body so certain workarounds had to implemented. And even then, you found yourself wistful, wishing nothing more than for your King to lose himself to simple, mindless pleasures.

When was Erenion Gil-Galad ever simple? Effectively prevented from seeking out touch, he sat poised and regal, chin pointed in defiance, as he watched you shed your outer robes and and miscellaneous clothing. His eyes roved over you hungrily, yearning, as you stood before him in nothing but your underthings. Veins of his hands thick with rushing blood, what little was south of his trousers anyway: obscured by his breeches, the outlined of his hard cock stood as tall and proud as him.

You sat astride it, reveling in the hiss that came from his lips as you pressed your weight atop it and stayed still. The line of his jaw was fascinating to explore: you enlisted your lips, your fingers to do so.

As you'd predicted, his patience was... Not there.

“Well?”

“Hm?” You rumbled at the root of his ear, hot breath ghosting over the lobe.

“What now?” Centuries at Court kept his voice steady; his body was the biggest traitor. Blood rushed, a siren's song to you, enticing to switch your attentions to the other side of his face. Tenderly and thoroughly, you lavished it with attention, attacking Erenion's erogenous zones with tempered precision. You were in no rush to reply. He could not wait to feel. “I am sat in my office, indisposed and restrained, for the sake of your amusement?” He spat.

“No,” you murmured. And immediately corrected yourself because lying to your king is wrong. “Well, yes. But you are restrained for your own sake, as well. Good things come to those who know how to wait.” You preached, finishing off with a quick bite at the ball of his shoulder. Your hands slid lower, palming his thick pectorals, flicking his nipples.

There wasn't much to do but feel and bestow sensation and Erenion knew that. And enjoyed it so, his length twitching against your leg as you alternated between hard and soft, fast and slow, biting and kissing. Periodically, you withdrew enough to observe the changes on his face: how it grew from annoyed to flat to quivering. He panted softly through parted lips, groaning upon coming in contact with your own sex.

The buck of his hips straightened you up atop his lap. “You are much too impatient, darling,” you whispered against his lips. “Rushing to start one thing before the last has even ended,” withdrawing from his cock, you kissed him gently, pulling away as soon as he leaned in to envelop your tongue with his hot mouth. A whine slipped out instead and you smiled, brushing your closed mouth over his, moist and spit-slick.

“Multitasking is a necessary skill!” He objected, the ‘for a King’ hanging heavy and unsaid.

In lieu of a response, you ran your hands through his crown-free hair and gathered it in a loose ponytail, arching his head back. He moaned, low and long, and you rewarded him with a kiss to his lips. He did not misbehave this time as you mouthed at each other, losing time and space where your lips connected. You heard the creaking of wood, felt the bulge of Erenion's muscles as his body released all of its pent up tension.

Slowly, you lowered yourself back down to sit over his cock. Swallowing his moan and a noise of your own, you felt sparks fly as a sloppy movement brushed over where you were most sensitive. It was a sobering action. There was very little time for pleasure while you were doing your job, or, rather, the pleasure came from granting your King such. Boldly, your tongue snuck into his mouth to coax out his own so you could suck on it with conviction.

Erenion moaned, back arching within confines of his restraints. A wet spot was steadily growing under you, the result of your combined desire. Your mouth slid off his, smearing spit over his cheek as you panted. To pretend to be unaffected would be pointless and foolish. A pair of dark eyes sparking with amusement met yours: he looked too smug for an Elf who was at the brink of coming undone.

Cheeks flushed and mouth wet, Erenion Gil-Galad gave you a little smirk.

You wished nothing more than to bite him. So you did. Teeth clashed as you initiated another kiss, taking full control of it this time. It was wet and messy, full of growling and fangs as you temporarily abandoned your gentleness. You fucked his mouth with yours until your tasted bloody meat, and only then you withdrew, observing the momentary change in his behaviour. He was surprised, conquered, staring at you with reverence.

Your game of tug of war continued. He pushed and you pulled: he arched his chest and you bit down on his nipple, pulling it taut and letting your teeth scrape the surrounding sensitive tissue until his gasps descended into whimpers and bitten-off, broken Quenya. You raked blunt nails over his sides as he shuddered with sensation somewhere between pleasure and pain. Very few knew their King was ticklish and even fewer had the skills to incorporate it into ardurous sensual torture. You could have given any experienced courtesan a run for their money with how you played the High King akin to an instrument.

Maglor's incredible and terrifying singing had nothing on the broken noises coming out of the hot wet mouth of your King. Erenion was no songbird, no, he was a lone wolf howling at the moon. You observed the results of your handiwork as he shook with desire. There was little else to do but marvel.

Erenion Gil-Galad was a vision. Arms and chest criss-crossed with angry red welts where the ropes had rubbed a webbed pattern into his skin, he sat flushed and panting. Mouth red, as if wine stained, and eyes lidded, moved in wordless pleas for release. The need was showcased at the apex of his thighs where he'd leaked right through his trousers. Brown fabric was stained nearly black all around his sizeable bulge.

It was when you found yourself kneeling before it that reality sharply hit you in the face. Here you were, a servant, kneeling at the feet of your King, and he could do little else than plead for your mercy. And there was nothing else you wished to see more than give it to him - to see his face fall slack and easy, to see his twitching fingers finally find rest. But it was not the point of this. One release just bought the two of you a little time until the next.

The only thing you truly had control over was the amount of time it passed between the two. Not when you gave it and not how you gave it, for all that Erenion had to do was dismiss your advances and you would go back to sorting his mail and compiling his daily schedule.

Distracted, you nuzzled into his crotch, and fiddled with his trousers. His erect cock greeted you with a throb; the King moaned and threw his head back, straining the ropes to a point you began to consider they would lose their magic at once and simply snap. No such thing happened even as you blew gently onto the heated head of his cock.

“Cruel!..” He mumbled in between curses in languages you did not even know. “I was patient!” He objected to your withdrawal from his cock with fervor.

You were simply adjusting yourself. Not that he saw it, nearly delirious with need.

“Patient on account of lacking other options,” you teased him mirthfully.

He chuckled, but that noise quickly turned into a moan as you stuck out your tongue to trace the thick, prominent vein curving along the underside of his cock. Taking care to avoid the sensitive head, you took some tablets to lavish the shaft with soft licks of tour tongue. The sweet-salty taste of him beckoned you, clear droplets sliding down his cock just so you could curl your tongue around the middle of it to catch as much of the nectar as you could.

You went downwards, popping each of his testicles into your mouth. A whine in a pitch very few had ever heard echoed in the room; the chair creaked, it's back legs lifting off the ground. You immediately withdrew, placing apologetic kisses all along his cock as you ascended towards the tip. Erenion had been patient indeed and was now firmly stood at the edge of total overstimulation.

Sensitive Elven bodies, used to hard wars and tender lovemaking, had a very fine line that separated pleasure and pain. It'd been a steep learning curve to learn how to pluck the strings of your King just right, but once you figured out how to get him in that sweet spot betwixt the two and never firmly on the side of either, your sessions became something beautiful.

You wrapped your lips around him - he shuddered - and hollowed out your cheeks, tonguing along the frenulum as you swallowed as much of your King as would fit in your mouth. What couldn't fit was taken up by your hand, working him with all your might, going in for the winning round with single-minded abandon.

Erenion bucked his hips wildly, adding to the cacophony of your coupling. Moans, sighs and wet squelching, the creak of the chair that surely was to be replaced come morning - it all faded into the background as you kept your eyes firmly on the face of your King. Contorted in sweet agony, he gasped for breath once, twice, before his brow turned lax and a torrent of bittersweet nectar flooded your mouth.

Kneeling in awe and reverence, you swallowed it all. Erenion's chest heaved, covered in a translucent sheen of cool sweat, and he remained moaning softly all throughout it, reacting only when his flaccid flesh slipped from your mouth. His mouth was open and eyes closed as you undid the knots, content to ignore your own discomfort until the moment to relieve it offered itself.

