#like a i want to squish your cheeks violent

[buttertubz]

I woke up before my partner you know what that means

Gotta hit him with the lovebeam

[buttertubz]

Something about the way your draw him makes me violent but in a good way

Procreate practice with more Miguel studies (some very much inspired by some concept art displayed at Taiwan cinemacon)

[bitterrfruit]

southpaw [ii]

boxer!Ghost x reader cw: dub(verging on non)con. lots of blood if the pics didn't make that obvious. 18+ mdni here's part 2 to my boxer ghost fic. this one is feral. sorry [masterlist]

Your communications with Simon following the frightening tryst in his sitting room had been few and far between. 

After he had abandoned you throbbing and empty and you plummeted back to earth, you swiftly left. He had called you a spiteful little shit when you stormed out of his flat in a huff, with just a shred of caustic humour in his tone that belied his bitterness. 

When your wits — with the force of a kick to the belly — had returned to you in the taxi home, you had told yourself that was that. You’d block his number and you’d kick the revoltingly crude and violent stranger out of your life. Reduce him to a foul memory. 

But as you went to check your phone, looking at the six exchanged messages between yourself and his unsaved number, you faltered. A failure of your self-assertion. Instead you dumped your phone in your bag and glowered out of the window for the duration of the drive home, sucking on your vitriolic arousal like a sour drop. 

You resentfully returned to your quotidian routine the next morning. Catching the subway to work and back, slogging through the Monday at your desk while sorely trying to distract yourself from the residual sensation of his fingertips in your slit. You stared into the voids between the pixels of your monitor, offering one-word answers when any of your coworkers addressed you — so vacant throughout the day that your manager had to check in with you, and you dismissed your fugue as a mere headache. 

Your phone didn’t go off once that workday — no text from a friend, nor a relative, not even spam. Only whilst packed in the train car on the way home, sardine-squished between people taller than you, did your phone buzz in your pocket. 

A text from the number you failed to block. 

Can still smell your cunt on me. 

Mortified, you immediately tucked the phone to your hips and shut the app, hoping the people pressed against you couldn’t read the message that just mired your phone screen. 

The follow up appeared as a banner. 

Making me hungry. 

Your cheeks burned hot and you bit down on nothing, too humiliated to return to the app and reply to his filth. You stuffed your phone in your pocket for the remainder of the sticky train ride, and only reopened it once you had arrived back home and locked your front door behind you. 

You hammered out a reply with splenetic fingers as you took off your coat. You’re a degenerate. 

His answer came quickly. Still grumpy?

Stop messaging me. 

The bouncing ellipses of his typed reply appeared and vanished a number of times, and you scolded yourself for attentively awaiting the answer you had expressly refused. When no reply came, your chest became heavy. 

And it remained heavy, for the next two days, while your phone stayed as empty and dry as you were. Every time you picked it up you felt the flutter behind your ribs, the briefly lifted spirits as you silently hoped for a text from him. Maybe even a missed call. And every time it was blank, you felt your stomach sink. Stupid, for you had all but told him to fuck off. Perhaps you simply wanted him to persist. To insist. 

In your capricious impatience you even typed out a few messages to him, but your shame ensured that they remained unsent. 

You could have just apologised. 

Didn’t think you’d give up that easily. 

I didn’t mean never message me again. 

On Wednesday evening, after work, you returned to the bar you had met him at. Maybe he’d be there, waiting for you, hoping you’d return so that he could accost you. You even planned for it, practised your spiteful response for when you found him there — you’d ignore him for a bit, to make him squirm, to force him to make the first move. Maybe you’d even pretend to have forgotten his name. 

When he wasn’t there, you bitterly paid for your own drink and went home after only one. 

You gave up hope as another sluggish day came and went, arriving home to your empty apartment and getting ready for bed far earlier than you normally would. Washed your face and brushed your teeth before nine-thirty. 

You simply couldn’t face the indignity of reaching out to him. Not after setting your own boundary and he had aberrantly obliged it. 

Once it hit ten you tucked yourself into bed under your winter-weight duvet, forced shut your eyes as you resisted the urge to check your phone before going to sleep. 

And just as a groggy, heat-dizzied slumber began to suck you in, hallucinations of his mammoth hand kneading between your thighs, you heard your phone vibrate loudly atop the wooden surface of your nightstand. Its bluish glow illuminated your dark bedroom for a few seconds before it dimmed again. 

Instantly awake and buzzing with adrenaline you reached to check, snatching your phone from its resting place and glaring bright-eyed at the screen. Probably just an email. Maybe a text from your coworker. Or a pop-up ad for UberEats. 

Fight tomorrow at 8. 

It wasn’t even an invitation. He was just informing you, and even that was a generous presumption. Maybe he was arrogant enough to assume you’d be there without an overt expression of his desire to see you. 

Your seat is by the ring. 

Bastard, you thought. Almost blurted it aloud. You chewed your lip. You knew you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. 

It took you a few attempts to conjure up a response. You typed some out and then swiftly deleted them. 

Eventually, you landed on; You rly think i’m going to come and watch?

Wouldn’t have got you a seat if i didn’t. 

You scoffed at your screen. Why should i?

Still wound up, are you?

The prick. Wtf does that mean?

All grouchy i left you high and dry?

You didn’t notice your thighs grinding together. No. You're a dickhead and i can’t believe i went out with you.

Quit bitching, jesus. Then, a follow up; You’ll get what you want after.  

Your better conscience told you to slam down the phone and abandon the conversation and the fling in its entirety. Unbridled asshole that he was. Instead you held your thumbnail between jittery teeth and rubbed your toes together. 

Who are you fighting? You asked, ungracefully changing the subject. 

Does it matter?

You bit your lip. Not interested in watching you lose. 

I won’t. 

His arrogance made you snort. How do you know?

Got a prize to fight for. 

His charm was shallow and crude, skirting a charade, and yet it unleashed a swarm of butterflies in your chest. Funneled a loathsome heat into a pool between your legs. 

You knew what he thought his prize might be. He hadn’t been shy about it, had he? He plainly believed he could win your cunt as easily as he could a championship belt. 

What’s that? You texted back, after a deliberate delay, wondering whether he’d follow up the text with something more explicit. 

You tell me. 

Dumped the burden on you to be the vulgar one. Not your strong suit, so you decided to attempt to emasculate him. As if such a thing were possible. 

Hm. The other guy might fight to win it too. 

The typing bubbles of his reply came and went for a minute. Wouldn’t put it past him. 

You know him? 

Mate. 

You’re fighting your mate? 

Yep. n I’ll beat him like last time. 

You couldn’t explain the blooming heat in your belly at the prospect of watching him beat and be beaten by someone like him, big and heavy, just as ribald. You imagined a rivalry, all in good fun, until it wasn’t. You imagined they’d be looser with their fists, less mindful of the rules, when it was only their mate at the receiving end of the blow. You wonder if his opponent knows about you. What he might have told him. 

And if you don’t? 

There was no sense in your question, and no vindictiveness in your doubt. Maybe you just wanted him to express some possessiveness. To double down on his certainty. To claim ownership. 

You nearly smacked yourself as the notion smeared its way through your head. 

He’ll be a lucky man.

Not even a lick territorial. You chose not to dissect your lack of disappointment. 

You didn’t reply to his final message, fingers too busy pinching at the angry clit under your knickers, hoping the castigation would settle the lust that throbbed in your temples — you knew it wouldn’t, but the compulsion to alleviate the burning in its nexus puppeteered your arm as though on strings. 

Didn’t let yourself come, though. His ragged words wended about in your head, leaden and demanding. You can wait, like me.

Trudging through the Friday was infinitely more gruelling than any of the days prior. Tumescent anticipation churned in the pit of your stomach, every waking minute. You could not focus on a single task beyond the picking of your fingernails and crossing of your legs. Busied yourself with regular trips to the bathroom, to wipe away the distracting wetness that puddled in your core every time you reread the (not even that sexual) messages in your phone. 

When a colleague glibly asked you what your Friday night plans were, you lied. Night in, probably. You told yourself that you hadn’t yet decided whether you would attend. A smarter girl would avoid it like the plague. 

You knew yourself better than that. 

Despite his lack of contact, you still tortured yourself under the shower after work. Scrubbed clean every mound and every crevice, re-shaved the same areas you tended to until they were raw, left a fruity-sweet hair mask in your locks for long enough that the tresses imbibed the scent. Smeared your body in your caramel-macadamia body lotion, brushed through your lashes a coating of mascara, painted on a layer of rosy-pink lip-gloss. 

You excavated your entire closet in the hunt for the right kind of outfit; you wanted to look pretty, but not like an overdressed deer in headlights. Like a cool-girl who knew how boxing works (you didn’t), but not like you were trying too hard. Settled for a miniskirt and a graphic tee, boots and stockings to keep you warm. You hadn’t forgotten his refusal of them the last time, but it was a cold and windy evening, and he could fuck himself. 

As the time passed seven and you still hadn’t heard from him, just as you began to wonder whether he had given up on you all together — he finally texted you. 

The only content of his message was the address of the venue, with no frills nor any sly attempts to provoke you. Simply the name of the arena and the street it was on. Knowing you’d need a drink, or two, or three — you plugged the location into Uber and booked a ride instead of driving yourself, and it was a ten minute trip through the dark sleet. 

The arena, so he called it, was barely an established venue — some kind of run-down community centre with layers of faded and peeling posters glued to its grimy brick walls, windows of steel-meshed glass and a single street light hanging over the push-door entrance. 

You carried your heart in your teeth. It evidently would not be a televised fight, like you had wistfully imagined. What kind of back alley shithole–

The resentful thought was knocked out of you along with the wind in your lungs as a shoulder collided with you — a pair of men with their hands in the pockets of their puffers steamrolled past you, noisy raillery as they went through the entrance. 

Attendees of the fight, you supposed – hoped – because you elected to follow them, with no other recourse, head held low under the hood of your jacket to avoid the rain. 

You elbowed the glass swinging door when the men in front of you didn’t hold it for you, and immediately you heard the rowdy din of a crowd elsewhere in the building, muffled by walls or floors. The interior was brutally bright, beaming fluorescent bars hung ungracefully from the ceiling, their glow bouncing off the painted white cinderblock of the walls and onto the peeling grey linoleum. 

Some kind of club or gym, you ascertained – peering down the halls and into doors, you spotted weights and bars, foam mats, black-and-red punching bags hanging from chains. 

You were suddenly fraught with the same discomfiture that simmered whenever you were somewhere you didn’t belong. You followed the men through another set of doors, and down a long flight of stairs — the light of the fluorescents gradually grew dimmer as you descended into the darkness, where the hammering of an unruly crowd only became louder. The walls were unpainted in the subterranean floor of the building, and instead gave way to raw cement. At the base of the stairs was a small queue that disappeared around a corner, and you self-consciously stood behind the pair of men you had stalked there. 

Uncertainty roiled in your stomach, suddenly feeling as though you had made a terrible mistake — the basement was dark, and loud, and it struck you that the only voices you heard were male. You should have had a drink before you left. And just as you anxiously considered turning around, three more babbling men piled in behind you, sandwiching you between the groups of them, conspicuously alone. 

As the line moved forward, it became clear that the queue was held up by bouncer, and you were next up. A tall man with thick arms, disconcertingly vascular, sinewy neck as thick as a buffalo’s — you wondered if he was a fighter himself, moonlighting as security for the fight. 

“This in’t a nightclub, pet,” he informed you roughly, and as though only just noticing the solitary woman in front of them, you abruptly felt the attention of the men behind you on your back. 

Sure as shit isn’t, you thought to say, but nervousness held your tongue. 

“I’m — yeah, um, I’m here to watch the fight,” you simpered, swallowing after you spoke. 

He let out a huff of laughter at that, and you noticed him catch the eye of the attendees behind you. “Got a ticket, then?”

You gritted your teeth, chewing back curses as you realised the bastard hadn’t even given you one, let alone notified you ahead of time that they would be checking for them. 

Adjusting your fists in the pockets of your puffer coat, you shuffled awkwardly on your feet. “I was invited.” 

“Yeah?” He probed amusedly, “by who?” 

“Simon—” you blurted, cutting yourself off upon realising you didn’t even know the man’s surname. “He’s — um, he’s fighting.” 

The bouncer chortled raucously at that. “Riley?” He laughed, “fuckin’ hell. Alright then. Go on.” 

His tone made your knuckles turn white. What was so funny? “Thanks,” you murmured. 

“Good luck,” he jeered after you, and before you were compelled to ask for what, he was already conversing with the men behind you. 

There was a short and narrow corridor of cement and dim yellow lights around the corner, old posters tacked to the walls, and the commotion of the crowd made your ears reel as it bounced off the concrete. The air was heavy and hot, dense with smoke and body heat, and you suddenly felt too warm for your puffer. You shucked it from your shoulders as you reached the end of the tunnel, sucking down a deep breath as you were birthed right into the snake pit. 

The room within was far larger than you would have believed possible, concrete ceilings high enough that they faded into the darkness. The crowd was deep, droning, perhaps three- or four-hundred strong. All seated in or standing around their rows of plastic chairs, bottles of beer and cigarettes in hand. 

You held your breath as you charily scanned the cement cavern, absorbing all the details you could fit in your congested mind, and wondering if you might see Simon lurking somewhere, waiting for you. But the space swam in shadows, barely lit by the odd crimson lightbulb hung on long wires from the ceiling; the audience’s faces only illuminated by the floodlights that hung in the centre of the atrium – blindingly bright and stark cold, they hammered down on the square ring underneath.

There, you caught sight of him. His back to you, standing in the corner and leaning on the ropes, shoving the end of an unbranded drink bottle into his mouth. You knew it was him by the buzzed auric hair that cladded his skull, the still staggering breadth of his titanic shoulders, the inky scratchings of his tattoos that sheathed his left arm and crept across his chuck to lick his neck. 

You found something of a fissure between the drunken spectators, so you gawkliy weaseled yourself through the braying men on your way to the seat you hoped had indeed been saved for you. 

And as though he had scented you on your approach, Simon’s head perked and turned over his shoulder, and his beady eyes immediately fastened on you. A rakish grin stretched in his lips as you came to a stop by the ropes – thankfully unimpeded – and he turned his gargantuan body to face you fully. 

You hadn’t yet seen him without a shirt on, and the gauzy disbelief was plastered across your face at the sight of him up close. Cumbersome muscles wrapped his ironclad form like the overworked meat of a bull, almost doughy with the lard layer of a well-fed man. His chest was stocky and broad, alabaster skin smeared with freckles and grisly mauve scars, hirsute with a coating of wheaten curls. 

He crouched down with spread knees to get a shred closer to your height, the stage of the ring a good metre off the ground. He wrapped his thick fists around the ropes, and peered at you through them as though behind bars. You tried not to glance down the leg of his shorts that hung loose from his thighs. 

“Look at you,” he crooned, toothy and oozing satisfaction. “Didn’t think you’d show up, pretty.” 

Your stomach went all tight when he called you that. “Didn’t you?” 

“Thought I was a dickhead,” he derided, a breathy chuckle at the memory of your churlish insult. 

“You are.” 

He tilted his head, no argument. “Just came to watch me lose, eh?” 

You cracked a smile at that, and his gratification at your capitulating scorn practically dripped from him. Sick of your bitching, so he said. 

“Yep,” you said, through a simper. 

He looked over his shoulder, then briefly leaned to the side – he pointed behind him with his thumb. “There’s your winner, then.” 

In the far corner, you saw his opponent. 

Not quite as tall but somehow heavier, so laden with muscle that he looked encumbered by it – but he couldn’t have been, not given how he bounced on the balls of his feet like he weighed a hundred kilos less, shanks turning carved and solid with every hop. He shook out the hocks of his arms, contorting his neck to stretch out the tight meat. 

The man wore an unkempt mohawk down the crest of his skull, shaven sides a few weeks grown-out, mottled by the little pink knicks of healed scars. His carved cheeks were coated in a poorly kempt stubble, brows pulled together in concentration, a deep crease between them. 

You froze when he noticed you staring – snagged your probing eyes with a tumid smirk – and cold embarrassment ran down your spine. 

You quickly looked back at Simon, who was all but chortling at you.  

“Not as pretty as me, is he.” 

You couldn’t think of a witty riposte before your mouth began to speak – almost formed the words just as pretty – but you at least had the sense not to inspirit him. “That’s your friend?”

He shrugged facetiously. “Wouldn’t go that far.” 

In the nebulous vacuum of the atrium you heard a bell chime, three sharp dings, and the already tumultuous crowd erupted into an uproar that made you wince. Time to fight. He glanced over his shoulder, kept a few short moments to bid you farewell before he turned into the bout. 

“Do I get a kiss for luck?” He goaded, and you could tell by the mordant tone in his throat he expected you to say no. 

And you did. Gave him an unflinching shake of your head and a pert smile. “You haven’t earned one.” 

He grinned wide at that, barbed and cocksure, as he stuffed a rubbery black mouthguard into his mouth and clacked it into place over his teeth with his thumbs. There was something rabid in his eyes, stark-black and puncturing, edacious at the challenge you had given him and rearing red-hot to fight for you. To earn his prize. 

Your stomach knotted up at the thought, and it made you a little queasy. 

He had already demonstrated an effrontery in his nature, forcibly indulging you with a hand over your mouth and fingers between your legs – an act he decided he didn’t need to earn. He just did. 

You couldn’t help but envisage what he might feel emboldened to do once he believed that he had earned it. What prizes he’d purloin from you. 

You hurriedly swung your head around to find yourself a seat. An empty chair – thank god – wedged between two bulky strangers, one in a suit and the other in a wifebeater. No indication that it was for you, specifically, but you elected to claim it. It was a good spot, too. Right in the middle, not at a corner. The men beside you paid no mind to you, eyes (and likely wallets) rapt in the fight. 

The two bulls in the ring turned to face each other, bouncing heavy on their feet, shaking out every meaty limb and rolling their ox shoulders. Adrenaline thrummed in your chest and sat high and humid on the back of your neck – the kind of heady anxiousness that felt like a hunk of steak between your teeth, one you weren’t allowed to bite into.  

An announcer stood in the centre of the ring, microphone in hand, a snaking wire hanging out of its base and coiling across the foam floor. He opened with gentlemen – the lack of a preceding ladies felt pointed and offputting – and his spiel lacked the dramatic flair you had seen once or twice in a televised match. 

No, instead, he bellowed gruesome statistics into the mic with no polish or class, and your mind went fuzzy as you absorbed it. 

Fighting out of Glasgow and still a little wet behind the ears. Record of 33 wins and 1 loss. 21 wins by way of knockout. Weighing in at 109kg. 1.88 metres tall. In the blue corner, slipperiest cunt alive – Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish. 

In the red corner, a fucking ugly Mancunian with 41 wins, 3 draws, and 4 losses. 37 knockouts. 113kg. 1.97 metres tall. Deadliest southpaw this side of the Pennines – Simon ‘The Ghost’ Riley.

They smile at each other, frothing at the mouth and manic in the eyes, mouthguards making their lips all puffy and dumb. Even quantified, their magnitude is challenging to fathom. You can almost feel the ground vibrate as they jounce on the foamy canvas, watching their heavy muscles jiggle and tighten with each movement.  

Final decider of the trilogy. One win each. Odds are in the Ghost’s favour tonight – old dog with old tricks – four-to-six. Glaswegian underdog odds at six-to-five. Get your wagers in. 

There was something decidedly boorish about the way the announcer roared into the mic, the scathing badinage he spewed towards the two fighters had you believing he must have known them personally. There was nothing legitimate about any of it, when you came to think of it – a considerable griminess sunk heavy in the air and filled up your nose, and you didn’t know how you hadn’t noticed it earlier. 

The frigid realisation rinsed you like cold water, when the announcer stood between them and they raised their fists – ungloved. Wrapped only in tape, a few thick layers over their knuckles, but not remotely thick enough to protect their own bones, let alone their opponent’s. 

Simon invited you to a fucking bareknuckle. You weren’t there to watch a boxing match, you were there to watch bloodsport. 

Suddenly, the knot in your guts wrenched a lot tighter. The label of deadliest carried the weight of feasibility, however horrific the notion was for you to swallow. Distended dread simmered in your stomach and singed your throat.

So why were you on the edge of your seat? 

The dings of the bell made you jump, and the announcer hopped out of the ring as though fleeing from an unspent grenade. No referee. 

The two beasts faced down in earnest, smiles fading – though their impressions remained – huffing and bobbing their heads as though about to charge, loose fists hung in the air close to their faces, heavy cocks bouncing around in their polyester shorts. They were mirror images of each other, minor differences in stature notwithstanding – Simon in his sinistral stance, leading with his left, Johnny with his right. 

They circled each other like sharks, dithering about when to throw the first blow – you saw their mouths move as though speaking to one another, but you couldn’t hear it over the racket of the audience. 

Then, in a blink, Simon jettisoned a fist with such speed and barbarity it blurred through the air, and the smack of its collision cut through the uproar of the crowd – parried, by Johnny’s rigid forearm, and in the flurry Johnny had thrown a retaliatory roundhouse to his adversary’s ribs. 

You winced at every impact as though you could feel the strike on your own skin — they were so fucking brutal with each other, not dampened by even an ounce of concern nor a drop of reservation. No, they bulleted fist after fist, and the blunt smacks of knuckles beating thick meat made your teeth chatter with every collision. 

Round one was over as soon as it had started — three harsh dings of the bell, and then carnivores pulled away from each other, lumbering to their corners and grabbing their drink bottles. 

Simon was already dripping with sweat; he was glossy with it as though freshly showered, it beaded along his brow and traveled in rivulets down his back. His chest hounded with each haggard breath, he wiped his nose with his forearm and met your eye. 

You shrunk a little under his stare, because it didn’t look like him. Not to say you were exceedingly familiar with his face — only the third date, after all – but there was something potently unhuman in him. A reflection of some omophagous barbarian, a minotaur in both stature and constitution. 

He gave you no acknowledgement beyond a blink. He turned his back to you without so much of a nod, shaking himself out like a wet dog. His ferine mind was utterly ensnared by the hunt, you could see it on him, his eyes bulged with it. All red and frayed around the edges. 

