#morally tired thin man

[grim-faux]

everybody asks, "damn, why is ttt Mono like this?"

my people. this is a child who's trying to survive, and he does whatever makes him happy. You can't fight a traumatized kiddo struggling to clutch onto little pieces of happy and comfort, he doesn't understand things the way we do. Appreciate this selfish lil monster cause that's how he's surviving

[cheriecoke]

nanami kento, who hates dating, and didn’t do much of it in his early twenties. but now, he’s almost thirty, watching all the people he works with settle down, have kids, and he thinks he wants that. so he might as well try.

so satoru sets him up on a few dates — friends of friends, he calls them. and at the end of every one of the dinners, kento goes home empty, exhausted, because he knows what they want is not the same.

still; he thinks maybe he’s being a little self-destructive, maybe too picky, maybe he just got so used to being alone. with satoru’s insistence, he gives all the women another call, invites them over to his apartment.

the first time was a disaster… kento had barely set the dinner on the table before his cat had hissed at her, scratched her down the arm in a thin gash. and though it did draw blood, it was hardly enough to warrant that reaction.

he didn’t even try to stop her as she picked up her bag and left, huffing like she’d been morally offend. kento, though, could only smile to himself in amusement.

because maybe kento was a poor judge of character, a man who was secretly hoping nothing would pan out — but his cat could certainly tell the good from the bad.

it became a little game to him, after that. seeing if anyone could win his pet over, and if they could, perhaps they were the one. his darling animal was a fickle thing anyway. a bit too defensive, quick to bite anything threatening after years on the streets.

naturally, no one came back twice.

he was close to giving up, accepting his solitude because he was tired of empty conversations over dinner. but then, he ventured out over the weekend to a new coffee shop, during hours he normally didn’t spend out of his home, and met you.

though you only talked for a moment, kento felt like maybe he’d known you in a past life. a part of him thought maybe it was strange, the way he kept coming back to talk to you, catching you at the end of your shift to see if you wanted to grab a coffee sometime.

by the second date, kento started to think you could turn out to be his best friend.

by the third date, kento wondered if soulmates were real.

on the fourth date, almost two months later, an appropriate time to get to know someone when you were as reserved as kento, he invited you over for dinner. it was, perhaps, the final confirmation he needed to let himself be with you.

he let you through the door, smiling softly as you told him about the book you were reading, and hung his coat on the rack. a moment later, you stopped, distracted, hands covering your mouth in a gasp.

“kento! she’s the cutest cat i’ve ever seen, you didn’t even show me pictures!” you exclaim, and, a few feet away, crouched down. “look at her pretty eyes…”

“careful,” kento said, “she’s not very—“

but the cat approached your outstretched hand, sniffed once, before letting you scratch her under her chin, purring loud enough for kento to hear across the room.

“shes such a sweetheart, you told me she was mean!” you smiled, making a cooing noise as you threaded your fingers through her fur. “kento’s a liar, isn’t he… you’re so precious.”

a few moments later, she snapped her jaw at you in a biting motion, and you only laughed, withdrawing your hand. “alright, i get it, i won’t bother you anymore.”

though she still brushed against your legs, just as she did kento’s, and seemed to communicate some sort of message to him.

“do you want any help cooking?” you ask, tucking your hair behind your ears. “i’m a disaster in the kitchen, but—“

“sure,” kento said, his chest tightening as he blinked back at you, only in his apartment for minutes and already looking as at home there. he wondered if it was possible to fall in love so quickly. “but only if you want to.”

[d1xonss]

Hi there! I was wondering if i could get some straight Daryl Dixon smut where fem!reader is asking him to choke her for the first time? If not it’s totally okay! love your writing! <3

Something New

✧ Pairing : Daryl Dixon x Reader

✧ Era : Season 2

✧ Pronouns : she/her

✧ Genre : ⚠️ Smut (18+)

✧ Word Count : 1.6k

AN ~ Oooh I don’t think I’ve ever done any kind of smut like this before, but I’m happy to try! And let’s preface this first before anything else; no I don’t think Daryl would realistically feel comfortable choking someone. He strikes me as the type of man that doesn’t want to harm you in any way during something so intimate, even if you asked for it. However, I think early seasons Daryl would definitely be a little rougher during sex which is why I planned for the season 2 era. But the moral of the story is this is just for fun, and I tried to keep it as accurate as possible.

Hope you enjoy! xoxox

It had been a rough couple of days. Between getting stranded on the highway, losing Sophia, and Carl getting shot, it was safe to say that the group had seen better days. The recent events had taken a toll on all of you, the stress beginning to build up to the point of no return. And it was no surprise to you seeing Daryl was the one who was taking it the hardest. 

He was constantly tense and rigid, a permanent scowl on his face while nothing seemed to be going the way it was supposed to. Though luckily for him, you knew just the way to relieve some of that…tension.

Your gasps and moans could be heard by no one near as Daryl had taken it upon himself to move your shared tent far away from the others to get some distance. At first you were weary of the idea, but now you thought it just might’ve been the best one he’s ever had. Considering the filthy sounds he was pulling from you, it would be mortifying to face the others the following morning.

The small tent was pitch black, the only thing you were able to see were the soft outlines of the different shapes around you, along with feeling Daryl’s hot pants on the back of your neck as he continuously pounded into you. The sound of your wetness with every thrust filled the small space, almost suffocating as the sleeping bag beneath you was providing little to no comfort from the harsh ground beneath you. But with your legs tangled together and the feel of his dick hitting your hilt over and over again, the feel of tiny rocks below was far from your mind.

“Oh, fuck.” you whimpered, desperately grabbing and gripping at his arms that were wrapped around you as his pace was rough and determined. Your pussy was throbbing, the feel of his hips slapping against your ass was growing more urgent as you felt your wetness begin to run down your leg.

He grunted from behind you, feeling your walls clench around him, “That’s right, fuckin take it.” he growled into your ear, the next thing you felt were his teeth teasingly biting the shell.

You threw your head back in ecstasy, your toes curling all while trying to patch his pace with your own movements. But let’s face it, you were growing tired. And he had more stamina than the two of you combined. He could’ve kept this up all night if he wanted to just to torture you a bit more than he already was, having slowed down multiple times right when he felt you were about to come.

His large, rough hands then moved from your hips up to your breasts, giving them a generous squeeze before teasing your nipples just enough to get you to squirm even more. Gently pinching and pulling them to hear more of those delicious sounds. You cried out almost in agony with how much he was teasing you, the feeling both pleasurable and miserable. But Daryl couldn’t lie, he loved it. Hearing you like this, so aching and hungry for him drove him absolutely crazy.

Your bodies were sheen in a thin layer of sweat, the desire and lust growing even thicker with every plunge of his hips or bites at your skin. You wanted to feel him everywhere. Which is why your hand impulsively reached for his, tugging it toward your throat in a sex drunk kind of state. Though Daryl however quickly snapped out of it when his mind processed your actions, his movements stopping completely which only caused you to whine a bit in protest as you thought he only did it to tease you again. But what you couldn’t see was his expression was quite serious. Never in a million years had he even considered what you had silently asked him to do.

“What the hell are ya doin?” he asked, his tone rough with desire yet still somehow soft when it came to speaking to you.

His words brought you out of your daze, your eyes widening a little at what you had unconsciously done in a fit of impatience and longing. You had never outright admitted that you had a kind of kink, a fantasy perhaps of him wrapping his strong hands around your throat. But now that your secret was basically exposed, you felt extremely embarrassed, silently thankful that the tent was dark enough to where you couldn’t see his face. Although you could sense the tension resurfacing, the tension you so desperately tried to take away from him, was suddenly back within an instant.

“Sorry…” you huffed quietly as you tried to catch your breath, “Heat of the moment.”

Daryl was silent for what seemed like ages, leaving you thinking you had ruined the entire moment as you didn’t have a clue at what was going on in his head. But surprisingly enough, it wasn't what you had anticipated.

The idea of choking, spanking, or any kind of harmful thing really had never before crossed his mind despite how rough he could be at times. He never wished to intentionally hurt you, especially after the trust you had built up over the weeks of knowing one another. You were important to him, even though he had never been brave enough to admit that out loud, you were still quite literally the only person that mattered to him now. But seeing as clearly you weren’t opposed to the idea of exploring something new, he figured...maybe he could get behind it. 

His face leaned down toward your ear again from behind, “You tell me if it’s too much…ya hear me?” he said almost sternly to show you how serious he was about this.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, opening your mouth to question him, but you didn’t get the chance before his hand came up to gently squeeze at your neck. Your eyes widened, a surprised whimper escaping your lungs while his hips slowly began to buck up into you again, picking up right where he had left off.

The tightness he held around your throat immediately sent you back to that blissful haze, feeling your limbs begin to tingle as he continued to send shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. You moaned loudly when he squeezed a bit tighter, testing the waters with how much you could take. But it didn’t hurt at all surprisingly, like he somehow knew exactly what he was doing though he had never tried this before in his life. It was almost concerningly perfect, and you were in heaven.

“God, you sound so pretty.” he breathed, his pace increasing as he began to manhandle you, “You really like this, don’t you?” he asked almost teasingly.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to hear the tone of his voice, only managing to focus on how good it felt as you nodded your head frantically. Silently begging him to let you finish this time.

He choked you a bit harder when you didn’t respond, “Come on girl…tell me how good it feels.” he groaned.

You panted heavily while simultaneously swallowing to try and lubricate your dry throat, “Feels good- feels so good.” you stuttered pathetically.

Daryl hummed in approval as he heard your response, leaning his head down to kiss and lick at the skin of your shoulder while his free hand moved down to rub circles on your clit. A sharp gasp was pulled from you as you arched your back into him, your vision growing almost spotty at the amount of sensations he was giving you. Your legs began to twitch and he could feel your walls clenching around him even more intensely as you neared your orgasm again. But instead of slowing down, he finally continued to draw it out.

Your moans and whines grew louder and louder as you felt the knot in your stomach tighten, his hand over your throat only making your brain feel more fuzzy. You almost couldn’t control the sounds you were making anymore as you finally came, crying out his name in the state of bliss you had craved so much. It was like for a moment you saw stars, feeling as if your soul left your body for a moment as his fingers continued to work on your sensitive clit. The feeling of your tight walls consuming him left him not far behind as he quickly managed to pull out of you, before spilling himself onto your back with a low groan of pleasure.

It took minutes for the two of you to finally come down from your high, catching your ragged breaths while your bodies felt almost too limp to even attempt to move. But eventually, his hand retracted back from your neck as he slowly sat up a bit, leaving a tender kiss on the back of your head to express what he couldn’t with words.

“We…we need to do that again.” you breathed quietly, slumping onto your back from exhaustion.

He couldn’t help but chuckle at your silent request, shaking his head though you couldn’t see, “Let’s wait a few hours at least…don’t wanna kill ya.” he said lightheartedly.

You huffed softly, “I think you already did. I feel like I can’t move my legs.”

His eyes glanced down, his hand coming up to run along your hip before traveling down your thigh, “How bout a massage then, hm?”

It’s funny, you thought. One minute he was saying the dirtiest things, fucking you until you forgot your own name. And then the next, he was sweetly suggesting a massage after his own doings. But then again, you would never complain. Perhaps after this, he would be more keen to trying new things…

~ Thanks for reading!

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I know we're all focused on Satyr/Faun König but that bull comment... I'm quite partial to minotaur's and whats better than a darling who isn't from the area. Oh yes she's innocent of the crimes against König because she was not raised there.

Some foreign little creature just running blind in a maze trying to see where there might be a way out. It's been days after all and the screaming has gotten quieter and she wonders if she's the last one left alive. He takes his time eating his meals... this can be stretched out for such a long time as she hides herself in a dead end just a short rest... the darling is so tired unaware of the horrifyingly silent steps moving closer to her little haven. It's just her left now.

@kit-williams I've wanted to write for Minotaur!König for ages!

Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader Word count: 5 k oneshot Tags/warnings: Sexual tension, threats of violence and rape, implied cannibalism, power imbalance, moral ambiguity. Predator/prey dynamic, Beauty and the Beast elements, Ancient Greek religion & lore. 18+ MDNI A/N: The Minotaur in this story is not an actual hybrid. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Merry Christmas y'all! <3

EDIT: PART 2 HERE

The screams are the worst part.

They echo through the Labyrinth while you wait and wait and wait.

Even the very stones seem to cry and wail as you place your hope on Theseus who descended to this hell along with you and the human cattle. Seven young men and seven unwed women, meant to satisfy a beast...

And judging by the screams alone, it sounds like the monster is satisfied. It sounds like it's having a ball.

Fourteen lives have been lost, their blood swallowed by the earth as if Hades himself is drinking the crimson of Athenian youth in His feast. The flesh is the beast’s to devour: an underworld demon born of tainted lust.

Half bull, half man, you always thought the stories were only tales told by the fire to scare children. Turns out that the stories, for once, are true. There's something even worse in this maze, something cursed and foul... Hecate herself would shiver if She were here, in the womb of the earth, witnessing what you’re witnessing now.

You don’t actually see the Bull of Crete cut or hack or slash anyone, and you can only imagine what the monster does to the bloody, gutted corpses of the young. The only thing you see are the hollow, dark walls carved out of soil, sand, and clay, the intestine-like route dug deep into the earth. And you don't have to see the massacre: the screams tell you enough. The silence that follows betrays even more.

