#just looking forward to going back to the regular routine

[prael]

Positions

Le Sserafim Kazuha x male reader

words: 5.6k Masterlist

Distrust is a funny thing because it should be fairly easy to hide, yet everyone always knows when you're looking at them with it.

He's giving you that look. It's written all over his face. In big, black, bold letters. And yet he hasn't said anything. Betrayal has left him more like a scolded puppy than a vengeful husband.

He doesn't even watch her get out of the car and approach your studio, just looks on at you like it's all your fault, and he's not the one to blame. No one is blameless here - that's for certain. Then he suffers the humiliation for all three of you, though. You don't feel much shame - and she obviously doesn't feel any. So he has to take the brunt of it. That's his penance to bear, and it's why he scowls so hard.

She doesn't even glance his way. Her focus is solely on you. There is something so wrong with that. It's sick - how you can feel like you've broken a man without ever even meeting him.

"Morning, Zuha," you speak as you bow and let her inside your studio. She is a sight, as she is in her usual garb: tight, stretchy pants, and a top which clings to her body, showing off her figure. Today's ensemble is light blue, top and bottom. It complements her skin tone and the deep, dark wave of hair, which, for once, isn't up in a ponytail. It flows over her shoulders, past them, to mid-back, and you wonder why she bothers tying it back if it looks so beautiful when loose.

She's wearing a wide smile, in complete contrast to the man she leaves outside. There is nothing to suggest that this is a day where she does anything other than go about her regular routine of exercise and self-care, but there are a lot of lies here. Her lies. His too.

She's quiet as she walks past. You close the door, shutting out her external ties to the real world, and turning to her. Eyes - warm and inviting - scan your appearance, taking in your casual clothing. It isn't like her to not say anything when she comes in, and it isn't like you to just let her stand in the middle of the studio without a word of instruction. Today, though, today isn't about the usual.

"Kazuha," you begin to say, which she immediately interrupts.

"I've been practising," she informs you, her tone more excited than you have heard it in a while, which, in itself, isn't a surprise to you.

"Maybe you'd like to show me how you're getting on," you reply, but you don't even need to finish speaking to have her nod in agreement and begin to take her position. She faces the mirror at the far side of the studio. You stand behind her. You watch her, and she watches herself. She likes to look at her own body as she stretches it to its limits.

You would be the first to say it's an impressive sight to witness.

She lifts both hands, then bends over and places the flats of both palms on the ground. She's doubled over, her ass in the air. Her legs are stretched taut, straight and firm, and she holds the position.

"I have to ask," you say, taking a step closer to her. "Is this going to be a lesson or a performance?"

She looks up at you from between her legs, head upside down, "Just watch."

She crawls her hands forward and slides her feet outwards. Her legs get wider and her ass begins to sink towards the ground - it's pulled so taut. Round and firm, even though you know it's a soft cushion from personal experience. You watch her legs spread full as she completes the splits. She leans forward and places her chest flat on the ground. Her back is as tense as her thighs and legs, but there's much less fabric there to hide the definition. You watch the way she arches her spine and her shoulders flex to pull herself off the ground, pushing herself back upwards, hands flat to the floor, her legs straight and stretched as far as possible.

She looks over her shoulder at you, and she has the most beautiful of smiles. It's a wide grin complemented by the slight blush on her cheeks and the sparkle of mischief in her eyes. It's a look she has given you many a time - a look you know well. A look that has been etched into your memory for many months. The unforgettable kind.

She knows exactly what you're looking at and she lets out the breathiest of laughs before she speaks, "How's my form?" And she knows it's good. You know she's not asking for your professional opinion on how she's getting along with the splits, she wants you to tell her that her ass looks amazing, which you do.

"It's perfect."

"I can go further, remember, just lift my legs up into the air," she reminds you.

"Yeah, I remember." She had been a natural from the start. Her legs had no trouble with the stretches. They had no issue being forced apart and being suspended at all. "I think we should work on that now, actually."

"And why's that?" she asks with a coy look as she brings her outstretched legs around in front of her and then pushes herself back to her feet.

"Well," you say, as you walk over to her. You take her hand, and then you lead her towards the mirrored wall with the bar for support. "You want the honest answer or the professional one?"

She laughs again. It's a delightful sound, her laugh. It makes your chest tight. "Both."

"Well, professionally," you begin, releasing her hand so she can hold the rail and look at herself in the mirror. You stand behind her, with your hands on her waist and speak into her ear. "Professionally, it's a challenge to your body's strength, balance, and mobility." Your hand travels along the smooth curve of her hip.

"Is that so?" she says with a hint of amusement, as her breathing grows more laboured.

"Mhm," you reply, as your fingers caress down the back of her thigh. You hold her leg in your palm, fingers settling on her inner thigh, ready to guide her into position.

"And the other thing?" She asks, breathless.

"The honest thing?" You ask, but she doesn't reply. "The honest thing is, I like seeing your body pushed to the limit."

"Oh," is all she says, in some pseudo-agreeing and nonchalant tone before she starts to raise her leg. She holds the rail, and you guide her leg up, past the horizontal and all the way to the vertical. It's straight and high, and her standing leg is stable, even with her bare feet. "Like this?"

"Yes. Like that. How's your balance?"

"It's fine. I've got a strong core, you know that."

"All too well," you say as you slip your hand along her inner thigh. No longer supporting, you encroach on the thin barrier between you and the apex of her thighs. Your fingers press against her. The material is tight and thin. You can feel her warmth, even through the layers of fabric.

"You know my husband is right outside." Her tone isn't accusatory, not at all. If anything, she sounds excited. Thrilled even. Her words seem to encourage you, and your hand presses firmer into her crotch, the fabric rubbing against her.

"I know," you say as you look at the reflection, meeting her eyes by peering through the space between her head and her foot. You look at her and see the way she is watching your every move. You glance at the way her leg is up in the air. She's so stable, even as you rub her cunt. Your fingers press in, feeling for the folds beneath her pants, and then you slip a little lower and press your fingertip against her clit.

"Oh, fuck," she exhales with a low groan. You smirk at her reaction.

"Hold the pose," you tell her as your finger rubs in small circles. "Don't move."

She's biting her lip and her chest rises with each deep breath, as if trying to keep herself stable and standing. Her leg trembles, just slightly, and you can't help but laugh as you feel the muscles tense under your touch.

"Stay still," you whisper to her.

"You're making that difficult," she says with a short huff of a laugh.

"You want me to stop?"

"No." It comes out quick and firm.

You smirk, and you keep on rubbing her pussy through the thin, tight material of her pants. You press your hand in harder, as you look her body over. She looks divine. Her body is so tight, with her legs and thighs being pushed to their absolute limits. You watch the muscles of her neck flex and the tension in her shoulders as she holds herself stable, her head up to look in the mirror. She watches you, and watches her leg up in the air, as she tries to focus on anything other than the heat which floods between her thighs.

Her mouth opens slightly, her eyes close and her brow creases, but the moment her breath sounds more like a moan, she clamps her mouth closed and lets out a deep breath through her nose. It makes you smile. Her cheeks are glowing red. Her breath is heavy, and she's trying to be so quiet.

"How long do we have? How long will he wait out there?" you ask as you lean in closer. Her body shudders at the proximity. Your breath hits the exposed skin on her neck, making her tremble.

"As long as I need him to."

"Do you think you'll be able to hold the position while I make you cum?"

Her eyes open again, and she looks at your reflection. She's smiling. She nods, just slightly.

"You think you'll be able to stay balanced while you have my fingers in you?"

Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, and her breath leaves her in a short, sharp gasp. You know how to get to her. Her smile grows.

"I'd love to rip these open, but I can't send you home in ruined clothes," you whisper. It makes her giggle, a soft and amused noise. You pull her leg back down, and she stands there, hand on the railing, with a slight bend in her hips and a slight arch in her back. It pushes her ass out, and she does it with a purpose. She knows what she's doing. She knows exactly how she looks. "Never get tired of that ass," you comment as you grab it. A quick, firm squeeze. It's so pliable in your hand. She laughs.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of her blue yoga pants, pulling them down slowly. You expose the expanse of her back, the curve of her spine, the dimples just above her cheeks. And then, finally, her ass is bare. There's nothing underneath her pants but toned curves and soft flesh. Your eyes drink in the sight. It's not new to you, but it's always exciting.

She steps out of her pants, and as you toss the clothing aside, you watch her. The muscles of her thighs and legs are tense and tight, and her skin is so smooth. You run a hand up her calf, past the back of her knee, along her inner thigh. She burns under your touch. Your eyes wander over her. You can see her arousal; the shine on the lips of her cunt, the slight pink hue to her flesh. Your fingers brush over her. The wet sound is unmistakable. She moans at the sensation and the noise.

You stand, and she raises her leg again without being asked or instructed. She's watching you, her eyes on yours as her leg rises higher and higher. Your eyes wander down, along her leg, down to the place you can't help but be fixated on. It's a beautiful sight. Your hand comes down to caress her cunt, and you feel her lips and the wetness which seeps from between her thighs.

Your eyes rise to meet hers in the reflection, and she's smiling as you press two fingers inside of her.

"Fuck," she exhales in a short, breathy word. You can feel her pussy squeeze your fingers.

"You're soaked," you say as you watch her in the mirror.

"Been thinking about you all morning," she confesses as her head falls backwards and her hand grips the bar. Her fingers flex and tighten. Her body trembles.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"He ever got you this wet?" You can't help yourself. It slips from your mouth in a low, almost growl of a tone. You press your fingers in and pull them back out. You repeat it a few times, fucking your fingers in and out of her wet hole. She's so hot, her body trembling and tense.

"No," is all she says, her voice soft, her eyes opening again. She's watching you. "Not anymore," she adds with the slightest shake of her head. Her eyes close, and her lips open. Her mouth forms a perfect circle as you fuck your fingers in and out of her.

"He doesn't make you cum, does he, Zuha?" Your voice is a low rumble as you speak to her, watching her face contort and twist in the reflection. You look down, at the sight of her pussy wrapped around your two digits, the wet lips spread open as you fingerfuck her. She looks divine. Her legs are trembling, and she's so tense. You have to push in firmer to keep her stable.

"Only when he leaves me alone," she replies, breathlessly laughing.

"Only when he leaves you to think of me," you say with a grin as you curl your fingers inside her. Her hips buck, her body sways, and she lets out the softest whine. You press your thumb to her clit as your fingers rub inside of her. You feel her squeeze around them. She has to grab her leg, she can't keep it there on her own.

"Oh, god," she whines.

"Careful. Don't lose it now." She nods, her lip between her teeth, as her eyes screw shut. "You're nearly there," you say, in a soft tone as she writhes in front of you.

"So close," she whispers, hot and panting. Trembling and tense. You can feel it all; the way she tightens and flexes, her muscles clenching. It's a struggle for her to stay standing. She can't balance, even though her hand grips her leg and the other the railing, hard enough to make her knuckles turn white.

Her eyes fall closed. Her mouth hangs open slightly. Kazuha holds her breath.

She's cumming all over your fingers - a muted cry, muffled whines and whimpers, the tightening of her pussy and the spasming of her muscles, the tremor in her body and the gush of fluids which seeps from her. She's making a mess, though, from the waist up, you wouldn't know it. She's so elegant, even now, as she's being fingered in the dance studio with her husband outside. The only thing that betrays her calm appearance is her face, contorted and twisted with pleasure. She has her lip bitten, her brow creased and her jaw tense.

Finally, she relaxes, standing on two feet again as you pull your hand away and take a step back. She leans forward, forehead pressing against the cool, soothing glass. There's that same slight bend at the hips, that same arch in her back and the protrusion of her ass. Only this time, her cum seeps down her inner thigh.

You step against her again, your hands settling on her waist. She looks up at your reflection, smiling that satisfied, lazy grin.

"How's my balance? My composure?" she asks, amusement dancing in her tone.

"You're flawless."

"As are you," she compliments as you press a kiss to the back of her shoulder. "But..."

"But?" you repeat, lightly planting your hand against her butt, which she finds hilarious, as she laughs and shakes her head at you.

"But time's running out. It's only a one-hour session."

"Can't keep him waiting?" you tease. You already know that she doesn't care how long she leaves him waiting outside, but it is funny to watch her try to act like she does. She shrugs and gives a little non-committal sound. "We can still take our time, enjoy it." You kiss her neck. "There's still so much I want to see from you."

"What do you want to see?"

"You're a dancer. And dancing is all about the hips. You can move those things so beautifully."

She smirks and looks away, down at her own body, at her lower abdomen and the place where your hands are caressing her. She nods her head slowly as she bites her lip. "You wanna watch my ass shake, don't you?" She asks, still biting that bottom lip. She laughs as she watches you nod. She's right. So you nod, and she tells you: "Get on the floor then."

You don't even need a moment to process what she said to you. You get down, knees hitting the wooden boards. You sit back on your legs, and look up at her - she's standing in front of the mirrored wall. She looks over her shoulder. "Enjoying the view?" She asks, a teasing hint in her voice as she looks down at you. You look up, nodding and smirking.

"Immeasurably," you reply. You watch as her hips move, the muscles of her thighs flex, and the soft flesh of her backside shakes. She's hypnotic, her body swaying and her hips moving in slow circles. You reach up to grab her, hands on the back of her thighs as you watch the way she moves. She laughs at the way your fingers sink into the flesh. She's so warm under your palms.

"You can lie down if you'd like," she says as you watch the slow, rhythmic motion. "I'll put on a show." Your hands drop away, and you lower your back onto the floor. You watch as she looks at herself in the mirror and rolls her body. Each time, she sinks a little lower, bends at the knees, and her thighs flex. Her body rolls and she laughs, and you lie there and watch her move. Her hips shake, and her ass jiggles. "You won't need those pants."

It's a thinly-veiled instruction, and she knows it, but she still says it in the form of a statement, as if it isn't a command for you to undress. You pull them down and off, and then you toss the garment aside. As you do it, she steps over you. A barefoot on either side of your hips. She looks down, over her shoulder, and you barely see her smile. "I was wondering where that was," she says. Her tone is so casual, it's like you aren't naked on the floor in a studio, and her husband isn't waiting for her in the car park.

Kazuha lowers herself into a split, one foot on either side of you. Her legs are stretched out wide and her ass is right over your cock. You get to see her muscles flex, and you watch as she moves herself up and down, grinding herself against you. Your cock slips between her pussy lips and you feel her arousal soaking your length.

"I can feel you getting harder. You're enjoying the view, huh?" she asks as she leans forward. She puts a hand on the floor between your legs. You watch her, the arch of her back and the way her legs are spread wide. She grinds her cunt over the shaft of your cock and she lets out the softest, low moans.

"Never seen a body quite like yours, Zuha," you say as your hands run up her thighs and to her ass.

"That's why I'm doing these classes - keeping in shape, keeping myself limber," she replies as she pushes herself back up and then slides back down, her cunt grinding over your dick. You groan and watch as your cock throbs against her. She reaches under, to grab your cock, guiding it to her opening. "I like the look of you, too. You look good down there, like you belong beneath me."

Your hands are on her cheeks, thumbs rubbing her soft skin. She sinks, her cunt swallowing the first inch of your dick. It's a warm, slick sensation as she takes the tip inside. She's so tight. She stops. You're barely inside her, and she starts to bounce those hips. She's just taking the tip, in and out, shaking her ass over your cock. Flesh ripples as the tight heat squeezes around your tip. Your hands squeeze, your fingers sink in, and your thumbs pull her cheeks apart.

Her hips shake, and she takes you in a little further. It's just two or three inches, nothing more, but she rides that part of your cock like she wants nothing else. You watch as your tip disappears between her lips and reappears again as she rides your dick in slow, steady motions.

"God, I can't wait for you to fill me," she says in a breathy tone. You look up at her reflection in the mirror, watching the way her chest heaves with each deep breath and the slight flush to her face.

"Why wait?" you ask, and you watch as her head rolls back. She's grinning, and she laughs as she sinks herself down your full length. Her ass presses against your pelvis. Her body stills with your cock throbbing inside her.

"Oh, that feels so good," she groans, throwing her head further back. Her back arches more, and in the mirror, you can see the way she stretches her tight abs. That tight top rides up. It still caresses her little tits, but her belly is on show. You can even see her ribs when she's fully stretched.

She's running her hands up her body, fingers splaying on her stomach, and then she cups her chest. You watch in the reflection, seeing the way her body is contorted, and her cunt squeezes around you.

"You're stunning," you say, breathless and panting.

"You're so big," she replies as she runs her palms over her covered tits. Her thumbs trace over the top of the material. The tight fabric clings to her chest, but you want to see her without it.

She starts to ride. Her ass bounces over your hips, and you feel her pussy tighten with each movement. You can only admire the strength it must take to ride you in full splits, with her body contorted and her muscles stretched taut. But she does it, her body rolling in a smooth motion and her thighs tensing with each rise and fall of her ass.

Your hands are on her butt. Fingers sinking in, you guide her to a slower pace, and she moans as your dick slides inside her. She's watching in the mirror, seeing the way she takes all of you in. You watch it, too.

And then she does the most insane thing. She reaches back, leaning over you, and you take her hands to support her. As she arches further and further, stretching her core and her thighs - everything - you see it. Your cock bulges under her skin. The outline of your cock in her stomach as her skin pulls tight. She moans as she leans, arching her body and contorting it in the most insane of ways, and your eyes fix on her abdomen. You watch it as you start to thrust your cock inside her.

"Can you see that?" She asks. You nod, and she laughs as her eyes close and her head rolls. "That's so hot," she says, as her fingers flex in yours. She's squeezing tight. She's panting. She's stuck suspended over you, her body contorted in ways that would make most women - and men - very jealous.

You hold her like that and begin to thrust up into her. You feel her clench around you and you watch the outline of your dick in her stomach. Your eyes wander over her chest and the slight jiggle of her breasts beneath her top, and her legs outstretched. She's so flexible, and you take advantage of that. Your hands support hers as you fuck up into her.

"Oh god," she pants, her body writhing and twisting in your grasp. "I'm not going to last long," she warns you.

"I can feel that." It isn't hard to see that she's enjoying herself, but the physical reaction is just as apparent. You feel her tighten and squeeze, and you know it's only a matter of time.

You move a little faster, buck a little harder, and she can't stifle the strained moans anymore. She cries out, head back, moaning like a woman possessed, but she holds the pose and you hold her, as you feel her body shake and her cunt clench. She cums - cums hard. She gushes and her body quakes in your grasp, but she never falters, even though she is whining and whimpering in pleasure.

"Good, Zuha, so fucking good," you whisper to her, still moving your hips. She's panting and her eyes flutter as she tries to catch a breath and stay in the same position. "Look at yourself, taking all of my cock, even like that."

You keep bulging her stomach, the shape of your dick pushing outwards. You can feel yourself throbbing inside her, and you're close, so close, and you can feel the heat and pleasure pooling between your hips. You have to stop, or else you'll finish too. Her legs can't hold the split anymore, coming to a close on either side of your own body. You lower her gently against your chest. Her back to your front, your dick still throbbing inside her cunt.

She's panting and laughing and shaking. "You didn't finish." It's a question and a statement.

"No."

"I want you to."

"Not like this." You wrap your arms around her slender frame. Just lying there with her atop your chest feels wonderful, and with the added sensation of your dick inside her, it feels incredible.

"Tell me how," she says. Her head is resting on your shoulder, and she looks up at the ceiling. Her breathing is heavy, and her chest is still rising and falling rapidly.

"Against the wall. With your ankles over my shoulders." Her lips curl into a wide, amused smile.

"I think you just like my flexibility more than you like me," she jokes.

"Nah," you reply, as your hand runs up her body and to the tight material over her chest. You feel her nipples under the material, and as your fingertips run over the peaks of them, she shudders. Her cunt clenches in reaction to your touch and you let out a short laugh. "I like everything about you."

"Yeah?" she breathes the word out as you run your fingers over her hard nipple. You roll the peak under the material, pinching it between two fingers as she squirms against you.

"I'd list it all, but that would be quite the task, and your husband's waiting," you tell her. Your hand is sliding over the material of her top. You're feeling her tits under the fabric. You cup the small handful, and she's so soft in your palms. Your fingers squeeze her chest, feeling her warm flesh beneath your touch, even if the fabric is still covering her. You roll her nipple again and you feel her arch her back and her ass push down on your lap.

You pull up her top, enough to see the underside of her breasts, the slight curve of the lower part of each mound. It exposes her enough for you to slip your hand beneath the material and feel her naked breast in the palm of your hand. Her body trembles as your fingers rub over the stiff peak of her nipple.

"Come on," you whisper, and you slip out of her, and she pushes herself off you.

A few moments later, she's got her back to the wall. You're standing between her open legs and kissing her. Your tongues dance in each other's mouths, and she's pulling you in by your neck. Her hands are in your hair and your hands are on her body - her thighs, her ass.

"Gonna fuck me now?" She asks with her eyes closed and her head back against the mirrored wall.

"Gonna make a mess outta you, Zuha."

She laughs and looks down, watching as you lift her legs up, carrying her with the help of the wall and your arms under her knees. She's holding on to your neck. Her legs spread open. "Do your best," she says, before pulling you into a kiss. She has her fingers in your hair, and her thighs against your chest as you thrust into her. She lets out the softest gasp against your mouth.

It's the perfect angle, the perfect position. You can't get enough. You start to fuck into her in hard and fast thrusts of your cock, filling her tight cunt, and you can feel the pressure of her body against yours as her cunt clenches around you. She moans against your mouth. Her thighs shake.

You've got her pinned against the wall, pressed to the cool, smooth mirror, her thighs held in the crook of your arms, her calves dangling over your shoulders as you fuck her. You pull your mouth from hers and you watch the way her body moves, you push up her shirt to watch her cute little tits move with each hard, rough thrust. She looks up at you and smiles that lazy smile. She looks blissful, and content. Her eyes close, and her mouth opens. You watch as she lets out soft, breathy noises with each motion.

She has one hand on the mirror and one in your hair, her nails are scraping at the back of your scalp as you fuck her. Her thighs are tight, pressed against your chest and tensing. Her toes are curled. And her body, her slender, taut body, is moving in a smooth rhythm against the mirror.

It's mesmerising. She's folded in half, suspended in the air with the wall behind her and your body holding her up. You're pounding her into it, and she's letting out such filthy, sweet noises. At this point, she's a toy. A vessel to fuck. She looks beautiful. Her hair is loose and hanging down over her face. The colour is in her cheeks, the pink of arousal, and she's biting her lip.

She doesn't need any help, you know that. You're giving her what she wants. The way her cunt tightens around you tells you as much, and the sounds which fall from her lips are all the encouragement you need. "Harder," she tells you. You give her harder. She cries out in pleasure, head back, and eyes screwed closed. "Harder!" she repeats. So, again, you give her harder.

It's rough, but she can take it. Her body can take the pounding. Her pussy can take the fucking. She's cumming again, with her fingers clawing at the mirror and at your hair, with her legs tensed and her toes curled. You don't stop fucking her through the spasming and squeezing of her body. She writhes, her mouth open and moans tumbling forth from her throat, her eyes closing, and her cunt tightening.

"Please cum," she whimpers, as she trembles. You can see the tears of ecstasy in her eyes, and you know you've fucked her well and properly, but there's only one thing missing. "Fill me."

And you do, you slam your hips forward, burying yourself as far in as possible and you cum deep in her cunt, spurting inside of her, filling her. She's panting, smiling that wide grin. "Yes," is all she says, in a breathless moan, as your body shivers against hers and your seed spurts deep in her pussy. She's clenching her thighs, tensing them and squeezing her cunt around your cock.

You keep cumming until you can't anymore until the pleasure fades to oversensitivity. Her hands are stroking your neck, your chest. She's panting and her eyes are closed, and you just stay there, with your forehead resting against hers. You breathe in the scent of sweat, of her, and the smell of sex in the air. It's an incredible aroma, all of it. And she's an incredible woman.

"I have to get in that car, full of your cum," she laughs, as she kisses your mouth, her hands cupping your face.

"That's so dirty. So wrong." You laugh as you speak, and you feel her smile.

"So dirty, and so good."

You slowly let her legs down. She holds you for support. Kazuha slips her top back over her chest and you pull out of her, letting your dick slip from her warm, wet pussy. Her thighs tremble, and she has to steady herself.

"I should clean up, I might leak your cum on his leather seats," she laughs loudly. She's so full of life and joy, it's wonderful. "And that's a bit too much, even for me."

"One day he's going to walk in here, you know that?"

She nods. Her smile doesn't falter. "Probably. And when he does, he can see what I look like when I'm not faking it."

[misstycloud]

[Yandere.Rich man x ballerina reader]

(I don’t actually know much about ballet so forgive me if things are incorrect!)

—————

Rich. Yandere who was pestered by his friend and his wife to join them at the opera house and enjoy a performance. The couple had asked him numerous times before but he’d always declined. He was a workaholic and didn’t have any other commitments, so there was no need to break his routine. Although he would never admit it to anyone- he barely does to himself- he often find himself imagining a different life; one where he had a wife to welcome him home every evening. Perhaps a few children too. There was no sound besides himself and the staff in his home, it would be so very nice to hear the noise of running feet and happy chatter echo through the empty halls.

Rich. Yandere who is lonely above all else. His family is dead and he has next to no friends- the only one he has is married and devote all his time to keep him company. He knows that he doesn’t have the best track-record of being the kindest person in the world, and he might not be the friendliest or the most out-going, still, doesn’t he deserve some love too?

Rich. Yandere who eventually give into his friends demand and goes with them to the opera. As they took their seats- the expensive and best ones, of course- his friends wife babble on about her favourite dancer. They were regulars there and had seen many performances. He simply sighed and leaned back into his seat, waiting for the show to begin. He could only hope that it’ll be somewhat enjoyable since he doesn’t like wasting his time.

Rich. Yandere who was prepared for it to be a dreadful 3 hours, rubbing his eyes and suffering from lack of blood-flow in his legs. Oh how wrong he was. Instantly his gaze zoomed into you as soon as you stepped forward from behind the curtain. You were so beautiful and you moved your body gracefully to the music. It was magical. While he knew close to nothing about ballet, he knew that the point of it were for the women to look like they’re floating, and it���s exactly what you were doing.

Rich. Yandere who is instantly enamoured with you. As someone who’s never felt love this was all a brand new experience for him. He asked his friend and his wife if they knew who you were, since they frequent the opera so much. And turns out the wife did know who you were; you were her favourite after all. Rich. Yandere was never close with her or particularly liked her even, but he had to give it to her: she has excellent taste in performers.

Rich. Yandere who starts looking up information regarding you. It’s be your name, age, background, family, where you went to school and where you live. Everything. He also begins donating a lot of money to the opera house. In a short amount of time he’s become their nr.1 funder. The managers and owners are ecstatic at the news! They ask why he’s so generous and he simply answers that he loves culture and thinks it’s important it doesn’t disappear. Then, they wonder if there is anything they can do for him return, to which he smiles in response.

“Well, I do suppose there is one dancer I would be delighted to meet in person.”

Rich. Yandere who you feel uncomfortable around. He is so strange. You were just a normal ballerina, a dancer, no better or worse than anyone before your time. That’s why you can’t fathom the interest this wealthy man has taken in you. You two came form completely different worlds! But what can you do when your bosses not-so-gently urge you to see this man alone? You dont have any other skills and can’t apply to another job if you get fired.

Rich. Yandere who is determined to make you fall for him the way he has fallen for you. He’ll take care of you, love you and protect you. You don’t have to worry about a thing. He will do anything for his love.