Three dings. Round two. 

Their blood-hungry ferocity did not hamper, their vigour to remain at each other’s throats seemingly inexhaustible – the sheer violence made your eyes go glassy, delirious in morbid shock, unable to look away and yet unable to watch too attentively. Knuckles to cheekbones, to ribs, to ears; a volley of savage strikes that seemed aimless and unending, until–

Johnny’s gauzed fist slammed into Simon’s jaw, a blow that he almost followed to the ground, and hot red blood rained out from the site of impact. Splattered carmine in a fan across the grey canvas mat. Simon let out a currish snarl as he turned his head to shake out the blow, and the audience erupted into a deafening furore. Betters on the underdog especially jubilant, you supposed. 

The bells dinged. Round ended. 

When Simon turned to return to his corner and you got a glance of him, nausea climbed foamy up your throat. Blood cascaded from a deep split in his top lip, saturating his chin in bright-red that oozed down his neck and chest, pooling between his pectorals. Looked as if he had been down on all fours, tearing raw meat off the bones of a fresh catch with his teeth, letting the mess plaster him in his ravening. 

You couldn’t look away from him. Something purely eolithic, primitive, animal, simmered in the back of your head, sent leery little shivers down the nape of your neck, coiled up tight between your legs. Why was your mouth watering? 

“That oughtta hurt y’old bastard,” called Johnny from the far corner, voice plush with pride, beaming with it. “Maybe ah’ll win the prize, after all.” 

Your fingernails nearly tore ladders in your stockings. Was he talking about you? 

Simon’s head rocked back from his shoulders, and he cracked a smile, stretching the deep rupture in his lip. Riled. Pumped so full of epinephrine and testosterone that he hardly flinched. He turned back in. Ready to combust. 

The instant the bells chimed – round three – he charged. Hooked a colossal leg around the back of his opponent’s knee, and they were quickly down and knotted on the mat.

You knew vaguely that boxing was fists only – nothing below the belt, no holds – and yet, they wrestled around on the floor like it were a different sport entirely, flinging punches and elbows and hooks from prone positions, growling like skirmishing bears in the frenzy.

A few flips of heavy bodies and Simon had Johnny flat on his back, leviathan knees either side of his hips. Simon curled forward, then, pinning Johnny down with entangled arms – and ran his mouth and nose down the length of his opponent’s neck, smearing a painting of fresh blood over his sweat-soaked skin. Johnny bucked and kicked in an almost pitiful effort to free himself, but in so doing only had more of Simon’s blood slathered across his collar; some on his cheek, some in his mouth. 

You were by turn muddled and revolted by the roiling heat in your core at the sight – repugnant, you thought, unjustifiable– 

WIth a hard buck the Glaswegian broke himself free, and with a twist, managed to land an elbow into the side of Simon’s head, a hard crunch of bone on bone. 

Simon was inexplicably unruffled, his injurious grin almost pleased at the challenge – but with a rapid bludgeon square in Johnny’s nose, he finished the fight, and that was that. Johnny’s head ricocheted off the foam, and still twisted up with his rival, blinked dimly at the ceiling. 

You didn’t even know the man, and you felt pity for him hard and cold in your chest – always sympathised with the underdog, couldn’t help it. He lay there with his hands on his chest as Simon pushed himself to stand, towering over his victim, rolling out his shoulders after the exertion. In the pandemonium the announcer thundered out the count to ten, and when Johnny only rolled onto his side to let the blood of his broken nose pour from his mouth and not down his throat, the count concluded with a deafening knockout. 

If you thought the spectators were loud before, now you knew the true meaning of the word – chaotic uproar that shook the walls of the building, the triumphant howling of those who had bet on the southpaw almost as strident as the upheaval of the ones that bet on the wrong dog. You stood up to hesitantly applaud alongside the men beside you, only fearful that if you remained seated you’d get swallowed up by the stampede. 

In the uproar Simon turned pointedly to face you, his savage eyes riveted to yours – and, like that, the rest of the building sloughed away. It was only him, the fleshy beast, and you, glossy-eyed in his crosshairs. 

There was a weight in how he looked at you, something foregone, a fate already decided on your behalf. You felt it tugging you downward, hanging from your neck, and you could only stand there and wait for it to happen. 

He won. 

You couldn’t put up much of a fuss, after that. He hopped out of the ring once the show had ended, landing on the hard ground beneath with a thud. His eyes were peeled, his pupils pin-pricked, honed in, and you could only hold your breath as he paraded towards you. 

He reached out to take your jaw in his bloody hands, thumb and fingers dimpling your cheeks as he yanked you into a revolting, blood-soaked kiss - his lips were pillowy, wet with sweat and smeared in hot blood, and you could taste the briny metal in your mouth. Tasted like butter and corroded iron. It was awkward too to kiss him over his mouthguard, cumbrous in his mouth, you could feel its rubber on your bottom lip when he sucked it between his teeth. 

You wrestled him on instinct, smacking him on the chest to deter him, and your palm was instantly clammy with his sweat. There were people, men, surrounding you on all sides – spectating, jeering, hollering at the show the boxer was putting on for them. It made you shrivel in humiliation, and it only made Simon chortle. 

He burrowed under his lips with his free fingers as he separated from you – your jaw still in hand – hooking his fingernails into his mouthguard and unsealing it from his teeth with a pop. He pulled it out of his mouth with a repulsive slurp, dragging gooey bands of blood and saliva along with it that clung to his bottom lip. 

He grinned at you, then, and slick red filled every gap in his teeth, pooled at the corners of his mouth like a fucking rabid dog, and you could see the dark exposed flesh between the split in his lip. It made you shiver. It made your chest hot. 

He wiped away the blood he left on your mouth with a thumb. “Where’s my prize, pretty.” 

There was little you could do as he ferried you through the dissipating crowd, patting you on the bottom like he was guiding a cow, and you felt him huffing hot air down the back of your neck. 

When you initially hesitated to go anywhere with him, as he was, he threatened to throw you over his shoulder instead. And that, somehow, would have been even more mortifying than being publicly carted off to be victory-fucked by the champion, so you swallowed your pride and walked instead. 

Walking, if you could call it that – he was at your heels, practically driving you for the entire distance from the ring to an inconspicuous corridor at the quiet end of the atrium, out of sight and in the shadows. He all but pushed you there, nudging behind you if you walked too slowly, giving you a smack to coax you forward. Not the same entrance you had arrived through, but your frenetic thoughts hadn’t quite grasped that yet. 

“In ‘ere,” he instructed flatly, hooking a finger into the collar of your t-shirt to stop you from walking onwards. 

A door with a window at eye-height, steel-meshed glass that did not obscure anything behind it.

“What’s in there?” You asked quietly, perhaps stupidly, because he let out a huff of laughter at the question. 

“What d’you think,” was all he said, and your stomach dropped. 

You opened it with shaky fingers and shuffled inside. More gym, by the looks, though the room was dim and expansive; more empty boxing rings – practice rings, you supposed – punching bags and gloves hanging from walls, and the entire floor of the room padded in black rubber. 

It dawned on you, then, with a hot flush down your spine. “We’re - we’re not going back to yours?”

He was pressing behind you by the time you finished the question, nudging you deeper into the room, and he already had his sticky hands bunching up the bottom of your t-shirt. “Not waiting that long.”

Your lungs shrunk, suddenly too small to suck in a deep breath, so you sipped at the air like it was liquid; he flayed off your t-shirt in one go, forcing your arms up into the air to pull it from your head. Your hairs stood on end as he dropped it to the mat – the air was dusty and cool but were blistering hot to the touch, blood simmering in your veins. He could probably see it, rising blush-red in the back of your neck, sweaty at the nape. 

He huffed approvingly, and you winced when he snapped the band of your bra against your back. He hunched over your shoulder, looking down your chest – his humid arms hooked under yours, pumped up and vascular after their carnage, and seized your breast in a monstrous hand. He kneaded it roughly through the cup for his own gratification – paid no care to the chirp of pain that jumped from your throat at the needless strength of his grip, the firm core of your breast aching in the vice. 

“Nice little bra,” he grumbled. “Put it on just f’me, eh?”

You only panted, bashfully avoiding a real answer. Because, you did. You knew exactly where this night was headed, what you girded yourself for – you just didn’t expect that it would happen here, like this, while he was soaked in sweat and blood and ripe with lust worked up in the fight. 

“Knew you were a slut,” he said, under his breath, mouth and nose pushing into the crook of your shoulder and getting a good sniff. “Mh. Moment I saw ya.” 

You reeled at the denigration, so acrid it made you shiver. Praise webbed in his repugnant words, though — he said it hungrily, exuberantly, exalting you for it. Made your guts go all twisty. Made fluid heat sink downwards and pool in your core. 

His blood was viscid and icky on your skin, smeared up your shoulder — he was unperturbed by his injury, almost excited to get you covered in it, to mark you with it like a pack animal. 

“I’m not,” you breathed, no real defense, and he chuckled at that. 

“Yeah, y’are. Just picky, eh?” He crooned. “Made me fuckin’ work for it, didn’t ya?”

He unclasped your bra with deft fingers, and it came loose with a pop. As though he had made some unspoken command, you shimmied your straps down your shoulders for him, and let it fall from your arms. 

He took you by the hips and spun you to face him. Shark eyes sunk instantly to your tits when they bounced with the motion, and a pleased curl tugged in his lips.

“Mh, look a’ that,” he murmured to himself, thumbing your pebbled nipple and chuckling breathily when you squeaked at his pinch.

His heavy hand slid then your shoulder, giving you a downward nudge. 

“Knees, pretty,” he grunted dryly. “Suck it for a bit.” 

Your fingers went cold, blinking up at him as though feigning innocence might appeal to his human instincts. His face was stony, and the needle-sized holes of his pupils gave you no sympathy nor patience. Refusal crossed your mind, a gust of air, fleeting and skittish—

A transient thought, really, because there was no refusing him, and the thought of daring to frightened you more than the thought of a sweaty cock in your throat. 

Your eyes travelled the length of his torso as you awkwardly lowered yourself to your knees. Sweat pooled in the pit between his pectorals, sticky with congealing blood that clumped in the sedges of his chest hair. A thick and ungroomed blanket of straw curls trailed down from his navel, over the slight chub of his lower stomach, primordial padding over the rigid abdominals underneath. Met with the satin polyester waistband of his red-and-black shorts, loose on his thighs – the sheeny fabric strained where his cock hung heavy, and you could see every ridge of vein and head through the satin. 

You swallowed, and he huffed impatiently. 

With a wrapped hand he yanked down the front of his shorts – no briefs underneath — he unsheathed his cock with a fist around his base and narrowly missed hitting you in the nose with it. You concealed a grimace at the sight of it, inches from your face – it was ugly, burly, mauve at the smooth head, ruddy foreskin pulled back by his fist. Roped with plum veins that webbed under the rubicund skin, shuddering with heat.  

More frighteningly, though, was its magnitude – fucking prodigious thing, fat from base to tip, thick like a log and so long it made you dizzy with dread to even consider taking it in your mouth, let alone in the cunt that tightened up at the thought. 

You shouldn’t have been shocked, really – anything smaller would have looked disproportionate to the behemothic size of him. And yet, alarm was bright and hot in your face, and your throat dried up as you looked at it for too long. 

Simon chuffed, amused. Ego stroked. He fixed a hand to the back of your head, and a breath lodged your throat.

“Not gonna suck itself,” he growled, lightly slapping his cock against your cheek. “Open up.”

You drew in a shaky breath, resting a flat hand on his hip to balance yourself, and curled your trembling fingers around his shaft. Fist now free from carrying the weight of it, he combed his thick fingers through your hair at the crown of your head — not to encourage, only for a better grip. 

With parted lips you leaned forward, jutting out a wet tongue and running it from halfway up his shaft, along the ridge, to the underside of his head, and he let out a grunting sigh that made your nerves spark and your head spin. 

After another lick and a tug on the back of your head, you finally summoned the bravery to open your mouth — unhinged your jaw to allow his cock to fit, and it jerked in your mouth when you wrapped your lips around it. 

It was salty and sticky with sweat, fetid with the musk of riled up testosterone. You might have found it unpleasant if you weren’t dazed by your own concupiscence, molten lust roiling in your belly and turning the flavour of him into a sapid aphrodisiac. Your eyes fluttered shut as you tried to inch it deeper into your mouth, but the enormous pressure of the back of your tongue made you gag loudly around it. 

“Bit big for that little mouth, eh?” He preened hoarsely, but he took no pity. The hand on the back of your head was unforgiving and coaxed you forward with a nudge. “Easy. Wider. Careful with those teeth.”

Your eyes began to water as he stuffed himself deeper, driving you by the skull, until the thick head of his cock plugged the back of your throat and you could no longer breathe through your nose. You could only hold on to the air already in your lungs, wrenching shut your eyes as he drove his hips slowly forward, cockhead against your tonsils. 

“Mh,” he groaned, “tight little throat. Might park up in here.”

You blinked up at him when he said that, eyes wide and wet with strained tears as you silently pleaded with him through your clumped lashes. 

“Oh, girl, you wouldn’t like that would you?” He jeered, grinning at the terror printed on your face, “you want me in your cunt, eh?”

A whimper got stuck in your chest when the tip of his cock hit the flat wall at the very back of your throat, and your heart rate began to decelerate with the lack of oxygen in your blood. Chest ached with the need to breathe. 

“Poor girl,” he mumbled lowly, hand lodged at the back of your head and not allowing you to reel away. Cold horror rinsed you at the rigidity of his grip, a reminder of his strength, a hint at the sadism that bubbled under the surface of his skin. He wouldn’t let you breathe. “Neglected little cunt, I bet. She hungry, eh?” 

Your vision began to double, black spots around your periphery as you choked on him — you wondered if your cheeks were turning blue, and you wondered if he enjoyed the sight. 

“Can’t breathe, pretty?” He said, as you put both fists on his hips, shoving with all of your might — his massive hands kept your head utterly still, right where he wanted it. “‘M only halfway in and you’re choking. Not used to this eh?” 

He finally pulled his pelvis back, releasing the suction in your throat and forcing you to gag, and you were at last able to breathe — you heaved deep a breath through your runny nose, and the rush of oxygen made your head spin. He grunted as he raked out his cock from your mouth entirely, and it dropped heavy once it pulled out from between your lips. A long string of gooey saliva drooled from your mouth, and suddenly your entire head felt empty and hollow. 

You sniffed, wiping your nose and wet cheeks with your palms, your tears scarcely abating. A thick finger hooked under your chin and hinged up your head on your neck, forcing you to look at him. 

“None o’ that,” he growled, rubbing an errant tear away with the pad of his thumb. “Don’t want tears.”

“Sorry,” you squeaked on instinct, fearful of reproach, and a satisfied smile cracked briefly in his lips. 

He stepped around you, then, circling you like a vulture before looming behind you, and you remained dead still on your knees. A harsh hand fitted at the back of your neck and abruptly shoved you forward — you bleated as you tipped over and landed on your palms, on all fours on the padded floor. 

The ground vibrated under you as you heard him drop to his knees behind you, heart in your throat. “Gotta get a look at my prize.” 

He lifted up the back of your miniskirt, holding it against your lower back — before you heard him growl indignantly, and your skin prickled up. 

“The fuck’d I tell you about stockings,” he snarled, the indignant anger rumbling in his throat made your teeth chatter. He swiftly had his paws on your ass, fingers clawing up the stretchy nylon into fists and immediately tearing the thin fabric along the seam that flossed you with a shrill zip. “Just get in the fuckin’ way.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered. You were appalled by your own obsequiousness – your lust rendered you sycophantic, grovelling, too eager to please. 

He let out a low huff of laughter. “Mh, all sweet now, aren’t ya?”

You felt his thumb wedge itself in the cleft of your ass, over the fabric of your knickers – you squeaked and tensed up when he pressed against your asshole, and he chuckled to himself. He dragged it down to the dip of your cunt, and he exhaled hoarsely. 

“Messy little thing,” he grumbled, hooking his thumb under your gusset and dipping between your folds, and you caught your tongue in your teeth. “Barely touched you and y’already ruined your knickers.” 

The rich pride in his voice made you melt, a potent inebriant that made your mind go foggy and your tongue wet. 

“Waited for me, did ya?” He asked huskily, heavy breathing growing more laboured with each inhale. You nodded obediently. “D’you stick your fingers in y’self while you waited?”

“No,” you breathed, eyes on the mat underneath you, though they fluttered shut when the tip of his thumb grazed your clitoris, pointedly declining it too much attention. 

“No?” He badgered, incredulously, you could hear the toothy grin through his voice. “Not even one?” 

“I didn’t,” you insisted weakly, shaking your head. 

“Haven’t come in a while then, have ya?” 

“I haven’t,” you promised. 

He grunted in approval, and his hands slid to the waist of your skirt. “No wonder y’been so bitchy,” he grumbled. “All worked up and fuckin’ grumpy.” 

He jerked down your bottoms with enough force that you heard seams popping, and you yelped – he shucked them down your thighs with little grace, and you fell flat on your belly as he straightened out your legs to tear them off entirely. 

“Just need a good fuck to sweeten y’up, eh?” He gibed, hooking both mammoth hands into your waist and hoisting your hips upward, propping you up on your knees. 

He hunched over the back of you, then, and you felt his cock rest heavy on your rear. He fixed a hand to the nape of your neck, resting a portion of his weight (you were sure that any more would snap your spine under his hand) to pin you down. 

“Don’t you?” He pressed, hucking up a lump of blood-drenched spit into the fingertips of his left hand, and he reached back to smear the emulsion against your already sodden cunt. 

“Yeah,” you chirped as he pushed a wide finger into your hole, voice high-pitched and laboured under his restraint. 

The girth of one rough finger was already enough to sting, even with the amount of slick that had saturated you – you shivered in dread at the weight of his cock against the crease of your ass, at the thought of your neglected cunt having to tear itself in half to just to fit him. 

And then he pushed another finger in, and your vision went blurry. 

“Gorgeous little cunt,” he hummed to himself. “Nice n’ wet. Must be aching, mh?” 

Restless, his fingers slipped out from you and he straightened his back, holding his cock and smacking it against your asshole, and your whole body went stiff. 

To your dizzying relief he instead dragged his blunt head down the cleft of you, nestling in the slick folds of your pussy – he offered you no time to gird yourself, bucking his hips forward and stuffing his cock deep into your cunt whether you liked it or not. 

A pained shriek erupted from your chest as he drove into you, cockhead ramming into the plug of your womb with a force that winded you, the girth nearly ripping the thin skin of your entrance as it bulldozed itself to the root. Turned quarry in the shock you jerked underneath him to unskewer yourself, wriggling eagerly to slither free. 

“Get back ‘ere,” he grunted disapprovingly, yanking you back and hoisting your hips back up. He snatched your clawing hand by the wrist, twisted it behind your back and pinned it to the arch in your spine. “Too late to run away now, pretty.” 

He wrestled you until you stilled underneath him, and you whimpered as he coiled back his hips and proffered you a very fleeting reprieve. 

“S’that hurt, mh?” He queried wretchedly, and you squeezed shut your eyes as you nodded your head. He pushed into you again, only slightly slower, and you could only whine underneath him. 

“Yes, fuck–” you sobbed, seeing stars in the struggle. “It hurts–”

He hummed, almost cooing at you. “Won’t hurt for long, love.” 

With his non-restraining hand embedded in the flesh of your ass, he rocked into you again, and you nearly bit your tongue off. Your body was as stiff as a board, every muscle tensed to brace yourself for each thrust – and each push stung, a shooting pain that bulleted up your spine every time he hit the deepest part of you. You could only squeak and hiccup and wriggle when he allowed you, but he kept you firm to the floor. 

Only when his rhythm steadied, and he let out low groans of satisfaction into your back, did your bones begin to loosen. The sharp pain abated into a swollen pleasure as your walls gripped and fluttered around his cock, each rut driving you deeper into the padded floor. 

“Mh,” he crooned, when your yelps softened into fluid whining. “Tha’s it. Just needed to stretch ‘er out a bit.”

You felt hot dribbles on your back, rilled up your spine and dripped onto the mat – his blood, leaking from the still fresh split in his lip, you heard him lick his teeth. It should have disturbed you, his iron-reeking blood drooling onto your bare skin, smeared around by the arm against your back. Instead it made you dizzy with some feral, animalistic lechery.

It made the air smell like rust and sex, and you felt like a rabbit caught in the wolf’s maw. You wondered if he’d sink his teeth into you. You couldn’t ignore the thought of his blood and his spit being fucked into the deep ridges of your cunt. Maybe the mucosa of your pussy would imbibe it and his impression would be permanently embedded in the sticky depths of you. 

“Fuckin’ perfect cunt,” he groaned, speeched slurred by his own intoxicant pleasure. He lifted a kneeling leg and planted his foot flat on the floor to drive himself deeper, greedy hands burrowing into the flesh of your hips as he speared himself into you. “Kept it nice and tight for me, didn’t ya?” 

You nodded winsomely, cheek smushed against the mat underneath you, panting out whines that left humid fog on the rubber. 

He snorted, then spat, and you felt a wad of warm saliva land directly on your puckered hole. It twitched on reflex, and you sucked a sharp gust of air between your teeth — he rubbed your other hole with the pad of his thumb, gradually increasing the pressure, coaxing it to loosen for him. 

“Pretty little asshole, too,” he mumbled gruffly, a growl in his throat that made your hairs stand on end and your body turn rigid. “Y’ever had something in here, girl?” 

You whimpered, heart racing with such ferocity it made your temples throb and your eyes sore. 

“No, I—” You chirped through a held breath, interrupted by a buck of his hips and a pounding into your cervix. “I h-haven’t.”

He exhaled, deep and throaty. “We’ll ‘ave to change that.”

A squeak lept from your throat when his thick thumb pushed through the clenching entrance, constricting around his knuckle as he stretched it open, until his palm was flush with your rump. 

“Mh — fuck. Be a shame to neglect a cute little hole like this, eh?” 

You expected it to hurt, braced yourself for the sting — but in your fuck-drunk stupor you let him in with a comfortable ease, and it felt good. 

A winded whine seeped out from your chest as you took what he gave you, a renewed surge of heat and slick flooded into your cunt and dribbled down your leg. 