Your only light is flickering, waning: the candle will hardly last an hour. If the hero from Athens won’t arrive soon, you will have to leave this place. 

And oh, how you want to leave… You were a fool to follow him here. Blinded by love and hope, you thought Theseus of Athens would be your way out of Crete, but it’s clear that the only thing the young hero is capable of loving is fame. The only time his eyes turned to yours was when you said you might be able to help him with a small bundle of yarn.

Red as the setting sun or spilling blood, the thin woollen string is your only way out now. It’s ironic how a heap of twine is the only thing that can help you out of this hellhole, but the Fates always did possess a cruel sense of humour. Your silly daydreams might’ve cost your life, and even if you’re sworn to the dark goddess, you would rather die anywhere but here. In the darkness, all alone, with nothing but eyeless worms to keep company to your decaying bones.

The sudden draft from the outside world is warm but threatens to blow out your candle. It’s a sign from Apollo: if you don’t leave now, you’re dead. Theseus has to manage without you because you’re not dying in this underworld prison because of some man’s stupid lust for fame.

There's only deafening silence in the maze as you scurry up, taking support from the wall as your sight darkens for a moment. You rose too soon: you can’t even remember the last time you ate. And it appears that even the sun god has abandoned you because there's a faint echo of steps in the tunnel, and they don’t belong to a man. They’re too thick, unduly heavy, and it’s not a pair of sandals that are thumping against the soil.

So, Theseus is dead...

So much for the legend, the myth, the demigod.

Heart thumping in your chest and in the hollow of your throat, it threatens to drown the sound of approaching footsteps. They’re all dead, the people who descended here with you. The only thing you are right now is prey. You're being hunted; whether the Minotaur knows you're here or not, you know you're being hunted. You can feel it in your gut.

You cover the candle with one hand, hoping that the flickering light doesn’t reach around the bend. The falling thump of the footsteps stops, and you still your breath, hoping that the beast would turn around and search the other way.

You hear it sniffing behind the wall. It's trying to catch your scent in the air, the smell of dread and terror, sweat so thick it must reach his nostrils and make them flare with lust. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and the tunnel is so quiet that that you’re certain the creature will hear that, too. (Your heart always betrays you.)

And your luck is cursed.

The beast shifts. 

You can’t see him yet, but you can hear it: the scraping sound underneath his feet as he aligns himself anew, choosing the path that leads straight down to you.

“Hecate save me,” you whisper into the air that seems to grow denser as he approaches, loud thumps of feet now accompanied by metal grating against clay. 

“Hear me, flame-bearing guide... Darkness, protect me…”

He’s dragging bronze against the wall, announcing that he’s carrying a weapon with him, the strength of a bull apparently not satisfying enough if he wants to break your bones with metal.

Don’t blow out the candle... 

If you blow it out, you’ll die.

It’s a clear message, a knowing voice in your head that says it. It’s not young, it’s not old: just knowing. Alert. Wise beyond ages. 

So you still your breath and wait.

Shadows fill the curve of the tunnel just before he emerges: thick like thunder, a darkness so deep that even the name of the twilight goddess escapes your tongue. 

And he’s big. Bigger than the bulls you used to dance with, bigger than kings, or heroes, bigger than even Theseus, the man you thought was a myth walking. His head is enormous, bigger than the rest of him, awkward and rough like it’s not quite part of him even though he’s supposed to be half ox. 

The gigantic, horned figure stops when it sees you. Vast shoulders tense; the fat, double-edged sword falls to his side when he settles to loom between you and your only way to escape this place. You’re oddly thankful that the horrible screeching stopped, but then you notice that his blade is drenched in blood: actually, his torso, thighs, even the buckskin loincloth – the only garment this monster has chosen to wear – is spattered with red dots. 

The bronze tip drips with crimson, and the earth drinks it all. Hades is never satisfied: this beast is never full. Everyone who was sent down here is dead: everyone else has met their doom except you. You wonder if your mother would cry if she heard her only daughter died because she fell in love with a fool.

“I killed your hero,” the walls of hell boom. 

His voice is thick like tar, dark and foul like it’s the God of Earth himself speaking.

The flame in your hand quivers from fear, and you slowly remove your palm, the tiny candle illuminating the beast with warm homely yellow, making the prominent muscles of his chest even bigger. 

He’s carved like the statues in Athens, only, this giant is far hairier than the painted marble heroes of the city. The hair on his chest is thick and wild; it shoots down his abdomen and disappears underneath the loincloth, spreads over his inner thighs, even covers his shins in dark mats. He looks like a wild man, a beast indeed: sweaty, filthy and thick. But you never knew a beast like him could talk…

“A coward, that one,” he snarls, the voice reverberating oddly like it’s a human man speaking from under a wooden mask or inside a clay jug.

And you believe every word he says.

Theseus was strong and able-bodied, but he had built his strength just to show it off. This man’s body speaks of pure, ripe survival.

A hulking shadow with shoulders that barely fit the tunnels of the Labyrinth, with palms nearly twice the size of yours, he’s the myth walking instead of the hero whose blood now adorns that dull bronze blade. The Minotaur who survived his father’s wrath, his mother’s absence, these bleak surroundings, and all the heroes sent down to get his head… His weapon isn’t even sharp anymore, and still, he managed to cut through the sacrificial humans like butter. And what a horrific death it must’ve been to be hacked to pieces by a dull blade.

Is it evil of you to hope that the death of your “hero” wasn’t a quick one…?

Theseus was a fool and a coward, rotten to the core, but you saw all of that too late. He never cared about the human sacrifices or the king’s wrath; he never cared about digging into Pasiphae’s sorrow. He only cared about getting his face depicted on a pot or having his deeds played out in amphitheatres, his name uttered in song, accompanied by harp and flute.

“I know.”  

Your voice gets sucked into the earth: it doesn’t echo from the walls like his. It’s thin, damp, and frail, just like everything else meant to walk under the sun instead of stand buried under the earth.

But the beast before you tilts its head a little. It’s curious. 

Why would you say that? 

Why don’t you cry from hearing the news...? Why don’t you howl out your hero’s name and beg the gods to heed your grief? Why don’t you run away from a monster?

The candlelight is puny and weak, but it’s bright enough to bring out the eyes of an animal. You draw breath in the dampness of the earth when you finally see it: the bull’s head is devoid of eyes, and yet, the beast still has them. Blue as the summer sky, stern as the death grip of winter just before spring.

There’s nothing but ripped shreds of skin where the eyes should be, and instead of looking at you from the sides, they’re greeting you from the front. The horns are sturdy, but otherwise, the colossal head is a bit skewed... Thick patches of fur sticking out as if it was years and years old, and then – you realize it’s not his head; it’s only an illusion. 

There’s a man under there. A full, grown man who’s made himself a terrible helmet out of a bull’s carcass. 

“You’re a man,” you say out loud, earning yourself another shift of the colossal head.

“...What?”

The muffled echo confirms it: he’s speaking from inside the bull, moving only slightly to get a better look at you. 

“You’re not a monster. You’re just a man.”

His eyes are wild but intelligent; they pierce you from inside the inanimate shield. The large chest heaves, his ribs flare like sails as he draws air through what must be the foul stench of a long-dead animal.

He takes a step, and you shrink, almost dropping your candle and the roll of red yarn.

“You think talking will save you, female?”

He speaks like a man, walks like a man, but his moves are an animal’s. Shoulders slightly hunched like he’s a bull about to attack, you recognize the way his muscles quiver from the times when you used to do bull leaping. You don’t dance with Rhea’s oxen anymore: your tasks at Hecate’s temple are more suitable and less wild for a maiden your age. Back when you were younger and more agile, you used to jump from the back of one bull to the next, clouds of dust swirling around you as you showed your prowess to the priests.

But you can’t charm this ox by dancing. This one can’t be tricked or fooled: he will pierce you with those horns or his brazen sword if you take even a step.

“I can get you out of here,” you wet your lips, noticing that the blue eyes shoot straight to your mouth when you do that. “I know the way out.”

“What makes you think I want out,” he says, so tight and tense that you fear he’s either about to leap at your throat or plunge his sword into your chest.

And you should be concerned about your own safety, not about his sensibilities – if he even has such things – but hearing this beast man’s reply is like drinking bile. 

Why would anyone want to stay here?

You don’t know if he eats human flesh; you don’t know if he had to in order to survive. Everyone knows why his father threw him down here, but no one knows he’s not half the things the people above say he is. And if half of it isn’t true, what other lies have been told about the Minotaur? 

Even most prisoners see the sun, yet this man has been deprived of that, too. He’s been robbed of mother’s love, of father’s mercy, of friends and foes, of mentors and guides. He’s been robbed of life, of stars, of fires and summer skies, of women’s giggles, of fistfights with fellow men. Of songs and plays, of festivals and games, of bull dances, and maidens that leap…

“Have you ever been up there…? On the surface?”

You turn your voice into soft water on pebbles, a soothing pour of persuasion and goodwill. His pecs contract, strong abs under thin hair and body fat bunch like you’re about to hit him there. You take a step, and now it’s his turn to shun away. It’s only half an inch, but he actually moves away from you. 

“I can take you there,” you offer gently. “Have you ever seen the sun…?”

It’s like talking to a starved predator, trying to entice them to follow you with a fresh steak in hand, hoping that the fanged mouth won’t take more than was promised if it decides to accept the offering.

And the beast accepts. 

“As a boy,” he grunts, a tad more softly. 

Those eyes are fixed on you, reminding you of horses when they’re slightly afraid. The glint of white and blue behind the carcass is fiercely alive, quite unlike the hollow, disinterested stare of the Athenian hero who was only interested in himself.

But this beast is interested. Oh, the Bull Man of Crete is wildly, fiercely curious about you. 

“You’ll take me to the sun,” he repeats, an affirmation rather than a question.

“Yes. To the surface. I promise.”

He moves. Like an animal who learned long ago to drive others into the corner so that he wouldn’t get forced there himself, he’s primal, sensual in the way that oracles in a trance are sensual.

Approaching you in silence that’s almost eerie, the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end by the time he’s only an arm’s length away. Why announce his coming earlier if he can move so quietly?

“You’ll lead me to my father.” 

His gaze bores into you, and not even the warm draft from the tunnels can prevent you from shivering. He’s distrustful, and it’s no wonder. It must be odd that some girl with a candle and a bundle of yarn is suddenly waiting for him around the bend, and doesn’t even flee. He’s a behemoth, but he’s not stupid. A stupid man would not have been able to survive, let alone thrive in this place.

And why should he trust you? Who is he supposed to trust in this maze when every person he has seen has either run away from him or tried to kill him? His father will slaughter him if he ever escapes the Labyrinth, so what else is a priestess in his kingdom but a squealing mouse, trying to feed him lies and then guide him to the surface and into a forest of spears? 

“No,” you shake your head slowly. “No, I promise I know the way. There will be no soldiers–”

You shut your mouth just before a huge palm closes around your throat. 

Gods, but he moves fast when he wants to… 

The candle and the yarn drop the instant his hand seizes your neck, strong fingers nearly meeting at the back as he squeezes your windpipe ever so slowly.

And he’s so close now. The carcass reeks of death, but the man underneath stinks of plain human sweat. His musk is a peculiar mix of blood, earth and soil, something both stale and invigorating, the thin sheen of sweat and dirt covering his muscles making him look like a common builder. It’s strange that the bull’s head hasn’t yet decayed in this place, that the man doesn’t reek of bodies and bones that must be scattered around like debris further down the tunnels. 

Another thing that’s strange is that he doesn’t seem to want to simply silence you.

He also wants to touch you.

A wide thumb strokes the underside of your jaw as he studies you. It slides down the column of your throat, the blue eyes gleaming with fascination when you swallow against him.

He drinks in the sight of you: the lips that part with fear, the frail collarbones that breathe against the side of his palm. The promising crevice between your breasts, the enticing softness of your teats. 

You can hear his breath grow heavy under ox skin and bone, the rugged, vicious helmet he has chosen to wear. What lies under, you can only imagine, wherein he has little left to the imagination when taking in the curve of your breasts, your nipples rising to peaks under the thin white linen only temple virgins use. 

Seeing your reaction to his touch makes him growl -- he actually growls like an animal, a deep, low rumble of approval rising up his throat when he sees how different your body is from his. How supple and cushy it is, soft and plump like a peach, covered only barely as if to tease a best like him. You wonder if he ever took pleasure in the maidens sent here by the king… If he ever thrust the sword between his legs into their weak bodies before giving them the mercy of his actual blade. Would he even know what to do with a woman, having lived here for so long?

“Please,” you whisper, bringing his eyes back to yours, the ice in them now liquid sapphire of pure want. 

Gods… You need to bring his attention back to your offer of help before he sees it more compelling to just stay here and play with his new, plump little mouse. Virgin or not, you wouldn’t survive a mating with this man. 

“I swear on Hecate’s torch that it’s not a trap. You have my word: I’m a priestess soon to be.”

He’s entranced. Hypnotized by your lips. You lick them to confirm your fears true: the man grunts with pleasure, out of instinct, absentmindedly like an animal who reacts to the sight of a fat, meaty bone. 

Oh, he might not know what to do with a woman… But he would try his best to find out. 