You rubbed his wrists, eyeing his face for any discomfort. There was none - Erenion remained as timelessly beautiful when disheveled as he was in his golden garb. The corners of his mouth turned up in a lazy, absent smile, he freed a wrist to pull you in. You mirrored his smile.

“Come,” he spoke, voice rough. Unsteadily, he stood up, and pulled you towards the hidden door leading to his chambers. “We are not finished yet.”

Pretending to be surprised, you chuffed softly at the lack of care he showed at his own state of undress. He truly cared not, for he was the King, and managing his reputation (and any missteps of his in that regard) was your responsibility as his personal attendant anyway.

Would he ever make it easy for you? No. But, perhaps, one day you might get him to beg...

Someone said slightly bratty sub gil x service dom reader? OK I said it. I am pretty sure this is gender neutral, but in case it isn't, point out gendered things/words to me. I didn't bother to proofread it because I got too horny while writing it. I don't like this as much as I wish I did but oh well.

a/n: the bigger sub/smaller dom is an actual issue if you get physical during your scenes. I've dommed men roughly the size of Ben (I'm 5'4 130?lbs) and there are scenes and things that we simply cannot do safely, unless the sub is at least somewhat restrained. Even further, taking into account that canonical gil-salad is 7+ft... Tie that elf down before you let him brat/overstim or you'll get flat out 💅yeeted💅 across all Lindon.

[gatorbites-imagines]

Perhaps Hal Jordan or Clark kent with cuddling. Like just them coming home after a stressed day and you just take care of them the best you can. U offer sex but they don’t want it. Just wanting to be in ur presence for a bit yk yk

Clark Kent x Male reader

Headcanons

Hey nerds, guess who’s not dead. I feel like I am, but apparently, I’m not. Classes are kicking my ass because of very cramped timelines and long days. Who’d have thought becoming a caretaker (idk the English word) would be so difficult. A shorty, but still something I enjoyed writing.

It wasn’t a common occurrence. For Clark to come home so worn out and tired. As a man powered by the sun, a man of steel as he so regularly gets called, its very difficult to him feeling so worn down.

For the most part, the days he comes home in this mood, is not because he’s exhausted physically, but rather mentally. Be it from difficult missions, or just long days at work where he’s talked down too or pushed aside.

There is something soft and cute about him like this, though you would never tell him that. he’s always a little whinier and poutier, but also cuddlier, if that’s even possible for a guy who seems to live off affectionate contact with you.

The first thing Clark does when he comes home from days like this, is kick off whatever he’s wearing and change into something else. Most days its some ancient washed-out sweatshirts from his university days. The kind that’s been washed so many times the logo is mostly gone, and the fabric is worn thin and soft.

Its either that, or if you’re bigger than him, then it’s one of your shirts. That or just a pair of boxers and socks, so he can crawl into your space and flop down there like a big lazy cat.

If possible, Clark tries to crawl up into your shirt, laying his head on your stomach or your chest, ear pressed against your skin to listen to your heart, even if he can easily do that anywhere on the planet. Being so close just puts him at ease.

You cant hear it, but you know he’s purring, even if it’s a frequency you can’t pick up. At this point you can only really rub his back and let him soak up the affection and touch he needs like a wilted flower in the sun.

When he starts pressing featherlight kisses against your torso, you start to think maybe Clark wants something more, since he starts kneading at your sides, like you’re made from playdough, and he wants to mold you into something else.

His hands are so big and strong that you almost feel like playdough, with how insistent his rubbing and kneading can get. His kisses never go beyond soft pecks and barely there brushes of his lips, Clarks head just moving from side under your shirt as he lays on top of your legs.

You don’t need words in a situation like this, your hands becoming more exploratory, rubbing between his shoulders and tapping your fingers at his spine, like he’s a harp you’re plucking the strings off.

The change in your scent must catch his attention too, as Clark lifts his head just enough for you to see him through the collar of it, his eyes soft and glistening. They remind you of marbles, in a way. So shiny and with that clash of shades of blue.

The small downwards pout of his lips and minimal shake of his head is all you need to know, that going farther isn’t what he wants. So, you just give a nod in reply and place a hand on the back of his head, bringing him back down again.

You don’t really understand why he feels so much comfort under your shirt like this. Maybe it’s the enclosed feeling of it all, the shirt, and sometimes blanket you put on top, closing him off from the rest of the world.

Maybe its just the closure, and being surrounded by your scent, which always seems to put him at ease, or rile him up, depending on your own mood.

You don’t hate it though, you never could, not when its Clark. So, instead you just lay back, rubbing your hands slowly up and down his back and Clark nuzzles deeper against you, letting him rest there for as long as he needs.

[kikihoneyb]

Ice Packs and Peachy Delights

PAIRING: logan howlett x reader (she/her pronouns are used) SUMMARY: reader just got her wisdom teeth out and isn’t feeling very well, wade and logan are here to help | pure fluff, some tension and some swearing, PG-13 at most. WORD COUNT: 3k

-

The clinic's fluorescent lights flickered as the receptionist handed you a small slip of paper. “You’re all set,” she said, her tone a mix of sympathy and professionalism. You nodded, barely registering her words, and tried to say thank you through the gauze, probably sounding like something else completely but the receptionists understood. The local anesthesia had worn off just enough for you to feel the ache in your jaw, and the pain was starting to get worse by the minute.

Your face was a mix of soreness and the strange feeling of having no back molars. The dentist had handed you a small bag, its contents a bizarre souvenir from the day’s adventure—your wisdom teeth. You clutched the bag tightly, half-dismayed, half-amused at the thought of carrying around bits of yourself like a twisted memento, before carefully placing it into your tote bag.

You stumbled out into the waiting area, where Wade Wilson, aka Deadpool, was leaning against the wall, casually flipping through a comic book. His eyes lit up when he saw you, and he pushed himself off the wall with a flourish. “Look at you! Alive and… well, mostly intact.”

“I feel like shit,” you muttered, attempting a weak smile. Your face was still numb, but you could definitely feel the throbbing pain settling in. The gauze stuffed in your mouth made you talk with a muffled drawl.

"Well, I can promise you that you don’t look as bad as you feel." Wade tried to cheer you up, but you shot it down with a deadpan reply. "With blood pouring out of my mouth?" You say into the piece of tissue you've taken out of your bag to put over your mouth to at least save the eyes of the passerby, both of you walking towards the parking lot in front of the dentist after picking up the meds that were prescribed.

"Still a friendlier look than when you tried to throw that chair at me two months ago." He points out. "It was a joke, Wade." You reply trying to speak without messing with what feels like a crime scene in your mouth.

He replies in a softer tone, using an uncommon quieter voice he rarely used while sticking the keys into the ignition. "Still, it wasn’t very funny. Vanessa gave me that chair." You felt a pang in your chest, you didn’t mean for the conversation to shift like this, especially since he insisted from the day on that you mentioned that you had to get an appointment to get your wisdom teeth out because the pain and discomfort just kept coming and going to the point where you just did not want to procrastinate anymore, that he was going to pick you up from the dentist.

You replied, a bit more pronounced than you wanted to especially with the two pieces of gauze still sitting in the same spot that you, somehow, forgot in this second "I told you I didn’t knooooow and I already said I was SORRY- OW!" The gums didn’t like that, so you were reminded. You carefully moved your hand to cup your cheek which was slowly but surely becoming more swollen.

"Ok that one's on me," Wade replied, smiling again. "For what it's worth, I forgave you for that long ago, I know you didn't know. And I'll shut up now, for the sake of your squirell-hiding-a-fuck-ton-of-nuts cheeks." You could only throw him a heavy case of side-eye because was he wrong? The reflection of yourself glancing back at you on your phone screen would say no. Your eyes moved from the phone in your hands to a shiny piece of plastic reflecting the sunlight, picking it up from the opened bag sitting on your lap.

As Wade drove, he glanced over at you and noticed the bag you held. “What’s in the bag?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

With a smirk, you lifted it up. “My wisdom teeth.”