“Don’t be scared, just keep on dancing, my little dancer.”

[thedilfdiaries]

sweet surrender

Clint x f!reader // 6k

summary: your sleazy boss convinces you to fuck in the break room to a shitty porn tape he rented

warnings: mdni, 18+, porn with minimal plot, sleazy!clint, daddy kink, oral f! and m! receiving, unprotected p in v, fucking at work, fucking to a porn video, reader has titties, edging, orgasm denial

notes: a big huge thank you to @itwasntimethatdidit40 for reading this and being the sweetest cheerleader and for making me a moodboard when I was going through this crisis I love you so very much, @milla-frenchy for reading and leaving me the best comments you are the sweetest bb <3 and a big thank you to @evolnoomym for reading this over too. You are all the best and I love you veryyyyy much. // ty @/darkissoulmybody on Pinterest for the clint pic <3

masterlist

The bell above the door jingles as you step into the dimly lit video store, the scent of old VHS cases and cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The neon glow from the ADULT SECTION sign flickers in the back, casting shadows over the rows of tapes Clint probably hasn’t dusted in a decade.

You spot him behind the counter, feet kicked up, flipping through a magazine like he’s got all the time in the world. His aviators rest low on his nose, and when he glances up at you, a slow smirk spreads across his face.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

You roll your eyes, tossing your bag onto the counter. “I’m five minutes early.”

Clint shrugs, shutting the magazine with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Coulda fooled me. Felt like I was sittin’ here all alone for hours.”

“Tragic.”

“You have no idea.” He leans forward, elbows on the counter, eyes raking over you in that way that’s become annoyingly familiar. “Lucky for me, I’ve got entertainment.”

You don’t have to ask. You already know. Like clockwork, there’s a VHS case sitting right by the register, an X-rated title in bold, red letters across the front. He picks out one every damn week like it’s just part of his routine. Sometimes he even makes you ring it up for him, just to see if you’ll get flustered.

Clint taps the tape with two fingers. “Think this one’s gonna be good?”

You glance at it. Sweet Surrender. Jesus.

You arch a brow. “Didn’t take you for a romance guy.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Clint drawls, grinning like he’s got you right where he wants you. “I got layers.”

You scoff, moving past him to clock in. Clint watches you go, the heat of his gaze pressing into your back. It’s always like this—him looking, teasing, toeing the line just enough to make you wonder if he’d ever actually cross it.

You haven’t figured out yet if you’d let him.

The night drags on slowly, the hum of the old fluorescent lights blending with the occasional creak of the front door. A couple of regulars come and go, renting their usuals, nodding at Clint. You organize the counter, stock a few shelves, and pretend you don’t notice the way Clint always seems to be near.

At some point, you duck into the break room, craving a moment of quiet. The tiny space is cluttered—half-empty soda cans, an old couch that smells like dust, and a mini fridge stocked with questionable leftovers. You lean against the counter, letting out a slow breath.

And then Clint’s there, filling the doorway.

“Escapin’ from me already?” he muses, arms crossing over his broad chest.

You don’t look at him, reaching for the fridge instead. “Just needed a break from your endless charm.”

He chuckles, low and rough. “That so?”

You grab a soda, cracking it open. “Mhm.”

Clint takes another step closer, and this time, you feel it. The heat of him, the scent of cigarettes and cheap aftershave, the way his presence always seems bigger than it should be in a room this small.

"Y’know, sweetheart," he drawls, voice dipped in that slow, southern thing he does when he’s feeling extra cocky, "I don’t think you appreciate me enough."

You take a sip of your soda, deadpan. "So sad."

"That’s what I’m sayin’." He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "I’m here, night after night, keeping this fine establishment running—"

"You sit behind the counter and read Hustler."

"—And in return, do I get so much as a thank you?" He sighs, like he’s been personally victimized. "No, I do not."

You roll your eyes, setting your soda down with more force than necessary. "Thank you, Clint, for gracing this dump with your presence."

He smirks. "Anytime, sweetheart."

You turn to leave, but before you can, Clint starts talking.

"You ever get curious?" he asks, voice all low and knowing.

You frown. "About what?"

Clint taps the VHS tape in his hand. The one he brought into the break room with him. The one he’s now pushing into the old, busted TV set in the corner like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Your stomach drops. "Clint—"

The screen crackles to life. A grainy, oversaturated image flickers on—the unmistakable opening of Sweet Surrender, complete with cheesy saxophone music and a woman moaning through the static.

You stare at the TV. Then at Clint.

"What the fuck, dude?"

Clint just grins, sinking down onto the old couch like this is all one big joke. Like he planned for this reaction. He stretches out, legs spread wide, arm slung over the back like he owns the place.

Like he’s settling in.

"What?" He gestures lazily at the screen. "Figured we could do some, y’know, quality control."

You gape at him. "You did not just put on a fucking porno in the break room."

Clint shrugs, completely unbothered. "Looks like I did."

You’re about to cuss him out, maybe throw your soda at him, when he takes it a step further—because of course he does.

He pats the cushion beside him, smirking. "C’mon, sweetheart. Scared you might like it?"

You scoff, folding your arms tight across your chest. "Oh, fuck off, Clint."

But he just grins wider, eyes glinting. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

"That a no?" he drawls, tilting his head. "Shame. Thought we were friends."

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Friends don’t put on softcore porn in the break room."

"Softcore?" Clint clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Sweetheart, you wound me. You think I’d waste my time on soft anything?"

You open your mouth to fire back, but then a particularly loud, breathy moan cuts through the static, and you feel your face heats up.

Jesus Christ.

Clint watches you, eyes flicking between you and the screen like he’s waiting—hoping—to catch you slipping.

"Y’know," he muses, stretching his arms up behind his head, "you could just not watch. Seems like you’re thinkin’ about it awful hard, though."

You shake your head, biting back the urge to tell him to go to hell. "I’m not thinking about shit."

Clint hums like he doesn’t believe you, like he can see right through you. He stays lounging, legs spread, fingers drumming lazily against his thigh as he turns his attention back to the screen.

Another moan filters through the static.

You grab your soda gripping it tighter. "You’re disgusting."

"And yet, here you are. Still talkin’ to me."

You glare at him, turning for the door. "I have actual work to do."

But before you can take a step, Clint clicks his tongue. "Ah, ah, ah—why don’t you sit down, sweetheart?"

Your spine goes stiff. "What?"

He gestures to the empty space beside him. "Take a load off. Ain’t like we’re busy."

You scoff. "Not happening."

Clint exhales, long and slow, like this is just another inconvenience to him. Then, he says it.

"You sure? ‘Cause if you’re not in the mood to be a team player…" He lets the words hang, lazy and sharp at the same time. "I could always find someone else to cover your shifts."

Your stomach drops. "Are you—" You stop yourself, clenching your jaw. "Seriously?"

He grins, all teeth. "Dead serious."

Your pulse kicks up, anger boiling under your skin. "You’re gonna fire me—because I won’t watch your shitty porn with you?"

"Don’t be dramatic," Clint says, patting the cushion again. "Just tryna boost morale. You don’t wanna be a team player? That’s fine. I’ll just start lookin’ for someone who will."

You glare at him, every part of you screaming to tell him to fuck off, to storm out and never come back.

But rent is due. Your car needs gas. And Clint knows it.

You don’t sit right away. You stand there, arms locked tight, fighting every instinct telling you not to give him the satisfaction.

And Clint just sits there, watching, waiting for you to crack.

Finally, with a sharp inhale, you place your soda down again and drop onto the couch beside him, arms still crossed.

He chuckles low, tilting his head toward you. "See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

Your jaw is clenched so tight it aches. "Go to hell, Clint."

Clint just smirks. "Darlin’, I’m already there. Might as well enjoy the view."

Clint spreads his legs enough to make sure you notice. His arm drapes across the back, fingers barely grazing your shoulder, like he’s settling in with you. Like this is comfortable.

For him, anyway.

For you, it’s fucking not.

"Ain’t too bad, huh?" he murmurs, voice all slow and smug.

You fix your gaze on the TV, jaw clenched. "Shut up."

But Clint isn’t the type to shut up.

He watches you instead of the screen, studying the stiff set of your shoulders, the way your arms stay locked tight across your chest. Like you think you can make yourself smaller. Like you think you can ignore him.

But he’s relentless.

He leans in, breath warm against your ear. "Relax, sweetheart. You act like I just asked you to do somethin’ real dirty."

You whip your head toward him, scowling. "This is dirty."

He grins, slow and lazy. "Yeah?" His gaze dips lower, raking over you in a way that makes your skin prickle. "Ain’t even touched you yet."

Fucking hell.

You snap your head back toward the TV, desperate to look anywhere else. The scene playing out is typical cheap VHS smut—bad lighting, a low-budget set, and a woman fake moaning as some guy runs his hands all over her. They’re both already naked, sprawled across a tacky, leopard-print couch that looks stiff and uncomfortable. Her curls bounce as she arches exaggeratedly, lips parted in an over-the-top gasp.  

“Mmm, yeah, just like that,” she purrs, dragging her nails lightly down his back, though the gesture looks more like a routine than genuine pleasure.  

The guy—tan lines stark against his skin, hair slicked back with too much gel—grunts, his expression unfocused. “You like that?” His voice is low, but the words sound hollow, like he’s said them a hundred times before.  

She lets out another moan, forced, too high-pitched to be real. The camera lingers on his hands moving over her, on the way she spreads her legs obligingly, even as her expression flickers—boredom creeping in beneath the act. The whole thing feels mechanical, like they’re just going through the motions, a loop they’ve rehearsed a hundred times before.

“God, you feel so good,” she sighs, her voice sweet, syrupy, and just a little too rehearsed.  

The man doesn’t respond, just keeps moving, his rhythm unchanged, like he’s punching a clock. The camera zooms in slightly, grainy and unflattering, the colors oversaturated in that distinct VHS way. It’s all so obvious—cheap, impersonal, bodies going through the motions for the sake of getting paid.

And yet, you can’t quite look away.  

Clint hums, tapping his fingers against the couch. "Gotta say, Sweet Surrender ain’t half bad. Got a nice lil’ build-up to it."

You exhale sharply, your patience hanging by a thread. "Do you ever stop talking?"

Clint just chuckles, low and amused. "Not when I’m enjoyin’ myself."

And then—he sprawls out even more, shifting so his knee knocks against yours.

You jerk away. "Clint—"

"What?" He feigns innocence, head tilting. "Ain’t my fault there's not much room on this ratty ol’ couch."

Your hands ball into fists in your lap. "You’re the one who told me to sit here."

He grins again, wolfish and filthy. "And lucky for you, I’m real good at sharin’."

You’re about to snap, about to say something vicious—but then his fingers brush your thigh. Just a ghost of a touch, casual as anything, but pointed.

Deliberate.

Your breath catches, and he notices.

His smirk deepens, voice dropping lower. "Aw, sweetheart. You nervous?"

You swallow hard, forcing your body to stay still. "No."

Clint tsks, shaking his head. "Liar."

And then, the fucker has the nerve to nudge his knee against yours again, slow and deliberate, his fingers tap a lazy rhythm against your thigh.

"You sit here actin’ all stiff, like you don’t wanna be here," he murmurs, his voice damn near silky. "But you haven't left yet."

Your nails dig into your palms. "Because you threatened to fire me."

Clint just grins. "Uh-huh." He leans in again, voice dipping into something rougher. "That the only reason?"

Your heart slams against your chest.

You should get up. Should shove him away, tell him to fuck off, storm out and let him deal with this shitty store all by himself.

But your legs won’t move. Your body won’t move.

And Clint? He just keeps watching you, looking at you like he’s already won.

Like he knows something you don’t.

His smirk turns downright predatory, all lazy amusement and smug satisfaction. "See," he drawls, fingers still moving up your thigh, "you talk a big game, sweetheart, but you like this, don’t you?"

You inhale sharply, turning your head to glare at him. "I do not—"

He chuckles, slow and deep. "Mmm.”

His hand drags a little higher, not quite a grope, but enough to feel. Enough to let you know he’s testing you, waiting for you to stop him.

You should stop him.

But your body betrays you, staying right there, locked in place, heat curling in your stomach in a way you hate.

Clint grins like he can taste your hesitation. "See? Ain’t so bad, am I?"

You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady. "You’re a fucking creep."

He hums, unconcerned. "Maybe." 

The TV hums in the background, the flickering glow casting shadows across his face. Another moan filters through the static, obscene and drawn out.

And Clint? He doesn’t look at the screen.

He looks at you and winks.

"Y’know," he muses, voice all slow and smug, "coulda left five minutes ago. Could leave now." His fingers press a little firmer, teasing the edge of your inner thigh. "But you won’t."

Your breath shudders, hands curling into fists.

His lips twitch. "So, tell me, sweetheart. You gonna sit here, act all mad, or you gonna do what we both know you wanna do?"

Your whole body is burning—rage, humiliation, something else you refuse to name.

You need to leave.

And Clint fucking knows it.

His smirk deepens, hand creeping higher, his voice dipping into something rougher, darker. 

"That’s my girl."

Your whole body is wound tight, muscles locked, breath shallow.

And that’s when he knows he’s got you.

His smirk turns downright wicked. "C’mon, sweetheart," he murmurs, tilting his head toward his lap. "Why don’t you get a little more comfortable?"

Your breath catches. "Excuse me?"

Clint just pats his thigh, lazy and casual like he’s offering you the comfiest seat in the house. "Ain’t gonna bite. Unless, y’know, you ask real nice."

You should slap him.

He leans in a little more, breath warm against your ear. "I ain’t making you do nothing, doll," he says, slow and deliberate. "You wanna leave? Walk. But you stay sitting here, pretending like you don’t want it? Now that’s just wastin’ both our time."

Your stomach twists, heat coiling low. "You’re so fucking full of yourself."

Clint chuckles, dark and knowing. "Yeah? You ain't gotta pretend you don't like it.” 

You hate that he’s right.

Hate that your thighs press together, that your breath is shaky.

You inhale sharply.

Then, slowly, finally—you move.

You shift, hesitating for just a second before you swing your leg over and settle onto his lap.

His hands immediately slide to your hips, gripping firm, like he’s been waiting for this all goddamn night.

"Atta girl," he murmurs, voice all rough approval. His hands flex on your hips, warm and steady, holding you like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he knew you’d end up here eventually. You hate how he leans back just enough to take you in, like he’s already imagining exactly how this is gonna go.

You glare down at him. "Wipe that look off your face."

His smirk only deepens. "What look?"

You don’t answer, because if you do, your voice might shake. Might give something away. Instead, you grab the collar of his cheap button-up, fisting it tight like you’re considering shoving him away. He doesn’t look concerned. If anything, he looks even more pleased.

"Feisty," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. "Always figured you had a little fight in ya."

You roll your eyes. And then you do it.

You yank him in and crash your mouth against his, all heat and frustration, and fuck you wrapped up in a kiss. Clint makes a sound—low, satisfied, almost like he’d been daring you to do it. His hands tighten, fingers digging in, and then he’s kissing you back, deep and consuming, dragging you under like he owns you.

It’s messy, all clashing teeth and the faint taste of cheap beer and cigarettes on his tongue, but fuck, it’s good. Too good. His hands slide up your sides, rough and sure, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your shirt, teasing warm skin. You arch into it without thinking, and that’s all the invitation Clint needs—he groans, low in his throat, and suddenly you're moving, flipped onto your back before you can blink.

"Fucking finally," he mutters against your mouth, hands already pushing up your shirt.

You barely have time to register the old couch beneath you before Clint is on you, pressing you down, pinning you like he’s been waiting forever for this moment. His weight is solid, and grounding, and when he dips his head, dragging his lips down the side of your neck, you barely bite back a sound.

"Damn, you smell good," he rasps, voice thick, rough like gravel. "Been driving me fuckin’ crazy for weeks."

Your breath stutters as his teeth scrape over your pulse, the heat of his mouth making your head swim. You should say something, throw one last smartass remark his way—but then his hands are everywhere, tugging your shirt up, palming greedily over your ribs, thumbs teasing just beneath the edge of your bra.  

"You gonna help me out here?" he drawls, mouthing along your jaw. "Or you just gonna lay there all pretty and let me do all the work?"  

His voice is thick with something dark and amused, but there’s a heat behind it that makes your stomach tighten. You lift your arms, giving him exactly what he wants, and he wastes no time pulling your shirt over your head. The cool air hits your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake, but it's nothing compared to the warmth of his hands as they slide over your bare shoulders, and down your sides. Your bra follows, unhooked with practiced ease, and he groans as he takes you in���eyes dark, hands already reaching.  

"Look at you," he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over your nipples, watching the way they pebble under his touch. "Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen."  

Then he dips down, mouth hot and eager, dragging wet kisses along the swell of your breast before he takes one into his mouth. His tongue is slow, deliberate, circling, flicking, while one of his hands kneads the other, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.  

He hums against your skin, lips dragging lower before he sucks at the sensitive underside, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him.  

"That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice rough, breath warm against your skin. His other hand rolls your nipple between his fingers, teasing, making you whimper. "Bet you like being taken care of, don't you?”

You let out a shaky breath, head tilting back as heat coils low in your belly. His mouth is everywhere—kissing, sucking, teasing—turning you pliant under him. His words send a shiver down your spine, and you barely realize you’re nodding before your lips part to speak.  

"Yeah," you admit, voice soft, a little breathless. "I— I like it."  

Clint hums against your skin, dragging his teeth along the curve of your breast. "Yeah, I bet you do," he murmurs, fingers rolling your nipple, teasing, making you whimper. "Bet no one's ever really taken care of you before, huh? Not like this." His voice is all gravel and heat, thick with certainty. "Not by a real man.”  

Your breath stutters, your fingers twitching where they rest against the couch. The way he’s looking at you—hungry, possessive, like he already knows the answer—makes your pulse race.

"S’okay, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss between your breasts. "Daddy’s gonna take real good care of you."

Before you can even process the rush of heat his words send through you, Clint just grins, teeth flashing, and suddenly his hands are on yours, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one quick, easy motion.

You open your mouth—to argue, to tell him he’s full of shit—but then he grinds himself against you, and whatever insult you were about to spit out melts into a choked-off gasp.

Clint’s breath is hot against your skin as he leans over you, the flickering light of the TV casting a sinful glow over his face. The low, breathy moans from the video playing beside him fill the cramped break room, mixing with the sound of your own unsteady breathing. His grip on your wrists is firm, keeping you pinned as his hips press hard against yours, the thick outline of his cock grinding insistently where you need him most.

“You hear that? You sound even prettier than she does.”

You bite back a whimper, but he catches it anyway, grinning like the devil himself. His free hand slips under your pants, between your thighs, fingers stroking over the damp fabric of your panties, slow and teasing. The woman on the screen lets out a desperate little cry as the man behind her fucks into her deep, and Clint groans low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You wanna try it?”

Your breath stutters. “What?”

His teeth scrape over your jaw, fingers curling tighter around your wrists as his other hand slides beneath your waistband, fingers dipping into your slick heat. “The way he’s got her. Bent over that couch, takin’ it like a good girl.” He drags his fingers under your panties and through your wetness, teasing, torturing. “Bet you’d look real pretty like that.”

A shiver runs through you, half defiance, half raw, burning need. “And if I say no?”

Clint chuckles, a dark, knowing sound as he draws his fingers out of you, lifting them to his lips to suck them clean, eyes locked on yours the entire time. “Then I’ll just have to fuck you right here, just like this.” His hips press harder, the thick length of him straining against his jeans. “Either way, you’re gettin’ wrecked, sweetheart.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears, breath shallow as you glance at the screen—at the way the man’s hands are gripping the woman’s waist, pulling her back onto him, the obscene sounds of slick skin meeting skin filling the air. Clint’s watching too, tongue swiping across his bottom lip like he can already taste the way you’ll come apart for him.

“Tell daddy what you need,” he orders, voice rough, commanding. “Tell him how you wanna be fucked.”

Your pride wars with your arousal, but the heat in his eyes, the way he’s holding you down, leaves you with only one answer.

“Like that.” Your voice is breathless, shaky, but firm. “Fuck me like that.”

Clint exhales a low chuckle, fingers tightening on your wrists. “Yeah? Knew you had it in you, baby. Knew you’d give in.” His voice is smug, dripping with satisfaction as he leans in, breath hot against your ear. “Say it again. But sweeter this time.” His lips brush your jaw, teasing. “Come on, princess. Call me daddy like you fuckin’ mean it.”

Heat prickles down your spine, your body betraying you as a shiver rolls through you. You grit your teeth, but the way he’s looking at you—like he owns you, like you’re already his—makes resistance feel impossible.

“Fuck me like that… Daddy.”

His eyes darken, his cock twitching against his jeans. “That’s my good girl.”

In one swift movement, he releases your wrists, flipping you onto your stomach against the couch. The cushions sink beneath you as Clint tugs your pants and underwear down in one rough motion, his large hands knead at your ass before delivering a sharp slap that makes you gasp. “Goddamn, look at that,” he groans, spreading you open with both hands, his thumbs pressing into your skin. “Can’t wait to see this pretty ass bounce on my cock—gonna make you work for it, baby.” he groans, palming himself through his jeans before undoing his belt. 

He tugs the leather free with one sharp pull, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud. Then he slides a hand down between your thighs, his fingers spreading you open even further.

“And look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs, his voice thick with hunger. “Fuck, baby, she’s already so wet for daddy.” He drags a finger through your slick folds, slow and teasing, before bringing it to his mouth. His groan is low, filthy, as he sucks your taste from his fingers.

“Sweet as fuck,” he mutters, gripping your hips, dragging you back toward him. He leans in and his tongue flicks out, tasting you properly this time. His groan vibrates against you as he licks a slow, wet stripe up your cunt, his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave marks.

“Mmm,” he hums, licking his lips. “Gonna make a fuckin’ mess outta you.”

He leans back, and the sound of his zipper sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your body humming with anticipation. He doesn’t waste any time, shoving his jeans down over his hips, kicking them off completely along with his boxers. His cock stands thick and heavy, already leaking at the tip as he wraps a hand around the base, giving himself a slow stroke while his other hand spreads you open again.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing, making you squirm. “Just like in the video, huh?” He presses in just enough to drive you insane before pulling back, smirking when you whine.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he taunts, rubbing the tip against your clit, making you jerk. “Gonna make a nice mess for me?”

Please,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whine.

He stills, his grip on your hips tightening. “Please what, baby?” His voice is smug, low, full of satisfaction as he waits, knowing exactly what he wants to hear.

You bite your lip, pride warring with need—but the way he’s holding you, the way he’s teasing you, makes it impossible to resist.

“Please, daddy,” you whisper.

Clint groans, his cock twitching against you. And then he’s sliding into you, slow but deep, stretching you open until you’re gasping. His hands grip your hips tight as he bottoms out, his head falling forward with a low, guttural moan. “Oh baby, she feels good,” he grits out. “Takin’ daddy so damn good, like you were made just for me.”

The video is still playing, the sounds of pleasure in the background spurring him on as he starts to move. His pace is steady at first, measured, but you don’t want slow—you want exactly what he promised. You want to be fucked like the woman on the screen, raw and dirty and desperate.

“Harder,” you gasp.

Clint growls, snapping his hips forward with a punishing thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. His fingers dig into your hips as he sets a brutal pace, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the tiny room. The couch creaks beneath you, but you barely notice—your body is burning, strung tight, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

His grip tightens as he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Look up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice dark and commanding. “Look at the TV.”

Your dazed eyes flutter open, and the sight in front of you makes your breath hitch. On the screen, a woman is getting absolutely wrecked, her body bouncing with every deep, relentless thrust. Clint moans at the way your gaze locks onto it, his fingers move to your neck and tighten around your throat just enough to make your pulse race.

“See that?” he murmurs, thrusting harder, deeper, making your body jolt with each snap of his hips. “She looks so pretty takin’ it—just like you.” His hand slides down to your chest, squeezing rough, fingers rolling your nipple.. “Look at how her tits bounce, baby. Just like yours. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You whimper, your back arching into his touch, heat pooling deep in your stomach.

Clint’s grip moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head back so you can’t look anywhere but the TV. “Bet you like watchin’ it, don’t you?” he taunts, voice thick with sin. “Bet you love seein’ how good she takes it while I fuck you just the same.”

A deep, broken moan rips from your throat, your nails clawing at the couch as pleasure coils tight, ready to snap.

Clint groans, hips stuttering as he watches your body shudder beneath him. “Shit, you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna let daddy wreck you just like that?”

You let out a choked-off whimper as the scene on the TV shifts—the man shoving the woman onto her back, spreading her wide before diving between her legs. Clint watches, his breath going ragged, and then his dark eyes flick back to you.

“Mmmm.” he murmurs, dragging his fingers down your trembling body. “Bet you want that too, huh?”

You don’t even get the chance to answer before he moves, gripping your thighs and yanking you to the edge of the couch. The sudden motion has you gasping, but Clint just grins as he kneels between your legs.

“Keep watchin’,” he orders, voice low and rough.

Then his mouth is on you, hot and wet and devastating. His tongue drags over your clit in slow, deliberate circles, teasing, making you squirm. You grip his hair, tugging hard, but Clint just groans, sucking harder in retaliation.

“Look at you,” he mutters against your skin. “drooling for me. You like this, don’t you? Bein’ my plaything while we watch?”

The only response you can manage is a desperate, breathless moan.

Clint chuckles, the vibration making you shudder. He glances up at the screen, where the woman’s back is arching, her hands gripping the couch as the man devours her. Clint growls and follows suit, wrapping his hands tight around your thighs and burying his face between them, licking and sucking you deep, messy, like he’s starving.

“That’s it,” he groans, his voice muffled against you. “Lemme hear those pretty little sounds, sweetheart. Show me who does it better—me or him?”

Clint groans against you, his tongue flicking faster, rougher, his fingers digging into your thighs as he devours you like he’s got something to prove. The filthy, wet sounds of his mouth on you mix with the moans from the TV, the whole thing makes your head spin.

You’re so close—right on the edge, your body tensing, ready to snap—when suddenly, Clint pulls away. You whine at the loss, your hips bucking up instinctively, but he just grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he coos. “You’ll get to come—just not yet.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s gripping your wrist, pulling you up off the couch and onto your knees in front of him. His cock is right there, flushed, thick, slick at the tip from how worked up he is. He fists himself lazily, giving it a slow stroke as he watches you, his other hand brushing through your hair.

“Open up, baby,” he murmurs, tapping the head of his cock against your lips. “Wanna feel that pretty mouth on me.”

You part your lips, letting your tongue flick over the tip, and Clint groans, his fingers tightening in your hair.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Goddamn, you look so fuckin’ pretty like this.” His hips jerk slightly as you take him deeper, your tongue dragging along the thick vein on the underside. “Knew you’d be good for me. Knew you’d suck Daddy’s cock like a fuckin’ dream.”

He tilts your head up, making you look at him as you hollow your cheeks, taking more of him. His jaw clenches, a dark look flashing in his eyes. “Fuck, baby—look at you,” he groans. “So fuckin’ eager. You like it, don’t you? Like being on your knees for me, takin’ Daddy’s cock like a good little thing?”

You hum around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding your pace, making you take him deeper. You relax your throat, letting him use you, and the sound he makes is downright filthy.

“Shit, baby,” he grits out, his abs tightening as he thrusts a little deeper, a little rougher. “Gonna fuck this pretty mouth—gonna come down your throat.”

His other hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek, feeling how full your mouth is. “You’re gonna swallow every drop, ain’tcha, sweetheart?” His voice is rough, almost desperate now. “Gonna take it all like the good girl you are.”