“Priestess…?” He rasps.

“It’s a holy woman,” you explain. “I serve the Goddess of the Crossroads.”

He snorts, either because he’s not impressed or because he’s downright amused by your vocation. The eyes, warmer, more demanding now, are far from the eyes of a bewildered beast.

“Little female of the crossroads... You will take me to the king. And then, I will kill him.”

He puts weight into his words, tries to make you understand. 

He wants you to guide him to his father. 

To the King who claims his son is half bull, to the husband who claims his wife was adulterous with an ox. To the King who demands tribute as virgins so that he can send them down to hell. The dark goddess screams justice, but you're at a horrible stalemate.

The gods will curse you for this… They will smite you with a bolt of lightning or drown you next time you cross the great sea if they see you’ve helped this half-beast escape. If you guide him to Minos, you’re a participant in kingslaying, and the gods never forget things like that.

“He’s your father and the king of Crete,” you whisper in fear. “The gods will strike you down–”

“Gods?” He spits. “I piss on the gods. I fuck their corpses and leave them to rot.”

You almost choke on the blasphemy levelled at you. The shadows creep closer, the stare behind the black fur is dark and amused, burning with the crooked wrath of a thousand years. 

“Perhaps I’ll fuck you too.”

It’s unnerving that you don’t find the threat wholly unappealing.

If anything, your eyes drift down to the hairs of his chest, to the two big muscles that resemble the work of the best sculptors in Athens. 

“Are you a virgin, female of the crossroads?”

His eyes search for your response: they want to see your fear and disgust. You swallow again, arduously against his hand, both caressing and testing you. 

The beast leans forward, as if weighing if he could somehow insult the gods by pillaging you. The rough hair of his chest meets the white cloth, it brushes against your nipples as he bends down to have a good sniff of you.

“You smell like a virgin,” he growls.

The hand leaves your throat, only to travel down your sternum. He grabs your breast nonchalantly, a little too roughly, the hot palm closing around the teat and squeezing it like it’s a toy. When you don’t react, he squeezes it again, this time hard enough to coax a whimper out of you.

“Sound like a virgin…”

Without warning, the hand dives straight between your legs next, palm forcing its way through your thighs and curving to cup your sex, moulding around it with barbaric thirst.

“Feel like a virgin, too.”

It’s thick, hot, and heavy, how he simply tries you through your dress. Fingers testing your folds, he’s clearly enjoying the subtle wetness he finds down there. You can hear another hitched grunt pushing up his throat, rugged and whiny this time, a broken groan that dissipates because of how dry his throat is. 

No man has ever dared to lay his hands on you... Many have wanted, but none have tried. Even drunkards and fools respect women who belong to the dark goddess.

But he doesn’t care about the wrath of Hecate. He doesn’t give a shit about the gods. He simply takes what he wants, what falls into his lap. The fifteenth offering, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in devouring your flesh. 

How easily he could simply yank that loincloth aside and drag your dress up. Force his cock into your tight, wet heat without uttering a word. You doubt that he would even take the trouble of laying you down on the ground for taking... Beasts rut when they want to: this man could fuck you against this wall if his loins demanded so, guttural groans being the last thing you hear before the candle goes out. 

You don’t know if you have to spread your legs for him before this is over, but you reckon you will do even that if it means you’ll see the sun again. You’ll endure every thick thrust, and gods be cursed, you wouldn’t even be solely disgusted if this half-animal chose to breed you... As shameful as it is, you would somewhat enjoy having him rut you like an animal in heat.

And you’ve gone mad, surely. 

You want to touch him too, just to test another theory. 

Deciding that it's a good idea to stick your hand into the maw of hell, your fingers lift. They meet his bicep, and the lewd panting stops.

He’s not even breathing… He’s just drowsy and drunk, looking at you with a mixture of soft sleepiness and awe in his stare. Like a dog who has never been petted, even his eyes drift half closed when he forgets to threaten you, now focusing solely on your hand. 

And you start to caress him, slowly, so slowly… Tracing the muscle all the way up where it meets the shoulder, you stroke even the thick cord that leads to his neck. The rest of him disappears under the bull, but the man behind it already shivers under your touch. He even bends his head a little in hopes that you would go under the mask and touch him there, and the gesture reminds you of an animal exposing its vulnerable areas, baring its very throat in submission. 

Braving a quick peek down, you notice that the buckskin cloth is stretched high and wide. His whole body is tense and immobile: you could cup him through the soft animal skin and he would probably shoot his seed from a single stroke of your palm. 

If this is not a virgin, you don’t know what is...

In a way, it would perhaps be wise to shove your hand down and disarm this man. That way, you would be safe for a few more minutes. Instead, you lay your palm over his chest, right over where his heart should be. 

“So do you, Bull of Crete...”

His gaze flickers.

The darkness hesitates, widens, nearly swallows the azure pools whole. But he doesn’t look irate or wild... Only shocked.

It’s an impasse. A thicket. His hand on you, your hand on him.

He surrenders first: the underworld budges before the utterly pure. You bless him with grace the instant he withdraws his hand from between your legs – slowly, reluctantly, like leaving a place that belongs to him. Or to which he belongs…

“I promise I’ll help you, Minos Tauros. But I need you to give me something in return.”

You remove your hand too. Softly, slowly, like a horse master who trains and tames wild things. All words seem to have escaped his tongue: he only grunts, unsure of what a beast like him could give you in return for your help.

“You must promise to be kind to me.”

“Kind...?”

“I need you to behave,” you explain. “No bad things on the way up... No fucking.”

Everything else, he seems to accept, but during the last sentence the Minotaur blinks at you, utterly confused.

“But... You smell like you want to fuck.” 

Your jaw drops open a tiny bit. Then you remember that a priestess of Hecate doesn’t gawk.

“I don’t–How would you know that…?”

The beast only shrugs. Then he leans forward and takes another sniff as if to prove it’s true that you want his cock inside you.

“You smell good,” he grunts. “Different... Female, not afraid.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to…”

He even raises his hand to inspect the slight wetness there. Fascinated by the thin film on his fingers, he rubs his thumb in it, probably thinking about bringing it under his mask to get a good sniff of your juices too.

You grab his wrist without thinking, mortified to your core by the prospect of him getting high on your slick. 

“Look. We need to leave before the candle burns out.”

The obsessive stare threatens to swallow you once more, so you let go of his wrist and steel your resolve. Scooting down to grab your things, you try to ignore the violent erection still pointing straight at you.

Hecate keep you from offering yourself to this man out of your own free will...

And you don’t have a torch, only a candle and a skein of blood-red yarn, but you know the way out, so there’s hope. There’s always hope.

“I need you to promise me,” you turn at the mouth of the tunnel, seeing that he’s still standing there, in the place where he almost took you like his first whore. As if waking up from a thrall, he straightens to his full height, picks up his sword and looks like a half-human, half-bull once more.

“I promise,” comes a booming voice from under the animal skull. “No fucking… I’ll behave.” 

You nod. There's a sense of trust in the air. A promise of hope... It's mutual, invigorating -- life-giving, like the sun and blood in your hands.

You don't know if the son of Minos has ever smiled in here, but from the quick glint in his eyes, you suspect that he's smiling right now, the man under that animal mask. Somehow, it reminds you of the stars in the sky.

“Lead the way, maiden.”

[randomshyperson]

Do I Wanna Know - Wanda Maximoff Kinktober #05

Summary: Taking advantage of the fact that the Avengers are going through a divorce, you decide to visit your (not-so-secret) girlfriend in the compound. While they fight, you entertain Wanda and present her with a third option besides staying in the tower or fighting Steve Rogers: to run away with you.

Warnings: (+18), shapeshifting reader, some talking of gender identity, implied gender neutral but use of female pronouns, established and secret (ish) relationship, canon-divergence, bottom!Wanda, making out, unprotected sex, creampie, intimate teasing, praising, general fluff.  | Words: 4.131k

This work was turned into a series. Check the masterlist here.

General Masterlist | Kinktober Collection | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

It got more dangerous every time it happened. But getting caught, and all the consequences that would come with it, were distant ideas, possibilities that didn't cross Wanda's mind, especially when she was at your place.

She didn't think about the team, the country, what anyone else might think and judge about the relationship - if she could call it that - between the two of you.

All Wanda could focus on when she was around you was undeniably you.

It became a secret routine, a hidden part of her life that she looked forward to almost all the time. Between tiring and dangerous missions, a new excitement among the gray corners of the private life of what many would call the most powerful Avenger.

Nobody knew about you, not the way she did anyway. What the others saw was the smuggler with no loyalty - the thief who stole and would steal from anyone in her path, for the best price. And could also take anything she was paid to take. From a diamond necklace to an infinity stone, from the most exclusive party of the world's elite to the secret country in the middle of the African continent. 

Sometimes, Wanda would trace Wakanda's scar on your skin while you slept, and wonder if the person you were at that moment was the same person that King T'Challa wanted behind bars for a few pieces of metal.

The moral part didn't bother her much - if she was honest, Wanda understood impressions and what really mattered very well. Coming from a country exploited by the United States, which praised a man in blue who was very reminiscent of the captains who marched to the corners of the world to massacre cities, to one who wore iron armor and produced the same bombs that took the lives not only of her parents, but of the vast majority of the children she grew up with, Wanda understood hypocrisy like no one else. Despite everything that had happened to her, she shared a roof with the man indirectly responsible for her parents' deaths. No one could judge her so easily, but Wanda was sure that if your relationship went public, it would happen in the blink of an eye.

So when she was fleeing, for hours between one mission and another, one meeting and another, she tried to enjoy you as much as possible.

And sometimes, when you were apart for too long, and she worried that she was beginning to forget the features of your face, Wanda could prepare a surprise.

She could lie, taking advantage of her magic or not, to prolong everything from your time together to the sensations you shared in bed. She could haunt you - and you would use that term because, without her around, the feeling of lack was very similar to that of loss.  - Wanda would invade your dreams, like a sigh in the night never to leave your mind.

But more often than not, she would simply mark you with hickeys and scratches on everything hidden beneath your uniform, and you might leave a path of purple through the valley of her breasts that would be the only proof of the hours she had spent enjoying your company.

The Avengers were on a thin line now - Accords, fights, and old friends, and neither you nor Wanda knew it, but soon, the world would see you two the same way. 

Criminals on the run.

But the future hasn't arrived yet - And Wanda, unbeknownst to you, was locked away in a tower like an ancient princess, and you, against the advice of your own safety, went to visit a damsel who wasn't so much defenseless but would definitely be distress to see you there.

"You can't be here." The warning came against your lips, pressed into hers half a second after your arrival into the room - you could only kiss back, smiling at the tug on your leather jacket that fell to the floor behind your feet. 

"I missed you too princess." That's what you said back, your hand wrapped around her waist as your tongue slid into hers. 

Wanda sighed, her body yearning for your touch and presence just as much as her heart for the last few weeks without seeing you. Despite pushing you around the room, until you were sitting on the bed, Wanda interrupted the motions, her frown of concern and her out-of-rhythm breathing escaping through her swollen, ajar lips.

"I'm serious." She begins a hand on your shoulder to keep you in place. "They can't see you here-"

"The Avengers aren't home, I was told." You justify quickly, your gaze wandering to look her up and down. Wanda always looked so beautiful, it was almost unfair. "United Nations meeting, everyone's talking about it."

One of your hands plays with the folds of her skirt, pulling it up, but Wanda pushes them away.

"Most of them, yes, but I'm not alone." She murmurs, looking around and undeniably using magic to check the floor. "Vision is keeping me company."

"Which one is Vision anyway?" You retort casually, not caring about the last gesture, moving your hands under her clothes and biting back a smile at the way her thigh muscles quiver with your touch. 

Wanda rests her other hand on your shoulder, her gaze serious. "The one with the damn magical stone you once stole from Hydra." She retorts, sighing softly as she feels your fingers playing with the laces of her panties. "Please, detka. Vision... would kill you if he found you here."

You click your tongue. “I could disguise myself…” But Wanda shakes her head.

“The stone can see beyond.” She retorts with a certainty that makes you assume this information came directly from her team's study of the Stone. But instead of answering right away, you pull her by the thighs onto your lap, smiling mischievously at the surprised yelp that you muffle on your lips. Wanda tries to listen to reason, but it's too faint compared to the pounding of her own heart. 

"Don't make a sound and he'll never know." You whisper your last request before kissing her intently, your bold hands teasing inside her blouse. It doesn't take long for Wanda to be restless in your lap, panting against your tongue exploring her mouth so hungrily, sweating with the precise stimulation of her nipples as your hands pull down her dark bra. But despite a mind almost completely clouded with arousal, she bites at your lower lip and breaks the kiss.

"I missed you." Wanda likes you to know these things because sometimes, you have less than an hour together and it feels like one of those times. She hasn't seen you for weeks, and God knows when she'll get another chance now that the team seems on the verge of collapse. 

You give her a teasing smile, your hands wrapped around her. "You're so sweet, Wanda. My beautiful, darling, princess." Your compliments were accompanied by chaste kisses against her jaw, and it always works to leave her a mess, melting into you and at your beck and call. 

In the safety of your embrace, Wanda risked being vulnerable:

"Did you miss me too?"