“Like that, do ya?” He purred, tugging at the thumb inside you and pushing it in again with the rhythm of his ruts. “All your little holes stuffed?”

You babbled like an idiot, whining and squeaking as he savagely fucked into you with a bestial vigour. Yes, yes, please, yes—

His pace only hardened as he chased his release, panting like a dog and dripping his blood and sweat down your spine. Your knees began to ache under the weight of him, rocking forward with every thrust, grinding against the concrete under the thin rubber. 

“Mh — perfect little thing — takin’ my cock like a fucking angel, eh? Fuckin’ made for it, just for me, just for me to fuck proper—”

His ravening tirade turned you to pudding, rugged voice breaking with the fury of his pleasure, bullying your cunt as deep as you’d take him. 

“Shit—” He grunted through teeth, leaning his full weight into you and making your eyes water with the strain on your neck. He chased a few hard ruts, blunt head shoved hard against your cushiony cervix as his cock jerked inside you. “Agh — fuckin’ Christ—”

You gasped in shock when you felt his come pump into you, pressure building against your womb as he filled you up so full you worried you’d pop. 

“Simon—” You squeaked on instinct, unsure if out of maligned pleasure or the brief flash to reality that slapped you in the face — he fucked you without protection. 

“Yeah, pretty thing—” he puffed deeply, sinking down onto your back as his fervour was drained out of him and into your pulsing cunt.

With that, reality flitted away as fast as it appeared. 

A mournful sigh escaped you when he slipped his cock out of your pussy, his warm come quickly drooling out of your hole once it was no longer plugged; it ran down your thighs and dribbled onto the mat beneath you. He plucked his thumb from your pinched hole and rested himself on your rear. You felt immediately and woefully hollow, holes shuddering around nothing so eagerly they ached. 

“Simon,” you whinged, repeating his name, with your motivation utterly eluding you. 

“You’ll get yours, girl,” he growled breathlessly, come-sated sweetness gone as it came. “One fuckin’ second.”

Something abominable had slithered into your mind and taken root, you thought. The vitriol in his words should have made you bristle, but it only made you needier. Maybe it spoke to a recondite self-loathing buried so deep in your soul you had never touched it, let alone acknowledged it. Maybe you just liked the way his harsh voice went all gravelly when he snarled at you. 

You yipped as he suddenly grabbed you by the hips, his recovery brief, and you were flipped unceremoniously. Landed on your back with a thud, limbs flailing in the blur — he grabbed you by the ankle and dragged your body towards him, held your legs open where he was kneeled between them. 

He caught your eye, then; beady, shark-like, a glint of insatiable hunger that reflected in the pools of black. The split in his lip had reopened in his fervour, and his blood oozed fresh and red down his chin, into his teeth. Didn’t hamper him, though – he burrowed his gluttonous fingers into your hips and lifted your lower half off the floor. 

A yelp of disbelief jumped from your throat as he hitched your thighs over his shoulders, pelvis in the air while your head remained balanced on the mat. Only on your back, glancing briefly around the room, were you suddenly reminded of where you were. 

Fucking the southpaw on the floor, in the middle of a somewhat public gym – you could still hear the murmurings of the audience still in the building, and only then noticed that Simon had left the door to the quiet room ajar. 

“Wai– wait, wait– Simon–” You stammered, watching as he licked the blood from his teeth, wolf-eyes peering at you from over your mound. 

Figures that he didn’t care to listen. He buried his mouth in your cunt with the ferocity of a starved animal, flat tongue smearing over your slit for a taste, before he suctioned your clitoris into his mouth as though he might drink an orgasm out of you. 

Not remotely put off by the surfeit of his come that still leaked from you, nor by the open wound in his mouth that weeped blood into your cunt, amalgamating with your fluids and his into some abhorrent concoction of lust and violence. No, in fact, he ate you with such a hunger that he must have been deliriously relishing in the debauchery of it all.  You felt the emulsion drool down the valleys of your groin, glossy red beads trailing down your belly and between your breasts in rivulets. You felt it drip from your neck, into your hair. 

“Ah – fuck–” You whined helplessly, arching your spine, heels inadvertently slamming into the meat of his back. 

He groaned into your cunt as he sucked your clit between his teeth, seemingly fighting the urge to bite, and the vibrations of his low voice made a shudder wrack you from your skull to the soles of your feet. His grasp of your hips was harsh, thumbs burrowing into the tender pits of flesh behind the bone, and it only made the surging pleasure in your core even more voltaic. 

More than a week since the last time you came, and that was at the plastic hand of a shitty bullet vibrator you got for free with a magazine; a climax so unsatisfying and meaningless it left you feeling emptier than you did beforehand. A week since he had brought you so close with his vindictive fingers, and a week of trying to recreate the feeling of his with your own, only to be sorely disappointed every time you tried. Worked up and grumpy, so he said–

It didn’t take him long to bring you to the same point he left you, burning and twitching and squealing under his touch – but this time had you seeing stars, had you bucking into his head like you might suffocate him with your pussy. You were sure he’d be pleased if you did, because he didn’t once come up for air. Kept your clit in his bloody mouth, under his lapping tongue with a consistency of pace and pressure that made your ears ring. 

But, you could still hear the creak of a hinge. 

Feel the vibrations of footsteps across the floor. 

Your eyes shot open and you wrenched your neck to look towards the door – an enormously painful angle to have your spine at – and there stood a silhouette of a man, lumbering unfazed into the room. 

“Simon!” You shrieked, kicking his back and writhing in his grip in desperate effort to stop him or break yourself free. A fool’s errand, really. There was no escaping him once he had you in his snare. “Stop, stop – Simon – there’s someone, ah–”

Mortified horror rinsed over you, molten hot, as the man continued his approach, and Simon did not relent. Persisted in laving your clit with unfettered voracity and only reinforcing his grip of your pelvis to keep you still, ruthless fingers implicitly chastising you for making a fuss.  

Only when the voyeur was a few feet from you could you determine who it was – vision significantly impeded by the angle of your head, you only saw him upside down– 

It was Simon’s opponent. 

Johnny. 

He looked down at you with lidded eyes, piercing blue even in the dark. Still in his boxer shorts, shirtless, sculpted muscles of his shoulders and arms carved out by the dim light seeping out from the door behind him. Dabbed under his nose with a blood-soaked towel, before his hand dropped to his side. Even in the darkness you could see the pitch in his shorts. 

Your hackles were raised but your panic was forcibly smothered by your blinding pleasure; incoherent whines and pleas leaping from your throat as you felt your smouldering core unwillingly tighten up, ready to burst despite your humiliation under the eyes of a spectator.  

“Simon – fuck, please, stop – he’s, ah – you’re gonna–”

You were a spluttering mess by the time you were swallowed by the tsunami of your orgasm, so forceful that you suddenly lost the ability to breathe – it ravaged through you in waves that made you buck and wail like he was truly sinking his teeth into your flesh. He might as well have been, with how sensitive your pebbled clit was under his unceasing tongue, all puffy and shuddering after its beating. 

You whined desperately as the shattering climax abated, leaving your muscles frail and your bones all floppy, and any fight within you turned to milk and trickled out of you, buttery and soft. Johnny only watched attentively, and you would have shrivelled up with ignominy if all vitality hadn’t been drained from your body and into Simon’s mouth. 

He finally peeled his lips from you, licking them as though having eaten a succulent meal, and he dropped you from his mouth. Lowered your hips so that your buttocks rested on his lap, legs wrapped around his torso. You could only lie there, utterly breathless, turning your head away from both of them as though that meant they couldn’t see you. 

Simon gave you two reassuring pats on the thigh, wiped his mouth with his other forearm and smeared blood and come through the auburn arm hair that coated it. 

“Tha’ better, pretty?” He purred huskily, thumb grazing your skin. “Better be all nice n’ sweet, now, eh?” 

Johnny lets out a grunt, petulant disappointment in his throat. “So that’s what ye broke my fucken’ nose for.” 

Simon snorted vindictively. “I wasn’t losin’.” 

“S’not fair,” Johnny grumbled. “If I knew that was the prize I woulda snapped yer fucken’ neck.” 

The unbridled violence in the way they spoke to one another made you sweat – laden with something morbid, a perverted hunger woven between every word, oozed from the two of them like tar. 

“Easy, boy,” the southpaw chided roughly. “You’ll talk yourself into another concussion.” 

“Psh,” his opponent retorted. “Yer just worried I’ll clatter ye now that I know the stakes.” 

Simon let out a hoarse huff of laughter at that, unimpressed. Turned to look down at you, wide hand heavy on your lower belly, and he grazed your bullied clit with his thumb. You twitched with the shock, blinking distraught at him through wet lashes. 

“Kid wants a rematch,” he grunted. “What y’reckon, pretty?”

idk guys. don't judge me. i was ovulating while writing this and it has been the kind fugue state where i need skin between my teeth. i hope someone gets what i mean by that

[ladyymiisa]

PINCH ‘EM!

summary: katsuki just loves your cheeks!

tags: katsuki bakugo x fem!reader, fluff, katsuki is a tease

author’s note: starting the new year off strong with katsuki fluff!! i luv him sm

if there’s one thing about you that drives katsuki absolutely insane on a daily basis, it’s your cheeks.

those soft, round, ridiculously cute, rosy cheeks that make his brain glitch like an old vending machine. they give him such violent cuteness aggression that he’s genuinely considered throwing himself off a rooftop just to reset. it’s humiliating, really, how much power your dumb face has over him.

but watching you eat? that’s a whole other level of torture. the way your cheeks puff out with every bite, like you’re stockpiling food for winter, makes his eye twitch in equal parts annoyance and affection. he calls you chipmunk, because honestly, you might as well be one. it’s absurd, it’s irrational, and it’s ruining his life. but here he is, still watching, still obsessed, like the fool he is.

“kats—ow!” you whine mid food gulp, flinching as his fingers suddenly latch onto your cheeks like a crab on a mission. with zero warning, he starts squishing and pulling them, treating your face like it’s his own personal stress toy. “what the hell are you doing?”

you manage to gripe, trying to pry his hands off your poor, defenseless cheeks. your words are muffled as he stretches them in every direction, but he doesn’t bother answering. he’s far too focused on whatever weird satisfaction he’s getting from turning your face into putty in his hands.

“try that again,” he growls, giving your cheeks another firm pinch, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. “and i’ll squeeze ‘em even harder.”

you glare at him, your face still trapped in his grip. it’s hard to take him seriously when his smug smirk is stretched across his face like he just won the lottery. however, it’s clear that your discomfort is his entertainment, and it makes you want to bite back, but you can’t seem to muster the energy to do so.

meanwhile, katsuki is having the time of his life. it’s not his fault your skin is so damn malleable, like some kind of stress ball he can just squish and pull at his leisure. with every pinch, your face contorts in the most ridiculous ways, and it only makes his shit-eating smirk grow wider, as if he’s proud of the mess he’s making.

“y’look so stupid,” he mutters under his breath, loud enough for you to hear, though it sounds more like he’s speaking to himself. “stupid chipmunk,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost fond.

before you can even process what’s happening, his face is in front of yours, and with no warning, he plants a big, exaggerated smooch right on your lips. it’s awkward, considering how he’s still squishing your cheeks together, making your lips pucker out like a weird fish, but somehow, you can’t help but find it endearing.

then he does it again, this time a bit harder. and again. and again. each kiss lands wherever he can reach—your lips, your nose, your forehead, even your eyelids—like he’s trying to cover every inch of your face. you feel warmth spread across your chest from the tenderness of his gestures, even if they’re a little ridiculous. despite the absurdity of the situation, there’s something unexpectedly sweet about the way he’s so gentle with you, even when he’s teasing you relentlessly.

you’re about to tease him right back for being such a softie, ready to throw out a playful jab when, of course, he just has to ruin the moment.

“ew, katsuki!” you yelp, your voice high-pitched with surprise as he suddenly sinks his teeth into your right cheek. it’s not hard enough to hurt, more like a playful nip, but it’s wet and the way his tongue shamelessly flickers against the bite mark sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. you try to push him off, but he’s latched onto you like some feral animal.

“seriously?!” you gasp, squirming in his grip, but he remains completely unbothered. “this is disgusting! my cheek’s all wet now!” you cry, twisting and turning in his arms, trying to wipe the saliva off with your shoulder.

“serves you right for biting my shoulder earlier. y’thought i’d forget? hah.” he says with a wicked smirk, leaning back just enough to admire the mess he’s made of your face—flustered, pouty, and still glistening with the aftermath of his attack.

you groan, smacking his chest in frustration, but the bastard doesn’t even flinch. in fact, he looks proud of himself.

“you’re the absolute worst, katsuki bakugo.” you glare at him, half-exasperated, half-amused.

“yeah, i’m fuckin’ terrible,” he grins, clearly enjoying the annoyance in your voice. to emphasize his words—and to annoy you even further probably—he pinches the same cheek he just bit like an overbearing grandma checking to see if you had enough to eat.

yup, katsuki loves your cheeks, especially when they’re all flushed because of him.

[thatrandomidiot182]

Glimpse of Another Life

Variant! Invincible/Mark Grayson × Kryptonian! Reader

Warnings. minor angst, mentions of unrequited love, mentions of death/murder.

A/N. This is verrry dialogue centric, and written during 3am spurts of inspiration, so it's not the greatest, but I do like how it ended up. I hope yall like it as well! P.s. This is not referencing any of the canon Mark variants, but it can be seen as viltrumite Mark if you want! I just had this idea and wanted to share bc pathetic Mark has me DOWN BAD 😫

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

"I thought I'd find you here."

The statement sends a wave of panic down your spine, breaking the peaceful silence you had tried so desperately to find. Your body springs up, instantly uncurling from the fetal position you had been floating in as you tense, preparing to face the source.

"You always came up here after a rough day."

God you wish he'd just shut up.

You never thought you'd feel like this, but after everything that's happened these last twenty-four hours, all you wanted to do was escape that damn voice.

It's why you had fled the planets atmosphere in the first place. Speeding off to curl up in your hiding place next to the sun as soon as things had died down.

It was the one place you knew you could avoid Mark— or at least, your Mark.

It was the one place you could escape the sound of his voice spitting words he'd never say.

"You look exactly the same... You're as beautiful as the day I lost you."

He whispers your name like a prayer, and it sends a violent wave of nausea rolling through your stomach.

Just yesterday it would have brought you an embarrassing amount of glee to hear his voice calling out to you in such a tone.

The teasing lilt and deep, raspy pitch would normally send a wave of comfort over your tensed figure, instantly quelling your fear... Mark always did have the innate ability to shatter your defenses. Even with something as simple and small as a laugh.

"Please. I'm not here to hurt you. I'd never hurt you, I just... I needed to see you again. It's the only reason I came here."

His voice trembles, pitch heightened as he begs, "Please let me see you."

Your body trembles as you feel his presence drawing closer. Whether it was with fear, rage or exhaustion, you don't know. Maybe a sick combination of all three...

"I'm not that person..."

It was the only thing you could think to say in the moment, and your enhanced hearing allows you to hear the stutter in his breath all too clearly...

Along with his heartbeat, which was beating almost as fast as yours.

"I know."

His voice is small, defeated. As you finally turn to face him, body coiled and tensed for a fight, you find yourself freezing at the sight– because this Mark was different.

His face was stronger, more defined. All chisled cheeks and sharp jawline, no trace of the leftover baby fat you loved to squish when he was being too cocky.

Prominent eyebags and traces of a five o-clock shadow age him significantly. Although, taking into account the scars that littered his face and hands and the pure size of him, it was safe to assume he was a bit older.

As your gazes finally meet, you find yourself hesitating at the amount of pain and fondness his eyes held.

That hesitation lasted for only a moment, because as soon as your brain processed the full image of this Mark, you froze.

There are quite a few reasons you feel as though you should be afraid of him, but none of them were what set you off.

It wasn't the suit, which was, to your horror, the classic Viltrumite uniform that you had seen on the previous visits from the race.

It wasn't the length of his hair, which was only slightly shorter than your Marks' was and added to the aura of stern maturity he carried.

It wasn't even the broad expanse of his shoulders, that easily beat your Mark's in comparison, that caused you to freeze in such fear.

It was because of how much he looked like his father.

From the slope of his shoulders to the cinch of his waist, even down to the swell of his thighs, this Mark was undeniably his fathers son.

You'd never thought that Mark had looked like Nolan as much as everyone said he did, but seeing what could be– what is, this other Mark... One who is far from the slender, goofy, childhood best friend of yours that can't build huge muscles if his life depended on it...

Suddenly made you grateful that Debbie's genes had put up such a fight.

Because even as you see Nolan in the mass of his muscles, and the stance that takes up as much space as possible while simultaneously exuding danger and strength– You can still see the remnants of his humanity in the shape of his eyes and curve of his lips. In the slope of his nose and the brown of his iris, you see traces of one of the greatest women you've ever known.

Which is the only reason you haven't moved to attack.

Because this Mark was different. Not just from your Mark, but from all the other Mark's who you had fought (and killed) throughout the past few hours.

Whereas those Marks were all varying in size and stature, their eyes had all held the same sinister glint.

They all shared the same sick inclination to violence and pride, never hesitating to attack first, with a stupid, egoistic whip and strength that rivaled your own.

He didn't.

Despite his size, his posture was carefully submissive, hands splayed open before your eyes in a show of innocence and vulnerability.

His eyes were gentle and tired, rather than obsessive and manic as the others had been.

Still, despite his seemingly unviolent nature, you don't know why you never attacked him.

Maybe it was the desperate hope to find another Mark that was good, or at least, not as bad as all the others.

Maybe it was the overwhelming exhaustion that had numbed your mind since you were first forced to kill a version of your best friend.

Or maybe it was because he somehow knew where to find you, when even your Mark had no idea about your solar absorption, that led you to where you are now.

Sat next to him in a cozy little crater on the moon, overlooking earth as he recalls your alternate life.

"We grew up together. Inseparable since the moment Nolan brought you home from the GDA after your little ship landed in the middle of New York." You note the peculiar use of Nolan's name, nodding along with his words as you reflect on your past with your own Mark.

"I used to be so jealous of you growing up. Unlike me, you had your powers since birth. Nolan always told me that it didn't matter how long you had your powers because when I got mine, I'd be stronger anways." He scoffed, "Fucker was always trying to pit us against each other..."

You tilted your head at that, confused by the notion, "He... never did that here." Your voice was hesitant, unsure if sharing the fact would comfort or further upset him.

Based on the way he smiled at the sound of your voice, you assume he wasn't too concerned with your actual words.

"That.. Makes me so happy to hear, actually." He laughs, breathless and without much humor, "I imagine we– You have a much better relationship with him then..." He trails off, glancing questioningly your way.

You pause, "With Nolan? Or..."

He huffs, leaning more into his elbows that are crossed over his bent knees as he responds, "Both, I suppose..." He gazes out at the expanse of space longingly, "I've thought about it a lot... What it could've been like if he never made us hate each other."

His grin falters, "But that didn't happen. Well, it did, just– not fast enough..." He stutters, and you watch nervously as his fists clench.

"We were at each other's throats our entire lives, and it only got worse when I finally got my powers– I think I was thirteen?" His body remains tense as he continues, "I used to see you as competition. Nolan always paid more attention to you. He took you with him on patrol, he trained you, he.... He made me feel like you were in the way of our relationship as father and son."

He scowls, "I felt like I had to fight for Nolans attention whenever you were around, and it made me hate you because you seemed to take it for granted. You were never enthusiastic about spending time with him, you even seemed to avoid it, and it pissed me off to see you taking advantage of it when I had to beg for crumbs of his approval." He grit his teeth, shuffling ridgedly and you instinctively lean further away at his agitation.

His head snaps your way, and your heart lurches in your throat, wide eyes meeting his as he softens under your flighty stare.

"That's exactly what he planned..." He trails off, head turning away as his body slumps, agitation fizziling out at the sight of your fear. "He wanted me to hate you, so that I would eventually have the will to... eliminate you when the time came to conquer earth. He-He knew that you were the only thing that could pose a threat to our takeover." You both winced at the wording.

"It wasn't until junior prom that I actually opened my eyes..." He laughed sadly.

"Mom made us go together, seeing as neither of us were very popular and tried to use that as an excuse not to go..." He smiled with a wistful sigh, "I'm glad she did. It... ended up being the best night of my life." Your heart clentched at the sight of his crooked smile. His eyes were glazed and reflected the light of the stars in a way that had your breath hitching all too familiarly.

He laughs again, eyes crinkling with affection, "I still remember how awkward you looked in your cute little outfit." His voice took on a teasing lilt as he glanced at you, "Standing at the top of the stairs all grumpy because mom wanted a picture..." He leaned back to lean on his hands with a laugh, "I remember standing there like an idiot. Gaping like a fish because, all of a sudden, you were more than the annoying kid who took my dad from me... You were just... A normal teenager... Who also happened to be the prettiest person I'd ever seen." Your cheeks flushed, and despite knowing he's not actually talking about you... you couldn't help but let yourself indulge in the compliment that your Mark had never even come close to speaking.

"You know, I beat myself up the entire car ride to the school. It was so awkward and it made me realize that despite my dad's interference... You never hated me."

Your eyes are wide and curious as you listen. His voice held so much fondness for this other version of you, it was shocking to imagine him ever hating her.

"I felt like the worst person alive when I realized that despite how awful I was to you, you never held it against me. Guess it's because you knew that I didn't know who my dad actually was..." his voice trailed off, and you could sense the rising anger simmering in his eyes.

"Who knew all it took for you guys to get along was teenage hormones and the dougie..."

Your absentminded comment snaps him out of his haze, drawing his attention as a bewildered stare graces his features.

"I mean, a sixteen year rivalry ended in one night! Must've been some prom..." You smile as you finally get a laugh out of him, quietly reveling in the sound.

"Yeah. It sure was." He smirks, eyes twinkling with a familiar mischief, "You can dance a mean cupid shuffle."

You burst into laughter, tossing your head back with a grin, "Tell me, does you having two left feet translate to every universe?"

He grins back, "Well, yeah– but you said it was cute!"