His pace stutters, his hips jerking as his breathing goes ragged. “Fuck, fuck, that’s it—look at you, so perfect for me—”

With a deep, wrecked groan, he comes, spilling hot and thick down your throat, his fingers gripping your hair tight as he holds you there. You swallow around him, taking every drop just like he told you, and the way his body shudders from it sends another pulse of heat straight to your core.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb swipes across your bottom lip, gathering the last drop of his release before pressing it against your tongue.

You swirl your tongue around his thumb, sucking it into your mouth just to tease him, hoping he’ll get the hint—hoping he’ll finally give you what you need. But instead of pulling you back onto the couch, instead of touching you the way you’re aching for, Clint just chuckles, leaning back against the cushions with a lazy, satisfied grin.

Your brows furrow as you shift on your knees, the dull throb of your own arousal making you restless. “What the fuck?” you snap, your voice breathless and frustrated.

Clint sighs, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s already settling in for the night. “Sorry, baby,” he drawls, his tone dripping with smug amusement. “Daddy’s tired.”

Your mouth drops open in disbelief. “You’re kidding me.”

He smirks, reaching down to tuck himself back into his jeans before grabbing a nearby tissue to wipe his hand. “Nope.” His gaze flicks over your flushed, trembling body, your thighs still pressed together, desperate for friction. He lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn, look at you—so fuckin’ needy.”

You glare at him, gripping his knee, half tempted to crawl onto his lap and take what you need yourself. “Clint—”

But he just tuts, wagging a finger at you. “Uh-uh. Don’t be such a fuckin’ brat about it.” He reaches forward, tilting your chin up so you’re looking at him, his smirk deepening. “Tell you what, sweetheart—bring me another tape tomorrow. Somethin’ real dirty.” He runs his thumb over your bottom lip again, grinning when you shiver. “Then maybe—maybe—Daddy’ll let you come.”

Your breath hitches, your thighs clenching together involuntarily.

“Better be a good one,” he murmurs. “Now be a good girl and clean up, yeah?”

npt to those interested in the wips: @yxtkiwiyxt @baronessvonglitter @mushgloomz @arcanefox207 @gothcsz @probablyreadinsmut @iknowisoundcrazy @almostfoxglove @sawymredfox @whocaresstillthelouvre @myownwholewildworld @ace-turned-confused @jokesonthem

[thexsilentxwordsmith]

Biker!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!reader

From the ask here

Fandom: Call of Duty

Character(s): Simon Riley, Reader

Summary: Seeing Simon on his motorcycle is something that awakens a new yearning inside you, but when you get your own bike and start riding alongside him, the way he gets you hot and bothered makes it worse. You need him to fuck you on his bike and you hope your plan will make it happen.

Word Count: 5 k

Warnings:

The first time you ever saw Simon Riley perched atop his black motorcycle, in that moment some innate part of your brain was awakened and you were never the same. There was just something so incredibly erotic about the way those thick thighs straddled over the sides, the way his arms looked with their muscles bulging, straining his black short sleeved t-shirt wrapped around them as he leaned forward to reach the handlebars. Of course his helmet with the blacked out visor didn’t hurt either, not when paired with his sleeve of tattoos. He was a vision even more than usual and you were suddenly hooked. 

Then he took you for a ride along the open highway where he could really show you the power his bike had and that solidified your need to be involved in his hobby. Adrenaline, that was and still is Simon’s favorite part of being on the open road, his bike vibrating underneath him as the wind rushed past his body, and now that you had that first taste of it all, it was yours too. 

Whatever you needed to do to keep getting to look at him like that, to keep feeling that rush, you were more than willing to do it. 

Whenever he was on leave you two found yourselves on his bike, roaming the city on long night rides just to feel the wind on your skin and the rush of speed under your bodies. That was until he made an off-handed joke one day about getting you your own bike so that you could drive alongside him and then suddenly you were expressing how much you actually had been thinking about it. Sharing his hobby with someone, especially you, was something he has always wanted. To think you could experience the same thrills had him rushing to take you bike shopping the very next day so he could start teaching you.

You picked it all up relatively fast and before you knew it you had your license and regular drives have now become a part of your routine whenever your military man is in. Getting on the highway, opening the bike up as you go faster and faster, weaving through traffic with Simon always right by your side, there is something exhilarating about it all. And now you had the best view of that gorgeous specimen of a man.

Being able to see you on your own bike makes Simon have a taste of his own medicine because fuck did you look a goddamn beauty. Is this how you feel looking at him? The way it makes your back arch, full juicy arse just calling his name, has him salivating whenever he gets to see it. And he can’t help what it causes him to do; it’s not his fault when you look the way you do. The first time he ever pulled his little stunt, a ritual of sorts that he has to engage in every time you’re out driving together, you had a hard time focusing on the road after.

Bringing his bike close beside yours, he reaches out and runs his hand over the curve of your ass, making sure that he does it long enough that the other motorists behind you both can see him claim his hot biker vixen as his. You belong to him and he wants everyone that can see to know it.

And fuck does it drive him wild and have you reeling every time.

This goes on for quite a while, and all the times he’s touched you while riding have conjured up a new fantasy of yours and you finally decide you have to do something about it. Lately you’ve been thinking: what type of partner would you be if you didn’t return the favor? Simon deserves to be just as flustered too, right? It’s not because you need him to fuck you on his bike, nope, not all. 

Is it strange? Maybe. Will he go for it? You aren’t entirely sure, but one thing you do know is that you at least have to try. And if it works out, you know he’ll enjoy it too. On one of the last few nights of his leave, you decide that you’ve got nothing to lose and put your plan into motion.

“You know, it’s been so long since you took me on a ride with you,” you put your case to him tonight. “Like we used to. Me on the back of your bike, wrapped around you tight, you speeding through the lanes with the wind rushing past us. Remember that? I used to get so excited to see you just so you’d take me out with you.”

Those hazel eyes stare back at you curiously; of course he remembers. Christ, how could he ever fucking forget? Still, it’s intriguing to him why you would be bringing this up now. “What’s got ya all nostalgic sweetheart, hmm?” he asks with a raise of his eyebrow. “Ya don’t like ridin’ beside me?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Just thought it’d be nice to be close to you again is all, since you’ll be leaving soon,” you say as you bite your lip with a subtle coyness while you stare back at him with those tempting doe eyes that make him melt.

How can he say no to that? To his girl wanting to be near him? Absolutely fucking never.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby,” he responds as he gets up while pointing towards the bedroom, “well, go get dressed then. Can’t say no to ya when ya look at me like that.”

Simon is already sitting on the bike out front ready to go when you emerge from the front door in a short skirt, tight tank top, and leather boots and once again he is reminded just how lucky he is to be with you. This just keeps getting better and better for the ol boy. 

Climbing on the back and securing yourself around him, helmets on and visors down, Simon takes off into the night. He can feel the pressure from your hands wrapped tightly around his waist, pressing into his abs as you hold on, the warmth of your chest against his back, your thighs saddled up against his, and he wonders why you both don’t do this more often. 

The lights of the city sparkle around you, cutting through the evening like stars to illuminate your way as Simon drifts through the streets, making his way to the highway like he always does. Your heart is beginning to beat faster as you wait for the opportune moment to implement your plan and you silently hope that it works. 

On the highway, weaving in and out of traffic, Simon detects the first signs of something happening behind him. The movement is subtle at first and he almost misses that both hands aren’t pinned against his stomach anymore until he detects the warmth from your palm as it comes to rest on top of his thigh. He looks down through the visor of his helmet to where your hand lays as he wonders curiously to himself about the intentions of your actions.

Just what the hell is she up to? he thinks to himself as he turns his attention back onto the darkened road studded with streetlights.

The answer is quickly approaching as he feels your hand on the move again, now inching towards the middle of his broad thighs, moving and stopping, moving and stopping, to the crotch of his jeans and suddenly he understands just as you make first contact with the mass contained inside. 

A shiver runs up Simon’s spine and you can feel his back shudder against your chest as you start to rub over the swell, your touches heavy and full of purpose. Over and over again your palm makes purchase with his crotch and you can feel the muscles in his back tense. A part of him wants to pull your hand off so that can refocus, but it feels too damn good to get you to quit. Fuck, the pressure from your hand and the vibration from the bike has him so hard he can barely see straight. 

He needs to find some place to stop and fast; if he’s going to come in something it is not going to be his pants, it’s going to be you. 

Up ahead he sees an exit fast approaching and he quickly transfers over to the lane and takes it, not having a plan, but hopeful that he will be able to find something satisfactory enough. Brown eyes dart from one side of the street to the other frantically searching for something, anything so that he can pull off. The sign for a large parking garage is illuminated just up ahead; it’ll have to do. He won’t be able to focus for much longer; the pressure of your hand rubbing against his cock mixed with the vibrations from the bike leaves him gnawing at the bit with a need that he desperately has to satisfy. It wouldn’t be safe to keep going, not with the way his limbs are starting to tingle.

Simon drives through the first couple of levels and is glad to see it relatively empty save for a few straggling cars spaced far apart. Perfect, that means no one will be around to disturb him until he has had his way with you. He continues on a couple of levels that are completely empty as he puts you both more in the middle of the structure just to be sure you will be all alone until finally he drives to the back of the garage and pulls into the shadow, parking the bike and shutting it off. 

“Hop off,” he says and you immediately do as you're told, taking off your helmet and straightening your skirt as you make it to your feet.

You stand there close to his thigh as he removes his helmet and sets it on the ground on the other side of the bike, running his fingers through his short hair to fluff it up from being crushed underneath. As he sits back up his tattooed arm quickly reaches out behind your head where he grabs your hair into a ponytail in his fist, keeping your head locked while his opposite hand palms around your waist as he leans in with a smirk across his lips and a glimmer in those coffee-colored eyes. 

“Whatcha think you’re doin’, sweetheart? Playin’ games, hmm?” he asks as he stares back into your face.

“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug, your tone playful and coy. You know damn well what you are doing and he isn’t dumb enough to think you don’t.

He glares back at you skeptically. “Right.”

“What?” you dismiss him. “I thought you didn’t mind a bit of touching when we ride? Always grabbing me; thought you’d enjoy a bit of fun.” 

There it is; this is payback for all the times he’s made his move while you were out cruising together. And fuck, has it worked to perfection.

Simon rips his hand from your waist and wraps it around your wrist so that he can pull your hand forward and place it right up against the stiffening peak straining against the zipper of his form fitting jeans.

“So this is whatcha fuckin’ wanted, yeah?” he asks, breathiness in his gruff tone as your hand makes contact with the rigid bulge. “Gettin’ me so fuckin’ hard I can’t even be bothered ta wait till we get back home ta fuck ya?” 

Can’t wait? Is he saying what you think he’s saying? God, you hope so. “What do you mean?” you ask, faking your ignorance as you rub your palm over the swell while maintaining eye contact. “We aren’t going home?”

A deep hum echoes through the atmosphere as he bites his bottom lip; you’ve started something that can’t be stopped now and the way your hand continues to stimulate him, he doesn’t think you want it to anyway. “No,” he says with a shake of his head, “ya wanted to start all this on my bike, that’s fine. Guess I deserve it. But now…I’m gonna make damn sure I finish ya on it.”

As you stand there silently waiting to see what he does next, Simon shifts back in the seat and helps you climb back onto the bike, but facing him so that he can lay you over the fuel tank. He plants his feet firmly onto the ground to keep the setup steady and pulls your body down, those rough hands pushing your skirt up off your hips to your waist as he forces your legs open wider so he can get himself between them. 

Thank God you’ve worn something easy to get into. Or was that your plan all along? Doesn’t really matter much now; he’s in.

Simon looks down and his eyes catch sight of a dark spot in the crotch of your panties. He presses his hand up against the mound of your cunt and the pressure makes you twitch, your back arching up off the tank as he feels what he had just suspected: you’re a little damp.

“Seems someone’s already stirred up,” he comments as his hand releases the pressure only to press in tight all over again in a pattern that matches his increasing heart rate. “Ya like it, don’t ya baby? The way tha bike vibrates ‘tween your legs? Like the way it hums against ya ‘till your clit is swollen?”

Simon’s hard-on throbs harshly against the zipper of his pants and into your naked thigh, tenting the fabric while he grinds it into the muscle as you wrap your legs around his hips; you have to hold on as you can’t stop the way your body jerks the longer his touch prods against those sensitive lips. Just the pressure alone after the drive is enough to make you whimper inside your closed mouth.

“Have ya been thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’ like this? Me fuckin’ ya raw while you’re on this thing?”

Releasing his hand, he walks those long fingers over the top of your clothed pussy to the waistband of your panties so that he can slip them inside and back down to the moist slit waiting eagerly for their touch and there it is, the unmistakable sound of his breath hitching as his hand makes contact. God, you always feel so fucking good. 

He uses his two middle fingers to part the lips of your slit and run them along the length to gather all the wetness he can on his digits so that once he finds your entrance he can easily slip up inside while the tip of his thumb nestles against your clit. You’re very warm, nice and hot and soft against his fingertips and a pleasurable hum he gives in response to the feeling.

“Ya know, I know why ya started ridin’ with me,” he says as you squirm. “I could see it in your eyes the second I pulled in to pick ya up that first time: ya like the way I look on my bike. Don’t ya?”

Your silence is met with a heavy jab with the pad of his thumb to that sensitive little button, holding it down until you are forced to answer as he thrusts his fingers inside you up to the knuckle. Your body takes them in perfectly, gripping tight around the digits as you suck him in. 

“Yes,” you say in a whine and buck as his stocky fingers give you a nice starting stretch. “You 

look so f-fucking hot on this thing that sometimes I d-don’t know what to do with myself. That’s w-why I n-need…”

“What do ya need, sweetheart?” he groans as he curls his rough fingers up against your G-spot as his thumb begins to stroke concise circles upon your clit. “Use your words.”

You swallow hard while breathing heavily out of your nose as you clamp your lips shut to stop from audibly crying out in ecstasy at that first contact he makes. “Ah, ah, ah,” he scolds as he pins his thumb down hard again. “Let me fuckin’ hear ya. Ain’t no one here ‘cept us.”

A desperate moan escapes your lips and echoes through the empty space as you let it all out. “I need you to f-fuck me on y-your b-bike,” you say as you vibrate under his skilled touch. “B-been daydreaming about it for a while. Didn’t know if you’d want to, but I’m desperate.”

Using a flick of his wrist, he begins to snap his fingers up into you faster and faster, those fingers vigorously working your cunt until your juices are starting to dribble down to collect on his palm and the sound of wet slaps reverberate off the concrete. 

“All ya had ta fuckin’ do was ask,” he says. “Ya know I’d do anythin’ for ya, luv; my pretty girl always gets what she wants.”

You look so beautiful sprawled over his bike like this, disheveled skirt shoved up to your ribs, his hand plunged into the front of your panties so that they are stretched tight around your hips ready to rip, back arching as he again strikes right at the exact point of pleasure, tiny beads of sweat sparkling over the exposed parts of your flesh as you burn for him in the warm night air. It’s an image he’s gonna have committed to memory; every time he rides now he will remember the gorgeous mess he made of you.

If he thought he liked his bike before, it is nothing compared to how he will feel after fucking you on it.

Minute after minute each stroke draws you near that razor’s edge and threatens to violently throw you off. Your walls are fluttering around his fingers as they swell and become engorged the closer you get. Simon knows that it won’t be long now and his pulse races to feel it, that moment you come. But not like this, oh no.

He has still been chomping at the bit to relieve the pressure throbbing between his legs and now that he is sure you are ready for it, he isn’t going to waste time. You’re still in public after all, he doesn’t need this to end before you’ve both gotten off. Amidst your whimpered protests to keep going, that you are almost there, he pulls his fingers out of you with a squelch, your lubrication dripping along his fingers and glistening in the harsh lighting inside the garage. 

You lean your head up as Simon pulls his fingers apart to watch the sticky fluid string between them before he brings them to his mouth and rams them into his lips to lick them clean, taking care of the mess he’s created from his touch. Just a taste to sait him, as if his face isn’t going to be plastered between those thighs later as he replays the memory of what happened here.

The sight of him sucking the lubrication off his fingers has you gasping for air. How can someone look so perfect doing something so filthy? You need him, bad. “Please,” you beg with a needy whine in your voice, “I want you inside me.”

Those words are like striking a match near a gas leak; suddenly he is scrambling to move as fast as possible.  Feverish hands are clawing at clothing at breakneck speeds as his flesh begs to connect with yours and complete this union. “Ya can shoot me dead if I ever say no to that,” he growls as he moves. 

Time is of the essence and so he quickly rips the soaked crotch of your panties to the side, securing them against your thigh and out of his way as his free hand ruthlessly yanks at the button on his pants to get it undone before he wrenches down the zipper and releases his cock that is throbbing and aching with his rapid heartbeat. 

“Gotta make this quick, yeah?” he groans as the caress from his hand over the tip is almost too sensitive to handle. He’s falling fast. “Don’t want no one seein’ ya like this ‘cept me.”

Leaning down, he places a brief, heated kiss with his warm lips to the exposed skin near your belly button before he has you sitting up so that he can get at those lips he yearns to feel against him as he enters you. The threads of your panties are beginning to snap as he holds the fabric out of his way so he can move his hips in as he aligns the head of his cock with that dripping, aching hole. 

Eyes closed and acting off of pure impulse and adrenaline alone, he mutters a rushed “Breathe” into your open mouth as a warning while his fingertips dig into the meat of your hips. The tip prods the opening before it pushes through and slides up inside, the rest following behind in one steady, fluid motion until he reaches the base and there is no more to shove inside you.

Simon shudders at the overwhelming euphoria hitting him all at once and now he’s burning from the inside out, his bulky chest taut with each heavy breath that he releases between kisses as the feeling of you wrapped tightly around his phallus drowns out everything else that surrounds him. 

You throw your head back, breaking the kiss to cry out as you are filled to the brim, being stretched to capacity with all he has to give. His hand grabs at the back of your head so that his lips can shoot back to yours as a tether to help you calm until your body can be allowed a little time to adjust; he’s not exactly small by any means of the word. 

It’s a few seconds before he releases your mouth as he starts to thrust, trying to go slow at first even though he is eager for more. Hips rolling at a steady pace now he pulls back to watch himself pump in and out of you. “Look,” he says in a breathless growl as the hand on the back of your head directs your eyeline down in between your bodies. “This what ya been fuckin’ fantasizin’ ‘bout? I think it looks even prettier on my bike.”

The way his swollen, veiny cock disappears as it slides up into you is mesmerizing. You can feel it but still seeing it has you questioning…where does it all fit? 

He keeps you close as he picks up the pace until the sound of slapping skin against skin fills the silent space. Panting into your face with mouth open, chest heaving up and down with laborious breaths, Simon puts more into his thrusts so that even the bike itself begins to rock with you from the force. The longer he goes the more feral he gets, relinquishing any hold he had on his sanity for as long as he gets to have his body stay fitting so nicely into your cunt.

It’s building, the warmth in the pit of your stomach is gathering steadily as the epinephrine releases all those euphoric chemicals into your bloodstream. The risky nature of your endeavor, the stimulation he’s already produced with his fingers, the fulfilling of your fantasy, it all works together to fuel your passion and his strong thrusts have you ready to spill over the edge at any second.

Simon keeps his pace even as he is now struggling to keep it together. The excitement has gotten to him too so that if he lets himself lose control he is going to come and he can’t have that, not until you have. With each passing second, each pound of that deadly appendage inside you gets more and more desperate, until he finally hears those sweet, sweet words that make his heart skip a beat.

“Don’t stop, baby,” you beg, your voice cracking with desperation as you try to keep your volume at a reasonable level while he slams into you again. “So c-close…”

“Come for me, baby, that’s it,” he coaxes desperately through gritted teeth as he strains to hold on a little longer. Just a little bit more and you’ll finish and he can let go.  

That’s when an idea is thrust into his brain and he knows what he needs to do to bring this full fucking circle for the both of you; complete the fantasy and give you even more to dream about for later. Simon moves over top of you to force you back until you find yourself against the fuel tank again.

Reaching above your head, he cranks the key and restarts the engine. The motorcycle roars to life, filling the garage with its sound, and begins to vibrate until it is pulsating through his body as he thrusts into you harder and harder. It’s like having your own living dildo that only intensifies the stimulation the longer he plunges into your dripping hole; a few more seconds of this and you will be coming on his cock.

And then he revvs the engine…  

The stimulation is too much and suddenly you are forcibly thrown over that precipice as you come with such force, like a hot flash of white light, that your thighs clamp down around his hips as your head falls back. You cry out in choking gasps as your orgasm tears through you; so strong that you are shaking. Your walls are fluttering sporadically around his cock as your hips buck against him unrelentingly and he can’t hold back any longer. 

“Where do ya want me?” he pleads as his fingertips claw at your hips, stabbing harshly into the muscle as he holds on for you to answer; he is about to blow.

“In me, in me,” you whine as you clamp your legs down hard to keep him in. What else were you on birth control for other than this? 

He jerks violently as your pussy continues to flutter around him, making his limbs numb from the pleasure, and with a loud groan that is akin to the bellow of a wild beast, the pressure building at the base of his spine finally reaching its peak and he falls over the edge as he lets it go. His hips never stop, slamming into you as the thick, warm fluid coats the inside of your pussy.

“Fuckin’ hell, luv,” he repeats as he shuts off the engine while he milks himself dry, his thrusts slowing down after a few seconds until they stop all together and he stays with his cock still buried inside you to let your body finish off the rest.

An unknown amount of time passes as your unsteady breathing slowly returns to a more tolerable rhythm, all the while Simon just sits there admiring the products of his labor: the beautiful flush in your cheeks and the contented, glazed look in your eyes, until he can find his voice again once his heartbeat has settled.

“Ya know, I’ve gotten plenty a compliments about my bike, but I gotta say that you’re the prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever rode, sweetheart,” he says as he pulls you in by the back of your head to press another breathless kiss onto your lips.

It is torture having to pull out of you, but even he isn’t delusional enough anymore to think that you can just stay like this for much longer. You’ll have to go soon and he needs to help you to redress as your legs are shaking uncontrollably. There’s no way in hell someone hasn’t heard the noise you’d been making.

“Was it everythin’ ya hoped?” he asks with a contented smile as he carefully moves you off the bike to your feet so that he can readjust your panties and pull down your skirt back around your hips.

You match his expression through the hazy afterglow of your ecstasy as he finishes you up and gets himself situated. A pretty sizable wet stain darkens the middle of his jeans, but he doesn’t pay it any mind; a risk of a good fucking time, that’s all.

“Better,” you murmur, satisfied.

Bringing his hand up he cups it against your cheek a second before he combs his fingers through your hair until he reaches the back of your head where he holds them wrapped in the strands. There’s one final thing he has to do before you get going and that is to give you one last kiss as praise for doing so well for him. With how strung out you still are from your orgasm, the gentleness of it makes your knees weak.

“Now how ‘bout we get back so we can go for round two?” he smirks against your mouth as he pulls away. “We can pretend I’m your bike and ya can show me how well I taught ya to ride.”

He gets you situated on the back of the bike, helmets and all, and restarts the engine. It bursts to life and that familiar vibration makes you squeeze your thighs together all over again. Simon smirks to himself before he turns to you with the visor still pulled up. He opens yours and leans in. “Keep your thighs tight. I want ya ta keep all that inside til we get back. I got plans to watch it leak out; I think I’ve earned it.”

With a mischievous chuckle, he closes your visor and his and takes off back out of the garage and into the cool night air. Good thing it isn’t far back to the house from here…if Simon doesn’t plan to take a detour first.

[1shirt2shirtredshirtdeadshirt]

Sexism in TOS: Worst Offender, or Progressive in Retrospect in Comparison?

I see a lot of folks claim that TOS was the most sexist of the Star Trek shows by a landslide -- and while I agree that it definitely suffered from the sexism of the times, I also have other perspectives to share to give some food for thought.

I am of course not insinuating that TOS isn't sexist -- it is, but I have to ask folks to consider the breadth and depth of Berman's sexism in his run and ask yourself: Was Gene Roddenberry genuinely more sexist in his storytelling and delivery than Rick Berman?

I'm not telling you to feel one way or the other, but all I ask is that you hear me out and consider some perspectives and make your own balanced assessments. Nobody is obligated to share my opinion, but it means a lot just to have folks hear it and see their thoughts on the subject. So here is what I was originally responding to:

Someone's response to this photo:

"Devil's advocate. This was a part of the popular form of cardio during the production time of TNG. Yes, it was heavily sexualised by men, but so is literally every other way women work out. Men have been caught taking pictures of women while trying to do dead lifts, running on tracks and working on sled machines. They post them online to share too. The fact is, there is no way a woman can be shown working out without it going there. And yeah,t hat includes the combat forms of workout they do in Star Trek. Just look at how Dax dresses when she spars with Worf. Yes, they're dating, but still, same goes when 7 does and any other female.

Aerobics routines like this were made dirty and cringy. This was what women wore then by and large. This is how the workout was done. We make it cringy."

My response to them:

"I respect your take, but I disagree on a few fronts.

The miniskirt was chosen by the TOS female cast, not the male cast, specifically requested by Grace LW and affirmed by Nichelle and Majel who would go on to vehemently defend the miniskirt over the years as comfortable and embraced by them.

Grace said it was comfortable and seen as a symbol of female sexual empowerment during the 60s and thought it would be a progressive garment (and turns out that it was, as it was later adapted and worn by male crew as a skant on TNG) -- FYI those were designed by a gay man and Gene approved them.

This was also supposed to be Spock's TMP outfit:

Literally lingerie.

We saw both Uhura (who saves Kirk in from Marlena Mirror Mirror) and Yeoman Landon (the first to initiate combat with a classic Kirk-esque kick to help the Captain being attacked in The Apple) carry out their combat training in their Starfleet uniforms without ever being made to change into any ridiculous workout gear.

In fact, I'd argue Jim Kirk was sexualized even more than the ladies of the week on the show and I saw his naked body more than anyone else's on a fairly regular basis. He wore red yoga tights while topless in Charlie X while the women wore full length gymnastic suits that covered their entire body. If anything, it went out of its way to avoid sexualizing women practicing fitness in those scenes and instead focused on Kirk.

Gene confessed that he asked to have Shatner filmed in suggestive/provocative ways to "give something to the ladies", so he -- as he said -- liked to "film him walking away" or have him conveniently busting out of his shirts in just about every episode as it were, because Shatner apparently had great assets. LOL

Gene made an effort to at least sexualize both if he was going to sexualize one, and he carried that attitude forward in wanting the m/m and f/f scenes in the background on Risa for TNG. He also insisted that the men and women wear skimpy outfits on THAT TNG planet. You know the one. LOL I mean the dudes even had on less than the women:

Gene also gave permission to K/S shippers to have their conventions back in the 70s when he was asked for permission. Gene and Nimoy felt with all the skimpy outfits they had the ladies wear, why not let the ladies and gay men have their fun, too? It's how we ended up with moments like this:

Yes, those are two people dressed up as Kirk and Spock's penises doing interpretive dance. Gene didn't give two damns. LOL

In my eyes, that was a very progressive take on Gene's part for the 60s. It was actually PARAMOUNT STUDIOS who had the big problem with K/S stories and vehemently tried to shut them down. Gene literally hired slash authors on his payroll and even had several slash stories/writers published in his official Star Trek books (The New Voyages & The New Voyages II).

I feel I saw Uhura and women in TOS engaged in more physical combat/altercations defending themselves that Troi or Bev were shown holding their own.

