#keep your bloody dogs leashed | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

knightjpg · 5 months ago

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Brick by Brick

You have his favourite tea on hand. You ask him what he'd like for dinner this weekend. One time you opened the door for him within seconds of buzzing, like you'd been as eager for his visit as he was. And maybe most devastating of all: you routinely start making too much food for even Simon to finish.

tags: 🔞construction worker simon/neighbour reader, unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), size kink, brief mention of simon's childhood abuse

part 1 | part 2

After that things shift, just a little. You still sit with Simon while he works, handing him tools he teaches you the names of; still try to convince him to get pay for his work around the house.

But you have his favourite tea on hand. You ask him what he'd like for dinner this weekend. One time you opened the door for him within seconds of buzzing, like you'd been as eager for his visit as he was.

And maybe most devastating of all: you routinely start making too much food for even Simon to finish.

“Thought you might want some leftovers for lunch,” you tell him, holding out two tupperware boxes. “If you're working those long hours you have to eat right, you know?”

When Simon opens them at home, just before tucking them away in his work bag for tomorrow, his chest clenches. It's not just leftovers. There's dried beef jerky, a pack of crackers that go well with coffee, and a fist-sized chunk of banana bread. And—

A little note.

His heart hammers against his chest when he unfolds it. It's nearly dark out, crickets chirping soft and low somewhere beneath the window. The only sound in his kitchen is the ticking of a clock.

Good luck today! Don't work too hard :)

“Christ,” he mumbles, fingers tracing over the ink. Pretty. Like you. Like every fucking thing you do.

Summer is nearing its end, and Simon is running out of excuses. Part of him feels proud to see the house shape up to the best it can be, but over the months the boxes have nearly all disappeared. He knows—has helped you unpack God knows how many books. Helped you put together a new bookcase, even.

But if he's no longer useful, what's keeping you from closing your door on him? Dread rises sharp and fast in Simon's throat when he thinks about a dark, cold home waiting for him as his only company. He passes your door on the way home, more often than not sees your silhouette against the warm light of your window. Illuminating the hard dirty edges of him.

You've started feeding him, this big mean watchdog, and he might choke on his leash if you stop now.

“Hello, what is that?”

Simon sharply yanks his lunch away from Johnny's grabby paws.

“None f’your business.”

“Is that bloody banana bread? You've got to be fuckin’ me.”

“That's homemade,” Kyle says unhelpfully from just behind Simon's shoulder.

“Piss off,” Simon grumbles.

Johnny does not, of course, piss off. Instead he grins, cheeky and wide. “Didn't know y’had a bird, Simon.”

“Fuck,” Kyle groans. “Is that roast beef? That smells so good. Where'd you get this?”

Johnny snorts. “More like who's he blackmailin'.”

Simon glowers at Johnny, then says through a mouthful, “My girl.”

If there'd been any hope of them dropping it, it's gone now. Simon realises his mistake as soon the words leave his mouth and Kyle and Johnny light up.

They're incessant. Dog him at every opportunity—who is she? What's her name? What's she look like? Show us a photo, Simon, dinnae be so selfish.

Simon suffers it for a week until he slams his gloves on Price's table and threatens someone's going to end up in the cement mixer by the end of the day if he doesn't do something about it.

They quiet down after that, though they can't help but ask after you every now and then—even Price, who despite his congratulatory shoulder clap admits he wishes he had a sweet thing of his own.

And the lunches keep going. As do the notes, every one of which Simon keeps carefully tucked away in a box at home. He didn't find one last night, and he suppresses the wave of disappointment. Maybe you forgot. Maybe you were just tired, and maybe he's grown too comfortable with your casual affection.

So when a little piece of paper that was stuck to the bottom of the lid flutters onto the ground the next day Simon is unprepared. The two seconds of surprise cost him—Johnny dives after it like a hawk and scoops it before it's barely touched the concrete.

“You little shit—”

Simon's at him immediately, and Johnny, delighted by what he thinks is a funny fucking little game, twists and dodges while fumbling the note open with one hand.

“Looking forward to dinner tonight. Be safe today,” Johnny reads before Simon snatches it from him with a hard shove to his head. “Aww, Simon, you lucky shite. C’mon, give us one o’ those cookies, aye? If you're goin’ home to a candle lit dinner.”

“Get your own cookies,” Simon huffs, and curls one arm around his tupperware protectively while he eats.

Looking forward.

So is he.

“Simon!”

Simon whips his head around and catches you stepping out of your car with a wave. You've arrived home just after him today, and his breath catches in his throat when he sees your dress flutter prettily around your legs.

You're dressed up all nice today—must've been at university, then. Simon doesn't know which he likes better: the shorts you wear at home or the glimpse of cleavage he gets when you wear a nice work blouse.

His dick throbs when he holds his own hand up in greeting, hanging back just to get those few extra seconds with you.

He's not sure why today is especially bad. Probably doesn't help that every time he jacks off in the shower you're the one he thinks of, imaging your pretty lips wrapped around his cock. It's hard to resist the indulgence after a long hard day of sweating and laying brick, then coming home and only getting to look, not touch. He doesn't want to stain you with his filth, but what's he supposed to do? He wants you.

And his desire has sat festering in the confines of his rib cage for months. It curls his hands in tight fists so he doesn't reach for you by accident the way he does in his dreams, keeps him from leaning in to taste your lips to see if they're as sweet as your cobbler pies.

“Alright?” he asks when you get closer. You feel off, distant, and when you nod it feels like it's more for his sake than for the truth of it.

“Yeah. Um.” You adjust the strap of the bag on your shoulder, shifting on your feet. “I wanted to let you know I can't do dinner tomorrow. I'm, um, I have a date, so...”

The spin of the world stutters for a second.

Simon sucks in a quiet breath. “That so.”

“Yeah.” You look up at him with a sad little smile. Not the kind of face you'd expect from someone who just scored a date, but Simon is too wrapped up in his misery to notice. “How was your day?”

Normal. Unsuspecting. Good, even, until you told him some twat is taking you out to dinner.

“Fine,” he hears himself say. Adds, “Watchin’ a match tonight.”

An excuse—an out for both of you. You won't have to feel obligated to ask him if he'd like to come ‘round for a meal, and he won't have to pretend he doesn't feel like throwing up.

“Go Manchester,” you reply with a smile.

Just like Simon, they don't score.

He waits up for you. It's pathetic, really—that of all things this is what gets him to dig around for a pack of smokes. Been mostly clean ever since you moved in next to him, his half-hearted attempts to quit finally mounting up to something with real resolve.

He doesn't want to taste nicotine when he eats your meals.

Even threw out his lighter. Which means when he finds a crushed, dust-caked pack with only one cigarette in it behind his couch he has to light it with a match and shaky hands.

It tastes awful. But it's familiar, and sometimes he craves the burn even when he sees his dad putting out his own cigs on Simon's legs behind his eyelids.

The evening grows colder around him, late summer skies tinted with dark purples and blues. It's quiet in the neighbourhood. He's the only one out this late—everyone else has retreated to the comfort of their homes, ready to turn in for the night.

It should feel peaceful, but all Simon feels is anxious and on edge. Not even the smoke calms his nerves.

Should he back off, leave you to the happiness you deserve? Throw everything away in one last shot, ask to take you out like he's wanted to forever?

Words are no good, but he's tried so desperately to show you that he'd do just about anything if you asked. To let you know that underneath his gruff silences he doesn't bite the hand that feeds him and that he'd rip anyone else to shreds for raising a finger against you.

Simon's head lifts when his ears pick up the rumbling of a car. Is it...?

It is.

Lamplight flashes over the cobbled street, and then the rumble of the engine turns off with a click.

You're alone—thank God. Simon doesn't know what he would've done if you'd taken your date home.

You look worn out, and not the happy kind after a successful lay. Just tired—to the point where you almost don't notice him and jump when you do. You take a startled step back from his hulking silhouette leaning against the stone little fence curling around all the houses along the street you share, before pausing and asking in a soft voice:

“Simon?”

And because he's a masochist he asks, “Y’have fun?”

He expects a yes. At best a non-committal shrug—at worst an enthusiastic smile. But you look down at your shoes, chew your lip, and say, “No.” A breath. “No. It was awful. He was a twat, and he tried to feel me up under the table, and he's been hounding me at university for months, and I got so sick of it I just said yes but now I'm going to have to email HR and ugh—!”

Your voice breaks on the last sentence and you sniffle, turning your face away from Simon so you can give it a quick wipe with the back of your hand.

He's up on his feet in an instant, trying to take slow breaths so he doesn't act on the overwhelming urge to hunt down the wankstain and crush his fingers so he can never fucking touch you again. Your dog bites without warning or remorse, and everything in him wants to show your sad excuse of a date just how sharp his teeth are.

But he can't. You're hurting, and that's more important than breaking some bloke's nose.

And so Simon tries for softness as much as he's capable of it, large scarred hand hesitantly landing on your shoulder. It's all the coaxing you need to lean into his touch, and when Simon shifts a little closer your head falls on his shoulder. He burns with a different kind of fire.

“Sorry,” you sniffle. “I'm okay, I really am, it was just such a—such a—”

“S’alright,” Simon rasps. He pets your hair and strokes your back with a clumsy touch, unsure of how far he should, can, is allowed to go. “Y’should've called me. Would've come t’pick you up, maybe sock him a new one.”

He'd do more than that if you'd let him. He'd take you home and made sure the only time you cried was when he worked his fat cock inside you.

Christ, he's going to hell.

“I didn't want to bother you,” you say in a small voice.

“Sweetheart. You're never botherin’ me.” You let out a shaky sigh, and Simon tucks your head under his chin a little more securely. “Woulda made sure y’got home safe.”

It's quiet, then, save for the sound of a car driving away somewhere down the road. Simon doesn't say anything else. He doesn't want to break the spell that you're under. You feel so soft in his arms, his sweet bird, finally come home to where you belong.

“I kept wishing it was you.” Your voice is so soft he almost doesn't catch it, but before he can process it you pull yourself out of his embrace, cursing under your breath. “Sorry. Sorry—forget I said that. I'm... I'm gonna go home.”

Simon's hand shoots out and grabs your wrist. You stare at him with big wet eyes that has the pit of his stomach swoop low.

“Y’wish it was me?”

His voice is low and rough, strained with want.

Your cheeks burn and you avert your eyes, though you don't pull your hand away. “Sorry. Ignore me, I'm just...”

“I'll take you,” Simon says a little too quickly. “Anywhere you wanna go. Dinner. Movies.” He pauses, trying to remember what people do for fun. “The library.”

There. You hiccup a little laugh, finally, and the beginnings of a smile tug at your mouth.

“The library?”

Simon smiles a little, too. “Anywhere you want,” he repeats. Even the fucking library.

Your gaze drops to your hands, and you carefully turn your palm against his. “I think I'd like that.”

Simon swallows and lets his fingers intertwine with yours. “Yeah?”

“I don't really care where we go, though. If it's with you.”

Jesus bloody Christ.

“Okay,” Simon says, voice tight. “Alright. We'll—we'll figure it out. We'll go somewhere.” A breeze hits you as he says it, and you shiver. “...Right now let's just get you home.”

You nod, the fatigue overtaking your features again. Simon walks you all the way to your door, squints against the night sensor he installed himself.

You hover in the doorway before opening your mouth, closing it, then take a small step forward to rise on your toes. Simon's heartbeat kicks up under your hand where you steady yourself on his chest, and then he feels your lips press against his cheek. It's his bad one, the one with the nasty scar from a bar fight long ago.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“Yeah,” he manages, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “’Course.”

The door closes with a soft click.

When you mention wanting to hike out on a trail nearby Simon, true to his word, makes it happen. It's not so bloody hot anymore and it's nice, hearing the birds chirp overhead. Nice to exist in a world where everything is washed in shades of mottled green, hearing the dirt crunch under his feet.

It relaxes him. Makes his muscles untense. You promised him a picnic at the end of the trail, and to Simon's delight he succeeds in coaxing you to feed him bites of your homemade sandwiches in the midst of tall grass and meadow flowers.

When you get home, sweat and sun lingering on your skin, Simon has full intentions of dropping you off at your doorstep and wishing you a good night. Maybe get another kiss if he's lucky.

And he does—but you linger, soft lips hovering over his cheek. His fingers curl and uncurl against his sides, waiting and wondering.

“Please kiss me?” you breathe on his skin, and that's all it takes.

He surprises himself with the intensity of it, but fucking hell, he's wanted you for so long. His shoulders hunch, neck bent low, and he slots his mouth over yours. Your little fingers grab at his shirt for balance, and he pushes you against your doorframe. Every time he pulls away you make a small noise of protest and chase his lips, and though Simon hasn't had a drop of alcohol today he feels well on his way to hammered.

“Do you want to—please come inside—?”

Simon groans and rests his forehead against yours. Fuck. “I want to—want t’do this right,” he rasps.

You exhale with a shaky breath. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes glittering like stars. Simon's stomach lurches at seeing you want him. “Right, um. Of course. I just—I've thought about... about you. For a—a really long timmf—”

Simon groans into your mouth. He cups your cheeks, one hand sliding to hold you at the back of your neck. A sweat breaks out along his spine when he imagines you at night, in your bedroom, fucking yourself with your little fingers. Whimpering his name...

“Yeah? Y’want me to take you to bed, sweetheart?” he murmurs, and you shiver.

The two of you barely make it past the door until Simon is stealing the breath from your lungs again. He's wanted this for so long it's a little hard to stop, even if it's to break apart for air. Miraculously you seem to want it as much as he does, seem as desperate for his touch as he is for yours.

When has anyone wanted him this bad? When has he ever felt like he'd die on the spot if he didn't get inside you right the fuck now?

He doesn't need to ask you where the bedroom is. This place has felt his touch almost as much as yours, has shaped up into a cosy little home that is part of him, too. Like he wants to be part of you.

Simon simply scoops you up and carries you straight to bed, forgetting to be gentle when he deposits on the mattress. His head is buzzing, his heart is thundering, and he needs you now.

Fortunately you don't seem to mind much. Your hands immediately fly to his belt, tug at the metal impatiently, then fumble with his zipper with trembling hands. Simon pulls your top over your head, throws it somewhere on the floor without a care followed by his own.

“Lie back,” he husks, and makes quick work of your trousers. Pauses just for a second to take in the growing wet patch of your panties.

“Simon,” you whine softly.

He drops to his knees and slides his large hands over your thighs, transfixed. He smooths over the goosebumps on your legs, presses a kiss to your knee.

“Want me t’take these off?” he rasps, snapping the band of your panties. You lift your hips in silent assent. Simon helps you shimmy off your underwear and suppresses a moan when a string of sticky arousal clings to the fabric—then follows it right to the source.

You gasp when he kisses your folds before gently spreading them with big warm fingers. “Sweet little cunt,” Simon mutters, and then he goes to town.

He starts with slow, wet licks, feeling out what you like and what's too much. He keeps it light for a while just to feel you squirm and to hear your breathing turn ragged, then backs off just when your knees start trembling. He smiles when you whimper his name with a desperate little “please".

“Such good manners.” His breath washes over your clit, and your hips try to twitch away from him. “Proper sweetheart, yeah?”

It's great fun, playing with you, but his cock is throbbing painfully and he's leaking everywhere, and he very much intends for you to end the night feeling so blissed out you let him sleep next to you.

So Simon hoists you closer, hooks your thighs over his shoulder, and sucks on your clit until you're sobbing his name. He holds your hips down by splaying one big hand over your stomach because you're a sensitive little thing, bucking away from him when he's not nearly done with you yet.

It's cute, seeing you lose yourself to the pleasure. It's also really fucking hot. Simon slowly pushes one finger in you and groans when you clench around him.

“Simon,” you whimper. “Oh, please, please—”

Such a good girl, begging without him telling you to. Simon crooks his finger, and your next breath is a stutter of moans before your whole body tenses and you cum on his tongue.

Simon hums approvingly, keeping his motions slow and steady so you ride it out all the way. When you whine and wriggle away from him he lets up, wiping at your slick covering his chin.

Best meal you've cooked him by far.

“Oh,” you sigh. “That was... Give me—give me a minute...”

Simon chuckles and rises from his knees to crawl over you and steal a kiss. “Feelin’ good, princess?”

“Princess—” you let out a breathless laugh, but even in the low light of your nightstand lamp Simon sees the colour rise in your cheeks. Liked that, did you? You blink up at him, a sweet satisfied smile on your lips. “Mhm. So good. Come here?”

Your hands trail over his sides, stroke over the light hair trailing down his stomach. Simon shudders when your knuckles brush over his cock and he shucks off his trousers further to give you better access.

When you wrap your hand around him he drops his head into the crook of your shoulder and moans. The twitch of his hips is involuntary, too desperate to chase his pleasure to stay put.

“Next time,” you whisper while pulling him forward, spreading your legs wider to fit around his hips, “I want to feel you in my mouth.”

“Jesus,” he groans. It takes everything in him to not just slide in. “We need a condom?”

“I'm clean,” you murmur against his jaw. “On birth control. If you want we can—”

“Fuck yeah I do,” Simon says, and you laugh. Soft eyes when your hands slide over his shoulders, brush through the short hair on his neck. Simon watches your face while he lines himself up without blinking, and he's rewarded with the flutter of your eyelashes, the parting of your soft lips.

Your brows scrunch together at the first few inches, and he kisses you sweetly to make you relax. Simon knows he's not small, and he groans when you clench around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your hair. “Good girl. Just like that, yeah? Takin’ it real well. Just like that.”

He slides in a little deeper. You shiver and mewl and beg him for more, and he gives it to you. Anything you want.

“Simon,” you whimper. “Feels so—oh, you feel so good. More, please, please—?”

Simon brushes the hair from your forehead, keeping his thrusts long and slow and making sure to kiss your cervix each time, just because your breath stutters so prettily every time he does.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, you're so—such a tight little cunt. Couldn't wait any longer, could you? Jus’ had to have me?”

You nod immediately and empathically, eyes glassy with arousal. You try to answer him, but the only thing you manage are airy moans that sound like his name.

That's alright. Don't need to talk. He knows what you want to say; he feels the same. Simon catches you in a messy kiss while lacing his fingers with yours. Yours. Mine.