Wade’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Oh, that’s just wrong! You’re bringing home your wisdom like a trophy? How’s that for bragging rights?”

You chuckled, despite the pain. “Yeah, well, I figured I’d keep them as a reminder of how much I’ve endured for the sake of dental hygiene.”

Wade shook his head, laughing. “You’re braver than I am. I’d have left those suckers in the dumpster. I wanted to make a joke about your loss of wisdom but I guess you're still holding onto it after all."

You both shared a laugh, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics as Wade maneuvered through traffic. The absurdity of the situation made the discomfort more bearable, and the humor helped in forgetting, if only momentarily, the throbbing pain in your jaw.

---

By the time you reached your apartment, you were a picture of post-surgical misery: bloodstained gauze, swollen cheeks, and a general air of crankiness.

Wade was rummaging through your cabinets and muttering curses under his breath. “So, what you need is... Well you actually prepped everything here, I see ice packs, painkillers, and baby food- Look at this! We have 'Applesauce,' 'Carrot Puree,' and 'Peachy Delight.' If you have some left by the end of this let me know some of these actually sound kinda good-.” "Fuck…" You sighed when the realization hit.

You forgot the one thing that honestly feels like the most important thing right now with the presence of the blood and saliva mixture in your mouth. "I forgot to buy gauze and the clinic only gave one spare pair. Shiiiit."

You leaned back onto the couch before sitting up straighter again, reminded of what your dentist had said: "Try to sit up the first few hours after the surgery until the bleeding stops." You've gotta be fucking kidding me.

He turned to you “I’ll  make a run to the store then." You grimaced, shifting uncomfortably on the couch.

"Please don't." You replied. "You already went all the way to pick me up, I'm not gonna let you go grocery shopping too."

He smirked and said "What are you gonna do? Stop me by challenging me to a chubby cheeks duel?" If only looks could kill, he would've been six feet under.

"Besides I'm not gonna leave you here all alone. You know what would make this whole recovery thing a lot better? Logan. He’s just around the corner. I could get him to swing by and keep you company.”

“No,” you said firmly, your voice muffled by the gauze. “I look like crap. I don’t want him seeing me like this.”

Wade raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You sure? He’s a big softie. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind seeing you like this.”

You shook your head, wincing at the pain. “No way. I’m fine. I don’t need him to—”

“Okay, okay. I hear you,” Wade said, though his grin suggested he wasn’t taking you seriously. He fished out his phone and started typing a message, not giving you a chance to protest further.

"Wade, I swear to god if you-" You speak after him as he closes the cabinets and grabs the car keys that were just recently plopped down onto the counter, making his way to the front door.

"Sorry can’t hear you through all the gauze byeeee." With that he slams the door behind him, leaving you to fume silently. The thought of Logan seeing you in such a state was mortifying. The last thing you wanted was to be seen like this by ANYONE, let alone HIM.

---

A short while later, the doorbell rang, and you shuffled to answer it, barely managing to pull yourself together. Logan stood on the other side, looking both bewildered and amused. “Wade said you needed some help?” he asked, his gaze sweeping over your flushed face and the half-empty bag of ice clutched to your cheek. Thank god the ice chips hack worked, you don’t think you would've opened the door if you still had to bite down on the gauze. Pretending to be dead would've been the better alternative. Maybe.

You tried to muster a smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace. “Yeah, well... Wade insisted. I didn’t ask for this.”

Logan’s expression softened as he stepped inside, a soft chuckle escaping him. “I see. Well, let’s make sure you’re comfortable, yeah?” You caught him glancing around the room, probably noting the slight disarray as you tried to make yourself comfortable.

As he made his way to the couch, you watched him with a mix of relief and embarrassment. “Thanks for coming. I didn’t mean to make a big deal out of it.”

 “No trouble at all. Wade can be a bit pushy, but he’s got a good heart.” He replied and sat down on the couch next to you. The minutes ticked by, with Logan asking gentle questions and helping you adjust the ice pack. He didn’t push you to talk much, which you appreciated more than you could say.

In a moment of comfortable silence, Logan notices you shifting the ice pack in your hands. "You alright with that?" he raises his brow.

"Yeah, just a bit cold, hands are a bit frostbitey but it's fine." You reply smiling sheepishly, waving your other hand to help signify that it really is not as bad, because honestly, nothing can feel worse than your bottom jaw right now.

With that, he reaches over the couch, automatically scooting closer to you. "Give me that." He gestures towards the ice pack, making your hands a bit tingly, whether it's the cold, the nerves from the procedure, or him, you couldn't tell anymore.

"No, it's alright really. I'm serious." You reply, only for him to shut your attempt down with a short, stoic, yet sweet: "So am I." You stare into his eyes for a split second too long before you defeatedly hand the ice pack over to him.

Logan had taken to holding the ice pack for you, his touch surprisingly gentle. At first, you’d insisted you could manage it yourself. "I can do it myself, you know." You say, your voice now only a tiny bit above a whisper with how close his face has gotten to yours, his touch truly careful, becoming even softer when he doesn't miss the tiny wince that you tried to suppress when the ice pack met your cheek. You could feel the warmth of his body with how close he was to you at this point, contrasting the coldness of the ice.

“I know you can,” he said softly, “but I want you to know that you don’t always have to.”

You really hoped that he didn't see your eyes falling to his lips for a millisecond before you forcefully pulled them back to his eyes, but by the way his gaze softened and one corner of his lips shifted up ever so slightly, you couldn't be so sure anymore.

The comfortable silence settled back in again, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of your ice pack. The shift within the air, while small, was quite hard to ignore, existing like a floating invisible thread drawing you closer and closer. Logan’s presence was soothing. The way he moved, the way he breathed, the way his eyes crinkled with quiet amusement—it all made you feel oddly safe despite the pain you were in.

Just as that thread pulls you two closer than ever before, a pair of red scissors and way too fucking many grocery bags bursts through the door and cuts it straight down the middle. How he managed to unlock the door so quietly, and how the door remained in one piece, still attached to its hinges will forever remain a mystery.

“Guess who’s back with your very important gauze and baby food, and yes, I managed to avoid all the worst of the baby food aisle!”

Wade burst through the door, balancing a collection of grocery bags and a mischievous grin.

Logan’s eyebrows shot up, and you couldn’t help but laugh despite the throbbing in your mouth.

Wade set the bags down with a dramatic flourish. “I see Logan has managed to make himself comfortable. Good job, buddy. I knew you’d be the perfect substitute for me.”

Logan rolled his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips as he held the ice pack in a way like he was offering it to you but also hoping that you'd let him hold it for you a bit longer. “He certainly knows how to make an entrance.”

You take the ice pack from his hand whispering a soft thank you.

Wade’s gaze turned back to you, his grin softening. “So, how’s our patient holding up? I got you a mountain of gauze because you can never have too much gauze. And some top-of-the-line baby food, most of this is for me but that's not the point."

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Thanks, Wade. You really didn't have to.”

He shrugged, winking at you. “Hey, you’re the one who got her wisdom teeth yanked out. It’s practically my duty to be overly dramatic about it…Wait, don't tell me you don't need gauze anymore." He adds as he notices the lack of gauze-ness in your speech.

"I'm afraid so since you chose to take your fucking time," Logan adds as he gets up to put the now almost room-temperature ice pack back in the freezer, switching it with a new one.

You couldn’t help but smile at the friendly banter. “I appreciate it. Both of you.”

Your gaze lingered on his hands which, thank god, he didn't pick up on. Turning to Wade, however, confirmed that your eyes weren't as secretive as you hoped they were, as he wiggled his eyebrows at you before winking, earning a subtle middle finger from you while you pretended to move a strand off from your face.

Logan walks towards the couch and hands you a neatly wrapped icy cool ice pack which you take from his hands, fingertips brushing, but pulling yourself together pretending that that didn't happen because you've let yourself slip one too many times already today. You lean back against the couch and softly put the ice pack back on your cheek, feeling a bit sleepy after the entire ordeal today. Wade turns the TV on to see if anything interesting is on, settling on the armchair next to the couch while Logan takes the gauze out of the bags.