In fact, Kirk used to get furious when someone would "dress up" his female crew members without their consent (Trelane episode, Shore Leave episode) because like his male crew members, he wanted them to be treated professionally and to also have his male crew act professionally.

Berman brought some of his own personal biases into Star Trek that in some ways regressed it. While TOS had blatant sexism and was called on it time and again, that show was made in the 60s -- a solid 21 years before TNG. We as a modern audience understood why some of it was cringe/sexist due to the time period -- look at any other media coming out in the 60s and Star Trek was miles ahead of what other shows were doing.

Compare that to Berman who was churning sexist stuff out when women like Starbuck and Scully were simultaneously on screen on other programs airing, and we had already had Sigourney Weaver and other strong women in Holywood playing respectful roles.

In my eyes, there was no need of the sexism seen in TNG but especially VOY and ENT. There was no excuse for it when other shows were writing women far better and a number of those weren't even set in the future like Trek was, making it age even faster due to having those dated perspectives frequently highlighted.

In the Center Seat documentary as well as "The Fifty Year Mission" book you will find cast members, writers and other studio alumni who attest to this. Some discussions from "The Fifty Year Mission":

"First, Berman was supposed to have been a real sleaze ball . . . According to Terry Farrel, he would go on constantly about how her breasts weren't big enough, how she should do something about it, and how his secretary was a good example to follow as she had huge breasts. She even had to have fittings to get larger bras, and that was all done at his behest.

Later Berman and Braga developed a name for Jeri Ryan's character prior Seven of Nine. They originally called the character "perineum" which if you look it up it is the area between the anus and the scrotum. Later they floated the name "6 of 9". I mean, what does it tell you about where these two were coming from in the development of this character if they had names like that put forward in all seriousness for her?"

Gene Roddenberry also had some of his own more progressive ideas for TNG cut or watered down by Berman. Roddenberry agreed TNG should have homosexual relationships and representation at a con in the 80s and insisted on it in a meeting with his writers -- something Berman later would not honor. Gene wanted the AIDS episode, showing m/m and f/f in the Riza scenes -- these were some of Roddenberry's requests to include in TNG that Berman later stonewalled.

Berman's era was sadly dated by his own misogynist bias, IMO, to the point that it can somewhat hurt the shows he worked on through his cringe egoism and blatant disrespect toward his female cast.

There is a reason why Gene could keep female actresses working with him and Berman had a revolving door of women that he couldn't seem to keep working for him -- he was abhorrent to women, on and off set. Gene wasn't perfect at all, he had a lot of issues himself -- but Berman was a whole other level. Just look at what he did to poor Jolene Blalock, Marina Sirtis and his toxic commenting on her body weight which exacerbated her struggles with eating disorders, or how he treated and talked to Terry Farrell.

Anyway, just some food for thought. I'm not saying anyone is wrong regarding a take like that, but there are a variety of ways to look at this. Gene Roddenberry isn't a saint by any means, but it definitely bothers me how folks will tote the Berman era as if it were the lesser of two evils or the more progressive depiction of women when I felt there were far more concerning portrayals of women in his era with far less justification.

(P.S: I don't event want to go near the sheer amount of "creepy old dude/villain preys on innocent/naïve/scared young woman or little girl" stories there were in Berman's era, either. But that's a whole other can of worms I can write about in a part 2.)

[callsign-swan]

almost 18+, my limited understanding of bipolar and sentry being the extreme highs side of that, where void is the entreme lows

There was something about Bob.

In the year since they had been crowned the New Avengers, she had learnt everything about the man. How to tell when he was doing good, how to tell when he was doing bad. How to distract him from his own darkness, how to tell he wanted something. How to tell what the thing he wanted was.

She was an expert on all things Bob.

She was the one who got him into a regular routine. Up early,into the gym for hand to hand training. Shower (together, if they could), something to eat and then the rest of the day was his to do whatever he wanted with.

And what he wanted to do was hers.

Whimpering beneath her as she bounced on his cock, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to hold himself back. Or his head between her legs, strong arms wrapped around her as his tongue moved through her folds, as her hands gripped his hair. That was Bob's favourite, her legs shaking around his head.

Something was different about today. Maybe Walker was pushing him, unable to stop himself from being an asshole. But Bob stood taller, chin raised. He didn't back down when somebody challenged him.

"You okay?" She asked, stepping towards him with her brows furrowed.

Hands grabbing at her waist, Bob looked down at her. His head was only bowed to be able to look at her. "I'm great," he said and squeezed her hips. "Better than ever."

Better than ever. She didn't know this side of Bob.

When he kissed her, it was all consuming. Bob brought his hands up to cup her face. He pushed her hair out of the way, his tongue entering his mouth.

She squealed in surprise. But she leaned into it, tried to get closer to him.

"Bob," she managed to whimper when he pulled away. "What's gotten into you?"

There was something about his smile. She had seen it once before, but it wasn’t exactly on him. He wasn't Bob anymore.

Now, what you have to understand about it is that Bob, Void and Sentry are all the same person. Void was just the extreme lows, Sentry was the extreme highs and Bob was somewhere in the middle.

This was between Bob and Sentry, something she hadn't experienced before.

When somebody cleared their throat, she pulled away from him. Her cheeks were hot as she turned to see Ava.

"If we could refrain from snogging in the hallway, I'd appreciate it."

Before she could reply with anything, Bob grabbed her and pulled her against him. It was so unBoblike, the way he used his strength to hold her close, the way he didn't stammer over an apology. He just stared at Ava with eyes that seemed to glow.

"Sorry," she mumbled and tried to pull Bob along.

For a moment, she was terrified that he was going to keep himself glued to that very spot. But he let himself be pulled along.

For the first time in a year, he could feel power simmering beneath the surface of his skin, power that was desperate to get released.

Holding it all back was driving him crazy.

In the confines of her room, Bob trapped her against the bed. But a whimper left his lips as he stared down at her.

"What's wrong, Gorgeous?" She asked, pushing her fingers through his hair.

Bob searched her face. His hands moved over every curve of her body. "Nothings wrong," he said, his head dropping forward. "Just need you."

She wrapped her legs around him.

Bob was on her immediately. He kissed her, just as intense as it had been in the corridor, just as all consuming.

He pulled away and his eyes seemed to be glowing. His hands gripped her hips, pulled her towards the end of the bed with such ease. "Bob?" She tried, her brows furrowed.

She untangled her legs from around him, but Bob caught her with impossible speed, holding her in place.

Extreme highs.

Bob pressed himself against her, but she shuffled back. Enough to sit up and wrap her arms around him. "Bobert," she whispered and pulled his head against her chest.

All of Bob seemed to slump against her. No more grabbing at her hips and thighs, no more all consuming kisses. He just slumped against her.

Bob wrapped his arms around her. His large hands were splayed across her back, holding her close. He sniffled, sucking in a deep breath.

"Hey," she whispered, pushing his fingers through his hair. "You're okay, I got you," she mumbled, nails scratching at his scalp. "I got you."

Bob or Sentry, she had him. She even had Void, when Bob was unable to hold him back. She was there for it all, there for when he dropped, for when his eyes stopped glowing and he stopped hovering a few feet off the ground.

Bob she would take care of. Bob she would hold close as he came back to himself, as the power thrumming through his veins dulled. There was always a chance that he would go too far, come out the other side as a thing of nightmares, but she was there for that, too.

[endlessapples]

Summer's Paradise | 3 The Heat

xia yizhou | caleb x reader

synopsis:

Waking up in a different world where you have to pretend you have amnesia to get by is one thing. Waking up in a different world where you're married to a complete stranger and have to pretend you have amnesia is another.Yet, this stranger seems to know you well. Too well. And with everything this world seems to be hiding from you, he's the only one you can bring yourself to trust.But when distrust wedges itself between you and your newfound connection with this stranger-turned-husband, you begin to doubt if you can ever find a way to leave this world and return back to yours.

tags: smut (mention of masturbation, slight voyeurism), amnesia, eventual forced imprisonment, transmigration, yandere!caleb, dark!caleb, domestic fluff (weirdly enough), manipulation, themes of forceful confinement, slight angst, married!au

word count: 5.6k

1 the warmth | 2 the smoke | 3 the heat

Dr. Zayne has the same exact voice as he did in this body’s memory. You reach out for the remote and turn the volume up.

“Is there any advice that you would recommend to our viewers?” the male anchor beams. The young doctor sitting next to him gives a dry smile.

“Yes, make sure to focus on incorporating regular exercise into your daily routine. Health is not something that you can easily regain once you have lost it,” the doctor—no, Dr. Zayne, you clarify in your head—speaks.

Well, one thing for sure is that the co-anchor was right. Dr. Zayne is handsome. While Caleb is boyishly gorgeous, this Dr. Zayne is a mature type of good-looking that attracts attention, even if he tries to stay on the periphery.

“Now, I suppose this really isn’t the main purpose of this interview, but our viewers are just dying to know. Do you have a special someone that might be watching today’s show?” the anchor presses on.

Anyone would have been uncomfortable with the sudden prying. You lean forward, waiting to hear the answer.

Dr. Zayne looks at the camera, and his lips flatten into a straight line. But even though anyone could have interpreted his look as mild annoyance at the personal question, somehow, a part of you saw it for what it was: sadness.

“It seems if I were to have someone like that to me...well, it would seem that person might have gone somewhere far away.”

For some odd reason, you have a weird gut feeling that he might be talking about you. But what did he mean by that? You were alive and well. Did the two of you fall apart? Or even worst, was this relationship between the two of you just some weird figment of your imagination?

The anchor nods his head then. Based on his awkward expression, you’re certain that it wasn’t the answer he had been looking for.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Dr. Zayne doesn’t even acknowledge the statement. He just gazes away, as if his mind is on a different matter.

Good, you think, a surge of protectiveness boiling in you. That’s what you get for asking an unprofessional question!

“Well, that concludes our interview with Akso Hospital’s Dr. Zayne Li. We’ll be talking about the current rise in Wanderer appearances when we come back and safety guidelines that can help you keep yourself and your family safe.”

When the tv flicks to commercials, you sit there deep in thought. Wrapping your arms around your legs, you prop your chin on your knees.

And then, you go searching for your phone.

You find it charging in the bedroom. You are certain that it wasn’t you who had plugged it in. Most likely Caleb had done so while you were asleep.

You unlock the phone. And then you open a browser. You hesitate before searching for the incognito feature—luckily, it exists.

Akso Hospital Zayne Li.

Articles mentioning his name pop up. It’s in your brief scan of those articles that you see more images of him appear. You even stumble upon a fan page for him by medical students.

One comment reads: I prayed to Dr. Zayne before my exam and got a 100! Tears of blood streamed down my face lol.

Another comment reads: The one time I didn’t pray to Dr. Zayne and I failed my exam...After that I learned my lesson...!

You laugh at that. Well, you could see why a desperate student would pray to him for help. He does seem like the type that would garner a cult following.

And then an idea pops up in your head. You go into your contacts. Maybe he’ll be in there?

But there’s only one number.

Caleb.

Disappointment seeks its teeth into you. Were you just delusional then? Did you make up that memory?

Your head begins to hurt again. You roll a knuckle over your forehead, closing your eyes. Whatever, this isn't for you to figure out. Whatever issues arose between your current body and this mysterious Dr. Zayne was for the original soul to figure out, whenever fate decided that it had enough fun throwing random souls into alternate universes and decided to switch the two of you back your rightful places.

And even somehow importantly, was your only friend Caleb? Sure, you didn’t have many friends in your world—most of them had moved on with their own things after university, and now your socializing primarily consisted of mundane chatter with coworkers twice your age. Did you have no friends here too?

You think of the picture of the you of this world, beaming at the camera with an ease that you could never find yourself carrying.

You scrunch your nose at the thought. For some odd reason, it doesn’t sit easy with you.

Your phone buzzes then with a message.

Did you eat breakfast yet?

You pause. The congee and youtiao are still outside in the living room, basically untouched. You type out a reply.

I got the delivery...but I think I got too invested in watching tv...Why did I look down and it was suddenly cold?

Right after you send the message, his reply comes in quickly.

You can’t skip breakfast.

An apple emoji ends his message, and it looks up at you with a disapproving stare, one hand on its hip. You can almost imagine him in the same position, ready to scold you. You let out a giggle.

Another message pops up from him.

What were you watching?

Your smile slips. Should you ask him?

Your fingers hesitate over the screen for a brief moment. You purse your lips and then type your message out.

Just some news. Heard it’s supposed to be warm this afternoon :D

You sigh and hit send.

His reply is quick: Are you sure you still want to eat hot pot today then?

Your nose wrinkles, and you frantically type out another message: Of course!

Okay...I’ll bring us to our usual spot then. You just wait.

Another message whooshes in.

I gotta go now. I’ll see you soon.

Three dots pop up on his end. And then it disappears. No message comes in. What was he going to say? You shut off your phone. Your stomach grumbles then, a protest that you hadn’t eaten breakfast. Whatever, you’ll just heat up your breakfast.

🍏🍎

Caleb comes home at exactly 2pm. When you go up to greet him, you see that strands of his hair are stuck to his forehead in sweat, and on instinct, you reach up to brush them away.

He stiffens then, slightly. You realize what you did too late and hurriedly pull your hand away.

He grabs your hand then, his hold gentle. “Didn’t mean I didn’t like it. But don’t I smell gross?”

You relax at that, letting out a laugh at that before teasing, “Maybe a little.”

He does an exaggerated sniff of himself and then feigns backing away from you. But his touch is still on you. He’s needy. “Whoa, let me take a shower then. And then we’ll go.” There’s a teasing glint in his eyes.

You laugh again and then take a step closer to ruffle his hair with your other hand. His eyelids lower, and you might’ve seen an imaginary large tail from him thwacking around. “You know, you didn’t have to rush home so early. I’m sure the matters at the Fleet were more important.”

A little part of you is glad that he came home early. Sure, you had always been the independent type—the kind that could spend days by yourself with no one checking up on you, and you were fine with it. But you had gotten accustomed to having Caleb around almost every hour.

“They’re not that important. Not when it comes to you. They can handle some time without me there anyways,” he murmurs, reaching out to wrap an arm around your waist and pull you closer, “Snakes always find a way to entertain themselves in the dirt after all.”

You frown. You haven’t heard this kind of language from Caleb before. Sure, he didn't seem like he quite enjoyed his work at the Fleet, with the way his lips always seemed to be pressed in a disgruntled line, but to this extent? “Is it really that horrible there? Can’t you change your workplace?”

He takes a whiff of your hair. “Did you shower earlier? Smells nice.”

You can’t see the expression he’s making, but you have a feeling he’s changing the subject, and you let him. You let Caleb get away with a lot of things. And in this case, maybe work contracts are near impossible to get out of. It’s the same with your real world. Right?

You huff out an exaggerated sigh then. “Mm-hm. And it looks like you should hop into one now. While you shower, I’ll get changed. I’m itching to get outside.”

He laughs and nuzzles your skin one more time before letting go, reluctantly. “I’ll follow your orders, Captain.”

He comes back out when he’s done to you lazing around on the sofa. You had changed into a yellow sundress pretty quickly, and it had been boring waiting for Caleb to be done with the shower. You’re almost about to doze off, and he snaps you awake with a prod on your cheek. You let out a dazed murmur, wiping away the drool at the corner of your mouth, before a familiar scent hits your nose. It’s apple-y and fresh and well...familiar. You think of the green bottle in the shower then and squint your eyes at him. “Did you use my body wash?”

He grins playfully. “Uh, you mean our body wash right. We always use the same stuff. Now come on, time’s a-ticking and I’m getting hungry.”

You roll your eyes at him and feign to roll away from him and onto your side.

“Whoa!” you let out a shriek when you start floating in the air. Your legs are splayed out awkwardly, and you fumble to keep your skirt over your legs. You whip your head back to glare at him. When you notice that his gaze can’t seem to leave the bare skin of your thighs, your glare intensifies.

Right, you forgot that the people in this world had fucking superpowers or Evols or whatever the fuck they called it. And Caleb’s happened to be gravity. Of fucking course. You remember him using it at the hospital when you had almost dropped something and he had stopped it from falling.

What was your superpower then? And could you use it against this man, as much of a menace he is?

He’s already set you in a seated position before you can let out a spiel of curse words fly out of your mouth. Your cheeks are puffed out in annoyance as you begin to wag an angry finger. “Hey, hey, foul play-!”

He lets out a laugh, interrupting your burst. And then he’s grabbing your foot with one hand and tucking it into a pair of sandals that he got from who knows where. Even though you let him, you give him another glare as he fixes the straps in place. When he’s done, he looks up at you and gives you a boyish grin. “Ready to go?”

You have half a mind to continue to be angry at him. But your breakfast really had not been that great when you heated it up and the thought of hot pot—something familiar and comforting—was making your stomach grumble and you really were itching to be outside. And you have a feeling that he might use his Evol to have you float after him to your destination.

Then it seems like he’s remembered something important. He fishes through his pocket and pulls out a sparkling band from his pocket. Your heart lurches at the sight. It’s the ring you hid. Or is it? You see that it’s sparkling new, unlike the one that you had found. “Where’d you get that?” you force the words to leave your suddenly dry throat.

He glances up, and your eyes meet. “Just got it back from the shop today. I guess you already forgot what I told you yesterday.”

You purse your lips, heart thrumming nervously in your chest, as he beckons for you to give him his hand. You move stiffly, and before you know it, the ring is already on your finger. It glints at you, almost mockingly.

“Now everyone will know we’re married.” He dips his head down and presses a soft kiss against the ring. There’s that look again in his eyes. Your heart stutters in your chest—not out of anxiety this time but out of something else. Something you can’t quite understand yourself.

You hop to your feet before he can do anything else, and in a flash, you’re by the front door. Turning back to him, who’s still kneeling on the floor in a daze, you jut your chin towards the outdoors, feigning a mocking grin. “Hurry up, or I’m gonna leave you behind!”

You run off, his laugh echoing behind you, and as you’re about to turn out of the neighborhood, you feel a tug from behind. He’s caught up to you easily.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” he asks.

“Uhhh...” You sheepishly smile. “No.”

He grins before reaching out and grasping your hand. Looping your fingers together, he tugs you to the left. “Can’t have you getting lost. Come on, follow me, Pipsqueak.”

You let a disgruntled murmur out, but you don’t even attempt to take your hand out of his grip. As he tugs you along, you pause and gape. As similar as this world is to yours, this world is also different. The streets are crowded at this time with families and couples and student friend groups, even though this would usually be the time where everyone is away and busy. Despite how high-tech all the buildings surrounding you are, you still let an impressed oo when you stumble upon a vendor selling sticks of candied hawthorn.

You turn and give pitiful eyes to Caleb, tugging on the hem of the casual jean jacket he’s thrown over his clothes.

“You’re going to ruin your appetite.”

You glance at the sparkling crystalized exterior of the candy, fighting back the urge to drool, before turning back to tug on his hem again, more insistently this time.

The vendor, an old man, lets out a guffaw at that. “Come on, young man, you should spoil your beautiful wife.”

You flush at that. A glance at Caleb shows that his ears are tinged red as well. And then a mischievous idea creeps up in your mind.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re pressing up to his side. You notice his eyes flick down towards the gape in your neckline and then flick back up, and his face turns even more red.

“If each of us eat half, our appetite won’t be ruined. Hubby, buy it for me.” You use a coquettish tone that would normally have you throwing up a bit in your mouth (and you do, just a little). But for the sake of your target (a snack), you are willing to do almost anything to have it.

In a flash, the stick of candy is already in your hand, and Caleb has already paid for it. You take a large bite, in awe at the crunch. It’s both sweet and tart. Delighted, you beam up at Caleb. “Thank you, Caleb.”

He nods, and his hand is back around your free hand. You beckon the half-bitten hawthorn up at him playfully. “Wanna try?”

He looks frantic, and you almost feel bad for messing with the guy so much. But then he takes a bite and chews it. “It’s good.”

“Are the two of you recently married? It looks like you’re in the honeymoon stage right now.” the vendor comments. You turn, and your mouth opens, about to answer, when it clamps shut. Right, you don’t know. You don’t know because this isn’t your place. Is it possible to feel like the other woman when the woman in the relationship and the other woman are both...you? You wilt a bit at the thought.

Caleb answers. “We’ve been married for just a few months.” His hold on your hand tightens, and you almost wince, before his hold becomes gentle again. “But even in twenty, thirty, fifty, seventy years, I still will be more than happy every day as long as I’m with her...Even in another word or in another life.”

The vendor looks at him in surprise before letting out a laugh. “Young man, how romantic! Well, I hope the two of you have a prosperous marriage!” He then winks at you. “You have a good catch.”

You bashfully nod at that.

Caleb speaks again. “No, I’m the lucky one.” He pauses. “I worked hard to be with her.”

You feel Caleb’s gaze on you. The skin of your neck prickles with heat, and you know you can’t look at him right now. You tug him away from the stand quickly after bidding a quick thank you to the vendor.

And then you realize you don’t actually know which way you’re going. Again. You turn back to him, your eyes averted. “Um, where’s the hot pot place again?”

“You’re asking me? I thought you were leading the way,” his tone is teasing. You’re about to make a quip back when you hear a shrill scream.

“Wanderer! Help!”

You look up, startled. A crowd rushes in your direction, and before you know it, Caleb’s grasp on your hand has loosened. And your hawthorn candy has fallen somewhere, most likely crushed underfoot.

When you gather your wits, you take a quick look around at your new surroundings. And realize with a rush of anxiety that Caleb is gone.

🍏🍎

You’re lost. Hopelessly lost.

As you grope for your phone, you realize with a groan that you had left it in Caleb’s pocket earlier because you didn’t have pockets. At least one thing was majorly consistent between the two worlds—the lack of functionality in women’s clothing.

You have two choices: stay where you are and hope he finds you or go and try to find him yourself.

But the idea of staying out in the open when there’s a wanderer around...well that doesn’t sit right for you either. A part of you itches to go and find where it is.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re already wandering off. Even though it’s entirely foolish and impulsive and you don’t have any weapons on you, you can’t stay still. Not when you’re almost certain that you could somehow solve the issue. 

Key word, somehow.

If only had your gun.

The thought scares you the moment it enters your mind. You hadn't even played with the toy guns back in your world, but here, your fingers itch to find something usually tucked into your side that's missing.

You think back on it—really, you should just go hide and wait for it to be safe and hope that Caleb finds you.

And then you hear another scream in the distance. It sounds inhumane, like it's from some creature. Before you know it, you’re already running towards the direction of the sound in classic horror-movie-character-who-gets-killed-in-the-first-act style.

You pause outside of the alleyway where the scream had originated from. There’s no sound of a scuffle inside it, not any that you can pick up at least. But instead, two voices are speaking. And you recognize one of them. You peek in, cautiously. And immediately press yourself back out.

Caleb’s back is to you. From your brief glance, you can see that he’s speaking with another man, if that term is right. The man seems almost snake-like, with green hair and words that spill out of his mouth in a cruel sss. And there’s bits and pieces of something smoldering around the ground.

You identify it almost immediately, as if on instinct. It’s a protocore.

Even as close as you are, you can’t clearly hear what they’re saying.

“Wanderer...Attack...Plan...Whose idea?” You pick up these words from Caleb.

“Fool...plan...that girl...sssupposed...dead...Immoral!”

And then you hear a loud crash, as if someone’s body was flung against the brick wall. You peer back in urgently. The green snake man is gone. Save for a pile of crushed trash cans and for the fact that the protocore fragments on the ground are gone, there’s no evidence that he was in there in the first place. And fortunately, Caleb looks unharmed.

You realize that he’s turning back. Your mind races with thoughts on what to do.

Quickly, you take several steps back before propelling yourself forward. You let your body crash into his as he emerges from the alley.

“Caleb!” you let out a gasp, hoping that whatever emotion is showing on your face looks close to relief. And you are relieved, save for your confusion at whatever the hell that interaction was, “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

He looks surprised to see you. And for a moment, suspicion prickles in his eyes. In a second, that emotion is gone, and he’s looking at you in relief, scanning you to make sure you’re unharmed. “I’ve been looking for you.” His voice is even, showing no indication that there was anything happening. “I’m sorry to dash your hot pot dreams, but we should head home until the wanderer situation is resolved. I’m assuming the restaurant is closing down for the day because of the news.”

If you weren’t on edge, you might have not spotted his eyes glimpse around like he’s checking to make sure there’s nothing around.

You wonder, almost aimlessly, at how bizarre it feels to be lying to this man and to know that he too is lying to you.

But for some reason, you let him lie to you. You have no choice. He’s the only one you can trust. And you want to trust him.

You weakly smile. “Yeah, Caleb. Let’s go home. Maybe you can make those chicken wings again? And we can try again another day?”

He relaxes a bit. For real this time. But the tension is still there in his shoulders and in his grip as he clasps your hand again. You feel the band of your wedding ring pinch, just slightly.

Your smile almost slips from your face.

Home. For you, that word too is a lie.

🍏🍎

You and Caleb don’t speak any further about the wanderer incident. Instead, there’s an evening routine for the two of you, one that you find yourself settling in easily. You flick on what you had termed our show earlier. Caleb has the pieces of a model kit spread on a table. The two of you jokingly bicker when he starts to hog the project, and you pretend to settle in a huff next to him on the floor (but really, you were more interested in watching partly the rest of the episode and partly him focusing in on the airplane model—something about a man locked in on a goal...well, you had to admit it was very attractive).

In fact, he’s maybe too attractive. He’s changed his clothes earlier to a plain blue shirt and sweatpants, and the necklace is hanging around his neck, dangling into the collar. But for some reason, something simple on any other man looks model-like on him. Before you can stop yourself, you’re pressing closer to him, trying to not drool out of your mouth.

He’s not really noticing your sudden shift, not when his fingers are moving at warp speed to piece together the model. Something that should take a week to put together is effortlessly coming together in just over an hour. You look at his fingers. Really, you shouldn’t be this hot and bothered.

You let out a puff of air, blowing a strand of your hair out of your face. And then you settle a coy hand on his thigh, leaning into whisper into his ear. “You sure you don’t want any help?”

He stiffens under your touch. You see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Hmm,” his voice is thick, “And how do you suggest you help?”

You let out a soft hum. And then before you can stop yourself, you’ve pushed his chest back so that his back is against the front of the sofa and swung yourself across his lap so that you’re straddling him. He’s looking up at you, with an almost pitiful look in his eyes that makes you want to tease him further.

“Why don’t you tell me?” you tease, reaching out to cup his jaw with a hand.

And then his eyes sharpen, hungry. They flick down to your lips and linger there. His hands settle around your waist, the heat of his palms searing into your flesh. You lean down, your lips almost a breath away from his and...

The doorbell rings. You throw yourself off him, landing on the carpet next to him with a soft thump. He narrows his eyes at the door.

“I’ll check who it is. Why don’t you take a bit of a break in our room?”

You nod. There’s an edge to his voice, one that he gets whenever it was associated with the Fleet. Whoever it was on the other side of the door—well, whoever it was, they didn’t sound like good news. You’re already closing the door behind you when he opens the front door.

You hear the intruders move into the common room. Caleb’s voice follows them, muffled through the door. “If there’s anything urgent for us to discuss now, it should’ve been a call.”

“Colonel.” A voice speaks. Your ears prickle at the sound. Even though it should be unfamiliar, a part of you almost feels like you’ve heard it before. There’s a tingle behind your forehead, and you close your eyes, trying to focus in on it. “We just wanted to check to see how you were faring. After the incident that happened one year ago and hearing about the amount of leave you’ve taken these past few weeks, we wanted to be...cautious.”