He shoves his free hand between your two bodies and finds your clit, circling it until he's found the right rhythm that has tears gathering in your eyes. He could live on that for the rest of his life, of hearing you mindlessly stuttering his name while your body tenses up and your head drops back and those pretty lips part in a choked moan—

“Christ,” Simon grits through his teeth, sweat dampening his brow. Your cunt flutters around him, soft little flower in full bloom that, with another thrust or two, has him falling apart as well.

Both of you moan at the feeling of his cum spurting hot and thick in your waiting womb. Simon rocks against you slowly to make sure you get every last drop—birth control or not.

He kisses you on the comedown. You melt into his touch, butter and honey, running your fingers through his hair until Simon shifts you around so you're curled up against him.

In another minute he'll get up and get you a washcloth before tucking you in and kissing your bare shoulders. He'll wrap himself around you before sleep takes you, make sure that he's the last thing you see and hear and touch.

For now he lets himself bask in the present. In having a sweet little bird clinging to him for comfort and giving him more than he could ever ask for in return.

Simon doesn't think you quite realise what you've gotten yourself into, in giving this big ugly watchdog your affection. He's not a king or a prince; not even a knight, not like the ones you read so much about. Simon wouldn't exactly call himself chivalrous or genteel.

But he's just as devoted and twice as vicious. He'll belong to you, and you to him, and from the moment he saw you he was oath-bound.

He'll have to steal a ring or two to measure which size is right. It'll take some work to knock down the walls between your two houses, but he'll ask the lads for help. Simon knows you'll win them over right away if you cook dinner or bake them something sweet.

And maybe in time he'll have to try his own hand at baking. He always did want to put a bun in the oven, and Simon just knows that if you're the one to do it with him—

It'll come out perfect.

#cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #simon ghost riley x reader #x reader #this should've been a 20+ chap slowburn but I'm just not patient enough for that

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alnilaem · 9 months ago

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rugby player soap fucks you after a win. that’s it. extension from this post of mine

cw for dubcon smut, noncon exhibitionism, and gross johnny + simon

“Did ya see that, hen?”

Johnny’s words come out stifled behind his mouthguard. He smiles, and it’s bulky, a little dim-witted in how he darts his tongue out, licking up a wash of blood that sluices down his lip. His eyebrow is split and his nose is bent out of shape, his cheeks all swollen and ruddy.

He pulls you into a crushing hug, shaking like an ebullient dog that’s unaware of how big it is. His jersey, a royal blue, turns cobalt with his sweat. It sticks to his skin and outlines his chest, peeling off of your shirt when you sheepishly pull away.

The pitch is glutted with celebrating teammates and their loved ones, but the broadcast camera is raptly focused on you and Johnny. On the grudging hold he has on your waist and the unwieldy trophy he’s just won for his team.

Johnny grins like it’s a challenge. Like he wants to make the camera turn away. He forestalls the protests on your tongue by sinking into you for a hard kiss, bruising, and almost brutal in its force. It’s like he hasn’t separated himself from the game yet. Like he doesn’t want to compartmentalise you from the barbarous sport he plays.

The scruff of Johnny’s stubble tickles you as you try pushing him back, try twisting out of his hands. But his fingers, as bandaged and torn as they are, press dimples into your jawbone and keep you in place. Keeps you squirming and shameful beneath the dissonance of celebration.

He peels away with a kitten lick, pressing a wet smooch to the corner of your mouth. He’s smiling, pulling your jeans against the bulge beneath his spandex-like shorts, chuckling.

“Scored that last try for you, hen,” he pants. Spits out his mouthguard and passes his tongue over his bloodied teeth. “Did’ja see it?”

Johnny stinks of iron musk and sweat. He hands the trophy away and uses both hands to pull you close, clemently kissing your jaw.

“I did,” you hum. You consciously lilt your voice upwards, telling it to Johnny how he always needs to hear it. “You did so well, Johnny. So good.”

He whimpers into your neck. Just barely gyroscopes his hips against you.

“Did it for you,” he slurs. Johnny’s words are all soft, melting on his tongue as if he’s drunk. As if his brain is belated and stuck in the grip of your praise. “Did so good, right? A’practiced so hard.”

You take the bait that Johnny has given you, petting him, because if not, he’ll get ratty and make a scene. You pull back and cup his face, preening under the cornflower blue of his eyes and the puppy-like dip of his lips. You smile. “So good. I’m so proud of you.”

Johnny is half-lidded and dizzy, nodding to himself, swallowing your praise like an empty-headed dog. Impatience and lust are written into him—you can tell by the darkened shade of his eyes and how hard he clutches your hand.

“Let’s go,” he says, leading you through the stadium entrance, shouldering past fans asking him for autographs and photos. “We’ve time before the team goes for dinner. Nobody’ll be in the change room.”

Your cheeks flare with the implication of Johnny’s words and how purposeful they are. Marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection.

He tugs you like a puppy pulling its owner. Excited, working against its leash, your feet struggling to catch up. Johnny pulls you into his team's changing room, slamming the door shut behind you. The sound of you getting pressed against the lockers is thin, tinny, and fleetingly impairs you. When you reorient, Johnny has his skinned knee between your legs and against your pussy. His hand palming his cock through the tight material of his rugby shorts.

“Johnny,” you pant, “what if someone comes in?”

“Let ‘em,” he huffs out a laugh. “What’re they gonna do? Ban me from the league? I just won us a trophy. ’m on top of the fuckin’ world, baby.”

Annoyance cycles in your stomach at his lack of consideration. You try wiggling out and mewling, but the thigh between your legs is an immovable object. Your clothed clit catches on his sinews at every angle, pushing a gasp out of you regardless of how you twist and turn.

“Haud y’r wheesht,” he barks. A hint of aggression bleeds into Johnny’s words, and that makes you pliant. “We’re just celebratin’, hen, no need ta ruin my win.”

Your eyes are on the door while Johnny shucks down his shorts. It rolls down his thighs and he leaves it at his knees, too eager to toe off his cleats and pull it all the way off. He stands awkwardly now, a little stilted because he can’t stretch his legs all the way, but that doesn’t stop him from bevelling his thigh into you and flexing, grinding into you.

Johnny peels your shirt—a replica of his jersey—off of you, and kisses you deeply. You can taste the salt and blood crusted against his lips, feel his small smile.

Johnny spins you around and folds you over the bench. Your knees bruise against the rubber flooring and your chest flattens against the cold wood, your brain reeling in the gross implications of it, whatever Johnny and his friends get up to in this locker room.

He rips down your jeans, almost popping the buttons off, almost burns your skin with the denim, and settles himself behind you. Johnny grabs a fistful of your ass and spreads you open, swatting your pussy with his other hand.

“Johnny…” you mewl, and he chuckles. Gives you a waggle, slipping his large hand over and thumbing your clit.

“Thought you were feart of bein’ found?” He asks, lowering to his knees and kissing your dewy folds. “Why’re y’being so loud?”

Johnny waits for a second, giving you time to think of a reply, but with the first sound to leave your mouth he’s licking a fat stripe up your pussy, collapsing your words.

He laughs at himself and it sends vibrations up your spine. Your bones are grinding together, your nerves filaments of live wire under Johnny’s hands that dig divots into your thighs and his mouth that sucks on your clit, tonguing your sticky folds.

He spits on your cunt, spreads the wad of saliva around with his tongue. He pulls you into his mouth and suckles, moving his wet lips against your dewy ones.

You stretch your arm back and tug on Johnny’s fleecy mohawk, scratching your fingers against the dew-skinned, shaved parts of his head. He expels a groan against your clit and you mewl, pushing into him, wiggling so his nose buries further, his tongue plunging into you and licking a stroke up your walls.

You’re quivering now, shaking against the cold bench and Johnny’s hot mouth. A knot of energy crackles in your stomach as he wraps his lips around your clit and slurps.

“Gonna come on my mouth, hen?” Johnny pants, but pulls away before you reply. Punches a whine out of you by spinning you onto your back against the bench, pulling his cock out and giving it a few tugs, his dick so hard it droops with laden weight and a slaver of precum.

“Or would’ya rather do it on here?” He asks, stroking himself. His balls low-hanging in front of you, the fat head of his cock all ruddy and red and flaring as he pinches it.

You stare, dull-headed, with your mouth hanging open and a hazy film behind your eyes. Johnny giggles.

“Cannae think with this in front of ye?” He smears his cockhead on your lips. “Sweet girl. So cute.”

Johnny winces and pulls away. He swings one leg over the bench, settling himself on top of you. His cock is a heavy mass of muscle between him. Swinging, bobbing in place. Dumb and drooling with precum that drops onto your navel.

He slips himself between your puffy folds, panting like a dog. Equally as impatient as one, squeezing his cockhead past your first ring of muscle, writing off your small cries of pain. He thinks cupping your cheek offsets the burn—still, Johnny’s cock is so heavy and so big inside you. Spreading you open, stretching you out. Making a home inside your belly.

You hic his name, and he shushes you with a kiss. Johnny weaves into short, quick thrusts, because pulling himself to the tip means losing most of your warmth, and he can’t have that. He settles on barely rolling his hips, focusing on burying himself deep, folding himself into a frog position if that means fucking you meaner.

“Takin’ so much cock, bonnie,” he moans into your neck. “So good. So good.”

Johnny’s ears turn pink and his eyes turn glassy. He keeps rocking inside you, his cock filling you out so well, so full, your thighs shaking and damp with slick. He fingers your clit, and in his pace, wild and unfettered, you wrap your legs around his waist like a cobbled together leash that you use to pull him closer.

Johnny grows feral at that. He slaps his balls harder against you, biting your shoulder. Sweat and blood rolls down his cheek and onto your face, augmenting the icy gold of his first place medal. It drags along your chest with each of his thrusts, turning into a ball of liquid fire as your body saturates with sweat. Johnny leans down, his lips slick as he kisses you, the push and pull of his hips ripening into a more jagged, desperate rhythm.

“Gonna fill y’up, hen,” he pants. There’s a strong dissonance that impairs you, echoing within the locker room. Johnny’s degenerate moans and the slap of skin against skin. The pitched sound of the wind being knocked out of you, the sticky sound of your cunt getting spread open on his big cock.

Something else poises itself on Johnny’s tongue, something impure, but it gets shaved-off as he cuts himself off with a long, flinty moan. Johnny quivers as he comes, and that pushes him deeper as he fills you with his warm ropes.

He presses down on your clit, pushing the rise of your orgasm out of you. Your spine curls off the bench, your nails digging divots into Johnny’s arms, your mouth hanging open and a rough wave of pleasure curling over you and breaking into your skin. Your orgasm is so consuming it burns, eating you whole.

It chews you up and spits you out. You tremble around Johnny’s softening cock as he peppers kisses down your sternum, and while you reorient, you see an unearthly spot of colour in the corner of your eye. It isn’t composed of matter—it’s big and blurry and hides between two rows of lockers.

Then, you realise the drapery England flag, the absence of a Scottish one.

The man who stands in the corner is blonde and huge and has his fat cock out, curling his fist around it, pumping. He’s so quiet, an ambush predator as he just stands there, continuing to beat his dick even after you make eye contact with him.

He turns to Johnny, grotesquely smiling.

Johnny returns it.

#johnny mactavish x reader #soap mactavish smut #soap mactavish x reader #soap/reader #cod mw2 #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap writing #orion writing

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dogbites-puppylove · 8 months ago

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Devil Sins

The Batfam and the deadly sin that colors their life, and the virtue of their darling

TW: Yandere behavior (obsession, possessive behavior and unhealthy ideations), mention of suicide ideation and s/h as well as gore

Tags: Yandere! Batfam x reader

Bruce Wayne: Pride

Within Gotham, it's common knowledge that when crimes wretched hands come down to slit your neck you do not clasp your hands and pray to God, no - you whisper your tears into a puddle of blood and give your reverence to hold out for Batman. It is under no exaggeration that divinity in the cursed city leaves justice to crumbled bones and puddles of teeth and tongue, and its cruel master in the form of a man with no face. It's fitting, for a city of corruption and bile. Gotham’s god is its dark knight with steel for bones and scripture of flesh, man made Godhood with flawed creation in its wake. But man has never been meant to hold godhood, the pathway of immortals too cruel and demanding, even with those who have wielded its deadly blade of eons it rips into them. Tearing at seams and breaking into them until their pieces can be glorified in the stained windows of churches.

Batman is divinity within mortal confines. There have been prayers and hymns in his name, retribution in his name and the painful dependency of creator and creation waged on him. Batman is an entity that is nothing but iron and brimstone, unbending and unfeeling, but Bruce Wayne, the man who created this creature whose only split from being a monster is a bloodied and beaten code, is painfully human. He feels each failure weigh on him, aging him past his own casket and decaying him even as he still breathes, it cradles his head during the night and whispers the screams of those he has watched fall.

Every time Batman stands tall, Bruce can feel something small and young turn decrepit and vile in his stomach until it erupts from him like bile from the back of his throat. He thinks it must be the humanity of a son who in truth, died with his parents in that alley. It slices his open, cutting his flesh to ribbons, and gorges itself on his organs only to fill him up with something inhuman. It's with bated breath with lungs that have been clouded with smog, that he waits for Batman to finally rule Bruce Wayne unfit and strangle him entirely.

Darling: Humility

The Darling acts as the humility to his pride, dragging him to his knees so archaically Batman shrivels in your presence. You are his humanity given form, the antithesis to his claim of being the perfect hero. You lead him by the nose, walking him on a leash so flawlessly he thinks you might have been born just to keep him grounded. Every scrape or bruise seems to repel the mission Batman strives for and replaces it with nothing, but a man stricken that he hadn’t done better. Each burn or scrape, even a paper cut drives guilt into him and brings a physical ache to his body like you had beaten him with a bat. Each mark burns the shame of a failed hero and leaves only the pathetic begs and whines of a man that can only be human.

If he could, he would spend his days by your side, affected by the intrinsic need to provide for you, leaving you physically and mentally unable and robbed of the ability to want. It's a desire that burns molten in his chest and drips down his limbs, it burns and aches at him as if trying to rip out of his chest and lick at your hand like a depraved dog. He would do anything for you, would render the world silent, bring you a heart on a platter, violate himself so terribly he could not know anything but his adoration of your presence and yet it still feels inadequate. A simple compliment from you leaves him bereft of ambition and scorn, leaving him on his hands clasped in prayer.

Batman may have been his creation, but Bruce Wayne is your own tool, use him to get what you want, change him for your own needs just keep him at hand. He'll be loyally and wholly (obsessively and blindly, almost rabid) yours. God bends to nobody's will, but Bruce Wayne knows down to the electrons snapping in his synapse that his place in this world is by your side, whether you point, whenever you deem fit. You’re his god, and himself nothing but a faithful follower.

Richard Grayson: Lust

Perhaps born from watching his parents, who should have been a constant, die in front of him a painful death filled with tourists' eyes and misplaced faith, right outside of his fingers grasps Dick has an inherent need to feel. For him, want runs in his skin like a conscious, whispering what he craves, giving voice to a voracity so impossible that it turns physical. He has known denial from the start, whether it be the blood of the man who stole his parents, a want that made his tongue ache and crawled at his ribs until his bones crackled, or the sweeter craving of a relationship, something that watered at his mouth. Want is something that has haunted him, growing obsessively until it reached lust.

Though sexual desire, of course, is something that is often attributed to it, it's not the only way lust presents itself. For Dick, it appears when he closes enough to reach out and feel flesh on his own, something tangible and it shocks him like a bad dog until he reaches out to soothe his skin. It appears in the dead of night when he can feel no other warmth than his blankets, even as he arches out and reaches pathetically into the air. It is a call of pathetic loneliness, so strong that when his younger brothers are cuddled drowning within him it is to try and get rid of the sudden echo, to try and merge them into one, until he is no longer Dick Grayson, and somehow a part of them. Somewhere in between the heat of a lover and the loyalty of a son, he realizes that being a part of a couple isn’t enough.

He wants like a man starved, all instinct and need, like a child who has been ripped out of his mother’s grasp before she has fed him fully, there is always something he’s not quite satisfied with. What he truly craves is a constant, a union, melting himself, and another so they can be poured into the same mold and make something new, indistinguishable from the other. And despite the carnal behavior of his want, he knows how to get it. He smiles full of charisma, grins with the sun and serenades with the moon to get his fixes, but each one leaves him starved, stricken for more. Like a bad addiction.

Darling: Chastity

The darling brings a chastity in his life, though not to say he wants less, but in the way a husband will fully devote himself to their wife. It’s the deceptive nature of a couple announcing a pregnancy and accidentally alluding to nights spent in bed. The darling hits a spot for him that leaves him mind numbingly euphoric, like a high that is reached after weeks and weeks of suspension. Every kiss has him feral, no better than an animal and chasing after you, every negligence has him whining by your feet, clinging to you. He grows incredibly dependent on your presence, on your touch and everything beneath.

With you his sharp mind bleeds into instinct, and the charisma he wields to pry himself into others good graces is left uselessly at the door. It’s a delusional dreamy trance, every hug sends him tumbling down further and further until his panting against your neck and thinking of nothing but you, you, you. He can feel himself slipping into your existence, swearing he can taste the coffee you drank in the morning, and can feel every cut or bruise you get without him present. His want for you is wet, sticky and binding, threatening to pull you over until you lose your mind along with him.

It’s almost laughable how pliant he is with you, a touch to his arm can have him following you over a cliff, a peck to the cheek and suddenly his on your lap whining for more. For all he is hard and angry, full of vigilante fights and bruised skin you wouldn’t even have to hurt him to kill him. With you, he can indulge himself fully, so much so that he wants no other. In fact any other touch leaves him lacking, so utterly entranced by you that he can no longer feel another’s skin unless it’s yours. To him, his darling and himself cannot be separated, they won’t go down in history but their names, but by the title for lovers. Nothing to define themselves but their own love.

Jason Todd: Wrath

Anger, to Jason, is an old friend that lives in his bones and whispers in his ears with every movement. He has used it well his entire life, a melting anger of forged iron against his father to keep him defiant, a indigent anger filled with a son's tears for his mother, the roar of inequality and social class that steals from the batmobile and the blinding and rash rush that leaves him as robin. It’s at first a soft motivation that keeps him alive, any good street rat knows, or any street rat still breathing that to stop means you’re as good as dead. He covets his rage, it's youthful and idealistic and keeps his heart beating.