"Do you store these in your bathroom or the kitchen?" He asks looking at you, whose eyes are closed, trying not to think about the pain. Ibuprofen WILL be taken after the next meal you promised yourself.

"Both are fine but you can leave it in the bathroom, on the shelf under the mirror maybe." You reply.

"Yes ma'am," Logan replies causing you to take a subtle but deeper breath. Why was that so attractive, c’mon he's just trying to help you out what is wrong with you, you thought?

You could only say "Thank you." in return, trying to keep your voice as unaffected by whatever that was.

As Logan comes back into the living area he gestures to Wade and says "You bought so much baby food, do you know that?"

"Do you have something that you want to tell us about?" You open your eyes and jokingly raise your brow at him.

"Not in the way that you think, no, but this baby right here-" he holds his stomach. "Loves to explore all types of cuisines and he's been lustin' after 'Peachy Delight' from the second he laid his eyes on her."

"Your stomach has eyes?" You and Logan deadpan at the same time making you look at each other in amusement. You add a quick great minds think alike, narrowing your eyes in a tone of semi-seriousness but also lighthearted comment before tuning back into Wade's culinary rant. That rant then turned into a dinner party of three, taste-testing of the best of the best jars of baby food, according to the now culinary master apparently. Before the conversation moves to the couch and armchair in front of the TV.

A few more hours in, the ibuprofen after dinner has kicked in, and the comfort of the fluffy blanket you have draped over your thighs has returned, no longer being drowned out by the throbbing pain in your jaw, which is subsiding bit by bit. This return to coziness has made your eyelids feel rather heavy, something Logan noticed when he sensed your breathing become more calm and even. Wade was too glued to the TV to notice anything really. Logan’s gaze falls on your slightly flushed face caused by the ice packs that have been held against your face for most parts of the day before his gaze drifts from your cheeks to your lashes.

“You’re starting to fall asleep,” Logan said softly, adjusting the ice pack gently. He has to fight to tear his eyes away and redirect them back to the TV. “We should let you get some rest.”

You blinked sleepily, nodding in agreement. “I think this is the first time it doesn’t feel like I'm being screamed at by my own jaw since this morning.”

Logan offered a reassuring smile, carefully standing up from the couch to not disturb you, and stretched slightly. “If you need anything, just knock on the wall. We’re right next door.”

You managed a small smile, feeling a sense of comfort in his words. “Thanks, Logan. I’ll do that.”

Wade, now standing by the door with a grocery bag of baby food in hand, gave a dramatic sigh. “Alright, alright. I guess we’ll leave you to your rest. But don’t be shy about knocking. Seriously, I’ve got more baby food than any one person should ever need.”

Logan smiles at you while he grabs the doorknob. “Let’s give her some space. You know where we are if anything comes up.”

You watched them with sleepy eyes, feeling a mix of warmth and gratitude. Logan’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, a hint of something unspoken in his eyes.

“Rest well,” he said softly, heading towards the door with Wade in tow.

As the door clicked shut behind them, you settled into the couch, feeling the soothing quiet of the apartment around you. The soft murmurs of their conversation through the thin wall were a comforting reminder of their presence. With a contented sigh, you allowed yourself to slip into sleep.

-

A/N: just got all my wisdom teeth out this morning so this is how i cope with the pain y'all, i also usually don't write stuff so i'm sorry if this was shite oops (edit: there were so many typos and mistakes i missed last night i’m so sorry to everyone who read that version omg)

[gloomwitchwrites]

Twin Suns

Bounty Hunter Boba Fett x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, breakup / makeup, suggestive themes, canon-typical swearing, mando’a

Word Count: 1.4k

You broke it off, but Boba isn’t finished.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // summer 2024 masterlist

Mando’a Translations: cyar’ika – darling / sweetheart

Hookah smoke hangs low in the air. The cantina is dim and the noise inside is a dull, persistent roar. Behind the bar, you clean glasses, gaze watching the room for thirsty customers. To the right of the bar is a small stage where a band plays music. It’s loud enough to drown out most of the conversations in the room but not enough to silence them.

It’s a stark difference from your previous work. Being a dancer in Jabba’s Palace brought you protection and money, but it also brought admirers. Most of them kept their distance due to Jabba’s presence, yet there was one you gravitated toward.

One you often snuck away with. One you gave your heart to.

Jabba the Hutt’s favorite contract killer, Boba Fett, ate you up like a Sarlacc. He slipped into your life and you gladly opened for him.

But all of that is gone. You left, and here you are, working away in a Mos Espa cantina, scrounging up enough credits to leave Tatooine behind you. It’s certainly not the life you want for yourself, but the best thing now is to earn enough to start fresh elsewhere.

Setting the glass in its proper spot, you turn, reaching for another. It draws your attention away from the bar, and when you glance up again, the glassware nearly slips from your hand.

A Mandalorian helmet with cracked and peeling green paint stares back. The rest of the armor is much of the same. It’s worn but no less intimidating. Boba Fett stands casually while the people next to him at the bar quickly grab their drinks and makes themselves scarce.

“I’ve been looking for you.” His familiar gravelly voice comes through the voice receiver, and it plunges directly into your heart.

“What makes you think I wanted to be looked for?” you reply, unease slipping into your tone.

You don’t hate Boba—far from it. Deep within your soul, you still care for him. When you’re alone in the dark, you often find yourself thinking of his touch and the way his lips felt against your skin.

But you ran away from everything for a reason. And still, this man came after you.

“You’ve always loved a chase, cyar’ika,” he answers with a gentle tease.

Memories resurface suddenly and without warning. Jabba’s smoky throne room where you’d dance for his guests. The saunter of Boba’s hips when he’d walk into the room and head right for you. The first time Boba touched you far from the eyes of Jabba and his cronies.

Boba chased you until you folded, placing yourself in his arms.

You swallow back a sharp retort, putting on your professional face, changing the subject. “Can I get you anything? A drink? Food?”

Boba’s helmeted head tilts slightly. “I want one thing.”

“I’m not on offer,” you reply immediately.

“Then can I have a few minutes of your time,” he counters. “Alone.”

Kriffing hell.

You glance over your shoulder at the other bartender. She nods subtly and you set down the glass and polishing towel.

“Come with me,” you murmur.

Boba pushes off from the bar and follows you. The two of you slip behind a curtain, entering a kitchen space. The three droid cooks don’t even acknowledge your presence. Stopping at some spiral stairs, you turn back toward Boba. He’s directly behind you, blocking your escape, gloved hands on either side of the railing.

“This way,” you breathe, ascending the stairs as quickly as possible.

You feel him at your back, his body so close you swear you can sense his heat. The stairs spit the two of you out on a little landing. Up here is mostly storage, and it’s a mess. The owner of the cantina insists he’ll clean it up but he’s never here enough to actually care or do anything about it.

As soon are your feet land on flat flooring, you beeline for the large window on the other side of the room. The twin suns are starting to descend, the evening coming quick, but still fending off the cold dark.

Staring out across Mos Espa is easier than looking at Boba directly.

“What do you want to talk about?” you speak to the window. In the glass, you notice Boba’s reflection. He’s moving toward you—a slow saunter.

Even though you cannot see him directly, you know he’s right there next to your left shoulder. Your chest is tight, stomach twisting, and your skin tingles with awareness. Beskar brushes against your arm, and then Boba’s gloved hand slips into your own.

You do not pull away. He is warm, and so close it aches.

“You were mine,” he says, and the possessiveness in his voice draws forth a shiver.

It’s a reminder of all the times the two of you were alone in bed together, with him buried between your legs, tangled up in white sheets while the rest of Tatooine slept. With every roll of his hips, and every languid kiss, he’d call you cyar’ika and whisper mine.

“I was,” you murmur. “Not anymore.”

