#meaning to stiffen or numb

[mercvry-glow]

It's never over

parings. jack abbot x reader

summary. after a fight with jack, you spend the rest of your night clubbing with some friends. unfortunately that choice lands you into your partners er.

warnings. implied age gap (jack late 40s, reader late 20s/early 30s), established relationship, jack and reader fight, reader gets drugged and creeped on, hospital setting, medical emergencies, reader is okay tho, accurate as possible medical talk, soft!jack eventually, angst and hurt/comfort, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. I can't believe this is my longest fic and I don't like it 😭 I do love them though, and I love the angst, I just think this wasn't my strongest so we'll see how I feel when I get some more of yall's opinions. as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 4100+

You were just finishing your makeup when you heard the shower turn off.

It was a quiet kind of hope that filled your chest—small and delicate, but real. It had been weeks since the two of you had a night off together. Back-to-back night shifts, emergency call-ins, 4 a.m. arguments whispered in the dark… it had all blurred into something numb. Something too heavy.

But tonight?

Tonight was supposed to be the reset button.

You stepped out of the bathroom, smoothing your dress down with your hands, a nervous flutter in your stomach. Something soft played from the speaker on your nightstand. The perfume you wore on your first date still lingered in the air.

Then you saw it.

Black scrubs. His badge clipped to the collar. Go-bag on the floor.

You froze.

Jack stepped into the room, towel around his shoulders, running a hand through damp curls. He paused the second he saw your face.

“Babe—”

“No,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please don’t say it, you didn’t…”

He glanced at the scrubs like he wished they’d disappear. “Shen called when you were in the shower. They’re short. Real short. Two nurses out and a doctor is MIA—he’s drowning.”

You blinked. “And you said yes.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “He sounded desperate. I figured you’d—”

“You figured I’d be fine,” you cut in, hurt creeping into your voice. “Because it’s always me who has to make the compromise.”

“It’s one shift,” he said, already tugging on his top.

“It’s never just one,” you snapped, then caught yourself, hands tightening at your sides. “I got off three hours ago, Jack. I’ve been dragging myself through twelve-hour nights, sometimes more just like you. And the one time we both actually had a night off…”

He looked away. “This isn’t about us.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, your voice cracking. “Because it feels like it is.”

Silence pressed in between you.

“I get it,” you added. “I know what it’s like when the unit’s falling apart. I know what it’s like to be needed, to be the one that says yes every time. But God, Jack… when do I get to be your emergency?”

He stiffened.

“You think I want to do this?” he snapped suddenly. “You think I don’t feel it too? That I don’t want to just stay here, take you to dinner, act like our lives aren’t chaos 24/7?”

“Then why don't you?” you said, voice breaking. “Why is it always someone else who gets the best of you?”

He looked at you then, eyes tired, voice bitter. “Because they need me. You wouldn’t get it.”

Your heart stopped.

“What did you just say to me?”

He hesitated—too long. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No. Say it again,” you said, stepping back. “Say I don’t get it, Jack.”

Jack sighed, frustrated. “You know what I mean. You’re not—”

“Not what?” you snapped. “Not enough? Not capable of understanding? I work the same damn shifts as you do. I patch up the same wounds, hold the same dying hands—don’t you dare act like I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, but it was already too late.

You grabbed your bag, throat thick with hurt. “You want to play doctor, Jack? Fine. Go save Pittsburgh. But don’t expect me to sit here and wait again for whatever’s left of you after.”

He moved toward you, but you stepped around him, heart pounding in your chest.

“I gave you tonight,” you whispered at the door. “And you gave it away.”

And then you left—heels in your hand, dress still clinging to hope, the soft click of the door the only sound between you.

Things didn’t get much better after you left. 

The music thumped in your chest, the bass vibrating through the soles of your feet. It was loud. Too loud. But that was the point, right?

After the fight, after the disappointment and the sting of Jack’s words, you just needed something different. Something that would make you forget for a little while. So, when Marina and Kat suggested hitting the club, you agreed. You’d always enjoyed the energy, the people, the feeling of being free, even if just for a night.

So now you found yourself in a packed, dark club with flashing lights and bodies grinding against each other on the dance floor. You didn’t know exactly why you were here, but the thought of being home alone, stewing in anger and confusion, was too much to handle.

The girls were already lost in the crowd, their laughter cutting through the music as they grabbed drinks from the bar. You followed, trying to shake off the ache in your chest, the one that kept whispering that Jack should’ve been out with you, not  at work.

“Another round?” Kat asked, leaning close enough for you to hear over the beat.

You nodded, your eyes scanning the bar area, the chaos of the club almost soothing in its madness. The atmosphere was a welcome distraction, even though it wasn’t the night you’d planned. You hadn’t expected to feel so… hollow. Jack’s absence was like a weight pressing against your chest, and you were trying to ignore it. Trying to not think about how your plans had been shattered, how this whole night had been supposed to be different.

You made your way toward the bar, needing a moment of quiet, a break from the noise, when a guy approached. He was dressed in a tight shirt that seemed to shimmer under the club lights, his hair perfectly styled. He smiled at you, one that was too eager, almost practiced.

“Hey, I couldn’t help but notice you,” he said, leaning in just a bit too close. “I’m Alex. And you—wow. You look incredible.”

You forced a smile, taking a step back instinctively. “Thanks,” you said, trying to keep the interaction polite, your voice still a little stiff. “I’m just here with some friends.”

His smile didn’t falter. “I can tell, I just had to come over. I mean, with a woman like you, how could I not?”

You glanced around, hoping to spot either Marina or Kat, but the crowd was thick and you were feeling boxed in. “I’m not really looking for company,” you said, hoping that would be enough.

He didn’t take the hint. Instead, his hand moved closer to your arm, brushing against the bare skin of your shoulder.

“You sure? I’m just trying to have a good time, and you seem like you’re someone who knows how to enjoy herself,” he said, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. A chill ran down your spine. You weren’t sure if it was the way he said it or just how off his energy felt, but it made your stomach turn.

“I said no, thank you,” you said, trying to sound firm, but your words barely made it through the noise of the music.

He didn’t back off, though. His dark eyes raked over you like he was trying to figure you out, like you were some new prize to be won. “Come on, what’s the harm in just one drink? One dance?” He stepped in closer, his breath warm on your neck.

You shook your head, feeling the walls close in. Your palms were starting to get clammy, the tightness in your chest spreading. “I’m not interested,” you repeated, your voice sharper this time, but his grip on your arm tightened, just a little.

“Don’t be like that,” he said, his fingers brushing the strap of your dress. “You know you want to have some fun.”

That was it. The polite smile you’d been forcing finally slipped away. You wrenched your arm free from his grip, your voice loud and clear now.

“I said no,” you snapped, the force of your words cutting through the loud music.

His eyes flashed, surprised at your sudden change in tone, but then he just scoffed. “Fine, whatever,” he muttered, his expression turning into a sneer. “Guess I misread you.”

You didn’t even wait for him to finish walking away. You turned sharply, heart pounding in your chest, as you made your way back toward the dance floor. The excitement of the club had completely evaporated, replaced with the taste of bitterness and frustration.

You made your way back toward the dance floor, heart still racing, the heat of the club suddenly feeling suffocating. The beat of the music had lost its pull on you, replaced by the sting of unwanted attention and the frustration of a night gone wrong. You barely noticed the way the crowd shifted, how people pressed against you as you walked through them, each of them just another stranger in your path. You tried to shake the unease away, but it lingered like a shadow.

Marina and Kat, the only two familiar faces in this chaotic scene, were still at the bar, but you couldn’t muster the energy to go back to them just yet. You needed a moment alone, even if that meant getting lost in the crowd. You found a quiet corner at the edge of the room, trying to collect your thoughts, breathing in the air that smelled of alcohol and sweat, but it did little to calm the storm in your chest.

The drink you’d had earlier—a rum and coke—was still sitting in your hand. You’d been nursing it for most of the night, the ice now long melted, the liquid a watered-down version of what it had been when you first grabbed it at the bar. It wasn’t your favorite, but you didn’t mind. You hadn’t been focused on the drink anyway, just trying to keep the edges of your frustration from seeping through.

But now, as you took another sip, something felt off. Your stomach tightened, but not in the way it usually did after too much alcohol. It was deeper, almost hollow, like there was something foreign inside you. You set the drink down on the nearest table, trying to ignore the growing sense of unease gnawing at the back of your mind.

Your vision started to blur, the flashing lights of the club becoming a chaotic swirl of neon. The music, once a vibrant pulse beneath your skin, now felt distant—like you were hearing it from underwater. The pressure in your head built an oppressive weight that made it hard to think clearly. You stumbled slightly, your legs growing heavy, and it took all your effort just to stay standing.

You glanced around for your friends, but the crowd had thickened, and the girls were nowhere to be seen. Panic crept up your spine. You needed them. You needed someone to help. But the room felt like it was spinning now, faster and faster, and your body wasn’t cooperating with you anymore.

"Hey, are you okay?" A voice cut through the fog in your mind, but you couldn’t place where it came from. You tried to focus, to find the person speaking, but your vision darkened again, everything going black at the edges.

You blinked, trying to fight off the overwhelming dizziness, but it was useless. The world around you tilted, and the last thing you remembered was sinking to your knees, the floor rushing up to meet you.

The ER was chaotic as always.

Monitors beeped in staccato rhythms, stretchers lined the halls, and the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the metallic tang of adrenaline. Jack hadn’t stopped moving since he walked in, not even long enough to get a proper cup of coffee. His scrubs still clung to his damp skin from the rushed post-shower change, and his muscles ached from tension he hadn’t had time to notice until now.

A code had just cleared. He stood in the corner of north three, charting with one hand, the other gripping a barely-sipped paper cup of coffee that had long gone cold. The flicker of a headache gnawed behind his eyes.

He shouldn’t be here.

His mind kept drifting—back to the house, to the way you looked in that dress, to the way your voice cracked when you said “when do I get to be your emergency?”

 God, that had hit harder than he’d let on.

And then he’d said the wrong thing—“You wouldn’t get it.” The words kept echoing back in his ears like a cruel joke. You did get it. Maybe more than anyone ever had.

He hadn’t checked his phone since you left. Couldn’t bring himself to. If you texted, he’d crumble. If you didn’t… Well, that was somehow worse.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Jack snapped out of it at the sound of John’s voice shouting down the hallway. He turned toward him, brows knitting together. Shen was already halfway across the ED, panting slightly, eyes wide.

“What is it?” Jack asked, already moving toward him.

“Overdose. Young woman—unknown age, female. Brought in from the strip district—some club off Penn. Unconscious on arrival, GCS dropped to six en route.”

Jack's jaw tightened. “ETA?”

“They just pulled up.”

Jack tossed his chart aside and strode toward the ambulance bay without another word, adrenaline already kicking in.

Shen jogged beside him. “Paramedics think her drink was spiked—GHB, maybe? Said she started seizing before they got her out of the club. Friends couldn’t find her at first—she was alone when they found her on the floor.”

Something twisted in Jack’s gut. He didn’t know why. Just a flicker of unease, a sick chill climbing up his spine.

The ambulance bay doors opened with a mechanical hiss. The flashing red lights reflected off the glass like warning signals in his head.

He stepped outside, heart thudding.

And then he saw her.

Or You.

Unconscious. Oxygen mask strapped to your still pretty face. IVs in both arms. Your dress—the dress you had bought—bunched awkwardly around your hips. One heel missing. A smudge of mascara on your cheek like a cruel reminder of what tonight was supposed to be.

The paramedic was shouting something, but Jack didn’t hear it. His vision tunneled. His world narrowed to just you—still, and small on the gurney.

“No,” Jack whispered, stepping forward, his breath catching in his throat. “No, no, no—”

He pushed through the medic, grabbing onto the rail of the stretcher.

“What happened?” he barked. His voice was hoarse, shaking.

“GHB suspected. Found alone. Low responsiveness. HR is unstable. She’s seizing on and off—”

Jack was already moving, wheeling you into trauma bay one. “Get Narcan ready just in case. Push fluids. Get me labs, tox screen, full workup. Page neuro for consult—now.”

He didn’t even care that his voice cracked. Didn’t care that every nurse and medic in that hallway was staring at him like he’d lost it.

Because he had.

You were his emergency now, and he was terrified he might be too late.

The doors slammed open with a bang as Jack wheeled you inside, every step fueled by sheer panic and clinical precision. His hands moved on autopilot, but his mind? His mind was screaming.

“She’s hypotensive,” a nurse called. “BP’s dropping—seventy over fifty.”

“Push fluids—hang a liter of LR, now. Get a second IV. 16-gauge if you can find a vein.”

Your head lolled to the side as the team lifted you onto the bed. Jack’s breath hitched.

“Jesus, she’s burning up,” he muttered, pressing his palm to your forehead. “Get her temp.”

“102.6,” Shen called.

“Possible serotonin syndrome or stimulant combo,” Jack said quickly. “Start cooling measures. Ice packs under the arms. Get a foley—need accurate output.”

A nurse moved to cut the dress from your body, but Jack put his hand out. “Don’t—” His voice cracked again. He paused, swallowed, forced the words out through gritted teeth. “Let me.”

No one argued. Everyone knew—this wasn’t just another patient, you were one of them, you were jack’s. His slightly trembling hands carefully unzipped the side of your dress, easing it off your shoulders and down. He fought to keep his face unreadable, but his throat felt raw, his stomach twisting into knots. The scent of your perfume—the one you wore on your first date—still lingered faintly in the air.

“Vitals?” he barked, refocusing as nurses applied leads to your chest.

“HR 122. O2’s eighty-nine but climbing. BP’s coming up a little.”

Jack leaned over you, brushing damp hair from your forehead. Your lashes fluttered, just barely. A flicker of awareness behind your lids.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered, not caring who heard. “Stay with me. I’m right here. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

You stirred faintly, a tiny groan slipping past your lips.

“Hey, hey—it’s me,” he said, brushing his knuckles gently along your cheek. “You’re in the ER. You’re safe now, alright? I got you.”

Your eyes opened a crack, glassy and unfocused. You blinked slowly, clearly struggling to process. And then—

“J…Jack?” you croaked, barely above a whisper.

He exhaled, choking on relief.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said quickly, squeezing your hand. “I’m right here. You’re gonna be fine, I promise.”

You blinked again, trying to sit up, but your body betrayed you. “What… happened?”

“You were drugged,” Jack said gently. “Spiked drink. Club downtown. Do you remember anything?”

You shook your head faintly, then winced as pain rolled through you. “I—he—there was this guy… he wouldn’t leave me alone…”

Jack’s jaw tightened. Fury flared behind his eyes, but he pushed it down.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured, brushing some hair out of  your face. “Don’t worry about that right now. You’re here. You’re safe.”

“Y-you were supposed to be at work,” you mumbled, confusion clouding your voice.

His heart cracked clean in half.

“I am. But they brought you in,” he whispered, gripping your hand tighter. “They brought you in… and everything else stopped.”

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until your hand weakly squeezed his.And for the first time that night, Jack let himself fall apart—just a little. Because you were the emergency. And nothing else mattered now.

After an hour of working on you, Jack stood at the foot of your bed, hands braced on his hips, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest. Monitors beeped in steady rhythm. The IV pumped fluids into your system, and you were stable now—groggy but safe.

It had been the longest hour of his life..

He didn’t realize how tight his jaw had been until he stepped out of the trauma bay and let the door swing closed behind him. He needed a second. Just one.

But that’s when he saw them—Marina and Kat, hovering near the nurses' station down the hall like two ghosts.

They looked like hell. Club makeup smudged, heels in their hands, eyes wide and red-rimmed. They’d followed the ambulance but hadn’t pushed forward until now.

When Jack made eye contact with them, they froze. The hallway felt too quiet, the tension snapping taut.

He moved toward them with slow, deliberate steps. His face was unreadable—too calm to be safe.

“You two were with her.” His voice wasn’t angry, not exactly. But it carried the weight of someone barely holding it together. “So tell me what happened.”

Kat opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Marina stepped in instead, her voice small. “We didn’t know. Jack, we—we didn’t know. She just said she needed a minute and went to the bar. We were right there.”

“She was alone,” Jack said, his tone still deceptively even. “Long enough for some asshole to slip something in her drink.”

“We didn’t see anyone,” Kat said, her voice cracking. “We were watching her an-and then she was gone until someone screamed. She collapsed. We thought—Jesus, we thought she just had too much to drink, but she only bought one.”

Jack closed his eyes for a beat, dragging a hand over his face.

“She didn’t,” he muttered. “Tox screen lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. Probably in that one drink she barely touched.”

Marina blinked, horrified. “She said it didn’t taste right. Said it was too sweet.”

“She was trying to be safe,” Jack said, his voice tightening. “Did everything right. Still ended up in my fucking ER, barely coherent.”

Neither of them had anything to say to that. Because what could you say?

“I should’ve been with her,” Jack added quietly, more to himself than to them. “We were supposed to have tonight. And I left.”

Marina stepped forward cautiously, soft as always. “She didn’t blame you, Jack. She didn’t even say your name like she was mad. She just—she was looking for you.”

That hit harder than it should’ve. Jack’s throat worked as he swallowed, glancing back at the trauma room door behind him.

“She’s sleeping now,” he said finally. “Out of the woods.”

“Can we… see her?” Kat asked gently.

Jack nodded. “Just be quiet. She might not wake up for a while.”

Marina hesitated, then touched Jack’s arm, tentative. “She loves you, you know that. Don’t let tonight be the thing that breaks you both.”

Jack didn’t answer, but something in his expression softened—just barely. The steel cracked for a second, showing the man underneath. The one who hadn’t left her side. The one who never would.

And then he stepped back toward the door, glancing once more at the monitor inside.

“Tell her I’m here,” he said. “When she wakes up…”

The soft beeping of the monitor was the first thing you heard. It was steady, rhythmic, almost comforting, but it felt like the sound was a distant echo, like you weren’t quite sure where it was coming from. Your eyes fluttered open, blurry at first, the room around you coming into focus slowly.

Your head throbbed with a dull ache, a tightness in your chest pulling at your breath. Something felt wrong—like the world had shifted just slightly, leaving you off-balance.

Then, the scent of antiseptic and faint, stale coffee mixed with the familiar one that had always been home to you: Jack.

Your eyes scanned the dimly lit room. There, sitting at your side, was Jack—his back to you as he slumped in a chair, his hand resting near yours on the bed. His posture was stiff, but there was something in the way his shoulders hung, the way his breath came a little too fast, that told you he wasn’t just tired.

He was worried.

You tried to speak, but your throat felt dry, raw. You croaked out a faint sound, and Jack snapped to attention, immediately leaning forward. His eyes met yours, and there it was—the instant relief, mixed with guilt, storming across his features.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice hoarse. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay.”

You tried to say something, but your voice wouldn’t cooperate. You croaked again, your hand weakly reaching for his.

Jack’s fingers tightened around yours, warm and steady. His thumb traced over the back of your hand as if to reassure both of you.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve been with you.”

You blinked, your mind sluggish as it pieced things together. You could barely remember what had happened. The night, the club, the man at the bar, the drink…The wave of nausea hit you, and you squeezed his hand harder. He immediately noticed.

“Take it easy,” he said, his free hand brushing a few stray hairs from your forehead. “You’ve been through a lot.”

It wasn’t just the physical toll—it was everything else. The confusion, the anger, the heartbreak.

“I… I didn’t…” You stopped, your throat closing up. The words didn’t come out easily, but Jack was right there, waiting patiently.

“You didn’t deserve this,” he said gently, like he could hear everything you couldn’t say. “I know. I should’ve done better. I should’ve been with you.”

You squeezed his hand again, the weight of his words and your own swirling in the space between you. The thought of him taking the blame—the one who had stayed behind, who had always put in the work—was almost too much.

And you didn’t have the strength to argue.