You're not so good at these things - It comes from your past, so different from her happy childhood although later overshadowed by the height of a civil war as a teenager, but definitely different from growing up in Tony Stark's mansions and summer houses, or surrounded by family lunches like Bruce Banner or Thor. If anything, your childhood was closer to that of a Black Widow, with training and punishments whenever the expectations were not achieved. 

Still, Wanda warmed her way into your heart, and you tried to give back as best you could.

"I don't really think about you when I'm away." Her expression drops immediately, but before she can conclude anything, you move one of your hands to grab hers, and bring it back inside your blouse. Your intense gaze is the only thing stopping her from pulling away. And when Wanda can feel a new scar near your abdomen, she swallows dryly. "Or rather, I just have to force myself not to do anymore. What you're feeling happened in Berlin. An MK2 hidden in the belt of an arms dealer who asked me... how much I was enjoying America." You narrate, and Wanda frowns, being able to visualize the memory fresh in your mind. You swallowed and looked down at your lap. "I don't know how much he knew, but he said your name, and I just... flinched. I was blinded by rage and he took advantage of it. So, no, Wanda. I can't afford to let you cross my mind when I'm away, because you become a weakness. And I wasn't trained to have weaknesses."

Despite the way her body warms to the confession, Wanda gives you a playful look.

"Should I apologize, you know, for making a romantic out of the grumpy assassin?" she teases, and you chuckle, spinning her around in a tug to drop her on her back on the bed, you on top. 

With your body pressed into hers, one hand on her waist and the other adjusting her hair away from her eyes, you nuzzle your noses together. "Don't ever apologize for making me feel this way." You whisper, and Wanda closes her eyes in anticipation, her cheeks burning. "You have me in a way that no one ever could, Wanda Maximoff."

The next kiss is intense and charged with meaning. It makes Wanda shudder and gasp into your mouth. You smile, secretly proud of the effect you have on her, while your hands move down to pull her thighs up and make her wrap herself around you, ankles locked behind your knees.

The position elicits a deep moan from the girl beneath you, and when you adjust yourself to press your pelvis against her, Wanda chokes in surprise, opening her eyes.

"Is that...?"

Without losing your relaxed posture, you offer her a little smile full of the worst intentions. "I thought I'd play differently today." You reply, grinding gently against her and making Wanda bite her lips. The movement leaves you equally affected, but you let her know: "I can always change back..."

Wanda tightens the grip of her legs around you, shaking her head. Her cheeks turn pink. "N-no! I like... I like you either way." She manages to whisper, and you smile warmly, kissing her softly. 

One of your hands comes down to invade her blouse, starting an intense making-out session between you, enough to mess up your hair and the bed sheets and leave you hard against her thigh.

When Wanda stops to breathe again, there's a wet spot on the thigh she's spent the last few minutes grinding against - and you take the opportunity to plant kisses on her collarbone. Your hands go down to unbutton your pants.

Between kisses, you warn her: "I have to be careful... I think it works like a real one. Speaking of biological functions, you know. "

She uses magic to force your pants down to your ankles, aroused enough that the delay was driving her to the brink of insanity. Still, she manages to gasp between kisses: "You think?"

You hum, distracted by the sensation of your cock rubbing against her covered intimacy - body shuddering with arousal. "Y-yes... I've never... used it for sex before... Just for the job, you know? While in disguise."

The information made Wanda need to ignore the liquid arousal and press trembling hands onto your shoulders, gently pushing you away and attracting your attention.

After a sigh, she asked: "Are you comfortable, darling? With this of course... I don't know the exact feel of your powers, but I don't want you to think you need to change a single thing about yourself for me. Who you are is incredible and enough."

You break into a loving sigh and attack her face with kisses that make Wanda giggle shyly. "You're too sweet on me, Maximoff." You tease, and wrap your arms around her on the bed, hugging her tightly. Wanda bites her lips, still well aware of your lust brushing her, but trying to ignore the sensation in case you change your mind. After all, just your presence after so many weeks away was what she really wanted. Sex was just a bonus. 

Somehow, she ends up on top again, your foreheads touching. 

"It's different because of my powers, everything they do for me, changing my body as needed, you know? But still, I feel that even without these abilities, these details wouldn't make any difference to me." You confess with a sigh, one of your hands stroking behind her back. "Whether my body resembles of a boy or a girl, I say. In my head, I'm always in the middle, or outside of it. I can't explain it very well, and I’m still trying to understand it better but… I know for a certain that I want to make you feel good. In any of the ways I’m able to."

Wanda absorbs your words for a moment, her heart pounding and her chest warm with tenderness. She doesn't know exactly when she fell for you - whether it was from the first second your eyes met, or whether it was over time, between flirtations and arguments, until finally, she had the courage to act on those feelings and was lucky that you held on to them as much as she did.

Instead of answering with words, she kisses your skin. Your cheeks, your jaw, and your lips, while her hands touch wherever they can. It takes you by surprise, the familiar sensation of her magic on your clothes until you're both skin to skin on the mattress. Wanda sighs deeply, still with her eyes closed, as she adjusts herself on your lap, but looks up at you again before shifting to fit into you.

"Are you ready, love?" You whisper against her lips, one hand on her waist, the other lining up at her warm entrance. Wanda welcomes you with breathtaking heat - you slide in easily, yet she gasps until she gets used to the sensation of being filled, her hands firmly on your shoulders. You sigh too, trying not to get lost in the sensation as you ask: "Can I move?"

"Y-yes, please." She practically meows impatiently, her forehead falling against your shoulder as your hips move upwards, gently thrusting inside her. But Wanda clenches inside, hot and eager, and you grunt, trying to hold in your own pleasure. She grinds down against your hips, the sound of her wet arousal echoing between you. Your hands tighten on her hips, and you gradually increase the speed, making Wanda gasp between moans against your ear. "Dorogoy... that feels so good..."

You manage to gasp back, nodding softly in agreement: "You have no idea how amazing you feel, baby... so fucking wonderful... God..." It takes you by surprise, the first reach of your climax. You try to hold back, but Wanda bites your skin hard as she feels the warm shot on her walls, and your grunt turns into a heavy moan as you spill inside her. Wanda wraps her arms around your shoulders, grinding gently as you throb out the last drops, which soon run down her thighs.  A moment later, your voice hoarse, you whisper: "I'm sorry, babe. I didn’t... know it would be so hard to hold it..."

She giggles shyly, kissing your skin before looking at you again. A mischievous gaze. "Do you need a break, or perhaps that was the highlight of the night...?" She teases, but you snort in fake indignation, fixing your grip on her waist to flip her onto the bed. The gasp of surprise turns into a muffled whimper as you thrust inside her powerfully, hard again as if you hadn't just come. Her hands move to your waist, and her nails dig into your hips with each thrust.

"You were saying?" You challenge softly, panting against her lips. Wanda chuckles under her breath, one of her legs tucking behind yours, increasing your reach deep inside her. With each thrust in, she shuddered and gasped on the bed, closer and closer to the edge. You lowered yourself completely, pinning her to the mattress and burying yourself inside her as you felt her become impossibly tight. Wanda came in a high-pitched whimper, her nails digging into your lower back just enough to make a mark. You kissed her jaw, rocking gently as she still rode the waves of her own climax.

When you suddenly pulled out, cumming against her soaked and abused pussy, she mewed in protest, her leg trying to pull down and back inside of her. You chuckled hoarsely.

"Baby, I shouldn't have come inside the first time." You whispered, kissing her cheek. "I have to be careful, it's not replication, I transform truly. Let's get you a pill after this, all right? And we'll need some condoms for next-."

"Problems for later." Wanda cuts in good-naturedly, pulling your face back to hers and kissing you intently, effectively silencing any rational thought in your head.

It's honestly the best you've felt in a long time - as it usually is when you're around Wanda Maximoff.

It shouldn't surprise you that much when a few hours of rolling around in bed together, the moment is interrupted by knocks on the door.

Wanda, naked and panting, is sitting on your hips, and you're inside her still, ready to come again when she practically jumps away, and you have to muffle the grumble of frustration against her pillow.

"Y-yeah?" she manages to ask the visitor, sitting on shaky knees on the bed, one hand pulling the covers over her body. 

It takes a moment, but the male voice answers: "Sorry to disturb you, Wanda, but I made dinner. Won't you join me?"

She pushes the fingers you threaten to drag between her legs away, a smile playing on her lips.

"I'm not hungry, Vision, thank you."

There's another pause, in which Wanda throws you warning glances to stop trying to touch her before the robot speaks again, more seriously than before.

"Wanda, can we talk? Please."

She frowns, and exchanges a look with you, who sigh, rolling your eyes and looking away, your chest burning with a strange sensation. Using magic to bring one of the robes to her after muttering "One second", Wanda stumbles to the bedroom door, which she leaves with only a small gap to the corridor.

"Vis, it's not a good time-

"She shouldn't be here, Wanda." Vis cuts in, and you tense up on the bed. But he makes no mention of entering the room, and Wanda comes out wrapped in her robe, covering the ajar door with her body as a dry laugh escapes her.

"That's none of your business."

The man shakes his head in disbelief, and his tone of voice, although restrained, can be heard by you inside the room.

"Wanda, please be rational." He insists seriously. "At such a delicate moment for the Avengers, to bring... a criminal into the tower..."

"Vision, go away."

He sighs, hesitantly. "I should report this." He mutters, and although you can't see Wanda's face, you can see the way her shoulders tense and you can imagine the hardness of her expression.

"Do as you wish, but know, I will never speak to you again if anything happens to her."

Vision shakes his head. "And where do you think their choices will lead? If it's not the Avengers, it'll be the police who capture her. Interpol, or whichever organization finds her first. What they're doing, Wanda, has no future and you know it." He says, sighing in disapproval. "Send her away now, or I'll warn the others." Vision announces at last.

"Maybe I'll just go with her." Wanda retorts, but Vision chuckles dryly.

"You have no idea what's happening outside those walls, Wanda." He retorts seriously. "The fine line we're on. Mr. Stark is trying to keep everyone out of danger, and after everything we caused in Lagos,  wandering around without signing the Accords is out of the question."

Wanda chokes in surprise. "What... Am I not allowed to leave the tower?"

Vision clears his throat, nodding. "It's for the safety of the civilians." He retorts coldly. "Although I believe your intentions are good now, your record as a Hydra terrorist and recent events are not in your favor. It's best, for everyone, that you stay here until things settle down and all the signatures are counted."

Wanda is speechless at the absurdity, but in the meantime, you're already dressed and she jumps softly when your hand opens the rest of the door. Vision's eyes go wide, but you just give him a forced smile.

"Hey, microwave, long time no see." You greet sarcastically, and the man adjusts himself.

"Unfortunately not long enough." He retorts coldly. 

"Jeez, someone's rusty." You grumble, but he looks at you seriously.

"Don't abuse my patience, Miss. You have fifteen minutes to leave this tower, or I'll call National Security with your location."

You rest your arm on Wanda's shoulder, a smile playing on your lips. "Wow, am I that important?"

Vision takes a hard step forward, but Wanda's magic pushes him back with a jolt. You laugh at his indignant expression.

"That's enough, Vision. She's leaving soon, and you're leaving now." Wanda warns, at last, her irises bright red. The synthesizer begrudgingly gives you one last threatening look and leaves the corridor. 

You wrap your arms around Wanda again to kiss her hard as you close the door with your foot, but she doesn't match the intensity, and soon, her hands are on your shoulders, gently pushing you away and stopping the kiss. 

At your confused expression, she swallows dryly. "You should go." She whispers, fear in her eyes. "I know he meant it. And I don't want to ruin this night with you getting shot by some federal agent."

You hesitate, but end up nodding, kissing her on the cheek before walking away to get your shoes.

But as you put them on, and Wanda hugs her own body, you take a chance:

"You know you don't have to stay here, right?" You begin a little upset. "You could do like that archer guy and ask for a retirement. Or have your friends forgotten that you've already saved the world once and therefore, you don’t owe any of them shit?"

Despite the childish stubbornness in your tone, Wanda smiles sadly before retorting. "I don't think they've forgotten, but things are more complicated than before. And I'm not like Clint Barton, darling." She retorts, swallowing dryly. "I don't have a family to go back to."

You frown, absorbing the words in silence as you finish tying your sneakers. And then, as if it wasn't the sweetest thoughtful thing you've ever said to her, you declare:

"I could be family, Wanda."

She looks away for a moment because she doesn't want to cry in front of you. She has the impression that you won't leave - and she needs you to go so that you can be safe - if you notice the tears. 

Sniffling softly, and wiping her face before you notice, Wanda asks. "Do you really mean that?"

You stand up, moving closer to her to hold her cheeks. "Every word." You assure her with a smile. "We could travel the world, and have lunch and dinner in different places every day. We would buy all the most expensive and tacky things just because we can..."

Wanda giggles shyly at the fantasy, allowing herself to believe it for just half a second. She holds your hands cupped around her face afterward and sighs.

"It's a beautiful dream, darling."

You swallow dryly, staring at her. "Just a dream, isn't it?" You sigh sadly, and she nods just as upset.

Her tone is very low, like a secret. "They'll find you eventually. And I... God knows how much my power will grow. I can't trust myself outside of here, without the help of training. Stark's containment plans. And I know it's horrible, but I don't want to hurt anyone. Ever again. And if I went with you, with this life you lead, eventually, I would."