Your laughter rings in the quiet expanse of space, heard only thanks to the superior senses of your respective alien biologies.

In your humorous fit, you fail to realize how close you began to lean towards Mark until the warmth of his bicep met your own.

Your laughs dwindle at his sudden silence, head tilting to eye him as you grow concerned.

You were met with a gentle, fond smile that set your heart ablaze. His eyes were soft, cheeks pink and dimpled as he stared at you reverently.

You stayed quiet, allowing yourself the moment to soak in his undivided adoration, silently preening under his gaze.

It wasn't until he reached a hand up to brush against your cheek that you snapped out of your stupor. Hesitantly pulling away as you reprimand yourself for getting swept away.

After all, this isn't your Mark.

This isn't your best friend (and nothing more).

Your Mark would never willingly speak so adoringly of you.

Your Mark would never caress you so softly, as if you were something to be worshipped.

Your Mark just didn't love you like you loved him.

It was cruel and unfair to lean into the embrace of this Mark and take advantage of his feelings because at the end of the day, you are not the you he fell in love with.

Your thoughts drive you to break the silence with a sharp sigh, pointedly ignoring his hurt stare as he slowly lowers his hand back to his side.

"Why are you here, Mark?"

He stares at you with a furrowed brow, "I told you, I wanted to see–"

"No, I mean–" You take a breath, gesturing to the earth before you half-heartedly, "Why did you come here with them, if you don't want to conquer our world like they do?"

He takes longer to answer you this time, and you began to worry about his answer.

"It was the only way to see you again." His voice is shaky, the warmth from your previous conversation gone as he glares out at the planet. "Angstrom promised that if I helped him get revenge, he'd let me see you– have you." He pauses, and you tense at the implication of his words.

He sighs, wincing at your jumpiness as he rushes to reassure you, "I'm not here to be the bad guy. I don't want to conquer this earth, I could care less about this Mark! I just– I needed to see you alive. T-To know that you're happy and healthy here... and to make sure it stays that way." His last words are spoken so softly they were almost whispered, and you hesitate to believe them for the sole reason you think you might have hallucinated them.

Nonetheless, you stay silent at the revelation, allowing yourself the time to properly digest your entire encounter thus far.

Your head is far more clouded than when you originally came up here after Mark had disappeared with Eve. After your heart could no longer take killing him again and again...

You don't know what you're supposed to do anymore...

You want to cry, but you can't because you know the Mark next to you will want to comfort you, and the worst part is that you'd allow it.

You want to go back down and pummel every varient you come across just to let out the frustration you feel, but you won't. Not after discovering the possibility that they're not all bad.

So what can you do? What should you do?

What will you do?

What you always do–

"Well, you said you weren't here to be the bad guy, right?"

You slowly rise from your seated position, looming over Mark with a steeled gaze.

Despite your seriousness, you can't help the quirk of your lips at the intense way he nods his head. You shoulders stiffen as you turn back towards earth resolutely, sparing him one last glance before taking off.

"Prove it."

–Save your planet.

[rachalixie]

a/n: me versus my addiction to writing sleepy minho. him being an adorable grump of a child when he's just woken up is my roman empire i never want him to be fully awake i want him to be this cute at all times please and thank you. kisses for you if you know which anime he's thinking about in this : )

heat.

you wake up sweating, an intense heat taking over your every sense in an uncomfortably disorienting way. rivulets of molten lava travel across your body, burning in their wake. scorching sun rays break through your skin to your very soul, hot iron brands your skin with uncomfortable heat-

it takes you a couple beats of time to realize that you are also trapped, every muscle group except for the tips of your toes incapable of movement. panic sets in for a split second before a familiar smell hits your nostrils, and your heart rate relaxes of its own accord.

minho always seemed to be able to play your heart like a well loved instrument, sending it into crescendo and decrescendo at will.

“minho,” your voice comes out half as a whine and half as a sigh, your face burrowing further into the juncture between his shoulder and neck. it makes you even hotter, but you accept the dots of sweat that form on your forehead in favor of becoming one with him. even though you spend nearly every waking moment with him, you can never get enough of his proximity.

he hums in response, trapped somewhere between awake and asleep, the sound of your voice breaching the walls of his consciousness.

"you're warm."

he hums again, pulling you closer into him and nuzzling his face in your hair with a whine. you press a kiss to his neck and your lips burn with it.

"really warm."

he lets out a deep sigh, and you can feel his eyes fluttering open as his eyelashes catch in your hair.

"i'm sleepy," he mumbles, and his pulse jumps when you brush your nose against his neck. "not warm."

"you're sleepy and warm," you giggle, still a bit sleep-drunk. he wriggles down in uncoordinated movements, his muscles not yet online along with his brain, until his face is squished into your chest and his body is shaped like a question mark against you.

“you're squishy,” his voice is tinged with glee, a nonsensical kind of happiness that wakes you up fully but does little to prepare you for- "like a slime. squishy slime."

you hate him. you hate him so much that the surge of angry fondness that takes over your every cell is almost too strong to bear. his voice is so soft that it's almost too quiet to hear, his eyes are fluttering under his closed lids, his cheeks are squished to your chest and his hair is a fluttered mess on his head. the heat from earlier makes itself known once again as your cheeks heat up with the effort it takes to not become violent with affection.

you hate him, but you love him just the same.

"minho, if you’re thinking of your dorky anime right now i’m getting out of bed," you threaten, the lack of bite in your tone making the threat hold no heat.

"mm, no," he throws a leg over yours, trapping you under powerful muscle and dead weight. "thinking about you, like i always am."

[rumisgf]

katsuki with a partner who’s a ray of fucking sunshine ‼️‼️ fav trope

yes thank you anon i will elaborate 😌🙏🏽

katsuki with an s/o who people will stare at for a couple minutes once they realize y’all are together, and he’ll want to get so extremely violent. but they’re not staring because they necessarily want you— it’s because they’re wondering how the fuck y’all ended up together. now, in theory, he does gravitate towards more positive/bubbly people imo (kirishima and izuku are great examples), and opposite definitely do attract. but you’re different. you’re one of those people who ‘light up every room’, and your smile is so bright it’s in competition with earth’s sun.

katsuki with an s/o who is such a dork he has to pretend it’s not the most adorable shit ever. he’s fighting back the biggest smile when you deadass start jumping up and down or clapping your hands out of excitement, or when you grin from ear to ear like the cheshire chat when he cooks you one of his family famous meals that he swore to himself he would never cook for anyone before he met you. it’s even worse when you giggle. or when you burst out into laughter smacking his shoulder and your head falling into his lap. oh, he hates it. he hates when you get all giddy because oh you’re so fucking cute. he wants to eat you alive and squish all the oxygen out of your body.

katsuki with an s/o who triggers said cute aggression on a daily basis. you could be smiling or rambling, and he’ll just squish your cheeks so hard your lips are all squished open and your front teeth are showing. or he’ll bite you– which he has no shame in doing. you could be cuddling and he’ll just slowly sink his teeth into your arm, soft enough to not draw blood but hard enough to hurt. he has no self control, especially when it comes to you, so please bare with him. you’re just too cute.

katsuki with an s/o who literally glows in the sunlight. golden hour is his absolute favorite hour. it’s almost embarrassing how he just stares at you, lost in how much you look like a divine deity send down to earth to make up for how shitty every human is. every day he question why you chose him or what is so damn special about him, but he’s glad he even gets to call you his. you make him a better man, and y’all fit together like two puzzle pieces.

[hxney-lemcn]

Friend's From Strange Places — Mr. Crawling x gn! reader

summery: living with Mr. Crawling has made your life less lonely.

tw: none.

wc: 0.5k

Master List

Part One | Part Two

Having a ghostly roommate wasn’t as bad as one would think. He didn’t break anything like a violent poltergeist, nor did he try to hurt you like the media would spew. In fact, he was the nicest person…err, being that you’ve ever met. Always looking out for you, checking in on you constantly. You had deemed him as Mr. Crawling since you couldn’t ask for his name. 

Speaking of which, you had been slowly learning how to speak his language. It didn’t seem to be as complex as your own, terms being grouped together with certain words. You’d like to think you got the basics down, now properly understanding him when he was concerned for you. In return, you could also check in on him as well.

“Pet, pet,” Mr. Crawling chirped happily. You had just gotten home and your roommate hadn’t wasted any time greeting you with head pats. Your relationship was strange. He clearly cared for you, in fact, he cared for you so much you’d feel your stomach flutter and heart skip a beat. Gosh, you felt kinda silly that you enjoyed his attention so much, not minding how much he’d mess your hair up.

“Hello,” You greeted back with a smile. “You good?” 

With a nod, Mr. Crawling smiled even wider, “You here. Me happy.” Feeling a bout of cute aggression, you held his face in your hands and gently squished his cheeks, making him giggle. 

“Me happy you here,” You responded back, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. Mr. Crawling seemed to get happier, holding one of your wrists and smiling widely (if not a bit eerily).

“You touch,” Crawling chittered. “Again.” Not able to say no to the cute ghost, you lean down and kiss his head again, making the ghost giggle. Sitting up to the best of his ability, Mr. Crawling pulls your head down gently and kisses your head in return.

The both of you seemed to constantly be teaching the other. Him, his language and that it's okay to be vulnerable. You, new shows of affection and human culture in general. It was harder to explain some things, like the concept of work or grocery shopping. Sometimes he’d go with you. The first time you left him, he had followed you. You were scared that people would see him, but to your surprise no one even batted an eye. It seemed that people couldn’t really see him, so you’d take him grocery shopping or for walks at night when you didn’t want to be alone. 

It seemed like Mr. Crawling really liked this new form of affection, continuing to kiss your head and face, small giggles coming from both of you. 

“You really like kisses, huh,” You muttered more to yourself than anything, but he seemed to hear. 

“Me like touch,” Crawling confirmed. “You like me?”

“Me like like you,” You nodded. “Many like you.”

“Excellent!” He cheered. “Me many like you.”

“I know,” You grinned, once again patting his head. “I love you too.”

Perhaps meeting him was fate, and you wouldn’t change it for the world…even if he would accidentally scare you from time to time.

[duvetchico]

is your face, like… made of clouds or some shit?

summary you touch chaewon’s face for science. she short-circuits. you short-circuit. everyone’s blushing. no thoughts, just soft.

genre fluff / crack / pining dumbasses

pairing kim chaewon x fem!reader

masterlist.

you were staring.

again.

you knew it was weird. but like—have you seen her? kim chaewon? human peach? softest skin known to man? god was showing off when he made her.

and right now, she was sitting across from you on the floor, legs crossed, talking about something you weren’t hearing at all because you were too busy brain-melting over how glowy her cheeks looked in the lamplight.

“—so then i told her, if you microwave another boiled egg, you’re cleaning up the explosion yourself,” she said, laughing.

you blinked.

then, with zero warning, leaned forward and gently cupped her face.

she froze.

“…uh.”

“dude.”

you gently smushed her cheeks with both hands. “your face is so soft.”

chaewon blinked at you. “wha—”

“like. freakishly soft. what is this. is your moisturizer made of angel tears?”

she made a noise that might’ve been a laugh or a glitching hard drive.

“why are you touching my face like you’re trying to read my soul,” she whispered, face rapidly turning red.

“because i think you might actually be made of marshmallows.”

you squished her cheeks a little more. “i’m serious. your face feels like a baby’s ass.”

“STOP CALLING MY FACE AN ASS.”

“a soft one!! a good one!!”

she shoved your hands away, covering her face in both palms. “why are you LIKE this.”

“why are YOU like this. all glowy and smooth and shit. this is harassment.”

she peeked at you between her fingers. “…you think i’m glowy?”

“don’t make me repeat it or i’ll melt.”

she giggled. giggled. like a literal cartoon princess. it did things to your heart. violent things.

“you’re so weird,” she mumbled.

“and you’re so cute it makes me want to scream into a toaster.”

you both sat in silence for a second.

then she reached out, slowly, and poked your cheek.

“…your face is kinda soft too,” she whispered.

you blinked. heart stopped. brain deleted itself.

“oh my god,” you whispered.

“what?”

“we’re both soft. we’re like—one pillow away from being a skincare ad.”

she burst out laughing, falling onto your shoulder and nearly taking you down with her.

and when you finally calmed down, cheeks hurting from smiling and hearts thumping too fast, she just leaned against you and stayed there.

soft skin. soft laughs. soft hearts.

this was heaven.

ten minutes later.

you were both still on the floor, now very much not touching, but also very much not talking about what happened.

you were pretending to scroll on your phone. she was pretending to be invested in a snack wrapper.

the air was loud with awkward silence.

finally, chaewon cleared her throat.

“so like…” she said, still not looking at you, “you just go around grabbing people’s faces like that?”

you snorted. “only the ones who feel like silk.”

her ears turned red.

“…you’re gonna make me cry,” she muttered.

“from joy?”

“from EMBARRASSMENT.”

you grinned and nudged her with your shoulder. “you liked it.”

“i did not.”

“you giggled.”

“shut UP.”

you leaned in a little. “you blushed too.”

“i always blush,” she muttered. “i have sensitive skin. you know this.”

“sensitive everything honestly.”

“do you want to die.”

you smirked. “maybe if it’s by your soft little hands."

chaewon went silent again.

then—

“…ok but like,” she said quietly, turning her head to look at you, “if i touched your face right now, would it be weird?”

your brain imploded.

“i—uh—no???”

she blinked at you for a second.

then reached up and gently cupped your cheek. like exactly how you did earlier.

her hand was small. warm. careful.

you nearly passed out.

“yep,” she said, nodding seriously. “soft. confirmed.”

you stared at her. “i think i’m gonna kiss you.”

she smiled, still holding your face. “do it then.”

and you did.

just a small one. a kiss on her cheek. fast. sweet. kind of chaotic. the kind of kiss that makes your whole face feel warm and fuzzy.

chaewon froze for a second.

then grinned.

like, full-on cheeky smile, eyes crinkling, smug as hell.

“wow,” she said, hand still on your face. “so you are in love with me.”

you groaned and dropped your head onto her shoulder. “shut up. i blacked out. i don’t remember anything.”

“nah uh. don’t play dumb now. you kissed me. you admitted my skin’s perfect. you basically proposed.”

you smacked her leg. “IT WAS A CHEEK KISS.”

“cheek kiss is stage one,” she said, nodding like a scientist. “next is holding hands in public. then forehead kisses. then shared toothbrushes—”

“STOP.”

“and then marriage.”

you raised your head. “so you’ve been thinking about it too.”

she blinked. turned red. panicked.

“uh. what? no?? i’m—I’m just joking?? haha. so silly. so unserious.”

you smirked. “you wanna share a toothbrush with me soooo bad.”

“take it back before i leave.”

“you showed up to my house. you’re never leaving.”

she flopped onto your lap with a dramatic sigh, hiding her face. “ugh. you’re the worst.”

you ran your fingers through her hair, grinning like an idiot. “and you’re the softest little shit i’ve ever met.”

she peeked up at you. “you still think my face is soft?”

you kissed her nose.

“baby,” you said. “i’d sleep on it like a pillow.”

[facioleeknow]

The art of pleasure ch.6

Authority ° Lee Felix

When one girl in your class makes fun of you for being a virgin at a party, you are left distraught. It's only natural that you decide to whine about it to your best friend, Bang Chan; but he does more than lending a shoulder to cry on, he comes up with a solution. He and his 7 friends will help you and teach you all about the pleasure of the flesh. What could go wrong?

Genre: SMUT 18+ only, college AU WC:1.6k +

TW: experienced Felix, inexperienced reader, intercourse, cumshots, sub Felix, Felix cries, mention of safe word, first time domming, grinding

A/N, another chapter after less than a week?? I'm spoiling you guys ahah ;), I hope you like the chapter and I also have a super important announcement regarding the story so go to my blog and find out <3

Han scrambled up at the voices and rushed to pull his pants and underwear up before the door swung open violently.

“Hyung, we're naked, you can't just come in!” Hannie whined like a baby, he was the baby of the trio after all. Changbin tsked at him and Chan simply rolled his eyes, it wasn't the first time they were naked around each other and clearly wouldn't be the last. Meanwhile you laid on the table, front and cheek completely squished against it. The tiredness from the previous day had gotten to you, maybe having your first time and another fuck not even 12 hours apart hadn't been a good idea. Hyunjin had treated you so well that you were barely sore in the morning but Hannie had been very intense and you were sure you would feel it the day after. 

Cum started to sleep out of you and drip down your thighs but you were so tired, you just wanted to nap.

“Hey, baby, are you okay?” Chan's voice was soft, you had never heard such softness come from him even if he had always been nothing but wonderful to you. You hummed in response.

“Tired.” Chan giggled at your cute cheeks and droopy eyes.

“Let me clean you up, okay?” Another hum and then you heard shuffling behind you. A soft tissue came in contact with your soiled and puffy pussy and you immediately hissed at the touch and tried to scramble higher up the desk.

“Easy, baby, easy. I'm all done,” the tissue soon disappeared and was replaced by your soft panties and your shorts. Chan dragged a chair near you and then sat down, his legs spread enough to make room for you.

“Come here, baby, let's take a nap, yeah?”  

You didn't let him tell you twice because you all but jumped on him and attached yourself to his body like a koala. Napping with Chris was your favorite activity in the world. As soon as your head hit his shoulder, your eyes closed. The last things you heard were the two older boys chastising Han.

“I can't believe you didn't make her cum!”

“She said it was fine, hyung!”

When you woke up, you were in a different position, on the couch with a jacket draped over your middle. You felt warm and content. 3racha was still working in front of you, how long had you been asleep for? You patted yourself for your phone. 

“Chris?” Your voice was hoarse and tired. The three boys jumped in their seats at the sudden voice. Chan rolled close to you and studied your face as to find any sign of discomfort.

“Slept well baby?” His thumb gently drew circles on your warm cheek and you sighed and melted into the affection.

“Yes, very. Where is my phone?” Changbin, from behind Chan, handed you the device.

“Felix called and he texted, you should text him back,” Changbin had a naughty glint in his eyes, that could only mean one thing.

Felix was the only one of the boys that you were closer to, except for Chan. In all honesty, with all of his cuteness and kindness, the sunshine boy was very hard to dislike and you had no intention of trying.

Lixie:

Hey bubby, Binnie hyung told me you were sleeping, I wanted to know when you wanted to meet :D

You: 

Hey Lixie <3

Sorry I was pretty tired, I had a date with Hyunjin last night and one with Han this morning 

Lixie: 

Are you okay? Sore? :(

You:

A little but don't worry, sweet boy, nothing I can't handle

Did you have a time in mind already for the hangout? <3

Lixie: 

I was thinking next weekend, if it's not too early :D

You: 

It's perfect Lixie, I'll see you next weekend

Lixie:

Rest well, bubby <3

Getting ready for the date with Felix was easy. You felt comfortable around him since you were already friends and the only one of the boys you were friendly with, except for Chan. The fact that you knew what to expect from intercourse in general also helped you greatly, sex now wasn't this big mystery to you anymore, albeit you still had a lot to learn.

You knocked on Felix's door excitedly, this lesson was gonna be fun, you could feel it.

“Hey bubby,” Felix opened the door with one of the biggest and brightest smiles you had ever seen. He was so precious. The boy quickly pulled you into his room.

“So, on the list that Chan gave me it said ‘domming’. Do you want to talk more about that?” your voice was firm and determined, you were excited to try and uncover this new side of you and to feel new things physically.

“Oh, hyung told you already…” his voice was lower than usual. Your hand gently covered his small one and then squeezed, as to spur him on.

“Yeah, I like to not have control, I like to do what other people tell me to do,” his cheeks were dusted with pink and his eyes were round and sparkly, you wanted to eat him up.

“That's okay, I think I can do that, do you have a safe word?”

“Yeah, it's gold league,” he chuckled. Of course it was game related, typical Felix.

“Okay, do you want to play?” a wink from you sent the boy into a blushing and stuttering mess.

“Yes!”

“Put your games on then, bubby.” Felix looked at you confused, but still got up and sat down in front of his computer. Oh how you loved when a man did what you told him, you were starting to feel the thrill some women got from dominating. 

Right when Felix logged into League, you got up.

“Be a good boy, keep playing and let me have my fun, and maybe I'll let you cum at the end if I'm satisfied.” Felix looked at you with big round eyes, his bottom lip slightly jutted out and trembling. A small whimper escaped from his lips when you sat down on his lap, thick thighs on either way of his. 

“Don't hold back or I won't touch you at all.” Felix nodded frantically while still trying to play, he was trying to focus but his mind zeroed on how good your weight felt on his half hard cock. You placed small feather light kisses all over his neck and shoulders, he was wearing a tank top and you almost wanted to cheer at the choice; more skin more surface to play with. When your tongue came in contact with his pulse point on his neck, Felix whimpered and started trembling underneath you, his cock pushed against his short and you could feel it deliciously throb through your panties.

“Miss, please,” he looked and sounded like he was about to shatter but, like a good boy, he kept playing his game. Your hips started to grind harshly on top of his bulge, your clit caught on his zipper so deliciously that in a matter of moments your underwear was ruined by your slick.

“You like to call your girls ‘miss’, Felix?” A whimper and a nod, “what a naughty boy.” At your words a wet patch of precum started to form on Felix's shorts. He was probably close and so were you, both of you were extremely worked up. You needed him inside. 

With swift fingers you unbuttoned his shorts and pulled down his zipper. His cock stood proud in front of you, he wasn't as long as Hyunjin or as thick as Changbin and was even shorter than Han but you were sure he would feel good nonetheless.

“No underwear? Tsk, you're a bad boy.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he sobbed, a fat tear rolled down his cheek but was swiftly caught by your gentle hand.

“Its okay baby, I like bad boys.” Without any other words, you pulled your panties to the side and sank down on him. Two equally pleased moans sounded in the room. Your hips started moving almost immediately, you were too impatient to wait.

“Baby why don't you stop playing your games now and start playing with my little clit? If you can make me cum before you, I'll give you a reward,” your voice sounded sickly sweet like you had never heard before, and Felix complied immediately. His short, small and warm fingers worked wonders on your swollen bud, he was skilled and liked pleasuring others. With how worked up you were and with how good Felix's cock felt rubbing your walls back and forth it didn't take too long for you to feel that familiar pressure start to build inside your guts.