“You’re here,” you whispered finally, eyes barely open. “That’s all I need right now.”

Jack’s chest tightened at that, his eyes darkening as he bent closer, brushing his lips against your forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. “I’ll never do that to you again.”

Your heart gave a flutter at his words, and though your head was still spinning, your chest felt just a little lighter.

A quiet comfort settled between you, something unspoken but deeply understood. For all the chaos of the world outside, for all the mistakes and regrets, you knew that together, you’d get through it.

And for tonight, that was enough.

mercvry-glow 2025

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡Inside｡⋆.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x plus size reader

You’ve never been raw-dogged and filled before, Simon wants to change that

Warnings: SMUT, mentions of drinking and eating food from the ground, power imbalance, unprotected sex, creampie (obvi), clothed man/unclothed woman, a little ass smacking, cockwarming, bit of an ownership kink and possessive!Ghost, lots of swearing WC: 2k Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

Stakeouts were boring on the best of days, but add in the fact that your partner for the foreseeable future was a brick wall who absolutely refused to make any sort of conversation, you were dying. If you had been stationed with Gaz or Soap, hell even Price, you could have had some entertainment as you sat on the metal folding chair and watched an empty apartment.

But Ghost was nothing if not exceedingly capable of subverting your expectations.

“You ever try buzzballz?” You shifted on your seat, trying to get your numb ass to wake up.

Simon didn’t even look at you.

“Thought not. You’re more of a bourbon guy or beer, but that’s kinda lame.” He grunted under his breath, you took that as affirmation. “Anyways, after that last mission, Soap somehow got his grubby hands on a few of the big ones which are the equivalent of like 12 shots and I’m telling you, they were fucking florescent blue. My tongue was stained the next day.”

He reached for the pack of chewing tobacco in his vest pocket, an unfortunate solution to not being able to go for a smoke any time he needed to. You unconsciously watched his gloved fingers poke through the pocket before catching yourself and turning back to the grimy window you had been previously staring out of.

“But I don’t even know what was in those drinks because suddenly, it’s midnight and this fucker is telling me about how creampies are the best feeling in the world. And I know we’re teammates and we’ve literally seen each other naked in those communal showers on base but somehow that was just a step too far y’a know.” You don’t notice the way your companion stiffened.

“And it was totally gross! Like I have seen that man scarf a sausage that had been on the ground for god knows how long so I can’t imagine that getting creampied would be that pleasant if he’s so obsessed with it. I just can’t even imagine the cleanup either! It would be-“

“’S nice.”

Your head snapped to look over at Ghost so quickly that your neck popped. “What.”

He cleared his throat, brown eyes still staring straight ahead though you suspected he wasn’t looking for the target. “Said ’s nice, cummin’ in someone I mean.” Your face must’ve been shocked as all hell because he finally looked at you, his already dark eyes now voids behind the skull mask. “Feels good. Really fuckin good.”

Heat exploded across your cheeks, his voice was deeper than it normally was, with a rasp that went directly to your center. 

“I’ve never…” 

He huffed under his breath something akin to a laugh, it was almost mocking. “Figured.”

You forced yourself to look back out the window, even as the thrumming between your legs got worse with every tension-filled second that passed. Ghost was as sexy as he was mysterious; towering over everyone in your squad, there was no question the man was big and you, in some demented part of your brain, wondered if it was proportional. You had never even seen his face but it was often his voice, his hands, that fueled your late night fantasies alone in your bunk.

And you suspected that he knew, especially right now.

“Gets so hot, and tight, feels like your markin ‘er from the inside. Ya keep yourself in as deep as possible as she’s fightin cause it’s too much, but ya keep going.” You tried to swallow down the lump in your throat, but instead it slipped quietly from your lips— a whimper sliced through the dingy apartment, and Simon kept talking.

“Ya go till it hurts, fucking it back in and then yer ready to go again… and again… till she can’t even scream anymore. and you’ve stained the sheets beneath you” You gripped the material of your pants so tightly, they would rip if you suddenly jerked. He must’ve known what he was doing to you, but nothing about the way he was slumped down in his own chair, eyes forward, fingers lazily tracing the seam of his kevlar vest said ‘I want to fuck you into the ground too’.

“I could show ya, not much else to do right now.” Your breath caught as he laid a large hand onto your plump thigh, well that definitely screamed it. 

“Lt-“

“I’ll keep watch, you just need to bounce. You’ll be good and do that fer me won’t you soldier, so I can show you how good it feels.” Like a trance had come over you, you rose from the seat, your fingers flying to the buckle of your belt as Simon’s hand curved around to the fat of your ass.

“You sure it’ll feel good?” His mask remained blank but the way his grip on you tightened and his thick thighs spread told you everything you needed to know. 

“Why are you questioning me when I gave you an order, soldier?” His own belt popped open with a clink and the zipper of his fly slid down, letting you catch a glimpse of what you had been craving so badly. 

“Sorry sir.” The words were spit out just like they had been trained to, earning a slightly less displeased huff from your superior. You kicked off your already unlaced boots having undone them the moment you got into the apartment and soon your pants and panties joined the ever-growing pile of your clothes.

“And the top.” He growled, squeezing the mass of his cock. “Doing this fer you, remember.” You nodded and yanked off the t-shirt you were all-too-glad to get rid of, leaving you standing before him just in your ratty sports bra that did very little to contain your tits.

Simon’s breath shuddered before he gestured to the thick material. “Yessir.” You threw it to the side, finally leaving yourself bare to his molten gaze. Your arms itched to cover the expanse of your curves but your mind refused to disobey, even as the man before you froze save for the heaving of his massive chest.

He studied every inch of you, from the seam where your thighs met to the plushness of your plump stomach, from your strong arms to the way your tits sat just waiting for his touch. You watched with the keen eye of a sniper as his bare forearm tensed and released, the tendons working as he squeezed himself over the material of his pants.

“Can we start sir?” You dared to ask, half-expecting an immediate rejection, but he just chuffed and pulled himself from the open fly.

“Damn impatient thing.” To say he was big was an insult— he was monstrous. Thick and uncut with a dense thatch of hair that you knew would scrape against your clit perfectly when he was buried to the hilt inside of you. A bead of hazy liquid builds on the very tip of his substantial length and you wondered briefly how white-hot it would feel when it was inside of you.

“Gettin’ cold here soldier.” His thighs spread apart even wider, enticing you to come closer. You wanted to ask if it would even fit but you doubted it would make a difference. 

The muscles of his shoulders just barely gave way as you gripped onto them, your nails digging in deep as you swung a leg over his bulky hips, settling onto his lap. His cock rested between you, nestled against the softness of your cunt, getting wetter with your combined arousal. His eyes sparkled while he watched you slowly get comfortable with the feel of him.

“C’mon angel, don’t have all day. Price ’s coming to relieve us at 0300 and I’ll need at least two rounds outta you.” You were jolted forwards by his leg shoving you up, making you hover over his head.

Shoving a shaking hand between your bodies, you took ahold of him and lined him up with your dripping entrance. A worried breath escaped you and then, you sank down, swallowing him whole. 

“Fuuuuuuck.”He hissed through his teeth while all words vanished from your mind. It burned and ripped through you but nothing had ever felt as good as this, like his cock was perfectly tailored to fill you up just the way you needed it. Simon’s hands flew to your wide hips, gripping them with just force that you knew there would be ugly-looking bruises you’d have to explain away later.

His hips canted up, unable to stop himself from forcing himself even deeper, chasing the tightness of your cunt. “Si.” You sighed, head falling to the crook of his neck, earning you another punch upwards.

“Takin’ it so fuckin well, knew you fuckin would. Made fer my fuckin cock weren’t ya. Shoulda done this the first time ya looked at me with those fuckin eyes.” His accent grew deeper with every thrust, his words getting more and more unintelligible as your joint pleasures mounted.

You slammed your hips down with as much force as you could muster, desperately trying to meet his brutal pace, earning a muffled groan of approval. A gloved palm met your bare ass with a harsh slap, forcing a loud moan from you. 

“That’s it angel. Just needed to be properly fucked didn’t ya? All quiet now, my perfect little soldier.” Your teeth sank into his neck as the knot in your stomach wound tighter and tighter until it was almost unbearable. “So close ain’t ya, need that little bit more.”

“Please Si, please.” He immediately shoved your legs further apart to fit his hand between you, the pads of his index and middle fingers finding your throbbing clit as his cock hammered against your g-spot.

With only two jerky circles, you shattered above him. You back bowed as your forced yourself down to the hilt, you pussy rippling around him while Simon struggled to fuck you through your high. 

“Gonna make me cum angel. Gonna show you how good it fuckin feels to be filled.” His thrusts grew sloppy but his words continued to spill out of his mouth almost involuntarily at this point. “Mark you as fuckin mine.” He snarled.

Your body shook with the power of him, it took all your strength just to take it, let him use and fill you. His cock started to twitch inside of you threateningly. You wanted him to do it, to prove to you how good it felt to be owned from the inside.

“Cum inside, wanna feel all of you.” Your lips brushed against where his ear was beneath the mask, your breath sending goosebumps all over his body. “Make me yours.”

His muscles seized below your palms, rippling and moving so beautifully that you never wanted it to end. He buried himself all the way inside you as he let out a beautiful, raspy moan. Heat exploded deep inside of you, spreading through your veins like a hot bath on a cold winter's day. The feeling of his so deep within you as his cock began to soften was unlike anything you had experienced before and suddenly you knew why the Scot was so obsessed with it.

Simon finally went limp below you, though made no move to remove you from his lap nor your cunt from around his cock. You settled against his chest, now overly aware of your nakedness and the fact that he was still fully clothed, including that stupid skull mask, though you weren’t wholly opposed to it. His arms encircled you, jerking you a bit as he did something behind your back before he hugged you close.

“Look at me angel.” Your hazy gaze turned upwards, meeting the intoxicating brown of his irises. A now bare hand cupped the fat of your cheek, his thumb coming to rest on the curve beneath your eye. “We’re doing this again, over and over until even Soap-“ He spat his name like it was an insult, “-knows exactly who ya belong to. You’re gonna always be dripping with me. Understood?”

“Yes sir.” You murmured, exhaustion closing in on you.

“Good girl. Now get some shut eye, ain’t done with you yet.”

MW Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Join my taglist!

All works

@im-a-slut-for-fluff @alexxavicry @ravenwings73 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @silverfire475 @psychadelichues @mvyalx @faefanatic @evansqueen54 @anamiad00msday @th3sloth @princess76179 @Lanielagenev @luvvvjada @lucypaulette @mooniequeen @slutfor-fictionalmen @km-ffluv @black-rose-29 @Minedofmoria @relatednative @starboygf @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @strawb3rrywh0r3

Call of Duty/Modern Warfare 

@joyfulfxckery @looking1016 @ppascalq @alphabetically-deranged

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

@mandythemint  @babygirl-riley @lunamoonbby @un-aesthetic @Voice_Activated @daytej @starlighta @midnight-shadow-cafe @zanypruneweaselnerd @bruhijustwannaread @alexandria-fandom

[anantaru]

GENSHIN + NUT IN ME NOVEMBER

— ꒰ synopsis ꒱ — who cares about NNN? your boyfriend and you certainly don't!

— ꒰ including ꒱ — neuvillette, scaramouche, childe, wriothesley

— ꒰ warnings ꒱ — fem! reader, breeding kink, slight size kink, unprotected sex, very messy & lots of cum, they're a little mean & tease a lot, pussy drunk genshin men

— ꒰ NEUVILLETTE ꒱

from the current appearances, neuvillette could hardly indulge in the magnificent view emitting from underneath his large body— and the handsome man was just about to open his mouth, precisely to spell out those candid words and praises into your ears when you're prompt in your own gentle ministrations by wrapping both arms around his neck to shush him before a mere word could slip, tickling the fine hair on the back of his head.

"it seems— ugh, like we've lost," neuvillette was barely capable to say anything out loud without in his words resulting in crumbling apart when you squeeze around him tighter, his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head in pleasure at the way you were gripping him, your lungs feeling like they stretch out on each new whimper, whine and writhe as he fucks you in sheer desperation.

a faint outline of a groan exudes from the both of you when he bottoms into you again— while now, what was slow at first, meaning just gentle and slow thrusts in and out of you every so softly to build up the fizzing pleasure on your wet insides, soon manifested into something else, the rapid shoves making your things tense tight, your used cunt merging into his stiffened erection as you shake beneath him.

your face squeezes into that of deep pleasure, your nose puckered around the bridge and brows knitted together when your climax was right around the corner to trigger something unnamable in your stomach, a sinking fieriness that almost appeared to be as strong as to numb the salacious thrusts and grinds that were becoming messier, so greedy and harder to tame.

you hear it, those lewd noises, and your body reacts to them as well, a quivering murmur to his tone as soft tremors of neuvillette's groans exhale from his mouth and slip right into your searing kiss— because you see now, you're in control of his mind, and at this rate you're practically begging him to go harder on your cunt with each smack of his hips convulsing on your core when he slants back into you to press his delicate lips against yours, pushing his tongue in between as your slick smears along the thin skin of his shaft, your walls throbbing and turning with each new wave of unforgiving thrusts of his hips splitting you in half.

— ꒰ SCARAMOUCHE ꒱

"why did you even believe i would consider going without this for a whole month?"

oh, who would've thought? but this happened to be way easier for scaramouche, more delicious and empowering than any reluctance or guilt when the both of you haven't even gotten through one day of november without practically being all over each other— your hips arching into his strong thrusts forward, fingers curling into the disheveled bed sheets as your soft insides clench up around his rigid erection. 

"i thought it'll be— fuck, it'll be fun!" you attempt to reason with your boyfriend, although sweetly smirking against his lips demanding entry into your mouth as you began to pepper searing kisses on them, your tongue teasing into his warmth to lap across his wet muscle, your skin sticking against his own as his hips roll back and forth your clenching hole, breaking through your thighs squeezing together with fierce need.

scaramouche breaks the kiss at once, "look at me," he demands, visibly swallowing before taking a deep breath, his voice surprisingly low, a pinch of a rasp tottering on top of your lips as his tone was evidently wrapped inside the limit of a domineering cocoon fully consisting of vicious pleasure.

"you know that's no fun," you tremble as you shake under his looming body, his hips pressing in deep, in fact, so deep that you were now full of him, crowded as your pussy made his pace stutter, your hole overflowing with his throbbing cock and altering the steady stream of pleasure running through your veins, his grin only widening at the feeling of how much you liked the way he fucked you so desperately.

"but this is fun, wouldn't you agree?" scaramouche made sure to convey each of his words with a new, even stronger, sharp thrust into your warm hole as his balls tighten against you, the heaviness of his length pressing through your solid ring pulls your body in a tremble, your face now buried in the curve of his neck as you climax with a loud cry of his name, the sudden compression of your pussy making it harder for him to contain himself as he cums hard as well, spilling hot white ropes of sticky cum deep inside your pulsing spots that the heaviness of him made you wince softly.

"this— oh this feel so good." kuni mumbles against your lips with a large smirk manifesting on his handsome features, grunting as he continues to pound sloppily into you, "you feel so good," his hips treasuring how your cunt continuously throbbed around his shaft as you close your eyes due to exhaustion, breathing out heavily at the same time, "all mine."

— ꒰ CHILDE ꒱

"ajax, i don't— ahh, think that's what no nut november is about,"

you really do not have to tell childe— and the salacious thoughts he had about breaking the little bet between you was clinging on to his brain ever so vividly, until he simply could not resist himself and split your thighs underneath him the second he stepped home, pressing his slender fingers into the flesh of your ass as he moves you back and forth on his length, the hot breathes he expelled going hand in hand with each new thrust controlling your frame, his heaves fanning against your skin as his delicious traces invade your psyche and cloud your mind.

"you wouldn't say?" there was a curve in his voice, one that made his sentence sound all the more mischievous and deadly as childe clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

you know you're done for when his hips suddenly pick up on pace, as if he wanted, no, needed to show you that he was very much aware that he was breaking the rules of such silly little bet, every massive shove amplified by the enduring limbs in his muscular frame, your inflamed pussy squelches loudly with the wet smacks of his hips giving you no time to rest.

you whimper, if you can even call it that because in truth, it was a desperate attempt of a pathetic little sob, your glasslike eyes beclouded with deep-rooted bliss— and ugh, the harbinger was just absolutely intoxicating, it's totally unfair! and you were reacting just the way he wanted you to as you found yourself to indulge in his maddening fragrance penetrating your tottering skin, your nose buried into his neck as you inhale it deeper, sneakily teasing your fingers into his silken hair.

it only needed a couple more thrusts before you unravel underneath his looming shade at the same time as the tightened bubble in childe's stomach snapped in two, thick and heavy whites causing havoc inside of your pussy when you feel his tongue push into your mouth as to drink in your filthy moans, swallow the desperate attempts to signalize just how fucking good he felt when he pushes his load all into your little cunt to keep it there, the delicious pleasure on your lower area weighing you down the bed as you're nothing but a tremble left, your hole tensing every so often before he pulls out to watch the sweet mess he made on you.

— ꒰ WRIOTHESLEY ꒱

a flavorful multitude of skilled touches deeply dwell inside of your swelling sensitivity— with one trace in particular that sought out to reach the deepest parts of your responsive nerves.

wriothesley turns the air in the room heavy within the period of a single heart beat as he presses into your hole, the lewd squelches of wetness slapping against each other overcrowding the room as he fucks you with his weighty cock— a thin sparkle of sweat persisting over his chiseled chest as you squeeze roughly at his shaft, sending him deeper into you.

but wriothesley needed more, he had to make it somehow messier than it already was— because careful now and listen close, but the duke had found your overly irritating talk about being so dear confident about going a whole fucking month without doing this a little bit insulting, in fact, have you already forgotten what kind of emotions he was able to awake within you with nothing but his cock fucking you filthily until your thighs tremble on either side of him?

now, your bodies were sticked up together, the scent of lewd sex hanging in the air and mixed with the glazing scent of cologne and sweaty musk enticing the duke to fuck you harder, his once precise thrusts developing into sloppy and desperate movements, your skin practically on fire when he races through your walls with each squeeze of your cunt knocking the air from his lungs.

your fingers slide through his matted hair, your body lost between the pressure of his thick shaft dragging along your sensitivity as your arousal smeared all over his base, drenching the sheets below as he feels his balls tighten, he's so close, his body suddenly even heavier against your own as he slants himself forward, your erected nipples rubbing across his chiseled chest when he pins you down at once, leaning into you until merely a hairbreadth away.

"isn't this so much better, hm?"

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[ultravioletrayz]

KINKTOBER

╰┈➤ DAY EIGHTEEN: DIRTY MASSAGE w/ KENTO NANAMI

"What's the matter?" Kento mutters, brows furrowing in curiosity as he glances up from his book to look at you limping down the hallway. He has one leg over the other as he leans back on the couch, glasses sitting on the edge of his nose, but the frames are unable to hide the immediate concern on his face at your strained movements.

You've just gotten out of bed, hair messy and eyes still droopy. Any other day, you'd be beaming to see your husband comfortably entertaining himself in order to let you sleep in on a Saturday morning. But his gentlemanly act only serves to make you roll your eyes and huff.

"You're the matter, Ken'." You laugh, leaning against the wall to still your quivering legs. It takes Kento a few seconds to absorb your quick comeback, before his eyes widen and he immediately gets up to walk over to you.

"Come here, my love. I'm sorry. I knew I should've been gentler last night. I got ahead of myself." Kento rambles as he pulls you into his arms, patting your head and burying his nose in your hair. You giggle at his instant remorse, pulling away from his chest to smile up at him.

"I'm kidding! I'm not mad. Just in pain." You say gently, filling Kento with a sliver of relief, but he's still kicking himself for putting you in such a state. By no means does he regret the things he did to you in the moment, he just wishes he had maintained at least a smidge of his composure to not render you completely helpless come the morning. It's a sweet sight, but overall, it's a little distressing for the poor, sweet man.