Boba tugs on your hand. It’s a gentle pull but it forces you to turn into him. Boba is right there, head tilted toward your face as if to kiss you. His other hand comes up and rests against the side of your throat.

“You left without talking to me.” His grip tightens and your free hand reflexively rises, pressing against his beskar chestplate.

You lick your lips. “I needed to go. It wasn’t safe for me.”

Boba draws you close, foreheads nearly touching. “Did you not feel safe with me? Something I did?”

You shake your head. “No.” You glance into the T-shaped visor, only wanting to see those dark eyes again. “Can you remove your helmet?”

Boba drops his hand from your throat. Reaching up, he disengages the seal, and then the helmet is gone. Your eyes track tanned skin and dark eyes. Your hand on his chestplate ascends, fingertips brushing against the stubble on his chin and jaw.

Boba turns his head just as you’re about to run your fingers over his cheeks. You caress his lips instead, and they part slightly in invitation. It’s hard to resist, but you do.

Dropping your hand away, you look down at his chestplate.

“Being with you put a target on my back.”

“No one knew about us,” murmurs Boba. “And I would have handled it.”

You glance up. “Would you? I was under Jabba’s employ. I don’t think he’d appreciate one of his dancers fornicating with his prized bounty hunter.”

Boba grimaces. “You were an employee. Not one of his slaves.”

“That doesn’t matter to Jabba,” you insist. “Remember the guy who slapped my ass? Jabba took his kriffing hand. I don’t even want to think about what Jabba would do to you had he found out about us.”

“And you think you’re safe here?” Boba indicates the cantina with an outstretched hand.

“Bib Fortuna said I was clear. It’s the other bounty hunters I’m worried about. Your competition.”

Boba scoffs. “I’d vaporize them before they even tried to put their hands on you.”

You pull your hand from his and raise them up before you. “You can’t protect me, Boba. And I don’t want to burden you.”

Boba steps into your space, trapping you against the window. “But you still love me.”

“I never said I didn’t,” you reply softly.

With a low groan, Boba grasps the back of your neck and draws you in. His mouth crashes against yours, the two of you meeting again and again until you start to melt, wrapping your arms behind his neck, wanting him even closer.

“Why did you run?” he asks between kisses. You seek another but Boba’s grip on the back of your neck halts all forward movement. “We could have talked about this. You didn’t need to flee.”

“It was easier,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “You’re leaving this place.”

“Boba,” you breathe.

“Hush,” he coos. “I’m taking you with me.”

“And go where?” you shrug.

“Somewhere safe,” he says softly. “We’ll go on my ship. And I’ll take you far from here.”

“But you can’t tell me where?”

Boba sighs. “I have a place I go to when I want to get away. I’ll take you there.”

“Jabba doesn’t need you?”

“If he needs me, Bib Fortuna will call. That’s how it’s always worked.”

You glance out the window. The suns have lowered, the sky a purplish-red. “When do you want to go?”

Boba draws you back to him, pressing a lovely kiss to your lips. “Right now.”

taglist:

@glassgulls @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @foxxy-126 @km-ffluv

@sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@tulipsun-flower @enfppuff @ninman82 @nomercyforthewarrior @padawancat97

@garfunklevibes2012 @pigeonmama @beebeechaos @no-oneelsebutnsu

[tallgirl14]

Chilchuck angst

I love this lil middle age man but i aslo live for angst so her are few my ideas because I need tell someone and if you have angst dm me we can talk about it

He carries a wallet size family portrait (when his girls were little) with him when he goes down in a dungeon, and he looks at it when he miss them. ( I feel like photos are probably pretty 💰💰 so they only had few consist wedding photo, baby photo mayjack she's fist born, then one of the whole family ) and this photo is chaotic and It makes him smile.

This is the ONLY photo he has of his entire family and he hasent seen them in few years with his kids grown living there own lives and him and his wife are split this photos all he's got.

How far would this man go for this picture. I can see chilchuck getting badly hurt because he went back to grab it and as Marcille is lecturing him about his reckless action as she's healing him.

Marcille: "What could have been so important that you risk your life over??"

Chilchuck: "my family or what's left of it"

He shows her the photo and marcille feels her heart drop she finally got to learn something about him and its sad ( this miscommunication leads to his group to believe chil family is dead )

Chilchuck taught Mayjack how to pick locks, and in the manga, he says when he dies, if they need someone, she'd be their first choice. SO he obviously took her through dungeon showing her how to navigate because being locksmith in a shop vs. dungeon is night & day different, dungeon being high pace environment.

Could you imagine how traumatizing that would be if saw her dad die in front of her AND NOT KNOW THEY COULD BE REVIVED!! (Seeing anyone die would be scaring) Especially if she felt it was her fault.

At first, Mayjack was curious about going into a dungeon with her dad to see exactly what he does she rember as kid seeing him come home late tired excused but mostly worn down.

Whenever she asked him about his work as a kid he was always vague or if he did talk about it was pg version and normally he was just trying scare us about going into dungeon. BUT one thing he made very clear, he didn't want any of her or her sister near the dungeon, but now that she's an adult, he couldn't stop her.

" I still don't want you near the dungeon, but you are a skilled locksmith, so you would be valued and well paid. IF you're still interested, I'll have you shadow me on my next small job so you can see what it's like."

At first, it was like any job we met with the client went over to the terms dad took payment, and then we headed over to the dungeon. I was awestruck by the new environment, but it quickly became overstimulating it took me a moment to adjust. the first few levels, dad had pointed out things to avoid what were scams & how to detect traps and walked me through a few I felt confident. Most importantly, when talking jobs, always have a skilled healer. Now I realize why as we enter new room dad was working on trap I was observing the room when I noticed treasure chest peaking out corner not knowing it was a mimick.

Chilchuck was Halfway through picking his lock when his dad sense went off. He quickly looked around room and spotted may messing with mimick

Chilchuck: "MAYJACK TIMS! get away from that!!" He starts running towards her

May turned to look at her dad, confused " why I already unlocked it?"

Her body stiffened as she could feel presents inside the chest, but before mimick could attach, chilchuck pushed her out of the way taking damage as it jabbed one of its claws through his neck causing him to bleed everywhere all mayjack could do was watch in horror paralyzed with fear trying process what happened. One of group members took care of mimick while she scrambled to her feet to get to here dad trying to put pressure on his wound tears flooding out

"Nonononno im sorry I'm sorry 🥺 "

As chilchuck lay there dying, he was more concerned with the fact he could comfort his daughter. This wasn't how he wanted to see death for the first time. Afterwards, the healer from their group came over and assured her he was going to be fine as she worked on reviving him.

Chilchuck let out a gasp and cough out some blood that had remained stuck in his throat. He turns to mayjack " that's why I told you to stay near me..." He moves toward her noticing her hands are strained with his blood. " are you hurt?... may? "

She shakes her head, and tears start to fall down her face he pulls her in for a hug. " it's ok, I'm ok ... I'm right here. " she hugs him tight, and they stay in that embrace for a while. When they finally break the hug, chilchuck wipes tears from her face.

" im sorry you saw that... do you want to go home.? "

" but the job?"