You swallow dry, sighing in understanding. This time, it's you who sniffles.

“I’m always one call away, Wanda Maximoff. Whenever you need me, just pick up the phone.” Wanda feels her chest warm at your words, but all she does is smile tenderly against the kiss you place on her lips. 

Unknown to both of you, it won’t take long for her to call. With really unexpected big news.

Two of them precisely.

-&-

This work was turned into a series. Check the masterlist here.

[m0chisenpai]

Let's Play a Little Game

Post! Spiderman Across the Spiderverse

Obsessive!Prowler!Miles Morales x Spidergirl!Reader

Authors note: THIS READER IS 15. A CHILD. THERE IS NO SMUT. NADA, ZIP, NOTHING. I WILL NOT BE SPICY WRITING A SINGLE THING FOR ANYTHING INVOLVING MILES MORALES.

You’d fought villains twice your size. A crazy octopus with metal tentacles, a man double your size, covered in black spots. Petty criminals brandishing jagged knives. But why was this one so different? He was no different was he? 

He was gruff. His body was always rigid, his words were sharp. His eyes were sharp. But the one thing you took notice, how manipulative he was. How he could weasel into the mind, into the minds of men twice his age who did his most dirty work. 

You had to pretend. Pretend his syrupy sweet words were true till your hero came. Your lovebug. 

His eyes cut to yours as the record scratched to silence in the hideout. Your eyes crack open, he now crouched in front of you. His braids fell to the side. You braided them for him last night. It was the most vulnerable you’d ever seen him. His head lay back on your legs as you massaged his scalp. And for a moment your mind went dark as you held the thin sharp rat tooth comb.

One drive straight to the throat was all it took, then you could be free. But then he opened his eyes. And you couldn’t. Because even if he wasn’t your lovebug. He was an exact copy of him. You were in his world, if his men found it was you that took their leader out they would hunt you down. 

He stared in your eyes as if daring you, testing your new freedom. And so you carefully parted his hair down the middle. That night you passed the first test. 

And now as your sleepy eyes look into his, you remember it’s time. Time for another song and dance. Of playing the part. Another test. 

“Sleepy mi vida?”

You can’t bring yourself to speak up and offer him a tired nod as you curl more into the nook of the couch, the bright knitted blanket stands out like a sore thumb, as do you in all your brightness. A reminder how far from home you are.

“A little bit.” your voice is scratchy, you must have slept for an hour at best. The sun was diving into the horizon painting the sky a beautiful mix of oranges and yellows. You sit up stretching your arms above your head and scooch your body forward. 

“Nah, take your time amor. Didn’t mean to wake you up” his knuckles stroke down to rest under your chin and his thumb to gently pinch it as he looks up at you with that love sick gaze. He leans forward and you know to meet him halfway and press your lips to his.  

He moves back enough to whisper against your lips, “suit up in five, we got business to handle.”

And as he stands to walk to the old player. A soft beat fills the room, your veins as you force yourself to stand. To fight. Your movements are second hand as you don the suit behind a hung up white sheet. You don’t call it yours, Because it's not. Yours is back home. Here he’s created you a new one. 

You step out from behind the sheet and in his eyes he drinks you in as you adjust your web shooters. 

And in some sick way, maybe you had survived in this universe. Had you been bitten? This would have been your suit. It appealed to a different you, a different version of you buried away somewhere.

It was solid black with black webbings along the thighs and pink in the inner parts of the hood along with your jordans which you go to kneel and tie up but he stops you. He kneels before you and ties them. And just as he gazes up at you, you pull your mask down.

This is what keeps you sane. Because here you're free to sneer down at him as he looks up at you. He wears his own suit now. You hold your hand to him and he wraps his around you and pulls himself up, his hand is quick to reach and snake around you, pulling you flushed against him. 

“Deadly and beautiful. The perfect mix” he whispers leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead as he taps the side of his mask to conceal his face. 

He watches you as you leap from the building and send your webbing to a building swinging your body to kneel on top of a light pole. You  look up and catch his nod as he moves forward. And you follow. Swinging languidly through the cool of night.

You realize now as you swing into the dead of night why he’s unlike the villains, the criminals, the mad scientists. Because as he runs alongside you. As he leads you both into the night. His reflection dancing off the glass of a building. As he looks at you. For a moment you think that’s Miles, your Miles, your lovebug. But it’s not.

Instead, you look into the eyes of Miles, the prowler. Harbored on Earth-42. 

And it scares you, because as much as you fight each day, deep down. Somewhere in the dark parts of your heart. Your heart flutters, feels warm for a moment when he holds your gaze, and flashes you that smile. 

And you beg for Miles, Gwen, Miguel, Hobie, anyone to find you. Because you fear that somewhere along the line, you’re no longer going to be pretending. 

That you failed the ultimate test of love.

[gffa]

TALES OF THE EMPIRE wound up being a mixed bag for me, there was a lot I enjoyed but there was a lot that just felt really unfulfilled. Morgan's episodes were very pretty to look at but I couldn't help thinking--the entire time I was watching, even--that Filoni's not great at creating new characters that can carry entire episodes like this, none of this felt particularly necessary or like it was fulfilling a void that I wanted to know more about. It doesn't help that I still think her arc in live action was badly handled, that if she was meant to be a Nightsister from the beginning, her first episode should have dealt with that, instead of springing it on us later, so when filling in the background of her on Dathomir in TOTE, it brings all that up for me again.

Morgan's first episode was so pretty and it was interesting to potentially get more Dathomir lore (even if it's incredibly thin and I felt it was too close to the "we see others suffering in the galaxy, but we don't want to get our own hands dirty by fighting for other people or getting involved in helping others, btw we're morally better for that :)" trope for me personally) but everything on Corvus just felt superfluous to me and I spent time trying to figure out why I felt that way. If they had done her story this way or that way, would I have enjoyed it more? If they had included this or that, would I have thought it more necessary?

And ultimately I just kept coming back to that I don't really care about Morgan Elsbeth enough that I wanted three animated shorts dedicated to her, when I could have had so many other characters get fleshed out better. I appreciated that they were showing two characters on opposite journeys, that Morgan was falling into the dark step by step, while Barriss was slowly clawing her way out of it, but that's about all that I appreciated of Morgan's story (other than the beautiful animation).

But I'm not sure I feel like Morgan's motivations were all that well planned out. It's clear that she's looking for revenge and trying to find a new family at the same time, but it's not really clear why she's working with the Empire or how she thinks this leads her to her goals. Grievous is the one who murdered her village, how does working with the Empire (as the Separatists were folded into the Empire, too) achieve that goal? Who or what is her revenge focused on? Is it that she just wants the whole galaxy to burn, because if her village burned, so should everyone else? I feel like that's probably what they were going for, but that it could have been more coherently written.

Barriss' episodes hit a lot harder, where I'm glad that she at least got an arc, but I feel like it just missed so many marks, like why even have Vader there, I'm all for gratuitous Anakin cameos, he's my trash can man and I'm always excited to see him, but absolutely nothing was done with him, despite that he was looking Barriss right in the face there. Not even a moment of showing the audience, "Oh, his soul is so far into the dark of fear, hate, and rage that he doesn't even care about her anymore." Just nothing there, like there was no connection at all. How do you go to the lengths of putting Vader in a scene with Barriss and then treat it like there's no history between her and Anakin??? So completely unsatisfying!

And then it's another series where other guest appearances would have made sense--Barriss has a whole unfinished story with Ahsoka and you don't include her here? I'm as tired of Filoni putting Ahsoka in everything as anyone else, but here it would have made sense and would have brought that relationship full circle on-screen, Barriss' betrayal of her and her clawing her way back to the light after all the trauma and hurt, there's so much she and Ahsoka would have between them. And then nothing.

Or Barriss' relationship with Luminara, TCW never really got into how that must have felt for Luminara, to have her student betray the Jedi so profoundly, for her to fall to the dark, there's such a well of potential there and it's just entirely ignored. She mentions Luminara once and it was a lovely mention, but there's no sense of resolution or completion to that arc.

I did enjoy her story with Lyn and I try not to compare what the show wanted to do with what I wanted the show to do, but I couldn't help it. During all those scenes, all I could think was that this could have been so much more powerful and complete if it had focus on Barriss' established relationships and characters I already care about, because a new random Inquisitor is just not going to hold the same weight for me as my pre-investment in Ahsoka and Luminara. (On the other hand, with the way they butchered Luminara in the last season of TCW, maybe I dodged a bullet!)

For all that negativity, though, I really loved that Barriss found herself in being a healer again, that she found the light again. That's all I've wanted for my girl!!!! (That and put a headdress on her, ffs.) I legitimately took in a hard breath when she said, "Then you have one more Jedi to deal with." because Barriss is still working through too much to fully come back to clarity re: the Jedi at that point , but when it really came down to it, when she really saw what the dark side really was, part of her still was a Jedi. And the way she spoke of her time as a Jedi, once she had a clearer, lighter head again, was sweet, I was so surprised that we got that much from her, but I'm so glad because, if nothing else, Barriss herself deserves to be in the light again.

The way she was settled into her own skin by the time she confronted Lyn on the icy planet, the way she genuinely wanted to help her, but wouldn't let her hurt innocent children, the way she could sidestep Lyn's predictable moves and could stop the blade with just a hand held out, she found her path and what she wanted to do, and oh it was so lovely to see Barriss finding herself again. I loved so much that her unshakable compassion did reach Lyn, it was such a satisfying arc for Barriss to reach that place after all the people she'd hurt. I loved so much that Barriss getting back to this place does a lot to remind us that her foundation is a compassionate one, even if she was lost to the dark for awhile.

I just wish that there had been acknowledgement of those she hurt, the people that died because of her, the betrayal she stabbed people in the back with, rather than just "sees the dark side is bad, walks away, finds the light again", which goes back to that this feels like a generic story that's mostly impactful because I'm filling in the gaps myself because I already know Barriss as a character, rather than that it continues the story that was previously told about her.

At the end of the day, I enjoyed it and I recognize that I'm being a little unfair in how I'm saying I wanted this, this, and this, rather than digesting what the show itself wanted to do, but when you're crafting two stories that are specifically about showing us the journey of two characters that originate elsewhere, you're drawing on the stories from those other origins--except TOTE decided to only halfway do that. There's a lot to love in these shorts, the animation was incredible, the voice work was incredible, Barriss' emotional journey was incredible and I'm so thankful that they even gave her any kind of compassionate resolution. But the specter of how much the shorts ignored hangs over it too heavily for me to say that they were anywhere near what they could have been imo.

[vermilionsun]

Since we’re doing part twos👀 Could you write more nsfw hcs for leander and ais? <3

Yes I can Yes I will Yes I did 💃

Ais

Aka choose one hair colour challenge failed

✩ Topping from the bottom

Self-explanatory. “Gives it almost as well as he takes it,” but he’s in charge babe, you stand no chance. He’ll treat you good though, don’t worry—

✩ Facefucking

YOUR FACE OR HIS, he doesn’t really mind. He knows to appreciate a good blowjob and loves having his mouth stuffed full of you. Man doesn’t ask for much. Plus he thinks it hot watching you manhandle him.

✩ 69

I see this man having an oral fixation—I can’t explain it. Sit on his face and suck him. As tiring as it is rewarding.

✩ M I R R O R S

He’ll be sitting on the edge of the bed, you on his lap, your back facing him. His veiny hands keep your thighs open as he makes you watch yourself bounce on him in the mirror and struggle to keep your balance and pace. Delicious.

✩ Pillow Prince(ss)

Let him treat you, okay?

✩ Comfort Sex

hEAR ME OUT WAIT— This man will never fuck you while he’s angry. That goes against a couple hundred of his moral codes, plus he would never want to hurt you. But, after some time, if things are getting heated, he will be slow, sensual, careful. He’ll apologise if he’s at fault. He’ll hold your hand and leave soft murmurs on the crook of your neck, kiss away any tears that might leave your eyes. Same goes if he knows you had had a rough day, accompanied by enough praises to make you see stars.

✩ S H O W E R

✩ Seasping

ON THAT NOTE— If he’s lying inside the waters of the Seaspring, presumably looking at the wall, and you climb in alongside him, well… He won’t bother to hide the gigantic smirk on his face that rivals the size of his boobs as he pulls you on his lap. It also serves as an amazing opportunity for a not-so-subtle fuck you to to Ocudeus.

✩ Exhibitionism–ish

He’d fuck you happily infront of a crowd to prove a point (with your consent of course). He’d take any chance thrown his way to brag about how amazing his partner is.

✩ Remote Control Vibrators

There has to be an alternative to that in the Touchstarved universe, right? Oh, that bastard’s smirk when he suddenly presses it to the highest setting from across the room while you’re in the middle of a conversation.

✩ Against the Table

✩ Spontaneous Sex

He’s definitely the type to randomly return home/come find you “because he’s horny.”

✩ Caught

He won’t stop his actions, just look at the person who walked in on you with a “what do you want?” look. Could easily pick up a conversation while fucking his partner’s brains out, 100%

✩ Up Skirt/Panties to the side

✩ Car

RIP Ais, you’d love late night car rides and car sex afterwards.

Leander

Aka the Nile is a river in Egypt

🗡  Nipple Play

This man’s tits are MASSIVE. Treat them well. Suck on them, twist and pull on them, make him cry.