Nanami Kento physically can't have you so weary and wounded on a perfectly good Saturday. No, he needs to make it up to you.

"Let's lay you down for a bit, and I'll massage that pain away, alright?" Kento coaxes gently, already leading you back to the bedroom with a hand pressed to the small of your back before you can respond.

"What're you gonna do about my pussy, Ken'? She's real beat up." You coo teasingly, glancing up at Kento with a sly little smile that has him rolling his eyes.

"Don't you worry about that, sweetheart. I'll take care of you."

. • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆. °.•°:. *₊° .☆

"Shit- you're so tight, honey." Kento hisses, and you're too fucked out to register whether he's talking about your knotted shoulder blades as his thumbs knead your sore flesh... or your drooling cunt as he fucks you into the mattress.

You're lying flat on your tummy, arms folded beneath your face and hands clinging to the sheets beneath you. It had started as an innocent massage, with Kento perched behind your ass and straddling your legs while pressing his digits deeply into the ridges of your back. But each time you made a show of writhing beneath him and "accidentally" lifting your ass off the bed to graze his stiffening dick, Kento lost more and more of his restraint, until he found himself frantically shoving his cock between your legs and dealing with your poor, achy cunt.

Kento's body smothers the back of yours as you're forced further and deeper into the mattress with each churning, wet thrust. One of his hands come down to grip the globes of your ass, trying to still your desperate movements as you nudge your hips back against him. Seeing how much you need him makes Kento's head spin, and he knows he'll be creaming within the valley of your sweet pussy if you keep backing into him like that, your plush thighs flexing each time you do so.

His other hand, the only part of his hazy body that remembers his original task, still soothingly rubs the top of your back, massaging your aching muscles while his hefty cock massages your gooey, sloshing cunny with his long, lingering strokes deep inside your core.

You're getting closer, the throbbing in your lower tummy building up into a mind numbing tightness that radiates throughout you. Each passionate thrust sends shudders rolling through your body, the moans spilling from your lips muffled by your arms. Kento carefully grips a handful of your hair and pulls it back into a messy, makeshift ponytail, nuzzling his nose against your neck as he groans and pants against your skin.

"There you go. M- My sweet girl..." He whispers, dragging his teeth along your jawline as his other hand squeezes your shoulder as he fights the urge to cum the second he feels your pussy clinging around his girth.

It's safe to say that you're no longer thinking about the soreness in your thighs and back, Kento's fat dick always and forever occupying the best of the real estate in your pretty brain...

me when i'm still working on kinktober in january 2025: ☹️🫣😢

me when i realise it still counts as me posting content: 😜😁🥳

[pennyellee]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢 - 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐁 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈 | 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐁 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐔 title: champagne confetti - side B pairings: heartthrob!jk, yandere!jk x fashion employee f!reader genre: dark romance, smut, porn with plot, 90s word count: tba beta read by @chaoticpuff17 release date: january 2025

Prompt 1: “you give me brand new emotion, you got me drinking that potion” Prompt 2:  The lines did blur, in his mind for sure. Will you be tamed or will your passion for fashion falter for greater good - a life without Jeon Jungkook. When everything you’ve worked for hangs in the balance, his twisted love comes as both a gift and a curse.

summary: You, a determined fashion designer, find yourself entangled in a collaboration with the irresistibly charming and egotistic heartthrob, Jeon Jungkook. Will this partnership remain strictly professional, or will he make the lines blur?

warnings: minors dni 18+ | physical violence, hint of incapable police department, jk is the boy saviour here and everybody bends backwards for his famous ass, dubious consent, possessive/obsessive behavior, emotional manipulation, references to medication that affects mental and physical responses as "drugs" or "pills" or "medication", power imbalance, themes of isolation and confinement, gaslighting, mentions of mafia and criminal underworld, forced intimacy, oral sex (m!receiving), numbness, reader's difficulties getting wet, use of lube, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, riding/cow girl, orgasm difficulties, creampie, and so on (if i'll forgot smth, im so soorrryy!)

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain strong language, explicit content, obsessive behaviour, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, oppressiveness, which we do not condone.

this is a sequel, read part one of 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢 main masterlist

author's note: so, where to start right? this was a long ass ride, mainly because i was fighting with myself to not burn out on this fic coz i loved it so much, and i still love it, but i won't lie that i got lil overwhelmed with how much love this fic received. I am so so so grateful for each and one of you! ♥ and thank you for your patience too. Life's not easy, please understand that, i always try my best. Thank you all. OH! I hope you will, have, or had very lovely and holy, merry christmas fairies ♥

You looked down at your mug, swirling the mulled wine as you gathered your thoughts. “I... I think I’m ready to go back to work,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

The change in Jungkook’s demeanor was immediate. The warmth in his eyes flickered out, replaced by something harder, colder. He set his mug down on the counter with a soft clink, his posture stiffening.

“What makes you think that?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm, but you could hear the edge beneath it. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

“I’ve been good, haven’t I?”

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied you, the tension between you palpable. He took a step closer, his presence imposing.

“You have,” he admitted, his voice low and measured. “But that doesn’t mean you’re ready to go back out there.”

You felt a pang of frustration, but you tried to keep your voice steady. “I need to feel normal again, Jungkook. I need to get out of here, to do something meaningful.”

His jaw tightened, and he reached out, gently but firmly taking the mug from your hands and setting it aside. His fingers lingered on your wrist for a moment, his touch both comforting and possessive. “This is meaningful,” he said, his voice softening just a fraction as he looked into your eyes. “Us, here, together. This is your life now, Y/N.”

“But..but you promised.” Jungkook's expression flickered, a brief moment of conflict passing through his eyes before his gaze hardened again. He took a deep breath, his grip on your wrist tightening slightly as he processed your words.

“I promised to keep you safe,” he said, his voice firm but with an undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite identify—fear, perhaps, or desperation. "And letting you go back to work... it's not safe for you now, Y/N.”

You pulled your wrist free, taking a step back to create some distance. “I can’t stay cooped up in here forever, Jungkook,” you said, your voice trembling but determined. “I need to feel like myself again. I need to be around people, to do something other than just exist in this penthouse.”

He took a step closer, his hands reaching out to cup your face, his touch gentle but his eyes intense. “You are my life now,” he said softly, his voice breaking slightly. “And I can’t lose you. Not to anything or anyone.” You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch despite the turmoil inside you. Jungkook’s thumb brushed over your cheek, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

“Freedom comes with risks, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice filled with a mix of love and possessiveness. “And I’m not sure I can handle those risks.”

“I promise I am not plotting, Gguk—” you began, but Jungkook’s eyes narrowed, his grip on your face tightening ever so slightly.

“Are you not?” he cut in, his voice low and dangerous. The hint of desperation from before was now replaced with a cold, steely resolve.

“Just give me a chance to prove—” His eyes bore into yours, searching for any sign of deceit.

“I don’t know if I can trust that, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice filled with an unsettling mix of love and possessiveness. He was silent for a long moment, his jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tight with tension. Finally, he let out a slow breath, his grip on your face softening.

“We have a family dinner coming up. It’s important, and everyone will be there. If you can behave, show that you can handle yourself around my family, then maybe... just maybe, we can talk about you going back to work.”

The implication of his words settled over you like a weight. This wasn’t just about proving yourself to him; it was about proving yourself to his entire family. The thought was daunting, but you knew this might be your only chance. To get away from his grasp.

“I'll do my best,” you said, your voice trembling with a mix of determination and anxiety. “I promise.”

A small, almost tender smile tugged at the corners of Jungkook’s lips. “Good,” he said softly.

You swallowed hard, the pressure of the upcoming dinner weighing heavily on you. “Who will be there?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jungkook’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Everyone,” he said simply. “My parents, all of my Hyungs... among whom someone can offer you a position if you make a good impression.”

This was your chance, and you had to take it.

“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” you promised, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you.

You stood there in Jungkook’s arms, the Christmas lights twinkling softly around you, you resolved to do whatever it took to reclaim a part of your life.

“Now, show me how good you can warm my cock this Christmas.”

.

.

.

.

.

read here

©pennyellee. please do not repost

tag list: @pamzn - @jaedayy (was unable to tag) - @mylyus-blog (was unable to tag) - @vanillacupcakefrosting - @jjeonjjk7 - @darkuni63 - @jeonaraathedreamer - @urlovelily - @kissyfacekoo - @looneybleus - @btspurplesky - @seokseokjinkim - @doulcha - @sexytholland - @minyngrl-blog - @mizuumii (was unable to tag) @ali99eel - @loomipee @jkslvsnella - @tearykth - @iveivory - @lachimolalajeon - @mother2monsters - @junecat18 - @mayvalentine33 - @ttanniett - @elle0604 - @mageprincess7 - @laylasbunbunny - @ashthetic7 - @00frenchfries00 - @weareatthebadlands (was unable to tag) - @annafarrr -

Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! ♥

see ya soon, love, p.

[youryanderedaddy]

tw: gn reader, non - con, kidnapping (hinted)

He's awfully gentle - and perhaps that's what you hate about him the most. The way your tears reduce him to a shell of a man, the way he holds you tenderly, like glass about to shatter from the wind. The way he looks at you - like you're the only person in his small grey world that's made of moving, breathing flesh and fragile breakable bones and splash of incoherent colour all over your cheeks. The way his irises move with feral speed when the ring on your sharp, barking laugh fills the stuffy mold - infested air with life, and his heart all but throbs out of his chest when you push him away.

He holds you at night through the nightmares and the screams, refusing to let go as you fight with all your might to break free, but it's pointless. He knows you - he's studied you, every creek and curve, every dream and fright, every single thing that makes your being tick and purr and surrender. He speaks your language, despite your best efforts to remain hidden, to remain a mystery, he's managed to slice through the protective shield of your psyche, of your most intimate fears, and he's made himself at home in your arms.

It's odd - perverse even, you realize in rare moments of rationale, how used you are now to waking up with his warmth inside of you, nested neatly between your folds; whispering soft little nothings in your flushed ear. Keeping you at the realm between sweet dreams and bitter reality, making you question every fluttering touch, every butterfly kiss against your throat. You're not sure what's real anymore, hot, throbbing pressure pulsating in the middle of your core, the honey nectar dripping down your thighs, back arching in a pleasure - fueled spasm so erratic you're left breathless. Overwhelmed by ecstasy, followed by guilt - ridden shame in a ruthless cycle you have no hope of escaping anymore.

To think it used to be different all those months ago when he first took you in. You would scratch and bite, kicking at will - acting as crazy as possible in hopes he'd find you too difficult to keep. But alas, his gaze never hardened, lips mouthing words of adoration in respond to your countless insults.

"I hate you. I fucking hate you, y-you - you maniac!" You'd hiss through clenched teeth, sweat forming under your brows as your whole body stiffened before his naked figure hovering over you, strong muscled arms keeping you close to his chest in an awkward mockery of a hug.

"Shh, I know you're scared, my love." He'd caress your hair softly, running his fingers through your wet messy locks, cooing as if you're a cornered animal. "I know you're frightened, but I am not going to hurt you, precious. I love you more than you could possibly imagine. You don't know how long I've dreamt of embracing you." He'd press hot, feverish kisses down your collarbone, stroking your numb fingers until you eventually unclenched your fists. "Just like that, you're doing so good for me, angel, so fucking beatiful for me, just lay back and let me show how much I adore you."

You'd relax your hips slowly, keeping your eyes fixed to the ceiling - yielding to the inevitable, yet making a last pitiful attempt to hide the growing heat between your legs.

"You're so perfect, angel." He'd say, slowly undressing you. "I need to feel you against me. I hope you can forgive me one day - but here, before you, I am just a man. Without you my life would lose all meaning, I can't let you go. Forgive me. Love me, please."

And somehow deep within your heart, you wonder if you truly can.

[hon3y-y]

your choso has rewired my brain...literally cant stop thinking about popular reader who has a new bf every week x virgin nerd choso who despite his inexperience has every intention to leave you dumb on the end of his cock. He even lets you slap his books down and talk shit about him with your little girlfriends in public, but behind closed doors you're the one crying and begging him hdjsjs definition of 'send her back to her bf w my handprint on her ass' aaaaa and if its a love story, it turns out chosos had the fattest crush on her bc he knows shes actually a sweetie at heart but loves her toxic side too and gives her the best dick until she stops playing around like THE REVERSAL 😭 he would be so sweet in his own way and so loyal and a fucking dog to her lowkey but covers it up with mean words and pussy slaps 🥺

Nerd!choso has a special place in my pants heart😵‍💫

Cw; nastyy smut, filming, infidelity(👀), choso is a little pervy but that’s why we love him🫶, talks of bodily fluids, reader is a lil mean

Enjoy<3

After the first time you fucked, he was extremely a little mad about you dating someone the next day (especially since it was his first time and you knew that) but quickly forgot about it once he had his head between your legs later that night, your mouth babbling nonsense when he sucked a little too hard.

He would purposefully leave hickies on your chest and thighs, smiling cheekily as he watched your shakey legs try to dress yourself. “Don’t look at me that way," you mumbled, your usual attitude gone and replaced with shyness under his intense gaze. Yeah, he didn’t have to worry.

Choso let's you get away with everything. the laughing, the pushing, and the taunts about how “small” he probably is from your friends (to which he nearly smirks when you stiffen slightly). He goes along with all of it and even watches you tongue-fuck your stupid boyfriend, who’s likely one hard hit to the head away from permanent brain damage. But he can’t stay mad; you look so cute trying to be tough. Eyebrows furrowed and a little hiss in your tone, knowing that the moment everyone disappears, you’re nothing but a sobbing mess, begging for him to touch you.

You’re in his room later, bent into a mating press, gasping for air as his cock clumsily batters your g-spot. “Yes—fuck, cho! "Your skin feels so hot, and your mind is so numb. Choso is nearly just as loud, already cumming two times, but watching you made it impossible to pull out. A sticky mess of both your fluids caused gooey strings to form whenever he moved away, the erotic sight making him pull out and reach for his phone. “W-what are you—"

You tried to sit up when the light of a camera flashed in your eyes, making you gasp before he tilted it down, focusing on your pussy. “Look at how wet she is.” He reaches out to touch, making your hips jerk in sensitivity. He plays with your wetness, making your cheeks hot, showing off the substance to the camera before placing his finger on your hole to tap at the new cream that seeped out.

You went to pull your legs closed. "E-enough, Choso." You sent him a glare, making him laugh before leaning down to kiss your cunt. He pointed the camera up to catch your shocked face, and you glanced at it again. “Why are you filming this? I never said—"

You squeal as he nips your clit, immediately shutting up but sending him a harsh glare. He kisses your thigh at your compliance. “Do you really not want me to?” He stared up at you, putting little pecks on your bud, making your breath hitch. You shook your head, ‘no’, “fuck, I don’t care, just make me cum,” you whine, pushing his head down. You jolt up, your eyes widening, when you feel the stinging slap on your pussy.

You’re about to speak when he does it again and again, each hit harder than the previous one, a yelp of surprise escaping you as he forces the light in your eyes again, making you squint. “You’re such a slut, it’s almost pathetic." His harsh words make you pout, mumbling about how mean he is. “I’m mean? Tell the camera why you came here.” You bite your lip, looking away, causing him to grab your chin and force you to look. “I’m not asking.”

It feels humiliating: “He couldn’t make me cum.” Your voice is quiet, but you could practically feel the cocky smile on Choso's face. “Who’s he?” You want to die, shaking your head. He rolled his eyes, tapping on your cheek to signal you to talk. With a sigh, you repeat yourself, “My boyfriend couldn’t make me cum.” Choso mockingly coos behind the camera, his thumb going to rub your swollen bud. “And how many times have you cum since getting here?”

He pans the camera back and forth between your needy pussy and pretty face, your sweaty skin glistening under the intense lighting making his cock impossibly harder. You look so delicate, just helplessly taking the pleasure he gives you because your body needs him so bad. Tears gather in your waterline whenever he applies more pressure, eyes zeroing in on the slick that starts to drip down your ass.

You can’t answer, your jaw hanging open when he quickened his pace. Your chest is heaving as you chanted out ‘please!’ hips thrusting up to meet him until you quickly cum with a shutter, choso slowing but not stopping as you relax again. You look up to the camera with a tired smile, holding up your hands to signal four, your eyes could barely remain open, head flopping back into the pillow. your eyes are getting heavy, nearly having you succumb to sleep when you feel his tip align with your cunt. “Flip over, slut.”

He forces you to film yourself as he pounds into you from behind, crying when he leans down to tug at your sore nipples. He forces your back to arch more, pathetically taking his cock into your swollen pussy. If you drop the camera, he’ll wait until you pick it up again. Or, he’ll snatch it from your hand to catch you desperately rutting against him, begging him to let you cum and “fuck you right." He does just that, leaving you with a fried brain and a puddle of your own drool, tears, and juices from how intensely he made you squirt.

Honestly, he’s so horny and has so much stamina he’ll just keep going until he’s shooting blanks, making sure to point the camera at the cum that leaks out of your puffy cunt, spreading your lips so it can closely get your gaping hole. Of course, after he’s had his fun, he’ll gently take care of you. You’re practically sleeping already, barely being able to speak as he nods along to your near incoherent praise, “S'good t’me. Luv you so much."He smiles, a giddy feeling in his tummy, as he holds a water bottle to your lips, which you gulp down quickly, not realizing how dehydrated you really were. He tucks you in, cuddling as you grip onto him tightly.

It’s not long after that you stop seeing the guy you were with, or any for that matter (at least, according to your friends' knowledge). When they ask what happened, you just shrug, making up some excuse, trying not to stutter as the vibrations in your panties speed up. Choso watches closely, smiling happily as you try to discreetly roll your hips<3

A/n: I need him so bad it’s getting to me. Also, send request bc writers block is a btch. Mwah💋

[fattystoriez]

Cursed Pigs

Content Warning: Incest, Weigh Gain, Homophobia, Misogyny

Mason was about to go on a date with his girlfriend, he sent a snap to his story to show off his body. Mason was a sophomore in college, he loved to workout, he’s the type of man who could easily steal your girlfriend.

Mason was an arrogant asshole who didn’t care who he was mean to, he was as homophobic as it gets, genuinely being disgusted by gay men. If any girl he dated had a gay best friend he’d force her to drop him, and they’d always listen because he was extremely good in bed. He hated fat people the most, found fat women to be disgusting and fat men to be pathetic. He learned all of this from his father of course, who he was on his way to visit for Labor Day weekend. His father was a muscular daddy type, if Mason had been in his 40s they could be twins.

He couldn’t wait to meet his dad for Labor Day, he and his father and they were planning on going camping. Mason had gotten home and called out for his dad. “

“Dad! I’m home!” Mason walked into the living room where the tv was on and his dad was in his cushioned arm chair, but his dad looked different. His dad had become fat, his once muscular body had been covered in blubber. There was a thick musk in the room, and he was just in underwear that had been clearly stained with cum and piss.

“Dad what the fuck happened to you, when did you become a fatass?!” Masons dad said nothing, instead he let out a rank fart. Frrrrrbbbbttt. “Oh god dad that reeks!” Mason didn’t realize what was on the tv, it was playing a weird sound and as Mason looked closer there were fat fags feeding each other with junk food. “Dad what the fuck are you watching?? What’s wrong with you!” As Mason yelled his minds started to feel numb, he started watching the TV and taking his shirt off.

A drip of drool started to fall from Mason mouth as he watched the fat men stiff each other with doughnuts, cake and burgers. He watched as the fat men started getting fatter, he was feeling hungry. “D-dad… what’s happening?” His dad continued to stay silent as he rubs his stinky crotch. Masons body started to soften, all of the hard work he had put into his muscles was being wasted.