Of course, after the pit (after being beaten to death in a warehouse of gasoline and gunpowder, watching his own blood relax as he’s robbed of his own, coming back ripping from his own skin and drowned in green only to find out his father-father-had left him unavenged. Left him replaced and gone) his anger has grown into something primordial. Too old to be Jason’s but so familiar he leans into it. It grows from his bones like ivy and twigs, poking out against his flesh and sewing itself under his skin so that the slightest breach sends it out to take root. Jason’s wrath is something that threatens to leave him choking blood, and yet it keeps him alive with the threat of keeping him running forever. It is the anger of a child on the poster who has never been found, and their stomach full of worms that burrows into his own. The tears of a case under the corrupt policeman’s file, and the ghosts scream in a house empty of their future. It’s all those who have ever been a statistic (as he has been) boiling over under his skin. Because Jason knows the wrath of the dead and unavenged intimately, it burns his memories in green and leaves his chest heaving with permanent mourning of mothers whose children were robbed and never found. It threatens to scratch away from the inside of his ribs until its nails finally rip him open in a mocking autopsy and wail into Gotham’s plugged ears.

Jason's violence, his actions and words, the bullets in his guns and glare under the hood are all reactions to this. As long as the world spins, as long as humans turn a blind eye to victims, and allow the injustice of the world to mold them, he will move. All his actions are an answer, a bullet through a man's cranium, the vengeance of a young girl with a ripped dress, a severed head, the relief of a child who watches their family bleed out for powdered death. Each and every shout of Red Hood, every puddle of blood he coats the ground on proof that he is still moving. Because Jason’s wrath is old and an answer, to the boy in the warehouse, to the boy in the ground and mounted not as a son but a soldier. It’s a solution to the fear that manipulates his chest that should he stop moving he’d be buried again.

Darling: Patience

Jason is a man of action and violence, fear turned into anger because above all he is a man cursed with empathy. With his darling the fear that curdles his insides soothes, like a mother rubbing her child’s stomach and singing a special song to keep the pain away. The world will keep moving regardless of him taking a break, and he has the blinding panic of staying in time, and yet his darling is a perfect encapsulation of time. Something preserved beautifully, a painting stuck in motion, the words on his books that are remembered through words and tongue. The tint of red becomes a pastel pink, and suddenly he’s so, so weak.

With his darling he closes his eyes without fear of waking up decaying. A sweep of your hand against his cheek will pull a sigh of pleasure from his throat suddenly free of phlegm and blood, even a harsh hit will feel divine. His darling functions as a sort of “moment” , something trapped in time and solely for Jason. Much like opening a book, the story is forever clashing but the words stay all the same, waiting for the reader. It’s with you the anger that has kept him moving for so long, washed away, like the dirt clinging to his skin under water. It's freeing and leaves him shakily bare, with you he weeps, with you he grows and stays forever yours. You are life itself, something ancient and timeless at the same time. The nostalgia of losing a tooth and excitement of a birthday party wrapped into tender song and softer skin.

It’s a common sight to see him cry when with you, prayer in the form of tears that are just for you. He spends his days in a lovestruck haze, almost as if he’s been drugged. For Jason there is no constant, no surety but you. He would do anything to keep you perfect, safe and just as you always are. He'll care for you much like a beloved heirloom, of course he loves you with a severance that would scare most, but you are something he seeks to preserve. Nothing can hurt you, will hurt you, you’ll remain untouched until you reach out yourself. Your presence alone is enough for him to intoxicate himself with, bask in forever. But should you give I’m a sliver of your attention, allow him to enter your perfect little world? He’ll be lost forever.

Tim Drake: Gluttony

The most intimate feeling Tim knows is hunger, perhaps not for food but for anything and everything else. Obsession is his most familiar form of companionship, stuffing picture after picture of his object of affection until he can drown in them. In his house of echoing walls and emptiness he comes to emulate it. He feels hollowness in his soul, some nights he wonders if he took a knife to his own side what he would find. Would it be organs? Perhaps a heart? Or would it be the void that has eaten all that made him and left him with a constant hunger to fill himself with? For a time, he manages to satiate himself with Batman and Robin, stalking and drinking them in over and over until one day it's stolen and left him with nausea so terrible. (And Tim still remembers the rawness of his skin as he is thrashing in his room, his throat bleeding from his wails of a boy he never met)

The more he gets the more he hungers, it’s something horrific and apathetic that leads him to chasing after his own fill. Case after case solved, fact after fact filtered and sorted through, Tim is insatiable. Like a well oiled machine, the fuel that keeps him going only works to find more fuel, it's a never-ending cycle of something that can no longer be deemed as human. Half of this can be attributed to the fact that it’s all the same to him, an angelic charity to a garish murder eh takes them and feasts on them all the sometime efficiency is more of a hook then anything, pulling others in so he can feast on them, devouring their mannerisms and habits, licking up and chewing on their thoughts until there nothing left of them.

One could blame this on the fact that the identity of “Tim Drake'' has never really been sought out, so there’s no substance to him. Something useless will obviously stay shiny, clean and unused, it's logical in all the ways it makes Tim want to throw a tantrum. It drives his mouth to salivate until he’s drooling over another function he can consume, another person he can mirror, another morsel to disappear within himself. And yet with each new meal he can only feel the void echo back louder, as if he had never eaten at all. Like a fire consuming too much wood that it withers out in anger, as if the trees that had been cut never existed in the first place. It threatens to force Tim to disappear forever.

Darling: Temperance

The temperance his darling offers is in the form of a craving rather than actual fulfillment. After just his first taste of you, Tim has been enraptured for you, nothing comes close to your unique temperament, your reactions, everything that makes you, you. You leave his mouth watering for more, nothing else can settle against his tongue the way you can, nothing can mimic the way you fill his head with static and leave him filled to the brim. He takes whatever kindness you give him and uses it as an invitation to learn more about you, an invitation to bear himself fully. Any preference you have, a favorite color or show, even general food preference will settle into Tim as if it had been his all along. Where he used to drink black coffee, has grown a taste for your favorite creamer, your playlist will be playing in the back of his head as he switches through W.E. work, it’s all you, you, you. Like a puzzle finally coming together,

Tim’s brain finally quiets down and is forced to digest. Any sort of attention you give him is a five course meal, any scorn is just as quickly devoured. You don’t quite stop the habit of obsession, but you give it direction. Tim has never known such direct want until you, a den he has no plans to stop his indulgent habits. He is ravenous for anything you toss to him, your voice, a text, an opinion, even just a little note, whatever you do stays, It’s a blessing and a curse. Because while the hunger pangs back in your presence, now nothing else can even come close to keeping him occupied.

He’ll obsess over you, crafting himself to be your perfect companion just so he can stay by your side and continue feeding. Everything in your life has a shade of him, your job, your house, your hobbies, even your electronics, each one a special situation he created to have you just a bit closer. Nothing else can come close to you, he’ll make sure you're well taken care of, all he asks in return is you.

Damian Wayne: Envy

Damian’s life is a unique contradiction. He was born the sole inheritor of a Thorne he is meant to fight for, something only he can own and yet is so unworthy he is kept from it. It forces him into a sense of jealousy, inadequacy and egregious entitlement. He could have anything he needs, but only as long as he earns it, it gives him a longing sense of feeling everything is out of his reach. That even should he hold the sword in his hands it cannot be called his. Not in the way a dog can call its food their own, and not in the way a writer can crow over their own creation. It leaves him painfully envious of others, of their right to their own possession, it leaves him vicious and poisonous. Part of the reason he squirrels away animals with so much intent, is because they’d be “His.” He’s their sole owner, and as beings with a conscience they can prove their loyalty.

His envy leaves him with harsh words and even deadlier scars, it forces him into a fine weapon and while it’s an ideal state for an heir it’s a broken state for a child. It leaves the boy wanting, fearful and anxious. His envy is young and childish, something not allowed, and it’s something weaponized. It’s part of the reason he defends the title of robin so freckly, not only because he believes himself right, but because it’s his in way the throne cannot be. Because it’s not a legacy he’s supposed to take, it's one he steals from himself. It’s his, in a way nothing has been since he first cried from the pit.

But even then, the title of partner that so many others have worn, cannot soothe the constant ire, the lashing out that comes with fear of being replaceable, of being nothing but a role, comes with. Because Damian has been born as his mother’s son, as his father's legacy, but not as his own person. It makes Damian feel unfit, unusable in the way he has seen his mother discard students who cannot kill. It burns him, kills him and with time he thinks he might just be a husk. Damian is nothing but competency and a perfect successor, a successor will never be their own.

Darling: Kindness

Ironically the kindness that tempers his own envy is not his own but instead, actions of his own darlings. He fully gives himself to you, gives you his very purpose to do what you want with. Should you order him to kill, order him to die, or to live he would do it without complaint. Tell him you want his heart and he will pry himself open and hand it over with a smile, tell him you want his laugh, and he will laugh himself manic until you tire of it. He is a fine blade, a weapon that has seen battle far too much already, and it’s your own kindness that stops it from going to battle. In essence Damian has made himself a role right by you, but has given up his autonomy of your manipulation. You’ve become his master, his owner and his loyal weapon.

Every action is your doing, every remark is for your benefit, and by giving himself to you, he can have you in a way nobody else can claim. Every smile, every hug, every word that you speak to him is something unique from a dynamic he has hand crafted, and therefore uniquely his own. He will store you away from others, wary of letting them stain you, and even more wary of letting them steal you. You’re his, his love, his heart, his blood, his purpose on this earth, and he cannot let another’s touch deter you from this. His darling is a salve to his aches, a bandage that wraps tight enough to manage to hold him together, and his actions are that with the purpose of binding you to him. Your purpose will be each other.

Author's Note: Another reupload! Previously known as lovesick-laboratories.

#yandere dc #yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #bruce wayne x reader #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #tim drake x reader #damian wayne x reader

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bunny584 · 9 months ago

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OBSESSED: GETO (PT. II)

A/N: I…guys this one is…dirty. For so many reasons. I don’t. I can’t look myself in the eye. Suguru made me do it 😅

C/W: Voyeurism, Mature themes, 18+ (Part I here)

Music inspo: This is SO Chase Atlantic coded

Acceptance.

They say the first step to recovery from addiction is acceptance.

Fine, then.

Suguru Geto’s addiction to you is absolute. And he has no interest in recovery.

He’s accepted it. You own him.

Granted, he didn’t realize just how tight your leash is. Not until last night.

Suguru is a logical, reasonable, creature of habit. He doesn’t need much. Really, he doesn’t.

But fucking you to sleep nightly is non-negotiable.

Or rather, fucking his hand. While watching you watch TV. And swirl a glass of Pinot noir in your gorgeous mouth. With your graceful fingers mindlessly swimming in a bowl of popcorn.

Extra butter. With tons and TONS of salt!

The first time you ordered your side snack at the movie theatre, Suguru almost keeled over.

But then he made the glorious mistake of flickering over to you, mid movie. Just as your index finger slid between those pillow soft lips. Pulling remnants of salt and butter away, leaving a trail of lip gloss behind.

He could’ve sucked it off your finger right there and then.

The way you pistoned in and out of your mouth. Doe-eyed and trained on the screen. Not a thought in your head. It was his gateway drug.

The butterfly effect.

A moment in time that rerouted fate.

His excruciatingly beautiful, platonic best friend, now a visceral need.

And just like any addiction. There were stages.

Denial: He doesn’t see you that way. No, of course not. His mind just got caught in a horny spiral. He’ll snap out of it. Things will go back to normal.

Anger: How could you do this to him? You know how disorienting you are. That smile. Always looking up at him with puppy eyes and parted lips. You’re a cocktease. Begging. Pleading. Needing him to debase you to nothing. Is that it? You want him to ruin you, don’t you? And he could. Fuck you into next week. Until you’re screaming and crying. He’d smear those tears all over his cock and fuck them back into your pouty mouth. It’s what you deserve.

Shame: It’s perverse. You call to vent about your day. He rubs himself raw while you talk. You kiss his cheek. His dick leaks. How could he do this to someone who trusts him like you do?

It was a vicious, muddled cycle. He could barely function around you.

Rushed greetings. Kurt words. Clipped responses. Avoidance.

He had to protect you from his depraved thoughts. Shield you from sordid actions taken in the dark — as if they would spontaneously materialize in the light to harm you.

And they did. But in the opposite way Suguru intended.

“Hey, HEY! Suguru, what the hell is up with you?”

You squeezed his wrist with all your might. It felt like nothing. But the weight in your tone hit him like a freight train.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been distant."

“I’ve been right here.”

“You’ve been distant, Suguru.”

Quartz showers streamed down your beautiful face and his cock quivered. Drooling along his thigh. So. Fucking. Pretty when you cry.

Did you know?

How irresistible you looked?

Glassy eyes. Trembling lips. Vulnerable. Soft enough to hunt.

Did you know?

How he clawed his palm bloody to keep from gripping your neck. Shoving you to your knees. And giving you a reason to whine his name like that again.

“Why won’t you just talk to me?”

“I have to go—“

“I don’t care!”

“Wha—“

“I don’t care!! I don’t care what it is okay? I just…I miss..I miss my best friend.”

You elevated off your heels. No where near eye level, but enough to cradle his face in your dainty hands.

And God dammit. He might as well have been wearing a dog tag with your name on it.

If lost, return to Owner.

Between your misty eyes. Swollen lips. Face like a canvas to paint with his cum. He bit back a pathetic groan. And choked out an apology.

Most importantly, he made a promise to never hollow out your friendship like that again.

So, instead he fills it. With ropes of his arousal. And fuck, it’s rhapsody.

The stages. The anger, disbelief, shame…it was worth it. Because this ecstasy? It’s sublime.

Constant ascension. Never once reaching cruising altitude.

…which made the fall agonizing.

Last night, in a sick, twisted turn of fate - his camera feed cut off.

One minute Suguru is pumping into his abused rubber cocksleeve. Sliding his eyes up and down your hips until he was dizzy in the head. Pre cum squelching out of the little space between his cock and the ring of his 5th battered toy. Unintelligible praises leaking out of him, cementing his devotion. And just as the curtains began to fall on his vision. Balls heavy and hot with his seed—

Then he saw nothing.

Suguru couldn’t recognize the man in his room last night. Fingers aching. Mind racing. Dick red, angry, pulsating for its one and only vice.

Alarm bells rang between his ears. Crash landing into an abyss. Mayday.

Mayday.

In that moment. He knew he needed more. More skin. More angles. More you.

And so, he’s standing outside your Pilates studio @ 7:28 PM. Two minutes until you’re done.

A Dragonfruit smoothie rests in his hand.

And a new camera system rests in his back pocket.

———

“Ugh, I needed that.”

You sling a cold eucalyptus towel around your neck.

“And I need him.” The comment emanates from one of your girlfriends. Both of you rounding the corner out of the studio.

Suguru.

You don’t have to look out the glass windows to know exactly who she is referring to.

“I mean, seriously. How can you not climb him like a—“

“Stop it!!” Your protest made less believable because of your sheepish giggles.

“We’re just friends.” You mutter. Pulling your gym bag out of the front lockers.

Yeah, who are you trying to convince? Her? Or yourself?

Your eyes flicker to your platonic, gorgeous best friend. Raven mane in a glossy, high ponytail. Freely cascading down his back. Curly wisps framing his razor sharp angles.

He stands tall. So Muscular. Quietly masculine. Despite how dreamy his hair is.

“Omg! Your hair!! Whats your routine?” - every woman who meets him, ever.

“Genetics.”

Suguru responds the same way every time with a dimpled smile. The other party is always immediately caught in his web.

His eyes. They lure you in like quicksand. Onyx. Swarming with grey and violet specks. Stormy. Perpetually faraway.

He’s the perfect gentleman. But always a little bit above it all. Just out of reach.

It’s mesmerizing.

You can’t blame the women for trying any and everything for a tiny piece.

Suguru catches your gaze. Silky smile pulls across his lips. He beckons you with one swirl of the liquid gold in his hands.

“What are you doing here, pretty boy?”

“Happy to see you too.” He counters with a low chuckle.

You coax the sweet treat away from him. It’s precisely what you need.

Suguru always has his pulse on you. Somehow he knows where to be and when. Every time.

“Mmm” your eyes flutter shut. Savoring the sickly sweet, cold mush on your tongue.

“Exactly what you wanted?”

“Exactly. Have I told you I love you lately?”

“Not nearly enough.” His baritone hovers over you. Traveling down your spine at light speed.

Has he always sounded this sultry?

You lazily pull yourself out of the sugar-induced dopamine hit.

Suguru moves into you like a storm cloud. Accentuating the comical difference in stature. The world around you slowly dissipates.

Lost in the desert mirage of his gaze. Everything feels conscious.

Your shallow breathing. The thrum of blood surging through your vessels. Heart rattling against its bony cage.

Time stops.

Then it happens all at once.

Before you know what is happening, your best friend’s well built arm is around your waist. His large, veiny hand palming the nape of your neck.

His lips. His plump rosy lips are on yours. Sweet and warm. Pulling, pushing, melding with you into play dough.

He’s delicious.

More delectable than you knew possible.

“Mmmgh” You moan and Suguru takes the space to push his tongue into your mouth. He’s blinding. Expertly tickling the ridges and corners of your mouth. As if to show off just how skilled he is with his tongue.

“S-Suguru..”

He pulls away far before you’re ready. Shocking you out of your lusty daze. For a moment he just rests his moist lips on yours. Exchanging breaths between each other. As if only you two are the source of oxygen around you.

“Wha…what was..”

“There’s a guy burning a crater into your back.” He finally responds. Gruff. Strained. You’ve never seen him without a tight leash around his self-command.

“I didn’t want him thinking he has a chance.”

And just like that, the familiar tame control lines his velvet baritone.

Suguru places a chaste kiss on your cheek before starting to walk in the direction of your apartment. As if the world didn’t just tilt on its axis.

You’re able to maintain a fairly normal conversation with your best friend the entire walk back to your apartment. You both laugh and joke as if he didn’t just fuck your mouth with his tongue. And as if you didn’t feel drunk off of it.

You’re just friends.

…right?

You toss your keys somewhere to your left. In the periphery you see Suguru smile and shake his head. Well aware of your messy tendencies. He leans down to take your keys and place them on the door hook.