Another voice speaks. “Well, it seems like you’re busy.” It pauses, for a very long time. “Do you have someone else here?”

Your breath gets caught in your throat. You stiffen, afraid to be caught, even though there’s no way for you to be seen. You remember, almost belatedly, that you had left your pair of sandals outside by the front door.

Caleb speaks, his voice low. “No, as you can see, it’s just me here.”

The second voice speaks. Its voice is hushed. “I apologize for the personal question. We’ll take our leave now.” There’s another pause, brief this time. “You know, we never were really able to express our condolences about last year. W--.”

“Time passes. We all learn to deal with it in different ways. I appreciate the concern, but it’s getting late,” Caleb interrupts.

You hear their footsteps creak on the floorboards and then the sound of the front door closing shut.

You back up away from the bedroom door, searching for something to focus on. But before you can do anything, the door opens.

Caleb walks into the room. There’s a stiffness to him. He feels unstable, and his eyes seem murky, like he can’t even see what’s in front of him. And then he sees you.

You step forward, cautiously.

Before you can say anything, he’s advanced towards you. You can’t fully read the expression on his face, but he looks agonized, like a wounded animal. You take a step back, tentative. And then another one. But he keeps chase. Right before he can close the gap, he stops himself. His fingers flex next to him, and you see that his chest is puffing out ragged breaths.

You step forward, this time. “Are you...,” your voice is soft and uncertain, “Are you alright?”

He lets in a shaky breath. “Please,” he exhales. You look up at him, hesitant, and then nod.

And then his mouth is on you. He’s dragged you so that the two of you are pressed firmly together. His hands press against your hips, and his fingers are already traveling up under your shirt. You let out a whimper as he nips your bottom lip, opening up your mouth in invitation, and his tongue enters your mouth.

Something wet splashes against your skin. You stiffen underneath his touch. Is he crying?

His fingers are up against your back at the clasp of your bra. You tremble at the heat of his palm against the sensitive skin of your back.

You’re suddenly moving too fast. You can’t breathe. You reach up and press Caleb’s chest away, but he seems like he isn’t even here with you anymore. You push again, more firm this time, and try to back away. Your right leg twists. You’re falling back, knocking against the wall of plushies.

He breaks away from you just in time to catch you. But it’s too late for the collision—the plushies come tumbling down in a cascade.

You look up at him with teary eyes, your cheeks flushed. “Caleb,” you breathe in air roughly, “Are you alright?”

There’s that look in his eyes again—like he’s seeing you, but at the same time not seeing you. There are dried tears on his cheeks. He’s distraught. And then his gaze clears. He’s seeing you, properly this time.

“I’m...,” he takes a step back, dragging his hand down his face in defeat. “I’m sorry. I...can’t trust myself with you right now. I’ll...I’ll sleep outside today.”

He turns his back to you and is already on his way out of the room.

You reach a hand out. “Caleb, please. Wait, please just explain to me--.”

The door clicks shut behind you.

You drop to your knees, winded. Your head is beginning to hurt again, and that awful pain is prickling again in your chest. And then you catch a glint, one that exactly matches that of the ring around your finger.

You flick your gaze to the door. Did he see it?

And then you hang your head down, burying your face in your hands, and let out a sound that sounds like a fragile mixture of an exhale and a sob.

You can’t keep doing this, can you?

🍏🍎

You wake up, alone in the bed, in the middle of the night. You don’t know how you got to sleep, but you did. When you had stepped out in the living room earlier, hoping to talk to him, you had found that Caleb had disappeared. In that state?

You had called him, but each time, he had let it go to voicemail. You had tried to wait for him, but it had gotten late, and before you knew it you fell asleep.

But now that you’ve heard a sound in the common room, you hastily hurry out of bed. Sure, the middle of the night is never ideal for a conversation, but at least you have to make sure that he returned back safe and unharmed.

You’re about to open the door when you hear a soft murmur through the door. A gasp of your name. A soft, husky whine. And then you realize, your cheeks furiously burning, what exactly he’s doing on the sofa you were sleeping on earlier. You close your eyes, trying to imagine the sight on the other side of the door.

Caleb, his cheeks rosy, with his hand around his leaking cock. Caleb, with his head tilted back, murmuring your name in desperation. Your head is dizzy with your own imagination.

And then you hear a soft grunt and a sigh.

There’s a heat prickling in your gut, not unfamiliar. You force yourself to snap out of it.

You know what, you’ll try talking to him tomorrow. Not now, when the image of a flash of his abs as he strokes himself to completion keeps popping up in your mind.

You hear the floorboards creak under his feet, and then the door of the guest bathroom closing. You hurriedly lay back down in the bed, burying your tomato-red face in the pillow.

You shut your eyes tightly, your heartbeat racing in your chest, as you hear him emerge from the bathroom...and walk by the bedroom door.

You relax, relieved that he didn’t decide to come into the bedroom. Though the bed did seem a little too large and cold without him there, the idea of him, his body heat, after everything that happened today and tonight...well, you just didn’t quite know what to think about it.

You roll onto your other side, reaching out for your phone. The website that you had left on pops open, and Dr. Zayne’s face appears in front of you again.

You click on the Akso Hospital website link. Searching through the directory of doctors, you find Dr. Zayne’s unsmiling picture easily.

Whatever had been referred to as last year’s incident and whatever had caused you to remember this Dr. Zayne (real memory or not), you couldn’t help being curious about. Who knows, you might be of help to the you of this world, whenever she decides to return.

Maybe in finding out more about this Dr. Zayne, you might have an idea of what exactly brought you into this world.

You take another glance at the bedroom door.

And then you hit contact us.

An error pops up the moment the number pops up. You try to press the contact us again, and the screen freezes, not letting you open the page. But when you try to search something else up, your phone acts normal, like it's supposed to.

After several failed attempts, you turn off your phone and set it to the side, frustrated.

You’ll try again tomorrow. And if it doesn’t work then, you’ll just keep trying again and again. But for some sinking reason, you have a feeling that the end result will be the same as it was today.

Futile.

A/N: apologies for the delay! lots happened (including food poisoning...yikes!), so we're steadily recovering... but the pace for this story is definitely amping up in this chapter! I actually wrote half of this chapter pre-food poisoning and the other half post-food poisoning, so hopefully it's not disjointed...I hope you guys stick around for the rest of the ride :D

[artdcnaldson]

yknow those wives who have affairs with men they meet at the gym? yea so that but its art fucking the pretty, young thing from the yoga class his trainer signed him up for. something about mindfulness and old joints, honestly art wasnt listening, too busy thinking about how embarrassed he would be trying to do yoga in a public gym, a nice gym, but public nonetheless. but the first time he goes he picks the matt next to yours, youre no professional but youre a hell of a lot better than he is, as is everyone else but he's not looking at them. you end up chatting afterwards and it just kind of become routine for you to share those classes when you're both there. grabbing a juice together afterwards. and before either of you really understand whats happening, juice turns to lunch, one class a week turns to 3 or 4, a cup of coffee on the weekend turns to regular dinners. and suddenly he's fucking you in the back of his car in the parking lot of your building, all the yoga really paying off with the ways he's bending you trying to make it work in the cramped space. he was really just going to drive you home, like he always does, but you're just so pretty and he swears he saw tashi texting a number with the name "p" last night... so he kisses you and then hes rutting into your pussy, begging oyu to cum around him, let him feel your pussy get tight like that, strangle his cock.... many a thought

-🐞

GODDDDD <3 <3 <3

He isn't going to cheat, he isn't going to cheat, he is NOT going to cheat. It runs through his mind every fucking class after that first one. He's there to improve mobility, to help him get out of his head and be mindful, to kick the horrible anxiety that he's developed since the injury, that's worsened since New Rochelle.

He's not there for you. Even if you're the only person there he talks to. Even if he looks forward to seeing you every morning when he wakes up. Even if he suffers through gross pressed juice after each class because it means more time with you.

You make him happy, in a way he hasn't felt in a really long time. Desirable, interesting, worthwhile. You smile at him across the table when you go out for lunch, and sometimes you duck your head to hide giddy little smiles when he says something sweet. He'll reach across the table and his fingers will brush against your hand, and you won't move away. Your fingers stretch out, feel his, and that's good, that's fine.

It's not cheating. Coffee on Saturday mornings when there aren't any classes scheduled isn't cheating. Texting with your name replaced with a single letter to be discreet isn't cheating. Getting dinner isn't cheating. Watching movies together in your cute little apartment isn't cheating.

Surely Tashi knows. But why would she care when she's got a secret of her own? He know's she's texting Patrick. She has been since the challenger, working out the minutiae of what her coaching him will entail, and it makes Art's stomach turn. That incessant buzzing in his ear like a gnat, the constant question of if Patrick is fucking his wife. Again.

Art had said he would try. He would try to keep playing past the open, and he'd try to fix their marriage. But that was an optimistic promise made in the aftermath of a great fucking game of tennis. It wasn't until later that the resentment and anxiety reared its ugly head.

And then there's you. You don't watch tennis, you don't care about his ranking, you don't expect anything of him. All you expect of him is the pleasure of his company. And god, you look so sweet, sitting in the passenger seat of his jeep. For the past ten minutes, you’ve been rambling on and on about the new show you started watching, how you swear he'd like it, really.

"You're quiet," you say once he's pulled into the parking garage and killed the car. You reach across the center console and put a hand on his arm. "Everything okay?"

No. He's thinking about Tashi and Patrick. Of a text that flashed across her screen that morning from a contact that's just P, "when are you telling art?" He's thinking about affairs, about how he wants one thing to himself, and why can't that be you?

So he kisses you, and you can feel the desperation and need in the rough press of his mouth against yours, in the slow lave of his tongue, licking into your mouth like he wants to savor the taste of you. And you just take it, moaning into his mouth, soft and pretty.

"You're married," you pant as you both climb into the backseat. You say it like you haven't been craving this exact moment since you first saw him walking into the class with an overfull gym bag and a plain gray mat slung over one shoulder. You say it because if you don’t, you’ll feel worse.

But he just silences you with another hungry, desperate kiss that you return in kind. You paw at his shirt, trying to tug it off without breaking the kiss. Art laughs against your mouth and sits back on his heels to peel it off.

He likes the way you look up at him, like he’s the best thing you’ve ever laid eyes on. He’s never felt that from anyone before, never felt like much more than a second choice. A consolation prize. Your hand is small, sliding along the plane of his chest, dipping down to his abs. It’s like you’re marveling at him, appreciating his body the way you’d appreciate a work of art.

Your hand slides down and you palm him almost timidly, feeling the hard length of him in your palm. He groans, a low, masculine sound that makes heat bloom in the pit of your stomach. You’ve heard something similar, when he’s stretching out a particularly tight muscle, or when you’re doing partner poses in yoga class— a hot, panted groan in your ear due to the proximity. But this is entirely new— addicting in the best way.

You don’t care that he’s married. Well, you do, but you just want him to be happy. You can make him happy— can give him something more than what he has. Doesn’t he deserve that?

Your clothes are shed quickly, easily. Peeled off smooth skin, discarded into the floorboard. All of your senses are flooded with Art’s hands, the way they grasp at your exposed skin, feeling, holding, possessing— His mouth, searing hot where he laves at your throat, over your tits. He sucks your nipple into his mouth and it makes you mewl. Arching into his touch.

“I want— fuck— I want to do so much to you,” he mumbles against your skin. He nips at the plush skin of your tits, promising bruises that will remind you in the morning you hadn’t just dreamt it all. “I just need to have you.”

You’d let him do anything. You’d let him carve you open and replace everything inside with him, him, him. And he does, in a way. When he lines up with your cunt and drives in, burying himself deep inside, it feels like he’s all that’s left of you.

The car rocks on its axels as he fucks you, deep and slow. It drives gasps and moans from your lips each time he bottoms out, when you feel his cock deep in your cunt, when his balls press tight against your body.

Art moans a desperate, masculine sound, his breath coming hot. The windows fog, dripping condensation in slow trails. “I think I love you,” Art groans, the words slipping out as he gets closer and closer and closer.

He’s married. He’s probably only saying it in a fuckdrunk haze. It’s a bad decision, you’d both regret it in the morning.

“I love you,” you tell him, softly. Earnest as he’s ever heard it said. He cums hard, grinding slow and deep so it’s as deep as possible.

He walks you to the door, kisses your cheek, tells you he’ll see you at the studio soon. When he gets home, he doesn’t tell Tashi, but she can sense it on him. The secret seeps from his pores. Good for him. It’s about time he does something for himself.

His next tournament is beautiful— his best tennis in a while. And maybe it’s best for Tashi to turn a blind eye while Art’s winning again. Maybe.

[harlotistic]

journey to salvation

cw. fem pov, dad!Leon, nsfw, dead dove, physical abuse, non con, mild piss, incest, blasphemous themes, cult, forced intoxication, violence, mild choking, misogyny, alcoholism, depression, suicidal ideation, major daddy issues, breeding threats, not proofread, bad writing towards the end, tba

the alcoholism to finding god pipeline was not exactly uncommon. it's happened a million times before and it happened to him. Leon S Kennedy. the same Leon who has open tabs in every alcohol serving place across the globe. in a way, it makes him feel whole. a semblance of a calm and picket fence like life that he'd dream up back before the whole thing in raccoon. and whatever he got dragged into after.

shit, he tried everything really. sleeping around with anyone who looks for a good face value fuck (he wasn't really the most silver tongued...at least when it came to words). getting hitched to some girl who sorta resembled a trauma bonded situationship he never fully got over.

hell he even had a kid! a whole daughter for fucks' sake. but nothing fucking worked. nothing at all. until he lost himself in the bottle. god that worked like a charm. the routine of sharp burns down his throat, the haze that took all the edge off, and the part where he forgets. brain and liver going through simultaneous cirrhosis.

but much like the shit that was his life, it's gotta flush out somehow. blocking out these...thoughts and memories made the anger stretch and taut the way a rubber band would. stretching and stretching each time his wife picked a fight about him missing appointments, missing milestones in his daughter's life, and just being missing most of the goddamn time. and then in a particularly escalated screaming match, he had slapped her.

the sharp sting in his palm feeling like a pail of ice had been poured down the back of his dso assigned t-shirt, fresh after a mission. the guilt made his own hazy unfocused eyes water and the sight of his young daughter by the door just standing there, watching with fat droplets of tears running down her cheeks, increased it tenfold.

so he stopped. went cold turkey and stopped even looking at those bottles. hell, he even threw away his favourite hip flask. and then he enrolled in a religious alcohol group therapy. not by choice. some pal of his told him that the group helped. he wasn't the biggest fan of god and his works. he's seen em all, really and they were anything but fluffy pink unicorns shitting rainbows out of their asses. it was...hell. not that he believed in that either.

but something about being around people again. the feeling of togetherness without anybody knowing the weight of the blood and lives he dredged around with him in every step. no judgement, no pity, nothing. he remembered his first day, stepping into church after last having stared into the cold pale stone eyes of christ just hanging in front of everyone and getting a nightmare when he was 10. he had thought to himself, has it really been 20 years?

he took a seat on one of the chairs in the circle. it was the cushioned kind. the ones that made the aches from one too many falls lighten just a little. he flicked his hair out of his eyes. a habit from making sure dust and whatever weird gunk didn't blind him on missions. he was too early. he felt a prickle of self consciousness. he looked too eager and damn it if it's not the most sissy thing to do.

and then the people started streaming in, all bright smiles with light in their eyes — he had to be in the wrong fucking meeting. he was supposed to attend alcoholics' recovery not some supposedly enlightening bible study group. but against the discomfort that began to settle in the lower pits of his stomach, he stayed.

fast forward to now and it has been 10 years. who knew Leon S Kennedy had it in him to attend church alcoholics' recovery and Sunday masses and even prayed on a regular basis now? it sure as hell wasn't him. sure nightmares still kept him up and the urge to just down a whole bottle and complete the process of cirrhosis to give a merciful death to his liver never weakened, but he was a better man now. the church says good men have to be righteous. avoid sin. ask god to forgive and have mercy on their souls. in due time, things would ease up. now Leon knew these words were just words of empty hope. none of it was true. he used to repeat that with conviction in his heart.

until he didn't.

maybe it was the way the leader spoke with unwavering conviction or the way it was more of a sermon instead of an anonymous confession or the words that all seemed to blur into a comforting haze of light after a while. he felt lighter. life had meaning again he'd begin to say, a smile on his lips as he chugged the rest of the cooler water that everyone was given a cup off. each time he goes to the church, all of his desires began to melt away. he was at peace. so much so that he began going to church as soon as he was off missions, sharing cups of cooler water with his peers and the leader who seemed to know just what to say to soothe the troubles in his mind. he never wanted to leave. and sometimes, be didn't.

except, his stupid ex-wife started calling again. saying how he was starting to be late on child support. that she couldn't manage to fund you all on her own with her current earnings. that college was becoming too expensive and that the least he could do was house you for abit to make up for lost time and so that you wouldn't be too lonely at home. at least until she sorted things out with her company and the 6 month long overseas exchange that would guarantee her salary increment.

god gives his most arduous trials to his best of men. Leon just mumbled out a quick sure and ended it. her babbling was going to make him late for church. he had to hand the suitcase full of cash to the leader as a sincere donation so that he can stay for all of their sermons and eventual programme to become one of the higher ranking members.

truth be told, for a second there, he damn near forgot he even had a daughter. church had become his entire life. his purpose. his...people. blood ties weren't enough to keep him going. only church was enough. he ignored the multiple other texts from work asking him where he was. they could find someone else to deal with humanity's work. he was a man of god now, blessed with the opportunity to spread the word of truth. to be back as they were in the olden days. where everything was perfect. where everybody had roles and purposes.

so he gritted his teeth and bared a grimace like smile when you came.

"hey kid. long time no see, huh?"

he says, hands in the pocket of his worn denim jeans. you were practically a stranger. more height than he remembered. when you met his gaze with those really really blank ones, he felt himself a little unnerved. it brought up an image of you crying when he first slapped his ex-wife. how long has it really been? well doesn't really matter. you were no longer a little girl anyway.

it was a long pause. a very awkward one. he shifted a little from one foot to the other as your eyes studied him. it has been a long time. his hair was a little longer, face a little scruffier, but that was your old man alright. the very same eyes you sometimes have nightmares about. the gunmetal blue, cold and filled with a bottomless rage. and you were...taller. softer in places and your hair's...different. he found himself feeling like he was looking at a stranger, unaware that both of you were frowning just like the other.

you were one of many regrets he had. but after church and his enlightenment, his only regret was not being able to put you in church school. maybe then you wouldn't be standing around as soon as you arrive and actually get to doing something around his house. women's roles were in the house. caretakers. while he went out to spread god's word. he stepped aside to let you walk inside, not missing the way your reaction to a dusty seemingly long unused house was a mere flicker of disdain that flitted as soon as it appeared.

"you can take the guest room. settle everything down and get ready. we're going to church."

he says, adjusting the cuffs of his button up as he sat on the couch. he tapped his loafered foot impatienly against the tiles, eyes constantly glancing at the time. 20 minutes passed and he was growing restless. his hair was beginning to fall all wrong from the amount of times he's ran his fingers through them. what was taking you so fucking long anyway? did you not understand the importance of church? how dare you a pathetic girl make god wait? make the leader wait on his important sincere donation? you were gonna regret it when he finally stands up and — the door of the guest room creaked open.

"i'm not going to church, dad. i'm still tired from the trip."

he found his jaw twitching at your brazen nature. walking around as if making the leader wait wasn't going to backfire in his face. but god says patience is virtue so he won't give you shit for it. he was a merciful man after all.

"you better not be saying that just to skip out on church, young lady."

he says with restrained annoyance, jaw tightening as he grabbed his briefcase and headed out. you don't remember dad being religious. but then again, you barely knew the man. most of your childhood was buried under lock and key in the back of your mind. but being around him made you uneasy. even more so now. but this was a temporary arrangement. maybe you should see to doing something more relaxing like giving yourself a breather since it was the summer holidays. maybe just rot away in this room until it was time to leave again.

he came home from church late into the night. gunmetal blue eyes hardening as he watched you eat late night cereal at the kitchen table. you looked up mid chew, meeting his gaze. he tched and walk away. you swore he mumbled something like lazy under his breath. your appetite began to fizzle. what was this man's deal anyway?

he was barely home and honestly the only complaint you had was the lack of any food around. so you decided to take matters into your own hand and headed out to get some. like a good responsible grown adult would. and when you got home he was sitting at the table, eyes narrowed as he scanned you up and down.

"where were you?"

it sounded so accusatory. as if he already had a preconceived notion of where you went. maybe it really didn't help that you went to the store in your usual ripped jeans and tanktop.

"i went to the store, dad. helping you restock the-"

he scoffed, leaning back in his chair and flicking his hair out of his eyes as he crossed his arms.

"dressed like that? like a slut? is this how your mom raised you?"

your grip on the grocery paperbag nearly loosened entirely. you found yourself staring at him with parted lips. a slut? seriously?

"i really should have taken custody of you and put you in church school. that way you wouldn't have grown up to be such a whore."

his words were dripping with venom as his eyes hardened even more.

"from now on until the day you leave, you're not allowed to leave this house. and you will pull your weight by performing your role as a grown woman."

you felt your skin prickle at his words. the way he said it. it all sounded so brazenly prejudiced...like he was reciting it straight off a conservative cultish script embedded in his mind. now you knew he was no saint. an ex alcoholic, an absent father, and the occasional wife beating on special occasions. but a misogynistic bastard? now that...that was something too new.

"you can't just lock me up like- like some hostage! i'm gonna be here for half a year!"

the speed at which he stood up with his hands raised just shy of your cheek made you sputter to a stop, flinching instantly. your eyes held a fear he recognised from that very night he had backhanded your mom. in hindsight, that woman deserved it. she forgot her place when talking to her husband. him. the breadwinner who worked tirelessly day after day to play his role as man of the house. the least she could have done after that was offer him a drink for being such a stupid useless bitch.

"stop backtalking me you ungrateful-"

you swore you heard his teeth crack from how hard he was clenching his teeth. his eyes were hollow and filled with such an intense rage that it made you cower away. oh he knew what a sheltered girl you were how your mom was a doting parent who cared about your wellbeing. so much so that she made you stay with him instead of living in a house all by yourself. no wonder you turned out this way. spoiled, ungrateful, and unreligious. a woman with no piety is no woman at all. that's what the leader had said.

and that was one week ago. you had been holed up in the house, the dim lighting and his constant disappearances to either work or the church was beginning to eat at your brain. him being at home wasn't much better. you had to cook for him, clean for him, iron his church clothes, and shine his shoes. in return all he did was criticise you. the food too salty, the shoes not shiny enough, the house still dusty, everything was never right.

you were beginning to see yourself from outside your body, throwing yourself into one task after another. his constant bullying was eroding your mind. and the fact that you weren't allowed to open the curtains, or watch tv in the living room, or had anybody to talk to really didn't help. and then you landed upon a gold mine. the lower left cupboard in his toilet that stored untouched bottles of liquour. just sitting and waiting. a trap of temptation he had been keeping in his house for god knew what.

as you sat on the toilet just holding the cold bottle, staring at it. you found yourself feeling an eerie sense of connection with your distant almost estranged father. you wondered how many nights he spent all by himself seated in the exact same way you were. just looking at the cold bottle of liquid sin in his hands.

you did what he stopped. broke that last barrier of restraint and spiralled down the way he just climbed up from. you uncorked the bottle and tipped it back, letting the liquid slosh down your throat and dribble down your chin. it burned. it burned so bad. you coughed and sputtered, eyes growing teary. it tasted like an internal chemical burn. a bitter tang that stung the insides of your throat. but the haze that settled over your mind after. the lightness that seemed to anchor your soul back into your body even for just a minute. you were instantly hooked.

like father, like daughter.

it was no wonder that old sod was hooked to this thing. it was liquid gold! i mean for the small price of a bad headache and the worst case of dry mouth the next day, you could just...melt into nothing. the world spins and you're in the middle just watching as everything blurs together into one meaningless nothing.

before you knew it, a week had passed with you passing out evrryday to make time go by quicker. the whiskey bottle was down to it's last dredges and you were laying on the cool tiled floors of the toilet again. shivering from the contrast of it against your liquor warmed skin. your eyes fluttered close and open and close and —

the loud sound of the front door slamming shut had you jolted to a sitting position. you'd recognise the dull thuds of his footsteps anywhere. except they were louder and way angrier than you had ever heard it. and then you stood on swaying legs, taking a look at yourself in the mirror. glassy red eyes, jaw slack with a little bit of drool and hair flat on the side where you had laid on the ground. your heart was beating so fast you could almost feel it on your tongue as panic washed over you. shit. shit.

you splashed cold water onto your face, rubbing it firmly to bring back a sense of sobriety. you swished the water aggressively in your mouth, narrowly avoiding choking on it. your drunken mind too panicked to realise that the smell of it was too deeply marinated in every crevice of your teeth and tongue.

your hands trembled as you plopped to the ground unceremoniously, grasping at the bottle to cap it and hide it back in the cupboard. your shaky fingers loosened and the cap was sent flying near the tub. fuck. he was going to hit you. you just knew it. just like he did mom. and like he does in your nightmares that leave you in cold sweat. please god, if you're real. please please please let him go to bed and never find out — clang

the clatter of the rhick glass bottle tipping over onto the ceramic tiles sent shockwaves of deafening echoes that made your ears ring in your tunnel visioned panic. you heard his footsteps freeze before they stormed towards where you were. you felt your breath hitch as you hurriedly pressed the bottle against your back and leaned against the side of the tub. as if it would just dissolve into your skin and never be found. the doorknob rattled as he pounded on the door.

"what the hell are you doing in there, kid?"

then as you stayed quiet like a rabbit frozen in fear, it became more insistent. more agitated.

"answer me or i'll break this damned door!"

you finally found your voice in a small squeak that escaped your throat.

"j-just a stomach ache dad! i-i'll be out in a bit i promise!"

the banging stopped and it was so silent you could hear your heartbeat reverberate against the smooth white of the tub behind you. it was bullshit and if drunk you could smell it, so could your retired military agent dad.

"you lying bitch. do you think i'm stupid?"

you could practically hear the snarl in his voice and after a beat, hr said something. something that you should have listened to. something that to this day you wondered if it would have changed anything has you heeded his words.

"open this fucking door now or you're gonna regret it."

he yelled. and then it was quiet. so quiet. and then he kicked the door so loud you heard the hinges creak.

"oh you're going to be fucking sorry, kid."

he said in an eerily calm voice and then his footsteps faded as he yelled a loud 'fuck'. followed by the clatter of something being kicked to the ground. you pinched yourself. so hard you felt the sting shoot down your spine. this had to be a nightmare. you had to wake up. you had to get out.

before your panic and alcohol scrambled brain could figure out the next course of action the footsteps returned and in a blink of an eye the door was sent splintering to the floor, revealing a man with crazed bloodshot eyes and a heaving chest beneath his sweat stained button up. his sharp features that brought you praise for winning genetically was now shadowed by his overgrown hair. he held a bag of clinking bottles in one hand. bottles of...liquor.

one look at you and he knew. he could recognise that dazed look anywhere even beneath the thickest layers of fear. and that smell. the sharp sweet and sour of an impending drymouth after drinking alot. for a moment the humid silence in the bathroom was filled with nothing but heavy breaths. father and daughter looking at each other. two mirrors reflecting the very demons they feared.