The softening of his body continued, a feeling that was foreign to Mason. “You’re started to look good, boy” Masons father finally said something, his voice had gained a southern twang, which made no sense since they were from Jersey. Mason had a hard time getting his words out, he tried really hard to protest, but his cock was starting to stiffen.

“Da- daddy please… what’s happening?” Mason’s belly started to hang over his waistband, his chest was quickly becoming plump moobs. His v-line has become a u-line. “I-I’m getting fat… daddy why am I talking l-like a fag-got…” Mason grabbed his fattening belly, causing him to moan.

Masons body began to become covered in body hair, where he use to shave regularly, now he looks like he’s never seen a razor. A piercing formed into his nipple, his dad got up and tugged on it. “Smell my musk, boy” Mason’s daddy groped his moobs and played his with sons growing belly. “Mmmm your cock is getting covered in fat, boy. Fat boys don’t get big cocks, you know that piggy.”

Mason reached down and felt that his once 8.5in cock shrunken down to a 3in nub. Fat was swallowing his body and Mason fought with the urge to run and the urge to worship his daddy’s smelly cock. Mason was starting to get smellier and smellier, BO and musk emanating from his body.

Masons transformation was almost over, as his daddy played with his fat belly his brain was becoming foggier and foggier. His cock a useless nub that he can’t use to fuck bitches anymore. The misogynistic muscle head was gone and was replaced by a slobby, stinky fat pig.

What Mason didn’t know was that his father had pissed off a fatass on twitter, and she cursed him and his jock son to be fatass faggots. Because of her, Mason and his daddy were closer than ever before… and they could no longer spew ignorance because they were too busy shoving food into their mouths.

[thehusbandoden]

He Doesn't Realize How Much he Needs You Until You're Gone Part One- Dabi

A/n: 100th writing I've posted :3

I hope you like it haha.

General info:

Genre: pure angst \\ wc: 2,425 \\ female reader \\ posted: 06/06/24

Warnings!: arguing, neglect, pure angst, crying, yelling, screaming, hurt, feeling betrayed, injuries (reader gets burned- not by Dabi), pushing your partner away (both parties), feeling worthless, feelings being discarded, mention of therapy, thoughts of leaving, thoughts of death, fear of a loved one dying, numbing your emotions, Dabi raging (burning things), leaving, partner being very tsundere, mention of blood (Dabi's tears), regret, guilt, becoming a husk, I think that's all haha. Pls lmk if I miss anything! <33

I will post two endings, one with angst and one with fluff. Lmk if you want to be tagged!

Tears roll down your cheeks as you spam Dabi with texts. You had just gotten into an argument with your beloved when he stormed out, cursing you out.

"Please." You quietly plead, your voice broken with sobs. "Don't leave me."

All of your texts remain unread. All your calls declined. You were having a panic attack by now, yet nothing seemed to get the villain's attention.

Just as you're about to completely lose it, you hear footsteps. Your freeze, listening with an indescribable intensity. The window opens. Your eyes dart to the activity.

Familiar black combat boots peek through the gap, falling to the floor. Your eyes travel up the familiar torn jeans, the worn out t-shirt, the burned neck, the crooked frown, and finally to the comforting turquoise eyes.

You let out a sob of relief as you see your Dabi standing in front of you. He looks down at you, grimacing.

"What happened to you?" He scoffed.

"I-I was worried." Your voice was hoarse and broken from your sobs.

"Worried?" He grunts. "You're more idiotic than I thought." He groans, grabbing the sandwich you made before the argument.

"I-I thought you were leaving me."

"I'm not gonna leave ya. No matter how annoying you are." He scoffs.

Annoying....

Your mind repeats the word several times, your face stiffening as you numb your emotions.

"Sorry..." you mumble.

"Don't start that pouty crap." He scoffs, shooting you a glare. "I'm tired of you being such a bother. I have so much to deal with. Your pathetic emotions isn't on my list."

You quietly fold your arms, moving to the couch. You watch Dabi silently, taking deep breaths to contain your emotions.

"I'm leaving for a mission tonight. I'll be back before next week."

His voice was less harsh, but nowhere near as warm as usual.

"O-okay.." you mumble, fidgeting with your sleeves. He rolls his eyes with a scoff, stomping into your shared bedroom.

~~

"I'm leaving now, brat."

You scramble to your feet, swiftly moving to his side. You lean up, hoping for a kiss as you ever so slightly pucker your lips.

You know your husband. He will notice... won't he?

His cold eyes move down to your lips. He grunts, turning around and leaving. "See ya later, brat. Don't be pouting when I get home, you hear?" He mutters, hauling himself through the window.

He always came in and out through the back window... it would be bad if your neighbors caught a highly wanted villain in your apartment.. hence the sneaking.

You've lived together for over a year now, you've moved four times now.

"Wait-" you call out, reaching out to your husband. His cold gaze burns into you.

"Um- a-aren't you going to... going to.."

"Spit it out, woman."

"Aren't you going to.. kiss me?" You blush. Dabi scoffs.

"Don't expect needles privileges after your attitude yesterday."

"Attitude?! Do you mean our argument?" You protest.

"Here it goes again." He groans. "You're always complaining and refusing to take accountability."

"Thats nonsense." You clench your fists, trying to suppress your emotions. Tears burned your eyes, but you refused to let them shed.

"What's nonsense is your attitude. You can't even keep me around now can ya? Your attitude always drives me off! I wonder why I ever married you in the first place. You give me attitude and then act like I'm the victim. Pathetic."

Tears well in your eyes. You bite your lip. "I won't ask for anymore from you." You whisper.

"Good. Keep it that way." He lands outside, shrugging his shoulder before walking off with an nonchalant attitude.

You close the window, leaning against the wall as you try to slow down your breathing. Tears fall down your cheeks as you curl in a ball, feeling hurt, angry, betrayed, and worthless.

The days pass by as you wait for Dabi to return. You didn't hear from him, and he was gone far longer than he said he would be. Every text was left unread, every call ignored, every voice-mail left un-listened to.

Eventually, you stopped trying. You got a therapist, and ended up deciding on what was best for you. When he comes home, if he doesn't treat you better, if he doesn't even listen or try to change, its better for you to leave. Even if it was just for a little bit.

Days turn into weeks, and weeks blur into months. Many nights you lay awake, doubting yourself. Doubting your worth.

It killed you inside. Your self esteem plummeted. You stopped going to therapy. All you wanted was your husband. Your husband's love, his validation, his touch, his mere presence.

Curled in a ball, you stared at the wall with a blank expression. Horrid scenarios went through your head as you imagine your poor husband alone, injured, and dying.

Tears blur your vision as you imagine him already dead, his loving soul leaving this world without even telling you goodbye. You hadn't even gotten a kiss. Or an I love you.

The tears don't stop. And they didn't as the hours slowly pass by. You felt like ripping your hair out, screaming, hitting, throwing things- anything to get your mind off of your husband's doomed death.

The window opens. Your eyes dart towards the unlocked glass pane. Combat boots pokes through. You gasp in relief.

A worn, exhausted, injured, and in pain figure follows the boots. Revealing your beloved, Dabi. You let out a small sob, launching yourself at him.

You close your eyes in relief as you feel his warm chest, the familiar staples bringing you comfort. As you move to open your eyes you feel a hand to your shoulder, your backside hitting the floor.

You look up in shock, Dabi looking down at you in disgust.

"I thought you said you wouldn't ask anymore from me." He scoffed. You grab your arm, holding it to your chest.

"I-" you start.

"I really don't want to hear it. Just let me rest." He groans. You slowly lift yourself off of the floor, silently moving into your shared bedroom.

You curl in a ball, hiding under the sheets. You hear him walking around outside of the room, silently listening. Tears blur your vision once more. You cover your mouth, tightly closing your eyes.

You shake with sobs, doing your very best to stay quiet. You can't help but feel worthless. Tears stream down your cheeks as you listen to your husband's familiar footsteps, glad he's safe at the minimum...

Hours pass by as you cry yourself to sleep, your stray tears staining your cheeks.

~~

Dabi's POV

Dabi strolls into your shared bedroom. "Oi, make me a sandwich will ya?" He grunts. Yiu don't move, irritating him.

He moves to your side, snatching the blanket. "I said-" he stops as he sees you asleep, tears stained on your cheeks. A strange pain dtabs at his chest. Shaking it off, he drops the blanket.

Staring at you, he gently cups your cheek, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. He pulls away, caressing your cheek. "I've missed you. Even though you're a pain." He whispers before pulling away.

~~

Your POV

The next morning

You blink open your eyes, rubbing at the lingering sleepiness. Yawning, your eyes lazily run over the room. The curtains were hiding the small bedroom from sunlight, the entire room encompassed in darkness.

Sitting up, you rub your puffy eyes once more. Dabi was no where near sight. Sighing, you absent-mindedly trace the bruise on your arm where you fell.

Your heart aches as you remember your therapist's words. This isn't healthy. It needs to stop...

The door opens, revealing Dabi. "Finally awake, sleepy head?" His voice wasn't the cold growl like last night, but it was no where near gentle.

You nod, timidly. Afraid of upsetting him once more.

"I'm starving. Want to make breakfas..?" This was his way of asking you to. If you agreed, there would be no thank you, for you "wanted" to.

If you said no, he would be irritated for a while. He won't cook, no matter how many times you beg him to while you're away, so he will oftenly go without eating if you're unavailable or refuse to cook.

Biting your lip, you nod. He gives you a short grimace, something similar to a small smile before walking out. Standing up, you yawn, stretching your arms. Your eyes ache from all the crying, but you push that to the back of your mind.

You walk out to the kitchen, beginning to cook. You feel Dabi's eyes on you, but you don't pay much attention. You were guarded, unsure why he's acting so differently this morning. Cautious of unleashing the monster once more.

"Dabi?" You murmur. He grunts in response.

"I talked to a therapist when you were on your mission..."

"A therapist? What for? Did you leak my identity?!" He snaps.

"No, I didn't. I was really struggling for a while and needed someone to help me."

"So you relied on a stranger?!"

"You wouldn't answer. I called, texted, I left voice-mails."

"Oh so you think that your crappy attempt to get my attention justifies getting help from a stranger!? Was he a guy?! Were you sleeping with him?!"

"What?! No! I would never!"

"Then what were you doing with them?!"

"I was getting help for my mental state, Dabi!"

"Oh poor baby, you think being lonely justifies that?!"

"You're being unreasonable. Dabi she told me it was best for me to leave you if you keep treating me like this. I'm telling you this so you can wake up and change. This isn't okay." You snap, taking a deep breath to calm yourself.

"Leave me?!" He laughs. "You wouldn't. You can't live without me."

"You've been making me live without you for months, Dabi. You don't tell me you love me, you don't show me affection, I'm lucky just to have you not yell at me!"

"You're being dramatic." He spits. "You're a spoiled brat. I've been working my arse off for you and you're this ungrateful."

"You've been working for revenge! It's not for me, it never was! I have my own job that pays for all or our bills Dabi!"

"You're listening to a stranger's advice and plan on leaving me?!"

"Only if you don't change Dabi!"

"You knew what you were getting into when you married me, y/n. Stop playing the victim."

"You didn't treat me like this when we first married."

"Keep telling yourself that." He spits, putting his jacket on.

"Where are you going?!" You cry, the food far from recovery, you hazardously shove the pan into the sink, burning your hand. You cry out in pain.

"Y/n!" Dabi yells, hurrying your side. He aggressively graps your hand, making you cry out once more. "Idiot! Why did you hurt yourself like that?!"

"Just leave me alone!" You try to yank your hand away but Dabi yanks it back.

"Stay still!"

"Let me go Dabi!"

"Y/n just sit still!!"

You push him back, protectively pressing your injured hand to your chest. "I said to let me go!"

Dabi's face scrunches up as he looks down at you. After a few silent moments he turns away. "I'm over you and your dramatic act." He mumbled.

Walking to the door, he pulls his combat boots on. "Don't leave!" You cry, coddling your burning hand.

He ignores you, moving to the window. "Dabi! If you leave without us finishing this I'm leaving."

"Go for it. I don't need you. I never did." He sneered.

Your heart throbbed as your beloved husband jumped through the open window, not looking back. Falling to your knees you break into sobs.

You cry over the absence of your beloved, you cry over the pain, and you cry over the dreaded feeling of being completely alone.

You don't stop for hours. It goes on and on until your completely out of tears, numb to the feeling of utter loss. Your hand aches. Your eyes aches. Your heart aches.

It all just- hurts.

You slowly drift to sleep, the cold kitchen floor being the only thing that grounds you from the pain of betrayal.

~~

Dabi's POV

Three days later.

Dropping from the window Dabi nonchalantly glances around the room. It seemed unusually cold an empty. Paying it no mind, Dabi hazardly tossed his jacket and boots towards the front door.

"Y/n, I'm home." He calls, running his hands through his greasy hair, his roots were growing out. Rolling his eyes, he opens the fridge. It was... empty.

"Y/n!" He calls once more, huffing in annoyance. "I get home and can't even eat?!"

No response. "For Pete's sake you petty brat! Get out here!"

Silence.

Anger fills his being before he remembers your words before he left. A strange pain shoots through him, his eyes widen as he runs into your shared bedroom. Everything of yours was... gone.

His heart quickens as he searches the entire house for you. Nothing. Not even a trace. His breathing quickens as he pulls at his hair. Taking a shuddering breathe, he shakes his head.

"You'll regret this y/n... you'll be back and I'll laugh in your face!" He chuckles, losing a bit of his sanity. "I DON'T NEED YOU! YOU'LL SEE!" He screams, activating his quirk as he knocks over a chair. He let's out a scream, lighting anything and everything in sight on fire.

Months pass by. Dabi has turned into a shell, simply surviving. Work, sleep, work, sleep, work... a "good" day is when he remembers to eat or drink. A shower or change of clothes is out of mind.

Walking through the streets, he walks inside the charred apartment. Stepping inside, he closes the door. He doesn't care about his identity anymore, or anything really.

His turquoise eyes scan the apartment, his eyes landing on a photo of you and him. His heart strangely aches once more. "Y/n..." he murmured, his fists clenching.

Falling to his knees, he lets out a broken sob. His eyes burn, tears would be running if they could. Blood drips from his charred tear ducts. He falls to the floor face first, nothing but his beloved wife on his mind.

How could he be so stupid?! He lost the one thing in this world that actually loved him. Grasping his phone, he dials your number.

Please. Please pick up... please... I need you...

~~~~~

Part two (coming soon) | alt. ending (coming soon) lmk if you want to be tagged!! <33

Dabi's masterlist | Masterlist | Navigation | Tips<3

Reblogs make me smile (bonus points if you tag) and comments make my day!!

~~~~~

Do not copy, repost, nor plagiarize my work. Ask before you translate or use my work in any way, minus reblogging. 

[emilys-bangs]

of broken bones and hearts | e.p

Tags: established relationship, mom!emily, broken bones :(, mild hurt/comfort, a dash of angst, healthy helping of guilt ridden momily because of course she would be, use of petnames, no use of yn

Summary: Eloise breaks a bone. Emily freaks out, you exercise damage control, and the both of you pamper her with affection.

Word count: 2.7k

Work is slow. Slower than usual. No cases, no consults, nothing except brain numbing paperwork. Usually Emily doesn’t mind it—it means being home for dinner, helping settle Eloise into bed and unwinding with you on the couch. But today it grates on her.

She’s staring down at a half filled report for last week’s case, tapping her pen on the dotted lines with an idle restlessness. Her sugar-brimmed coffee is down to dregs. The fluorescent lights make her feel caged.

Her phone vibrates with a call; Emily is answering before the first ring dies out. She automatically knows it’s you—or she hopes it is.

“Hi, babe.” She thumbs the skin between her brows, waits for the sweet relief of your voice to come through.

“Hi. Okay, listen. I’m gonna tell you something, but don’t freak out.” 

Emily stiffens. Her spine goes ramrod straight; immediately, her thoughts flit to Eloise. 

“Is it Eloise?”

“She’s fine.” You insist. “We’re at the hospital. She broke her arm at play time, we just got done with the x-ray and we’re waiting for the doctor.” You say it all in one breath, a long string of words that makes Emily’s mouth go dry. “She wants to talk to you.”

Emily is still blinking at her computer when movement rustles in her ear—the phone being pressed to Eloise’s cheek. A belated tremble rocks her hands.

“Mommy.” Eloise whines quietly. The sound grips Emily’s chest in a vice. She’s still stuck in five seconds ago, before images of her daughter in a cast flooded her mind. She roughly shakes her head, as if she can force them out.

“El, hi.” Her voice is rusty. Emily clears her throat, digs her knuckles into her eye. Stars burst along her vision. “I heard you’re at the hospital. How do you feel, my love?” 

“My hand hurts,” Eloise sniffles. She sounds like a kicked puppy.

Emily’s fingers flex into a sweaty fist. “I know it does, honey. The doctor’s gonna make it all better now, okay? You just…you just have to stay really still for them so they can put a cast on. And then you’ll get to choose a color for it!” She forces fake cheer into her voice. “I bet they have a ton of colors.”

There’s a stretch of silence on the other end. Emily’s thumb forces its way between her teeth.

“Pink?” Her daughter mumbles eventually.

“Pink sounds perfect. Just remember to stay really still while they’re putting it on, okay?”

“Mmn.” 

The dulled tone of her voice makes Emily’s heart clench. Eloise is almost always cheerfully rambling about one thing or the other, her inner monologue spilled out for you and Emily to hear, taking up more space than she does. Hearing her reduced to weak, monosyllabic responses twists at Emily’s gut. She blows out a stuttering breath.

“I love you, Eloise. I’ll see you real soon.”

“’Kay.”

Emily is already standing by the time your voice comes through again. 

“Why did you just call?” She questions, only paying half a mind to the way she bites out the words.

“Because I knew you’d do this and I didn’t want to freak you out—well, more than necessary,” your voice lowers, “—before knowing she’s okay. And she is. She’s in a bit of pain but they gave her Ibuprofen a few minutes ago, it should kick in any minute.”

“A broken bone isn’t fine,” Emily mutters, flipping her report closed and grabbing her purse. She doesn’t meet Reid or Morgan’s gazes as she steps past their desks to Hotch’s office. “I’m on my way.”

“We’re almost done here.” You say. For the first time, she hears the threads of exhaustion in your voice. Emily’s frown deepens.

“I’ll meet you at home, then.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.

You resign to it. So does Hotch. Emily tries to ignore the tremble in her hands as she gets in the elevator and presses P.

___

She gets home before you do. When you walk in with a McDonald’s bag in your hand it’s clear why. A pharmacy bag dangles from your wrist, dangerously close to slipping over the heel of your hand as you shut the front door. Eloise is in your arms, slumped and limp; her purple cast hangs listlessly off your shoulder.

Emily distantly clocks the deep violet but doesn’t linger on it, hurrying instead to lighten your load, taking the food and the meds before easing Eloise’s school bag from your grip. You murmur a quiet thanks. Her lips find your cheek, a wordless response, and then she’s stepping behind your shoulder to glance at your daughter.

“She’s pretty out of it,” you whisper. 

You’re not wrong. Eloise’s eyes are closed, lashes threaded together and resting on her cheeks. Mouth pressed into your shoulder, she breathes evenly, not stirring at her mother’s light touch when she reaches over to sweep the mussed bangs over her brows. 

“Poor thing.” Emily sighs quietly. “Let’s get her to bed.” She murmurs. You nod, though the sun still streams in through the windows and paints the house gold. 

It takes more effort than it usually does to settle your daughter into bed. You take careful steps all the way to her room and Emily drowns Eloise’s bed with more pillows than usual; when you finally set her down in it, you gently elevate her arm the way the doctor showed you to. Throughout it all Eloise only stirs when you move the cast. Her whine is muffled, fingers twitching where they peek out from under the plaster. Emily bites down on her thumb to stop herself from grabbing your hand away.