The devil on your shoulder is deafening.

Test it.

Test him.

Your hand moves before your mind.

Your fingers hook under your sports bra. Pulling it over your head in one smooth motion. Before your mounds bounce in full view, your arm cups them against your chest.

You turn to Suguru, now topless.

“Gonna hop in the shower for a little. Are you staying for dinner?” Willing your voice to be steady and light. A casual question amidst the mayhem in your mind.

And, as expected, Suguru is the perfect gentleman.

His olive tone is even. Hands slotting into his athletic pants. Faint smile tracing on his lips, dimple apparent in his left cheek.

His eyes don’t falter below your neckline. Not even for a moment.

“Not tonight, pretty. There’s a show I want to catch. Rain check?”

Of course, you’re just friends.

Best friends.

You flash him a genuine smile. Swallowing the nagging flecks of dissappointnent beginning to weave itself within you.

“Rain check!”

And maybe 10 or so minutes after soaking in your steamy shower. Trying to wash the remnants of his kiss out of your memory, you hear your door slamming shut.

You make a mental note to ask about what show he was referring to.

———

Whiskey glides hot and cold down Suguru’s throat.

Back flushed against his desk chair.

Patiently awaiting his 10:00 PM viewing.

His dick is a steel rod. Blushing and moist. Draped in a pair of your used panties. He swiped them on his way out of your apartment.

Suguru drags his palm lazily up and down his shaft. Soaking your lingerie in beads of pre cum. It’s like he’s feeling you rubbing your plush cunt up and down his rod.

Fog is settling opaque in his mind. While he pets the flame stirring between his legs.

You haven’t even come into frame yet. But Suguru admires the pristine view he has of your room. Porcelain duvet messily strewn about. Half open night stand. Magenta vibrator propped against the corner of your drawer.

How often do you touch yourself?

What do you think about?

How pretty do you sound? When you milk pleasure from your dewy core?

“Fuck,” Suguru hisses.

He brings the whiskey glass back to his parted lips. The thought of seeing you work yourself to a peak drove his hand up and down his cock too fast. If he’s not careful he’ll cum before he’s ready.

No.

Not tonight.

Tonight he wants to savor his relapse.

24 hours sober of you was unbearable. He deserves this indulgence.

Suguru tilts his chin up. Damp hair feathering his shoulders and back feels refreshingly cool against the lava circulating beneath his skin.

“You like teasing me don’t you?” He murmurs, slowly pumping his cock through his strained grip.

The way you pulled off your sports bra. Well before you reached your bathroom door. Pretty bedroom eyes raking his face. Testing him. You knew he would go home and feverishly fuck his fist for you. Didn’t you?

A siren’s melody pulls his hazy, dazed attention back to screen.

“There she is.”

Suguru leans closer to his screens. Giving himself kudos for choosing a camera system with audiovisual integration this time around.

You step in full view of his camera and his body stills. Completely statuesque. Mouth ajar. His cock drool dribbling down his stiff hand is the only source of movement in the room.

“Fuck…fucking hell.”

There you stood. Thong as richly colored as the wine in your glass. Accentuating the dramatic dip and swell of your pretty waist and hips. The wavy lines from your slender shoulders to your full tits are enough to make him seasick. Your nipples are so hard. Puffier than he imagined.

You are immaculate.

A divine being. Heaven’s incarnate.

And even if you weren’t. Even if you were the devil. He’d follow you to the depth of hell.

A thick surge of pre cum flicking back against his lower abs pulls him briefly out of his trance. Suguru didn’t realize how hard he was strangling his length. Which is violently jerking in haphazard directions.

Begging for its real owner.

Suguru drags in a deep breath. Reluctantly unraveling his needy hand away from his manhood. Another sip of icy brown liquor.

Savor this.

As if your souls are tied, you take a sip of red wine before settling in your bed. Back against your head board. Feet planted on your plush duvet. You let your knees fall to the side and Suguru nearly drools on himself.

A blooming rose.

Presenting your swollen, misty petals to him for worship. His eyes drop to your core. A thin line of fabric laid so perfectly between your folds.

Suguru has to remind himself that you aren’t in front of him.

And he can’t just dive into your dewy cunt. And nuzzle against your bud. And lap up the honey in between your folds.

You rest your head against the wall. Exposing the delicate lines of your neck. His left hand magnets back to his cock. His right hits the record function on the screen.

You are too special not to capture.

But, even if he couldn’t record you on this system, every moment right now is etched into his mind for an eternity.

Especially the way your dainty fingers travel down your chest, along your torso, beneath the hem of your panties and settle over your clit.

“That’s it, princess.” Suguru chants beneath his clipped breaths. Dragging your soaked underwear along his messy shaft.

He matches his pace to your tiny circles. Small, gorgeous pants tumble out of you.

Your other hand palms at your tits. Pinching and pulling at your pert nipples. Your hips buck at the sweet pleasure and pain.

“Good girl”

His arousal continues to collect at his base, trickling to his inner thighs. The sound of his hilt slamming into his hand fill the room.

“God. S..Suguru…”

His name thunders between his ears.

His name wrapped in that melodic, lusty falsetto of yours.

Suguru’s brain can barely register the way your tits bounce in rhythm with your hands. Pistoning your fingers in and out of your sweet cunt. Ascending to euphoria. He can barely register the way your lips are swollen and abused from your teeth. Or the light sheen of sweat along your collarbones.

“Fuck, Suguru please..” you moan. Both hands now working your flower.

Suguru is slack jawed. Completely short circuited. He cannot move.

Unblinking, he studies you. Hands at his side. Cock spearing high in the air, leaking.

His mind is flooded with the thin, featherlight moans and whines. Sticky arousal leaks from your needy opening around your fingers. Coating your inner thighs. How you twist and groan away from your own pleasure - so clearly overstimulated but not stopping your fingers, anyway.

“Say my name, pretty girl. Say my name.” Suguru rasps out. Sharp pain lightening through him from the dryness in his throat.

And you do. You moan his name when you reach nirvana. Heaving and whining and squirming in your mess. You called for him.

“God, I’m disgusting.”

You laugh through the remnants of your high and bury yourself under the duvet. Lazily tapping the bedside lamp. Bringing Suguru’s private viewing to an end.

And his smile is vulturous.

Suguru’s hand runs the length of his insatiable cock. Slow, lazy strokes. Haphazard twitches pushing out globs of cum. Begging for an encore.

You think you’re disgusting?

Ohhh, sweet girl.

You don’t know the half of it.

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brayneworms · 6 months ago

Note

can you do one where you edge aki hayakawa? PRETTY PLEEEAASSSEEE WITH ALL THE CHERRIES ONTOP

high & dry

featuring. aki hayakawa x gn!reader

content. MDNI, smut, edging, handjobs + the beginning of a blowjob lol, pet names (honey), gender neutral reader + agab not mentioned, sub!aki + dom!reader, established relationship, cursing, mild pet analogy (it’s me what do you expect)

word count. 1.7k

synopsis. aki has a lesson to learn.

notes. minors don’t interact. found this in my drafts from like january so anon if ur still out there i hope u enjoy smile. i take commissions :3

The thing about Aki is that he doesn't mean to misbehave.

The thing about you is that you've never considered yourself overly strict.

But somehow, somewhere in the muddle of this, this being you two and whatever was becoming of your relationship, both of these factors have been thrust into the spotlight and interrogated. The problem is that Aki is a fighting dog whose leash is fraying more with every day, who rushes into conflict with his heart first and his brain struggling to catch up. The problem is that you care for him, despite the awful inevitability of how badly it will end weighing on your mind.

Aki likes to flirt with death, and you like to keep him safe. These factors, as you might imagine, clash frequently.

So—you either become the screeching, shrewish partner, leaving every night a sour argument where you don't face each other where you sleep. Or you take your frustration out in more productive ways. Because, truly—you don't like to yell at Aki. It makes him grumpy and stonefaced but more than that, it makes him hurt. You can see the flickers of it in his dark blue eyes, some fragment of his childhood that never healed properly, like an old wound that bleeds anew whenever you prod it. Tender and painful as skinned knees.

But this, this works for both of you, you think.

His fingers curl up his work slacks, bunching starched polyester between bitten nails. He's looking anywhere but at you, knelt between his legs, cheeks shaded pink beneath the tumbling bangs of ink-dark hair. "You don't have to," he starts, like he always does, ever the gentleman. It makes him a little twitchy to be given pleasure like it's a gift. It's so sweet that it almost makes you feel bad.

You take him in your hand, half-hard and hot, and he hisses. You have a sneaking suspicion, something that's been blooming for a while now, that you may have been the first person to touch Aki like this. The first time you'd slept together he'd had to mumble the names of all the Devils he had contracts with under his breath to last more than a minute inside you.

There's a wound on his hip the colour of a bloody sunset, jagged like a mountain silhouette. It almost seems to mock you as you stroke him loosely, gathering the pearly beads of pre that bloom at his tip as he gets more and more turned on, more sensitive. His chest shakes ones when he inhales, his hands twisting the fabric of his pants uncomfortably. Your slow, patient pace makes him almost overwhelmed, feeling it wrack out from between his thighs in torturously hot, slow waves, makes his whole body shudder.

Once he's hard, you say, "Tell me about today."

Aki grunts, brows furrowing. His hips cant up, once, a silent plea. But your hand has slowed now, so he tenses his jaw and sighs.

"Found a Devil," he says through gritted teeth. "Some a-abandoned warehouse."

"It gave you this?" You use the hand that was wrapped around his cock to stroke over the nasty gash on his skin, and he makes a wonderful shivery noise—both, you think, at the loss of contact to his hardness and the ghost of sharp pain that echoes from your touch along his wound.

"Yeah," he sighs shakily. He looks down at you now, eyes soft, almost pleading. "Could you—"

"You weren't alone, were you, Aki?" you ask, blinking up at him. You think he's starting to get the game now; blood runs up to colour his cheeks darker and his eyes flit away as though in shame. "Didn't you call for backup?"

"Too far away," he says, gritty with irritation. He feels foolish, sitting on the edge of the bed with his dick out. Still hard, despite you not having touched it for about half a minute. "I had it handled."

"You should've waited," you tell him.

"You're killing my hardon," he tells you flatly. You roll your eyes and pick up where you left off; when your hand wraps around him he lets out a shaky sigh and tips his head back towards the ceiling. You'll never tire of how sensitive he is, responding to every touch like it's the first time; when your hand wraps back around him his thighs clench and spasm all over again, and he makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat.

You stroke him, more firmly now, with the occasional focus on his tip. It starts to leak over your hand, and Aki makes a quiet, embarrassed grunt at the sight of it. Privately, you don't mind too much—unlike most guys, Aki has the grace to be abashed by it, which is already enough to put him in your good books—but his humiliation is an added bonus you'd happily put up with some less-than-savoury things for.

You're mean, maybe, in the way a bunny thinks their owner is mean for locking them in a hutch each night. But, you know, the owner only does that for the bunny's own safety.

Sometimes, the owner really does know better.

Aki's thighs twitch; you amuse yourself watching the spasm of the muscles play across beneath the smooth, pale skin, thinking absently of how you'd like to get your mouth on that soft flesh inside. "Y/n," he warns, voice catching, breathy. "I—dammit, I'm gonna—"

You make a thoughtful noise, and then release your grip entirely. Aki gapes down at you, eyes snapping open. "What the hell?" he fumes.

"Say that you should have waited for backup," you tell him patiently. Your positions are some perverse subversion of power; he looms over you, strong legs bracketing your face. By all accounts, you're surrounded as you look up at him. But he's the one looking at you like you've shot him in the chest. His brows knit together in frustration.

"Are you fucking joking?" he gapes. "What is this? You—"

"Aki," you say, so softly that it must frighten him because he stops short, looking at you warily. "You know I care about you, so much, yeah?"

"I—" he looks thrown, impossibly lost. "I guess? Yeah."

"Good." You lean your head on his knee, watching how his throat bobs when he looks at you. His thighs twitch almost indecipherably at the contact, erection showing no sign of flagging. "And you know I want to protect you, and keep you safe? I want you to want that, too."

"I..." Aki's voice is taking on a hoarse tinge. "I know... that."

"Then why do you keep throwing yourself in such dangerous situations?" You unspool a nail up the inside of his leg, and he gasps slightly in anticipation. "What are you going to do next time?"

"I—" he cuts himself off, strangled. "I'm going to... call for backup."

Your finger trails to a halt. "You mean that?"

"Yeah," he says, a little frantically. "I will. I swear. Y/n, please—"

You lean forward, brushing your lips against him. Aki moans, eyes widening as his pupils expound until his eyes are less sodalite and more black-hole. You let your tongue flicker out and trace over the head, tasting him, putting your hands on his thighs so you can feel him strain to hold back. Ever the gentleman, Aki hates to lose control and buck into your mouth. It still happens sometimes, of course, because at his heart he's a needy inexperienced hunter and you revel in the punishment of pretty things. It's mean, you know, to goad him where he's a little helpless.

But the owner knows best. You know how to get him to remember his lesson.

You draw back, pressing a final kiss to the head of his cock like tying the ribbon on a giftbox. Aki blinks blearily at you, mouth slack, expression adorably confused as you wipe at your lips with a thumb.

"What—" he croaks.

"I want you to remember what you said, Aki," you tell him sternly. "I can't reward bad behaviour."

You think he's getting it. Box. Rat. Electric shock. Et cetera.

"Wait," he pleads, brows scrunching together in honest-to-god panic. "I'll remember, okay? I told you I would. I won't misbehave."

"And I want to believe you." Your hand draws soothing circles on his knee and it makes his bottom lip quiver slightly. "So... when you show me you're taking your safety seriously, then you'll get a reward."

Aki's mouth hangs open. "You're serious," he croaks with some shattering finality; he shuts his eyes against the blue-dark, whole body shuddering. "You're fucking... what if I just decide to jack off?"

"You can do that," you shrug. "But I think you know what'll happen if you do."

Aki makes a frustrated noise; he glances down at his erection, starting to flag only slightly. He wants you to touch him so badly; all he can think of is your fingers, your mouth, your hair in his fingers. Or, withholding that, he could at least slide his fingers around himself and get himself off, like he used to mostly infrequently before you.

But if he does that, how long will you hold out for? He knows, with a cold sort of dread, that you can hold out much, much longer than him. He's gotten a taste of it and now he can't be satisfied; it's the one area of his life where he totally lacks any semblance of self-control.

So with a devastated whimper, he reaches down and tucks himself gingerly back into his underwear. He's so turned on it almost stings as his briefs tug on his erection, and it's so much worse when he stiffly tugs up his slacks and buttons them again. For a moment after he just sits on the bed, breathing shakily until he's red in the face, trying not to squirm.

You stand up, brush a lock of his hair back, smiling as he leans pathetically into the touch. There's a lukewarm sweat beading on his brow. "I'm so proud of you, honey. I'm going to start dinner, okay? You stay in here and relax. You've had such a hard day."

Aki's eyes burn into your back as you turn and leave. It takes every modicum of mental fortitude he has not to throw himself on the ground and beg and sob for you to touch him. The thought of going without is almost painful.

He stares down at the faint bulge in his slacks, gripping his own thigh for support. Wonders about grinding the heel of his hand against it, just for some momentary relief.

Aki shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to misbehave. And he does not touch.

#🫀.scribes #chainsaw man x reader #aki hayakawa x reader #csm x reader #aki x reader #hayakawa aki x reader #hayakawa x reader #chainsaw man x gn!reader #gn!reader #chainsaw man smut #aki hayakawa smut #aki smut #hayakawa smut #hayakawa aki smut #dom!reader #sub!aki #sub!aki hayakawa

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catsteeth · 8 months ago

Text

The Caged Bird and The Leashed Dog

Sandor Clegane x reader

+:✿ Chapter - 4 ✿:+ Candle Flames

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, -, 5

Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it.

CW: SMUT, MINORS DNI, afab reader, thigh fucking, slow burn, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, alcohol consumption, mention of death, mention of arranged marriage, LOTS OF VIOLENCE, blood, implied threat of non-con,

Word Count: 4738

After you’d spoken to Loras, you’d felt even more alone than before. The talk offered no comfort other than the fact he didn’t want you dead. Sansa was fine company but she was something you felt the strong urge to protect. You put yourself in harm's way constantly just to prevent her from facing any pain.

Specifically one incident when you and her were walking with the Royal Party after watching the Princess sail away to Dorne to be wed off. It was hard to watch the crying girl sail away, especially when you’d been in her very place.

It was easy to keep your eyes averted to such a sight when The Hound was there to accompany Joffrey. You kept your head low but your eyes stayed on him. You’d still had so many questions about the night you both shared, but now was not the time to ask.

Later making your way back through the capital city you were sickened by the sights you saw. The Lannisters and Baretheons were supposed to be the wealthiest and most powerful houses. And yet the people of their cities sit in filth and starve. Starving over a war they did not want nor started.

You couldn’t bring yourself to be even the least bit angry when the crowd began to shout vile things. However you found yourself slightly confused once you heard the words ‘bastard’, ‘incest monster’, and ‘brother-fucker’ being sworn towards the royal party.

However your confusion only occupied your mind for a brief moment before someone within the crowd hurled cow manure at the King's face. You felt a brief sense of enjoyment when you saw it hit his face, but it was soon replaced by fear when the King ordered for the execution of the entire crowd,

“Find the man who did that and bring him to me! Kill them, Kill them all!” The King shouted.

Foolish it was, he’d only a few gold cloaks, some kingsguard, and even less knights. Outnumbered by the hundreds of rioting starving people.

Sandor grabbed hold of Joffrey protecting him.

“What are you doing? I want these people executed!” Joffrey whined loudly

“And they want the same for you!” He shouted back

The city watch was quickly overpowered. And the High Septon that you and the royal party was traveling with was pulled into the crowd. You were horrified to witness him being pulled limb from limb, never seen such a thing in your life.

“Move, Move!” Tyrion shouted at you

As the Kingsgaurd were able to eventually carve somewhat of a path towards the entrance of the Red Keep, Joffrey, Cersei, and Tyrion were all rushed inside quickly.

Before you could make your way inside you noticed your cousin Sansa being derailed and separated from the rest.