"you disgust me."

his low raspy voice was pointed as he stepped closer, larger hands yanking your hair just shy of smacking the back against the edge of the tub. sounding like he was talking to the him that was trapped like a wet dog. one that was clinging onto the bottle like a solace teddy a child would have in their bed.

"you think you can lie to me? and commit this disgusting sin without me ever finding out, huh?!"

he grabbed one of the bottles from the plastic bag, unscrewing the lid with the same hand.

"now drink. drink as much. as. you. fucking. want."

he says through gritted teeth, squeezing your jaw open as he poured the liquid down your throat. your yelp turned into spluttering gasps as the liquid went everywhere. some even up your nose and stinging at your eyes. your fingers desperately push at him. wherever you could land on but he stood firm. years of training and muscle despite the recent years of slack and armed with a rage so deep held him rock steady.

one whole entire bottle. your vision began to fuzz as you choked and cough. your head was spinning, barely registering anything at all besides the blue of his eyes that seemed to float before you.

"da...ddy...cough...m'sorry...m'so sorry..."

you sputtered pathetically between coughs as your throat tried to scramble back to normalcy. and for a moment he saw the same you. the reason behind his journey to seek god. his heart clenched as you blinked up at him with red teary eyes and snot dribbling down to your upper lip.

and then he sees you. the current you. the one that had costed him his place in church. next to the leader. next to god's best man.

his mind replayed the events from earlier today. how the sermon moved him as always. talks of how women were made for men and how everyone has their place in front of god. how addiction was sin. how god forgives. and then again on how women are nurturing creatures with big hearts and that they should realise their place is at home. especially not with a bottle because it was way worse to be an alcoholic mother than to be a deadbeat alcoholic father.

the old Leon would have thought this to be crazy. that the words were nothing more than prejudiced nonsense lumped together and stamped with a label of 'from god.' but the Leon now? the one who craves the cooler water gatherings and a feeling of belonging and to do nothing more than pour his entire wages as means of baring his soul and sincerity before the leader, he was nodding almost feverishly. because if god said so. if the leader, said so. it has to be true. truer than anything and everything that has ever been true.

if it weren't, his ex-wife wouldn't have left. his life wouldn't have been so dark and awful and devoid of the enlightening he had now. his legs bounced almost impatiently as he thought about the cooler water and standing next to the leader. how the leader always knew what to say to make everything better. how cool and refreshing the water was. the slight bitter tang to it that seemed to haunt his every waking moment.

he had rushed to the leader's side as soon as everything was over, holding his briefcase full of donation cash with a smile equivalent of a dog with its tongue our. waiting to be petted for a job well done.

"ah, brother kennedy. this must be this month's donation to the cause."

the leader spoke. his beady eyes turning into slits as he grinned with his perfect white teeth. he was a broad man with thinning hair and a shorter stature than Leon. but his presence, it made it so clear why god had chosen him to lead. Leon's fingers tightened on the handle of the suitcase. waiting for the leader's blessing words and for the briefcase to be taken. freeing him from worldly sin and cleansing his soul with the money given. but his hopes were kept afloat in the oddly tense air.

"i heard from the churchgoers that your daughter is back in town. is that true?"

his words sent a chill down his spine. well, not really the words but rather how...it was said. as if he had done something wrong and the leader was baiting him into a confession. Leon swallowed his nerves.

"yes, leader. she's staying over for a while. is there something wrong?"

please say no. please say no. please —

"why have we not seen our new sister here?"

the leader asks in a way that sounded annoyed. impatient. Leon blinked.

"she's been taking care of the house."

she's not religious. she wouldn't get what we have here. too stupid and corrupted by modern day ideations to grasp true enlightenment. the leader smiles. a smile that felt hollow.

"our brothers and sisters here have seen her in clothing that was...inappropriate for brethren of the church."

Leon missed the way the leader's eyes glinted as he spoke. as if he knew more than he let on. and wanted more than he let on. the leader shifted where he stood, adjusting the crotch of his slacks.

"bring her here, will you? i'm sure spreading god's grace is in your best interest unless...of course...you don't think so. and that you want to return to the dark life you lead and turn that disgusting glass bottle into your place of belief?"

Leon felt his heart sink to his bowels. maybe even fall straight out of his ass onto the cold church floor from the way he froze. one of the other churchgoers was about to hand Leon a cup of the cooler water when the leader stopped him by simply holding up his stubby hand.

"no need, brother. brother Kennedy here will not be joining us for our social gathering."

the churchgoer bowed and scurried off like a rat caught in the daytime. Leon felt his heart pound in his chest. a sense of hurt and isolation that ate and prickled at his skin. he had fucked up. big time. and the leader was angry. god help him.

"i'll bring her over as soon as i can, leader. please...you don't have to do this-"

the leader's smile vanished and he stepped closer.

"you will bring her tomorrow."

he declared with a finality in his voice. Leon nodded fervently, desperate for his approval. for his forgiveness. the leader turned away and began to walk off. he paused and turned to face Leon with a barely stifled smirk.

"oh and kennedy? don't bother coming if she's not with you."

don't bother coming...fuck. fuck. what was that supposed to mean? after everything he's done for the church? all the money he's given? all the times he helped stand in front of the leader's door to guard it and make sure the incident of a church sister running out crying wold for help and rejecting the leader's blessing ever happened again. all of it was for nothing. his blood ran cold. even colder at the thought of never socialising with the others again. never tasting that bitter tang of the cooler water that always seemed to make his nightmares go away when he slept.

he was distraught.

he came home slamming the front door behind him. he ran his fingers through his hair, flicking it out of his eyes as he panted. cold swsat began to soak through the front and back of his shirt as the reality of it began to sink in. no more god. no more church. no more leader. no more cooler water. oh no. no no no. this cannot be happening. not when he had been doing so good.

he marched straight to his room without another word, shoes and coat flung haphazardly for you to clean up after. his throat felt dry and for the first time in a while, the urge to drink was no longer a lingering temptation at the back of his mind. his whole brain was set off like an alarm bell telling him to just give in. get a bottle and drink himself stupid. and then he heard it. the familiar clang of a glass bottle against the toilet floor. one he had heard years back when he was drinking himself to death in the very same place after a mission went sideways. and then he remembered you. and everything fell into place.

you bitch. you were drinking, weren't you?

and now he stared into the face of his key to the church. the key to his redemption and acceptance back by the leader. a face so pathetic and sticky with tears and drying cheap alcohol. god he was so made he wanted to just bash your fucking head into the side of the tub. stupid fucking bitch. stupid like your mother. how dare you sit here like a bum, drinking and sinning while he was out there fighting to be enlightened? to be a man of god? he found his fingers curling around the column of your throat, hissing as your nails dug into the skin of his scarred hands as you tried to breathe. the stench of liquour and your existence covered everything in a red haze.

you are out of control. a wild thing that needs to be disciplined before you could join as brethren of the church. and who else better to discipline you than your own enlightened churchgoing father?

"you shouldn't be apologising to me. you should be apologising to god. start praying or i'll make you regret each drop of that damned thing you so stupidly poured down your fucking throat."

he spat, hauling you up and bending you over the side of the tub. the cold hard edge dug into the flesh of your stomach, making the nausea worse. and prayed you did, hands clasped together with your voice trembling and barely coherent. slurring out prayers for for forgiveness. your tears and drool dripped and splattered in unsynchronised rhythms into the inner surface of the tub, your auditory field tunneled so much to the point of missing the metal clink of a buckle being undone.

"i'm sorry god. please i'm so sorry. i swear i'll never drink again. i- ack-!"

your voice splintered into a choked gasp as a sharp sting hit the curve of your ass. you unclasped your hands instinctively trying to defend your sore skin when your hair was yanked back firmly.

"did i say you could stop?"

he whispered, breath hot against your ears. you hurriedly scrambled to keep praying, jolting each time the leather hit. you could barely breathe. breaths coming in short gasps as the pain and dizziness and crying began to overwhelm you. your vision began to darken around the edges.

and then it stopped. not your prayers but the beatings. your heart was pounding so hard you thought you were going to die. hiccupping and gasping for breath as you tried to pray through it all. your desperate and hoarse voice mixed with his panting were the only sounds in that bathroom. the silence made you tremble even more, clasping your hands tighter as you prayed feverishly like a woman possessed.

Leon stared at you. his drunk beat up daughter who's skin was beginning to welt. he was panting, calloused fingers raised to trace the ones visible and gliding over the ones beneath your clothes. the power of beating you into submission. cleansing you of sin. it was...a high. one comparable to drinking or feeling that cooler water slide down his throat and left his brain at peace. as if he was walking on clouds. your curves wiggled and swayed as you prayed desperately. begging for salvation. begging for god to save you from the monster he had become.

but god had enlightened him. and that gave him every right to fix you. make you ready for the leader to bless. his jaw ticked and his finger trembled. a withdrawal of some kind. this was what being away from church did to him. he needed to be called brother kennedy again. needed the approval from the leader. he needed whatever was in that cooler water.

he needed...you.

so he finds himself lifting you, bending you in half as your body clipped the side of the tub's edge. he bunched up the hem of your dress. an old one your mom had given you. one that she had worn before. your marred skin was soft beneath his touch, you whimpered and squirmed. you really did take after your mother. maybe you could be a fillial daughter and play the role of wife too. it's the least you could do to atone for everything you've done.

the rough fabric of his slacks against your bare ass, stung. you could feel the stiffness of his cock as he rubbed it awkwardly against your panties. your legs were split like a foal learning to walk for the first time.

"do you feel that, kid? feel what sin does to an enlightened man like your dad?"

you were too tired to care. too focused on taking your next breath without feeling like a million nerves were combusting beneath your skin. he held you down, edge of the tub digging much deeper, you could've sworn it made your ribcage creak.

"promise...i won't tell anyone...please dad...just stop..."

you slurred weakly (or at least you thought you did because all Leon heard was a bunch of groans and the word dad) eyelashes fluttering as your face smushed into the cold tub floor. bent in half as you were trying to breathe was the worst experience you ever had. you tried to push yourself up. to push against him and stumble free. but even as your knuckles whitened with effort, he was too strong. his palms pressed your head into the ceramic as his other tugged at his slacks. all you did was keep pressing the tub's edge harder against

"don't worry. i'll make sure you're ready for church, hm? perfect vessel to receive the leader's blessings. you'll learn to thank me."

he muttered under his breath as he struggled to shimmy down his boxers.

"huh would you look at that? you pissed yourself, kid."

the tub's edge had been pressing against your womb from the way he was holding you down with his sweat soaked front on your back, squishing it so firmly you were sure it would go concave. the numbing cold and firmness made your pussy drip. it was pressing on everything tender. your liquour filled bladder had surrendered to fear in your fevered repenting, a pool of warm acrid smelling liquid seeping into the soles of your feet. he laughed humourlessly at his deadpan, pressing his fingers into your sopping wet hole.

he tugged your soaked panties down, stroking the soft of your bruised cheeks before kneading them. fingers squeezing and pushing at the welts. the painful numbness made you groan. he began spreading it, spitting on his fingers before he harshly prodded at your slick hole.

"well makes this easier for the both of us, hm?"

he gave his cock a few strokes, eyebrows knitted as he rubbed the underside against the ridge of your ass. the warmth and slickness of your piss was making his head spin, soft schlick schlick sounds filling the humid bathroom. your head was beginning to hurt from being pushed down into the tub, hair pricking at your eyes. you let out more groans and whimpers. sounding even more urgent despite battling your consciousness.

"you lost the fight against the devil's evil temptations. but dad'll fix this. if he can fix his life, he can fix this. make you pure again so god will love you- mmf-"

he groaned as his leaky tip began to push into you. you barely put up a fight, just crying against the pool of your own tears that had gathered beneath your cheeks. he was going to fix you. fix this. fix everything like he had fixed his life up to this point. he gritted his teeth as he sank in deeper, the cool of your sweat glistened back against the buttoned front of his shirt. the plastic buttons dug into your skin, tugging it as he pushed in deeper. you had never felt so full and numbed at the same time.

he yanked your head up, licking the tears from your cheeks as he plowed into your piss slick hole. the wet thwapping noises seemed to make everything in your brain go blank. your body was sore, broken, and sensitive.

he grunted against your ear, stubble reddening your skin. he was breathing shakily as he buried himself deep. his dirty little girl needed his guidance. his help. his...blessing. it made his cock twitch at the thought of purifying the source of lust within you. your bare womb. filling it up to keep you from sinning again. fulfilling your purpose as a woman placed on earth by god. making you a sweet docile mommy wwith nurturing tendencies. just like god intended.

"you feel that, kid? your womb is begging to be filled. beging to fulfill god's written purpose for you."

he says as he yanked your head up with one hand while the other splsyed across your lower tummy. pushing you back onto his twitching dick in a relentless rhythm. you let out a pained grunt, hands scrambling to hold onto something for balance as he began to thrust faster.

his balls slapped against your sore ass with each thrust and all you could remember was slipping into a deep dark haze. your ears rung and everything around you faded. Leon tried tapping your face as your head hung limply from the hair clenched in his fingers but to no avail. he licked a stripe down the side of your neck and buried his teeth between your neck and shoulder as he came with a loud groan. his warm cum shot deep into you, swirling with your piss as he held you against his cock. he let go once he was done, watching as you fell to the ground and splashing up the piss from the puddle as you landed.

well...repenting was a messy business but now you were perfect. his perfect, church ready daughter. he ran his fingers through his hair to push back the strands stuck to his forehead from his sweat as a grin tugged at his lips. the front of his shirt was soaked in both your sweat and his heart was racing in his chest. you were ready.

—

"and leader, meet my daughter. she looks forward to receivinh your blessing. i made sure to prepare her myself."

his arm around your waist a tinge too tight, eyes eager for approval of a job well done. he searched the leader's beady eyes, watching as he studied you like fresh meat. the leader shifted his pants a little and licked his lips before acknowledging Leon again. barely.

"welcome back, brother kennedy."

the leader says, eyes glinting. Leon felt a wave of relief hit him full force, fingers trembling as he took the cup of cooler water from one of the brothers and chugged it down like a man parched in the desert seeing an oasis for the first time.

in his car, his phone dinged with a notification. one from the ame friend who recommended the alcoholic group therapy from all those years ago. a frantic jumble of words followed by a clipping of a document with the leader's face on it.

"Under investigation for bioterrorism involvement using slow acting newwater activated virus strain. Suspected intent of cult-forming and virus spreading."

[spellbound-rosehearts]

A ROUTINE OF SORTS : CHAPTER 2

leona starts napping in ramshackle, and yuu starts making two cups of tea.

pairings: leona kingscholar x yuu

warnings: none

notes: i didn’t expect my blog to get so much attention already, i’m glad you guys are liking the story so far! here’s part two for you ♡

part 1, part 3

it became routine, somehow. a pattern neither of them formally acknowledged but both settled into with surprising ease.

yuu would return to ramshackle after her classes alongside grim, her arms full of books or papers, and more often than not, leona would already be there. he never announced himself. she’d simply push open the creaky front door and find him, half-sprawled on the couch with a book lazily balanced in one hand, or tucked into the sunniest corner of the room with his eyes closed and a faint, contented scowl on his face.

she never said anything about it. never asked why he came, or how long he planned to stay. she just let him be, stepping around his shoes or tail when she passed, tossing him a glance and a nod at most. he, in turn, never made a fuss. it was a wordless arrangement, strange in theory, but in practice… it worked. grim, of course, would make the occasional snarky comment, but when leona would crack his eyes open or send him an icy glare, it always shut him up.

and as the weeks trickled by, leona’s presence in the dorm became almost natural. comfortable. familiar.

yuu started making two cups of tea instead of one. it became habit—one cup for her, and one extra she’d leave on the table. if he wanted it, he’d drink it. if not, it would sit there until the steam faded and she would dump it out later.

snacks followed. sometimes she’d give him the extra fruit she had laying around that was about to go bad, sometimes it was a couple of cookies from heartslabyul’s latest tea party leftovers. nothing fancy, nothing extravagant—just small and quiet gestures she would make without asking anything in return. he was a guest in her home after all, she felt as if it was the kind thing to do.

she never lingered, however. she’d drop the cup beside him, maybe give him a short glance or smile, and then she’d disappear upstairs to study with grim. her presence upstairs was just as regular now as his was downstairs. it became theirs, in a way neither of them labeled.

one afternoon, the sun glowing low and golden across the weathered ramshackle floorboards, yuu came out of the kitchen with a mug in hand and set it on the table beside leona’s lounging form. he had his usual spot on the couch, one leg kicked over the armrest, the other hanging lazily off the edge. a book lay open across his chest—some historical tome he probably hadn’t been reading for the last twenty minutes.

she turned to head back upstairs like always, but his voice stopped her in her tracks.

“you know you can speak, right?” he drawled, one eye sliding open to meet hers. “i don’t bite. not hard, at least.”

she blinked, then turned back around slowly. “well,” she said, dry, “i know you don’t like people yapping your ear off.”

he gave a quiet, amused huff. “i make exceptions sometimes.”

that earned a small, surprised smile from her. she stepped a little closer. “you’re in a generous mood.”

“i’m horizontal in a sunbeam with tea delivered to me daily. hard not to be,” he said with a lazy shrug. then, as his gaze lingered on her face, his expression shifted slightly. less teasing, almost softer. “you look tense.”

her grin faltered, and her eyebrows knit together. “huh?”

he sat up a bit more, closing the book and setting it on the worn coffee table. “you’ve got that look. like you’re about five seconds from snapping a pencil in half.”

“i do not,” she said a little too quickly, her gaze shifting away from his.

“you do,” he said, eyeing her. “so? what’s chewing on you this time? school?” he reached forwards, picking up the tea cup and taking a sip as he awaited her answer.

she hesitated, letting the silence between them stretch. the steam from her cup curled around her face and she felt her cheeks flushing. the weight of his attention was heavier than she’d expected. but it wasn’t unwelcome. not exactly. she sighed and rubbed at her temple. “yeah. it’s ancient magic. i’ve read the same page about six times now and i still can’t grasp the concept.”

leona raised an eyebrow at her, sitting a little further upright. “which part?”

“all of it?” she muttered dryly. “i’m behind in my class. and it’s like they expect me to just get it. i’m not from this world, i didn’t grow up learning about magic, but i’m supposed to act this like it’s common sense.” she sighed, then eyed him warily. “why are you even asking?”

“because you look ready to explode, and i’m trying to enjoy my nap. you pacing around upstairs is interrupting my sleep.”

she rolled her eyes. “glad to know your naps are top priority.”

“they are. but,” he started, and then yawned, stretching his arms above his head. “ancient magic you say? you should have just led with that. i could help, it’s my best subject after all,” he says with a prideful smirk. “bring it down here, herbivore. i’ll take a look at it.”

that surprised her. “i- you- what? you’re offering to tutor me?”

he waved her off. “don’t get weird about it. faster we get it done faster i can nap peacefully. do you want my help or not?”

she stared at him for a second, then finally set her mug down on the table next to him. “…yeah. okay. i’ll be right back.” she turned on her heel and started off upstairs. leona leaned his head back against the couch and let his eyes slip shut again, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth.

he had said it was just to get her to quiet down and stop pacing, but… maybe he didn’t mind her company after all.

[sim0nril3y]

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!Reader Scenario: Simon hasn't been able to stop thinking about your relationship and how not making a commitment to you might lead you to running off with someone else. He needs to solve this.

Warnings: No mask Simon (It's my personal headcanon in his regular life he probably wouldn't wear it), suggestive thoughts, canon-typical swearing.

It was strange to Simon that the two of you had settled into routine together. Most nights he’d pick you up after finishing work, he’d bring you back to his home or drop you off at your flat. More often than not Simon would cook you some good food to fill up your empty tummy, then roll around in the sheets together. The next morning you’d wake up beside him and he’d set to making you a hearty breakfast and discuss plans for the days. Those plans typically of doing exactly what you’d done the day before, spending time together and… though he’d never say it aloud Simon enjoyed it, he looked forward to it.

There was the times when Simon was left feeling lonely because you weren’t around. It was when he wouldn’t see you from one day to the next because you were busy working on an art project or work had left you exhausted. Simon was a solitary person, not needing or even wanting other people around him, or… at least that was how he’d felt before meeting you.

So, what was this? A question that Simon had never asked himself before, but now it was burning inside of him. Never before had Simon desired clarification, but as it currently stood you were just two people living independent lives that slept with each other and spent time together. That left opportunity for you to find someone else and bring them into your life. He hoped that wasn’t the case, it certainly wasn’t something you’d mentioned before but it still left that door open for someone to take you from him.

The thought of losing you filled him with utter dread. How was he supposed to sleep at night with your body to curl around? He’d started buying extra food when doing his weekly shop, who was going to help him eat it all? Plus, all your favourite snacks were filling the cupboards, if you weren’t here then they’d just go to waste… Besides, there wasn’t another living soul out there that would be able to make you fall apart as quick as he could.

Bloody hell. He was in deep here.

That night after a long shift at work you were curled up beside him on the sofa, blanket draped over your legs, snacks between your lounging bodies and eyes fixed on whatever dumb show you’d thrown on the TV. You hadn’t seemed to notice that from beside you Simone was stewing silently, mind racing with how to broach the subject in the most subtle way.

These questions and that anxiety was beginning to build up inside of Simon, his knee was bobbing relentlessly, muscles wound tight, fingers tapping furiously against the arm of the sofa like a metronome. How was he going to do this? How was he going to ask for clarification on what you were to each other? What did he actually hope the answer was going to be? He wanted you, right? Only you. He didn’t want another living soul to have you… fuck, the thought of someone else having their hands and their lips on you. It made him seethe.

“What are we?” The question tumbled from his lips, short and frustrated. It caused you to look up at him, brows furrowed. “Sorry?” “You… do you ever do this with anyone else?” He looked down at you through intense dark eyes. “Do I… watch TV with other people?” You questioned, almost not following his line of questions.

Further frustrated Simon bit out. “Do you fuck anyone else?” That made you begin to fight a little smile, finally figure out what he was trying to ask. “And the rest of it… everything we do together… like going for walks, or to dinner… or just watching TV like this…” He gestured to the way you were lounging so comfortably behind him, sans any make-up and looking so relaxed. “Do you?” Simon asked, you simply smirked as you flitted you gaze back towards the TV and muttered easily. “Would it bother you if I did?”

This question only made him stew and simmer again at the thought of someone else being in your life like this. The thought of them kidding and making you fall apart only mad his anger bubble further. “Mm.” He grumbled out, keep his dangerous eyes locked on you.

Reaching across to rest a delicate hand on his tattooed forearm you mentioned softly. “I don’t do this with anyone else, Si.” You informed him, watching the tension leaving him body in that moment. “Only you.” You quip with a little shrug of your shoulders, before continuing. “If I’m not here with you then I’m at work and I’m wishing that I was here with you or counting down the minutes until I’m going to see you again or wildly ignoring all of tasks and remembering all my time with you.” There was vulnerability to your tone as you informed him that. “Then I see you and I’m happy in all those hours before I’m back to being on my own and wishing it’ll happen all over again.”

You were in deep too. With the way that Simon was looking at you, you could have been convinced that there wasn’t anyone else in the world. “Simon, are you trying to ask me something?” Reaching up you brushed your fingers against his face delicately before following with a gentle few kisses against his cheeks and temples and jawline. Every action made forced his body to relax, coaxing his anxiety away before finally the words came. “What if… we did do this everyday? Just… us two…”

You gnawed your lower lip. “I could get behind that.” You agreed with a tiny shrug of your shoulders. “So… if we did do this… what would I call you?” You quirked a brow at him. “My boyfriend?” Simon grimaced. “Love, I’m not a boy.” He muttered, snatching some of your snacks and beginning to munch away. “How about my lover?” You purred playfully and once again Simon groan and threw you a look. “So… just my Simon?” You raised your brows at him, this time he didn’t seem to fight your suggestion, simply smirked.

“Mm…” Then he nodded, much to your surprise. “And you’d be mine.” It was like your heart exploded in your chest, smiling at him and trying not to act overly excited and frighten him off. “I guess I would be~” Then leaning forward you kissed a couple sweet kisses. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? Not moving too fast?” You ask, concerned that Simon might change his mind all of a sudden and end up hurting you both. “M’sure, babe.” He responded, pressing a sweet kiss to your nose. "You're mine."

Masterlist | Ask | 29-01-2024

[sheepispink]

New faces, New experiences ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི COD MASTERLIST Part of the Sweet As Sugar Series

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི simon riley x (afab) baker! reader

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི After your date with Simon, you consider what you talked over, meeting his men would be really fun. And you're right, because Soap and Gaz already have something in mind to do with you.

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི WC: 4.5k

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————

You hadn’t been joking when you told Simon to bring his men over, but you may have underestimated how nerve wracking it’d be meeting them. Simon had called you the day before, telling you that they’d just finished an assignment and would be driving through town on their way to base. He was planning to just stop by himself, grab his usual, but the bakery was nearly never busy at that time, and you had excitedly offered for him to bring the whole team.

Obviously, you were excited; your parents were taking over the front counter for the day, allowing you to stay in the back preparing a batch of those chicken buns you made for Simon before. From the stories you’ve heard, Johnny was likely to have a sweet tooth so you reserved some chocolate tart on sale to keep him happy. Just in case anyone wanted something a little less overpowering yet flavourful all the same, you whipped up a quick key lime pie. Of course, you have a little paper bag of Simon’s usual kept to the side; it’s practically mandatory at this point. Half an hour before closing now, and your parents have left the shop for you to clean up and handle the last few customers. You walk through, the steaming tray placed on the back counter; it’s a regular routine for you, but you’re instantly caught off guard when Simon and his team are sitting in the corner already.

“Sorry—” A half-sincere apology as you place the mug that you almost spilled in sheer shock down in front of the customer, eyes still locked on the four men that you had originally anticipated to arrive in an hour—definitely not to be here already. It’s not that you’re angry, you just had originally thought you’d be able to tidy up the place first, get all the meddlesome stragglers out and serve a fresh new brew of your best tea. But now all your plans were completely ruined; how were you even supposed to introduce yourself properly when you still had plenty of people waiting for you to serve the last pastries on the shelf? Quickly, you reach into the cabinets below to grab your spices, measuring them hastily–a sick feeling beginning to churn in your gut. 

One pot of tea, three pastries for the table by the window, a latte for the couple by the painting— oh, and Simon’s pastries you kept in the small cabinet in the back. Wait, where did his pastries go? Oh right, your dad would’ve given them to him already. Wait, did he make his coffee the way you usually did it, or the way the menu says? It’s totally different, and why is this latte taking so long to brew? It’s only February and there’s sweat on the back of your neck; damnit, your hair is starting to fall down from the hasty updo and that flour is still on your shirt—

“Sorry for showin’ up a bit too early, sweetheart.” It’s not the first time he’s caught you overthinking, and definitely not the last time either. Your shoulders jump, spinning around to see his hands planted on the counter, his cold eyes sending a shiver of warmth straight up your spine.  “Simon!” Your cheeks push up as you smile, and you instinctively step forward like you always do, always giddy whenever he comes. The anxious thoughts swirl as you look past him at his team still chatting away, your teeth nervously grazing at your lip. “I just didn't expect you so… soon.” 

The grin falters a little, and that’s what makes Simon grow more concerned, not missing how your gaze still lingers behind him before you’ve turned around again to complete the latte. You tap the spoon against the sink, resting it on the side to be cleaned later. “Can’t say I didn’t see your jaw drop.”  He says in return, watching as you walk around the counter to serve it to the couple before heading back to grab the three pastries for the window table. 