“How did it happen?” She asks when you’re in the kitchen, putting the happy meal in the oven. 

Your brows tick upward. “She was trying to do a cartwheel.”

“Jesus.” Emily groans into her hands. Guilt curdles in her stomach again, making her shudder with nausea. 

She was the one who suggested gymnastics lessons in the first place. Ballet and soccer failed to catch Eloise’s attention; she was too listless in her tutu and too disgruntled at being jostled around in her soccer jersey. Gymnastics seemed like a perfect fit. It’s only been a few months but she’s obsessed with it, constantly twisting and bending on the mat you’d gotten her, all but abandoning her toys in favor of rolling around in the living room. You and Emily had warned her time and time again about practicing without either of your supervision, but the girl is four years old and half Emily.

“It’s my fault,” Emily mutters. She digs her palms deeper into her eyes, sparks flashing in the dark. “God, what was I thinking? She’s fucking four years old—”

“Hey, hey, none of that.” You say, gripping Emily’s wrists and pulling none too gently. The look in your eyes is hardened with determination—a common sight that usually pulls her from the edge whenever she spirals about anything regarding your daughter. “You said it yourself, Em, she’s four. Accidents like this are bound to happen, whether she’s doing gymnastics or not.”

“She wouldn’t have tried to launch herself into the air otherwise,” Emily mutters, unsurprised to feel a dampness on her lashes.

“Wouldn’t she?” You tilt your head. Eloise is nothing short of adventurous, and both you and Emily know that. You squeeze a soft pattern on her wrists, fingers digging lightly into her skin before letting go and doing it again.

“No.” Her mouth pinches as she drops her forehead on your shoulder. “Maybe we should stop sending her to those lessons. They’re making her reckless.”

“They’re making her fearless. That’s not a bad thing, Emily.” Your fingers release her wrists and travel to the base of her neck, finding knots of tension. You start working them. “She’s not scared to try, and she shouldn’t be, just as long as we’re with her. But the point still stands—this could’ve happened for any other reason.”

Emily doesn’t say anything. She resignedly grabs on to your waist and inhales, filling her lungs with your familiar scent—shampoo, perfume, fabric softener. Something else sneaks in, too, spoiling the usual comfort of your fragrance. Emily recognizes it; faint traces of antiseptic. Her stomach turns.

“I know it’s hard for you to believe,” you murmur, now tracing her jaw, nudging her chin up to get her eyes to meet yours, “but not everything’s your fault. Things just happen sometimes.”

Emily responds with a sound deep in her throat, her brows arching wryly.

Your eyes narrow. “Okay,” you announce. “As your spouse, I demand you stop feeling guilty. Since I do know best and all.”

A smile tickles the corners of Emily’s lips. “Well, if my spouse insists,” she drawls, though her stomach is still unsettled from it all. A few years ago she’d have gaped in disbelief at this version of herself, but by now she’s well used to it—though she still doesn’t like it. Emily is perfectly composed, unshakable. Always. Except when it comes to you and Eloise. That has become a hard fact, as sure as the day is long. She’s entirely helpless to stop it.

“I do,” you murmur, pulling her in for a kiss. 

Emily belatedly realizes it’s the first time she’s kissed you since the morning. Her shoulders loosen from the press of your lips, soft against hers, the way you thread your fingers through her hair. Warmth builds in her chest; she wraps an arm around your back to keep you close, humming into your mouth. The world quiets for a moment, her frazzled nerves smothered into something more tame under your touch. Your nails gently scrape against her scalp and her spine warms, muscles unlocking as she lets go of your lower lip and nuzzles her nose into yours.

“Sorry I snapped at you,” she whispers.

“It wasn’t really a snap. More of a nibble,” you shrug, like you’re rolling it off your shoulders.

“Still.” Emily insists.

“It’s okay,” you give her a quick peck before escaping the cage of her arms, “I know how it feels. She’s my kid too, you know.” You make your way to the counter, peering into the grocery bag she’d left there before you came. “You went to the store?”

Emily nods as you pull out two sheets of stickers. “Got her ice cream,” she says, “and those. So she can decorate the cast.”

“Smart.” You hum. “She was pretty torn up about it not being pink.”

“What kind of hospital doesn’t have a pink fucking cast?” Emily scorns.

“A bad one,” you agree mildly. As your eyes scan the—very pink—sticker sheets, a smile starts to curve your lips. “But,” you wave them in the air, “at least you had the foresight.”

“At least.” Emily says dryly.

Silver linings and all that.

___

Emily’s leaning over dinner on the stove when a small voice catches her attention.

“Mommy,” Eloise mumbles, half squished into your shoulder. 

Emily turns to face the both of you, a sad smile spreading on her lips when she sees the cast again. It starts just under Eloise’s right elbow and continues until her little knuckles, leaving only her fingers exposed under the purple. The toddler’s head is cushioned on your shoulder, her eyes drowsy with sleep but fighting to stay open. You’d hoped she’d sleep through the night, but barely two hours after you put her in bed she called out through her ajar bedroom door.

Emily steps away from the stove and into the reach of Eloise’s stretched arm, obliging her daughter and gingerly taking her from you. She’s unsurprised at this show of affection; Eloise—like herself—often demands it, more so when she’s sick or hurt. It’s one thing she’s infinitely glad her daughter inherited from her, even if right now it comes with more work. You help adjust her casted arm across her chest.

“Hi, Eloise.” Emily whispers, a muscle somewhere deep under her skin unlocking at the familiar weight in her arms. She brushes a kiss on her daughter’s sleep-warm cheek. “How’s my brave girl doing? Is your arm still hurting?”

Eloise shakes her head, her brows dipping into a frown identical to yours. “S’okay now,” she says. That doesn’t stop her lips from curving into a pout, her frown growing deeper by the second.

Emily presses her thumb to the wrinkled skin between her brows. “What is it, my love?”

Eloise burrows into Emily’s neck, her free hand curling around the collar of her sweatshirt. She huffs out a warm sigh, deeply grieved. “They didn’t have pink,” she mumbles.

You chew on your lip, clearly attempting to keep the smile at bay. Emily pulls a face at you as she absently smooths between Eloise��s shoulder blades.

“That’s awfully rude of them.” She says softly. Her lips find the warm skin of Eloise’s forehead; Emily presses a kiss there. “What if we put some pink stickers on it? Would that make it better?”

The sound Eloise makes isn’t entirely too pleased, but Emily carefully carries her over to where the stickers are anyway. She grabs a sheet and holds it up, thumbing at the plastic covering. “I got these for you. What do you think, would they look pretty on your cast?”

Eloise frowns at them, unconvinced. She reaches out to touch a sticker, her finger hovering between a slice of strawberry topped cake and a pink ice-cream cone.

“Those are pretty,” you nudge gently, sifting your fingers through Eloise’s bedhead and tucking some of the hair away from her face. “Do you wanna try putting them on?”

Her lips purse into a contemplating pout. Eloise shakes her head, turning to bury her face back into Emily’s neck again. Her frown is practically etched onto Emily’s skin; she can feel it, as sure as she feels the wild hair tickling the underside of her jaw. While this is a lesser pain than hearing her daughter’s distressed voice through the phone, it still throbs dully. Biting back a sigh, she sets the stickers down.

You step in again.

“Are you still hungry, El?”

Suddenly the weight of Eloise’s head lids off of Emily’s shoulder. “Did we get McDonald’s?” She asks, more energy in her voice than Emily’s heard all day. It’s a familiar burst of sunshine, the warmth of it sinking instantly into her skin. She closes her eyes and absently kisses the side of Eloise’s head, thanking all her lucky stars for you.

“We did, honey. Do you want to eat that now?”

Eloise’s frantic nodding makes both you and Emily smile. She comes out of her hiding spot, sufficiently appeased with the shift in conversation. As you heat up the meal, Emily grabs the toy inside and hands it to her daughter. 

“I’m gonna set you down now, honey.” She says. Eloise doesn’t pay her any mind, too preoccupied with the toy in her hand to care. Emily sets her down on the counter and hides a wince at the pull in her shoulder as she grabs the golden, sugar infested cup of apple juice in the greasy bag. You chat to Eloise as the food heats up, pulling her attention away from Emily diluting the juice.

“Can we also watch Star Wars?” She mumbles, fiddling with the toy one-handed. 

No TV while eating is a strict rule of yours. But under the weight of Eloise’s pleading eyes and her vibrant cast, it bends. A soft sigh answers, and Emily stifles a smile as you nod and murmur your assent.

That’s how you end up eating dinner on the couch, two pasta bowls and a happy meal on your respective laps, an army of stuffed animals joining you amongst the cushions to watch Lego Star Wars. Sergio serves as a willing armrest for Eloise’s cast, and that night the whole family wedges into your bed, carefully nestled between you and Emily.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi@temilyrights@professorsapphic

[myownwholewildworld]

requiescat in pace (a "per aspera ad astra" drabble)

main masterlist | series masterlist | read on ao3 pairing: marcus acacius x emperor's daughter!reader. summary: you learn of marcus' son's death. a/n: welp... yea. can what i say, i enjoy making these two suffer c: apologies for the brief passenger's lyrics references. i appreciate comments and reblogs, they make me happy knowing that people enjoy my writing <3 take care x warnings: 18+, mdni. angst (what a surprise). mentions of death. marcus says "my lady" and i think that should be a warning. let's just assume that this whole series is pure angst, alright? w/c: 2.1k

“Did you offer your condolences to General Acacius, filia mea (my daughter)?”

Your father’s question broke the trance you had sunk into, the bronze spoon falling from your trembling fingers onto the porcelain plate set in front of you.

Leaning back, you looked at your father as if he had spoken a different language. Surely you misheard him — your mind still numb with grief, unable to process anything since you received the news of your husband’s demise.

It had been three days and the gaping hole in your heart had only gotten bigger. Like an umbra lurking in the shadows, you had stayed in your shared bedroom, crying your sorrow onto Resius’ breastplate, hugging the last piece of him you would ever hold. You grieved for your love but also for the life you would never spend with him, for all those precious moments that would remain in your memory as what if’s gnawing at the confines of your mind.

But now, right now, your pain lessened for a second, your brain focusing on something else.

“What do you mean, Caesar?” you whispered, voice cracking in the last inflexion.

The Emperor eyed you from across the dining table, silence lingering and stretching in the space between you. Your heartbeat picked up its pace, the wait almost forcing you up to stand on your feet.

“General Acacius lost his heir at the battle of Sarmizegetusa. He has asked to return to Dacia to retrieve the body of his son and bring him back home for proper burial,” he explained with caution, watching your every expression.

Your heart had now climbed up your throat, the pulse wild in your eardrums. You hadn’t misheard, your father had said Acacius very clearly, dragging the word out.

Mind racing, you fidgeted with your hands on your lap, twisting them in despair as you tried to recall your conversation with him a few days ago. “He’s resting now,” he had said when you asked about Augustus.

Resting. You had assumed he meant that his son was back at his villa, resting from the extraneous physical toll a battle would take on the body. Not for one second had you considered that Marcus actually meant resting in peace.

You had been so blind, letting your own grief consume you, you had not noticed the tells in the General’s behaviour. The feeble smile, the downcast almost solemn expression, the stiffened nod he gave you, the brevity of his response. It all made sense now, and you couldn’t help but feel… selfish. So drowned in your sorrow, Acacius had kept it together so you could cry your loss in his embrace.

Your stomach churned at the thought — the General had no one left by his side. No wife and no son waiting for his return, not even his best friend. How would he have felt in the emptiness of his home with no one there to console him? You at least had your family and closest friends, who had checked on you from time to time to ensure you were safe.

Had someone checked on the General?

“May I take my leave, pater (father)?” you requested with your gaze averted, a sudden need to find General Acacius, your hands twisting uncontrollably.

You needed to know he was… okay. Alive? He had talked to someone at least, asked to go back to Dacia to get his only son back home. You could only imagine his heartbreak, the hell he must be going through. The thought of him dealing with all of it alone… it fractured a piece of your soul.

The Emperor watched you attentively, eyes lingering on the full plate in front of you. There was something about his wary demeanor that didn’t click right away — and right now you were too preoccupied with something else to be paying attention to politics.

“You may go, but tread carefully, filia mea,” was his veiled answer.

With no time to waste, you stood up and curtsied before disappearing from the dining hall.

Marcus’ body was controlled by another being — a non-sentient one. He got up, attended his duties to the Empire, paid a visit to the barracks in the outskirts to train with his army, and then got back to an empty home.

It all felt like a sick loop, one he could not break from. His feelings had deserted him, leaving him be a hollow carcass of who he once was. There was no joy, no incentive to even pretend there was.

It took him a couple of days to finally let the dam crack in the solace of his villa. It all came to be because of something as simple as Augustus’ toy gladius. The one that Marcus himself had forged for his son’s tenth birthday. Little Augustus had been so excited, he had almost hit his head against the edge of the dining table while running around wielding his new toy. That memory had resurfaced unexpectedly and the smile that came with it quickly mutated into a sad grimace.

He longed for something that that was safe and warm, but all he had was all that was gone. Marcus felt as helpless and as hopeless as a feather on the Tiber. And the river was wide, so much he was scared he wouldn’t make it to the other side. And what would he find on the opposite shore? Did he really want to cross?

Marcus couldn’t, at least not yet. He needed closure before he could carry on with his life, if that was even a possibility. Augustus belonged in the family’s mausoleum next to his mother, so they could both be laid to rest in peace together. With Dacia under the iron fist of the Romans, he could retrace his steps and get his heir back home.

His leave had been approved that same afternoon. In a hurry, he had packed the bare necessities he would need for the long trip and headed towards the barracks once more. In the stables his stallion was awaiting, all prepped by one of the ostlers.

He was ensuring that the saddle was properly on when a gentle voice called his name.

“General Acacius,” as soon as you spoke, he recognised your delicate accent.

Marcus turned around, his back bending immediately at your presence.

“My lady,” he whispered, eyes fixed on the straw splayed across the dirt on the floor.

What brought you here, he wondered. The horses belonging to Traianus’ family were kept elsewhere, away from the mediocrity of the reminders of war. This was no place for someone of noble birth like you. It reeked of the musky scents of nature to which he was immune now, but you sure weren’t.

Your hand found the way to his shoulder, a light tap to silently ask him to straighten out his posture. He obliged, his brown orbs showing his confusion at finding you here. And you seemed unbothered about the mess surrounding you.

“How may I be of service?” his question was a trained response, the only reason for you being here was that you required something of him.

Perhaps you needed to know how everything unfolded so you also got closure. Perhaps you required details, something more than just a “General Atticus perished at the mercy of a Dacian sword” — had he been too concise in his explanation, too General-y? Or perhaps you were after the reassurance of a life well lived with your husband, a reminder that there had been light amongst the darkness.

The Gods knew he felt that way sometimes too.

“That is not why I am here, General,” you hummed with a broken smile, your hand dropping off his shoulder like the last needle-like leaves clinging onto a toppling, decaying cypress after a wildfire.

Your admission took him aback, unsure now of what else you could need of him. What else would he have to give for Rome to appease the Emperor — was his heir not enough? But you weren’t your father; Resius would always say you were too kind of a soul, would only speak high praise of you. But was not that what a husband was supposed to say about his spouse, especially Traianus’ daughter?

So perhaps he was mistaken in that regard, although he couldn’t know. Marcus had interacted with you multiple times, in serious and more relaxed settings, but the barrier was always there — he was just a General you graced with your presence because of Resius. You participated in conversation, laughed at Resius’ and his jokes and offered words of wisdom to Augustus like the mother he never had.

But despite all of that, he didn’t really know you. Knew your persona, the way you portrayed yourself to the crowds, but it was fair to wonder how much of it was just a front.

That was, at least, until three sunsets ago, when you cried your loss with him — something he had not expected. How your façade tumbled the moment his perhaps-not-so-carefully-delivered words furrowed through your mind until they took root. How he tried to console you in spite of his own sorrow.

The crease between his brows accentuated slightly, a small tell of his confusion.

“I heard,” you only said, a whisper that made his skin crawl with anguish, his throat squeeze.

The softness of your eyes left no room for misinterpretation, an unmistakable mist in them. About your son’s death, was the bit you did not pronounce out loud.

His chest tightened as his gaze drifted down, catching a glimpse of your fidgety hands, twisting nervously.

Did you feel guilty? Was that the purpose of your unexpected visit?

“My son lived and died for the glory of Rome, Your Highness. Honourable to the end, he gladly gave his life for the Emperor and the cause. A warrior’s death, I couldn’t be any more proud of his sacrifice,” he attempted to put your mind at ease, tone steady repeating the words he had been saying every time someone approached him with empty condolences.

Your hands paused wriggling, your expression shadowed by his automatic reply.

“Oh, Marcus,” you whispered, taking a step forward but stopping yourself before you reached for his forearm. “You don’t need to— to pretend this is okay. It’s not,” your trembling fingers played with the golden bracelet adorning your wrist. “War is a disease, an ailment to mankind, to ourselves and our loved ones. I regret to know that you have given so much for Rome’s thirst. You shouldn’t have to. My father… he asks too much of his people,” you added, the mist in your eyes developing into a single tear falling off your bottom lashes. “Far too much.”

Pain stirred within him, lost for words he was. What you just said was a good outline of his own feelings — thoughts he couldn’t put into words, because they would sound treacherous. Did you really mean it?

“I… thank you, Domina mea. I appreciate your sentiment,” he accepted with a stiff nod, his voice raspier than usual. But he wouldn’t let emotion overcome him.

“I was informed you have taken leave to bring Augustus back home. I came to see if you would accept a few soldiers of my own personal guard to escort you,” you offered, your tone gentle and delicate.

Marcus was moved by your offer, one he didn’t expect. Were you worried for his safe return? That the journey back with his dead son in tow would break him, his resolution? Because he was worried too.

“I am touched, my lady, truly. But it’s not necessary. Some of my men will be accompanying me,” he assured you.

Marcus was lucky to have loyal fighting men under his banner. People he could blindly trust in battle, and outside of it.

“Please, send for me upon your return, General. I would like to attend Augustus’ wake. Unless you want it to be private, in which case I completely understand,” you almost stumbled with your own words towards the end, lips pursed with nervousness.

Resius was right. You were too kind of a soul, worrying for him when you had your own demons to deal with. The dull ache blanketing his heart lifted ever so slightly, your petition soothing and a reminder that he was not alone in grief. You would understand.

So Marcus nodded, his throat tighter.

“I will, Augusta (Imperial Princess),” a promise he would keep.

“Safe travels, General. May Salus watch over you.”

[yinemw]

𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲

context: a new way to celebrate bf Levi’s bday (gender neutral reader)

warnings: none

character: Levi Ackerman from AOT

m.list

Every year Levi complained how he didn’t want to celebrate his birthday. Hange and you of course didn’t listen, celebrating his birthday and Christmas together, having either a small gathering or party for the celebration. Handing him presents, presents he didn’t want nor did he ask for them. So, this year you decided to give him what he always wanted. ‘Nothing’.

No celebration, no gifts, it would be a normal day. Like he’s always said he wanted whenever you asked “Levi what do you want for your birthday?” “Nothing”.

“You’re being unusually quiet” Levi said simply as you and him walk through the streets together. Hand in hand, scarf around your neck as snowflakes decorate your hair. It was already evening, an hour to midnight. Meaning only an hour left of Levi’s birthday.

“Would you like me to be louder?” You ask teasingly, stopping in your tracks as Levi drops your hand. Stepping in front of you and adjusting the scarf around your neck. He adored the way your cheeks had a slight red tint to them due to the cold, the way the snowflakes melted on your warmer skin, especially the way the street lamps made your eyes sparkle as you looked at him.