You grabbed ahold of her quickly and pushed her into a Kingsguard who brought her inside. However once she was in, without seeing you they closed the doors.

Alone.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆

Inside the keep

“You blind bloody fool!” Tyrion scolded Joffrey’s moronic behavior by hitting and cursing at him. “We’ve had vicious kings, we’ve had idiot kings, but I don’t know if we’ve ever had an idiot king!”

“You’re talking to a King!” Joffrey shouted back like an embarrassed child.

Tyrion raised his hand and slapped him “And now I’ve struck a King, did my hand fall from my wrist?” He shouted back, he turned around and noticed you were not there, “Where is the Arryn girl?” He shouted at the men.

“Let them have her!” Joffrey retorted

“If she dies her relatives in the North won't forget it! She’s cared for in the vale and might I remind you she shares blood with the Starks! You need her alive!” He shouted back before frantically calling upon all the king's men to return to save you.

“Gather your men and find her!” He shouted to Ser Meryn

“I only take orders from my king, imp.” Meryn responded coldy.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆

Meanwhile as you attempted to hide in a dark hall, winding up in some kind of stable. You thought for a moment you’d made it there unnoticed and alone. However four men soon walked in behind you as you backed yourself against a wall. Your hand found his way around the handle of a small sharp shovel of some kind. The blade of it was sharp and flat.

You’d not said a word, you knew if you shouted for them to get back or to fuck off it would be of no use.

“Look at this little bird's eyes, she’s furious.” One of the men with short hair was mocked.

“I’ve no gold, no silver, no bread.” You said in a low tone, firm voice.

“Aye, but you’ve got something.” The taller man said with a crooked grin.

As that man began to take a step towards you, you grasped the handle of the shovel firmly and stabbed it into him. Between his neck and his collarbone.

As the other men began to shuffle towards you, you pulled the shovel back out and pointed it at them as their friend fell to the ground holding his bleeding wound.

The man with short hair managed to grab ahold of you whilst his other friend grabbed ahold of your wrist, yanking the shovel out of your hand. The man with short hair placed his hand over your mouth, in response you bit down onto his fingers so hard you were afraid your teeth would shatter. You could taste the blood rush into your mouth.

In response to your bite, with his other hand he hit you creating a cut over your eyebrow. It threw you off just enough to make you fall back and into the other man's arms.

The three men began to pin you down shouting vulgar remarks, as they did you kicking at them and scratching at them. Just as the one with short hair began to undo his pants, he was stopped.

Picked up by the back of his neck like a puppy, practically lifted off of the ground. His guts were cut out of him. As his body fell to the ground you saw him, it wasn’t Sandor, it was The Hound. This is what everyone spoke of.

The men who held your wrists were next. He cut with precision. His swords swung and took off the man's head. The next he grabbed before he could escape. Slamming his fist into his head, and shoving his blade deep into his stomach. Once he was done he put away his sword. He turned back towards you, and it was him again, Sandor.

He bent his knee to you and spoke softly “You’re alright now, little bird, you're alright.” He said as he picked you up in both arms and carried you back to safety.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧

As the two of you entered the keep Tyrion was shocked.

Once Sandor placed you down gently, a few ladies including Sansa rushed to your side pawing at your bloody face.

“My Lady are you hurt?” Tyrion asked as he tried to assess whether the blood on your mouth and hands were yours or not.

“Little birds hurt, get her back to her cage. See that cut on her head.” Sandor commanded the women as he walked away,

as he did Tyrion shouted back to him. “Well done, Clegane.”

To which Sandor responded,

“I didn’t do it for you.”

Tyrion, confused by his words, went back to your side and asked again before your ladies could take you away. “My lady, are you hurt? There’s blood- your hands and-“ he said reaching his to touch your chin where the blood from your mouth dropped.

“I bit one.” You said plainly, exhaustion in your eyes, unwilling to attempt that you’d murdered a man.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚

As you laid in your bed that night, you looked at the one candle you had burning beside your bed. Contemplating whether or not to blow it out. Watching the flame kept your mind away from the memories you’d made today. You’d never seen such horrid things before, and much less partook in them. You’d killed a man. And yet, felt no remorse, which made you feel terrible, but maybe that alone counted for something. But soon even that left as your memories shifted to the feeling of being in Sandor's arms.

Before you could blow it out,

you began to hear the sounds of metal clanking up the hall. Sandor thought you’d never notice, but he often walked up and down your halls more than he was meant to. Simply to make sure you were alright.

Every time you heard the metal clanking pass you’d smile to yourself. Only this time it stopped, in front of your door. You sat up slightly on your elbows and peered towards the door. Without knocking, he came inside your chamber.

“What’re you doing here?” You asked in a whisper.

He didn’t respond, but made his way to that same golden pitcher in the corner of your room.

“It’s water, remember?” You said. He huffed and put it back down without taking a swig of it.

“What are you-” You began before he spoke in a low deep husky voice.

“You could’ve been killed.” He said without looking at you.

“But I wasn’t.” You said in a sweet whisper.

He began to walk towards your bed. “The fucking cunts would ‘ave taken you bloody every which way, that pretty throat would’ve been slit open. You’d been left for the fucking rats.”

You took his hand and pulled him onto the bed, his metal scrapping the delicate sheets as he sat on it.

“You saved me, you’re the bravest man I’ve ever seen.” You said with a strange kind of adornment, one he’d never heard before.

“Brave?” He dryly scoffed, “Dogs don't need courage to chase rats.”

“You’re no dog.” You say with that same sweet whisper, it’s as if you’d realized you’d began to fall deeper into whatever emotional trap you two had created here.

“You killed that man?” He asked in a low whisper.

“I did.”

“How’d that feel.”

“Necessary.”

He stared at you for a moment, not in judgment or disgust but in understanding and some other emotion you couldn’t quite understand just yet.

“You can’t do that again.”

“Kill?”

“No.” His eyebrows furrowed, he couldn’t give less of a shit who you killed or why, “You risked your life for that Stark girl.”

“You saw that?”

“She kept yapping about it.” His tone husky

“I needed her safe first.”

“Too bad.” He said not giving you any room to argue as his thumb ran over the cut on your eyebrow, you winced slightly. “I’d kill those cock sucking rats a million times again if I could. Died too quickly. I should have cut their arms off, their hands, taken their eyes for even looking at you.”

Your hand came to his jaw, pulling yourself to his lips but he pulled away. with a sigh he came close again. He rested his forehead on yours.

“I don’t know how to- do this- gently.” He let out a small rumble, “fuck” he hissed “i want to do this gently. I want to be gentle with you.”

He was like a dog given a bone that he so badly wanted to preserve.

His hand came to your lap, and fisted the fabric of your nightgown. You placed your hands on top of his, you smoothed out his hand to lay flat on your lap.

“Like this..” you whispered as you guided his hand up, making the fabric ride up. As your thighs became more and more visible he stopped and backed away,

“No, no this isn’t right.” He grumbled as he walked over towards a large chair in the corner of your room. His face was illuminated by that single candle light. You could see his frustration and desperation in a battle with one another.

You stood, and walked towards him. He slumped forwards. Resting his forearms against his strong thighs.

“I can’t be what you wan- what you need.” He corrected. His voice was low and deep.

You pushed him back by his shoulders, making him lean against the back of the chair. His deep scowl was ever present but it didn’t stop you from running your fingers through his coarse hair.

“I shouldn’t have come back here. Should’ve stayed the fuck away. Left you be,”

“I don’t think either of us have much a choice.” You said as you moved yourself between his large thighs. Standing in front of him still running your hands through his hair. “Do you think of that night?” You asked in a whisper.

“Fuck do you think-“ He barked back before you stopped him,

“Gentle.” You corrected him

“Aye.” He conceded painfully, his hands coming to your sides holding you by your waist. His large hands engulfed your ribs.

“What part of it do you think of?” You whispered sweetly as you began to move on top of him. Your thighs spread across his as you straddled him. His eyes never leave yours.

He grumbled something low, you couldn’t make it out, but it sounded like “Your eyes.”

You didn’t want to push him, to make him repeat it.

Your hand cupped his chin, as you slowly pressed your lips against his. You pecked at his lips for a moment. Then pulling away, looking into his eyes waiting for his response. His eyes filled with shame, he looked away.

You pressed a kiss into the scarred tissue on his cheek, he flinched at the feelings and his eyes darted back to you,

“My face, why did you-“ He rasped suddenly

“Don’t you want me?”

“Course’ I do but I-“ he cut himself off as his lips hit yours once again, he sucked on your lips as hardly audible groans escaped his throat.

You pressed your thinly clothed cunt against his hardening bulge. However as soon as he felt it he grabbed you by your hips and lifted you up. You whined, and his forehead slumped forward and rested on your chest. “Fuck-“ he said breathlessly, “Can’t do that shit to me.” he panted.

“Why?” you whined a little too loudly, his grip on you tightened.

“Told you, stubborn fucking girl.” He finally caught his breathe, “Ye poke at me too much and i’ll fuck you bloody.” His eyes leaving yours in what looked like guilt.

“That’s what I want-“

“Don’t matter.” He snipped back quickly, his eyes snapping back to yours. “Once you're wed that imp will stick his cock in ya’ and know you’re not his.” He said, his words harsh, sharp and cold

“I’m not.” you said, his eyes went a little wide, with what? adornment?

You slowly lowered your hips onto his once again. Waiting for his push back but were met with none. You let out a small gasp as the bulge separated your lips through the thin fabric that covered your cunt. Another moan left your lips once you felt the hardened mound poke at your entrance. You grinded against it, your cunt began to clench around nothing.

“At’s it” He groaned into your neck, “Grin’ yerself on my cock.” He grumbled low and deep.

His face contorted, his muscles tensed, and his groans became more and more primal. His grip on your hips began to sting a little how tightly he held you. Your cheeks began to heat up, and that knot in your stomach tightened.

He picked you up abruptly, kissing your neck.

“On your back, now.” He commanded as he placed you onto the fur rug on your bed chambers floor.

He untied his breeches that clearly had a wet spot on it, unclear if it was your doing or his. He was still fully covered in his armor, as he pulled out his cock. Harder than you’d seen it before.

You rode up your night gown to your hips and slipped out of the thin underclothes you’d had on.

He was on his knees before you, you on your back, legs bent and spread, ready and inviting.

He stared at you, admiring you.

He placed his heavy aching member between your folds. Rubbing up and down, his tip hitting your clit in the most perfect way.

He pressed your thighs together, and he let out a long drawn out groan.

“Fuck!” He hissed as he began to buck himself against your cunt. “So fuckin’ wet” He growled as his bucking continued in a more erratic pace.

You arched your back and squeezed your thighs together as his fat tip kept hitting your clit

“Don’t- Don’t stop.” You whimpered looking up at his hair falling into his face, his eyes trailing all over you, from your wet thighs to your breasts that bounced with every thrust to your pouting lips all the way back to your eyes.

“Not fuckin’ stopping.” He said through gritted teeth. “But,” He was stopped by a deep guttural moan, “Don’t look at me like that.” He said panting, “You’ll make me finish too quickly.” He said once more through gritted teeth.

You took it as a challenge, stubborn as you were. You gave him a smile, and a giggle.

“Fuckin' stubborn girl.” He said through gritted teeth, then picking you up and turning you around. Your back flesh with his armored chest.

He pressed your thighs together again, and pushed his cock back in between them, but slightly missing and catching your entrance. Even though he graced it only slightly you moaned so beautifully it almost made him cum right then. That's when you realized how truly lovely it would feel to have him inside of you.

“I want it inside” You moaned as one of your arms reached over and behind you to wrap around his broad shoulders. While your other hand held his large forearm that draped over your stomach holding you in place.

“Can’t do that to you.” He said breathlessly, as his other hand removed the straps of your gown. As it fell to your waist, he cupped your breasts, his large hand completely engulfing it.

You whined again. You didn’t care if you were ruined, you wanted to be. But you couldn’t force him.

His tongue and teeth danced along your neck, you begged in your mind that he’d bite down or suck on your skin but no, never. Never to burden you with evidence that this ever happened.

You felt that heat rise and the knot in your belly begin to snap. He could feel you clenching and it produced a vulgar moan from him,

“That’s alright, you can cum,” He grunted, as he said that you moved your head back and faced him. “MH-” He gave you a sloppy and passionate kiss to mute your moan as you came over his cock. As your high was ridden out, he continued to thrust, he separated the kiss and looked deeply into your now exhausted and satisfied eyes, “Sandor” You whispered, sweetly, “Sandor,”

He didn’t break your eye contact, his teeth gritted as he tried to hold back his moans as he began to spill out and over your thighs, “(Y/N)” He growled with a final deep and long thrust.

As you laid there, on the fur rug of your room catching your breath. He laid with you.

You peered over to him, “I meant what I said.” He peered over to you, raising one eyebrow. “I’m not his.” You said softly.

“Aye.” He looked away, “But for your sake he’d better think you are.” He said in a low husky voice.

You raised your hand to his scarred cheek, you began to run your fingers over it when he pulled away.

“I don’t mind it, really,” You whispered.

“Every one fucking minds it.” He hissed

“I don’t.” You said back defiantly

He huffed, and laid there in silence, he looked over at you, feelings somewhat bad he’d snapped at you. ‘Gentle’ he remembered.

“When I was a boy, my brother caught me with one of his toys. Thought I stole it. I didn’t, just playing with it. Pressed my head to the fire. All like Baelish told you.” He let out another sigh, “But the worst part was that it was my brother who did it. And my father who protected him. Told everyone my bedding caught fire.”

You moved closer to him and rested your head on his chest. You tried to listen to his heart beating through the armor, only making out a few muffled thumps. Your eyes heavy, closed soon enough.

When you woke in the middle of the night you were in your alone bed, your legs were cleaned and you were dressed.

And

Your candle was out.

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ ❆ ‧ ₊ ⊹˚

Every Morning since the riots you were awoken by a handmaiden, sometimes two. They’d dress you in red or gold. Braiding your hair, being sure to put lots of intricate, and no doubt expensive hair pins in it. You were beginning to feel more like the ornate decor that was scattered around kings landing than you felt like an actual woman anymore.

As you walked the halls your handmaidens were like guards, guards of a prisoner.

You passed a mirror as you walked and caught a glimpse of yourself, hardly recognizable. “As high as honour” what a joke you thought. Look at you now, looking more and more like a Lannister with each passing day. The red and gold you were forced to wear was a stark contrast from the blues and silvers you’d grown to love. But now you’d really had no home. You didn’t align yourself with the rest of your house anymore either. Lysa and Robin felt like intruders in your home, and they treated you the same. And now, Baelish was a true intruder in it. Being allowed in by your stepmother who’d no right to allow him entrance. Entrance to your home and now your titles. Rightfully yours.

To gain your titles the Lannister's were your only hope now, so for now you’d be Cersei’s doll and Tyrion's wife. For now, you’d play along.

But where did that leave Sandor?

You knew that first night he was angry, not at you. He was angry you were the one thing he couldn’t protect. You were his master's thing and couldn’t stop them from toying with you. He was angry you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, and just like everything he couldn’t have. He was angry he couldn’t tell you how much he wanted you.

And the second night, he was scared, and vulnerable.

You’d stopped eating since the riot. Normally, that would have gone unnoticed. However your now doting husband has made sure to keep eyes on you at all times. Your handmaidens are unwilling to engage in an argument with you knowing you aren’t the person to pick a fight with, told Tyrion.

As your ladies ceaselessly brought you trays of food whilst you attempted to lounge on your balcony while you read you simply waved your hand at each tray, now not even bothering with a “No, thank you.” As it didn’t seem to stop them.

Tyrion stepped onto the balcony, your eyes went towards him but snapped back onto your book as soon as you knew who was joining your handmaidens in disturbing your peace.

“Lord Tyrion.” You said in greeting, hardly exerting any energy into it. You would have felt badly about discarding your virtue once more for another man if he’d hadn’t made you feel even more like a prisoner.

“Lady (Y/N)” He said back, sitting across from you, “What are you reading?”

“Something of little consequence,” You said, closing the book and looking over your shoulder at the women who surrounded you “May we be left alone?” You asked, the women didn’t budge but looked to Tyrion who nodded at them, once at his command they left.

“They don’t listen to me.” You said with harsh eyes.

“I told them not to.” He said with a huff as he repositioned himself in his seat and putting on a half hearted smile.

“Did you tell them to dress me like this too?” You said tossing the closed book to the side table next to you.

“I asked them to help you fit in,” He said, leaning closer to you, his eyes filled with some kind of concern. “Joffrey has a tendency to single you out I wanted to see if I could correct that... Aesthetically.. Cersei had some dresses made for you and-”

“If you wish for me to continue to view you favorably, you are failing.” You said stoically, "Was I inadequate before?"

"No- no I-" He stopped himself, “I just want to do all I can to ensure your safety.” He conceded. You did appreciate it, but your need for freedom overweighed that appreciation heavily.

You sighed and looked away, off towards the near distant ocean of blue. You fidgeted with your new golden rings on your fingers. “And, you’re not eating.” He said in a lower tone,

“And, you’re spying on me?” You said now focusing back on him.

“Your ladies told me-”

“Your ladies.” You corrected.

“I am concerned. Ever since the riots you’ve not eaten a meal.” He huffed, “You need to eat. Name any food you want and I wish to have it made.”

“I don’t want to eat.” You responded bluntly.

“I am your husband to be, It is my duty-”

“Your duty? Your duty to imprison me in this place, in this engagement?” Your angry scowl dropped soon as you realized how cutting your words were. To him he was keeping you from further harm, and you knew that. You sighed and looked back to the sea, “It is hard for me to eat, it is hard for me to sleep.”

“Tell me how to help and I will.” He said almost pleading as he leaned forward and held his hands out palms up. "I’d do anything for my lady wife.” The words ‘lady wife’ made you want to vomit, especially after the previous night.

“I want to go home. I want to claim my titles.”

“You and I both.” He said with a dry chuckle. “I have wanted to claim my own birthrights long enough to know the feeling.”

“Were they stolen from under your grieving feet by Petyr Baelish?”

“No-”

“Mine were. And I am powerless to stop it, because I sit here in this castle in these red gowns and Lannister gold. I am presenting myself as indifferent to my own birthright being stolen from me.” You sighed, “I understand what you are trying to do. I do, I may be angry but I do understand. But you need to understand this, in doing what you feel is protecting me, whether it is or is not, you have taken whatever independence I had left.”