“Oh, baby keep going, I'm so so close.” Felix's hand applied even more pressure to your poor sensitive clit and you came with a long keen. Your hips slowed down while you rode out your high and Felix whined at the change.

“Miss, miss, can I please cum now?” 

“Yes baby, whenever you want.” Your hips picked up the pace and increased it what to Felix seemed tenfold; you were so wet and warm and soft and smelled so good. Your voice was so nice and you took such a great care of him, he had to cum for you.

“Oh miss I'm coming, I'm coming.” You quickly pulled yourself up and off the chair. The front of your dress got shoved down impatiently by your clammy hands and you kneeled in front of your sweet boy.

“Why don't you cum all over me, baby boy?” A hand wrapped around his tiny dick and quickly began to jerk him off. Felix's hips lifted off the chair to follow the movement from your hand, his hands dug into the plush of the armrests. 

Soon white ropes of cum landed on your chest and face while Felix whimpered and thrashed in the chair. 

“Thank you miss,” the sunshine boy sent you a weak but bright smile and you cooed at the sight. 

“You're welcome, baby.”

“Can I pick my reward now?”

@kflixnet

[blue-jisungs]

MORE BOXER GUNWOOK I BEGGGGGGGGGGGG IM RIPPING MY HAIR OUT LOSING MY MIND RNNN

work out method

author's note. hehe you ask you shall receive!! also wrote it for @slytherinshua bc i enjoy making u lose ur mind :D

warnings. not a warning really but it’s specified it’s fem!reader that loves pink, lowkey a pilates princess if you will; violence mention n just,, its boxer gunwook so its related to that; sohee/jiwoong/hanbin cameo + slight jealousy. ALSO this is a continuation of this but it can be read separately c:

word count. 1429

“seriously?” jiwoong scoffed and halted his movement. gunwook used that to his advantage, landing a sharp punch in the older’s chest. 

only after doing that, he turned his head to where jiwoong was facing. 

and instantly a smile broke out on his intensely focused face dripping with sweat. 

“hi baby!” you yelled out and waved your hand. 

what jiwoong reaction meant was probably the ridiculousness of this situation (well, he always joked a bit about your relationship – gunwook being the violent boxer, and you being the embodiment of pink sunshine). 

your whole outfit was pastel pink, even your mat and water bottle. gunwook’s eyes also noticed the little bow on your tied hair.

“i hope i’m not interrupting! wookie said i could use the gym anytime so here i am. don’t mind me, boys” you hummed and gunwook felt jiwoong’s burning gaze on his face.

“’wookie’? seriously?” the older teased and came back to his fighting posture. 

“you’re just jealous, you’re single as fuck” gunwook grunted and also kept his stance, observing you with a corner of his eye. 

you were just putting on your pink headphones with hello kitty stickers on them. 

it was rather amusing, he had to admit. the image of you, all sweet and sugary in a pink outfit, in this obscurely messy (and probably stinky) place. filled with gym rats, and not a single hint of pink anywhere. 

“focus, park. i know you want to fly to your barbie doll like a puppy in love but you still have a training to finish” jiwoong hissed harshly, throwing a direct punch at his pupil. 

gunwook just grunted and ducked in the last second, keeping distance. 

but he couldn’t quite focus, to be frank. your sudden visit just made him so happy and he just wanted to have you in his arms and– 

wait. 

why is that guy approaching you? 

“snap back!” jiwoong raised his tone but only the punch landed on gunwook’s collarbone made him realize that. 

he took a few steps back from the impact, eyes glued to you. and sohee. 

this idiot. why did even hanbin bring him here? and why is he talking to you– 

a painful hit coming to a contact with his jaw. gunwook lost balance and fell on the floor with a slam, causing you to turn around. 

there was worry in your eyes, ready to approach him but he just shook his head and quickly stood back up. 

“jealousy is a disease, get well soon” jiwoong snickered and patted his back “go sort this guy out and come back. take that as a break, maybe then you will focus” 

gunwook sent him a boyish smile and left the boxing ring, hand glued to his jaw. 

“i saw that, my poor baby” you whined as soon as you saw him approaching and walked up to him, cupping his face. 

you took care of him many times, countless nights spent on bandaging and cleaning his wounds. 

gunwook melted upon your touch, the adrenaline rush coming off of him. then, he eyed sohee up and down. 

“don’t you have training to finish? where’s hanbin?” your boyfriend hissed and you just sent him a shocked look. 

“you’re younger than me, gunwook. stop bossing around” sohee frowned and crossed his arms “i was just being polite and said hello to your girl”

“exactly, my girl–” gunwook’s next words were muffled because you squished his cheeks roughly, preventing his lips from moving. 

“i apologize, sohee. wookie can sometimes be a little mean” you smiled sweetly and saw the amusement in the guy’s eyes.

“’wookie’?” he repeated with a mocking smile and shook his head “it’s fine, y/n. i’ll go back to training now, have a good one!”

you let gunwook’s face go and waved at sohee. before you could even register him waving back, gunwook placed a gentle kiss on your cheek. 

“hi” he grinned like an idiot, clearly happy that you two are alone now” 

“hi, mr boxer. how was your day? did you kick some ass?” you asked, tucking a strand of his hair away from his eyes. it stocked to his forehead because of the sweat but you weren’t grossed out. 

“mhm. jiwoong is gonna be all sore tomorrow” he hummed and adored your face. you looked so cute “do you need me to help you with warming up?” 

your brows shot up in surprise. 

“do you have the time? i’m pretty sure you were in the middle of–” you started and gunwook leaned closer, lips brushing against yours. his hands rested on your hips.

“grandpa can wait” he whispered, obviously having jiwoong in mind. 

you chuckled and pressed a soft kiss on his chapped lips. 

gunwook helped you stretch a bit at first, occasionally eyeing sohee angrily through the mirror on the wall. 

his hands were guiding you softly, gentle touches fixing your position. 

jiwoong looked at you two from the corner of the gym with an amused smile. 

“he acts so rough and rebellious but look at him, hearts in his eyes as he’s so careful with her” his coach cooed and hanbin, who was next to him, nodded. 

“they are such a cute couple” 

and it was true; gunwook used to be an illegal boxer, almost everyday risking his life for some adrenaline and underground fame. you knew about it but that didn’t stop your heart from hurting whenever he came home all bruised up. 

one day you two decided to put this to a halt: it was slowly eating your relationship alive. 

gunwook decided to become a professional boxer, seek legal training and slow down with the championships and weekly fights. 

he was rough, it was like second nature to him. but with you he was always gentle, as if scared to break you in half. 

one maybe wouldn’t notice but jiwoong, who has been training the younger for a while now, certainly saw it. not only now but in general, you had a good influence on him.

so why not let the kid goof around for a little longer before dragging him back to practice? 

“c’mon, five more” gunwook encouraged you and all of a sudden warming up became an actual training. 

he was gently holding your ankles, playful smile on his lips, as you were laying on the ground. you’ve already done twenty crunches but he knew you could do five more. 

“one crunch one kiss” you mumbled and he nodded with a grin. 

with such a motivation, you managed to pull up and met his lips halfway. erupting into giggles when you laid back, you couldn’t help but adore his smile too. 

“i think i might start using that method as well” gunwook clicked his tongue and you did the second one. 

“but you work out here, not at home. and im rarely here” you teased and your back met the ground again. “will you do it with jiwoong? or maybe sohee?”

“just hurry up and do the third one” he grunted and you did, pecking his soft lips. he spoke up after you pulled back “fair point though, i might just start warming up at home” 

you tried to catch your breath, your stomach muscles near giving up. 

“come on, two more” your boyfriend tilted his head, sneaky smirk on his features. 

you rolled your eyes and gathered your strength: with a swift move you moved forward, almost bumping into his nose. gunwook chuckled quietly and started drawing circles on your ankles with his fingers. 

“last one, baby. you’ve got this” he hummed, brown eyes shining with enthusiasm. 

and you did. with a dramatic groan you pulled back up and met his lips, this time kissing him a little more passionately. gunwook’s hand sneaked up and squeezed your knee, deepening the kiss. 

“gross, absolutely gross. and trust me, i have seen a lot taking place in this gym. chop, chop, wookie. back to training” jiwoong’s voice boomed above you and you pulled away, flustered. 

gunwook full on ignored his coach, though. he just kept staring at you with a wide smile. 

seeing you all blushing, in the place he couldn’t imagine his life without, doing what he loves… with you by your side. it was a good decision to give up illegal boxing. besides, he gets to see you more often–

“now” before gunwook realized, jiwoong was pulling him up by his shirt. 

“just go train and wrap up early. we can continue our training at home” you mumbled and saw his cocky smile before jiwoong dragged him to the ring again. 

masterlist <3

taglist. @slytherinshua ,, @weird-bookworm ,, @haecien ,, @stryroses

[kneelingshadowsalome]

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 4/4

König x F!Reader

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Word count: 10 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Another long chapter, but it's the last one, so... Enjoy! ^^

The next night, you dream awake.

You didn’t want to sleep with your back turned against him, and König didn’t even need to scoop you into his arms. You went there by yourself, completely willingly. You were disappointed when he didn’t even try anything; he just fell asleep like a baby after the hangover that left him weak.

Your hand is on his chest, right over his heart, as you listen to his soft snore. It’s like the whole world has shrunk into this bed, like your entire life suddenly consists of him. You can’t even hear the birds, the occasional gust of wind, or the pair of sandals outside the tent going to a nightly pee. The only thing you can hear or see or feel is him.

His heart under your palm. His chest against your cheek. The slow, steady rise and fall of it, the push and pull of it like a tide. His leg, draped across your hip, enclosing you under a heavy body that clings to you like he never wants to let you go.

And…

No. 

It’s too stupid.

“Love” is something bards sing about. There’s no time for it in the real world; lust brings people together, and they multiply like birds and beasts. They simply flock together for warmth, food and survival. Love is the property of dreams and songs, something that happened at the dawn of time but now only occurs in tales and plays. Surely, a mountain giant knows nothing about love… He just wants to stuff his cock inside you and alleviate the burn of his loins.

But his words still linger.

”I have fallen in love with you.”

You repeat them over and over again in your head, snuggling even closer to him, your heart flaring into a small bonfire when he squeezes you in return through sleep. The warmth spreads across your chest, it makes your toes tingle, and the tingles rise up to your head like ale, bringing tears to your eyes. 

Why does he have to be like this…?

There’s a sudden crack of thunder outside, and it makes you startle and clutch him tighter. It’s soon followed by a downpour of rain, the weight of it like a blanket spreading across the land. The drops beat the tent with so much noise you fear the whole abode will collapse from the force of them.

Another crackle sends you to grip him with fear; a violent rip of lightning makes you bury your head in his neck. König mostly wakes up to your distress rather than the sounds of thunder and hail, rumbling softly to the crown of your head and drawing you closer to him. You’ve always been afraid of thunder because nothing can compete with the fury of the Sky Father. You whimper as another roar shakes the bed, the very earth beneath you, and the rain begins to beat the tent in full.

“Don’t be afraid, little one,” König mutters, unafraid and clearly about to fall back to sleep again. “Only sky father making love to his woman...”

His explanation of the horrible display of the sky god’s power wipes your mind blank for a moment. He uses the same name of the god as you, but the viewpoint is thoroughly foreign. Is this the sound of lovemaking to him? 

“Safe here,” he squishes you against him until it’s difficult to breathe. Your heart is still beating in your chest as König falls asleep, the arms around you relaxing just enough to allow you to breathe again. 

In the morning, you try to correct him on his strange thoughts about Sky Father. You tell him your people believe he’s fighting his enemies when it thunders, not… making love to anyone.

“Fighting or fucking,” he only shrugs. “Same noise.”

You open your mouth to explain the difference between fucking and lovemaking next, then decide it’s no use.

The weather is warm and the land is lush after the abundant rain. König takes you to a small stream and you risk to take a dip, delighted and relieved to have the opportunity for a quick wash. When you threaten to gut him when he sleeps if he takes a peek, König only laughs. Probably thinks it’s an exciting threat. Then he sits on the bank to work on a small piece of wood while you have your cold bath. He’s been carving it for a few days and has refused to show it to you, no matter how “nosy” you’ve been. It’s an unfinished piece, yes, but it still feels silly that a grown man is so secretive about a chunk of wood. You only now begin to understand that perhaps the statue of the Great Mother is not stolen. It’s not bought, and he hasn’t had it made. He carved it himself.

Shocked, you forget to keep an eye on him while you scrub and rub yourself in the stream. You never thought of him as a sculptor or even a carpenter, but apparently, some soldiers spend their leisure time in other activities than fucking and drinking and gambling.

Your hands meet the leather string of the necklace as you wash your hair, and you remember your vow. It makes your heart sink: it’s a beautiful day, the first of summer, and you have to let go of the loveliest thing König has ever given to you. You peek a glance at him: he’s looking so peaceful while carving the small figurine, with that signature smile his that always reveals itself through his eyes, warm and jovial, like he’s just a hunter or a fisherman having a break from a day of toil.

You strip yourself from the necklace and release it with a sullen breath. The spirits accept it hungrily, pulling it underwater the instant you let it go. The current carries it far away downstream, and you find your chin trembling, and not from cold. You have given your moonblood to Mother many, many times, but this gift is infinitely more valuable. Still, the most important thing is that the man you prayed for is alive and whistling happily on that bank.

And you’re not an oathbreaker… But König is. 

When you rise from the water, he steals a glance. Actually, he stares at you like you’ve particularly asked him to never rip his eyes from you. 

You pay the adoring beast no mind and rise from the stream with the pride of a queen, only to have it all robbed from you as you notice there are flowers placed there where you left your clothes. The crazy giant has actually plucked flowers for you.

It’s an odd thing to do because in your land, only children pick flowers. Usually, people give flowers to the gods. Or, mainly just to the Great Mother... It’s because She appreciates them. 

And you also notice your old dress is not where you left it.

“Where is it?” 

He extends his hands to the sides and shrugs, faking innocence so poorly that you don’t know if you want to shove or kiss him. You’re desperately trying to cover your womanhood from his searing stare – an attempt that, of course, makes your tits press together even more cutely than before. König doesn’t even know where to look when there’s so much of your sweetness on display. 

This man is so stupid and childish and simply unbelievable; hiding your dress the instant you are vulnerable and in your thoughts. You look around you, then up, and notice that he’s thrown the dress over a pine branch far above your reach. Of course.

“You’re a bully,” you turn your accusing gaze to him, hands now slowly curling into fists by your side. You’re not even angry: you’re just feeling... hot, and frustrated, and embarrassed, having to stand here in bright daylight, dripping wet and about to have another tantrum while naked. You’re starting to suspect that he probably enjoys it when you get in a pet. Maybe it makes his cock hard: to watch you stomp your foot at him, especially if you do it without clothes.

“Bully?” His eyes smile at you like he’s the son of Sky Father himself.

“It’s someone who… who tortures people,” you blurt, a bit more dramatically than you initially meant to. He bursts into laughter and laughs for a long time, either because you just called him precisely what he is or because you called him a torturer for doing a silly prank.

“Ach… Well, you are pretty,” he says after surviving something that was veritably not meant as a joke. As if you being pretty is some kind of an excuse for doing this stupid, childish stunt...

His stare sweeps over you like you’re merely property, his eyes darting between your pouty face and the glistening sex between your legs now that you’ve blessedly moved your hands out of the way. Then he notices that something’s missing, that there is no necklace resting above your breasts anymore. He takes a step and raises a hand, and for the first time ever, you wouldn’t even dream of shying away from his touch. He brushes your bare neck with a silent question and brief hurt in his eyes.

Gods, he can’t think you got rid of it because you despised it, can he...?

“The river took it,” you explain quickly and with genuine regret. It’s a lie, but you can’t tell him the real reason it’s gone. You can’t confess that you had to sacrifice it for his safe return.

“I really liked it,” you whisper while looking him straight in the eyes, stomach heavy with both lies and the horrible, sweet truth. König recuperates surprisingly fast and nods slowly, the caress rising to your cheek to console you.

“Don’t worry. I can make you a new one,” he promises stoutly, and you bite your lip to prevent yourself from bursting into tears right there in front of him. “With wolf claws, if you like?”

“I don’t know… Sounds dangerous.”

“Hah. I kill my first wolf when I was fifteen.”

Your heart is bursting inside your chest – the songs of the bards never tell about someone being so goofy that you want to hug them until they stop speaking silly things. 

“I’m sure you did,” your lips quiver with a whisper of a smile. König takes in every crumb of your affection like it’s a blessing from the Mother below: his shoulders draw back everytime he senses you are appreciative of him or admire his strength. He’s even more proud when he presents the small carving he’s been working on. 

You’re now absolutely, vehemently sure that he has made the statue of the Great Mother himself. Because what you’re looking at is very similar to that statue, only far more detailed. The breasts and hips on this figurine are more proportional, and you could almost swear that the statue he just gave you is trying to depict you. It has your hair and your face, or then he has tried to capture the slightly pouting face of some other ungrateful woman. But you can’t shake the thought that you may very well be looking into your own eyes.

“For you,” he says above you, and you swallow tears for gods know how many times today. He even winks at you, incredibly playful, like this statue is now a cute little secret only you two know about.

“It’s–I didn’t know you… Uh. Thank you,” you stutter like a fool. You can’t ask if it’s you – you can’t ask a simple question because to hear his unabashed, proud answer would mean that you won’t be able to hold yourself back from kissing him.

You are starting to feel like… an idol of worship, almost. 

He lavishes you with gifts and flowers, he feeds you grapes and wine, he brings you his bloodied loot and asks you to bless his sword. He honours your purity and respects your wishes not to be touched and pilfered.

What else are you if not a goddess? 

Even the Mother in his satchel doesn’t get such fevered attention. He even carved a new statue for you. Of you.

Your senses become eagle-sharp as you realize just how much your suspicions are proving true. You think about the way he is always at your tits, as if calling forth good luck and abundance when he squeezes them every day and night. It’s almost like a ritual. Or how he tries to dress you in fine clothes, not just to show you around, but to make you feel appreciated. The way he protects and shelters you and lets you – no, demands you to – ride his horse while he exhausts himself on the road. How the selecting of the necklace now seems like a test, to prove whether you are a true goddess who favors a gift of bone and blood and amber over the pathetic shiny trinkets of men. 

And the way he hasn’t touched other women all this time; no, because he doesn’t keep other goddesses...

Just you. 

Only you.

…

He knows your tongue so well that you don’t practically need the translator anymore. König sends him away after you whisper in his ear that you don’t like him.

It’s another lie because what you really don’t like is how bothered he looks when forced into the company of you two. You don’t like the deep sighs and the weary looks he gives both you and your supposed lover who always insists that you sit on his lap even if there are other people in the tent. You don’t want to make the poor man uncomfortable, so you come up with a reason for König to send him away. It's quite apparent that you could ask for the moon and stars, and he’d figure out a way to give them to you.

When you ask him why, for the love of all the gods, does he even want to keep a Roman slave, he says it amuses him. You always thought it was an odd thing to do because you’ve never seen König spend time with his soldiers. He never gambles with them, never eats with them, never hunts with them. By separating himself from them he keeps up an illusion of himself as a walking, fighting myth who has forced half the world to its knees, and whose quirks are to keep a Roman slave and, now, a foreign fairy in his tent.

You start to understand that it's because he doesn’t feel like he belongs.

He doesn’t even want to belong. He doesn't make an effort to be a Roman even if, legally, you suppose he’s a citizen or at least a free man. You wonder if it’s his only weakness: being so different from everybody else. 

You walk in and out of camp like a free woman with him. To the forest, to the stream, and one day, to the ocean, not too far from where you used to gather clams. If you walked the shoreline long enough, you would end up near your old village.

You spend your entire day there, collecting pink and white shells, giggling as König takes a dip in the shivering sea. He even throws the hood away before walking into the foaming waves. You have to hold your breath as he comes out because his face is the complete opposite of what you thought you would see. He has stern features and some prominent scars above his lip and crossing the bridge of his nose; there’s one above the left eye, and his nose has been broken at least two times. He looks mean and dangerous and suffering, it’s true, but you’re not scared at all. In fact, your embarrassingly wet while he furrows his brows and looks down at his feet, otherwise proud and happy in his skin but now suddenly concerned that you might not like what you see.

“Ugly?” He asks bluntly, with such distanced but sharp pain that your breath leaves you entirely. The vision of him might have frightened you on the first night, it’s true, but now, you only think he’s handsome. In a crude way, perhaps... But still handsome.

“No,” you shake your head slowly, never taking your eyes off him. König takes in air as if he has been granted a pardon from a horrible crime, and your heart hurts – is this the reason he has clung to that hood? To conceal some old scars and to appear more menacing to friends and enemies?

He’s stronger than ever as he walks to you, unclothed and smelling of seabreeze and salt, like he was just born from there, sired by the ocean and the wind. You ought to pray to Mother but you know it will do you no good. It’s a rotten joke to want a man who has massacred your people, the ones you used to call friend and neighbour and kin. You feel like you’re betraying the memory of your whole village by wanting to sleep with the enemy. The enemy who worships you; who looks at you like you’re a goddess when you lean back to watch the night sky come alive with indigo and stars. The enemy who teaches you their names in his own tongue...

He points you to the Head of the Serpent and the Smith’s Street, then to the Nail that holds the sky in place. You have your own names for the stars but you like it when he introduces them to you, clumsy and excited. When he shows you the long cock of the hero your people call Hunter, your cheeks heat up. You try to repeat the name in his tongue (whatever lewd, brash northern hero it may be), and it makes him happier than ever to hear you speak his words.

“König,” you ask him when he's shown you all the stars he knows. “Why do you fight…?”

He turns to look at you, perplexed, and you word the question differently.

“What do you want?”

“...What do I want?”

“Yes. In this life.”

His brows furrow as he starts to think, and your love for him only grows. Has no one ever asked him that before? Has he ever even given it a thought...? 

He grabs a handful of grass and rips it from the ground, absentmindedly and deep in thought. He fiddles with it for a while, then throws it away, looking somewhere to the distant, generous sea.

“I want…children,” he says. “I want a home.”