Levi rolled his eyes at your obvious tease, stuffing his hands in his pocket as he continued to walk. “Loud or not, you’ll be annoying either way”

“What an ungrateful man” you whisper under your breath as Levi continues to walk, slower tough, waiting for you to catch up with him. Crouching down, you pick up some snow and make a snowball between your palms. A mischievous smile on your lips as you stand up and aim straight at your boyfriend.

The clump of snow hits him straight in the back, and he stiffens. Stopping in his tracks as he turns on his heel to face you. For a second you regret it, but the second you see the corners of his lips start to lift, you know you’ve really fucked up. “Mercy, I beg, mercy please Levi I’m already so cold”

But mercy was not given. Levi already had a ball of snow in his slender hands, not hesitating to throw it straight at you. The snow hitting your chest and going into your jacket. Letting out a scream, followed by laughter, an official snowball fight had begun.

It was rare to see Levi be in his playful nature, to hear him laugh and tease. But you never failed to bring out that side of him, and to your surprise it was the happiest you’d seen Levi on his birthday for years.

“Levi! That went down my pants!”

“Sucks brat”

Grabbing a handful of snow, you jump onto Levi’s back and stuff it down his shirt. Feeling his warm skin and toned muscles as you get the snow as far down as you can. A satisfied smile on your lips when you hear the groan escape your boyfriend’s lips. “You deserved that!”

Before you know it, you’re tackled down in the snow. Levi right beside you, slightly breathless from the long snowball fight. “So, who won?” You ask between breaths, turning your head to look at him. “Personally I think me, that last move was pretty hardcore”

“Hardcore?” He raises a brow, turning his head as well. Eyes softening when he looked into yours, his hand reaching out to brush some snow out of your hair, not like it did much. “I will admit I’m cold as shit, if that was your goal, yes you win”

As out of reflex, you reach your hand out and cup his cheek. Always loving how soft his skin felt against your palm, now cold and also rosy due to the snow. Levi followed along, leaning closer as well, the tip of his nose nudging yours. He never liked pda, always opting for more private areas to shower you with affection. But right now seemed too perfect of an opportunity to miss. Your lips meet in a cold and wet kiss caused by the melted snow. Fingers starting to feel numb, but his lips so captivating you couldn’t help but kiss back.

“Mmmmfmf!! Levi!!” followed by laughter, you immediately sit up after Levi had stuffed snow up your jacket. “How dare you! Using a kiss to distract me!”

He continued to laugh, the sound making you melt even through your frustration. At least he helped you up, and despite everything, he still adjusted your scarf.

“Oh yeah, this scarf is helping a lot, thank you so much Levi I feel so much warmer” you say sarcastically as you walk uncomfortably beside him, feeling the snow melt under your shirt.

Levi only rolls his eyes, smacking you across the head softly before taking your hand in his and starting to walk towards your shared home.

It was a couple minutes till midnight, and you couldn’t help but ask “Levi, how was your birthday?”

The corners of his lips tilt upwards, but he doesn’t turn to face you. “Dare I say, best one yet”

“Even with us wet and cold?”

“Even with us wet and cold. At least I don’t have to try one of Hange’s birthday cakes again, if it can even be called a ‘cake’”

“Oh uhm, maybe don’t check the fridge when we get home…”

“Sigh”

[peggyao3]

Crossfade - Pt. 2

PAIRING — Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x f!reader x Benny Cross

SUMMARY — It's a perfect, golden morning when she wakes up with both of them at her side.

TAGS — AFAB she/her reader, no use of y/n, threesome - F/M/M, explicit sexual content, p in v, double creampie, pet names, manhandling, orgasm delay, overstimulation, filthy & messy, twincest/selfcest, voyeurism, brotherly rivalry, dirty stray puppy benny, domestic cat feyd, pinch of angst, allusions to hypothetical dubcon, porn with minimal plot

WORD COUNT — 3.2k

A/N — Surprise! 🥹 I gained some inspo thanks to @sebastianswallows' and mine continuous good night messages, @thefloatingpickle's amazing Feyd x Reader x Rautha series, and a lovely comment from @moonbeammist on part one ❤️

← Previous Chapter | Ao3 | Masterlist🖤

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

The warmth of the morning sun filters through the curtains, ruffled by a faint summer breeze. Someone must have opened the window a crack last night, so the soundscape of the awakening suburb bleeds into the comfort of their bedroom. A dog barks down the street, engines rev in the distance, a train horn even further away, past the morning fog.

Three bodies fill out the ruffled sheets, two men and a woman in the middle. Her toes curl against the duvet, body drifting from sleep, flanks sheltered from both sides. She inhales the homely scent of musk and cotton, skin against skin, smiling.

Both of her boys are home, one on each side where they belong, Benny to the right, Feyd to the left, their heavy heads nestled on her chest. They are breathing each other's air—so peaceful for once, lips popped open.

Her arms have gone a little numb from cradling their heads to her bosom all night, but their soft faces make it worth it—drool from the night on her tits, two hard cocks throbbing against her thighs. 

Softly, she lets her fingers glide over their hard shoulders. Feyd seems to be fast asleep, saliva slipping from the corner of his pink mouth. So placid, her sweet baby, so sweet and good when he's asleep. She loves him so very much despite all the troubles he gives her.

Benny's eyes are closed, warm breath curling across her damp chest, fanning his brother's face, but his fingers twitch against her belly, drawing a lazy circle around her navel. Her golden boy is awake. 

Happily, her fingers curl into his tangled hair, thick with dried gel and grease. He needs a shower, but for now she's happy to cradle him to her breast. Benny huffs, scalp prickling from the light tugging of her fingers, and his tapered hips roll tentatively against her thigh, morning wood twitching. The pink head of his cock pokes plump and swollen at her hip, his sac—soft and scratchy—nestled between their bodies.

Benny slightly lifts the weight of his head, an invitation for her to retrieve her arm. She cautiously complies, gliding her hand down his taut, freckled tummy to brush her fingertips over his squished cock. Benny's head flops back down on her shoulder, beard scratching her skin. His lips settle against the side of her throat, last night's cigarette smoke still in his breath.

Her fingers twist around his cock, tugging at an awkward angle. How sweet of him to ask for her hand even before his first cigarette.

Carefully, she cradles Feyd's smooth head to her chest with her free hand so as not to startle him from sleep with her flexing muscles. But she can't stop the sheets from rustling and Benny from grunting softly into the crook of her shoulder. His calloused fingers glide to her chest, cupping the breast he had previously drooled on. Her nipple stiffens against his calluses, teasing him to pinch the pebbled bud between two fingers. His darling doll squeaks through gritted teeth.

"At least have the decency to ride him and let me watch," Feyd's voice startles the both of them, his graveled breath hoarse from sleep.

"Feyd!" She scrambles, hand pausing around the golden twin's cock. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

Instinctively, she lets go to reach for Feyd's cock instead, thick and milky-pale against her left thigh.

"Hands off, sweetling. I meant what I said. Ride my brother, let me watch."

"It's early morning. I'm still tired," she mewls her complaints while two pairs of big hands already push and tug on her hips and waist.

"Well then wakey-wakey, you got my brother excited," Feyd's grating voice purrs, lips quirked with mockery that makes her stomach flip. 

"He got me excited, and he was excited before I even woke up," their darling snarls.

"Come on, darling. Up, up," the pale twin urges, tip of the nose grazing the edge of her jaw.

"I'm not ready," their darling huffs and wriggles her arm away from underneath Feyd's smooth skull. Boldly, she snares his hard wrist and guides his hand from her ribs to her abdomen.

The brothers exchange a wry grin and their lithe, long legs curl around hers, spreading them apart for Feyd's hands to paw at her slit and part her lower lips.

"Aaahh, feels ready enough for me," Feyd purrs, tips of two fingers dipping between her folds to sample her wetness. Like morning dew on flower petals. Feyd is almost jealous, if that's what his brother does to her, just by blinking into the sun with his golden hair and humping her leg.

"I'll get you ready," Benny is quick to promise, his own voice almost as rough and sleep-raspy as Feyd's. Sun-kissed fingers with scarred knuckles slip down their darling's belly.

"Bad dog," Feyd snaps, catching his brother's wrist. Black coals cut into Benny's ocean blues. The younger twin just never learns when not to take Feyd-Rautha's toys.

"Don't fight so early in the morning," their sweetheart growls, pelvis wriggling in the snare trap of their long legs. Both boys melt back into the cradle of her shoulders and Feyd squeezes his brother's hand. Benny returns his fingers to her nipple, tugging lazily while watching his twin toy away with their darling's cunt.

Pale fingers slip across her damp slit and bring the gathered essence to her pebbled clit. Her pelvis jerks in its prison and her throat tightens. The first tentative moan curls into the sun-lit morning glow. Her boys purr into her neck, muscles flexing to keep her down when her spine arches off the crumpled mattress.

"A-agh, yeees~" she mewls, walls clenching around Feyd's long fingers when two of them slide deep, curling against the back of her pubic bone.

"Getting her nice and ready for you," Feyd snickers, eyes flicking to his twin whose puppy eyes are snared by the display of their helpless darling, spread open by their combined effort, taking Feyd-Rautha's fingers to the third knuckle. 

Soon, a third finger, and her limbs thrash against their bodies. Benny captures her grabby hands, wondering if his brother would be mad if he guided her fingers back to his hard, impatient cock. He decides not to risk it.

"That better, sweetling?" Feyd coos across the lewd noise of slick squelching. "Are you gonna play with my brother now?"

"W-Wait, don't stop," she pleads, eyes screwed tight, wrists flexing in Benny's hold. 

The younger twin almost wants to punch his brother for denying their sweetheart her climax, but then again, she won't clench on his cock if she cums on Feyd's savage fingers, so he eagerly helps to push and grope at her, urging her to sit upright, pussy empty and slick and ready to feel like paradise around Benny's aching cock.

"Morning, brother," Feyd purrs, kneeling next to his twin. "Enjoy her."

With slick-shiny fingers, Feyd clutches his twin's stubbled chin, grinning as he brings their foreheads close. She's never seen them kiss but they always look like they're about to.

Feyd-Rautha can pretend not to miss his brother all he wants, but she knows him better, knows the way he prowls and paces when Benny is gone. They shared a womb, now they share a woman. Of course he misses him.

Feyd places her like an offering over his twin's twitching cock, perching behind her over Benny's thighs, one pale arm curled around her waist while the other hand grabs Benny's cock, giving it a tight squeeze before lining it up with their sweetheart's dewy cunt.

Benny grins stupidly—pampered boy, doesn't need to do anything himself—pink lips popping open when she swallows him down her hot, slick pussy, urged lower by his brother until her cervix aches and she lets out a strangled moan, bracing her hands against Benny's flexed tummy.

He rocks his pelvis while she settles, lightly at first, calloused fingers slipping up her spread thighs.

Feyd has come to kneel behind her, over Benny's thighs. His smooth, hard front presses into her spine where a pleasant shiver rolls down from his raspy breath. She winces in pleasure-pain from the deep angle and Feyd's cock jumps in response.

"Go faster, brother. She can take it."

Fuck both of them—Why does Benny listen to him like dog to a whistle?

Benny's pelvis snaps up, sharp juts of his hip bones clapping into the meat of her thighs. She groans, nails flexing into Benny's stomach. He goes harder, holding her by the hips. Her pussy drips down his thick shaft, essence gathering across his golden pubes to glisten obscenely in the morning light, together with the slick left by Feyd's fingers in his beard.

The worst thing about it—she can take him, even though she feels his cock all the way up in her lungs. Feyd was right. She'd rather have Benny right here than anywhere else.

Feyd's smooth chin has come to rest on her shoulder. Adorned with a black, sly grin, he looks straight at his brother's happy, disheveled puppy face, like a hunter admiring his catch.

"Isn't it nice to be home, Benny?" He coos, nose and forehead gliding against the side of their squeaking toy's face. "Look how she missed you."

"You missed me, baby?" 

"C-Course I missed you, you stupid— Aghhh—"

Benny gawks up at her, blue eyes incensed because as ridiculous as it sounds, he needed that little reminder; the confirmation that he is still welcome for breakfast.

He fucking loves cherry pie for breakfast, with her sweet smile and sweet pussy, tits squished against his brother's forearm. If Benny thought he deserved it, he'd serve up this view for himself every morning.

His sugar darling's face thaws into warm-dripping, honeyed pleasure, the painful stretch compensated by kindling nerve ends. One hand clings to Feyd-Rautha's corded forearm, the other shivers on Benny's abdomen, flat muscles tensing against her bouncing palm as his hips pump up with wet, clapping smacks.

"Gonna make you cum, baby," Benny groans, long fingers kneading her hips and ass, cock plunging deep. "Don't worry."

Feyd stirs like a snake at her back, arms coiling tight around her waist. His fingertips dart to her clit, pulling a whine from her throat while her head melts into his pale shoulder. The older twin's hard cock pokes at the curve of her ass.

"She needn't worry about a thing," he purrs with a voice like a whetted blade, stroking her tender nub with a precision so obscene, her core shudders from it, squeezing around Benny's aching cock.

The blonde twin bares his teeth at his brother who leers in return, gleeful to take away their pet's orgasm from Benny's control, happy to play her like a sweet, purring instrument so she'll milk his brother's cock. He hates and loves him so.

Their girl leaves claw marks on the both of them, moaning and singing, dripping sweetly over Benny's cock while he drives himself deep into her tightening walls. At first, he stares at the place where they are connected, admiring the stretch of her lips, spread around the thick base of his shaft—going quicker with short, hard thrusts—but ultimately, he cannot resist his twin's obscene smile.

Feyd's pupils expand with perverse fascination when his brother's features scrunch up, cords of his neck flexing under tan skin, sweat beading as his head rolls back, golden hair spilling across the pillow. Benny knows not to close his eyes, spit-damp lips parted while he is drained for the cream to stuff their cherry pie.

Only when Feyd releases him from the tar-black shackle of his gaze and peers down, so does Benny, glossy eyes marveling at his seed as it spills from their girl's pussy, squelching and frothing at the base of his cock.

She cums a minute later, under Feyd-Rautha's fingertips, when Benny is already finished, hips grinding down on their own accord now while Feyd plays with her cute, little clit, rubbing her until she squirms and squeaks and Benny hisses from overstimulation. He tries to keep her still on his spent cock, but her walls still squeeze him, milking him for the spend he has already given.

Benny accepts his brother's grinning punishment, teeth clenched, until their girl's muscles go slack, both palms falling on Benny's ribs. He is ready to embrace her against his hard, heaving chest and rest his chin atop her head, smiling stupidly into the warm afterglow, but Feyd keeps her pinned to his chest, black eyes glinting as he pulls her off Benny's cock.

Scowling, Benny watches himself slip free, cum splashing on his abdomen and down their sweetheart's inner thigh. The air in the room is cold compared to her honeyed pussy.

Feyd urges her down on her back while she's still limp and fucked out, slotting his pale, slender hips between her thighs. Weakly, her fingers curl around Feyd's wrists which are braced on either side of her. She doesn't protest when his thick cock nudges between her puffy lips, milky flesh slipping into her cunt with ease. A flutter of aftershock prickles along her nerves, luring Feyd deeper to milk her tender moans while she's still sensitive.

"You go and make coffee," Feyd orders, serpentine skull turned to his twin who blinks, flabbergasted. "If you know how to do it. We'll join you when we're finished."

"I wanna watch," Benny rumbles, raising himself already despite his protests.

"I know you, brother. You're gonna be back to sleep in less than a minute. Don't want to fuck her to the sound of you snoring." 

Huffing, Benny rolls off the rumpled bed, sunlight catching on the muscled ridges of his broad back, glutes flexing as he squats and picks up his jeans, slipping them over his long legs, cock still wet with cum and slick.

"It won't be long," their darling calls, summoning Feyd's eyes to darken and turn to her like two whips of thunder.

"It'll be as long as I want it to be, sweetling," Feyd corrects her while the door shuts slowly, Benny's big, blue eyes vanishing in the hallway behind the narrowing gap.

"You kicked him out," her voice rings out with squirming worry, pushing against Feyd's sternum like she wants him to stop. His cock twitches with eagerness to subdue her, hips rocking softly into her cum-stuffed cunt.

"Silly thing," he scolds, his tone deceptively saccharine. "He'll be fine."

"Shouldn't we go check on him?" Her knees press into Feyd's ribs, but her pussy takes him with ease, squelching from his slow, persistent thrusts.

"Careful, sweetling. You can talk about my brother while I have my cock in you when he's in the room with us." 

"But what if he leaves?"

"Then he'll come back eventually, but I'm here. Always."

She softly exhales, lashes fluttering with relief. 'Always' means she doesn't have much of a choice, and that's one hell of a comforting thing, to be coveted so madly that she doesn't ever have to worry that Feyd will leave her too.

The soothing thought renders her pliant, slack thighs falling against the tops of Feyd's hard, muscled ones as he brackets her hips, cock rocking back and forth in her squishy cunt.

"There you go, sweetness." Praise flows as easily as threats past Feyd-Rautha's lips and she cries up to the crescent of his inky smile, glaring down on her like her own rotten moon, forever in her sky.

He fucks her sweet and stupid—his perfect, special, little thing—unfil she forgets to think about his brother and digs her little claws into his back, spine arching against his smooth chest and stomach. He smothers her with cock, hands and tongue until she creams around his thick shaft, trembling and brainless, mewling his name.

Feyd shares her with his twin, but she belongs to him. If she ever tried to leave them, he knows Benny would turn to the road with a broken heart, but Feyd would chase her, reel her back until nos become yes again.

It means he loves her more.

It means he deserves her more.

Benny is easier to love, but Feyd is much, much harder to leave.

She shivers in his arms, coming down from her high above the clouds, reeled back to earth by the slow, hot pulsing of Feyd-Rautha's cock, pumping his cum so deep that her cervix aches from it; And when she thinks she can't take any more, he pushes even deeper, more rutting than thrusting until his cock stops twitching and his balls lay snugly against her overflowing cunt.

It hurts, it glows. She smiles.

Feyd's lips whisper sweet and rotten affection against her neck, his breath so soft, his promises so terrible. She loves him.

"You want to go shower?" He purrs against her calming pulse, glutes flexing under her calves that rest atop him.

"Mmmh. I think I want to have coffee." She strokes his back, hand gliding from the base of his spine to the back of his skull, scraping him softly with her nails.

"Hmpf." Feyd kisses her neck goodbye, a hint of sharp teeth, black eyes glinting with a spark of reluctance but he lets it be, sliding out of her slowly as he sits up on his haunches. "No shower means you'll keep your stuffing."

Pale fingers trace her inner thigh, gathering a streak of mixed fluids. She winces when the pads of his fingers trail to her sore opening, returning the creamy dollop to her tender pussy.

Then he stands, stretching himself like a large, long cat, yawning into the morning sun. Warm light reflects on his ink-black teeth and gums. No matter what, he looks ethereal, with long limbs and broad shoulders, slender waist and hips and lean thighs. Muscles coil lazily under his moonlight skin as he saunters to the dresser, kindly fetching underwear for her.

Her pussy squelches from their combined fluids when she stands and slips into the offered pair of panties, the cotton seat turning uncomfortably slick as soon as she takes the first step. It is what it is. She thanks her cat-like partner and tormentor with a kiss to the corner of his grinning mouth and pulls her dressing gown over her arms before stepping into the hallway.

The scent of coffee lingers in the air and her heart leaps.

Benny is still there, leaning against the kitchen counter with sleepy eyes and ruffled hair, fingers curled around a steaming mug.

Even Feyd blinks with surprise, brow ridge ticking upwards as he sets eyes on his brother.

"Benny!" She beams and throws herself at him, arms curling around his waist. Benny holds her with one arm, grinning, big hand splayed across her shoulder blades.

"Morning, babycakes," he rumbles, blue eyes sliding to his twin who stands in the doorframe, entirely naked. Feyd saunters over with sour affection, lips quirking. 