🗡  Masochism

Self-explanatory.

🗡  Anal Toys

Previously mentioned he’s an ass guy, so make everyone a favour and ruin his ass (literally). B̶e̶a̶d̶s̶ w̶i̶l̶l̶ d̶o̶ t̶h̶e̶ j̶o̶b̶ j̶u̶s̶t̶ f̶i̶n̶e̶

🗡  RIDE HIM &

🗡  PULL HIS HAIR

Sit on his lap, pull his hair and force him to look at you while you ride his soul out of his dick. He’ll thank you once he’ll be able to speak again—give him a couple w̶e̶e̶k̶s̶ days though.

🗡  Magic

Of course, I will elaborate. If he can make flowers of light out of thin air, he most definitely can use his magic for other things, even to a small degree. A restraint, a shock of pleasure, and he most definitely will comply if asked (̶s̶h̶o̶w̶-̶o̶f̶f̶)̶.

🗡  Sleepy

Wake him up with a blowjob once, and you’ll have to continue that routine for the rest of both your lives. He’ll be completely bewitched, still groggy as me moans lowly and oh damn that deep morning voice…

🗡  Gag

It’s both hilarious and incredibly turning on. Try that with your panties, and the man has already cummed.

🗡  Lingerie

Talking about panties… The moment he lays his eyes on you and your fancy little outfit, he swallows dryly. His eyes go dark, and he has to reposition himself because he’s so hard. You’d expect him to rip them off of you immediately, but instead, he guides you to stand in front of his spread–out legs, his hands slowly trailing up your thighs to your ass and waist, feeling the way your skin transitions to the material, his chin resting against your stomach as you pet his hair.

“May I?”

“May you, what?”

“May I take these off?” He tugs at the fabric to make his point. “Please?”

M̶o̶n̶t̶h̶s̶ u̶n̶t̶i̶l̶ y̶o̶u̶ w̶a̶l̶k̶ n̶o̶r̶m̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ a̶g̶a̶i̶n̶.

🗡  Cumming Untouched

Too easy to achieve with this man.

🗡  Under the desk

The bar, specifically. It’s beyond amusing watching him try to keep his composure in front of the patrons while you’re sucking him off so beautifully.

🗡  G̶l̶o̶r̶y̶ H̶o̶l̶e̶

He̶ w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶, o̶k̶a̶y̶?̶!̶ D̶o̶n̶'t̶ c̶o̶m̶e̶ a̶t̶ m̶e̶

🗡  Candle/Wax Play

He had set them up to make a “romantic atmosphere” but the second your eyes darted to the candle closest to you while you were on top of him… yeah, he might have slightly regretted his decision (s̶p̶o̶i̶l̶e̶r̶s̶:̶ h̶e̶ d̶i̶d̶n̶'t̶ a̶c̶t̶u̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ a̶n̶d̶ y̶o̶u̶ d̶i̶d̶ i̶t̶ a̶g̶a̶i̶n̶).

🗡  Public Humiliation

It’s literally canon.

🗡  Caught Masturbating

“Come on darling, won’t you help me a little?”

[henrioo]

°•*⁀➷ MY TYPE: CROCODILE

꒰ SYNOPSIS �� : "Even after years Crocodile could never figure out what was his type of woman. At least with you he could figure out he wasn't even interested in women in general"

꒰ WARNINGS ꒱ : MALE! reader, MASC! reader (can be trans or not), HOMO RELATIONSHIP, CROCODILE IS GAY HERE, Mihawk is also gay, LIGHT HOMOPHOBIA, LIGHT SEXISM, Crocodile is a old man with old morals (not defending him), Gay club, a little joke with crocodile name, light description about reader clothes but still free for you imagine your own way

꒰ WC ꒱ : 1,8k

꒰ NOTES ꒱ : After years I'm posting again, I'm not in my better mood and things have being hard for me, so I'm kinda didn't any of my hobbies, like writing and posting, sorry for that. Hope you guys enjoy it, fem blogs/blank blogs/no pronouns = block

Now imagine Crocodile who refuses to have a lasting relationship regardless of the woman who throws himself at his feet. He takes them to some events, some photos of the most beautiful and chic women in his arms, maybe even some flirting without commitment, but a second date or even something more serious? No way.

He can't explain why he can never stay interested in a woman for more than a few hours. What if he tries? Well the things he would say to try to justify why no woman is good enough would be something like:

The lipstick was too strong, the lipstick was too weak, the dress was too exaggerated, the dress was not flashy enough, the smile was too simple, the smile was too fake. Too tall, too short, too thin, not thin enough, didn't wear high heels, wore high heels, uncultured, knew too many things, too independent, too dependent, etc.

“More it seems like you don't like women” Doflamingo laughed in his face as he drank again, the man in the burgundy suit was already tired of hearing his friend's endless excuses about why he didn't have anyone. “Who likes women likes all types of women, simple as that” what he said was true, reinforcing his point by opening his arms, making the two women who were sitting next to him throw themselves onto his chest.

Crocodile couldn't deny that he also believed that statement, he thought men who wanted to demand crazy things from women were stupid, but he wasn't like that... he just hadn't found the right woman. Of course Doflamingo was very different, in his arms were now two completely different women, style, body, color and height, but he knew very well that the demon would give the two equal love and attention. Although it wouldn't make much difference since he would forget about them both the next day.

“Not all men want easy bitches, that doesn't mean I don't like women” he spat with venom, seeing one of the women become embarrassed and the other look at him with hatred. Of course he just ignored it and continued drinking his wine, becoming even more stressed about the situation.

“Don't be mad now fufufu” Doflamingo laughed seeing how angry the other was.

“What’s wrong with you not liking women?” Mihawk asked with a raised eyebrow and for a moment the other two men forgot he was there due to the silence. Crocodile bit his cheek remembering that his friend was gay and would probably be offended by the conversation.

“None, but I like women, I'm just demanding” Crocodile explained the situation and Mihawk seemed to accept the excuse but he still hadn't given up on the subject.

“If you don't find any woman that pleases you, perhaps you can find a man that satisfies you” was all Dracule said.

God. Crocodile wanted to kill Mihawk, after that damn sentence all he could think about was that. What if he actually liked men? Of course not... he's always been with women his whole life, so he liked them, it didn't make any sense for him to be attracted to men.

He tried to convince himself of this as much as he could, but god it felt like someone had opened Pandora's box. For the next few days he couldn't stop noticing the men in the office, the way they moved, the way their bodies acted, the way they also had their own beauty. Hell! He was sure Daz had caught him looking at a male employee's ass more than once! He couldn't have his reputation ruined like that!

So he forced Mihawk to meet with him again, he had some questions, he just needed some proof that he was completely straight. Once he had reaffirmed his sexuality he would be fine and could stop acting like an old pervert.

“Being with women all your life doesn't mean being straight, we're old, we grew up in a time where that was the only way, the correct way” Mihawk said without much emotion sitting at the bar with his friend while they enjoyed a whiskey “Maybe now you’ve finally gotten tired of pretending and your body is just showing signs that you were never attracted to women.”

“And how do I find out if I like men?” Crocodile asked, almost ashamed of what he was saying, he would definitely kill someone if this was exposed.

“Go out with one.”

And that's where you get into the story. Crocodile locked himself in his office for weeks without knowing what to think or do, how the hell was he supposed to go out with a man if he never even considered it before?! That was until he received an invitation to a nightclub, Circus Royale Club, he thought it was a prank until he received a message from Mihawk explaining what it was.

“The clown has a gay nightclub, completely discreet, if something gets out he already knows that you won't forgive him. He talked to a few people and said there’s someone you might like to meet, I figured you wouldn’t make the first move alone, give it a chance.”

He almost jumped from the top floor of his building but his friend was right, he was too nervous to make a move alone, he didn't even know where to look for it. Regular nightclubs and dating sites were out of the question, but perhaps Buggy's nightclub was an option. He would actually kill the idiot if anything like that got out in the media, so he was confident that his privacy was protected… Now he just didn't trust the clown's taste in finding Crocodile a romantic partner, but it's not like he had any other option.

He tried to dress like he normally would, a simpler suit, nothing vibrant or exaggerated. For a moment he thought it wouldn't suit the location and he was right and wrong.

The nightclub inside was truly another world, it was extremely chic and in shades of red and dark blue, giving a very sensual depth to everything. The problem was the people, the employees all wore white shirts with blue or red vests, too circus-like for Crocodile, in addition to the masks that only covered their eyes to separate them from the customers. And the customers? Heavens… It really looked like a circus, he saw people wearing wigs bigger than their own heads, colorful and extravagant clothes, fantastic makeup, was there someone wearing wings and horns?!

He felt a little… overwhelmed, to say the least. He thought gay people were like Mihawk, extremely discreet, or just a little more cheerful and feminine, not like that... Okay that was a terribly homophobic thought, he needed a drink.

He picked up something strong and sat down on a table, his foot tapping anxiously on the floor but being inaudible due to the music playing. He quickly sent a message to Mihawk asking what the hell that place was and wondering if it was gays or some real circus.

“Don't worry about them, the people at the clown's nightclub are more exotic, not everyone is like that” thank God because Crocodile didn't see himself dating a walking rainbow “I only chose this place because discretion was guaranteed, your partner wouldn't It’s like the ones you see”

He thanked him mentally, not that he judged people for dressing how they wanted, sometimes he did, but being a pink Barbie just didn't suit him! If he was going to have someone, he wanted someone who suited his discreet and formal style more, man or woman, that wasn't a discussion.

He was about to “thank” Mihawk for the terrible place when he saw you walking in. You were stunning. You wore nice dark pants and a lighter shirt with a nice print that suited you perfectly. The outfit wasn't discreet gothic level like Mihawk or vomiting rainbows like the others there, it was just... you. It was an outfit that made you look amazing and you knew it, he could see your confidence, you were beautiful and you knew it. And heavens, Crocodile had to admit that it was the most attractive thing he had ever seen.

You looked around and stopped when you saw Crocodile, your eyebrows arching in surprise as if you didn't believe that Crocodile existed and was really there. You smiled and instead of going to the table where Crocodile was, you went towards the bar, where you stayed for a few minutes, talked to the bartender, got your own drink.

Crocodile had never felt so nervous before, he was used to having all the attention just on him, women threw themselves at his feet for a chance. And here you were, knowing he was the one you were supposed to meet but you were purposely ignoring him. His heart was beating fast and he felt the sweat beneath his thin suit. He had an absurd urge to get up and force you to pay attention to him, to show you that he was the only one who deserves your attention, when he had become so desperate and needy for someone's attention? Even more of a man?

After all that you finally took your glass of drink and went to the table and sat in front of him, you crossed your legs and sipped your drink before leaving it on the table, then you faced him, in complete silence. Hell this was totally different from what he was used to, here you seemed to be staring at him as if to say “prove to me that you are worthy of my attention”. This wasn't what he was used to, he was no longer a hunter, he was prey.

“I thought you didn’t realize I was your date” he said softly, composing himself while drinking his drink.

“Of course I noticed, it's not very difficult to know who I should meet here, just look around and see how you differ from everyone…” you laughed “You're like a fish out of water… in fact you are more to a crocodile in the middle of all the fish” you looked at him sensually biting your lip.

“Hah… And you look like an animal photographer, completely camouflaged in the environment… but if you look closely you know that you are someone superior to any animal” he said with a determined smile and the victory was his by the way you blushed and squirmed in your place.

“Crocodile, right?” You had now abandoned your malicious and even evil manner, now you seemed completely open and genuine to trying to have a date with him “(y/n), it’s a pleasure”

“The pleasure is definitely all mine” he said genuinely. Maybe dating men wouldn't be so bad, maybe being a gay man wouldn't be so bad… Maybe having you as his partner in a serious longterm relationship with you… yeah, it didn't seem so bad.

[cheolism-archive]

DEVOTION (TEASER)

✰ — choi san x gang leader!reader ✷ — summary: after a year of fighting in a rebellion, san was tired of battle. like an angel, a goddess, you offered him peace. ✰ — teaser wc is approx. 1.8k ✷ — genre: nsfw, mafia/gang society, themes of worship, cultish, power imbalance. simp!san for his "rescuer". ✰ — warnings: violence and murder; mature themes. morally gray reader and san (san is the equivalent of a stray puppy you’re nice to once and then never leaves you alone ever again). ✷ — rating: 18+. ✰ — note: this fic draws inspiration from the roman colosseum and society with a mafia. the reader in this fic is the leader of a gang, or a “sect” that inhabits a city and she is referred to as “the empress”. FULL FIC TO BE RELEASED OCTOBER 25.

p r o l o g u e .

the city held its breath when you fall ill. it's a fleeting illness, your aunt, who was left regent in the wake of your illness, announced. the empress will return to her duties as quickly as possible.

and then nothing happened for six months.

rumors spread. you'd died and your death was kept a secret to prevent rival sects from trying to steal territory; you'd been kidnapped for ransom and the "sickness" is a smokescreen. some spoke of treachery, but that's quickly hushed up. for who would dare betray the empress, the sweet little lamb of a girl who crowns her citizens with flowers?

your aunt was found dead in a pool, and you began to get better.

the city let out a relieved breath.

you began to appear in public once more. the city basked in your attention. all seemed to thrive. you kept the city secure under your watch, each entrance and exit under firm surveillance, guards on the corners of streets with guns at their hips, politicians carrying suitcases of powder, corrupt men and women entering your penthouse and never seen leaving.