König turns to look at you, so stern that it forces you take support from the earth beneath you.

“Home. Richtig?”

“Yes,” you whisper, “A–a home.”

But it can’t be...

It can’t.

It’s simply too crazy that the brutal, callous giant has been searching for a home all along. That the man who cuts off heads and spits out the flesh of his enemies is simply someone who has lost his home and has yearned back ever since. It’s too wild a thought that the Titan wants to raise a family and have many children.

“Don’t you have a home somewhere in Rome…?” 

“It’s only a house.”

He fidgets with more grass, then turns back to you again with honest curiosity.

“Do you want children?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Fee. You would be a good mother,” he determines right then and there, saying it so casually that you have no choice but to believe it. You want to change the topic, and quickly, now tugging at the grass yourself because you're feeling shy.

“König… What is Fee?” 

“Fee is… They are small women? Live in trees. Or flowers. Or everywhere,” he gestures vaguely all around you.

“You mean fairies,” you whisper, and he shrugs. If you say so. But you know you're talking about the same thing: curious little earth spirits, lively and wild. 

Your heart is burning; it’s scorching until there’s nothing left but sweet molten gold. Usually, this kind of burning has stirred in your chest when some old crone has told a good story at the fire during the turn of the year. Usually, you’ve felt this kind of thrill when you’ve heard the piper play for the forest during springtime, lulling the devious spirits back to the trees so that they wouldn’t enter lambs and goats and make them sick. You’ve only felt so alive when you’ve walked at the beach during midsummer with a desperate aching between your legs because you’ve felt so alone and yet so, so alive.

“They said you were a Titan,” you whisper, another hushed question on this night of nights. You feel like you’re having a conversation of the ages, even if it’s clumsy and plain. The night sky is blooming with stars, the sea is whispering its secrets, and there are so many unsaid things between you two, finally washing up on the shore. König is ripping out more tall grass, but only because he’s searching for the right words.

“No. No titan. Just king,” he shakes his head as if sorry that he has to disappoint you. “I was the king’s son. Before Rome came…”

He’s suffered the same fate as you then, a long, long time ago. You wonder where his people are now or if they are even alive anymore, if he is the last giant standing, the last remaining man of his folk from the mountains. If the ruins of his proud house have already turned to dirt and dust and soil, if his father’s head was left to rot on a Roman spear, his riches and wealth taken back to Rome as spoils and exchanged for wine and whores and slaves.

You can only imagine the fury and despair when a tall boy’s future and dreams crumbled into dust, to blood and tears and screams, to a tale that no one ever told.

“You’d make a great king,” you say, meaning it with all your heart. His whole face lights up with a smile; the sorrow is still present in his eyes, and you know the depth of its roots now. But the Romans never managed to kill his will to live.

“If I was king… I would choose you for my queen,” he says softly, and you thank the wind for drying an escapee tear that rolls out. Fate is shaking your ribcage like a rattle; the wind steals your tears like they’re a long-withheld gift.

He tells you his tale under the safety of the vast starry sky. It's only bits and pieces, but you understand enough from his clumsy words.

He tells you how he was brought to Rome as a slave, sold to the pits and how he rose to manhood and fame there. He fought in the great arenas you’ve heard so many gruesome tales about; he fought until he could buy his freedom. He forgot his people, his revenge, that he was a king. Not knowing what else to do, he took up arms again and became the thing he hated the most: a Roman soldier. 

He tells you about a woman who can see things that have not yet happened. He asked this seer if there was anything else for him in this life but death; he would give any offering that was needed if only he could find more life instead. He had already given money and offerings to all the fertility goddesses of Rome, to no avail. He had carved a statue of Venus to attract love, but it didn’t work. So many times he had wanted to throw it in the sea. Until the woman who sees told him he would find what he was looking for in his next campaign. When he promised he’d come back to kill her if she lied, the old crone had only laughed at him. 

The next day, he was discharged from his old unit and separated from those who spoke the same language as him. Everyone was afraid of an uprising that would have a giant at its head, so he was offered money and whores, even a position in politics, and lastly, a place in an elite unit with a better wage. They told him the troops were about to leave for the harsh frontier: a new campaign to bring glory to Rome. He chose the latter option immediately.

He turns to look at you. Bloodless, thin-lipped, shivering you.

“She said you would be pretty. Like a fairy.”

You hear the distant rumbling of the sea, endlessly soft. You feel the wind suddenly passing through the field, filling the cloak of a northern king who came all this way just for you. Even the stars are waiting for your next move. 

“I…” you start, already breathless. “The necklace… König, I’m so sorry. I had to give it to Mother.”

“Mother?”

“To the gods. So that you wouldn’t die in battle.”

Realization dawns on his face, driving away all doubt and confusion. He’s just as pleased as the day he gave you all those gifts, if not even more so.

“You make sacrifice for me?”

“Yes,” you whisper. You can’t help it: a sob wrenches out of your chest as the first tears fall. “I’m sorry. I really liked it... I’m so sorry–”

König rises immediately, only to come to you and fall to a crouch. He draws you against his chest, your weeping face soon held right against his heart.

“Never say sorry,” he kisses your head, over and over again. “Never say sorry…”

The wind surrounds you both, soft and warm, as he rocks you back and forth. You hug him with all the strength a little fairy can muster, then raise your chin to look at him. You’re probably the most pathetic creature he has ever seen – you could swear there is no woman alive feeling as weak as you feel now. König cups your face gently, the look in his eyes that of a hunter who has finally caught up with his prey. Warm, merciful, loving.

“Fee… I can still taste you,” he says.

“I can still feel you,” you whisper back. A deer, felled. “But I don’t… I don’t like biting.”

“Biting…?” 

“Teeth.”

“Ja. I noticed.”

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. You would let him bite you anywhere and everywhere now. You would actually kill for it if he only laid his mouth on you...

You laugh with leftover tears in your eyes, and your giant smiles back at you, so endearing that you feel like it’s the first day of the rest of your life.

“Do you like bath?”

…

You ease into the warm, almost too warm water with a sigh.

The slaves have had to toil the better half of the evening to heat such a large body of water, and you can’t even begin to imagine where König has gotten the pretty little clay bathtub. It’s the largest pottery you have ever seen; far too small for a giant like him but just enough for a fairy woman like you.

You wash yourself languidly, feeling like the queen of the whole wide earth. Someone has even poured some of the scented oils into the bath, and you could cry from happiness as the sweet scents envelop you. You wonder if the wife of any chieftain has ever experienced such luxury and warmth. 

König has the most pleased smile on his face when he sees how much you appreciate yet another gift of his. He pampers and spoils you so much that you threaten to turn into an overripe grape, too soft and sweet and juicy, unable to keep intact anymore. But there’s a price to be paid, apparently, as he watches you from across the tent, sitting in his chair and pulling back the tunic to reveal the the erection between his legs. It’s the biggest cock you've ever seen, and already standing tall and proud, like a soldier about to go to war.

Your lips part on their own; heat shoots between your legs so fast it knocks the breath out of you. He seems to love your attention and awe, because his cock gives a few pulls just from you staring at it. Pearl-white seed leaks out of the tip as he grabs it inside a strong fist and gives himself a few unhurried strokes. 

“König…?”

You’re breathless, but he’s not: he’s breathing heavily in that chair, powerful thighs spread wide, stroking the thick weapon between his legs while you feel like fainting in your bath.

“When will torture end?”

He's dark, dark and done with patience, and you don't know how to answer such a question. You don't even know where to look.

“Hm? You like to torture men?”

“No,” you whisper, cheeks hot and cunt ridiculously wet.

“Yes you do. A little bully, hmm?”

“König–”

“I’ll show what happens to bullies.”

He lets himself go and rises from the chair. Your mind is of no use to you now: all you can do is stare at that thing between his legs, pointing towards you like a road sign.

He walks to you, cock and gaze equally heavy, and gets rid of his tunic. Then he gestures for you to rise from the tub. You’ve spent enough time there in his opinion, and the water is indeed turning unpleasantly cool – but if you go to him now, you won’t be able to fight him. Not when you’re in such a pleased, lax, purring state. Perhaps that was the whole idea...

You rise slowly, then step out carefully, taking support from the edge of the tub and from his shoulder – and still almost collapse all over him as you try to remain on your feet. He holds you upwards while you try to avoid the murder weapon between his legs, but your giant is not as shameful as you: he grabs your butt and guides you flush against him. You meet his chest with a gasp, the length of him now trapped between you two.

“Wait, I’m—I’m still wet,” you try to peep, but it’s no use. He sweeps you off your feet, no doubt with the intention of carrying you to the bed. 

“I will lick you clean,” he looks at you like you’re already trapped, caught, and bled: such a weak little creature in his arms, trying to beg for mercy with its last dying breath. You cling to him as such, that’s for sure.

“Just... No biting. Please?” You whisper as he lays you on the bed.

“No biting,” he gives his valiant promise, accompanied with a confident flash of a smile.

Gods…

If he’d gotten rid of that stupid hood earlier, your legs would’ve been pudding. They would’ve been as far apart as the two villages east and west of here. That smile would have allowed him to infiltrate everything in between. Perhaps it’s a good thing he is not that clever… 

“Oh gods–” you gasp as he shifts down and lowers himself for worship. His breath hits you first, and the next thing you feel are his lips – still smiling – then the gods-forsaken beast gives you a kiss.

“Oh–”

There is a sudden silence following your moans, then you hear soldiers bursting into laughter outside your tent. They’re warming themselves by the campfire, no doubt, sharing stories about war and women, and now they’ve heard the first mewls of surrender from their hero’s tent, after weeks of quarrelling.

Your cheeks heat up as one of the soldiers utters a hurried sentence and mentions König’s name, after which the merry crew booms to laughter again.

Gods take the Romans and their stupid, lewd jokes...

You try to concentrate on the warmly lit burgundy ceiling as König carries on without paying any attention to what’s happening outside. They could march into the tent and try their best to rip him off your cunt, but you doubt if they would get him to move an inch. He's simply that drunk on your taste.

You wonder if his chin is already covered in your juices because his kisses are open-mouthed and hungry – he even tries to push his tongue inside you. The man has absolutely no shame when he's buried down there, groaning with approval as you roll your hips. You're rutting his face as shyly as you possibly can, and it makes him purr and rumble with bliss. The noise he makes is enough to make you sing too, so filthy that it earns you a whistle from outside.

Shit... They probably think he's fucking and hurting you with his cock – a scary prospect, yes, but you'll have to cross that bridge when you get there – and they couldn't be more wrong. If they only knew what their champion is doing to his slave, lapping and sucking his disobedient woman like a starved dog...

“You like mouth?”

It’s hungry, so dark, the way he asks if you like what he’s doing to you. It’s not the mad lust of a drunken man from a few nights ago; it’s sober, fierce greed with a clear purpose behind it. Your fingers find his hair and tug at it weakly, not to cheer him on, but to take support from something relatively stable. 

“Yes… Yes, just–"

“Gut,” he grins into your folds, coarse stubble scraping you deliciously raw. “I like this too. After I lick you enough, I will fuck you.”

Your fingers curl around his hair, giving him another involuntary tug.

Gods, make him stop talking... Just tie his tongue or something, make him shut up.

Please…

“I will bully you all night with cock. I know you will like. Hm?”

He prattles more nonsense in your cunt, and you can’t hear the men outside anymore. You can’t even see the lamps. You’re in a womb of pleasure, which is funny because there’s a grown man between your legs, dragging his tongue over your slit until you're shaking and crying on the bed. Yes, if this is a womb, you never want to leave...

And he’s not eloquent; you don’t even know what he is trying to do to you. He probably doesn’t know it himself. He’s not trying to fish for cues on what you like: he just does what he feels like doing, which is everything. He tries every single thing. He’s just happy to be down there, flicking and circling his tongue over your nub until you can’t take it anymore.

You're dangerously close, and rise halfway to push his head away because it’s just too much; it’s too much pleasure in one go. He gives you a husky laugh and fights your weak attempts to make him stop, the damned bastard. You’re too frail to resist him, and he knows too much already, repeating the torture until your hips buck up.

“Gut... Like that...?” He asks again, so eager to please that you have to stifle a sob.

“Yes... Yes, just like that,” you sigh while trying to stay in one piece.

“Guide me, little fairy,” he demands, excited like a young, hot recruit. Apparently it's no big deal for him to have his head tugged and shoved and dragged just for a woman's pleasure. It doesn't take away an ounce of his power to be your toy for a moment. Your sharp tongue has left you completely; it is you who is humbled as you guide him back to the right spot, jerking when he licks you just the way you wished.

It’s bad enough that you make a mess on his bed and moan like a paid woman, giving everyone in this camp a taste of what it sounds like when a giant bullies his fairy to the full. But can’t he keep his stupid, lovable mouth shut...

He’s making so much noise that you can both feel and hear him. His moans are hoarse, needy and deprived; they echo somewhere in your core, somewhere inside your most sensitive, aching place, just before he finds it, the right spot, and pushes his tongue inside you.

“Wait…” you gasp, convulsing on the bed now. What the hell does he think he’s—

“Wait—I’m…”

And then you cum, right into his mouth, with an arched back and quivering thighs, with such lewd sounds shooting out of your mouth that complete silence follows outside.

Whatever those soldiers had thought to happen here tonight, they clearly didn't expect to hear that… Nor the cries that follow, so nasty and wanton that König doesn't withdraw, not before you have clenched and cried your fill. He enjoys your peak to the last tremble, but you barely get to catch your breath before he leaves you. He doesn’t even give you a chance to caress his head as thanks for what he just did to you.

His mouth leaves you empty and cold as he rises, watching you like you're his best conquest. His cock is so hard it juts out, immovable like a rock and so intimidating that you stop breathing for a moment.

And he doesn't allow your breathless, shocked state go to waste: he grabs that horse cock and sets it on your flush, soaked lips, and pushes the head inside. More than just the head inside.

“Oh gods, oh fuck–”

Your legs are completely useless, falling to the side as he eases himself into you. He looks at you curiously, tilting his head when he hears you curse for the first time in his presence. More than just amused, he goes deeper still, delighted that he made you say a naughty word with his cock.

You can feel the stretch; you can feel every ridge, every vein, all his thickness filling you with purpose. You can do nothing but flutter your eyes as he takes you, finally, as his own.

And it must be some cruel joke of both Mother Earth and Father Sky that it prolongs whatever bliss he just gave you with his mouth. Your body won't stop having its pleasure; it welcomes him with a string of helpless whimpers. Even your cunt starts to squeeze him like it's the best thing in this world.

And he sees it. He feels it.

“Ja, little one. Time to fuck.”

He continues his journey inside, one massive palm landing on each side of your head as he leans over you.

“Einfach so… Trust me. Hmm?”

You only nod, completely silent and tame, waiting for him to give you more gifts. Mother knows this man is your downfall: your heart and soul are about to burst into flame when you look at him. You want him with your whole being; you want his love and praise so much you could cry.

“You want cock?”

“Yes,” you look up at him, eyes surely shining like stars. “Yes, yes, yes–”

“I will give you. Don’t worry.”

You sob as he withdraws, pulling the long, delicious cock almost completely out. He returns immediately when you whine from the loss. He feels so good, and so, so big… Fulfilling you entirely, every bit of you that was hollow and empty, every little space that needed loving is now his and filled with love.

“Verdammte… Götter, du bist zu eng,” he huffs and looks down as if to check if it’s true that he’s finally inside you. It could never fit in fully; you both probably knew that. But he’s trying his best.

“What does that mean?” You pant, impatient that he stopped moving.

“Too small... For me...” he laments. Or brags.

“Any woman is too small for you,” you mope underneath him, thinking about whether he has had women who have been able to take him fully in. Women who haven’t been “too small”.

König raises his eyes to you and smiles, revealing a row of white teeth, the scarred lip making his grin look pure and sweet even if he is a menacing man.

Stupid mountain giant… He's just proud of not being able to fit inside you. Your lower lip juts out with a pout, and the cock inside you responds immediately with a pulse. You can feel it — he's fucking excited about you getting angry at him again.

There is a flash of mischief in his eyes – darned bastard – just before he swoops down to attack your neck. Your tits get crushed under a solid chest as he nuzzles close to your ear and gives you lots of love and little bites. He starts to fuck you slowly, and there's nowhere you can escape now, nowhere you can flee his mouth or teeth or cock.

“König, you promised–”

“Aber… You are more tight this way?” 

The breathless laugh that follows leaves you blinking. Of course he can feel the way you tighten around him every time he gives you a little bite.

“Gods, I hate you…” you whisper on his shoulder, thinking about biting him there in return. König laughs in your neck again – your threats of hate have long past lost their intimidating nature and are more like love confessions to him now. And perhaps that’s what they are.

He makes love to you hard and good, and it’s embarrassing, how you're about to cum again around his cock. You were supposed to have your revenge by showing him you have teeth too, but find yourself biting your lip instead, trying to tone down at least some of the filthy sounds that try to escape you.

He's not too rough, at least not yet, happy with listening to the poorly stifled whimpers that follow his every thrust. You thought he'd rail you like an animal, but he seems to settle for making love to you while biting and groping you all over. He savours every thrust like he savoured those grapes you fed him: slowly and intently, with passion instead of greed.

You're squeezing him with everything you have as he rocks you back to the edge. His grunting only make it all worse: he doesn't even try to be quiet and decent, and it's driving you to madness. Why does he have to be so noisy? Why does he have to fuck you so that everyone can hear just how good you feel?

Every soldier in this camp can hear both your moans, his hoarse ones and your weak ones, merging together until you do sound like animals in heat... You’re so wet that some of the men must hear the music of that, too. You never knew your cunt would be so hungry and needy, least of all for a man like him. You grip him as the waves approach, rich moans turning into pathetic little cries as his cock works you open.

“Again…?” He smiles a surprised laugh on your neck. The waves hit you before you can tell him to shut up.

The noise you make is even more obscene this time, and you barely catch a glimpse of his drowsy, victorious stare before your head falls back. You squeeze your eyes closed, trying to take in the most powerful orgasm and the most powerful cock of your life without having to see that stupid, happy face of your lovesick giant.

“Nein,” he grabs your jaw inside a huge but gentle hand. “Eyes open.”

He won't even let you cum in peace, but you do as you’re told, finding him watching you like a stormcloud or a god. He watches your every tremble, every whimper, every sigh. He sees the full-blown love in your eyes, and you wonder… Is this what the bards sing about in their stupid songs? 

…Weakness?

Because your heart hurts and your eyes sting, your thighs tremble and your cunt is far too wet and open for him to plough. If this is love, it hurts; it burns far too sweet. It leaves you utterly weak.

“Little one is needy,” he comments softly on your second downfall.

“You’re the one who’s needy–”

Your already weak argument ends in a gasp as he reminds you who you belong to with another good, deep thrust.

“I will put a child in you,” he rumbles, a threat or a promise. “If we do this every night… You will have my child.”

“Then let’s do this every night,” you whisper beneath him, your own purr of a threat. As if you didn’t know how babies were made… To your silent joy, König stops to catch his breath or your words; you’re not entirely sure which. You decide to up the stakes, just to make him fall with you.

“And every morning too?”

“Ach, du kleine–” he crumbles, voice turning to dust from your innocent suggestion.

If you thought he was a little too in love with you before, the look on his face now is worth all the gold in the world. You could swear that your kind question is the sole reason for this man cumming on the spot. Perhaps your body is to blame for it too; he couldn't keep his paws off when you were being sulky and difficult, so how could he take it when you're pleased and loving and all puffed up?

You see the brief flash of vulnerability, the mortal fragility in his eyes just before he shoots his load with a painful-sounding groan. The sound that leaves him is a mixture of desperation and release – even giants can cry, you think as you watch how beautifully he comes undone. He makes sure his seed is sent deep inside you by burying his cock into you, as far as it can go; the intention behind it is so clear that you wouldn't be surprised if you got heavy with a child after this first time.

He falls on top of you after, drained and spent and body heaving from exertion. There’s no other sound in the night but the satisfied panting of you two: the soldiers outside are rendered silent by the sounds of true lovemaking, even the wind spirits are hushed tonight.

You’re completely filled, and with his cock still inside you, he’s preventing any precious seed from escaping. You’re only glad he’s too weak to move because you’d happily keep him here forever, inside and on top of you like this.

“You are pleased…?” He turns his head a little, sounding worried enough to make you hug him tight.

“Yes. Very much,” you whisper, and he moves to rise and look you in the eyes. 

“Gut.”

It’s cute to be nose to nose like this with him, eyes locked together, lips only a hair’s breadth apart. He looks so intoxicated and happy without even being drunk that you break into a small laugh, eyes brimming with happy tears, the washing away of relief. He smiles too, then laughs with you.

The soldiers outside might think it an odd business: to make a woman moan and laugh with a cock. You were brought to this tent screaming, and he made you scream again, just not the way they thought.

The sound of your mutual laughter rises in the tent, up towards the heavens, surely making even the Sky Father smile above.

…

You do it every night, and every morning, too.

Sometimes, you do it during the day after bathing in the stream. After washing and playing in the water, you rush to the shore together, but König is always faster than you. He throws your dress away or holds it up above his head, far from your reach, smiling like the most innocent man in the world. He's far from innocent, though: his cock hangs heavy between his legs, swelling just from seeing you angry and flustered and wet. 

“Bully,” you accuse, utterly in love and out of breath, earning you another attack of a love-hungry giant. You forget the dress when he kneels on the grass, kisses your stomach and your thighs, keeps you in place for his mouth with two strong arms and a love that turns your whole body weak. 

“Pretty,” is the only thing he breathes as an answer before he scoops up your leg and spreads you open for his mouth.

Your head rolls back with a choked sigh, the drops on your skin dry on their own. Somehow, you end up on the grass with his mouth glued on you. The sun plays in your hair; it dances on your face as he gives you more and more until you know, you just know that if you do this every night and morning and day, you will definitely have his child.

He tells you his real name, his true name, the one his mother gave him. You moan it in his ear just before you cum around his length. Sometimes, it makes him purr; other times, it makes him grunt. Once, you hear a soft, pitched whine. 