"Benny," he mockingly repeats their girl's thrilled inflection. All his brother has to do is breathe and she glows like sunshine. Benny has that effect on people. And Feyd-Rautha is only a human too.

"Thanks for the coffee, brother," Feyd cocks his head and takes Benny's mug from his sun-kissed fingers, then turns to their darling, leering. "Our sweetheart brought the cream."

A/N — If you enjoyed the read, a little comment would mean the world to me ❤️😍

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

[ultram0th]

@rainbowhypno

Request: Aaron bigoted over religious straight homophobic man harasses Brad for being gay. Which ends up being a big mistake. Brad turns Aaron into a proud gay musky slutty man and makes him his boyfriend. Aaron tries to fight the changes but loses the fight. Aaron remembers his old life, but he is reprogrammed to remembers his old life but he is reprogrammed to love the man he is now. A out and proud slutty gay man

★······★

Brad was heading to his dorm room after a rough day of seemingly endless lectures. All the slender guy wanted was to lie down and numb his aching head with some random cat videos.

Before he could reach his dorm, he was hit with the sickly stench of beer as a red solo cup was tossed at him. Drenched in beer, Brad huffed as he looked up and saw none other than Aaron.

The big, beefy jock was a pain in Brad's ass. For whatever reason, the jerk had made it his mission to make Brad's life as hard as possible. He was always there to pester him or even "playfully" shove him too hard, always muttering some sort of slur under his breath.

Aaron mock-frowned at the wet Brad. "Sorry 'bout that, Ma'am," he almost sneered. "I thought you looked thirsty, but I didn't have some fruity cocktail. Hope that works."

Normally, Brad would've just tried his best to shrug off Aaron's homophobic shenanigans. However, this time, he was prepared.

The skinny man reached into his pocket and grabbed a fistful of the pink, shimmery powder that he'd purchased from a mysterious woman the other night. Then, like a scene out of a cartoon, Brad tossed the powder into Aaron's face, smiling widely as the larger man winced as his face was covered in pink.

"What the hell was that?" the muscled jock sputtered as he wiped at his face.

"You'll find out soon enough," Brad lowly chuckled as he prepared himself to watch was was going to happen.

"What does that mean-- UUUhhhh!" Aaron's voice cut off as all of his muscles seemed to tense up. It looked as if the big jock was flexing, but soon his eyes widened when he felt the cool air on his torso. Looking downward, Aaron was surprised to see that his shirt was gone, exposing his plump pecs and washboard stomach. "Wha--?"

His voice trailed off when he witnessed his pecs shudder before it looked as if they were beginning to inflate. The jock's jaw dropped when he saw his pecs steadily grow larger and rounder. It wasn't an exaggerated growth, especially when the rest of his body followed suit. His muscles grew in size, taking his body from jock to bodybuilder in mere seconds. He paled when he saw his abs gradually grow fainter until they disappeared, his stomach rounding out to form a firm musclegut. His pants felt painfully tight as his butt swelled up, his cheeks going from perky to full on beach ball size. They grew so large that they began to push his jeans down, exposing the top of his hairy crack to the whole dormitory. As a final touch, Aaron's skin began to itch as hair started to sprout over his body, leaving him with copious amounts of body hair, with most of it concentrated on his pits and chest.

When he was done growing, Aaron had to have gained at least fifty pounds of muscle and had sprouted lots of hair. His large hands explored his larger, hairier body, blushing when he caught of a whiff of the pungent musk that seemed to radiate off of him in waves, almost as if he'd just finished an intense workout.

"Whoa," Aaron groaned in a much deeper voice, "what happened to me, Bro?" He flinched at the slowish quality to his voice and the way he'd said Bro unconsciously. "My head feels so slow."

Brad just smiled at his work, thinking that this new Aaron would be a much better guy than the old one. "You're the new you," he grinned.

"The new me...?" Aaron wondered aloud, freezing when his eyes landed on the smaller guy before him. His heart began to race in his beefier chest, and despite himself, he felt his cock start to stiffen. Worse was that he felt an odd emptiness forming deep within his ass, and he unconsciously flexed his huge bubblebutt with want.

No matter what his brain told him, Aaron was horrified to find that he viewed Brad as... cute!?

"Oh no," Aaron groaned, paling at this new realization, especially as new memories started to filter into his brain. He was still a college jock attending university on a football scholarship, but now he was also the muscled up and dim-witted boyfriend of Brad. He could see crystal clear mental images of himself wearing the skimpiest clothing and flexing for the small man on command, loving it whenever his huge ass was stuffed full with Brad's cock. And not only his, but their supposed relationship was flexible enough to where Brad was cool with Aaron getting fucked and sucking off every other guy on the football team. Apparently not a night went by when Aaron wasn't bouncing on cock after cock and showing off his large, hairy muscles to every guy on campus... but apparently he had a huge soft spot for Brad.

Brad basked in the warmth that this new Aaron brought him. He stepped forward and ran an admiring hand over Aaron's hairy pecs, loving the way the formerly straight jerk shuddered at the contact.

"Hey, Babe," he teased, "why don't we go to our dorm and I'll fuck that huge butt of yours?"

Aaron wanted to decline, to beg to be changed back, but instead he felt himself pick up the smaller man with one arm and flex his other one. "Hell yeah, Bro," he smiled dimly, "you're gonna fuck me so damn hard all night!"

[pursuitseternal]

Hello my partner-in-crime!

Could I pretty please have Sauron x Reader with prompt number 7: "Can you feel how much I want you?"

Love you! ❤️😘

“𝕿𝖔 𝕭𝖊 𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖆𝖉𝖊…”

First Age Sauron x f!Reader | Dead Dove | 3.7K

Summary: There is no hope in Angband, in the dungeons of the Dark Vala…. But there is the Servant. Sauron.

A master craftsman and artist, forever seeking perfection, obsessed with creating his own beauty, and yet a victim of torment by his master that twists his sense of creativity to something vile and precious only to him.

CW: Dead dove: Do Not Eat, graphic violence, torture porn, bondage, temperature play, forge sex, corruption, marking branding biting, mind breaking, mind control, body worship, First Age Sauron, if evil why (literally) hot

Ao3 link | Tolkien Masterlist

You can see your breath, hear your heart beating slower and slower with each passing hour. Languishing. A slow death. A painful death. A merciless one that meant to break you without hope.

There is no hope in Angband.

Even the floors here are ice. Not even prison rats scurry around your cell. Your pointed ears have long grown deaf to the noises of the dungeon, numb from the icy chill of this evil frozen North. The chains on your neck and wrists have long since frozen to your skin. Death will be a relief, you sigh, when once again you’ll see the shores of Valinor and find comfort in the Halls of Mandos.

That thought makes your heart warm just enough to last a few more beats. But then you hear them—footsteps—lighter than Orc, more graceful than Balrog… and your body stiffens as you hear that sound on the icy air.

Humming. Music. Means one thing. Ainur.

Please not the Dark Lord, you beg to divine forces too far away to hear you. Your pleas have fallen on deaf ears. But you hope not this time.

“Do not fear,” that voice croons from the shadows. His presence seems to instantly thaw your extremities, warmth seeping in where there had only been cold for so, so long. You see eyes and movement in the darkness, but from his stature and bearing, you know it’s not the Lord of Angband…

It is the Servant.

His gaze is sharp, eyes darting over your crumpled mess of a body nearly frozen to the floor. His hair is bright; reds like blood and oranges like flames hang in long waves down his back and shoulders. His voice seems to tickle right in your ear, even at this distance, even as he stalks closer towards the bars of your cell. “Do not fear, I’m here to free you.”

“Wh-what?” You croak, the truth of those words do not deceive you, no matter how much you long for them to be true.

Those lips twitch as with a wave of his hand, the iron door swings open, the groaning hinges echoing against stone. “Well,” he suddenly sounds sharp, exacting, “free you from your cell, Elf. You are by no means free, not in body or in will, nor will you ever be again.”

Reality smacks you, your chest constricting.

“The Dark Lord has no need of such a small, frail Elf like you,” he strides in, grasping your chin in fingers impossibly hot. His touch sears like the fires of the forge, the stink of brimstone and smoke fill your nose. “You’d make a weak, pathetic Orc.” Then he shoves you by your face back to the ground at his feet. Your manacled hands catch yourself just in time to keep your nose from smashing against stone.

“Fortunately, what is unfit to serve the Master is deemed worthy of his Servant,” that voice returns to such silken, lilting tones, and you look into his face. His bright brown eyes rake over you, assessing and evaluating your worth, as if you were a precious gem examined for the flaws in your cut.

Those eyes, the more you stare into them, the brighter they seem to shine, a mix of golden browns that bubble and simmer with flame. You see them, the ripples of his power that creep beneath this disguise of a mortal form. “Come,” he orders you, those frozen irons and chains melting from your skin to clatter on the floor around you. “There is much work to be done.”

His grip on your wrist tightens, and you realize with certainty that his skin is hot… flushed and searing you by touch alone. It would frighten you, if it wasn’t for the sense of reprieve it gives from the biting cold that has settled in your bones from your imprisonment. If anything, you draw your scantily clad body closer to his, seeking that thawing sensation…his black robes barely brush your flesh, The bared skin of your arms, even patches of your torso where your gown has shredded to rags with violence and time crave to be nearer.

It feels so… good. After so long in the cold alone, to feel another’s touch, it makes you melt. He guides you through the dark, and even though your jaw aches from that fleeting ferocity in your cell, you can’t help but wish for more warmth shared against your skin.

The memory should terrify you but… it doesn’t. Your mind only remembers how good those fingers felt, their warmth, their command…

And you crave more against your better judgment. You would call it hope, but there is no hope in Angband. No hope. Only craving. As if you know that the only thing that awaits you is fire and blissful burning.

Shadows deepen as you walk, those brown-orange eyes flicker at you beside him as you both ascend the darkened stairs. That scent of smoke and ashen stone that clings to his skin suffocates you. Your frail lungs burn with every inhale, and as you reach the ascent, you see why.

No ice prison, he’s brought you to a massive forge. Torches burn and flicker, but no light is brighter than the gaping maw of a furnace. Orange flame reflects in his eye as he scans you. Grip deathly tight on your wrist, he leads you with graceful movements… lithe and sinuous. Like a snake.

Like a predator stalking his prey.

The faintest of smiles turns his full lips, and he stops you beside a great metal anvil… wide and long and big enough for any great creation. You recall the tales of such things from those of your kind who had come from Valinor, from the workshops of Aulë himself, or of Fëanor and his descendants.

It is on this warm, dark metal that he effortlessly lifts you up to seat you. Its surface is roughened with divets and grooves, the scars of the Servant’s work spanning its face. That relaxing heat creeps through the skin of your ass and climbs your spine until you feel a smile stretch on your cracked lips.

His fingers wander their soothing touch over your collarbone, the slightest push guides you to lay back on the heated anvil. You stare into the ceiling, seeing only the gathering darkness offset by rippling steam and flickering light. His touch continues to dance on your chest, tracing the parts of you where starvation has prodded your bones towards the surface.

And that sharp face, that handsome face, smiles… so warmly. “The Dark Lord insists that we each are forged in the shadows, that what has once been bathed in the light is made anew in the dark. Morgoth’s way is to maim… to ruin and torture and kill the light of beings he drafts into his service…”

You see a flicker behind his eyes, a memory of his own past perhaps, you surmise. A recollection none too pleasant as it darkens his gaze and stiffens the corners of his smiling lips.

Then, he turns that smile down upon you, spread so perfectly on his anvil. “But such is not my way. I am no jailer or executioner. I am an artisan, a craftsman of greatest skill, and I shall make you anew, my treasure.”

His fingers trace your gaunt face, warming it, caressing the spots that have grown stiff and lined with fear. His voice is dulcet, sweet and singsong as he purrs down, and you want nothing more than to feel those full, smirking lips on your skin and taste the sweet promises that drip from his tongue. Before you even realize your need, before you can name your inner burning as desire, two words fall from your panting mouth. “My Lord…” you whisper.

And the Servant smiles. It’s radiant, a flash of brightness in his eye and a brilliance to his grin. But he tuts his tongue, chiding you for the youthful creation you are. “Tsk, none of that. I am no Dark Lord. I am called many things… Admirable, Abominable… Gorthaur… Sauron…”

His hands come to rest at the top of your throat, a slight pressure around your neck as his thumb traces your lower lip.

“But you, my treasure, you shall call me by one simple word…. Hîr.”

Master.

Your breath catches in your burning lungs, your tongue already noiselessly testing out the syllable as it dances at its tip.

His reddish brows arch, pleased at your submission as he can see every little twitch of your mouth.

“You are a rare beauty,” he whispers, “the undiluted blessing of the One shines in the skin of the Elves, their eyes still bright with the memory of the Two Trees…”

He peers into yours, almost wistful, as if he longs to catch a glimpse of that Starlight to capture for his own. Sauron lowers his mouth, hovering just out of reach of your own lips. The scent of his forge is so strong, you can taste it, you are lost in the wash of his singeing breath on your face. “Hîr,” you obediently rasp, arching off the anvil to catch his lips.

And he lets you, lips and tongue so overwhelmingly warm, there is no sensation in your body other than his mouth as he devours.

Wave after wave of his mouth on yours, you fail to sense the snaking of chains around your arms and legs until they have chinched themselves bitingly hard into your flesh. Then you panic, your heart thundering no longer from pure arousal, but that wild rhythm of racing fear. You tug at them, fight them, and with one last desperate plea, you beg for Manwë, Varda… Eru himself to hear you.

But there is no rescue, no whisper of a reply to your prayers.

There is only Sauron’s shimmering toothy smile in the dark as his eyes dance over your form… spread so perfectly for him to work with. “Do you know, my treasure, why I’ve loathed the beauty of the Elves? Eru chose to bless you, to gift your kind the wisdom and graces first given only to me, to my kind… and you squander them. You cannot fathom, cannot see the greater purpose such power could serve.”

He’s pacing between your body and his tools, spread so evenly and orderly beside him. A long iron brand in his grip, he sticks it in the opening of the furnace.

The hissing of metal heating makes you shiver. Makes your skin crawl.

Fingers pull away the rest of your rags, baring every bit of your taut skin to his flickering gaze. “You are beautiful, but it is shallow, it is false. And I, my treasure, will purify you. I’ll remake you in my image and likeness, a thing of incomparable radiance ....” You whine as his hands wrap their warmth around your breasts. “You now are a thing to be admired… as I once was,” he croons down at you, pulling your ass to the edge of the anvil, your chain impossibly tight around your arms, breaking you in their unyielding hold as your legs hang down precariously.

Those lips press searing kisses down your neck, over the places where your mortal heart is thundering. His eyes flash up at you, and in that moment, you swear you see the reflection of the furnace beside you. Or perhaps it is more… the power that lies barely concealed in this handsome, sensual form. Those full lips wrap around one nipple, then the other, an inferno drummed up at his call races through your veins.

It is agony, hot and wild, that courses in your flesh. Never would one of your kind be so… wanton. Lust feeds your form, every bit of your skin wants to be touched… and the more he caresses your breasts and trails his mouth lower over the hollow of your belly, the less you care if that contact is pleasure… or pain.

They are one under his command, your mind purrs to your reason. Every thought reduces to the mere sensation of his mouth, his hands that press now between your spread thighs. The moment his tongue touches you, parting your folds to taste you, an unholy sound tears from your lips. Flames pulse through your veins, every lick and swirl of his tongue draws ungodly ecstacy. You weep for the feeling, the overwhelming waves of pleasure he coaxes from your nearly-broken body as if he drew your very soul, your fëa, to the surface.

Words tumble from your lips, nonsensical and varied in language until it is one word over and over again. You rasp it, cry it, scream it as he brings you right to the edge of your climax… Hîr… Hîr… Master.

His laughter tickles your flesh and your mind all at once, the sensation of his presence in your skull and his tongue in your walls throws you into oblivion. Your climax slams into you, all fire and heat and tension as he withdraws from you in that moment of bliss. Your chain grows impossibly tighter as you convulse on the metal beneath you, and for a split second, you wonder where he has gone….

At first you think it’s the ice of your prison again that slices through the warm pool of pleasure in your belly. But then, you open your eyes… it is not ice but white hot fire on your skin as his brand marks your inner thigh. The hissing, the steam, the scent of charming flesh takes over your pleasure, stealing it from your body. And all the while, he smirks down from between your soaked thighs. Orange hair catches the glow of the brand as he lifts it, a satisfied glint in the flames of his own gaze.

Fear races down your nerves, every corner of your being screams at you to fight, to run and resist… the pain almost breaks through those tendrils of shadow that have woven into your senses. And now, as you inhale, you can smell it.

Death. Ashen and purifying. You see him, eyes ringed in flame and breath blackened like smoke… your heart could burst from your need to resist…

Until you feel his hands on your skin again, that warmth somehow driving the dread back into the recesses of your mind.

That teasing touch traces the prongs of his mark, three of them, ugly and deformed, a perversion of the pronged crown that rests on the Dark Lord, the Dark Vala’s head.

Your body shakes with the shock of pain, even as he presses his lips to kiss that angry flesh. “Ninya,” he whispers against it. Mine.

The pain intensifies as he removes his touch, the euphoria of your climax dulling to leave you with only the searing agony he’s caused in its wake. “Mine, and like me, you shall be remade from admirable to abominable… and I will always possess you.”

The sound of liquid swirls in glass, the soft tapping of a brush against its rim… he stands over you, eyes roaming your bared form and lingering on the places he deems most worthy… or is it unworthy?

“The light of the Valar still shines too brightly on your skin, so soft almost like pearls of the Sea… it too shall have to be remade,” he rasps. The black bottle in his hand coming closer, the wooden brush wiping the excess fluid before he brings it to your legs.

The bite of acid eats at your skin, burning you, tearing you inside out. That music in his voice invades your mind, warping the pain into a warm sort of pleasure. Every drip of acid on your flesh as he paints higher and higher… your thighs, your belly… it shifts into that hot coil of need roiling behind your navel.

He doesn’t slather you, he’s not destroying you… it’s painstaking and exact the way he draws into your skin, making it burn and hiss and bubble anew. Remaking. Whirls and swirls and swipes in the precise places his critical eye deems worthy.

It’s agony… blissful agony… Every scream from your throat breaks into a moan. The perversion of your pain into bliss brings a drugged sort of grin to your face. The grin of a fool.

He sets the brush back inside the bottle, his hand tracing the rises and valleys of your face, your sharpened cheekbones, the hollows of your cheeks. His fingers dance on your wincing face, warm and burning, a herald of the pain you know he’s about to inflict. Your heart will surely explode, and your death might just be the final offering you make… But then, he cups your cheek, fingers laced in the mess of your long and knotted hair.

“Don’t be afraid, my treasure. You are being oh so brave… oh so valiant as you are remade.” His kiss instantly numbs your pain and slows your heart, the torture of resistance in your mind instantly silenced. That coil of need flames anew as his hand wanders back over your mound, dipping that addictive touch into your slick.

You gasp, eyes rolled back, spine arching off the anvil’s metal. Then you look into his face, the abyss of fire and darkness behind his eyes sucks you inside, lost to anything but the sensations of his fingers that tease you and torture you in a different way. A more pleasing way.

His fingers slide so easily, playing you like an instrument in his grasp. Your moans are the melody of his composing, the bucking of your hips keeps a steady rhythm, one perfectly timed to the thrust of his fingers. His mouth on yours once more, the biting of his teeth on your lips, the growls of his own pleasure in his throat form a counterpoint so intoxicating, there is nothing left but the music of him finger fucking you.

All that pain that is bound in your nerves and coiled in your belly bursts… white hot and violent as you come. Then, you scream until your voice cracks, until your vocal chords are fried from the force and volume he demands from your spent form.