When you return, he follows you behind the counter, the glass pastry case doing little to shield you from the others. “Figured I should check how you’re holdin’ up.”

“Me?” 

You’re giving him that confused look, but it’s so cute on you that he can't help but let the obliviousness to your own anxiety slide, his hand gently landing on your lower back. “What, you’re telling me you weren’t freaking out and overthinking about how you’d meet my teammates?” Heat flushes your cheeks, rising up to the curve of your dark circles and making your hands clench awkwardly as the realisation hits you like a truck. First was that you had definitely been freaking out, and second being that he knew you even better than you knew yourself. It makes your stomach swirl with nervous realisation, partly relief, and you can't help but let out the breath you were holding.

“Okay.. Okay, I was freaking out. It’s just..” You fall silent, chewing at your lip as you try to find the right words. He already knew you struggled a little with connecting with people, especially with the constant moves your entire life, but this is the first time he’s seen you like this. It was so just so nerve wracking; what if they didn't even like you or the food the bakery sold? What if the other day wasn't even a date, and it was just a friendly hangout and now Simon was making you meet his captain because he ordered pastries? What if this was never about you, and only ever about the bakery? What if——

“We came by because we needed somewhere to sit down and discuss things. Mainly between me and the Captain, but the other two listen in.” He explains, his hand moving to gently rub your arm as your back faces the café, your weight shifting from foot to foot. “You don't have to say anything more than a hi; they won't mind in the slightest.” 

 “But I want to talk to them. I mean— they’re your teammates! I don't know why I always seem to chicken out at the last minute…” 

He watches your hands fiddle with the fabric of your apron with a soft frown across his lips, concerned as you don't seem to be feeling much better at all. “Listen to me.” Simon slips his gloves off into his pocket, before cupping your cheek with his cold hand and purposefully making you wince in surprise. It’d be a lie to say he didn't love your reactions, and he’s glad when your chest finally sinks a little just by the distraction. “Say hi, talk a little. If you tell me you forgot to turn the oven off, I'll tell ‘em to keep their heads straight, and you can carry on as normal, okay?” Nodding along, you’re about to make a rebuttal when he rubs your arm again.

 “If you don't want to speak at all, it’s fine. I haven't told them anything; they're not expecting anything. It’s fine–there’ll be plenty of days.”

It’s such a good solution it makes you blink,your heart warming, and you’d hug him if not for the mohawked man from last time standing by the counter, staring longingly at your sweeter pastries. He glances up at the two of you, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “Oh? Lt, are ye a baker now?” 

 “Shut it Johnny.” Simon groans, and you can’t help but smile, making the man you’ve heard is also called ‘Soap’ turn towards you.

“And I remember you, miss rookie who mysteriously gave the Lt lunch. Say, you’ve got some delicious lookin’ treats ‘ere, what would ye recommend?” The sickness dissipates, watching as Simon walks around the counter to drag his friend away. Instead, you giggle, reaching into the cabinet behind.  “I’ve heard around that you have a sweet tooth. So.. Chocolate tart?”

Soap’s face lights up as you pull out the last slice, the empty plate in the display glass revealed to be a lie. He looks to Simon who reluctantly nods, as if confirming he can actually take it from you, before sliding some cash out his wallet whilst taking the plate with glee. 

“No wonder Lt’s always comin’ down ‘ere. If I knew the baker was as sweet as her treats I’d be here too.” 

That makes you smile again, about to tell him he’s welcome anytime when the other sergeant, who you know from Simon’s stories as ‘Gaz’ comes walking up. “Soap, stop flirting with the cashier and get your damn food.” He scoffs, though it’s nothing more than a jest, before pointing at Soap and mimicking a crazy signal with his hand to you. 

“Hey! I’ll ‘ave you know, she’s Lt’s bird, not mine. So don't even try your charms either, Garrick.”

“Wait—Ghost is seeing someone?” Gaz looks at you with his jaw dropped, before glancing between Soap and Ghost for some sort of confirmation. It sounds weirdly right when it’s said out loud, though nothing has been officially stated yet. You’re just thankful the last few customers have left already–-it’s definitely time to close shop for the day.

“Lad, you’ve missed everything.” A man steps up from the table, walking forward directly towards you. It’s not hard to figure out who he is, with his demeanour practically screaming authority and yet his face is so welcoming he feels like another one of your dad’s best friends. Still, Simon had told you he was a high ranking soldier, if ‘Captain’ hadn’t already screamed superiority to you. Were you meant to thank him for his service? Salute him? Bow in respect??

He seems to notice your struggle, or maybe your emotions are painted on your face again, because he gives the other boys a smirk before stepping forward and reaching out a hand for you to shake. “Probably scared you already with the titles, hasn’t he? Captain John Price. Don’t bother with ‘sir’, these boys definitely don’t.” He huffs, and it eases something almost immediately seeing how relaxed Simon is, fondly rolling his eyes with his arms over his chest— you could argue he was likely a tad bit embarrassed. 

“It’s nice to meet you.. John, I’m uh..Ghost’s..” 

You pause, unsure what to call yourself in case you take a step too far, but thankfully Simon saves you, albeit sounding a bit exasperated. “She can be my wife for all your knowledge. Now, if you’re all done disturbin’ her peace, we have things to discuss.” He says gruffly, his eyes only focusing on yours— oh he’s embarrassed alright.

You’re sure that’s the end of it, until Gaz and Soap give each other a shared glance. “You mean you two have things to discuss.” Gaz smirks, stepping forward to also shake your hand, all while you’re looking more flushed by the second, eyes darting between the men before you. “Kyle Garrick—Gaz also works, whatever you choose.” Soap reaches for your other hand, shaking it as well with a big smile. “John Soap Mactavish, might be easier to say Soap.” 

—

The two accompany you into the kitchen of the shop whilst Price and Ghost talk over separate matters, eagerly asking you questions. Meanwhile, you prepare a fresh pot of tea for Ghost to take back to base whilst also cleaning up some stray things. “So how did you meet?” Kyle asks, watching intently as you measure out the spices before mixing them into the large pot on the stove. “Well, he came by to buy a pastry and I asked him if he wanted to try some of my new tea for free. After that, he came by the winter bazaar with his squadron and bought most of my stock.” You say sheepishly, and Gaz cooes, making Soap snicker.

“Makes sense, tha’ man loves his tea. It’s his English nature.” Soap remarks and you can't help but laugh along. “Well, maybe mine is just that good.”

You pour two cups for them, reminding them to blow on it first before they eventually taste it, eyes widening. “Wow, this is perfect. No wonder he always gives the mess hall tea a death stare.” Kyle laughs, leaning back against the counter as you pour the tea into a flask, ready for the long journey back to base.  “Can’t lie, I was a bit surprised. I always took Ghost to be a no dating guy..”

You blink at Kyle, looking over to Soap who shrugs as well, agreeing with him. “What do you mean?”

“Ghost hasn’t dated in years; we barely get to tease him since he’s never got wasted either.” That was probably the last thing you expected— actually you’re not really sure what you had thought at all about his previous dating life.

Since the day you met him, he was a mystery and yet an indulgence that made your heart swell. Every conversation you held was like unlocking another part of him, even if in most of them he just liked to listen to you tell him about something interesting you had found out that week. Then he started coming by even more regularly, and you’d talk throughout the day over text too. Just the thought of him brought a grin to your lips, and just the sound of his voice had you looking around for his presence. It felt like an infection, the way your adoration for him spread from shy thoughts in the back of your head to the tips of your fingertips when you’d playfully tap him on the back once you started your shift. So to think no one else has experienced this tornado of emotions for this person, it was a surprise, but also a badge of honour you’d wear proudly. If there’s one thing you can be confident in, it’s that you’ve got enough love to cover any previous exes he would’ve had.

“Well.. He’s very serious at work, so that does explain part of it.” Gaz offers, and you suppose it does make sense when he puts it that way. Sure, you’re well aware Ghost works for the military, but you never questioned past just how differently he may act there. He’s already a bit of an anomaly in your shop, his dark attire sombre compared to the flourishing colours of your pretty mugs. “Huh.. What is he like at work? Does he yell a lot? You’re curious now, leaving the flask forgotten to the side as you look at the pair of them with intrigue. Though Soap just glances at Gaz before looking over to you again.

“You wanna find out first hand?”

——

That’s exactly how you got smuggled into base, complete with your very own uniform and matching cap. The three of you giggle as a soldier looks at you funny, not recognising you but not wanting to be disrespectful so they quickly salute.

 “Are you sure this is okay?” You whisper as they lead you around base, towards the track where the Lieutenant is currently lecturing his squadron for whatever they had done wrong this time.  

“Promise, lass; this is perfectly fine.”

You watch with intrigue the way he sternly instructs them, voice clear and firm as he shouts orders and corrections as they run around the track— absolutely refusing for their form to be the slightest bit off. Training with his team is soon cut short, and he heads over to the gym for his own workout, with you following close behind. Soap pretends you’re a rookie he’s disciplining, facing his back to Ghost whilst he makes up some crazy story about how you fell out of a tree the other day. It’s the perfect cover for you to peek at how Ghost pushes the weight high before bringing it back down again. His muscles bulge, a clear narrow in his brow despite the mask before he lifts the great mass high once more. With the cold weather since you first met him, you’ve never once seen the man in a t-shirt and right now is definitely a sight you’d mourn until summer came around again.

“I never realised he was that strong..” You giggle, a giddy feeling swirling in your gut that has you feeling like a teenager all over again. It’s clearly obvious the effect he has on you to the other two sergeants, and so they can only roll their eyes, leading you outside his office. “Probably scolding a soldier right now.”

Nosy as ever, you all press your ear against the door, snickering at how he insults the soldier. “None of us have bloody time for your remarks-”

“But sir I just thought that..”

“Did you just interrupt me, soldier?” Silence rings out in the room, then you hear a shuffle of footsteps. “Get out of this bloody office. If I hear you ever suggest air striking the enemy again like an idiot, I'll strap you to that bloody airstrike myself.” You have to scurry down the corridor before you get caught, a hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your snickers as you learn more and more about the man who’s as quiet as a mouse in your café. 

Lunch is by far one of your favourites though— they were absolutely right. He had finished the last of the latest flask of tea you gave him, and now he was staring at the mug of watered down tea with a disappointed look. He often praised whatever you made, but you never realised it was this bad; Gaz had to lead you away from the mess hall before you burst out laughing and blew your cover straight away.

“Well then lass, we’ve shown you what he’s like at work so come on and spill the beans–y’know what we want to hear.” The two sergeants walk alongside you as you walk through the spring air, march chasing away the chill. “Didn’t have to, but he drove me all the way to the nearby farm and helped me bring home all the stock. Best part was watching him struggle to pick a good egg.” You smile as you recount the memory like it was yesterday; it may as well could’ve been with how regularly it replayed in your head, no detail forgotten. You may have even written a little diary entry about it, but they didn’t need to know that part. “That wasn't even that long from when we first met.. He drove me back after that too, and he used to stay late and chat over a cup of tea.”

“Ah, down bad from the beginning, huh? Didn’t know Simon was the type to swoon.” They elbow each other, chuckling as you blink, confused. “Oh, no, no — he didn't like me from the beginning, I think it was much after that. In fact, it kind of surprised me; I didn't expect him to reciprocate..”

 “Lass, he talked about your bakery all the time.”

“Yeah, but that’s my bakery. Who doesn't like sweet treats? It wasn’t about me.”

“If he really had not felt anything about you, he definitely wouldn’t have actively tried to hide you from us before you got together. I’d even go as far as to argue he thought one of us would steal you away.”

The thought resonates in your head, having never thought about it that way in the slightest. Could it be possible though? You suppose if you had a few more friends, you’d keep news about him quiet– like your own little secret for no one else to interfere with. Only yours, and only his.

You barely have a second to further question before Soap’s staring at his phone, realising they're both supposed to be in a briefing in approximately thirty seconds.  “Shit— don't wander off, okay? We’ll be right back.” 

“Wait but—” And they’re already gone, disappearing into one of the side doors and leaving you alone in the wide expanse. 

You tried to listen to their orders, you really did, but it was starting to get colder and a whole unit of soldiers were entering the track you were just on. So, you took it upon yourself to re-enter the building, trying your best to walk through the corridors like you were actually supposed to be there. A few soldiers pass, giving you an odd look but nothing too crazy– the problem was that every corridor looked practically the same. Maybe you really should’ve stayed put after all.. This didn't seem good in the slightest. Oh, wait–this door looked kind of familiar, perhaps you were heading in the right direction?

“Slacking off now, are we?” 

Before you can comprehend the rough voice in your ear, a hand is on the scruff of your shirt, dragging you into a room before the door is slammed. Immediately, you squeal in the tight grasp, only to realise your feet are dangling above the floor, your shirt tight as you’re held upwards. Eyes squinted shut, you shake your head profusely.  “I'm- I'm on patrol!” 

“Walking around like a lost chick is hardly patrolling.” Your feet finally plant on the ground again, and so you blink your eyes open only to see Simon staring back at you, his mask hiked up to his nose and his lips curved down into an obviously fake frown. You give one in return, crossing your arms firmly over your chest in retaliation to his stunt. “How did you even realise it was me?” Though, he only rolls his eyes, his large hand reaching up to pinch your cheek like he always does, before taking off your cap and undoing the tight bun you were currently donning to fit in.. 

“Since this morning. No soldier would look at a Lieutenant so brightly, much less one who’s staring from afar with Soap beside them.” Sheepish, your cheeks warm, even more as he runs his hand through your hair, smoothening it out with his palm. “Much better. Now did you enjoy staring me down all day or what? Stalking is considered a crime y'know.” He hums, his lips barely inches away from you as he fixes your messy collar, placing the cap back upon your head again.

“Hey— I wasn't stalking you! Wait.. You flexed your muscles on purpose, didn't you?” 

If there’s one thing you’ve learnt about Simon Riley, it’s that sometimes he can be absolutely horrible at a poker face. Since he’s always wearing a mask, he barely remembers to cover his own reactions apart from his eyes. Thus, now that his lips are bare, you’re welcome to witness a very cheeky looking smirk. “Well it worked, didn’t it?” He wasn't wrong; you most definitely had drooled over his muscles for the forty minutes you were allowed to watch him workout for. 

One of his ungloved hands slides down, grabbing yours as he lets out a small scoff. “How long were you walking around aimlessly? You’re freezing.” That’s when he goes to clasp your other hand, only to feel a small lump in your cargos, a brow raising.

 “Oops, I almost forgot about them.” You pull out a bag of freshly baked cookies out of your pocket, planning to leave in his quarters later when the Captain would help you sneak in. Unfortunately, it seemed your surprise had been hijacked now, so a hand-delivery would have to do.

“Oh? Bribing a Lieutenant can also be considered a crime.” You roll your eyes, and pull out one of the treats, waving it under his nose like he was a dog watching a bone. “I wouldn’t say bribing. You work so hard, don't you think you deserve a treat? Plus, I'd call what I did admiring– not stalking.”

He eyes you for a second, the small curves of a smile lingering on his lips as he plucks the cookie out of your grasp, taking a small bite and chewing it down. You watch as he processes the taste, expecting the usual nod in satisfaction, or even for him to devour it one go just to prove how much he likes it. No, instead, his other hand had sneaked behind your neck, allowing him to push your head a little forward when he leaned in and stole a kiss right from you. 

“Not bad, you’re definitely sweeter though.” His lips shine with your lip gloss, crumbs sticking to his smile as he finally devours the rest of the cookie, stepping back towards his desk. You're left dumbfounded against the door, warmth buzzing in your cheeks and stomach, like a match lit aflame. Secretly, he’s buzzing with satisfaction, proud that he finally got you back for the sneaky kiss you pulled on him last time.

—---------------

“I can’t believe you kicked me out of your office after that.” 

He lies on his bed, muscles sinking into the comfy mattress and a particularly soft blanket you bought for him a few weeks after he fell asleep on your couch. In truth, his own action had caught him off guard, so yes, he did kick you out after kissing you for the first time. Now you were complaining to him over text, a bunch of sad face emojis following all your words.

“I still had to do work. You’ve kicked me out before as well.” He adds an emoji rolling its eyes, and he knows you’ll laugh at that because he almost never uses those silly pictures– it’s because he finds him funny when you get grumpy with him for it. ‘Old man’ you had huffed at him one day, and he promptly proved you wrong when he hoisted you over his shoulder and refused to put you down. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have let you meet my sergeants. They’re a bad influence on you.” 

That’s a lie, introducing you to his team was the best decision he’s ever made–coming right after the day he gave you his number and walked around the festival with you. He was worried of course; you might’ve got scared off with the whole military thing or even just not got along with them at all. But now at least he knows if something ever happens, they’ve got your back indefinitely, just like you’d happily welcome them too. Doesn’t mean he isn't a little jealous when he remembers you spent more time with them than he did today– even if it did surround following him around all day. He is glad he figured out your little plot fairly quickly; it could’ve been problematic if you heard him in the interrogation rooms.

“You’re just scared they’ll tease you now” 

There it is, the tongue sticking out emoji, always when you want to be petty. He hates that you’re right too– he’ll never live down their teasing but then again it’s worth it. He’s got a girl to come back to, a team to stand by him and damn those sappy romance movies and books you own, they’re completely right–that’s all he needs in his life.

–

You stare at his goodnight message, face pressed into the pillow. How did you get this lucky? But more importantly, he really did want you– this wasn't just a silly date. 

‘She can be my wife for all your knowledge’

Not a partner, not a girlfriend, not even a fiancee– wife. You’re gonna be up all night at this rate.

-------

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི buy me a coffee!

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[oceantornadoo]

lavender haze (price x f!reader, explicit use of weed/smoking mention)

it was the happiest day of your life. john was on one knee, smiling and holding a ring box up to you. your smile was too big for your face. as you reached forward for him, the ground shook, causing you to look up. that wasn’t right - you were in a hellscape. the air clogged your lungs, buildings were burning and screams rang out. the cries of innocents permeated the air. john was still on his knee, smiling. a popping sound surrounded you, then he wasn’t smiling anymore. the ring lay in a pool of blood as your captain’s eyes glazed over…

“wake up, lieutenant.”

you couldn’t stop looking into john’s eyes. and where was his hat? he never went to battle without it.

“c’mon, you need to wake up.”

you could hear them coming for you. the same footsteps that killed john. they were right behind you and-

“baby please, wake up.”

you woke up with a gasp, the room pitch black around you. a lamp flicked on, casting the motel room in an eerie glow, illuminating the man next to you. your captain, decidedly and platonically just that, was a bit flustered, his hand on your back to track your breathing. “y’ were having’ a nightmare.” you nodded, sucking in greedy amounts of air into your lungs as you calmed down your body. it was routine now, waking up in the middle of the night and walking yourself off the ledge of a panic attack. unfortunately, this time had to be when you shared a bed with your captain. platonically. for the mission.

“i find a smoke helps when i can’t sleep.” he’s still here, rubbing your back in small circles. your heart jumps and you kill it with a reminder of how he fist bumps and shoulder taps the men on your team. it means nothing, he’s just being a good captain. “don’t have anything on me.” your voice is gravel, hoarse from the phantom screams in your dreams. “‘s ok. i could use a smoke too.” he drops his hand, moving to get out of the rickety mattress this establishment calls a bed. you avert your eyes at the sight of him in a casual t-shirt and boxers, willing your overactive imagination to go away. the imagination that thinks about how he’d look after a one-night stand or a casual lie-in with his lover. the one that inserts you into the fantasy.

“c’mere.” the room has a small balcony, barely enough room for two, but he gestures to you anyways as he unlocks the door. there is something in his hand, but your sleepy brain tells you it’s too small to be a cigar. odd. when you walk outside, you’re immediately met with the edge of the balcony. it’s truly standing room only. a glance to your left reveals your captain looking for threats in the night sky, finally satisfied when his shoulders drop an inch. he takes out a lighter, something with the image of a santa claus that you can imagine gaz gave him as part of his old man jokes. john raises something to his mouth. the smell is odd, not that of his regular cigars, and it takes you a second to process as you wrack your brain. “is that…weed?” he exhales in a partial laugh, restraining a cough since you ruined his proper exhale. “surprised, lieutenant?” you scoff, reaching for the joint. his fingers brush yours, the joint really too long for that to be necessary, calluses on calluses setting your body aflame. you take a hit, trying to remember how to inhale correctly as it’s been a while since you’ve smoked weed on a balcony with someone. not to mention, your captain. “big inhale, lieutenant. not just a mouth breath.” you hum as you exhale, satisfied you’re able to follow his instructions. “good girl.” he is too, apparently. you shake off any underlying message.

“can’t believe my captain smokes weed.” he takes the joint back wordlessly, fingers brushing yours again. “rarely. jus’ for nightmare occasions. never on a mission.” funny, since you're both waiting for exfil the next morning. a bit closer to a mission than you imagined he usually did. “technically, we’re still on a mission.” you were on your third hit now, time going fast when it was just you and john on this lonely balcony. “necessary exception. can’t have my best lieutenant runnin’ on an empty tank.”

you bit back a smile at his compliment. “i won’t tell ghost if you won’t.” john rewarded you with a chuckle, a deep belly laugh you’d only heard once or twice. so this is what he was like high - a man who allowed himself to have fun. you could work with that. “won’t matter. y’ve got him wrapped ‘round your finger.” a jilted gasp escaped you as you refrained from stomping your feet. “no way! if anything it’s soap since ghost calls him johnny. i couldn't get away with half of the things soap does.” the joint was almost finished and you hadn’t even realized. he offered you one last hit before putting it out on the railing. disappointment sank heavy in your stomach, a feeling that the moment was almost gone.

your captain turned to you, a string pulling you closer until you were standing under him. his eyes were red, smile lines fresh. “you look good. sorry, relaxed. i see why you smoke now.” you murmured. his hand reached out into the space between you, then dropped back down. weird for him of all people to make an uncertain move. “think soap is to ghost what you are t’ me.” this had to be a cruel trick the universe was playing on you. “you mean you’re wrapped around my finger?” he nodded slow, the weed sinking its claws into him. “you’re just high, captain.” he frowned unexpectedly. “‘s john.” oh. oh. you nodded silently. the next steps were fuzzy, a dance you’d never learned.

“what was your nightmare about?” that was not what you thought he would ask. “um. the usual. the battlefield and dying and…yeah.” this time, his hand had a direction. it raised to your hairline, tracing the skin gently as his thumb led the way down to the curve of your ear. he felt that too, seemingly enamored with the softness of your earlobe before dropping his hand completely, like it never happened.

“you said my name, before you woke up. screamed it, practically gave me a heart attack.” his eyes were questioning, burning into yours like an interrogation. “oh. yeah, it was, um. youwereinmydreamandyoudied.” you practically spit the last part out, turning your head to study the skyline instead of finding whatever was on his face. unexpectedly, the weed made you both talkative and shy, a combination you didn’t expect. maybe it was sativa. “what happened before i died?” it was like he knew what happened, even though there was no way. right? you couldn’t resist a sideways glance, tracking the open earnestness of his face. “you were…proposing.” the last word was a whisper. “which is crazy, obviously. just a stupid dream.” you cut in before he could open his mouth. there was that frown again, one he rarely directed towards you. before tonight, that was.

“like this?” there was a yearning in his voice and when you blinked, he was on one knee. somber, not smiling like in your dream. he was realer, a wrinkle here and a gray hair there. your feet took you closer until his view was your thighs. that’s when you remembered you’d gone to bed in only a t-shirt and underwear, not having packed for an extra night in a motel. the triangle of your panties peeked out from your shirt and embarrassment creeped up your skin.

“i’m sorry, this is inappropriate. i shouldn’t be dressed like this, i'm sorry, captain.” his gaze hadn’t moved. “john.” a low exhale escaped him, like you saying his name had lifted a weight from him. unlikely, but a nice visual.

“‘ve never heard you say my name.” he was still on his knees, but he moved his head until he made eye contact. “guess i never had a reason.” he tilted his head to the side. “what’s your reason now?” you were scrambling off the edge of something you couldn’t see. you didn’t know this game you were playing. “you- you told me to.” he nodded, raising back to his full height off his knee. for some reason, you were disappointed. “you’d do anything i ask you?” it was the weed, surely, that made you nod vigorously. “get on the bed, then.”

you got on the bed. could feel him vibrating behind you as you walked towards it. turning, you sat on the very edge, legs tightly pressed together. “you’re high.” he shook his head. “barely. bein’ high doesn’t make me lie, sweetheart. quite the opposite, in fact.” you had no mental energy to get into the word sweetheart. it had already warmed your belly and turned you inside out.

“i’m high.” he said nothing. “barely.” you added with a whisper. “out of excuses yet?” you spread your legs instead of answering, letting him step in between them. he bent down slowly, turning your chin to him like you were something precious, something to take his time with. the kiss was slow, both of you tasting bitter because of the weed, and it was magical. you wrapped your legs behind him until he got the message, pushing you down. he grinded into you, hard and wanting.

“i’d propose to you now, y’know. jus’ don’t carry the ring with me on missions.” it took a second for the message to get through, especially since his lips moved to your neck, biting and sucking. “there’s a, fuck john, there’s a ring?” he was leaving hickies, surely. the weed had turned him into a teenager, and you giggled at the thought. he misinterpreted your laugh, pulling back until his eyes met yours.

“you got a problem with a ring?” you whined at the loss of him on you. “no. no. c’mere.” he leaned down for a kiss and you flipped the both of you over, straddling him with ease. his hands landed on your ass, pushing you closer until you could feel his hardness. he was such a possessive kisser, biting you when you drew back for a millisecond. his scruff scratched you pleasantly and you hummed like a cat in the sun. his neck felt so delicious under your fingers and you decided to explore it, small kisses and kitten licks until he was growling.

“you wet f’ me, baby?” his tone unlocked a memory. “you called me baby earlier. when i was sleeping.” john didn’t give you an answer, staring at you expressionless. “and?” it sent you sputtering. “you can’t call women baby when they’re asleep.” there was that frown again. “‘m not callin’ women baby. ‘m callin’ you baby. because you’re mine. got a problem with that?” you shut him up with a kiss. he was infuriating.

the wetness between your thighs was concerning. your hips were grinding of their own accord, the feeling of his clothed cock between your folds addicting. the weed supplied you with confidence, fingers reaching down to move your panties to the side. he let out a groan at the feel of your bare cunt against his boxers, soaking them through.

“not fuckin’ you like this, baby. not here.” you nodded against his skin, tongue darting out to lick at the beads of sweat that hard formed. “still want to come, though.” if weed made him laugh like this, you were determined to get him high every day. his hands tightened on your hips, pulling you harder and faster against him. the angle was perfect, the contours of his body catching your clit with every grind. his eyes were open, tracking your every movement.

“john,” and he understood you completely, catching your mouth with his lips again. he tasted like yours. pressure coiled in your stomach at the thought. john was yours. “captain,” you groaned against his lips, reveling in the strained sound he let out. “gonna make me come before you do, sweetheart.” his mouth left yours, instead biting your breast over your shirt. it was too much: the sweat, the grinding, the bites he delivered with vigor. he pushed you down harder, the motion brushing your clit and sending you over the edge.

“fuck, baby.” it sounded like you both said it at the feeling of his cock leaking cum beneath his boxers, the fabric soaked both ways. time stopped as you both looked down, taking a second to take in the sight. it was absolutely carnal, the grinding without fucking. a claiming.