He’s more rough when you’re on your knees. You’re shy and wet when he commands you to prop yourself on your elbows and show him your cunt. He licks you from front to back, feasts on you until your breaths turn to shivers. You squeeze your eyes shut from how obscene the scene must look; you hope to all the gods the Roman slave won’t come to ask his travel guides back when König finally rises and takes a wide stance behind you. He sets himself on your opening and pushes in, fat and greedy. 

You can only whimper as he starts the thrusts, starved and slow, picking up the pace and holding you in place by the hips when you approach the brink of another collapse. You fear you will lose your mind if he keeps doing this to you every day. The only thing you hear are the breathless, warm grunts of encouragement behind you.

“You can take it. You can take it. Already took it, little one…”

He won’t stop, not even as you cry out loud, the cock hitting you in places that make your legs nearly give in. He won’t stop even as tears brim, not even as you start to sound like a tortured animal; no, he just tightens his grip on your waist and pounds you harder. You cum with a moan that would make Roman whores blush, but your lover doesn’t mind at all. He cums right after you, with a roar that could raise the reverend dead from their mounds.

Afterwards, he’s gentle again. He gathers you in his arms like his most valuable possession, caressing and breathing you in, giving you a soft kiss behind your ear.

“You’re... mean,” you try to remember how to breathe as he gives you more of those hungry kisses. You already know he likes it when you’re so spent you don’t have the strength to squirm or fight him.

“Ja. And you become more nice when I bully you,” he whispers in your ear. “More calm… Less difficult.”

“Well, you don’t,” you turn inside his hold, eyes shining brighter than the stars or even the sun. “Crazy man…”

“You have robbed me of my sword and shield, it’s true. Robbed my heart too. Little thief.”

“Thief? You’re the one who stole me…!”

“And I’ll never let you go.”

You wriggle a hand to cup his face, meeting his eyes with such helplessness that it’s not even funny anymore. If he’s joking or playing with you now, you’ll kill him with his own swords.

“You promise?”

“I make a vow,” he declares ceremoniously, with a hand on his heart. But you doubt that he’s playing any games; you wonder if this man is even capable of lying or deception. You hug him so tight that he has to let out a grunt – surprised and pleased – after which you have to bury your face in his neck so that he won't see your tears.

“I am in love with you, Fee,” he whispers in your ear while caressing your hair, ever poetic for such a simple man. “Tell me. Do you like me too…?”

“Yes,” you breathe a half-cry, half-laugh in his neck. “Yes, you crazy giant. I like you too.”

You rise just enough to kiss him. It’s hungry and delivers everything you can’t say. You can’t tell him you love him; you simply can’t. You’re not ready for the painful happiness it would bring forth. He stabs you full of it anyway.

“I will never let you go. Never. Not when I finally found you, little one...”

…

Summer comes.

The camp moves lazily to its next destination, but when the next battle comes, König refuses to fight. 

His soldiers blame you, of course. You have bewitched him with your softness, making him soft and spineless as well. It is unheard of that a warrior like him would fall like this: out of some woman’s underhanded spell rather than dying gloriously in the field by a barbarian blade or two. Even poison is considered better than this.

No one understands that there is no hex. The war is still being fought, this time inside his soul. It’s not just you preventing him from taking up arms; it’s something else, something old and deep-rooted you've managed to stir in him. Something ferocious, something that has been asleep for a long time, something that is far from all things soft.

You two sneak out from the camp after the bulk of the army has marched away. He takes you to the seaside again, to a wild, roaring shore. You laugh and bask in the sun, swim in the sea and eat the first berries of the season. You lie on the tall grass, naked as the day you were born: it's simply too hot to wear anything except your glowing skin. König starts to ask you peculiar questions while tracing the soft line of your spine. 

He asks what kind of house you would like to live in, and tries to find out in a roundabout way if you would like to live in a forest or in the hills. You treasure the sound of waves, and König likes the sound of the wind in trees, but you both love steep hills and the open view of plains. You get the idea that he may want to retire somewhere in the near future. 

He tells you he is not a good fisherman but can hunt everything that moves. He is good with a spear, with traps and the bow, and he’s tired of hunting humans who only wish to live in peace. The arena he could understand, but the war on foreign lands, not. And if you begin to swell with his offspring, the Roman encampment at war is the last place for a sweet little fairy like you. He asks what kind of village you used to live in and is somewhat sad to hear all the things you tell him. He says it sounds like home, the one he was taken from many years ago. 

When you return to the camp, it’s like you two are a different species altogether, two wild animals who sneak from the gates back to the flock, back to being human, back to being caged and tamed and stunted. The grumpy, tired soldiers witness your wildness and happiness with sullen distaste. To them, your appetite for freedom is the filthiest, most treacherous thing in the world. 

The commander of the troops summons König at his feet and threatens to flog him if he ever skips a battle again. He’s told that only barbarians ignore orders like this: at the turn of a whim or a woman or wind. If he doesn’t remember who he is, not the reckless murderer of his youth but a man reborn, a noble Roman citizen, he will risk descending into apathy and greed again. Was this the case, Rome will guide him back to fold again by the crack of a whip if it has to.

That night, you tell him that you love him. Wherever he goes, you will go. That night, when you’re lying in his arms, sweaty and spent and thoroughly happy, he speaks words so wild it shakes the whole tent with a wind.

“If I kill the soldiers, will you come with me?”

It’s only a mutter, a murmured, careful whisper, but it makes you rise to sit and place a hand on his chest for extra support.

“Kill the soldiers? You mean… Kill the Romans?”

“Ja. All of them.”

The shock quickly makes way to disbelief. Can such a thing even be done? He’s a giant, but he’s still just one man. But König doesn’t look restless at all; he looks like a man who has finally made a decision he should have made years ago. He looks like someone who is at peace with their soul.

"Where would we go?" You whisper weakly, unsure if he has given this enough thought or thought at all. It’s now the wanderer in him who speaks, the adventurer who fears nothing because he has already lost everything – and found the most precious, essential thing. 

You. Himself…

Free will.

“Wherever you want.”

“What if you get killed…?”

“You take treasure and horse and go.”

…

Your mother always said that it's useless to sway a man if he has chosen to stand up and fight. She told you that the best you could do is go grab a sword and join him.

That is why you give him your blessing – your full, ardent blessing.

It makes him stronger than ever: were he to go out there with nothing but his skin, he would be victorious. The oak that hears your magnificent spell shivers from fear above you as you call down earth, fire and wind. 

You call the spirits from below to guide his feet and make them swift and silent as a feather in the wind. You call down the lightning from the sky to accompany his sword as he deals his blows. You cloak him with the fury of the dead; they will smite down his enemies when they catch even a glimpse of him. You shroud him with the Mother's blessing so that he will be untouchable, unstoppable, invincible as he deals death among the Romans.

It’s a terrible spell; even the moon withdraws into a cloud when She hears it. Not even the lady of silver twilight dares to reveal this giant to the Romans as he’s about to descend upon them.

He rises with the power of fifteen men and gives you a kiss that nearly topples you. He smiles before he leaves you, and never looks back as he goes to do the deed of a legend.

You watch the massacre up from a hill. A safe distance from the camp, but close enough to see how König destroys a whole cohort by himself. The plant you mixed into the “reconciliation wine” he gave his soldiers and the commander before nightfall makes it laughably easy because most of the men are still half asleep when they burn inside their tents. The oil spilt on the dry dirt and linen roars aflame now with the help of the wind and earth spirits as König torches the camp. The occasional few soldiers that rise to meet him with fear in their stare are already broken by your spell before his swords impale them. 

The old translator is the only Roman who wasn’t given a cup of foxglove wine because he was König’s slave, and now he can see that he is blessed among men. The God of War faces him with swords pointing to the ground, fury planting his feet wide, and it takes the old Roman a while to understand that he’s the only man who gets to walk out of this camp unharmed. As grumpy and unsociable as he is, you wish him good fortune on his future journeys, even utter a quick protection spell to shroud him as he leaves towards his destiny on enemy land.

The slave women, sober, confused, and free, run amock to gather weapons, cloaks, food, and valuables before escaping the camp. König doesn’t even notice them, and they pay little mind to the enraged god ramming through puny mortals because they’re too busy getting out of the burning castra.

How fitting it is that the only people escaping the hellfire are a few beaten women and an old, weak-calved Roman – every able-bodied soldier burns inside his tent or meets their end at your lover’s blade.

The wind spirits help spread the fire so eagerly that you begin to fear that König won’t make it out in time. You whisper prayers into your fist, curled around the Mother who has already given you so much. She has also taken away everything; like seasons, she has reaped and sown, but if she reaps your lover now, you will walk into the sea.

Mother is merciful and returns him to you, unharmed and glorious. He's the same ferocious beast you saw half a moon ago, and also the same ferocious man who was inside you this very morning. You see a god of war, and he sees the mother of life and death, perhaps, because his first words to you are a ripe offering.

“I avenged them all,” he says when he reaches you, thrumming with victory and smelling of smoke and ruin and blood.

He has been born again; he has walked to a new dawn through fire and death and returns to your arms like you two have known each other since the beginning of time. You’re not sure if he talks about his fallen ones or your fallen ones, or everyone who has fallen to these particular Roman spears. You’re not sure if this is his downfall because what you’re looking at is only the downfall of the Roman campaign on your lands. You and König are very much wild and spirited and free. If this is a downfall, it feels like being lifted towards the sky. You see in his eyes that he feels the same as you.

The whole world is new as you leave towards a new life. Sun rises, and takes years off your backs. You wash him in the sea and kiss the salt away from his lips, and it feels only right that he takes you on the grass after slaughtering your enemies.

You bury the statues and the bronze sword in your old village, long abandoned and thoroughly looted. The old woman is in her hut, dead as a stone, and she finally looks happy, with a calm little smile on her face and flowers in her hand. She looks like a young girl, almost, ready to meet the spring of her life.

"Ready for adventure, little one?" König smiles as he raises you to his horse. He takes direction from the sun while you look down at his happy, golden form – your god, your life, your love. 

Your new beginning.

...

Translations:

Richtig? - Right?/Correct?

Einfach so - Just like that

Verdammte… Götter, du bist zu eng - Damn… Gods, you are tight

Aber… - But…

Ach du kleine… - Oh you little…

Scheisse - Shit/Fuck

[sweetimpurity]

💓 day 25!! we're reaching the end! almost spooky day! cw: violence and blood, the boys are fighting over you wc: 2.4k

question: what's better than having two boyfriends? answer: both of them being Miguel O'hara enjoy!

please read parts one, two and three or else this part will not make sense hehe

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Earth 546

A smash of glass sounds from the living room brings your attention from his lips to the door. A small smack of your lips disconnecting from his and you look to see what that just was. But Mig brings you right back, holding your face in his hands and forcing your lips back onto his. Forcing your lips apart with his tongue as if he’s desperate. He’s just desperate for these last few moments with you. In this fantasy he always dreamt of. Before reality walks through the kitchen door. 

“Y/n…” You hear Miguel’s voice. But how can you when his tongue is in your mouth. Gasping against his lips and your eyes flutter open. Catching view over Mig’s shoulder of Miguel standing in the kitchen doorway. And instantly you’re surprised, hands pressing to Mig’s chest and pulling from his grasp, not understanding what you���re seeing in the slightest. “What the hell-”

A seething anger roots in Mig’s chest, at the front of his mind. Looking over his shoulder and keeping his hands on your hips. You’re his now, this doesn’t change anything. 

“Hey babe…” Miguel sighs, eyes flicking between you and his variant with his hands all over you. 

“Wh- what- what the hell is going on…” Your heart beats out of your chest. Looking between them. Mirror images of each other. Except for the bruising and scratches, those are placed differently. Not understanding what’s happened or how you’re supposed to think about this. “It’s okay, baby… you’re okay, everything’s okay…” Mig hums, pulling you closer to him. 

“No… no everything is not okay. Tell her what you did.” Miguel demands, not wanting to get violent now. Not with you in the middle of it. Mig glares back at him, not daring to meet your eye. Not wanting you to see the guilt in them. “Tell her.” 

“What’s going on?” You sigh, not knowing what to think but you do know Mig is holding you so tight and secure as always. And the touch feels familiar so you lean into it. Watching the other Miguel at the door narrowing his eyes in anger. How are you supposed to figure this out? “Tell her or I will…” Miguel threatens. 

Mig turns to look down at you nestled in his arms, a guilty look on his face but all adoration in his eyes. “I love you…” He says. Making Miguel scoff at the door. “I did this for you… for us… I just want you to be happy-”

“Alright that’s enough-” Miguel sighs, stepping through the door and into the kitchen. You’re supposed to be his, you’ve been his for the past three years minus the two months you were stolen from him. 

“No! You stay away from her.” Mig growls, pulling you tighter into his chest. Your cheek pressed to his sternum, watching Miguel with wide eyes. 

“Alright, that’s how you want to do this? Babe, he kidnapped you!” Miguel shouts, pointing to Mig wrapped around you. “He took you away from me, away from your home, this guy does not love you! He’s a fucking creep, he’s insane!” 

“Hey I do love her and I’m not insane, I would never do anything to hurt her!” Mig protests, keeping you pressed to him, squished in his muscular arms. 

“I know everything you did, I saw everything, the monitors, the lab, the surveillance footage! I had to backtrack the damn portal, it took me two months to figure out where a rat like you came from and where you went to!” Miguel shouts. Mig’s eyes widening in realization that Miguel knows all about what he was doing. Watching you for months on the surveillance and picking his perfect moment to swoop in and take you for himself. 

“Fucking perv, probably jacked off to videos of you.” 

“I did not! I would never do that!” Mig rebuttals. Defending himself and at the same time he admits it’s true. “I watched you ignore her and push her aside for months! She doesn’t deserve that and all she wanted was you! A-all she wants is me!”

It dawns on you what’s happening. What’s already happened. Is the Miguel you’ve been living with, loving, not the same Miguel you spent three years with already? That’s why he’s changed. Because he’s not the same person. But you’ve been happier than ever lately. 

“Babe, come with me, I’m gonna take you home where you belong.” Miguel steps forward. You’re trying to see him as the person you’ve known all this time but your mind is all messed up. Not knowing whether to trust the Miguel telling you what to do or the Miguel holding you against his chest. The sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear. 

“You can’t just take her away, you don’t control her.” Mig says, almost making Miguel laugh out loud. “Control her? Me? You’re the one that kidnapped her and have been lying to her for two months, pretending to be someone you're not! Babe, he’s pretending to be me, I’m the one you know!” Miguel looks in your eyes, trying to get that through to you, that he’s the one you’ve spent all this time with. 

“You neglected her and manipulated her feelings!” Mig shouts across the kitchen, his arms still wrapped around you. “She shouldn’t have to beg for your time when you were supposed to be her boyfriend! That’s bottom of the barrel and the only reason you came to look for her is because she’s not there for you to fuck whenever you feel like it!” 

Miguel lunges across the room at that, growling in anger and out to kill this man. It’s beyond the point of discussion, this is getting nowhere. His fists fly and Mig tries to shield you from everything while trying to fight back. Each of them grabbing each other by the suit and wanting to rip each other to shreds. Miguel throws a punch, Mig shoves his arm out of the way, jutting his elbow back and hitting you square in the nose. 

“Owww-ah-” Your whimpers cause them to stop. It was an accident but nevertheless painful. Clutching your nose as blood instantly starts pouring down. Down the front of your face and lips. 

“Shit-” The boys instantly stop their wrestling and try to take a look at your face. 

“Baby-” “Babe…” They say at the same time, shooting a glare at one another before bringing their attention back to you. 

“Ow it really hurts…” You whine, tears in your eyes from the direct blow to your nose, making everything in your head stuffy and achy. Like a ringing in your skull it was such a powerful hit. “I’m sorry, honey…” Mig says, knowing it was his elbow that hit you accidently. 

“Now look at what you did…” Miguel sighs, his hand going to your cheek to soothe the pain. “I didn’t do it on purpose, you were gonna hit me.” Mig says in defense, unable to stop himself. He’d never do anything to bring you harm ever. Miguel rolls his eyes, knowing it’s true but not wanting to admit that it was accidental. 

“Let me get some paper towels…” Miguel says, looking around the foreign apartment kitchen to find a roll. Grabbing some and folding them up gently while Mig holds you close, trying to soothe the pain and apologizing for you getting caught in the crossfire. “Oh god… let’s get you to the bathroom, it’s getting on you…” Mig says, looking down at blood dripping down your chin, getting all over your clothes and the floor. Guiding you gently towards the bathroom.

“Pinch your nose babe… it’ll help it stop.” Miguel says, coming over with the towels and following the two of you to the bathroom down the hall. Mig nods at that suggestion, knowing that would do the trick, watching you attempt it but the pain is too much. “Is it broken?” You whimper, getting to the bathroom sink and Mig helps you to sit on top of the toilet cover, kneeling down to your level. “I don’t know baby… I don’t know…” 

“Here, love…” Miguel comes through the door with paper towels in his hand and an ice pack too from the freezer. Walking over to you and Mig reaches out to take the towel from his hand. To help you wipe up the blood. 

“I can do it.” Miguel huffs. And Mig presses his lips together in a straight line, trying to stay calm, trying to focus on you and not his urge to beat the crap out of Miguel right now. Each of them seeing the other at fault. 

“Don’t press too hard…” Mig says, watching carefully, protectively, your expression and everything as Miguel gently holds the paper towel up to your nose and your lips to wipe the blood away.  “You’re all bloody… go get her a new shirt.” Miguel says, turning to Mig with a serious expression. And Mig hesitates. Not wanting to leave you two alone. Mostly not wanting to leave you alone at all. “Fine.” He huffs, letting go of your hands and getting up to get you a fresh shirt from your shared bedroom. He steps on a few drops of blood that fell outside the door, trying not to track it all through the apartment. Eventually getting to the bedroom and searching for a t-shirt in your dresser. Grabbing a random one then heading back to the bathroom. 

He stops, stiffening when he sees you wrapped in Miguel’s arms. Your head resting on his shoulder, sniffling and holding the tissue up to your nose. A million words want to leave his lips, but ultimately his guilt shuts him up. As much as he hates Miguel, he loves you and he knows you have a connection with Miguel he can’t just erase as much as he might want to. “Here…” He hums, holding out the shirt and Miguel flinches, so caught up in holding you after all this time of searching. Looking up and nodding, grabbing the shirt from his variant’s hand. 

“Lets change your shirt, love, okay?” He pulls back, seeing the tear tracks on your cheeks from the physical, mental and emotional pain of this whole ordeal. Rubbing the tears away gently with the pad of his thumb. Mig has to stop himself from pushing Miguel out of the way and helping you himself. Crossing his arms and leaning against the bathroom counter, watching with a frown.

Miguel gently helps you pull your bloody shirt up and off, pulling it over your head and your hair falls back down around your bare shoulders. Sitting there in your bra, a sight neither one of them is unfamiliar with. “Ow ow…” You sigh, the movement making the tissue move around, pain shooting up into your skull. 

“Sorry, love…” Miguel hums, looking at your features scrunching up in pain and he can’t help himself from kissing your cheek softly. Much to Mig’s displeasure, clenching his fists under his arms. 

Miguel helps you pull your new shirt on, wrapping you up in his arms again once it’s done. And Mig’s reached his limit. “Okay let’s check on that nose, alright?” He sighs impatiently, stepping closer as you untangl from Miguel’s arms, looking up at Mig. “It might be broken, baby… we’ll have to take a look…” He says, tilting your chin up slightly to see better in the lights. The two of them crowd around your face, each trying to be the one to make the decisions. Your eyes flicking between the two of them. Are you dreaming? Maybe you hit your head and this is all a dream. Their faces mirror each other, your mind all mixed up trying to decide what to believe. 

Carefully you pull the tissue away from your nose. Thankfully the bleeding has slowed but it still hurts badly. The both of them wincing at the sight of your mangled nose. 

“Does it look horrible?” You whine. 

“Yes it does.” Miguel sighs, getting jabbed in the side by Mig’s elbow. 

“What- no it doesn’t baby… you’re gonna be okay.” He shoots Miguel a hard glare, not wanting to panic you any further. 

“Is it broken?” You whine again. 

“Yes, definitely.” Miguel speaks up, and Mig can’t handle this. 

“Are you serious? We’re trying not to freak her out!” Mig raises his voice slightly, glaring at the variant to his side. 

“I’m just being honest, she wants an honest answer, right babe?” They both look at you. Watching you nod weakly, tears in your eyes from the pain in your face. And Mig huffs. 

“Look, just everyone calm down, let’s go to the hospital and they can help you okay?” Mig declares, standing up with his hands on his hips. 

“Maybe she doesn’t want to go to the hospital.” Miguel stands up too, the two of them glaring in a standoff. Exactly the same height, everything about them is so exactly the same it’s sort of scary. “I do want to go to the hospital.” You sigh, dabbing your hurting nose. And Mig smirks in victory because at least he won this one. “See?”

“Alright well let’s go then.” Miguel huffs, shaking his head and moving to take your hands before Mig gets the chance, helping you up from where you were sitting. Mig can only sigh and watch. Not wanting to make this situation any more horrible for you. Leaving the bathroom and walking ahead of you two. Making sure you’re walking okay and you’re not dizzy or anything. He grabs a few things, his wallet and phone, your phone too. All while Miguel helps you get to the front door to leave. 

Mig grabs the keys, following you and Miguel out, unlocking the car. 

“You drive.” Miguel says, helping you get into the backseat and moving to climb in beside you. Mig panics. “No, you drive and I’ll sit with her.” 

“It’s your car, dumbass…” Miguel scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah well-” Mig starts, cut off by the slam of the back door, watching Miguel cozy up to you in the backseat. His fists clench, walking around the car and getting in the driver's seat. Starting up the engine. Glaring in the rearview mirror to see Miguel guiding your head to lay on his shoulder. Pressing a kiss to your hairline. It’s all so frustrating. He clenches the steering wheel tightly, pulling away from the apartment. It’s going to be a long night. 

Taglist!! love my sweeties!