Chilchuck shakes his head " don't worry about it I brought someone along for that exact reason"

[mystiffox]

— the apple's falling from the tree

from Cross: The Star Sans by @overflowofcrows

star!cross makes me incredibly ill with the tragic found family vibes ... (lays on the floor)

also song inspo was Driver's Seat by Madds Buckley

also have some doodles too (slight spoilers on the fic's lore below! to explain some of my thoughts on clothes n stuff)

does Cross have a star necklace in the fic? no, probably not. did i show off about my thoughts on a star necklace to Simple anyway? yes, yes i did. anyway idc where u think the necklace is from (whether its a gift from dream or a remold of his broken heart necklace, who knows atp) now ONTO THE GANG (+ Error and Fresh)

to preface this: im mostly assuming for most of the lore beyond the crumbs given to me. so, i'd imagine that when the fight ended with the gang losing, Dream and Ink immediately jailed them up. they both seem keen on keeping the gang alive, so they probably would've tried to help them with anything to make sure of it- that is, if any of the gang would even accept it in the first place.

i'm making a small guess that if there were any wounds, they used what they had to take care of it, aka ripping out parts of their own clothing to use as makeshift bandages. dream might've gave them some supplies (out of pity.. or something) but whether that was not enough or not used, i won't know

even if it was enough, there's still the factor of inevitable outburst/breakdowns from any of the prisoners. i'd imagine it'd be so hard to calm any of them down because the gang were too used to being close together that using touch became the usual grounding method— so putting a barrier between them makes it infintely harder for everyone.

i think Nightmare doesn't use his jacket anymore. it probably feels like shit/too itchy and ragged to wear and reminds him of a past he wishes he could forget. (he must feel so helpless seeing all his boys suffer after taking care of them for so long... like a lost father trying his best and seeing how much he's failing at the same time.. man.)

Dust is almost always wrapped in a blanket, the hoodie completely zipped up as if he was trying to hide in it, keeping himself as small as possible (knowing his own breakdowns are the biggest And loudest)

Horror is probably yanked back to the memories of when he was back in his home au, quietly starving and losing all the progress he had with the gang.. trying to press himself against the barriers in hopes that maybe he can feel the others on the other side of it.. (one of his outbursts would be why he ripped off the sleeves of his jacket id assume)

Killer too.. unable to get to anyone and just. with his soul going haywire sometimes, having no available output that he's forced to ride it out on his own And in front of everyone.. yeah, you get the gist for those three

Error's a mess of threads- picks at his clothes and sews em back up, just to have a reason to move his hands. he's not too worried i'd say- it's a little reminiscent of the antivoid, and he's experienced insanity already (not to say it doesn't tug at his own soul-strings to see it happen to everyone else)

Fresh might be the "cleanest" out of everyone, with barely any visible tears, but i have a good feeling his body language is different. maybe the cap is now worn correctly. maybe he took off his jacket. he's tense. his guard is up. because a parasite would never want to be locked up in one place, right?

god.

God.

they make me so sick (message is mine btw)

[hottiehiei]

- NSFW Alaphabet with Hiei (but I pick the letters I want)

nsfw (but its not overly explicit), gender neutral

i used the word c*ck… im so sorry. i literally hate that word but i had to.

✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻

𓆩⟡𓆪 A = Aftercare

Hiei has unlimited stamina compared to you.

While you’re worn out and exhausted, he’s barely breaking a sweat. He simply looks down at you expectantly, even when it’s clear you won’t make it through another round. The need for rest overpowers all of your senses, and you’ll drift into a soundless slumber, leaving Hiei alone.

Of course, this ticks him off. He scolds you for having such a weak human body— all the while massaging your hips and thighs because he knows they’re aching. It’s mostly his fault, so he tries to compensate by doing small things like wiping your body clean.

Hiei watches you rest, grateful to have you by his side.

𓆩⟡𓆪 B = Body part

His Jagan eye is his favorite body part. He has a full view of your entire body. There isn’t a single thing he misses, not even the shiver that crawls over your skin when he tears off your clothes.

Hiei also likes his physique. When you trail your fingers down his chest or claw at his back, he’s over the moon.

As for your body, he admires your lips. He likes the way you pout when he pulls out of you, and the way your mouth hangs open from pleasure when he thrust back inside of you. Or best of all, when your lips wrap around his cock.

Hiei really enjoys kissings. He will bite your lower lip, suck on it, pull it with his teeth, you name it.

𓆩⟡𓆪 C = Cum

The taste is bitter. Literal battery acid. Do not recommend.

𓆩⟡𓆪 F = Favorite position

Hiei favors any position that involves you being at his mercy.

There’s this undeniable urge to bind your wrist, spread your legs further apart, and kiss you senseless. If the position hinders any of that, then he doesn’t bother with it.

Occasionally, he’ll let you on top, but be ready to endure some teasing. The minute he notices you getting tired or struggling to take him…

“So predictable. All that begging for nothing.”

“Just say the word and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

𓆩⟡𓆪 K = Kink

He gets turned on when arguing.

Don’t be fooled by his calm tone. He lets you think you have the upper hand, meanwhile he’s plotting. Lash out all you want, it only makes him want to put you to the test. The more you push his buttons, the more he’s thinking about bending you over and making you beg.

Seeing you act aggressive toward other people also turns him on. Whether it’s yelling at one of the boys or knocking someone over the head, he’s impressed.

The fastest way to rile him up is to physically tease him. Keep it brief and subtle. Whisper in his ear when no one’s looking, he’ll get aroused just from fantasizing about you.

Reel him in little by little, then scurry off before he has a chance to capture you. Hiei loves it.

𓆩⟡𓆪 O = Oral

He prefers to receive, mostly due to the power dynamic. You’re below him, looking up through your lashes, doing your best to please him. It gets him going every single time.

The dirty talk is ruthless, but hot.

“I know you can do better than this. Don’t expect me to praise you.”

“Relax your throat and take all of it.”

If you allow him, he’ll grab your hair and guide you deeper.

He’s good at giving oral though. If you can handle the teasing, edging, and overstimulation….he won’t disappoint.

𓆩⟡𓆪 P = Pace

Hiei is naturally fast, so that’s usually the normal pace.

But if you’re one to enjoy it hard and fast, then he might purposely slow down. He wants your body brimming with lust before letting his impulses take over.

Other times, he’ll skip the foreplay and take you how he wants, just from sexual frustration. Don’t even bother asking for a break, he’s too focused on how good and tight you feel, his mind hazy with pure desire.

𓆩⟡𓆪 V = Volume

Mostly grunts. He’s gritting his teeth, holding the noises in. The only time you can get a full moan is during oral or when he’s close to his orgasm. It’s a pleasant sound. Deep and husky, like his voice dropped a few octaves.

✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻✧༺✧༻

extra:

𓆩⟡𓆪 W= Wild Card

Hiei is a brat tamer.

[miasmaghoul]

Dessert First

Kinktober '24: Day 1 - Foreplay

Pairing: Swiss/Cumulus

Rating: E

W/C: ~1.8k

Contains: flirting, intentionally cheesy and mostly food-based banter, making out, groping, heavy petting, fingering without penetration, (Cumulus has a big clit pass it on)

Huge shoutout to @kroas-adtam for this year's prompts!

“You're so fuckin’ pretty.”

Cumulus blinks, leans back to look out the hotel bathroom door with a raised eyebrow. Swiss grins at her, offers a wink and a little finger wave. He's laid out on his side on the bed closest to her, head propped up on one hand, the picture of relaxation in a pair of worn flannel pants and nothing else. Cumulus looks at her reflection in the wall-sized mirror; she's fresh from a too-hot shower, face still flushed and curls pulled up into the messiest approximation of a bun she could manage. Dressed in an old pair of Aether's boxers and an oversized tee, toothbrush still in her mouth, she can't imagine pretty is the word for her right now. She gives him a soft snort as toothpaste dribbles down her chin, but Swiss doesn't seem put out in the least. 

“I mean it,” he assures as she spits into the sink, rinsing with a handful of water. She hears the mattress creak, the dull thud of footsteps on low-pile carpet, and as she straightens up strong arms loop around her waist. “You're gorgeous, Lu.” Swiss plants a kiss on top of her head before resting his chin there, smiles at their reflection, and it's so infectious that Cumulus finds herself smirking too.

Read the rest below, or on AO3!

“Sweet talker,” she accuses, and Swiss doesn't even try to deny it. She sighs, letting her head rest against his broad chest. Breathes in the fading aroma of his spicy cologne and the lingering remnants of the joint they'd shared before her shower. A moment of quiet peace, interrupted only by the distant hum of the air conditioner. 

A moment is all she gets, of course - this is Swiss, after all. It's no surprise that his hands go from holding to fondling, a broad palm pressing into the softness of her belly and skilled fingers teasing the curve of her hip. Cumulus gives the back of one hand a gentle smack, rolls her eyes as she goes back to brushing her teeth. 