“I understand.” He said sitting back into his seat, “And I will do all I can to help you proclaim your titles. But, it would seem Stannis aims to attack this city.”

“Stannis Baretheon?” You asked in some confusion, no one ever told you anything.

“It seems we are not the only ones who wish to claim titles.” He said in an attempt to jest, “So we're not the men to fight for you yet, however we aim to win this war. Once it is, I will see to it that your titles are restored.”

You smiled, “Thank you, Tyrion.” Although not in the slightest comforted by the idea of war approaching your doorstep

✧ ‧˚₊ ❆

As you walked down the halls of the castle you were hit with a brick wall, Sandor.

“you’re not eating.” Sandor said in a hushed but deep and husky tone

“How’d you-” You began before he interrupted you.

“All those fucking handmaidens tell the royals.” He said in annoyance

“I eat when I'm hungry. haven’t been in a while.”

“you don’t eat, you’ll starve.” His voice was like he was warning you.

“unlikely. That takes time. Stannis aims to attack the city. I'm sure I'll be dead then.” You responded stoically.

“You won’t die.” He said as if it were fact,

“How can you be certain?” You retorted defiantly

“Cause I fucking said so.” He said stomping off, his cape flowing behind him.

NOTE: Hey all you cool cats and kittens I hope you like this one!!! The next two are going to be a wittle cwazy just a warning... ALSO yall I wrote the smut part during jury duty LMAO... anyways

Also the last few chapters have gotten so much love and I am so very grateful thank you!!! <3

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yanderefarm · 1 month ago

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Silvan reaction to getting pet by us while he’s on his leash vs other vampires

cw;; sfw pet play, blood

it's the difference between him sitting there proudly and getting adored and then him begging for your affection and affirmations while wagging his little tail.

everyone at the little party has their eyes on silvan, he's the prettiest show dog after all. he's on a table in the middle of the room, sitting on his knees while eyes adore him. you're not too far from him, his leash still in your hand while you're talking business with someone who can't stop darting their eyes over to silvan.

you give a little pull of his leash and your pretty pet crawls to the edge of the table looking at you both with big eyes.

"go ahead. you can touch him."

the man jumps a little bit, hesitant even with your permission. silvan just lowers his head and tries to nudge it against the name, whimpering. it's a cute act because he knows your game. the man finally runs his fingers through silvan's short fluffy hair.

"he's so beautiful isn't he..?"

"yes, sir. he's gorgeous."

silvan was putting on a show, humming while he rubbed his head against the man and acted all affectionate.

"if you want to touch him more maybe i could arrange something... for a price."

———

when you two get home from the party he's sore, his beautiful clothes are torn and bloody, and he can hardly stand properly. you're holding him up with ease but he's all flustered from being so close to you. his fingers trace shakey lines into your clothes.

"was good right? gonna get a reward?"

you just chuckle as you carry him to your lounge. as soon as you sit down he gets on his hands and knees at your feet. his head nuzzles against your legs and his big wet eyes look hazy when he looks up at you. you run a hand through his soft hair.

"i was good right???"

"mhm, you were good. come up here."

you pat the couch like you're calling a dog and you might as well be because he immediately climbs onto the couch. he curls up into a ball on your lap. your fingers keep running through his hair and he's practically purring. if you stop he whines and pouts until your fingers are in his hair again. he's so cozy against your lap he practically falls asleep.

#replies #yandere oc #sub yandere #yandere x male reader #top male reader #dom male reader #yandere ideas #male reader #yandere x reader #yandere pet

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grizzersmamma · 8 months ago

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Nikto Distribution System?

So, as @ghouljams has mentioned in their Ghost Distribution System, we can all agree that Simon is basically a stray cat in disguise. He sees his human and goes "ah yes, that one's mine," and will let you lure him into your house with a few treats and praises. Good luck getting rid of him after that.

König is that big, excitable dog who comes crashing into your life, most likely bowling you over in the process. He's knocking things over and jumping all over you, blasting straight through all of your boundaries. Don't bother shouting at him, it'll just made him more excited.

But Nikto? He's more like that dog at the pound slated for euthanasia. He's aggressive and untrusting and has learned that it's better to bite first than to wait for someone to show their true colours. Not many people are willing to take a chance on an animal like that, and those that do are treated with suspicion.

You need to sit patiently with him, let him approach you in his own good time and never push his boundaries. It takes a long time for him to start trusting you, but once he realises you're not like everyone else? You're not just going to dump him back at the shelter the moment he shows any problematic behaviour? You have the most loyal dog known to man.

He will guard you with his life. He would kill for you, tear into the hands of anyone that gets too close, and then show his bloodied teeth to you for praise. He wants to be a good boy, but keeping you safe is more important than that and he doesn't care how many times he has to get hurt to do so.

For you, he's just a cuddly pup, more than willing to curl up on the couch next to you for a nap. With everyone else? They can't even get past the front gate without being snarled at. For outsiders he's nothing but a danger, and you're really the only person who can keep him on a tight leash.

He resource guards you like no tomorrow, very possessive of you and scared someone will take you from him. He might seem like a big, scary monster, but even rabid dogs only bite because they're in pain.

#call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost riley #könig call of duty #nikto call of duty #nikto x reader #just doing some rambling #I have some thoughts

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yelenasdiary · 1 month ago

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Sppoookkyy season request! I hope this sparks you some inspo or a eureka moment either way I love the way you write!!

Uhm. So Wanda/Natasha/Yelena is secretly vampire and decided to blend in the crowd but hey no worries! They are like not so into human blood and only drinks when necessary (gravely injured). However, it turns out hunters are also out there and they have an encounter, ending in a bloody fight but they manage to barely escape. Reader was on her way home when R saw someone laying on a sidewalk and thought it was over the top holloween gimmick! R then decided to come closer and was startled when she was suddenly on her back, someone on top of her, taking hostage their neck... R ended up nursing the vampire but they wouldn't want to part with R and decided to claim her as theirs.

I hope this is understandable! Hekhek

-👾💜

Eternity

Pairing: Vampire! Natasha Romanoff x GN! Reader

Summary: On your way home, you stumble across somebody injured, begging for help.

Angst

Warnings: Mentions of blood, Brief mentions of R’s depression, | 1.6K

AC: Thank you for sending this! I hope you enjoy! x

October Special Masterlist 2024

A faint rustle and the crunch of leaves was all Natasha could hear as she hid in a tree above the hunters who had pierced her ice-cold skin. She watched as they checked in shrubs for any sign of her hiding, not once looking up at the tree line. Although tonight the red head was glad the moonlight was hidden by clouds.

One arm wrapped around the thick trunk of the tree to keep her from falling, her other handheld the opened wound on her abdomen, they got her good. It took everything in her will power not to sink her teeth into the hunters, if she did, it would only give more reason for the people of Westview to fear her kind.

“Craig, I think we lost it!” One of the hunters said in defeat.

“Nah, I got it good, real good” Craig who was wearing a trucker’s hat replied. “It’s gotta be hiding somewhere, come on! Let’s keep pushing” he added to Natasha’s relief. She watched as the two hunters walked further away from her. She waited until she could no longer hear their voices before she carefully made her way back to the ground.

With each step through the woods, the world blurred around her. The moon light guiding her to a quiet and lonely street as she greeted by the sights of streetlights. She felt the warmth of her blood slipping away, she cursed the hunter under her breath. The world blurred around her before her sight was black and her back hit the hard pavement of the sidewalk.

Wrapped in a coat that matched your dog’s little coat, you turned the corner with her on a leash. A late-night stroll for the two of you after a long, busy day at work. Your home street was quiet, lit up pumpkins sat on neighbors porches followed by their Halloween decorations, it wasn’t unusual to see some of them going all out for the holiday. As you walked closer towards Anges’s house, you noticed something on the sidewalk. At first you chuckled lightly, “yeah, good idea Aggie, scaring the little ones with a fake dead body” you said to yourself, shaking your head.

As you got close you noticed the figures chest ever so slightly rising and falling, sending your unbothered feeling into great concern. You darted towards the figure, seeing a woman living on the ground with blood covering her left hand.

“Oh my god! Are you okay? Hello? Can you hear me?” You asked in a panic as you fell to your knees beside the unknown woman. She groaned lightly, pushing your hand away from touching her, “its okay, I’m here to help” you added before the woman’s complete stillness shattered and before you could move her eyes shot open. Her right hand taking your neck hostage as she pinned you to the ground in an almost supernatural flash.

“Who are you?!” The woman demanded as fear filled your eyes. As you looked into her green eyes, you saw she was in more fear for her life than you were. “I’m Y/n, I.. I live three houses down; I can help you! Just please, don’t hurt me” you replied. Your poor dog barking over the top of your voice while her leash was still tangled around your wrist.

With her body growing weaker and the pain becoming unbearable, you felt her grip on your neck begin to loosen. “I won’t hurt you” she rasped, finally letting go of your neck and moving off your waist.

“You’re hurt, what happened?” You asked in curiosity while the woman tried her best to return to her feet, your dog still barking at the scene only adding to the red heads stress. “Yuki! Enough” you scolded.

“Thank you” the woman with green eyes said as you got back on your feet.

“You’re bleeding, please let me call somebody” you looked up at her, but she shook her head, “you said you live three houses down; do you have a first aid kit?” She asked.

“Follow me” you instructed.

You help the stranger to your house, allowing her to lay on your sofa while you fetch the first aid kit, a washcloth and a bow of warm water. Yuki now free from her leash sat on the floor besides the sofa, keeping close to the stranger she was unsure of.

“This looks pretty bad, what happened?” You asked as you began to gently clean the wound from the blood surrounding it.

“I just fell in the woods and a stick pierced me” she replied, not for a second did you believe her. “Well, it looks like you’ll need stitches” you said as you took a closer look at the wound.

“I can’t go to the hospital” she informed you, wincing at the pain when you gently wiped a little blood too close to the opened wound. You would never do this for any stranger but something about the woman lying on your sofa told you that if you bandaged her up and sent her on her way, she might be in more danger.

“You’re lucky I know how to stitch” you said as you ripped open a sterile gauze and applied some antiseptic to her wound. “Thank you” she complimented.

“You’re welcome….” You paused, hinting for her to tell you her name.

“Natasha”

“Natasha, it suits you” you smiled softly as you pressed the gauze against her wound. Natasha winced again, but she didn’t pull away.

----

The following days turned into a blur you nursed Natasha back to health. Making sure her wound wasn’t getting infected, you made her food which she would only pick at, you made sure she was warm and comfortable, but she was never warm. Small details about Natasha got you thinking late at night when you were in your own bed, wondering how she even got injured in the first place.

You weren’t one to believe in witches’ tales but with recent town talk of two hunters claiming they encountered a real vampire only added to your suspicions. She was ice cold, her eyes piercing green, picking at her food, barely drinking anything you would provide her, but it was crazy to think you were nursing a vampire back to health.

Although you had your concerns, you found yourself enjoying the small talk with her. She told her about her life, and you told her about yours. She saw the sadness in your eyes when you told her about your struggles with living alone and not knowing what more to life there was besides going to work, coming home and only having a small social life. No time for vacation, not enough money flow to build the dream house you have always dreamt about since a young child, you wish for a bigger life.

As Natasha started to recover, you were hit with the thought of her leaving and how your house would soon become quiet once more, her green eyes never to be seen again, her laugh never to be heard. You thought you were crazy for feeling this form of attachment to the woman who still was somewhat a stranger in your home.

“Can I ask you something that maybe very invasive?” You asked. Natasha chuckled lightly, “depends on how invasive your question is” she replied.

“Do you have somewhere to go? I mean, when you’re well…. do you have to go?” You asked, your eyes dropping to the glass of water on the coffee table in front of you.

Natasha took a deep breath in, “you don’t want me around, trust me” she said. You looked up at her once more, “what if I do?” You replied. Nat shook her head, “I don’t think it would be wise for me to stay”

“Why? Because you’re a vampire?” You asked, the words rushing out of your mouth without a second thought. Natasha’s eyes widened, “how d-did you know?” She questioned.

“You didn’t fall in the woods and get a stab wound like that from a stick, besides, I heard from talk in the town the other day. Some hunters boosting about encountering a vampire…at first I didn’t believe but you barely eat the food I make, you’re never warm and I’ve never seen anybody with eyes like yours” you explained.

“You’re not scared?” Natasha wondered.

“I think if you were to kill me…you would’ve already done that”

Natasha smiled softly, “I wish I met you in pass life, not everybody is so calm and collected as you”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, “I am not collected, look at my life…I’m like robot”

Natasha sat up slowly before she looked over at you once more, “I can give you eternity” she said softly.

“W-what?”

“It’ll come at a cost but if you’re serious about what you’re thinking about, I can give you eternity. I can take you away from all this, you can do anything you wish, you’ll never have to feel like robot again”

Her words took you by surprise, you looked over at Yuki who was peacefully sleeping in her bed on the floor. You were so tired of this stereotypical lifestyle, your parents no longer around, the friends you’ve made in Westview would surely miss you, but would it be so bad to finally break free and life a different life? Is it selfish to place your life into the hands of a woman you only met a couple of weeks ago?

“This crazy but I really, really don’t want you to leave” you said, breaking the silence.

“And I don’t want to go” Natasha said softly, gently taking your hand in hers. You ignored the coldness of her touch, feeling nothing but warmth just being around her. “I’ve claimed many things in my life, but this…if you choose to do this, know that I will protect you with everything I have” she adds.

“Then I am yours” you said, feeling the unknown future rush through you. Natasha smiled softly, “this will only hurt for a moment” she whispered before gently pulling you closer.

If you want to be on the taglist for my work, please click HERE.

#yelenasdiary asks #👾 anon #fanfiction #marvel #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #vampire! natasha #darktober

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happyprincesscycle · 4 months ago

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Grump and Pupp

Pairings: Grumpy!Billy Butcher x Sunshine!Reader

Summary: Billy Butcher and the reader with the Shrek and Donkey dynamic. Basically Butcher is a grumpy old man and you are like a cute puppy yapping and following him everywhere and no matter how much he tries to get you off of his ass you just can't seem to get a hint.

(Recently rewatched Shrek and he reminded me of Butcher lol. I thought a dynamic like that would be so funny with him so I gave butch a sweet yapping friend who he cannot get rid of)

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Billy Butcher was no stranger to solitude. In fact, he preferred it that way—peace and quiet, no one to answer to, no one to bother him. But that all went out the window the day you stumbled into his life, a young, bright-eyed, relentlessly cheerful force of nature that had somehow decided he was your new best friend.

He didn’t know how it happened. One moment he was alone, enjoying a quiet pint at his favorite dingy pub, and the next, there you were, plopping down beside him like you belonged there, chatting away like you’d known him for years.

“You look like someone who could use a friend,” you’d said with a grin, as if that explained everything.Butcher had glared at you, silently willing you to leave. But you didn’t take the hint—in fact, you didn’t seem to notice the hint at all.

And from that moment on, it was like you’d attached yourself to him with some sort of invisible leash, following him everywhere, talking his ear off, and generally driving him up the wall.

“Oi, Butcher! You ever think about getting a pet?” you asked one day as the two of you wandered through the city, your voice as bubbly as ever. “I bet you’d be great with a dog! Or maybe a cat—they’re more independent, like you. But then again, cats can be kinda grumpy, and you’re already grumpy enough…”

Butcher stopped in his tracks, spinning around to face you. “Will you just shut it for five bloody minutes?”You blinked at him, your smile never wavering.

“Sure! But can I just say one more thing?”

He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re gonna say it anyway, aren’t you?” “Yep!” you chirped. “I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be fun if we had a secret handshake? Like, something really complicated with lots of fist bumps and twirls—oh, and maybe a little dance at the end! It’d be our thing, you know?”

Butcher stared at you, wondering how in the hell you’d managed to survive this long. “A secret handshake? You’re serious?”

“As serious as a heart attack!” you replied, nodding eagerly. “Come on, let’s come up with one right now!”

Butcher rubbed his face, feeling the last of his patience slipping away. “Listen, I ain’t got time for handshakes or dances or any of this bollocks. I’ve got a job to do, and you’re just in the way.”

You frowned for the first time, looking genuinely confused. “In the way? But I’m helping, aren’t I? I mean, who else is gonna keep you company while you do… whatever it is you do?”

Butcher opened his mouth to retort, but the words died on his tongue. You were right—well, sort of. He didn’t need company, but for some reason, you’d stuck around longer than anyone else ever had. And despite himself, he couldn’t completely hate it. Not that he’d ever admit that, of course.

“Look,” he said, trying to sound as stern as possible. “I’m a dangerous bloke, alright? People who get close to me end up gettin’ hurt. You’d do well to bugger off while you still can.”

You just grinned at him, completely unfazed. “Dangerous, shmangerous! I’m not going anywhere, Best friends stick together, Butcher!”

Butcher let out a long, suffering sigh. “Christ, you’re like a bloody tick…”

But despite his grumbling, he found himself continuing down the street, with you happily tagging along beside him, yapping away about something or other.

And as much as he tried to tune you out, he couldn’t help but catch bits and pieces of your chatter.

“—and then we could get matching jackets! Maybe something with skulls on the back, or flaming swords! Oh, and we definitely need a cool team name. How about ‘Butcher’s Team’? Or maybe ‘The Butcher Bunch’? No, wait! I’ve got it—‘The Grump and The Pup’!”

Butcher shook his head, half-amused despite himself. “You’re a right pain in the arse, you know that?”

“Yep!” you replied cheerfully. “But you love me anyway.”He scoffed, but there was no heat behind it.

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, sunshine.”

#billy butcher x reader #billy butcher brainrot go brr #billy butcher #the boys #grumpy old man #I love grumpy Butcher #Hes just a grumpy old man who just needs some love ❤️#Maybe some pussy too #What who the fk said that??

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engie-ivy · 7 months ago

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(Fic I didn't know I wanted to write! So thank you for the inspiration, @wolfstarmicrofic!)

28th: Dogwalker AU

673 words

Some good old mutual pining between a dogwalker and his client!

Date My Hooman?

“Has he been a good boy?” Sirius is sitting on his knees, scratching Padfoot’s ears (and making quite the sight while doing so).