@spooky-sculder

@slushycoookie @xxyaoi-nationxx @snails-doodles22 @scaryplanetdestroyer @fate13

@divorcepaperz @yeahnohoneybye @zaunsin @tomalymme @drefear

@mrs-pondwater19 @saintdiior @aphinthestars @hyjionie

@palomanh @maxad99 @muuuwoppppp @reader-1290

@sp0ck136 @lazyninjaphilosopher

@pinkdizzyship @opalwitchart

if you'd like to be added/dropped from the taglist, please comment on my masterlist post. Or else I might not see it! thank you! 🩷

plus those who requested a part 2+:

@d3stin7 @laysmt @yougavemeyourheartyouknow @marshhbs

@twwcs @resident-clown @haveclayeveryday

@fullmetal-spiderling @grumpyahjumma

@lxverrings @lazyjellyfish300

[xiao-come-home]

PLEASE PLEASE PPLLLEEEAAAASE GIVE ME HEADCANONS OF BOOTHILL WITH AN INSECURE CHUBBY S/O. I KNOW THIS MAN WOULD SHOW EXTRA LOVE AND KILL ANYONE WHO MAKES FUN OF HIS BELOVED

Oh wow hehe twirls hair did you just call me out in this ask because its so me 🧐 some are a little sugg/estive but yea, you ask and I shall deliver 🙏

Boothill does not care that you're chubby at all - quite the opposite, he loves it! He genuinely thinks you look gorgeous, but most importantly, he's obsessed with hugging you and how soft you are! It gives him the fuzzy memories and reminds him how much he misses his old body.

Boothill does not tolerate yours or - aeons forbid - anyone else's bad comments about your body. Sure, he might laugh at some jokes you make, but once you take it too far, he gently reminds you that you're just as human as anybody else and should respect yourself! He won't judge you either, I mean - you're dating a cyborg, so if you love him for who he is in and out, he'll do the same.

Boothill might be a little too happy to touch your love handles at any occasion he gets. He's a little bit of a chubby chaser (like Itto, but it ain't about him) in the best way possible, he really likes to just... Grab stuff. Especially if it's about you.

Boothill might not be that good with words, but will always reassure you that he truly just loves you, regardless of how you think about yourself. Boothill will scoop you in his arms, kiss your cheek gently and wipe your tears if you truly feel down about your looks that day.

"Listen up, sweet pea," Boothill smiles at you softly, "all I can see is absolute perfection. Ya might not feel the same and it's fine - but I promise ya, pretty thing, I'll never get tired of seein' these beautiful curves."

He's definitely willing to prove his words with actions, though..

Try prying away Boothill from your thighs when he gets to them, I dare you. God, he loves, fuck, LOVES everything about your thick thighs. Having them as pillow, having his face squished between them... He jokes it's his only place to die the second time (💀). He just might go insane if you wear shorts that emphasize your revealed thighs.

He might just be laying between your thighs when he recharges. There's no reason to it, he's enveloped by two warm pillows and he's on cloud nine. Deal with it.

You may not notice, but Boothill sometimes just drools over you. If you're chubbier in the butt - he fights himself internally not to pull you from behind by your shorts against him and shamelessly grope you. Chubbier tits? He's almost barking when they spill from your bra. Chubbier stomach? God, the way some of your clothes stick to it, it makes his head dizzy. A little bit of everything? Good, he wants it all. Just sit on his face and stop talking.

Boothill might short-circuit when you sit on his lap for the first time because any aeons out there, this is heaven. Literally just marry him on the spot please. He isn't letting you go once you sit down. He's literally the "let's fucking go" meme afterwards.

You just have to slap away Boothill's hands in public from time to time because this man's hands slowly progress from just holding your waist, then firmly holding your hips, and traveling to finally hold your ass.

Though, when someone dares to speak something that makes you doubt yourself even more, let alone make you cry - things are going to get violent. Boothill won't let it slide, and on top of that, he's fucking pissed off. Boothill will hunt them in every lifetime.

[rninies]

✮ bad actor

౨ৎ diluc x reader. fluff, gn!reader, diluc is so in love w u Lol — wc: 616

notes. first genshin fic dont Flop plz 🙏🏻 tagging @chuluoyi :3

"why are you laughing?" diluc asks as he places your food down in front of you. he sits down, ripping open a plastic straw and handing it over to you.

you take the straw from him, quietly thanking him. "because you're so obvious..." a smile appears once more on your face, barely holding back another laugh from escaping your lips.

diluc raises an eyebrow. “what do you mean?” he starts eating the burger in front of him by cutting it into smaller pieces so it’s easier for him to eat — you still don’t understand why he does that. you find it easier to just bite into it. “you’re not making any sense, y/n.”

“why don’t you just bite the burger? it’s way easier that way you know,” you sighed leaning forward. “also, you’re a really bad actor, diluc.”

he frowns. “i’d rather not dirty my hands with grease and sauce.” he sets the burger down, wiping his mouth with a tissue. “why would i be a bad actor? you’ve never seen me act before.”

you hummed. “well, you are acting right now. and it’s not going well, let me tell you.”

diluc seems even more confused after you’ve explained it (well, more like subtly hint at it). he ponders on your sentence for a little longer but eventually gives up when he finishes taking a sip from his drink. “seriously what do you mean by that? i don’t understand what you’re saying at all.”

“you have a crush on me, do you?” as soon as the words escaped your mouth, diluc choked on his drink, coughing violently making a few other customers look at him with concern. “see, i told you i’m right!”

as soon as he calms down from his coughing fit, he clears his throat, cheeks turning red. “i don’t- i don’t know what you’re talking about.” he distracts himself from the smug smile you’re giving by continuing to eat his burger, eyes looking everywhere except you.

“hey come on, look at me!” you teased him, squishing his cheeks with your hand, forcing him to look at you. “aw, you look so cute all embarrassed.”

he moves your hand away from his face. “no, i’m not. shut up.”

you smiled again, resting your chin on your hand. “my boyfriend is so cute.”

“no, i’m not-” diluc stops, finally processing what you just called him. “you- boyfriend? are you serious?”

“what? do you not want to be my boyfriend?” you teased, taking one french fry from diluc’s plate and eats it, patiently waiting for diluc’s answer. 

diluc looks away before mumbling out an answer. “yes, i do want to be your boyfriend.”

you clapped your hands together, looking extremely happy. “great! honestly, i was waiting for you to confess first, but knowing how stubborn you are with your own feelings, you wouldn’t confess even if it’s been twenty years.”

“wha- why didn’t you make the first move then?” diluc asks, seemingly upset that you saw right through him. “you made me wait instead of-”

you laughed. “i loved seeing your reactions you know? you get all embarrassed every time i slightly touch you. it’s cute.”

“i regret ever having a crush on you.” diluc states, frowning as he takes his last bite out of his burger. “now hurry up and finish your meal unless you want to miss the movie.”

“ah-” you clearly forgot all about the movie ever since you started the topic of diluc’s feelings for you. “shit.”

“yeah. now finish it, dummy.” diluc murmurs, hiding a smile behind his hand as he watches you eat your food, face puffing up as you stuff your mouth. “cute.” he whispers under his breath.

[idkwhatimdoinghere1655]

Victory Tastes Damn Good - Carlos Sainz

<word count - 3384>

warnings - smut, under 18s dni

"Come on Carlos, come on," you muttered, feeling sick with nerves that you thought you might throw up. It was the final lap of the Singapore Grand Prix, and Lando was doing a great job as he backed up the final of the two Mercedes.

You couldn't help but close your eyes as they hurtled down the homestraight, unable to watch just in case it went wrong. But, the angels were looking down on you and granted your wishes, as you heard through your headphones, "Carlos Sainz has won the Singapore Grand Prix!" 

The team were screaming and jumping for joy, and you couldn't help it as tears escaped your eyes and down onto your cheeks. Even more tears flowed as you sang along with Carlos and his engineer, in celebration of the smoothest of operations. 

You rushed out to parc ferme, but couldn't get anywhere near the front due to the masses of Ferrari personel that were out there. You didn't even care though, as you got to watch Carlos get out of the car, finally victorious. He had been close in Monza, but that didn't matter. 

You may not have been able to see his face, but the pure joy that radiated from him could be felt from the distance you were at. While everyone was occupied at parc ferme, you headed straight to the podium.

Seeing him stood up there was magic. There was no easy way to describe how you felt, but it was like drowning in a sea of golden delight, and you didn't know whether to open your eyes or let it take you away.

It was like you were in a dream, and a part of you was terrified that you were going to wake up. You just couldn't tear your eyes away from him. You thought he was going to fizzle away, and the Spanish anthem would turn Dutch, and Carlos would turn blonde. 

But, it didn't happen. The anthem finished, and the Scuderia finally got to hear the grace of the Italian anthem. Carlos simply couldn't wipe the grin off his face, and you didn't want him to. It was the embodiment of everything he had worked so hard to achieve, and his brilliantly clever and down right genius racing had brought him to where he deserved to be.

At the top.

Watching him hoist his trophy high wa bliss, and it was like a King in front of his people as the whole of the Tifosi beneath him cheered and screamed. As the champagne flowed, Carlos and Lando showed everyone just how precious Carlando was, and you adored the friendship they had. 

Just as you had managed to stop crying, you finally got to see Carlos properly, and he had finally found you. He was looking for you, but was too caught up in the moment to properly search. You didn't know what to say as you looked at him.

He was stood right in front of you, and you couldn't muster a single world. "I just-" you fumbled, putting both of your hands on his face and squishing his cheeks lightly, trying to check if he was actually real. 

"You just fucking won, Carlos!" you squealed, violently shaking him by his shoulders, before yanking him into your arms. "Did I? Huh, I was wondering where the trophy and champagne came from," he deeply chuckled in your ear. 

"I think someone slipped something in my drink this isn't normal," you laughed, ruffling his hair slightly. "It's called being extremely fucking happy, baby, I feel it too," he said, kissing you as he picked you up and twirled you around. 

"We are getting so fucked up tonight," you beamed, itching to get celebrating as wildly and extravagantly as you wanted. "Well, you might be," he cheekily smirked, winking at you. 

"Wasn't what I was talking about, but since you've done so spectacularly, I'll consider it," you smirked, spotting the mischievous glint in his eyes. "I doubt you'll be having to do much considering," he whispered in your ear, backing you up and pinning you against the wall of the motorhome with his body. 

"I think I deserve it, don't you?" he lowly asked, his breath tickling your ear. 

"Oh you do, but you'll have to wait," you mused, knowing that you had absolutely no control in this moment, but you knew he liked it when you thought you had the upper hand. "Winners don't wait, baby," he coyly grinned, leaning impossibly closer to you and peppering a few light kisses down your neck.

"This one is going to have to, this isn't the right place," you said, gently pushing him away with a tap on the shoulder. "And why is that?" He asked, gazing down at you as he still pressed you against the wall. "You know why,"

"Maybe I do, but I want to hear you say it," he leered, knowing the exact reason why you didn't want to do anything with him right here, right now. "Because I'd have to be quiet," you muttered. "And why would that be such a challenge, my love?" he teased, tucking a lock of loose hair behind your ear.

"I don't think I'll be able to refrain from telling you just how brilliant you are. At racing, and other things," you giggled, snaking your arms around his neck. Judging by his reaction, you knew you had told him exactly what he wanted to hear. 

"Well, I guess that would be an added bonus to finding somewhere away from here," he winked, stepping away from you when footfalls approached you. "Carlos, race debrief in five," Charles said, practically stomping past.

"Alright, thanks," he nodded, waiting for Charles to round the corner at the end of the corridor. As soon as he was out of sight, Carlos lunged forward and captured your lips with his. His hands found their place on your waist, one of them slowly trailing down your body.

"Hey, patience," you said, tugging his hand away by his wrist. 

"Sorry, I just can't keep my hands off you," he said, forcing himself to walk away, because if he got his hands on you again, he wouldn't be able to get them off. As he backed away, he shot a wink towards you with a smug grin, "I'll see you later, baby,"

"I'll see you later, Carlos," you smiled, leaning back against the wall and giving yourself a minute to catch your breath. Carlos made you feel like a rowdy teenager all over again, and he never failed to surprise you with his antics. 

You were in for one hell of a night. You thought back to when he won in Silverstone last year and what happened after that, and there was no doubt in your mind that tonight was not going to be any different. 

You didn't really know where to go to wait for Carlos, so you just sat on the couch of the motor home, posted pictures of him on every social media platform known to man and tried to wipe the huge, goofy smile off your face.

There was pride still bubbling in your chest, and it was a tingle that you never wanted to shake off. You checked the time, seeing that they had been in the team debrief for about fifty minutes. It had been a while, and you wanted to stretch your legs.

The general public had gone, leaving the track staff and team workers in at the track. It left you to wander around the paddock freely, without reporters fishing for a quick headline, or people constantly surrounding you as you shuffled through, shoulder to shoulder.

You could walk past the motorhomes, as the lights lit up the path, the air feeling warm on your skin. You smiled at the few people that walked by, none of them stopping you on your travels around the paddock. 

Most of the teams and people were in their motorhomes, still going through their debriefs. After some time, you saw a stream of papaya walking out of the doors, and you figured there would soon be a river of scarlet to follow. 

"Hey Lando, great job out there, you smashed it," you smiled as the curly haired boy passed by, a huge grin plastered on his face. "Thanks, it was a great race," he nodded, "Hey, you free tonight? You look great," he smirked. 

"Don't let Carlos hear you ask that," you laughed, used to Lando constantly flirting with you. He had done it ever since you had met him, and Carlos knew it. "He's fine with it, he knows a pretty lady like you gets plenty of attention," he charmed.

"Are we talking about the same Carlos?" you raised an eyebrow at him, knowing how possessive Carlos could be at times. He liked to have you all to himself, and you wouldn't have it any other way.  "Why only have first place when you can have second too?" he continued, leaning against the wall behind him. "It's happened before, it can happen again," he said.

"OK Lando, I'm going to go and see if Carlos is ready now," you side-eyed him, brushing off his comment as a joke and hoping it was nothing more. 

Lando just chuckled at you, waving you away as you walked. More teams were filtering out of their motorhomes for the night as you strolled down the path, no sign of anything red. Just as you reached the outside of the Ferrari motorhome, a hand was held over your mouth as another hand positioned itself on your stomach, tugging you back.

You went to scream, but the hand muffled the sounds. You tried to kick away, hoping to catch the attention of a passerby. "Baby, don't struggle, it's just me," a voice whispered in your ear, and your struggling muscles instantly relaxed.

"The hell are you playing at?" you whisper shouted, spinning around to face him. He still had his race suit on, and his skin was still sticky from the champagne.

"I just needed to see you, needed to touch you," he murmured, pulling you as close as he could. "Wait until we get back, we've been over this," you sighed, trying to ignore the feeling of his hands roaming your figure.

"But I need you now, baby," he spat, pinning you against the wall in one swift movement. "Everyone will hear and anyone who walks past will see," you told him.

"As soon as the last few guys from ours leave, we're the only ones left," he explained to you.

"There are security cameras everywhere, Carlos," you told him, your eyes darting around the space surrounding you, checking for any sign of surveillance. "Nothing can see here, I checked," he smirked.

One of Carlos' hands braced on your waist, the other trailing over your hip bones. "Fuck it," you mumbled, pulling him in by his neck and passionately kissing him. "That's my girl," he breathed against your lips.

You realised that people had stopped wandering out of the track, and you poked your head around the corner to see if there was anyone there. Much to your delight, the path past all of the motorhomes and across the paddock was like a ghost town. 

Most of the lights around the circuit flicked off as the final staff left for the night, leaving you alone at the track. There was a rush of excitement surging through you, curious to do whatever it was that Carlos was so hell bent on doing out in the open, where anyone could potentially see.

No more words were exchanged as you nodded at him to give him the all clear, to give him permission for whatever he was wanting to do. He hungrily took your lips with his, not even giving you the chance to breathe.

It felt like you were in a stormy sea, only able to capture a small gasp of air every now and then, but the burn that lingered in your lungs was like cold air on a winters' day.

Carlos' hands slithered up the sides of your thighs, sneaking under the material of your dress. His touch left tingles in their wake as his fingers brushed the skin on your hips.

"Can I?" he asked, hooking his fingers into the thin side of your underwear. "Of course," you nodded, pulling at his neck to bring him back into a kiss. Once you had stepped out of the lace, it was kicked to the side and discarded.

His lips moved across your jaw and delicately down your neck, across your shoulder. "Unfortunately for the both of us, we need to keep this on, just in case anyone decides to ruin our fun," he smirked against your skin, tugging at the material at the waist of your dress, "I don't want anyone else seeing you the way I get to,"

Normally you'd be alarmed at the prospect of someone seeing, or catching you in the act, but you were too caught up in it to care. Too fuelled with desire to be bothered. Too needy for him to think.

His lips still roamed slowly down, his hand sneaking back under the skirt of your dress and dangerously close to you. His fingers teased the skin of your upper thighs, and the temptation to push yourself closer to him was nearly unbearable.

But then, a thought struck you. "Hey, tonight is about you, allow me, I think you deserve a reward, no?" you breathed, pulling his face within a centimetre of yours by grabbing his chin. Your other hand snaked down his chest, all the way down to where his race suit was rolled down.

Carlos grabbed your wrist, pinning it against the wall. "If it's about me, then it's about you too. Getting to see you squirm for me, getting to hear how much you need me is the best reward you could give me," he smugly grinned, sinking to his knees in front of you.

His lips placed feather light kisses up the insides of your thighs, flitting from one to the other. "Fucking hell," he groaned, seeing the effect he had on you. "It's that easy, huh?" he teased, still kissing the insides of your thighs. "You're just too good," you lightly chucked, a hint of desperation in your voice.

"Say it again, it sounded good," he told you as he pushed your knees further apart. 

"You are so fucking brilliant, I don't even- Fuck," you breathed out as he teased you with his tongue. He slowly circled your clit as you pushed your hips into him.

"Tell me baby, tell me how much you want me," he told you, lightly running his tongue over you. "I need you, Carlos, I don't think I can wait," you pleaded, and it was music to his ears. It was the fuel that kept him going.

Without further hesitation, he started lapping and sucking at all the right places. Those special spots that he had mapped out in his mind. You both held the dangerous assumption that there was not a single soul around that could hear or see what you were doing.

"Am I doing a good job?" he asked, not ceasing with his movements. With his every action, the fizz in your lower abdomen became closer and closer to bubbling over. "Fuck yes you are, please don't stop," you mewled, tangling your hand in his hair, pulling at his dark locks. 

You couldn't help but buck your hips towards him, desperate for more. Carlos let out a low chuckle, "So I'm that good, huh?" he teased, adoring the way you tugged gently at the strands of his hair. "You're a winner for a reason," you said, your back arching off of the wall. 

Tingles were slowly spreading across your body, and the ever more desperate moans you were letting out told Carlos everything he needed to know. "You close, baby?" he asked, half mocking, half serious. 

He could tell the answer of the question quite easily, your legs were starting to shake and your hands were slowing their movements in his hair. "Fuck yes, I-" you managed to get out, the pleasure hitting you in a wave that spread across your body.  

It was like electricity pulsing through your veins, and your legs were buckling underneath you. Carlos rose from his knees and captured your lips in a heated kiss, the taste of you lingering on his tongue. "You know what that is? That's the taste of victory, and I think it's pretty damn good," he told you, caressing your sides.

"You OK to keep going?" he asked, despite is desperation. Even if he needed you more than anything else right now, your comfort was still his top priority. "Mhm, I don't wanna stop," you told him, and that was enough for him. 

You pushed his race suit down his legs quickly, knowing just how much both of you needed it. "Jump," he instructed between kisses, hoisting you up as your legs locked around his waist. He held you against the wall as he guided himself into your entrance. 

"Shit you feel good," he groaned, burying his head into your neck as he rocked his hips into yours. His lips left purply-red splotches on your skin, and you could feel them forming. Every time he thrust into you, you both let out groans of pleasure as you came closer to release. 

"Oh my god you're good, so fucking amazing," you rambled, and your praises fuelled him on more. He started to thrust into you deeper and harder, and he touched that spot that made you see stars. 

"You're the best reward I have ever gotten," he spat through gritted teeth, trying to hold himself together. "You deserve it," you breathed, your thighs burning from being clasped around his waist for the length of time you had. 

"Carlos, I-," you fumbled, unable to form legible words as you felt the pressure in your stomach build up to an unbearable level. You didn't need words to tell him, he could feel the way your walls wrapped tightly around him. 

"Carlos, I'm going to-," you started, but you were silenced by Carlos smashing his lips against yours, "Me too," he groaned as his pace picked up, hungry for release. Both of your moans were muffled as the release of pressure made your vision black out. 

It was like ropes of energy shooting through your abdomen, as you cried out and threw your head back against the wall. Your nails scratched over the skin of his neck, leaving red streaks in their path as the skin turned raw. His hips slowed to a halt as you were both left, breathless and exhausted. 

"Are you OK to stand, or do you want me to hold you for a bit longer?" he asked, his eyes turning from hungry to soft. "I should be fine, you can put me down," you said, Carlos gently lowering you back down to the ground. 

Your legs were kind of numb, as you leant against the wall to catch your breath. "We're still going to get pissed, right?" you asked, not ready for your night to be over. Carlos pulled his race suit back over his hips and stood in front of you, staring at the hickeys he had left on your neck. 

"You're probably going to have to cover these up, but then again, I'd love for everyone to see what I get when I win," he smirked, his hands gripping your waist. 

"Then you're probably going to have to cover these up," you laughed, running your fingers over the red scratches on his neck. "Let people see, I don't mind," he laughed, ignoring the sting they left on his skin. 

"I don't know if I want people knowing what we get up to," you chuckled, leaning against him as you started to walk out from in between the motorhomes. "True, I don't want anyone imagining you like that, that's all for me," he said, gripping you tighter. 

"Tell that to Lando," you quipped, since you knew Carlos knew how flirtatious he was with you. "He's an exception," he winked, checking to see if there were any people around. A blush tinted your cheeks as you realised that Lando's comment from earlier might not have been a joke. 

A/N - It's been a week, I know, I'm sorry. I've been really busy, so think of this as a one week anniversary gift. But in all seriousness, it still doesn't feel real, and it makes Forza Ferrari-ing through the pain that little bit easier. That was the smoothest of operations, and could not be prouder of our chili 🌶💖

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