“‘m tired.” you whispered. neither of you had a change of clothes so you both stripped them off, reveling in the sight of your naked bodies together. he pulled you into him, tucking you under his chin as you wrapped yourself in his body heat. so strong, so capable. your hands traced his chest, tangling in his body hair, until sleep overtook you. finally, a nightmare-free sleep.

--

i have no idea what made me write this since i haven't smoked in like over a year. if my depictions of being high are inaccurate, welp. also yes i headcanon price as a smoker but very occasionally just when he's stressed

[miyaagis]

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ‐love actually is all around. gojō s. + zen'in t.

had you paid a bit more attention to your surroundings, you would've recognized the dark-haired man entering the elevator with you or the light-haired man waiting right outside your building.

too bad you didn't.

explicit dark content‐mdni. ₊˚⊹ ⚝ modern au, stalker!gojo, fem!reader, stalker!toji, obsessive behavior, yandere-ish, masturbation, noncon filming. open ending, there won't be a part two.

word c. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ a little over 1,000

It took Gojō almost nothing to get Tōji Zen'in to accept the job.

(A mistake on Tōji's part—had he known what he knows now, he would've asked for more stacks of those brand new-smelling bills).

“Eyes on her 24/7.” The briefcase clicked shut as Satoru finished explaining the details. “I expect updates, at least,  every four hours.”

“You got it.”

But before Tōji could leave with the money, Satoru placed a hand on top of his, stopping him from walking away and earning a weirded-out stare from the gruff man.

“If I like what I see, I could add a little bonus.”

Tōji usually didn't judge his clients, it was a waste of his time. But the way Satoru openly offered money not to hurt, but to see more of you, made him curious.

“She an ex?”

He had hoped Satoru would take the bait and spill more information. But his question remained unanswered as he let go of the money and waved his hand dismissively. 

“You may leave.” Satoru’s lips curled up in a soft smile once he grabbed his phone, typing eagerly on the thin screen and not sparing Tōji another glance. “Get caught by anyone, and you'll be dealt with.”

—

A week passed, and Tōji still couldn't understand the situation.

You weren't an ex, at least that's what he concluded after seeing you make small talk with Satoru outside the fitness studio you worked at.

It only took him three days to figure out your routine, pretty simple and predictable.

[07:00] Wake up.

[08:00] Pilates with Gojō. 

He was one of your regulars, and Tōji easily noticed you lingered after class with a green juice and breakfast from your favorite place (courtesy of Gojō). 

[09:30] Shower.

Add ten more minutes if you decided to stay under the running water to play with your toy.

[10:30] Errand run.

[13:00] Lunch.

[16:00] Nap.

[17:30] Dinner.

[21:00] Sleep.

Lame, he thought. However, his day consisted of watching you. So he guessed his day was even more lame than yours.

—

Tōji stared at the notification on his phone.

[Gojō] A bonus for the video.

Ah, yes. That video. Tōji couldn’t lie, seeing you grind against your pink toy under the shower was a nice little show, and he figured your lover boy—aka Gojō—would enjoy it.

He put his phone in the back pocket of his jeans and was about to push his shopping cart forward when a woman’s voice stopped him.

“Hi! I’m so sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you could help me reach that?”

Tōji felt his heart stop for a second. Seeing you so close when you were never supposed to know of his existence had his brain panicking.

You had a sheepish smile on your lips, your arm stretched over your head as if trying to reach towards the fabric softener placed on the highest rack. He automatically looked down at your chest, the curve of your breast looking soft under the fabric of your thin cardigan, so thin that he could see your hardened nipple straining against it.

“Sure.”

Ignoring his heartbeat echoing loudly in his eardrums, he fetched the heavy container and placed it on your cart, accidentally getting a whiff of your perfume.

So damn sweet.

“Thank you so much!”

Tōji couldn’t even make a sound, deciding to just nod, hands buried in his pockets as he cleared his throat and looked the other way.

He knew he was fucked.

—

The next time Tōji saw you touching yourself was right before you went to bed.

You kept pinching and caressing your breast under your shirt while scrolling on your phone with the other, your face illuminated by the soft glow of the screen.

He wondered if you were watching porn. Maybe reading an erotic novel? His thoughts strayed for a few minutes before he finally caught himself daydreaming and quickly sent Gojō a text right as your hand disappeared beneath your panties.

[Zen'in] Check the livestream.

Not even a minute later, he received a reply.

[Gojō] Was already watching.

Freak. But Tōji’s frown disappeared once he realized his hand unconsciously palming his bulge.

Both men, from their own spots, watched with predator-like eyes as you pleasured yourself. Their cocks throbbed each time you closed your eyes, wondering how close you were to finishing.

Satoru, from the comfort of his own home, thought it was a shame that he couldn’t listen to your whines and moans. He already knew what you sounded like, at least from the soft grunts that escaped you during your pilates classes whenever you pushed yourself too hard. His thumb rubbed lazily over his flushed tip, squeezing it and edging himself while you toyed with your nipples.

“So fucking pretty.” Pride laced his tone, holding a glass with his free hand and swirling the amber liquid once before taking a sip.

And while Satoru peacefully enjoyed the spectacle, Tōji couldn’t have been more different than him.

His hand desperately stroked his shaft while watching with furrowed brows, his breaths heavy and uneven. He had never experienced such level of want, and it all worsened when the ghost of your perfume deceived his mind, drowning him with your presence.

—

Six weeks and several photos and videos later, Tōji couldn’t stand it any longer. The walls of his place were covered in all-types of pictures with one subject in common—you.

He didn’t know when it started, but it was too late to even try to stop. He had saved material for his eyes only, consciously deciding not to send it to Satoru and possibly risking more than his paycheck. But he was too far gone and didn’t care in the slightest.

He owns that shit, or so he liked to think. Why would he send it to Gojō? For a few extra hundreds? You were worth billions.

His fingertips traced a picture of you smiling brightly. He took that the day after he first touched himself while watching you. You weren’t doing anything extraordinary, just crossing the street while heading to the studio. And yet, you looked beautiful, visibly well-rested after that little self-care session from the night before. The cold winter breeze was possibly at fault for your hardened nipples under your sports bra, not that he complained, especially after fantasizing with having them in his mouth.

The mix of longing and awe made his chest hurt. Oftentimes, he had to stop himself from running into you again, since that would’ve ruined his plan.

—

Gojō’s booming laugh made his frown deepen, Tōji hated it when people made fun of him.

“She got you too, huh?”

He also hated it when others assumed things about him when it was none of their business. Unfortunately for him, Satoru had nailed it right on the head.

Tōji was irrevocably obsessed with you.

His unpleased grunt was all Satoru needed, reaching for a small remote control with a lingering smirk.

Smug bastard.

“Before I hired you, I had to do all the research by myself.” Satoru nodded at the screen behind Tōji, and with one click, CCTV footage showed up. Most of it was of the public places you frequented, the fitness studio’s street, even the ATM you always went to. He had done his homework for a year, and he was happy to finally see his little project move forward. “Let’s hear it then, Zen'in. What’s the plan?”

So that night, had you paid a bit more attention to your surroundings, you would've recognized the dark-haired man from the grocery store entering the elevator with you, or your charming regular waiting outside your building.

How unfortunate that you didn’t.

[yokedtablet]

heavy (in your arms)

ellabs oneshot:

Post-canon, Abby and Lev return to the farm with Ellie. They find a tenuous peace, and a makeshift trust that's always at risk of breaking. Abby finds Ellie's guitar upstairs, which she never plays anymore, and starts to learn. She's not very good. Ellie hates this, or so she says.

Based on this post.

947 words

Abby’s fingers cramp the frets. She strums with a little too much force, and the guitar makes a rattling, muted sound. Its hollowness creaks in her lap as she resets, tries to find her place in the song again.

She found the guitar upstairs, in a room with Ellie’s other stuff. A stack of journals she didn’t open, despite her curiosity. Sketches of animals. A painting of Dina, which makes her regret stepping into the room in the first place. 

But the guitar has a moth on the neck that matches Ellie’s tattoo, so she picks it up. She strums the strings, open. It’s out of tune, probably a little bit warped by heat and moisture. There are a few song books that teach her cursory chords. She hasn’t even attempted any fingerpicking yet.

In the living room, Abby hears the screen door swing open. Footsteps stomp through the kitchen, pause, and then approach more slowly. 

Ellie props herself against the doorframe. She’s dressed in her brown jacket and looks tired from the hunt. “Are you trying to make my ears fall off?”

She hates Abby’s playing—or so she says. The first time she saw her with the moth-neck guitar in her hands, she looked at her like she’d violated some long-held pact. Touched something that didn’t belong to her. And Abby thought this would probably lose her the hard-won progress she’d made. Just a couple steps forward, so that they could exist in the same room together without someone flinching. 

But then came the teasing. “You’re not supposed to strangle the damn thing.” “The sheep could hear you all the way from the barn. Told me to tell you it sounds awful.” Mostly, things to the effect of, “That sounds like hot garbage.” It was the most Ellie had spoken to her since they got back to the farm. 

Despite the complaint, Ellie flops down onto the couch, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. When Abby stops playing, she gives her an insistent nod. 

Abby laughs inwardly. “You want me to keep going?”

“No,” she says. “It’s whatever.” Petulant and infuriating, as always.

She’s almost as bad as Lev, who’s become a little bit of a menace with his newfound stability. Because he doesn’t need Abby’s help anymore, and he would do just fine hunting on his own if she let him. He’s started to add some of Ellie’s more colorful language to his repertoire, too. “That sucked balls,” she’d once heard him say when Ellie missed a shot with her bow, giggling.

“Any requests?” Abby asks.

“Ummm…” Ellie rolls her head against the couch cushions. Catching the fading light from the window, her face is dark and freckled from the sun, her hair cut unevenly above her chin. She keeps her left hand tucked into her jacket. “Anything but whatever that was.” 

“Fine.” 

Abby starts to play something else. She pauses between each chord, interrupting her strumming as she carefully places each of her fingers against the strings. Her hands are calloused enough—from chopping firewood, from her regular exercise routine, but her fingertips are still tender. The longer she plays, the more the strings bite. She would never admit this to Ellie, of course.

When she’s finished, she awaits a familiar insult. 

I could do better with two fingers. Except Ellie doesn’t play anymore, because Abby took that away from her.

But there’s no reply. Abby lifts her attention from the fretboard, and Ellie’s asleep. Her head lolls peacefully to one side, eyes shut, brow furrowed, like she’s still pissed off. Her chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths. 

It’s the first time Abby’s seen her like this in the daylight. They sleep in separate rooms, Ellie with her door shut tight. But sometimes Abby wakes in the middle of the night to find Ellie curled into her side, fingers knotted into her t-shirt, breathing softly against her neck. She never hears her come in, and they never talk about it in the morning.

Abby sets the guitar down slowly, careful not to make a noise when it connects with the floor. 

It’s easy to imagine carrying her, taking all of Ellie’s weight in her arms. She could carry her upstairs and take her to her own bed. She would unlace her converse—she can’t believe Ellie still wears those things—and tug them off. 

But Ellie would probably wake up as soon as she curled an arm under her neck. Her eyes darting wide, instinctively bracing herself against Abby’s chest. Taste of blood in her mouth. She would struggle, and say the words she'd been saying to Abby in one way or another since they got here. 

Don't fucking touch me. 

Abby hasn’t earned that yet. Ellie chooses when to approach and to retreat. Abby can wait. She can wait until she’s ready. They have time. 

Instead, Abby unfolds a blanket from the back of the couch. She stretches it out to her full wingspan, letting it fall to her knees. Slowly, so slowly, she drapes it over Ellie’s sleeping form. 

Ellie jerks in her sleep, and Abby freezes. She waits. But then she makes a grumbling sound and relaxes again, and Abby continues. 

The blanket envelops her fully. Careful not to actually touch her, Abby tucks the blanket in around her neck and shoulders. It gets cold down here at night.

Which reminds her, she should close the window.

She cringes when it makes a grating sound against the woodwork—old house and all. But when she looks back, Ellie is still sleeping.

Flecks of white paint fall and stick to her forearms. She flicks off the light.

-

(read this on ao3)

[neiptune]

to hell with the stars, keep shooting for the moon

cw: 3k wc, female reader, established relationship, suggestive if you squint, reader is a gymnast, my entry for the super fun summer olympics collab by @tetzoro! hope you'll enjoy the little surprise i squeezed in hehe

“For the last time, I’m not having sex with you on one of those cardboard beds”.

Atsumu isn’t the least bit discouraged by your exasperated scowl, which is met with a pout.

“But babe-”

“I don’t care how many times Tobio’s done it, ‘Tsumu” you click your tongue.

“It’s just so fucking bizarre that he gets so much action, the guy doesn’t even do anything! Shoyo agrees, we discussed it and still couldn’t find a reason” the blond, excessively petulant Miya who makes it a point to be the bane of your existence, keeps listing all the reasons why he believes his teammate shouldn’t be getting laid in the olympic village. Or anywhere else ever, for the matter.

The heated arguments float through a distant hemisphere of your brain, where they dissolve before you can quite catch their meaning and soon enough become simple sounds you’re passively absorbing, thoughts too preoccupied with something entirely different.

The choreographies you put together with your trainer have been playing in the back of your mind ever since last night, after the all-around individual qualification round. You are part of the 10 gymnasts with the highest scores, four performances with each apparatus earning a fairly decent ranking and good enough points. Well, they’re certainly good enough, given that you get to represent Japan at the individual final. But you just know they could be better. Your feet should’ve been firmer, hands less sweaty around the clubs, you should’ve stretched for at least 50 minutes prior to the routine instead of the usual 40 ones.

Pulse picks up in pace, heart thrumming faster against your ribcage, dizziness clouds your mind for a moment as different moves chase each other in rapid succession: the penché comes first, then follows the elbow stand, front walkover, one forward roll, a chest stand-

Gentle, calloused fingers grasp your chin and tilt your head upwards in silent demand. Look at me.

“Get out of there and talk to me, sugar” the fondness in his chocolate gaze is a balm that instantly soothes the churning sensation sabotaging your stomach.

“I won’t make it” it’s blunt, raw in its honesty “I’m too scared”.

“Ya worked your ass off the past four years. Your entire life actually”.

“I know”.

“And whatever happens, you’re one of the best ten gymnasts in the world”.

“I know”.

Atsumu gets closer as his hands hold your face now, gentle but firm, an all too familiar flame starts dancing in feverish eyes.

“But?”.

You recognize that gaze, the raging, febrile determination taking over. He gets it on his side of the net, where he gets to run the show. And oh, isn’t that always a sight for sore eyes? It certainly was at the olympics too, when the entire world got to witness what Japan is already used to. The game against Argentina was nothing short of glorious, the way Atsumu coordinated his team’s offense, established the entire tempo and overall built the confidence in his passers had the crowds chanting his name over and over again. By the evening, you’re positive at least a hundred new Miya Atsumu fan accounts had started following you on instagram.

And yet he doesn’t take any of it for granted. Atsumu always gives his very best, at the olympics or during regular training with his friends. Whether Tobio is going to play or not. That passion simply sets his soul ablaze at all times, with no exception. He’s the man you love and the only one who can truly understand how you feel, the one person who is ignited with the same delirious resolve currently burning in the pit of your stomach.

“But I really want that fucking medal” you whisper. Not to prove him that you have it in you just like he does: truth is you’re the only person who needs additional convincing.

Sharp canines make their appearance when Atsumu smiles widely.

“Then go get it. The hell are you scared of? That medal belongs to you”.

Your eyelids flutter as they fall shut, a deep breath filling your lungs with fresh air. When you open your eyes again, you feel your heart filling up with something else too.

“I love you”.

His eyes soften at that, affection pools within crinkles by the eyes as a confident grin morphs into a warm smile.

“Love ya more, champion” Atsumu kisses your forehead with tenderness, lingers for a moment too long with lips pressing to your skin with intention. Then he lets go of your face but not before searching for any remnants of self-doubt. His chest swells with pride when all he can find in your eyes is that determination he adores.

“Will you be there?” you ask because you can’t help it. It’s perfectly understandable that he might not be able to, his schedule is just as busy as yours and Japan’s final game is just two days away. It’s not entirely fair to ask and someone else might’ve rolled their eyes with a sigh, reminded you that they don’t get to decide that. But not Atsumu. He takes one of your hands and brings it to his lips to kiss each knuckle.

“I’ll do everything I can to be there”.

“Thank you” you lightly pinch his nose with an infatuated smile and he fakes a groan “see you later”.

“I love you!” he shouts as you run away, loud and obnoxious and passionate, just like his affection always is. Once again, Atsumu’s love is thrown over your shoulders like a comforting blanket that weighs just right.

Back at the beginning of your relationship, you had to unlearn a very specific thought process that posed the risk of ending something that still hadn’t had the chance to fully start. It was your first time dating another pro athlete, a very talented and quite renowned one no less. You were first introduced to him at a party, he had no idea who you were but of course you were all too familiar with his name and accomplishments.

Miya Atsumu was a pro volleyball player, known for his exceptional flair and fierce passion ever since high school. His reputation made you believe that, as an athlete yourself, you had to prove him that you were just as good in your own sport. Wasn’t that all he’d be interested in? Dating someone who wouldn’t embarrass him with their mediocrity, someone who wouldn’t stain his polished reputation?

Turns out, by no means Atsumu was interested in all that. He asked if it was okay for him to come watch one of your competitions, coincidentally one of your worst ones. You were all too aware of how badly you had competed, nerves and a recent flu contributing to a terrible performance, yet at the end of it Atsumu greeted you with stars in his eyes. He couldn’t stop talking about how elegant yet strong you looked, going as far as describing your choreographies as breathtaking. With a nervous chuckle, he half-jokingly said he couldn’t believe you’d let him date you. 

That’s when you kissed him for the first time, fiery and feverish in a way that would’ve probably scared anyone else off. Not Atsumu, though. He wrapped his arms around you without so much as an ounce of hesitation, kissed you back like it was the last action he was allowed to perform on this earth. And you knew: he didn’t need you to be a winner, to be shiny at all times, to feel proud. To love you. Whether you end up bringing the medal home or not, he will still be your biggest fan and loudest supporter.

The intensity of the crowd doesn’t bother you at all: given your anxious nature, Chisaka-san has been adamant about training you with headphones and loud tapes for years. Music, cheers, booing, clapping, national anthems, you’re used to it all by now.

You observe the ukrainian gymnast, the way she moves so elegantly with her colorful ribbon. It looks like she’s flying, hopping on invisible steps made of air, sparkly leotard catching the light just right. Yours cost a fortune: handmade, sewn in Italy, a triumph of colorful stretch mesh, thermal crystals and sew-on rhinestones in various sizes and shapes.

As Chisaka-san helps you practice the usual deep breaths with a hand pressed to your chest, your eyes are still glued to your opponent. The podium is yours, unless you fuck up so badly even the bronze slips away. Daryna currently has the highest score and it’s certain she will protect the lead at the end of her final routine. Then follows Bulgaria’s Katerina, but you’re hardly worried about her: she finished her last exercise without catching the ribbon, a penalty you can easily overcome if luck and nerves are on your side.

When after an impeccable Daryna your name is announced at last, your trainer gives your butt a friendly, encouraging pat. She believed in you more than anyone else, more than yourself. She knew you’d qualify for the olympics and would be flying to Paris before you could even dream of such an achievement. And now you get to honor her trust, you get to prove that Paris is where you belong. The podium is yours because like hell you’re allowing it to slip away. But you want more, you want that gold.

The crowd seems louder now, flags raised in flashes of white and red in your peripheral as you smile radiantly and position yourself to start the routine. You don’t check if Atsumu was able to make it, don’t allow yourself to think of anything but the way your feet and legs and arms and hands are supposed to move.

The longest 85 seconds of your life begin along with the music, Piazzolla’s libertango but with a modern, energetic arrangement. The ribbon is not as scary as the hoop, it moves with you like an old friend, seamless and reliable. You throw the handle into the air and perform two forward rolls before catching it again in one fluid motion, lips perpetually stretched into a confident smile. The crowd erupts in deafening cheers at your backscale pivot, the more you keep cutting through the air with precision, control and passion, the more your smile grows. Yes, this is where you belong, this is what you love and were made to do.

There’s your signature move, difficult and risky and one Chisaka-san always attempts to talk you out of: a technical element, Bessonova’s swan, while simultaneously kicking the ribbon into the air with your foot once more. You catch it one last time, perform an aerial cartwheel and then a perfectly balanced backward somersault, wrap yourself in the colorful shades of your apparatus and gracefully conclude the routine on the floor.

The crowd is ear-splitting in their support and you don’t have to wait for the score to know: it was perfect. It’s the best you ever did and the tension finally melts into hot tears as you wave and smile and foolishly attempt to wipe the wetness from your cheeks at the same time. Chisaka-san wraps you up in her comforting embrace and you hide your face in her white uniform, ears ringing, blood scorching in veins throbbing with adrenaline.

“I can’t look” you whisper into her shoulder and she gently guides you to the bench, all emotional murmurs and soft touches. She sits next to you, holds your hand as you force a quivering smile to the camera, peace sign held high. And then you can barely catch a glimpse of your scores before Chisaka-san forces you into her arms and against her chest again, right as fresh tears stain your cheeks. She lets you have this moment, shields your first reaction from the world and the prying eyes of cameras that are on you once more because holy shit, Daryna has a 140.60 but you have a 142.850. They gave you a difficulty score of 19.300 and an execution one of 8.550.

“I knew it!” Chisaka-san is the only thing keeping you grounded because it truly feels as if you’re floating. It doesn’t matter how badly you wanted it, how much you fought for it, the moment doesn’t feel real. Not even as the other gymnasts come to hug you and you congratulate them in turn, it’s a whirlwind of all-encompassing love and support and mutual happiness. Moments like this make your sport truly special, they remind you that fierce competition only feels right when balanced by appreciation for your opponents’ efforts and individual journeys.

The crowd erupts in new, loud cheering and you catch a glimpse of the different face the cameras are now focusing on. A handsome face with suspicious dampness glistening on cheeks and a smile so warm, beaming with pride. You can’t help but smile back as your legs move on autopilot, a bottle of water dropped to the floor as you sprint towards the bleachers. Atsumu is in the front row and he easily catches you right as you jump onto him, arms wrapped around his neck.

“Told ya. It belongs to you” he whispers in your ear and you almost start crying again at the trembling in his voice, so many overwhelming emotions swarming in your chest at once.

“Thank you for believing in me” you mutter and pull back to look at him, because even in a venue packed with people and cameras and journalists he still manages to be the brightest, the one thing you could look at forever without ever growing tired of it.

“Always” Atsumu grins, eyes glazed with defiant tears “you did so well. Look at ya, my girl’s an olympic medalist!”.

And because you know he won’t do it, god forbid he takes the most special moment of your life away from you, you kiss him. It’s brief, two pecks that linger just enough before he lets you go, urges you to go back out there and celebrate. You don’t care that videos of this moment are probably going to be flooding every social media platform in a matter of minutes, similarly to how Atsumu hardly gives a damn about all the phones and cameras he has in his face when he runs to you after a game, whether his team wins or not.

It’s hard not to tear up again as the japanese national anthem echoes through the building, so many people singing along as you stand on the podium you have dreamed of every single day of your life. You smile, proud and big, take selfies with the other two medalists and make sure you hug every single gymnast you come across goodbye before walking out of the venue, a promise to catch up with your trainer in the evening.

Atsumu waits for you outside, he doesn’t have any additional training left for the day and you want nothing more than to walk back to the village with him, lovesick smile growing in size when you spot him underneath the afternoon sun, golden light caught beautifully in that honey blond hair.

“There she comes, the girl of my dreams” he coos and you roll your eyes with affection “I hear she’s now the greatest gymnast in the world, too!”.

“Corny” you murmur against his lips as he pulls you in for a real kiss, one of those you’re never willing to give him in front of the cameras.

“About those cardboard beds…” it’s a faint whisper into his mouth but it’s enough for Atsumu to pick you up and twirl until you’re both laughing between kisses, until someone clearing their throat prompts you to abruptly pull back and force your feet onto the ground again.

When you turn around, the embarrassed smile quickly grows into a surprised grin. The stranger is looking back at you with the faintest hint of a smirk and Atsumu isn’t entirely sure he loves the way you take a tentative step toward him.

“Congrats. It was a good routine, not your best though”.

“Oh my god” you chuckle, astonished, and Atsumu is now certain he doesn’t enjoy watching you run to hug this weird, 6’1 stranger with dark hair and teal eyes. He definitely doesn’t enjoy the way the stranger wraps his arms around you with a sigh.

“I should’ve known you’d be here! How long has it been? Look at you, all grown up!” you let him go, still smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Too long” he concedes and if the stranger wasn’t still all caught up in old, familiar patterns of stubborn coldness, maybe he would be able to utter the truth about how much he’s missed one of his oldest friends.

“I missed you” as usual, you take it upon yourself to fill the spaces left empty by his obstinacy with warmth. His eyes soften and you smile again as you turn to look at your boyfriend.

“’Tsumu, c’mere!” you’re holding out a hand, an impatient invitation “come meet Rin!”

Atsumu is openly wary of your friend, one you’re obviously close enough to address by his first name. As he shakes his hand with a fake megawatt smile, Rin seems to be equally skeptical and does nothing to hide it.

“He’s your boyfriend?” he asks, briefly scanning Atsumu from head to toe with an openly dubious gaze “came all the way here just to support you?”

“Atsumu is a pro volleyball player, he’s in the national team just like you!”

“Volleyball, huh?” Rin cocks his head “doesn’t really interest me. I find it to be overrated”.

“I mean…”.

“And what would your sport be, Itoshi?” Atsumu can feel a vein throb on his forehead as he politely interrupts you.

“Soccer”.

“Oh!” a seemingly friendly laugh bubbles up from his throat but you recognize the petulant vibration to it “soccer! I think there’s only so long you can watch a player throw himself on the ground because he stubbed his toe on the grass or, I don’t know, try the same failed corner kick for the millionth time”.

You uncomfortably clear your throat and Rin directs his attention to you once more. Isn’t that what being a mature adult is all about? Ignoring pretentious assholes he doesn’t even know?

“I mean it, by the way. You deserve that gold more than anyone else I know”.

“C’mon, say it” you chuckle “I know you noticed”.

He mirrors your smile, pleased that the familiarity strengthened by years of friendship is still here.

“Barely catched that ribbon in the end, could’ve made that front walkover less stiff. Good job overall, though”.

Atsumu wants to punch him in the goddamn face, especially as you laugh once more.

“How come he’s so familiar with gymnastics?” he asks instead.

“Rin used to come watch my training sessions back in high school, although it’s insane to me that he still remembers!”.

“She never missed any of my trainings either” Rin smirks once more, gaze locked to the man in front of him.

“Speaking of!” you lightly smack his arm “when are you guys playing?”.

“Tomorrow. I can arrange special seats if you want”.

“Oh, I’d love to come! We should totally go, ‘Tsumu!”.

“Yeah, totally” Atsumu forces another smile onto his lips.

That night, as you’re cuddled against his chest on that infuriatingly uncomfortable cardboard bed, he believes it’s of the utmost importance to share the picture of you with an adorable smile and the medal around your neck as you stand proudly on that podium, followed by the two of you kissing right after your win.

miyatsumu the most hardworking person I know. my golden girl, now an olympic champion ❤️🥇

He thinks it’s a good caption and, as you softly snore in the quiet of the dark room, Atsumu also believes he’s in a mood good enough to decide not to block Shoyo on the spot after receiving his stupidly enthusiastic text about befriending some super nice dude on the national soccer team.

Whoever the hell Isagi Yoichi is anyway.