Remus crosses his arms over his chest. “Now you're just fishing for compliments. You know damn well Padfoot’s always a good boy.”

Sirius grins up at him. “Guilty as charged.” He looks back at Padfoot who's thoroughly enjoying his ear scratches. “I know my dog is great, but I love hearing other people tell me that my dog is great also.”

“Right you are,” Remus chuckles. “How was your day at the office?”

“Dreadfully dull,” Sirius replies instantly. “Really, Remus, you made some good career choices that you now get to play with dogs all day.”

“Well, I don't get to live in a house like that.” Remus nods towards Sirius’ three-story mansion with the sprawling garden around it.

Sirius winks at him as he gets up to his feet. “Maybe if you play your cards right.”

Remus can feel his cheeks heating up.

Before, he was just amused by Sirius’ flirtatious banter, and he actually gave it as good as he got. But now, he suddenly feels flustered, at a loss for words, and wholly out of his depth whenever Sirius makes a comment like that.

After long conversations, with Sirius being the last stop on Remus’ afternoon route, and being subjected to Sirius’ sharp mind and disarming sense of humour, things have changed for Remus.

He used to think that the best part of his day would always be seeing the excitement on a dog’s face when he reaches out to unclip their leash to let them run around the park and play with their friends, but now, it's like nothing compares to seeing the excitement on Sirius’ face at the end of the day as he crouches down to greet his beloved dog after long hours the office. Remus’ days have started to revolve around the moments he brings Padfoot home, and it's becoming A Problem.

“And that's not even taking into account cold, rain, new regulations, demanding clients,” Remus continues, as if he didn't hear Sirius’ last comment.

Then Remus’ own dog, Moony, dashes forward and starts licking a tail-wagging Padfoot’s face, like he knows he has to say goodbye to his friend for now, and Remus’ heart just melts. “Oh, who am I kidding? It's bloody amazing.”

When the dogs have said their goodbyes, it's time for their owners to do so as well.

“See you tomorrow?” Sirius asks.

“Of course.”

“Great.” Sirius beams at him. “Looking forward to it.”

Remus’ heart skips a beat at those words. Yes, definitely A Problem.

Sirius has given Remus the key to the annex besides the main house, so he can pick up Padfoot, take him for a long walk, and then, by the time they return, Sirius will be back from the office and usually already waiting on them.

Sirius has actually turned the annex into a space especially for Padfoot, with water and food, several dog beds, toys, and a dog door, so he can go in and out to the yard whenever he wants. Sirius has even hung framed pictures on the walls of him and Padfoot together. A fuzzy feeling spreads across Remus’ chest upon seeing those pictures. A Problem indeed.

Padfoot immediately comes running, happily wagging his tail, brimming with excitement to go on his walk.

“Calm down, Pads,” Remus laughs, as the dog keeps circling his legs and jumping up and down. “Come on, I need to attach your leash, otherwise we can't go. Hey, what you've got there, buddy?” He spots a piece of paper neatly tucked underneath Padfoot’s collar and he plucks it out. As he unfolds it, he realizes it's a note.

And as he reads, a huge smile starts to spread across Remus’ face.

Dear Remus,

You might have noticed that my hooman has quite a crush on you.

Will you please save me from his desperate pining, and let my hooman take you out on a date?

#give it a few months and remus will be living in that house #dogwalker #dogwalker remus lupin #pining remus lupin #pining sirius black #wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar fic #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #sirius black #remus lupin #remus x sirius

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1864reruns · 5 months ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤthree–legged deerㅤ౨ৎㅤ4.3k

educate yourself. 🍉

synopsis. trafalgar law is uselessly sympathetic to a vampire without a sire— he suffers as he learns that a monster without a mother is an animal without a leash. injured or not, it has its fill.

tag(s)&warning(s). afab! reader, nsfw 🤗, modern au, fledging vampire! reader, surgeon! law, reader nd law are both crazy switches, violence, blood drinking, biting, vampire/human relationship, don't ask ab the dynamic cause i have no answers for you, dub–con, non-linear narrative, law is a freak (for lack of better term) and likes being in control; he obviously is not in control...., blood, gore, cumming in pants (law you freak !!!!), cannibalism mention, pwp

from vyon. i've been listening to sir chloe's "i am the dog" album too much recently... i'm not sorry, i love law and i love freaks and i love the devotion that comes with devouring. UNHINGES MY JAW AND EATS TRAFALGAR LAW WHOLE. sorry, this was supposed to be quick and easy but i started ovulating sooo... might be cross–posted onto ao3 if i'm feeling up to it :3 honestly had to stop myself at 4k words cause realistically, i could have gone on and on and on and never ended up releasing this as it'd just end up as a neverending wip

don't repost / copy / translate.

“Even if you ask nicely, I have nothing for you.” There’s a mean lilt to Law's voice that makes you twitch, curling closer to your knees as you pressed down harder on the open wound to the side of your abdomen. It doesn’t take an idiot to know that he's enjoying the view— getting to see you crumpled over and laying at his feet, a hand on your side, the other clutching his pants, your head on his knee. Law’s eyes flicker from your hunched form, whimpering, to his fridge. His hand falls on the bicep closest to him and he pulls you up, “I’ll fix you up now and, in the morning, I’ll get you blood.” There's a dragged path of dirt from his door to where you're sat; handprints of grass and blood marked into his previously clean floor. He'll force you into the bathtub after this.

It’s bad practice, keeping an undomesticated vampire by you but Law can’t help the itch that crawls up his spine when he finds you laying by his feet; the satisfaction that unfurls inside him and brushes up against some depraved part of him that’s gone undetected for so long— it’s much too good to pass up on. Plus, you’ve always been the docile kind— the absolute horror that marked your features when Law had caught you on the floor of some old car, hunched over an open abdomen, hands deep into the heart comes to him at night sometimes. The widening of eyes, lips parting to threaten a scream like you’d caught him eating a man. The memory pushes him to amusement, his head rolling to the side as his hands fall onto your waist.

You let out a pained groan as Law forces you into your feet, he soothes you off your weight with his hand on the side of your waist that isn’t bloody and drags you to the island in his kitchen. Setting you down, he steps back to trace eyes over you— he clicks his tongue when he finds out, you don’t look as nice when you're at his eye–level.

There's a vile weight to your wound when Law moves away from you. You don’t feel him anymore as his footsteps round the island, then you hear some cabinets opening and then closing; when he rounds back to you, he’s fixing gloves onto his hands. Your eyes flicker through your lashes, a sharp snap resounds as he lets go of the rubber and it bounces back onto his wrist. Your breathing stutters, a burn behind unblinking eyes; you trace the curves of the veins that colour against tanned skin and everything else blurs. There’s suddenly a rhythmic beating in your head that drowns out Law’s voice and brings an itch to your gums, your side burns when your fingers tightened down around the wound— blood splitting through the cracks of your fingers and ruptured flesh, blood dripping down onto Law’s kitchen island, blood staining your hands, blood, blood, Law, blood. Your heart beats in twos. Blood. Law. Blood. Law. Fucking Law full of— you hiss in pain.

His features are impressively unmoved as he moves your hand away from your side and uses his other hand to push back at your shoulder, so you’re no longer curled into yourself. He peels away the shirt clinging to your skin and his expression scrunches around a mid–point of his face when he sees it. “Stay still, don’t be stupid and move.” He's awkwardly bent down to study the details of the wound and ponders on things like how it'd need to be treated; there’s no reason for him to be so close, his breath near heavy on your flesh. There’s a vague sickness haunting your gums, an itch deep-set in the holes beneath every tooth, a dryness to the saliva on your tongue as Law’s head tilts and you’re suddenly given a view of his neck.

There’s a quietness to you that’s stifling as Law pokes around your wound to assess nerve damage, he makes an attempt to nod his head up for a moment but is ultimately stopped by your face suddenly burrowing under his ear, your paced breathing suddenly brings his heart to life when it’s on his skin. “What are you doing?” His voice is oddly strained as a low hum sounds in your throat.

“Dizzy,” you mumbled lamely, and he sighs, almost relieved for a reason he doesn’t know. Right— of course this amount of blood loss has you weakened.

You push your head further in, close enough that he can feel your eyelashes dragging slow with each blink across his collarbone, your nose brushes away the collar of his shirt, and dried lips scratch his skin as your head moves up, so your mouth is sat at the base of his neck, your head under his jaw.

Law’s face scrunched up, a taste of annoyance at his mouth, “straighten up, I can’t see what I’m working with here.” And when you don’t move in accordance with his words, he's jerking back, anger flaunts his face, and he shoves at your shoulder to straighten up your back. An unperturbed gaze stares back at him, a pitfall trap awaits him when he meets the lens of your eyes, a deep cavity coloured in an eerie pink— near bleeding into red that almost makes Law dizzy, something sweet sits at the tip of his tongue as the face of a sheep cracks wide open. Its mouth rips open clean, skin splitting across the end of its mouth straight to its ears, as if it was made to unhinge that way, like there’s a threading you could pull out to allow its disconnected head to flop back onto its back like a puppet made for play. The forehead of the sheep knocks against the top of its shoulders; a wolf stares back at Law, and it mimics a mangled cry, sounding like a bleating of a sheep.

“Law, please.”

His bones lock into place and he feels a rupture of panic drown him, his senses dulled with a sweet nectar that'd urged him to you; you’re still sat where Law had placed you, too afraid to move in case you crossed too many boundaries, your eyes begging and pleading like you were still stood outside the threshold of his apartment, waiting for his permission to enter. There’s something in him that tells him to get away, run, anything to put some space in between you two and he finds the voice distastefully familiar—it brings about memories of pink feathers and his face scrunches up first in fear and then in amusement. Because it’s you, the weak-willed, spineless vampire that’s grown overly dependent on a human to supply bagged blood for it instead of hunting for its own lunch, and he was comparing that to an existence that knew nothing but cruelty and hatred. It takes one word, a twitch of his eyebrow, the pull of a frown to get you to retreat— he knows that well. But there’s a compulsion in him that wants to see where this takes him— an intrigue that’s always had its morbid way with him, stroked by your sudden insistence.

It's by choice that he allows you to push this further, duck your head neatly into your chin and gloat your pretty eyes up at him through flickering lashes, Law lets you intrude into his sense of personal space— there’s nothing stopping him from stepping back, forcing you away from him once more, telling you to wait, you’ve given him the power to do these things to you after all, but he doesn’t. His breath is a sharp exhale; Law’s body tenses and his face contorts— into an expression you’re sure you’ve seen before. You suddenly find it odd that you’re looking down at him; you expect a scream as your teeth drags deeper than the comical two holes you’ve seen in movies. Your incisors drag through flesh like bulldozers as you bite down, his skin rips and tears under the collar of his white button; you can still smell the lemon air freshener hung around the rear-view mirror, tangy as it hangs on the iron of his blood— it makes your nose itch and the blood taste weird on your tongue. You hear his mumblings about daughters and a wife, and you have to wonder which one of them you caught him at the hotel at; either way, it would be bad you think. If his wife was that young, if he was taking his daughters to hotels.

Law’s hand tightened on your shoulder, the memories of the night in the car park escape you again but they linger on your tongue; Law’s face, when you look at him, is all pinched together, a burdening mess and his hold turns harsh, for a second you think there’s a violence that’ll meet you tightened in his fist but he merely shoves you back onto the counter. It’s cold but it’s not uncomfortable. Hovering over you, Law is close enough for you to hear his fascinating heartbeat— this too is familiar, but you recognise it a little earlier into that night, when your eyes caught that man’s and you saw him stumbling into the hotel with the girl under his arm. A constant, steady hum. So, you push. Eyes stubbornly on Law’s face, his pinched eyebrows and his bottom lip hooked under his teeth, you watch as, fraction by fraction, his face relaxes when you finally lay your lips on him. It’s salt and it’s sweat and it’s warm; it burns the hunger in you alive when you stop kissing his neck, parting your lips over his skin to nip at his flesh.

It's all you do until he’s purposefully pressing his hip down on your thigh, pushing your lips against his neck in wet kisses until he’s delirious enough to chase after his own pleasure. You feel his hand drag up your thigh, pulling along the flesh until it stretches no longer and has to give up to tighten his palm against a new expanse of skin. Law, when you turn your head to look at him, has a hunger so vivid in his eyes that you think you’re looking into a mirror. You didn’t know you were laughing until Law has a hand around your cheeks, pulling your face away from his neck, “what’re you laughing at?”

The glare in his eyes doesn’t do much to stop you from laughing, only spurns on a more unforgiving pitch of laughter as you bend your knee, “this.” Law winces, his body doubling over yours on his kitchen island when you push against the obvious bulge behind his tight jeans. His head falls onto your shoulder and your lips are back to his neck, teasing with your canines; there’s no rush to your actions, like you know that it’s in the flesh to want to be torn, like it’s in man to be devoured.

You hear him curse, pretty, under his breath and his skin burns hot— it reminds you of the blood swimming around under his flesh as he goes back to kneading the plush of your thighs. He drags higher and higher until his hand disappears under the stained ruffles of your skirt and you feel the warmth of his palm over your underwear; for a second, as his thumb presses experimentally around in a certain perimeter until he gets that little gasp from you, you think that this is fine. You think you’d be okay with being underneath Law for a little while longer, just until he works you through that specific high you know he’d be mean about but when you shift your hips upwards to meet his touch, you feel a burn shoot through your side. Wincing, you remember that you’re still bleeding out and your tongue feels obtrusive in your mouth. With the reminder of your injury, you falter momentarily.

You might regret this, but your hand reaches out for Law’s wrist, tightening around his skin and urging for a stop; he looks to you in obvious question. “W–wait,” you huffed, a layer of sweat shining on your forehead. In hindsight, it was a horrible idea to grab Law’s wrist. You feel his unsteady pulse right in your palm, his neck is right there, and there’s some kind of buzzing that leaves your head heavy and awkward.

Law notices something wrong when your hand tightens impossibly hard around his wrist, when your breathing turns heavy and staggered. In his line of work, he’s never been a stranger to vampire victims. Unlike in the movies, there’s nothing romantic nor clean about being bitten by a vampire in reality; real vampires don’t just drink, they eat. Panic rapidly blossoms in his chest, branching out to his nerves and urging all his muscles with a simple task: move. If it were that simple, he’d never had been faced with so many corpses, all mangled and maimed. Law swears he sees your jaw unhinge around his neck, a whimpering ‘sorry’ break through your mouth before your jaw clamps down on his neck. He’s dead, Law thinks, you’ll bite right through all the meat and tear off the flesh from his body and then eat the rest of him as he’s bleeding out and his heart beats louder than its ever done before as he’s imagining his death.

That doesn’t happen.

He feels your cheeks bulge against his jaw twice as you draw the blood away from his body, gulping down hungrily; his body weakens against your ravenous embrace but, as the dots blur into his vision and his eyelids weigh down, you pulled yourself away from his neck. Your tongue presses flat against the comical wound (two clean dots, just like in the movies), and he feels the muscle trail a line of saliva from his neck, across his jaw, and then around the shell of his ear. He doesn’t know what he expects but you press a kiss against his ear awkwardly and then, “you’re still hard, pervert.” When you work up your knee once more, he finds that you’re right. You trail your hands over his arms and hook your finger over the end of his gloves, snapping them off his fingers.

Shame burns through him as embarrassment forces his cold cheeks to warm, but Law’s body is in no position to listen to him right now. Though he has to wonder, if he wasn’t so terribly weakened right now, would he even have it in him to pull himself away from this? You keep pressing your lips against his neck as if you’re trying to wear away the skin, alternating between simple pecks and sucks; lips part and he feels your tongue warm and he braces himself for a prick that never comes. With how reckless you are now, with your arms tightened around his back, the constant movement of your knee against his only growing erection, it's not a reach to assume that Law's blood has healed you up enough.

His hands tightened on your shoulders; aggrieved groans mixed with whimpers spill out of his throat at an alarming rate as you begin to get more precise with your knee. Your hands slowly trail down his back until they reach the waistband of his pants, then they tuck upwards under his shirt and you're pressing down on near the bottom of his back to keep him pressed against your grinding. Law doesn’t think it can get any worse, and it doesn't. But you do press your lips against his, wide and devouring, and your damned tongue is pushing and pushing. It doesn’t get worse. Only Law ends up opening his mouth to let you curl your tongue upwards, flicking up against the roof of his mouth, he can taste his own blood on his tongue, iron heavy between his teeth, and then he’s chasing after the taste.

His hands fist onto the collar of your shirt and pulls you up closer to him. Despite himself, he flinches at the taste of his own blood— smooth — on his traitorous tongue; a taste branded against the depths of his mind like the heavy cloud that clings to the horizon, it's bitter and metallic. A ringing in his head accompanies the soft ‘mmf' that betrays him and gets swallowed up greedily by you some more as you worm your tongue into his mouth, Law shakes and trembles in your grasp; it’s strange, you're raw and starved and governed by an altogether different hunger. He chases after you when you pull back, that makes you stifle a laugh too; his face is furious, his eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed like a stroke of thunder, his jaw clenched and tense, hands still tight on your collar. You think he's about to burst, all the creepy, weird things he's wanted that were stuffed down, bottled in his throat; he's going to shatter and take you with him. Your thigh burns from the constant movement under him, hands still weighing him down but then you stop and he's left hanging. He's desperate enough to press himself down without needing prompting, his hands fall onto your hips and he straightens up a little, enough to get a better grasp and to stabilise himself as he tugs your body down the island.

You watched Law, almost in amazement. He fixes his position against your thigh and seriously starts rutting himself against your thigh; you can only watch, a breath stuttering in your throat at how sloppy his movement is and at the fact that he needed no prompting. Men are the dupes of their desires; you’ve seen that quote somewhere before— you didn’t know that you'd one day find Law to be a part of those men. His hair hangs awkwardly over his face as his lips part, and his eyes flutter shut, a shudder works up his spine as his hands tightened on your hips. It's not embarrassment that makes his skin crawl. No, what's eating away at him is the realisation that he's little care for what he looks like and if you end up thinking less of him after this. Vaguely, he feels his fingers press under the hem of your shirt and tightened down on cold flesh as he comes to the dreadful realisation that he's enjoying this. He's harder than he's ever been in his life and all he's done is fucking hump your thigh and kiss you a bit— he, without thinking about it too much more, dials it down to the fact that there must be some kind of aphrodisiac side effect to being bitten.