Swiss, never one to be dissuaded, occupies himself with the self-imposed task of feeling up every inch of her he can reach. Her stomach and hips, her thick thighs and unbound breasts. They may sag without a bra, but she's yet to have any complaints. Least of all from the ghoul at her back, whose half-chub is currently pressed up against the cleft of her ass while he cups her tits through her shirt. 

“So warm,” he muses, stubble grazing her throat when he leans down to kiss behind her ear. “Startin’ to think I should've joined you after all.” Cumulus rinses one more time, shaking off her toothbrush and tucking it into its case as Swiss casually rolls her stiffening nipples between his fingers. 

“It's not my fault you couldn't take the heat,” the ghoulette smirks, reaching for her nightly facial moisturizer. “You know it's boiling or nothing.”

Cumulus gasps as she squeezes some cream onto her palm, a response to Swiss dragging the tip of his tongue down her throat. He follows it with a nip to the spot where it meets her shoulder, and Cumulus shivers as she applies her lotion. 

“‘Scuse me for not wanting to turn to soup.” Swiss tucks a finger into the collar of her tee, tugging it to the side to trail kisses down to her shoulder and back again. He presses his nose to her skin, taking a deep inhale. “You smell like…what is that, cupcakes?”

“Vanilla, coconut and shea butter,” Cumulus corrects, but Swiss isn't exactly wrong. She knows she smells good enough to eat - insists on it always - and judging by the way Swiss throbs when he sniffs at her, he agrees. The ghoulette snorts. “Y’know," she teases, wiggling her ass just because she can, "you're awfully hard for a guy who said he'd be asleep before I even got soaped up.”

Swiss grunts, gives her nipples a pair of firm plucks that make Cumulus gasp. 

“Can you blame me when you look like this?” 

One hand remains on her breast, but the other moves to rub slow circles into her belly. It drags her shirt up, exposes pale skin decorated with the prettiest stretch marks. His fingers slip under the fabric to trace a pair of them, ticklish, soft flesh twitching under his touch. Cumulus bites the inside of her cheek to hold in the sound that tries to escape her, resting back against his chest with a soft sigh. 

“I bet you say that to all the ghouls.”

Swiss smiles at her in the mirror, cheeks dimpled

“You callin’ me easy?” 

She flashes him a grin, tongue poking between gapped teeth, and a quick burst of want flows through her pelvis.

“No, I'm calling you a slut!”

Swiss gives her the most offended look, but it's betrayed by the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. It's a shimmer the ghoulette is all too familiar with, and with a giggle Cumulus reaches up to poke him in the cheek. 

“C'mon, playboy,” she coos, “it's past our bedtime.”

The ghoulette squeals when, with unnatural speed, Swiss’ groping hands move to spin her around at the waist and hoist her up onto the vanity. He spreads her thighs and crowds in close, Cumulus’ tired eyes going wide as toiletries fall over all around her. Swiss plants his palms on the countertop, leans in until they're nose to nose, and when he licks his lips it's the ghoulette's turn to throb. 

“What about my midnight snack?” 

Rough fingertips find her leg, drag over the exposed skin of her knee and along her plush inner thigh. Swiss’ eyes never leave hers as he slides them upward, digits disappearing into the leg of her boxers. 

“Don't want me to go to bed hungry, do you?” He leans in closer, until she can smell the weed on his breath. “Cupcake?”

Swiss winks, clicks his tongue, and Cumulus’ eyes flutter when his probing touch finally reaches her most tender of places. A single finger teases her folds, Swiss’ cock visibly flexing in his pajama pants when he finds the beginnings of slickness there. The ghoulette lets her shoulders sag, reaching up to get small, soft hands on his chest. 

“Cupcake, huh?” 

Cumulus’ mouth curls up at one corner as her fingers glide through his chest hair. Manicured nails scratch over muscled shoulders until she can cross her arms around Swiss’ neck, and the ghoulette's lips part when he circles her clit with the tip of that slippery digit. They're so close now, Swiss’ mustache tickling her upper lip with every passing breath. His other hand moves to caress her cheek, knuckles tracing the soft line of her jaw, and Cumulus licks at one when it follows the curve of her lower lip. She lets her legs fall further apart, gives Swiss space to slip a second exploratory finger between long lips, and the pair of them groan when her clit twitches.

“Well, you have been a good boy tonight,” she lilts, low, and a dark spot blooms near Swiss’ waistband. “I suppose you deserve a treat.” 

The ghoulette closes the gap between them, and Swiss has his tongue in her mouth before their lips even meet. Not that she minds, of course - it's easier to suck on that way. 

She loves when Swiss gets like this; it's slow and decadent, messy in the best way. Cumulus hooks a leg around his hip and the ghoul groans into her mouth, oh-so-gently pinching her clit. She shivers with every touch, dragging her nails across his shoulders until she can get both hands in Swiss' hair.  

All the while, Swiss’ probing fingers grow slicker and slicker. He doesn't slip them inside, not yet - just takes his time petting from her clit to her pucker and back again until every part of her swollen sex slips through his fingers with no resistance. Only then does he break the kiss, still holding her face, a string of saliva stretching between their reddened lips. 

“You're so wet,” Swiss rasps, as though she can't hear the evidence of that herself. Can't feel the dampness soaking into her boxers, no doubt leaving a sticky spot on the stone counter below. Cumulus huffs, leans in to give his lip a tug with blunt teeth. 

“Of course,” she trills. “The best part of a cupcake is always the frosting.”

She's sure that the way Swiss drools and humps the edge of the counter is involuntary, but it still makes her stomach swoop. 

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, voice gone thick. “Can never have enough, myself.”

The very tip of one digit teases her entrance, and Cumulus lets out a soft oh. 

“Sometimes I just eat it with my fingers.”

The ghoulette sighs when Swiss pulls his hand away entirely, dragging the backs of his fingers along her thigh and leaving a shiny trail behind. He holds them up to the light, stretches her slick between them, and Swiss’ eyes roll back when he licks them clean. 

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he moans, unabashed, and if Cumulus wasn't wet before, well…

“Plenty more where that came from, sugar,” the ghoulette breathes, buzzing all over. “You shouldn't let it go to waste.” 

Swiss doesn't need to be told twice. In no time he's gotten her out of those boxers and dragged her ass to the edge of the counter, kneeling before her with those glorious thighs hugging his ears. The ghoul looks up at her with dark, hungry eyes, and her fat clit pulses.

“Go on, baby,” she murmurs, sinking her fingers back into his tight curls. Cumulus’ other hand wanders up her shirt, finds a taut nipple to play with as Swiss reaches around her legs to spread her open with both thumbs. “Do a good job and maybe I'll let you turn me into a Twinkie instead.” 

She winks, Swiss’ entire body spasms, and with a deep, deep groan he sinks his teeth into the meat of her thigh. Sucks in a mark that she can already tell will be the loveliest shade of purple come morning. He laves at the dents his teeth leave behind, staring only at the place she's gone all pink and puffy. Her clit stands at attention, so stiff the hood has slid back nearly all the way.

“If you do,” Swiss rumbles, kissing up to the crease of her hip, gaze heavy, “then I can lick out the cream filling.” 

The ghoul’s golden eyes flash, and Cumulus throbs hard when his unglamoured tongue rolls from his mouth. He drags it through the damp curls surrounding her twitching length - so big and excited now that Swiss could probably suck it like a cock if she asked him to - and when the forked tip of that devilish tongue grazes the base it throbs so hard her thighs shake. Cumulus sags back against the mirror, crosses her ankles behind Swiss’ back, and gives him her darkest eyes and sweetest smile. 

“Only if you promise to feed it to me after.”

[blairkiss]

Stressed night.