"it's wrong," said choi bada to his brother. "she'll run our sect to the ground."

and once again the city held its breath as choi bada blew up your favorite temple.

war had begun.

choi san had no choice but to stand beside his brother. surely choi bada was right; he wouldn't steer san in the wrong direction. he wouldn't do the wrong thing.

temples crumble; public buildings were desecrated with bullets and blood. san got used to the feeling of fighting, of bruised muscles and blood staining his clothes; he got used to the feeling of wrongness, of feeling as if he was walking a dark and dangerous path of sin.

then choi bada was killed.

the empress, it is relayed to san as he was chained to a wall, was giving him a choice: die beside his treacherous brother or fight in the empress's arena for her forgiveness.

in the end the choice was easy. after all, san had been fighting for the past year of his life. what was one last battle?

the final body striked the ground, face having turned a violent mixture of red and purple, blood staining his mouth and teeth, and the crowd roared with approval. 

it was deafening. the screams and shouts of the crowd nearly drowned out the thundering of blood in san’s ear, his adrenaline shooting through his body like waves crashing down against rock. he couldn’t think. he couldn’t do anything other than stand there in arena, looking at the bodies littering the sand. 

“our winner!” declared a voice, loud and booming even without a microphone. the overseer moved into the arena, his clothes a bright, clean stain against the bloodied sand. he effortlessly wove around bodies to get to san. “our champion!”

the overseer grabbed san’s forearm. the other man’s hand was spotless against san’s skin, dirt and sand and sweat molded to flesh. san protested for a moment, instinctively pulling away. 

he had been fighting for as long as he could remember. touch meant hurt, and he had long stop expecting otherwise. 

the overseer laughed at san, lips twisted thin and wide. he grabbed at san again. “keep easy, pup,” he hissed out. “you’ve won the fight. congratulations. but you won’t win the battle if you keep trying to bite.”

san wanted to punch this man. he remembered how the overseer had introduced him, the sanke in wolf’s skin, the brother of the traitorous subordinate to the empress. he remembered the overseer glancing over him, loudly announcing that he’d do. 

san was just another pawn for entertainment to the overseer; to the crowd. he was just another puppy expected to sit and lay and play dumb. 

he’d been fighting for so long. who would fault him if he were to swing around and throw a punch into the overseer’s face? who’d disapprove if he were to slam the man into the ground, if he were to fucking drive his knee into his stomach? 

san made to draw back. he cast a wild look around, searching for something. instead of aid, his eyes caught on the large screen. for a split second he saw himself, feral and filled with hatred. then the screen switched, showing the empress. 

the empress’s lips were split in a smile, showing off the white of her teeth. she had her chin resting on her hand, watching; watching san.

“our champion!” the overseer yelled out once more. “the winner of our empress’s victory! choi san!”

the crowd’s praise grew to a frantic roar, rabid with their adoration. he couldn’t see them, the lights of the arena bright. they loved this, san knew; loved blood, loved fighting. it was a performance to them. it didn’t matter who was in the arena. they were all dispensable. 

what mattered who walked out. 

“to the empress,” said the overseer, moving his hand to clap san’s shoulder. his nails dug into san’s flesh. “she was most impressed by your little performance.”

san let the overseer direct him from the arena. the crowd was alight with awe, despite knowing san. well: despite knowing san’s brother. despite knowing that for the past year san had fought alongside his brother, war replacing the blood in his veins, soft words replaced by venom. 

none of that mattered anymore. none of it mattered now that san had won, had survived a fight against forty-nine others. he was blessed, the crowd saw now; blessed by the gods and to be blessed by the empress. 

he had punched and murdered and shot relentlessly in the name of his brother for the past year. and as the overseer bid the guard to open the gate separating the sands of the arena from the crowd, san realized he wouldn’t be expected to fight anymore. 

because that was why he had been fighting, wasn’t it? 

he was bound by blood to fight alongside his brother. even as he realized it was wrong – fighting for the sake of it, fighting for the sake of power was wrong. he had to stand beside his brother.

and now he was stepping from the arena, stepping from the sands of war and leaving behind bodies he had injured with his own hands. he realized he could leave it all behind. he walked in a prisoner, was walking out a winner. he won the empress’s crown; would wear the flowers of victory. 

his brother was no longer his ruler. 

now it was – 

“the empress,” the overseer began, speaking loudly into san’s ears as to be heard over the crowd. people reached out to press their fingers against san. he didn’t know why. he had been bathed before the arena, but it didn’t matter. he was covered in sweat and grime. he was bruised and scratched. 

someone pressed their fingers against san’s bicep. he flinched back, inadvertently pushing back into the overseer. the other man gripped san tight. “when you see the empress, you won’t look the empress in the eye. kneel at the empress’s feet. both knees, hands on the ground, forehead between. the empress will say your name. you will announce your wrongdoings and beg for forgiveness. if she forgives, you will earn the empress’s victory. don’t look at her. don’t say anything beyond what i have instructed you.”

the overseer directed san up the stands. there were all kinds of people: some wore tattered clothes; some suits, hair greased back; some industry uniforms. they were all youthful and vibrant beneath the arena lights. 

the empress and the empress’s court, as it were, were separated from the rest. the empress’s balcony overlooked the entire arena. only the elite within the gang – sect, san remembered, within the sect – were allowed to sit this far up, this near the empress. 

and it showed. they wore polished suits and glittering jewels. the holsters of guns were bedazzled and glimmering. instead of cans of beer, they held crystal glasses. these were the ones the empress trusted most – no, san corrected again. the empress doesn’t trust anyone. these are the ones that have gained, in one way or another, the empress’s approval. 

murderers and sellers; crooks and robbers. 

san was directed up a short staircase. he stepped foot onto the platform. the metal was covered in soft, lush rugs. incense was lit, overtaking the dusty air of the arena with a fragrant scent. it was purified; they were purifying the space. 

san’s eyes flitted over the rising smoke from the incense, and then he caught sight of the empress. 

caught sight of you. 

“eyes,” the overseer warned. 

san fixed his eyes onto the ground. the overseer guided him with a hand on the shoulder, steering him towards the center of the podium where you sat. once the overseer adjusted san so his shoulders were square with you, presumably, he dug his hand down onto san. san went, obediently, to his knees. 

his knees, bruised and raw from fighting, hit the soft carpet. san placed the palms of his hands down against the rug, his knuckles violently red from all the punching he had done, already swelling – and he placed his forehead down against the carpet. 

something settled the crowd, silence taking over and reigning. 

a voice broke through. “choi san,” you said, “younger brother to our dearest choi bada, of the formerly respected choi clan.”

your court tittered with laughter at the reminder of how far he had fallen. 

“no worry.” your voice neared. you had risen from your chair – your throne. “the man you were when you walked into the arena is no more. now you are before me, clean from your sins if you so wish. 

“tell me: choi bada spoke of treachery and murder, of annihilation of our precious sect; do you concur with your brother’s disastrous agenda?”

san spoke to the ground, but, he found, he was speaking from the heart. “no.”

two letters, one syllable. 

that’s all it took to renounce his brother, to turn his back on his brother’s corpse. 

“no,” you echoed. “yet you had fought alongside him. you had killed and burned alongside him. were you not his most trusted?”

san scraped his nails against the rug. “i was.”

you hummed. san thought he recognized the tune, but then it was gone just as he was able to reach out and catch the thread of it. “you could have chosen loyalty to this true emperor, as he proclaimed himself. my guard would have killed you alongside choi bada. and yet you entered my arena, fought, and won. you entered to leave your old life behind, yes? you entered to renounce your clan.”

“yes.”

“and so you will,” you said. “rise, choi san, and know that no hatred, no ill-will, will be held to you.”

slowly, as if you were a predator, a lion, and he were the prey, a mouse, san moved. he lifted himself from the bow. he did not stand. he remained kneeling, palms placed on the torn fabric stretching over his knees. san kept his face towards the ground. 

“let me see you.”

san thought back to the overseer and his warning: don’t look. he wasn’t to look at you. yet you were asking, were telling him to look. 

so san looked. 

[l0ve-bug-m1les]

hii I was wondering if you could write a

miles morales x male! reader

where the two kiss because they’re curious about their sexuality and that leads to them finding out they aren’t exactly as straight as they initially thought

Ahhhh this is such a good idea!!! Thank you so much!!

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The Answer Sitting in Front of Me

Miles Morales x Male!Reader

Summary: All questions have an answer to find. You just didn’t think you’d find yours in your best friends lips…

Warnings: No actual warnings, just two teenagers figuring themselves out!

It’s the final class of the day, and you’re struggling to stay awake. This isn’t like you, considering the fact you normally go to bed at a decent time so at the end of the day, you’re pretty awake. But today was different. Or rather, last night was different. Recently, you’ve been having…doubts about yourself. Specifically your sexuality. So to—hopefully—get your answer, you spent all night on Google searching up different tests, articles, and videos to answer your burning question. But alas, flashy Buzzfeed quizzes aren’t the remedy you hoped for. So now you’re just here. Tired, ready to get back to the dorms, and still unsure.

A crumpled up piece of paper lands onto your desk. You know exactly who it’s from as you open the note and read it.

"Hey, you don't look so good. Are you alright?”

“Damn, I look so tired you can tell from behind me..” You reply, and ball the note back up as you nonchalantly stretch your arms and drop the note onto his desk. This is how close you and Miles are. It’s easy to tell how the other is feeling just from body language. But at the same time, it wouldn’t take a genius to tell you’re pretty out of it today. You patiently wait for his reply as your teacher drones on and on about something you’ve forgotten about and, frankly, don’t care for. The note returns.

“Yeah. But for real, you’re normally pretty awake when we’re about to leave. What’s wrong?”

You think for a long time. You couldn’t possibly just tell him you’re going through a sexuality crisis! It’d put your relationship in jeopardy! A sigh escapes your lips as you try to think of a bluff, only to scrap the idea knowing Miles would catch it and hound you until you cave in. But what could you possibly say? “Oh, yeah, i think I’m gay and stayed up all night thinking about it. No biggie.” Yeah, right. But at the same time, he opened up to you about him being Spider-Man, so why can’t you just explain your problem to him? “Because he’d hate you.” is the lie your brain is plagued with. You know Miles isn’t homophobic and you know he’d probably just try to help you out. You’ve been through thick and thin with him. He can trust you, and you can trust him.

You realize you’re taking too long when another note flies onto your desk. You don’t read it and just answer the other one: “It’s kinda complicated. Swing by my room when you get a chance, alright?” You toss it back and refocus your attention to the lesson.

It'll be alright.

Right?

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Time flies and you’re now sitting at your desk in your dorm. Your roommate’s off to who knows where, so you’re by yourself just waiting for that fateful tap on your window from Miles. Normally after school he’ll do some spider stuff before coming back and chilling out for the rest of the day, most of the time with you. That is, unless some guy tries to wreck havoc on Brooklyn, and it’s up to Miles to take them down. As much as it sucks when he has to leave, you admire how dedicated and passionate he is about doing what’s right and protecting what he loves most. You also appreciate how much he’s helped you throughout the school year. High school is no joke, and there have been some times when you felt like all was hopeless. But with Miles there, you came out of those slumps for the better. You also admire the way his eyes shine with that cheeky glow when he says an exceptionally cheesy joke, with that charming smile to go with it. And his kinda cute laugh and—

Oh no.

You groan and lean back in your chair. It’s those thoughts again. The very thoughts that have you so tired and confused. The line between admiration for guys and attraction towards guys has been blurred and now you’re not sure if there even is a difference for you. You close your eyes and continue to think before a shadow blocks out the sun and you hear a knock at the window. “Here we go..” you think to yourself as you unlock the window and open it for Miles.

"How you been?" Miles says as he steps through with that same sweet enthusiasm. He’s not in his Spider-Man suit so you figure all went well. “I’ve just been chilling out,” you say and sit back down, “nothing too exciting.”

He hums in response before taking a seat on your bed. “So what was it you needed to explain that was so complicated? Don’t tell me you’re having an identity crisis!” he jokes. You don’t smile because that’s exactly what it is. He notices the change in your demeanor and grows worried. “Ah..I see,” he looks over you for any hints as to what’s bothering you, “uhm…would you feel comfortable explaining?” he asks.

You take a long moment to think. Is this really a good idea? Should you even tell him? It’s not like you’re confessing to him so bad how could it be? You take a slow, long breath in, and release it just as slow. “I think….i think i like guys…” You finally say. “And i spent all night trying to figure that out, which is why i was so tired in class today.”

Well there it is. It’s out.

You both sat in silence and stared at each other for a long moment. Miles looked like he was in disbelief. Great, you blew it. You go to try and reverse the damage before Miles speaks up.

“Wait, really?! You too?!” He exclaims much to your surprise. You too? Wait so does he…

“You’ve been thinking the same thing?” You ask him.

“Yeah! Like, all the time!”