Thoughts are decisively turned away from him. He's nothing, empty, a marionette on its strings, a vessel to be filled, and for every moment you spend watching and observing and pulling back from his lips, instead of doing anything to help, his frustration builds. It's frustration that builds in Law, a kind that digs deeps into his bones, it’s fury and rage, a desire that eats away at rationale in his mind. “Fuck,” he curses, his head drops onto your collarbone and his pace becomes more purposeful, pressed even closer to your skin for leverage. There’s no room to breathe with how close he is, his head turns up and you can feel his lips against yours, a certain wobble in his upper lip as his tongue parts your lips. His hands drag up the side of your body and his hand bumps against the side of your chest. He grappled with the bra, his shaky hands doing nothing for him you can imagine, you arch your back upwards, your hands joining him to mess with the bra until the hooks and clasps separated.

The grip he has on your tit is unforgiving, grabbing the fat with his hand and squeezing without a care, Law arches off your thigh with a groan.

“I think we're past the point of you grinding on my thigh,” you mused, voice tinted in amusement. You move to straighten up but Law presses you back down within the second.

His eyebrows furrow, jaw clenched. “Don't move, I'm so—,” he trails off into a sigh. The realisation that he's worked himself close enough to an orgasm on your thigh brings an ache that almost as similar to hunger; your teeth itch and you wish you could take them out for a moment.

“Kiss me,” you murmured before you know what you’re saying, your voice throaty and thick. Law doesn’t let you dwell on it much; his lips are fucking searing against yours; your hands fall onto his cheeks and you feel his heart beat so loud just from kissing him, you're surprised that the room isn’t shaking yet. You're aware to the point of discomfort that your underwear is sopping, stained in obvious desires when Law's hand comes back up your thighs.

The flip of your skirt is fumbling, hasty; his hand pushes up your skirt, dragging his palm over the skirt as it covers your stomach and then it turns its attention back to your underwear. His knuckles brush against the hems of underwear, barely catching it as he pushes away the other thigh he'd been neglecting. “Shit,” he breaths when his thumb presses against the cotton material, “you’ve been this wet the entire time?” He presses his bulge back down onto your thigh, “gonna take care of you, promise.”

You nod as his finger drags against you, slow and teasing. His pace staggers, both his hips and his fingers momentarily as his hand moves to stabilise over your thigh; a shudder works through his spine and he's folding over, head falling onto your shoulder as he works through ‘fucks', each one louder than the last. True to his words, after Law has his own numbing taste of pleasure, he turns his attention onto you. One hand fumbled with his belt, undoing it as best he could with his other hand occupied with your pleasure.

Law is no stranger to sex, he's had his own share of lovers, but this, the way he grabs at you and the way he discards any acts to play nice, how he usually proceeds in these moments a mystery to himself— no warm–up, no teasing, no building you up until you're wired and squirming, vibrating. Just a man you've turned lost to his arousal. His hand digs into your flesh, the roughness of the touch chafing against the soft skin of your inner thigh; his eyes blurry and unfocused as he grabs at your underwear and pulls it to the side.

Guttural— the sound that leaves Law is breathed deep out of his nose, gasping against your skin and he, without second thought, sinks a finger right into you. His eyes are stubborn on the hand that’s enviably close to your warmth, watching the change of his skin from tan to pale as your hand goes to grasp his wrist again. Your legs fold upwards, feet finding purchase on the island as Law curls a single finger against the walls of your cunt. Pulling back gives you temporary reprieve— the next thrust comes with Law working a second finger into you. He's methodical with it. He watches. The tightening grip you had on his forearm, the way your head tilts back, lips part open with breathless gasps, everything; there’s little sympathy in how Law watches you— no hesitant strokes, no gentle caresses. This is the Law you'd been egging on, focused on the now, the here, the immediate, the tangible. It's not what he wants, rather what he needs. So, he forces a third finger into you and watches as you yelped, head turning from side to side as your thighs tighten, knees hitting each other.

He finishes tugging down his zipper and the hand moves to atop your knee, Law’s thumb and pinky finger press deep on the side of your knee. “C’mon,” he taunts almost, “how can I take care of you if you’re hiding from me?” His eyebrows raised, urging you sweetly when you turn your gaze to him, lips hooked under your teeth and eyebrows furrowed— you oblige. The reward you get from listening to him is ruining; all three fingers curled up inside you, pulling a shriek from you when you feel his blunt nails drag slow against you. His attention is offered to you in ways that turn your head numb, his finger still fucking into you at that gruelling pace, his body bent down between your legs to gaze down at you. Corners of his lips tug up into a smile, “still hungry?”

You’re not sure, your teeth had been grinding ever since Law’s fingers found their home in you, since you’d found a doghouse at the threshold of his entrance, but you’re not foolish enough yet to deny whatever Law was willing to offer to you so you nod. “Yes, yes, so hungry, yes.” All you see is starbursts, kaleidoscopic flickers that splinter at every angle as Law turns his head, offering you his neck once more. His hand grasps the back of your head, pulling you up gently to his neck; you feel as though you’re drinking from his cupped hands, licking up water before it falls through the gaps of his fingers. You press your dull teeth against his burning flesh first, then you urge your fangs to grow, prodding through his muscle.

You’re hungrier than you’ve ever remembered, even before you became a vampire, it’s reminiscent of a hunger from when you were first born; there’s hunger that isn’t quelled as your mouth attaches to Law’s neck, as you suckle on his blood, as you chafe yourself against his stubborn, moving fingers. There’s an ache in you that reminds you of the day you were born, once covered in blood and twice covered in dirt, Law becomes, to you, a necessary evil in the face of your single, insatiable hunger.

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fluentmoviequoter · 9 months ago

Text

Chase You Down

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Summary: Hiding after being robbed, you find comfort in a dog and his handsome owner. In the days following the crime, they protect you and care for you.

Warnings: angst to fluff, r is robbed at gunpoint, injuries, depictions of anxiety and fear. happy ending and Kojo comfort!

Word Count: 2.5k+ words

Walking alone at night is peaceful, but it’s also dangerous. Comfortable, maybe too comfortable, in your own neighborhood, you wander aimlessly, thinking rather than taking note of your surroundings. A car slows behind you, and you ignore it, assuming it’s a neighbor parking after a long day at work. You continue walking, taking a deep breath and enjoying the quiet before a cruel hand wraps around your arm, jerking you backward as a second hand keeps you from yelling for help.

✯✯✯✯✯

At the end of a long day, Tim wants to go home, walk Kojo, use the time to decompress, and then go to bed. Kojo seems excited to see him, and as they begin their walk, Tim keeps his eyes up, letting Kojo lead the way while maintaining situational awareness. Straying from his usual route, Kojo turns right where he usually goes straight. Kojo's ears perk, stopping to sniff the air. Chuckling at Kojo, Tim’s grip on the leash loosens, and when Kojo feels the slack, he lunges forward. Tim calls after him, breaking into a run to chase him. Kojo is on a mission, looking for something specific. Tim can’t wonder what it is and keep up with Kojo simultaneously.

“Kojo!” he calls again, speeding up when Kojo turns a corner.

✯✯✯✯✯

The hand on your arm loosens, and a cold metal barrel is pressed between your ribs in its place. Squeezing your jaw, the man behind you leans closer to you.

“Stay quiet or I will shoot you,” he demands. “Empty your pockets.”

You pull your phone and keys from your pockets, holding them in your cupped hands.

“That’s it? Where’s your wallet?”

Shaking your head, you hope it communicates that you don’t have one on you. The barrel digs in, and you clamp your eyes closed, terrified about what he is going to do to you. Your knees are knocked forward, and you hit the sidewalk forcefully, whimpering at the pain.

“You shouldn’t walk alone at night,” the man says, pushing your chin back to look into your eyes. “And don’t follow me.”

Nodding quickly, you try to control your breathing, his hand obstructing your mouth and part of your nose. Worried that he will change his mind and hurt you worse than he already has, you lay your hands on your thighs, palm up, in a show of good faith. He shoves his hand against your face, pushing you over before walking away.

You lay in place as you hear the car start and drive in the opposite direction of your home. He has your phone and keys, so you can’t go home or call for help. Crawling into the bushes at the edge of the sidewalk, you pull your bloodied knees up to your chest, crying as you grow more terrified with each sound.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim slows to a jog when he sees Kojo sniffing a bush. Stepping on the end of his leash, Tim squats to pick it up, freezing when he hears someone take a forceful breath. Kojo steps into the bushes, and his tail begins wagging.

Tim moves over, trying to see past the thick foliage. “Hello?” he asks. “I’m Tim Bradford, LAPD. Is someone in there?”

Whoever is hiding in the bush sniffs, and Tim stands, noticing an opening on the other side of the bush. He moves toward the gap in the branches, patting Kojo’s back.

✯✯✯✯✯

Your eyes are closed when you hear someone running. There’s another sound you can’t place. When a dog snout comes through the bush, sniffing your hand hooked around your legs, you open your eyes quickly and move back, inhaling sharply when a branch pokes your back.

The dog pushes in farther, and you raise your hand, letting him sniff you. Your heart rate slows as he looks at you, and you pet him gently, focusing on him rather than the stinging of your knees or what just happened to you.

Someone kneels beside the dog, and you fail to stifle a gasp. The dog seems unconcerned with the person beside him, bringing you some comfort.

After introducing himself as a cop, the man touches the dog as he moves closer to you. He looks through the gap you climbed through, his brow furrowed and his phone in his hand.

“Hi,” he says. “Are you okay?”

You look away quickly, turning your attention to the dog.

“This is Kojo and I’m Tim. If you want to come out and pet him, I’ll call my captain and have someone come help you.”

“You’re LAPD?” you ask quietly.

“Yes, I’m a sergeant. I’m calling for help right now, okay? I’ll wait here with you, and Kojo’s happy to keep you company.”

He raises his phone to his ear, saying some numbers before asking for backup and an R/A. After he hangs up, you move toward the opening, flinching as the torn skin of your knees pulls.

“You need some help?” Tim asks, waiting for your nod before he pulls a branch back, offering his other hand.

Tim’s eyes widen when he realizes your hand has blood on it. You step out of the bush, and his gaze drops to your knees, though he can’t tell how bad your injuries are because the blood has been smeared across your thighs and run down your calves. A few scrapes and light bruises are evident on your face, too, Tim notices.

“Are you okay?” Tim repeats.

You shake your head, reaching down toward Kojo. Terrified and beginning to feel the full extent of the pain, you crave the comfort of the dog you just met. Tim helps you sit, directing Kojo to your side as he watches for the ambulance and his backup. You hear the sirens and flinch, but Tim gives you a small smile, promising you’re okay.

Reluctantly separating from Kojo, you let the EMTs help you into the ambulance, where one of them begins cleaning off your legs to treat your wounds.

“Is there anyone we can call for you ma’am? Do you have a safe place to stay tonight?” a police officer asks.

“No,” you answer, gripping the gurney when the disinfectant hits your knees. “He stole my keys, so he can get in my house.”

The officer writes down your address and asks a few more questions, but you look at Tim and Kojo as you answer.

“I can replace your locks,” Tim answers. “I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

“We’ll have patrol outside tonight in case he decides to use the key,” the other officer adds. “We’re going to get you checked out at the hospital and then we’ll call you into the station for a full report when you’re cleared. Feel better, ma’am.”

You nod in thanks, still looking at Tim.

“How’s she look?” he asks the EMT at your side.

“Everything’s superficial as far as we can tell. No sign of concussion, but we’ll still get her thoroughly checked.”

“You said you don’t have anyone we can call?” Tim repeats. “I’ll come by later.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Kojo would never forgive me.”

You smile as the ambulance door is closed, but as soon as Tim and Kojo disappear from view, your chest begins tightening with worry.

✯✯✯✯✯

Sitting on a bench outside the hospital, dressed in your bloody clothes and waiting for an Uber, you’re shocked to see Kojo and Tim walking toward you.

“Hey,” Tim greets. “Glad to hear you got discharged so quickly.”

“I tried to make them let me leave last night,” you admit.

“I, uh, I changed all of your locks this morning, so you don’t have to worry about the thief using the key.”

You bristle at the mention of the man who robbed you, but you thank Tim regardless. He’s done more than enough, yet he and Kojo are here to check on you.

“So, here are your new house keys,” Tim adds, passing a small ring with three copies of the same key. “And Kojo and I are here to take you home.”

“Oh, I have a ride.”

Tim looks at your unlocked phone and then at you. “Humor me?”

You don’t have to be told twice; it’s not like you were eager to get into a car with a stranger after last night anyway. Sitting in the backseat with Kojo, you give him your complete attention, thankful that Tim takes a route that doesn’t go by the scene from last night.

As he helps you out of the truck, looking down at your bloody clothes and bandaged knees, Tim frowns.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“Yeah, just sorry about what happened.”

“Thank you for the help. For finding me and getting me to the hospital, and for changing my locks and bringing me home. I appreciate it.”

“Here,” Tim says, offering you a small prepaid phone. “It has my number in it, and I’d like you to have a way to call if you need anything. At least until you replace your own phone.”

“I- thank you, again,” you say, taking the phone.

Tim nods, stepping to the side. He feels a protective surge when you stay in place like you’re scared to stay alone.

“Are you sure you’re okay being here alone?” Tim asks.

“I will be. It’s just hard right now,” you answer honestly. “I’m still shaken up, a little scared.”

“That’s completely understandable. And no one would blame you if you wanted to find somewhere else to stay or move altogether. But, for now, call me if you need anything – even just someone to talk to. Okay?”

“I will.”

“And stop thanking me. Kojo loves you, so we enjoy it.”

You smile and pet Kojo once more before approaching the door and unlocking the new lock Tim installed. Immediately, your home feels big, empty, and terrifying. Unwilling to stay by the windows and craving the comfort of Tim and Kojo, you try to find something to keep your mind off your racing thoughts and fears.

✯✯✯✯✯

Someone knocks on your door around dinner time, and you silently look through the peephole, sighing when you see Tim. Kojo is with him, and he has food, you realize as you invite him in. After licking your hand in greeting, Kojo stays beside you as you lead Tim into the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” Tim asks.

“Better,” you answer. “Still get spooked at every sound and shadow, but I’m sure it’ll pass. Glad to have a few friends here, though.”

“Well, Kojo just can’t stop talking about you,” Tim replies, smiling as he removes the food from the bag.

“I can’t stop thinking about Kojo either,” you say to Kojo, petting his head.

“Do you need anything else?” Tim asks.

“I think you got enough to feed everyone on the block.”

“I mean in the house, or in general,” Tim adds.

“You’ve done more than enough, Tim, thank you.”

As you spend time with Tim and Kojo, getting to know them over a shared dinner, you are glad they found you. Getting new friends through such a terrifying experience is certainly the silver lining.

Kojo sits beside you, nudging your side and accepting your pets happily. Tim clearly meant it when he said Kojo likes you, and the feeling is mutual. Your feelings toward Tim are growing as well.

✯✯✯✯✯

Your new phone rings and you answer quickly, knowing it’s Tim.

“Hey, are you at home?” he asks quickly.

“Yeah, why?”

“He- the guy did it again. In your neighborhood. But he hurt this woman way worse, and I just heard the call and didn’t- You’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Tim, I promise. Did they catch him?”

Tim hesitates before telling you the truth. “No. They’re out looking, but he was gone when a jogger found her.”

You chew your bottom lip, glancing out the window. If he’s in the neighborhood, he may decide to try your key.

Tim says your name before asking, “Do you want me and Kojo to come keep you company?”

“I, uh, I’ll be fine. You’re busy. I appreciate it though. Tell Kojo hi for me?”

“Of course. Call if anything changes.”

In your quiet house, knowing that he has been close and without Tim’s voice to comfort you, the lie you just told about being fine becomes even more untrue.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Sergeant Bradford, were you at the first scene?” Wade asks, reading your name off a file.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“She’s at home. Why?”

“We think she might be targeted again. The woman from this morning regained consciousness and said that he vowed to ‘do it right this time.’ And, uh, this woman looks pretty similar to your vic.”

“I need to go.” Tim stands quickly, moving to gather his things. “Call me if you learn anything else.”

“Oh, this is the girl you’ve been checking up on every hour?” Wade asks. “The one you clearly have feelings for?”

“She’s terrified, Grey. I can’t tell her this over the phone. And my feelings, which I don’t have, aren’t relevant.”

“Mmhmm. Call if you need anything.”

✯✯✯✯✯

A sudden, rapid knocking on your door makes you duck into the bathroom, calling Tim and crossing your fingers that he answers.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Tim says as he answers. “I’m at your door, can you let us in?”

You hang up, rushing to the door and letting Tim and Kojo in.

“Why are you here?” you ask.

“We think that he may try to find you again. My captain has cops all over the neighborhood looking for him, but I didn’t want to tell you over the phone or leave you here alone.”

Swallowing roughly, you admit, “Tim, I’m scared.”

“Hey, nothing is going to happen to you while I’m here,” Tim promises, laying a hand on your shoulder as his thumb brushes the side of your neck. “Kojo and I are here to protect you and make sure you’re okay. Inside and out.”

“Why? You’re a cop, I know, but I’m just a robbery victim that your dog found hidden in a bush.”

“You’re not just anything. Like I said, Kojo loves you.” Tim’s hand moves up as he adds, “And I’m not far behind him.”

“When we met, I was bloody and hiding in a bush,” you point out. “That’s a concerning reaction.”

“You don’t feel the same?”

“I didn’t say that.” You wrap your hands around his forearm, stepping closer to him. “I’ve never felt as safe as I do with you. And you and Kojo are amazing.”

Tim’s radio crackles before someone says, “Bradford, we’re code 4, suspect in custody.”

You sigh, gladly hugging Tim when he pulls you against him. You sigh as one of your hands falls toward Kojo, inviting him into the embrace.

“You’re not going to leave me now that I’m safe?” you ask.

“Kojo and I chased you down once,” Tim answers. “Don’t think we won’t do it again.”

#tim bradford x reader #kojo bradford #tim bradford fluff #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #tim bradford the rookie #the rookie #fem!reader #requests #kojo bradford. cutie pie extraordinaire.

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