Fluff, Reader POV, Female Reader, Housewife!Reader, Worried!Reader, Stressed!Miranda, Comfort fic

by @blairkiss … this has been rotting in my drafts for a while

I was perched on the edge of the couch, the flicker of the television casting shadows across the living room. A half-eaten plate of lasagna sat beside me, the scent still wafting in the air, mingling with the aroma of simmering pasta in the kitchen. I had planned this evening meticulously, right down to the golden-brown crust of the lasagna that bubbled away, feeling the warmth and richness fill not just the dish but the essence of our home.

Miranda's shift always felt so long, stretching the minutes into hours. As a constable in the Sydney Police Force, the unpredictability of her job kept me on edge. When she was late, my heart would race not just from worry but from a visceral need to have her back in my arms. Sometimes, late or not, I would often indulged in the fantasy that maybe this time she would walk through the door with a smile that could brighten up the grimmest day, though I know that it was far too unlikely.

The clock ticked softly, and I flicked my eyes to its face. Nearly seven o'clock. Tonight, she’d promised to be home early. As the thought danced in my mind, my phone vibrated on the coffee table, shattering my reverie and drawing me back into reality.

It was a message from Miranda:

Last call out? I’m sorry. I’ll be home soon

Of course. I tossed the phone onto the couch in frustration, even as I felt the urge to understand. The nature of her work was unpredictable, but part of me still ached for her presence, the soothing, sultry warmth of her touch, the way she breathed life into the stillness of our home.

It wasn’t long before the heavy sound of keys rattling at the door made my heart leap. A second later, the door swung open, and in walked my wife. The façade of official authority melted off her like wax as she slipped inside — her broad shoulders slumping slightly, those soft eyes now edged with fatigue.

“Hey, gorgeous,” I murmured, a smile breaking across my face in spite of myself.

She returned a tired grin, her voice laden with warmth despite the weariness that draped her like a worn coat. “How was your day?”

“Long. I missed you,” I admitted, feeling a smile hitch at the end of my lips.

She placed her bag down by the door, her blue uniform twisted into angles that I had grown to love — the way it hugged her toned frame, a testament to the work she put in at the gym when she was off duty. But it was her eyes, always, that softened the color of the uniform; they twinkled with an energy that was unmistakably so… Miranda.

“I’m sorry about tonight. I wanted to be here for dinner.” She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around my waist, resting her chin on my head.

“It’s okay, love. I started without you,” I teased, the warmth of her body banishing the chill of disappointment I had felt only minutes before.

“I’m starving!” she declared, releasing me to head straight for the kitchen, a usual routine, that Miranda and I danced like the waltz each night. I followed, my heart swirling at the sight of her. Every day, standing beside her felt like a privilege — her tall, athletic physique, all defined lines and strength contrasted with my more delicate frame. Together, we fit like two puzzle pieces, strong and soft, perfectly aligned in so many ways.

“Lasagna?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Did you make it from scratch?”

“Of course, Mir! I hope you didn’t think I’d let you eat any more of that takeout from last week.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, reaching for a slice and shoving a forkful into her mouth, her face delighting at the taste. “You’re the best.”

As she ate, we spoke of mundane things: her cases, the struggles at the precinct, and my day spent mostly at home. But somewhere in the back of my head, I could feel that the conversation was only a bandage covering something else. I glanced over at her, her expression darkening slightly.

“Is everything alright at work? Any new leads on the ChinaGirl case?” I inquired, referring to a long-standing case that had become something of a thorn in her side.

“It’s complicated,” she replied, pushing her food around on her plate as if it were the lasagna reflecting her mood rather than her plate. “I just feel responsible. Like it’s my job to solve this so that the city can find peace.”

Her voice was tinged with pressure; I could see the shadows of doubt slipping into her mind. I reached across the table and grasped her hand, the familiar warmth grounding her.

“Miranda,” I said softly, “you can’t carry the weight of the world on your shoulders alone, you know that? It’s okay to lean on me.”

A flicker of a smile crossed her face, gratitude shining through the creases of worry. “I know. I just... I need to stay strong.”

“You are strong,” I said, giving her hand a squeeze. “But even the strongest people need help sometimes.”

“I think I just need you to always be around me,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper.

After dinner, I washed the dishes while Miranda settled into her favorite spot on the couch, sinking into the cushions with a soft sigh. I joined her, curling up beside her and resting my head on her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around me, and in that moment, everything felt perfect.

The world outside was chaotic, but here, in our little sanctuary, I felt nothing but peace. Miranda’s presence was my therapy, the soundtrack of her soft breath pulling me away from the anxieties that waited just outside our door.

“Let’s just stay here for a while,” she murmured, her voice dangling in the air like a melody.

“Yes, let’s do that.”

[lowkeyrobin]

hiya :D could you maybe make a MCYT + Cellbit preference list with a SO who like to make jewlery like bracelets and stuff? specifically like knadi bracelts and such. like making bracelets with the streamer's name on it or like things that match their brand/theme!!

oooo yeah sure!!! ; also I'm a kandi kid (kinda I can only rlly do singles... embarassing) but I know what I'm talking about for once lmaooo ; thanks for requesting, hope u enjoy!

MCYT ; kandi kid

includes ; tommyinnit, ranboo, badlinu, maxggs, quackity & cellbit

warnings ; language

masterlist

TOMMYINNIT

absolutely adores everything you make for him

there's one with "tommyinnit" and two red and white smiley faces on the side, white beads on the left of his name and red on the right, and another smiley face in the back where you tied it off

there's another that's just 1-1 red and white with a little customized bead on it (a plain letter that he drew a red star on both sides)

and there's like circular rubbery beads that are red and white tie dye

he wears them literally everyday and always brags about you when someone points them out / asks him about them

"oh yeah, my partner made them for me 😊"

he lovesss watching you make like anything other than singles cause he has no idea how you do it

he's got a whole collection of lizards you made for him atp

RANBOO

cherishes everything you make them

there's one that's half blue half purple, separated by a yellow star on both sides where the colors seperate

there's a similar one that just says "ranboo" with some fun star beads and stuff

helps you make cuffs / watches you show them but is still struggling a bit on learning how to do the pattern n stuff

"can you make me this?" and it's a bunch of 3d stars that would take maybe 7 mins to make like yeah ofc bro

he's got so many singles from you that he rotates them around and matches them with his outfits

you made him some little rotating ones too

THEYRE OBSESSED.

FREDDIE BADLINU

mostly only wears 3 on each at most

there's one that's orange, red, purple and pink in a pattern (to match the colors he's dyed his hair)

there's another that says "internet superstar badlinu" on 3 layers, the main is plain black with some decorative beads n stuff

there's also a bi flag one

and some miscellaneous 2d keychains and a couple little 3d desk decorations

he loves showing off the stuff you make when it's just randomly left nearby or you give it to him or whatever

you've given him a lot of singles over time so some get worn more than others, you don't really care

everytime there's a new one he'll be fixated on it for like a week and not wanna take it off

ALEX QUACKITY

you'll walk in when he's doing shit w a handful of bracelets

"omg thank you!!!"

he puts them all on, arms covered in plastic

there's some music themed ones, others matching his brand, others being just color schemes that would match outfits

he actually adores everything you make for him, even the funny ones

"omg this one is weed!!" he shows off a green one w "leaf" beads on it

he wears them outside too, like his wrists are pale glowing white while the rest of him tans 😭

you made him a rotating cuff of a duck in water and he's so obsessed with it but scared to wear it cause he's worried he'd break it

there's also one that says "ur gay" and it's obnoxiously rainbow lol

it's on his key lanyard trust

CELLBIT

literally so grateful and thankful for everything you make for him

and so fascinated cause you make everything look so cool

from singles to 3d pieces, he's literally just 🤩🤩🤩 lol

always showing off the new stuff you'd made him online

always asking "can you make me this?" and sending you pinterest and tiktok inspo

there's a single that says "cellbit" in block letters and its a grey-green color, the beads are both barrels and some square ones you found cause... cellbit? pixels? no? anyone?

also likes helping you organize the beads and set them into small bowls while you work

it's like your bonding time lol