“Good, my treasure…” he rasps against your lips as they fall silent. “Ninya… you’ve done so well,” he purrs into your pointed ear as the world grows dark to your vision, as your body gives in and falls unconscious. Those little praises bring a twisted smile to your face as you drift into oblivion. “When you wake, you’ll be mine alone, mine forever… the most beautiful abomination I have yet crafted…”

And the final sensation to pierce through the veil of your slumber is the sting of acid on your forehead and cheek… the flicker of pain plunging you completely into the darkness at long last.

There is no hope in Angband… There is also no time. Only darkness and craving. Hunger and satisfaction.

Pain. And pleasure.

It’s a lesson you are taught nightly, at least you assume it’s nightly… whenever it is that Sauron returns to his chambers where you are kept sequestered away. The chains from his forge are gone, replaced with elegant links of gold and gem-entrusted trappings that hang on your frame. Your hands fiddle with them, where they drape down your arms in layers, where they sweep over your bare skin to your middle.

You’ve long forgotten the feeling of clothes. There is only the bed and your elegant chains, the heat of his touch and the sting of his biting teeth and burning brand and lashing whips.

You wish that your memories would dim… that the burden of your elven heritage would forsake you as easily as that fair, starkissed body you once called your own. Tears prick your eyes, your own fingers steadily tracing your once soft skin, touch dancing over blade scars and the rough ridges of his burning… the brands of his possession forever glaring at you from your thighs, not unlike those ghostly flickering eyes that haunt you each day… whether Sauron visits you or not.

“Mairaza…” the whisper brushes your mind before it settles in your ear. “My precious…” you’ve learned his new tongue… this speech he’s created for his servants, for you.

The warmth of his body seeps into you from behind, that scent of fire, of ash and smoke and forge excites you now… it conjures that swirl of damp heat in your cunt. Already you grit your teeth, craving in excess, hungering for more. The thin chains of gold and jewels clink and jingle as those calloused hands caress your body. He lingers over his marks, the scars of his pleasure-pain that have molded you into his own creation.

“Can you feel it, Mairaza, can you feel how much I want you?”

You clench around nothingness, hoping beyond hope that he fills you soon and grants you release this time.

Soft words of his own invented tongue purr inside your brain, praising your scars, the healed-over bubbles of flesh from that day he claimed you…

Sauron turns you, your attention lost in the bottomless depth of his eyes as those magical fingers caress the scars that curve in serpentine shapes over your cheeks. “Beautiful, so beautiful,” he rasps. “Can you feel how much I want you, body and soul?” his lips whisper against your own. “Can you feel how much you are mine, Ninya?”

The words do not come to you outloud; they flood your very being, racing to your awareness down the tether that binds you to him.

That taste of his mouth swallows you whole, and there is nothing left of hope and peace. All that remains is the fire of lust and the darkness of desire. You cannot escape, nor would you seek to anymore. No lies or deception are required any longer, for you feel his want and crave his attentions…

He is always in your mind, his marks always on your body… his greatest creation. For now.

A gift to @myfavouritelunatic for her ask, for @marimosalad for betaing and inspired by @ogyscrypt and his masterpiece of a nsfw audio you should totally check out… Link on Reddit

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

playing with this bow (and arrow)

— chapter 4

author’s note: i’m sorry in advance. that’s it. i don’t have much to say for myself.

warnings: lots of shouting and arguing. lots of fainting, too. you know where this is going, don’t you?

word count: 3.1k. jagged, but it gets my point across. —

Narcoleptics wear their skin over drowsy muscle. That’s how one explains cataplexy in a roundabout, layman’s way—and it gets the job done, slices thick skulls more efficiently than ʼa transient episode of muscle weakness occurring while the mind remains fully conscious’ ever could. 

Cataplexy is a mean girl. It feeds off your tears and strikes, portentous, in that accumulated, to-the-marrow manner—legs, or hands, or neck—whatever she prefers. Yours liked to blow below the belt—literally. Knees first. Then calves. Restating everything not numb, but airy—like cotton that tumbles into an amorphous chunk once wet. 

Yours was cunning. Thuggish, rarely mild. Sure, there was an occasional bout every three laughters or so. A weird, scabrous paralysis every time you struggled to stomp a foot in anger. Even post orgasmic ones were lenient. They called for a shrewd, breathy jab of, ‘Look, you made my legs go numb’, and ruptured, sweetly, through Viktor’s stomach in spurty wobbles of taut skin up to the lonesome rib sticking from under the strap of his brace. 

Now, the unlovely ones made you topple. Convex surfaces were a favorite—sod’s law loves a good scraped cheek. After years of falling asleep mid-sentence and stiffening after a good cry, you knew exactly what floors taste like (tarmac is gravelly and strangely salty, linoleum is chemically oily, parquet tangs of cheap rosin, elevator vinyls stench of tires if you’re lucky or of human waste if sod’s law doubles down), how many splinters to expect in your cheeks post foible depending on the altitude of your fall, and what unwieldy position to take mid-tumble while your legs are still somewhat compliant. 

The tongue remained unaffected. A bit slurred, it kept running coherently enough to wheeze, “I have cataplexy. I’ll be fine in a few minutes” for every good Samaritan volunteering to call you an ambulance. Though you’d much rather be rendered mute instead. Jayce says you could benefit from having your words confined every now and again.

He phoned you Monday. Probed you out of bed with three persistent rings and sat grinning while you shuffled out of the sheets, wishing there was a way to transfer spit through a receiver. That could benefit all kinds of phone calls. 

“What do you want, Jayce?”

He weaved the cord around a thick finger and tugged at it, dreamily—no doubt leaned back in his disaster of a couch. 

“How do you know it’s me?” A friendly flirtation. It bounces right back when you squeeze the mouthpiece between ear and shoulder, picturing, no, hoping there’s a minuscule version of him getting crushed inside one of the forty holes emitting crispy static. 

“Who else could possibly call me at nine in the morning to confirm an evening appointment?”

“Oh. Of course. Should’ve known better. So I take it, you're coming?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He snorted. “I don’t like that answer. Let me guess: you broke the curfew. Or was it sleep deprivation again? Which is it?”

“I’m narcoleptic, you idiot. My sleep deprivation is not always intentional.”

“You’re deflecting. Curfew it is.” 

You raked a hand through sleep-slicked hair and yanked, untenderly, at the pieces tickling into your palm. Your neck tumbled, grotesquely, with a wet, drowsy crack, and your eyes tipped along to crawl, reluctantly, from the jaundiced curtains to the damasks on the carpet: up, down, to and fro, over, out, and, finally, to your toenails painted chipped rotten plum. 

Such acts of puppetry made you feel in control. Manually leading one’s gaze is better than letting the eyes roam freely. That way, the puppeteer may regulate what exactly he wants to see. 

You did this every time you couldn’t look away from a car crash. Or scoped the room maniacally while looking for a shrewd answer. Better to grab yourself by the scruff and line your stare with something homely. Shoes, socks, and toes were a frequent landscape. They were the most comforting. Almost grounding, cataplectic episodes included.

You reached for your journal to put the thought down. Jayce coughed into the receiver and pulled the cord tenser. 

“I’m not mad at you. Just come. You know I’m never mad about the curfew.”

“It’s not about that. I don’t know if I can come.”

“Don’t know if you can or if you want to?”

“My legs keep going numb a lot lately.”

“Take a cab.”

“Will you pay for it?”

“You make enough.”

“And I spend too much of it on you.”

“Just come, Knirsch. You get to complain about your husband today. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Not in the least.” 

You reached for the billowing flake of polish on your big toe. The thing budged with hushed brittleness, and off you peeled it—down to the very cuticle. Now the nail looked silly—only half-painted, nakedly shiny. You bent for another peel, but the mouthpiece swore at you, derisive, in Jayce’s most impatient voice. 

“Stop picking at your nails. Are you coming or not?”

“How do you—“

“That’s all you ever do. You either chew or peel or chew what you’ve peeled off. You’re going to end up with pinworms. Is that it? Do you fancy a new ailment?”

“Fine. I’m coming.”

“Good. See you at six?”

“I’d rather not, but alas. See you at six.” And with that, you yanked off the remaining polish in a wide, delicious stripe.

—

It was a little past ten when you properly got out of bed—late enough to shut the windows so the screeching of air brakes wouldn’t lure its way into the room. You stood on your tiptoes, in a haunched stance, having caught a whiff of murky air reeking of hydrocarbons. Moravia is merciless in the mornings. Loutish, packed, and humming, it rewires you in a way that yearns for errands, even if you don’t have any to run. Even if you’d rather stand there, watching yellow trams spew out dozens of motley people—a burp of color in the beige, dusty tapestry of Brno, a burst of liveliness, untamed, shouting rainbow fuck yous at much too Austrian buildings. 

You turned to the piano stool. Still draped over the cushion, Viktor’s shirt billowed a bland fuck you of its own, only it wasn’t shouting but whispering a rhotic ‘Trhni si’ nine times back to back for each bump of plastic buttons against your nails. And trhni you did. Instantly so. You crawled back to bed, pushed your face into the linen collar, and complied the curse with your legs apart—ribs like taut sails ready to burst open.

The first errand of the day was done. 

Ever since Viktor left, masturbation had become mechanical. Almost rigid. All traces of sex had been stripped off the act—brutally, in a harsh, heavy swipe of your fingers. In the mornings, you touched yourself not to touch the cello. At night, you did it to cause muscle weakness, hoping the drowsiness would branch out into your brain to finally knock you out. Ardently, you’d rub yourself so raw the skin would peel apart. No half-measures, only sore clit and remnants of spit from the other day drying on swollen labia. Catching in your underwear and bleeding through the lace to the point of having to ditch it. And yet, you still bled—through tan tights, tartan skirts, and, sometimes, even zippers. 

Bringing that up with Jayce felt shameful. You could barely talk about Viktor as is, and arming the shrink with your great sexual resentment, in the grand scheme of things, was, frankly, frightening. 

As if to spite you, everything was fuming of sex. The television. The magazines, and not just porn ones. Even the streets no longer waited until night to advise parental guidance: now they were turning R-rated before noon. Though, in hindsight, the parents were too busy getting it on themselves to offer their supervision. Just last Friday, you watched a middle-aged couple tongue-fuck in the audience. To Paganini, no less. The man would be proud. 

But this resentment, this erotic, flimsy deficit wasn’t purely physical. It was a cry for help—meaty, preposterous, tachycardic. It ached for whatever came post coitus just as much as it ached to be thrust into. You missed the humor of it. The devoted act of accepting a cool drink from a loving hand. The smell that it ignites—stuffy, cloying. Leaning out of ajar windows on a goosefleshed buttock and tangling, silkily, into robes, sheets, and bodies. 

You yearned to be made love to. And there’s no word—not in Czech, nor, god forbid, in English—to admit to that. 

With a heavy head, you’d emerged from the bed for the third time. Brno kept on screeching, unredeemably, with its humming electricity and rush hour fumes, threatening its way into the room lest you go for another breath of anything-but-fresh air. But you cared for the glass confine no more. You craved to pry it open. To put on something flirtacious—say, Piazzola or early Bloch. To light a purely artistic cigarette (invariably Petra, the brand must contribute to the imagery), and let the world devour you in the splendor of your loose, silky nightgown—a contentious vengeance for something self-inflicted and obtuse. It is a motto. A performance. A farcical thing that only you deemed martyrial. Perceive me. Canonise me. Pity the husband who left me for being too pretentious, too maniacally meticulous for his gentle tastes. I am grieving a love that keeps on slipping through my calloused fingers, and I yearn with my bow in my hand, sensual, and pompous, and so inexplicably conceptual—

And when you bowed outside, impetuous, with your spine arched comically porn mag-like, the bustling city wasn’t there to regard you. The trams with their colorful puke of scurrying humans had receded into a kaleidoscopic backdrop, and mushed, ungracefully, into something liquid and tasteless. Like molten Soviet candy forced down your throat in a lump too big to swallow. Like ozone, much too sweetened. Like every other disgustingly sugary thing had collided its gooey powers to caramelize you in place: nailbeds deep in the windowsill and sleazy with startled spit, threatening to pour outside in a guttural gag. 

The first thing you notice is his unironed suit. He always travels in his suits—says that one shouldn’t toss them into the suitcase and sits through his flights uncomfortably upright, yet professional. His hair seems to have grown out again: he’s struggling to return the stare from beneath the tousles catching in his lashes. Only one sad iris is peeking through. Good, you think. Two would send you crushing your head on the pavement. His tie is missing: a precaution to escape an attempt at strangling in case you bear such a notion. A fruitless one, to your mind. Your fossilised fingers couldn’t do it even if they really had to. 

It paints you so piteous. Terrifyingly aroused, even. Here he is—looking up at you like a bashful flunkie does at a cruel professor, with his neck shrinking painfully into stringy shoulders. He’s chewing on the corner of his mouth in a way that is so shamelessly stolen from you, but it quickly gets lost in his askance, dirty fix. Just so, you first witness what Viktor looks like when he’s not yours. And oh, do you wish to have stayed virginal to that endeavour. 

Habitually, your knees give out first. You watch them fold, angular, toppling like a broken switchblade in their wonted dizziness. But it doesn’t come as a quiver, nor a visceral, ugly churn. It simply ceases and takes you with—to the dusty parquet and its hard, wooden blow.

En masse, the fall must’ve been compelling. You slid off the ledge senselessly, with a graceful, taciturn swish: no shouting, not even an agape mouth wincing in a whimper. Merely a plunge—stupefied, doll-like. As if someone very inconsiderate had sat you on the shelf far too lopsided. Now you can only hope your plastic spine isn’t fractured. 

You peel your eyes, blinking away cloudy floaters. Outside, Viktor had gasped on your behalf—so much for completing the progression of a collapse. Pondering the ceiling, you listen to him struggle up the stairwell. He sounds tired—shoes scruffing idly, cane not a click, but rather a strangled shuffle. You manage to count thirty limp thumps before his key shimmies somewhere in the entryway. When the jingling stops, more steps are added to your tally, totalling a timid forty-two. That’s what you’ll be in twelve years if you don’t break your neck during one of these cataplectic bouts.  

Slowly, you turn your head towards him. Your muscles refuse to budge, moving as if wind-up, but you make it, and find him looking back twice as glassy: first at you, then at his piano, and, finally, at his crumpled shirt burrowed into the sheets. The last scenery has him humming. 

“Were you sleeping with my shirt?” He asks. Walks further into the room and bounces off the unmade bed, dropping his wary head into spread fingers. 

“Yes,” you gulp. “Idiomatically.” 

He snorts at that. Dabbles in a disjointed laugh that sounds more like a hoarse sob, shimmies out of his blazer, and unclasps a weirdly still watch—the battery must’ve finally died from counting his deserted, celibate seconds. Maybe those take more voltage to add up. “That’s endearing,” he mumbles as the unreturned chuckle desists. “Why didn’t I think of that?” “Of what?”

“Taking something of yours for… self-indulgence.”

“It’s only right that you didn’t. One doesn’t run away from his wife to reclusively fuck her underwear instead.”

“I don’t think it’s the underwear that I would have chosen. A picture would be the most fitting.”

Your tongue slips to your bottom lip, tasting a chapped smile. “Which one?”

Viktor shrugs. “Something risque, of course.” 

“Hm. I thought you’d like one of me vomiting all over the floor the day you left.”

“Don’t,” he warns. Shifts to the edge of the mattress and crooks his fingers in a cowardly stroke of your hair, as if charging to flinch lest you try to bite his hand off. But you don’t bother, and his thumb slides to rest on your temple—a bit late to wipe a tear rolling into your ear. You wince once it gets stuck in the wax.

“It’s funny,” you mumble. “This cycle of you looking down at me every time you leave and come back.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help it. I happen to be a bit taller.”

“And I keep doubling down. Last time, I was on my knees. Now I’m glowering.”

“Was it sadness or fear this time?”

“Frustration. Sexual. And then some.”

“Oh. Are you angry with me?”

“Furious.”

“Of course. Are you hurt?”

“Very. Where have you been, Viktor?”

“Austria. Then Croatia. France. Belgium. Germany. England at last. The usual.”

“Your tour takes a month. You were away for two.” “I decided to stay in London for a while.” “Hm. The hotel couldn’t have been that nice.” “It was quite decent, actually. I’m afraid I’ve squandered my honorarium on room service. Will you forgive me?”

“You could’ve called, you know.”

“That defeats the purpose of having a separation.” 

Your right leg regains its movement. With a hiss, you uncoil it through a prickly fit, and you both watch the muscle go taut in a spasm—clenching, unclenching, sending blood into bluened toes. 

Viktor’s teaser of a touch fumbles, unregarded. He opts your hair for his. Finger-combs his nape in the very place that desperately needs shearing through. He opens his mouth to offer you the honors, but bites his tongue as soon as it dawns on him, inane: he probably shouldn’t trust you with a blade so close to his neck while your hands are too shaky to be propped on. The offer gets swallowed. Hungry for something—anything—his gastric acid dissolves it right away, rumbling to make itself known. And it’s a demand to be catered to—forthwith. 

But you’re in no mood for breakfast. Not unless it’s his severed head served up on a silver platter. 

“How could you do this to me—” You mutter. With contempt, of course. And a great effort to sit up. Now that you’re face to face, he can grasp exactly what he’s done to you, every gory detail included. The chewed-on lips, raw and glinting (he should see the lower ones, too). The bloodshot eyes—not a single unscathed capillary. And the way he shrinks further—from it, from you—only riles you into something frenzied. You don’t stutter. You don’t flinch, either. There’s only fury—verbal. Maiming, unforgone. And when you start your performative, all-fours crawl—he knows that he shouldn’t close his eyes. He knows, yet does so anyway, biting his cheek while he’s at it.

“Oh. Oh no, honey.” Your breath tickles his knee—warm, belligerent. “You don’t get to do this to me and look away. Keep your eyes peeled.” 

“Please, stop this,” he implores, in a whisper. “Please, let’s just—”

“You left me. With no explanation. With no inkling when to expect you back.”

“I needed it!” Viktor shouts. His spit lands on your nose—audacious, as if sizzling. “I told you this would happen! I begged you, time and time again, to please seek help. You—” He leaps off the bed, holding onto his cane with bloodless knuckles. “Your negligence—of your health, of our marriage—was suffocating me. And I wish this were a mere figure of speech. My lungs haven’t felt normal in years.” “Oh, poor you!” You snorted, throwing your arms in the air. “Why didn’t you come to me with this? Why did you—” The snort turned into a sniff, then into a full-blown whimper. “Why couldn’t you just tell me?” “You didn’t ask!” 

“Oh, so it’s my fault?” 

“Yes!” He cried. “Yes. Exactly!” 

A piece of snout had plopped onto your nightgown, shrivelling into sticky crust. It made you laugh—grating, visceral. A scary sound that had struck Viktor right in the sternum. It had him grabbing onto his heart in sheer fright—like he was trying to shove it back into his ribcage. But his pulse was faster. By a massive landslide. 

You’ve seen people go pale before. Some of them mellowed gradually: first their hands, then their neck, and, finally, their face—a very logical sequence. Some were waning instantly, as a body. But this—the drawn-out sigh, the hand-to-chest clasp, the protein-colored stare—ghastly, mortifying—was annihilating in its novelty. He’d simply lost his opaqueness. Blended with the wall. Shedded his signature angles, his contours. 

And then, he dropped the cane to pick up the baton—took up the fainting relay. Only his collapse wasn’t commonplace and fleeting. He dropped, like a casualty in a period piece, jerking his head like it had been shot at. And when you’d shouted—”Viktor? Zlatíčko? Viktor!”—the jerk didn’t repeat to regard the call. 

In the middle of your bedroom, with a face the color of what you imagined rigor mortis looks like, lay your estranged husband—breathing, but unresponsive. 

Jayce will have to let a missed appointment slide for once.