This is some news. You thought he was gonna try to leave and awkwardly forget about the situation. Never did you consider the possibility of him thinking the same thing. But now what? You know he’s possibly not straight like you, but what are you supposed to do with this information? Honestly you didn’t think you’d make this far. “So,” you speak up, “what now? I mean, we’ve got the same problem. How do we solve it?” A good move on your end. Not too leading, but leading enough to keep the conversation going without you both just changing the subject.

“Uhm…have you ever kissed a girl before?” He asks, his eyes avoiding yours.

“No, why?"

"Well, i was just thinking we could..." he trails off, hoping you get the memo.

"Think we could—“ you’re cut off by the realization hitting you— “Oh…i…get what you’re saying. Kiss and compare how it feels when we kiss a girl, right?”

He sheepishly nods. “Yeah, but neither of us have kissed a girl so it wouldn’t work.” His eyes fall to the floor, and you’re stuck looking at the wall. A kiss? Would that really work? Maybe neither of you need to have kissed a girl—or anyone else for that matter—to see compare how it feels when you kiss a boy. You’re a boy. He’s a boy. Why should you have any prior experience? But is it a good idea? What if you like it, but he doesn’t? There’s only one way to find out..

Forget words. You get up and stand in front of Miles. Your hands find a spot on his face and they stay there as you look deep into his eyes. A question. A silent way of asking for permission when words aren’t good enough. He nods and you lean in, gently bringing his face to yours.

After what feels like an eternity, your lips meet. At first you’re both hesitant, but it’s as if a spark went through you both as you relax and lean in to the kiss. Miles holds your hands on his face and let’s the kiss linger for a moment longer than you both thought it’d last. It’s the sweetest first kiss one could have. The world only starts to spin again when you both pull away, practically breathless.

"Did…did that answer your question?" Miles asks, his voice soft.

"Yeah. Did it answer yours?”

Miles nods and leans in again for another kiss with more confidence. His hands find yours and he brings you down onto the bed to sit beside him, before slowly pulling away again.

“Yeah…” he breathes.

You’re a lot more awake now.

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[romana-after-dark]

Room's on Fire: 6. End of the Innocence

Dark!Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader Dark!Francisco Morales x Fem!Reader Dark!William Miller x Fem!Reader Dark!Benjamin Miller x Fem!Reader

Also: FishBen, and an assortment of other M/M relationships (no Millercest). Everyone is Bisexual

Series Masterlist: Main Masterlist : MainTaglist

Spotify playlist

Summery: Madonna wins over Frankie, but in the mean times upsets Jonah and Pope

Warnings and Content:

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

DUB CON MOSTLY but there WILL BE NON CON. Major character deaths, forced breeding, physical abuse, brainwashing, manipulation, violence, gore, alcoholism/addiction, BIG OLE BLASPHEMY WARNING like this cult appropriates a lot of religious themes and they call reader their Madonna, Santi is called the Pope, like all that stuff. However, this is a cult so I mean. It happens. None of it are my thoughts on religion or meant to make fun of religion or demonize religious people. Disgusting views on virginity. Attempted rape outside the boys. T*m warning. Age gap. Creepy terrible men. Non-reader rape, dub con, violence. Covert incest, massive mommy issues, sexual abuse all around, past grooming by parental figure. no CSA but the victim isn't much older. some Bates Motel type shit. I cannot properly warn you for everything, without just telling the story but consider this a major warning that there are dark dark themes. No one involved here is morally clean, and who you perceive as the good guy cannot be relied on. Don't come to my story and say im romanticizing these things until at least the story ends.

WARNINGS HAVE BEEN UPDATED!!!

Extra warnings for chapter: spit kink, non consensual voyerism, physical violence.

3.6k words

A/N: Some madonna POV, but we also get Jonah, Santi, and Frankie

Support writers! Reblog and leave comments!

"Oh, but I know a place where we can go Still untouched by men We'll sit and watch the clouds roll by And the tall grass waves in the wind You can lay your head back on the ground And let your hair fall all around me Offer up your best defense But this is the end This is the end of the innocence" ~End of the Innocence, Don Henley

“Fuck, Madonna…”  Francisco moaned under you, his massive cock filling you up again and again as you bounced on him. You had undone his belt and pant button, keeping his pants on but pulled his cock out. With your panties pulled off, you had sat on lap with his member stuffed inside you as you made out with him. Francisco was a tender, passionate lover, kissing you with all the love you’d been missing since Pope stopped kissing you at all. 

“I love you, Francisco…” You whisper to him, clutching his body to yours in desperation. You needed him to know how much he was adored and appreciated. He is your husband just as much as the others are, even if he ignored you for so long. You card your fingers through his hair and nibble on his lips, sucking the pouty lower one into your mouth and pulling. “My handsome man…”

Hands on his chest, you kiss him down, letting his head fall back on the grass and your hair cascade down around him. Francisco moans out a strained ‘Madonna…’ as his cock twitched inside you. You knew he preferred to be taken care of instead of in charge, you had noticed it in the way Pope fucked him. Whatever Francisco wanted, you were going to give it to him. Anything for him to love you the way you love him. Anything to have the love of all your husbands.

Pushing yourself up, you bounce on his cock as he runs his hands up your loose dress, feeling up your tender breasts and playing with your nipples. He tweaked them through the thin dress, rolling the hardened buds in his fingers until you cry out his name, sweat beading down your face in the warm sun. “Francisco!” You close your eyes tightly, your senses taking in him, him, him. He roughly squeezes a tit, and as your legs tire you fold down over him again to his beautiful mouth. You feel him spearing you, laying his claim really and truly for the time as he hit that spot inside you that made you dizzy.

“So beautiful, Madonna” He mutters against your ear, panting and whining for you and only you. He was so beautiful like this, comfortable and happy and turned on, paying attention to your body. “Gonna cum…” He whines, hips bucking as he chases his release. “Please, need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad.”

Tender, you kiss his forehead, sliding up and down his throbbing cock, wanting to get him off so fucking badly. “Cum for me, I’m right behind you, wanna feel you fill me.”

With a loud groan, Francisco pulsed inside you, filling you up with his warm seed. The thought of becoming pregnant out in this field after finally securing his love, your body swelling with the savior… you came on his cock, pussy gripping his softening member with your fingers digging into his skin. It was hard, it was blinding, your heart bursting with love for the man eveloping you in his arms. 

His cock still stuffed inside you, you rest your head on his shoulder. For the first time since the incubus, you fall asleep peacefully. Francisco would keep you safe, plugged up with his cum so it had no chance of leaving. You were going to get pregnant.

*

Fracisco woke to the sound of footsteps on the grass, and as he remembered him and Madonna’s compromising position he gasps awake.

“Oh shit- god dammit-” He see’s Jonah quickly turn around, grumbling and ruffling his hair, tucking his other hand in his jean pocket next to his holster.

Francisco’s pants were still fully on and your dress fell around you, so to Jonah it had only looked like you had fallen asleep cuddling. He must have realized that you were still implailed on him. The panties on the grass didn’t help. 

He felt you stir, but he caressed your hair and shushed you. You were so tired, the bags around your eyes getting clearer every day. You needed your rest. 

“It’s getting dark…” Jonah mumbles, clearly uncomfortable but trying to do his job. Frank didn’t mind Jonah, honestly. He did good work and especially he treated Madonna well. Frankie knew he has a fatherly presence, something Frankie didn’t long for the way Santi did, but he knew you needed. And Jonah needed someone to take care of since Iris rejected him. They didn’t even talk for the first three years of it all.

“Give us a few minutes” Frankie whispers to Jonah’s back. It was 20 minutes before he finally woke you, the pair of you having slept on the grass for 2 hours or so. He wanted to pocket your panties, but he didn’t want to have something someone might find. If Santi found it, his jealousy would be a problem for everyone involved. If Ben found them, he’d be hurt, thinking Frankie preferred Madonna. Did he love his wife? Yes… yes he thought he did. Who was he to reject this unconditional love from her? Yes, he loved his wife but he loved the man who was now his husband more. Benny before all else.

There was no way on this earth that Francisco was letting his wife, still wet and dripping with his cum, smelling of sex, in her pretty dress with Jonah of all people. Will would flip his fucking shit if he saw Madonna on his lap. So, she’d sit with him as they rode back.

Problem was, that smell of sex? That dripping, tight little hole that was all he could think about now? Her cute ass pressed against his crotch as she bounced on the horse? He wasn’t sure he could make it back to the house. His dick hardened against you, his arms pressing you close to him, he slide a hand up to touch your body. It’d been so long since he touched a woman’s body, preferring the company of Ben if he had a choice… and taking the love he could get from Santi if he couldn’t. He forgot how soft women were. Ben was rigid, safe, strong. His body was firm in a way that comforted Francisco. Santi was softer, sure. Santi’s legs and ass were thick with meat and his stomach a padding of stomach fat, but under it all was muscle still, joints and tissue and heft all boundled in the tight body of the would-be savior. Santi could never relax, his anger, his shame, his failings, the ever-present overcast of his mother never allowing him a moments peace. It wasn’t uncommon for Santiago to take Frankie in the sanctuary, Beatriz’s remains watching them as they consummate on the alter, not unlike Madonna, after reciting faux vows multiple times. Francisco had sworn his fidelity to Santi again and again in these private ceremonies… Francisco didn’t believe a word of Beatriz, her wishy-washy attitude of who the savior was when  her mood changed solidified that for francisco in his youth… but some days…

Some days Francisco wanted Ben to drag him into the sanctuary, he wanted Ben to bend him over the alter and claim him, to not belong to and be subject to the will of any Garcia again. To belong to Ben and only Ben and tell Santi to fuck of… But that wasn’t happening. The Millers were dying before Beatriz took them in, and Ben had worshiped the ground Beatriz and Santiago walked on, and if Frank were being completely honest, he did long Santi. He missed their boyhood together, before Santi’s soft mess was beat out of him and he stuff all his love for his brother until it folded in on himself, only let loose under the cover of night fucks and threesones and orgys.

Ben was a rock. Santiago was dynamite waiting to explode.

You? You were soft. And it didn't matter that Jonah was only a few feet away on his horse, Francisco was going to feel every inch of that softness. You wanted him? Out in the open, no secret? He'd have you out in the open.

“Francisco?” You whisper as he slips a hand under your dress, feeling your little clit through the cotton.

“I got you, just relax…” But you squirmed against him. There was nowhere to go, the trotting horse so far off the ground and his arm tight against your middle. “Relax.” He was more firm this time.

You stopped moving, but your body remained stiff. “But… Jonah.” You speak quietly so the other man doesn’t hear, but Francisco doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip, pressing down hard on your clit and rasps in your ear. “Relax.”

You have to bite on your cheeks to keep from whimpering, and Francisco doesn’t like that. He wants to hear your sounds again so he toys with your body, playing you like an instrument he is well practiced in. Your nipples are stiff and sensitive, making them easy prey to Francisco’s long fingers. How did he know your body so intimately already? His fingers working fast, Francisco is still ever-tender, kissing your mouth as you tilt your head to kiss him. You were a pretty girl, you deserved to be kissed, but right now he wanted to hear you so he opted to detach from your mouth and kiss down your neck, sucking a possessive hickey on you until he got what he wanted; a moan.

He saw Jonah tense and smiled against your delicate skin as you began to relax finally. You still were stifling your sounds, obviously not wanting the older man to hear you on the verge of cumming, but little noises were slipping out. Jonah grunted and kicked the horse, effectively riding ahead. His was missing out, the desperate, shuttering whimper as you came was music to Franicosco’s ears, cumming in his own pants once again.

*

Jonah’s face was burning. He didn’t want to hear that, he didn’t want to see what he saw. He didn’t want to know what she did with those four at all hours of the day outside of her not being harmed too badly. He has a duty to Marcus to keep her as safe as he could without rocking the boat too much. His duty to Iris came before all else. Now he was physically sick, and he was stuck with her trailing behind him. Francisco was putting the horses away, and obvious wet spot in his own pants sickening Jonah more, and had told Jonah to watch her.

Her voice was small. “Jon-”

“Don’t” He grunted, not wanting to talk. He needed to find Iris or Reyansh, he needed someone else to watch her. He needed to get away. 

“I’m sorr-”

Jonah whipped around to face her, keeping his distance.  His shame only grew when Jonah saw her eyes flick down to his pants. It was brief, only for a second and she didn’t see anything there but the fact you thought you might, the fact you had any suspicion that he might have gotten turned on by Frank’s display was humiliating.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I- I couldn’t hold it in. I was trying to be quiet but he-”

Jonah shut his eyes, not needing any more imagery and held up a hand. “Honey I can’t do this right now, okay? I’m not-” He sighs. “I’m not mad at you. I just can't be around you right now.” He saw your lip quiver, but Iris walked into the hall carrying a load of laundry on her hip. “Here.” He looked at Iris and gestured towards you. “I need you to watch her.”

 Iris scoffed at that. “You can’t just pawn her off on me when you’re bored of her.”

“I’m not pawning her off, I-”

Your voice was small but firm, slight wavering but determined to speak. “I’m not- I’m not a puppy who can’t be left alone for 5 minutes…” 

Jonah scrubs his face. “That’s not what I meant… I just mean-”

“I know what you mean,” She looked back and forth between him and Iris who was listening curiously. “But I’m not a child, I’m not a dog. I’m the Madonna and I don’t need to be babysat.”

“I know, I know, but they want someone with you at all times-”

“I’m twenty-two!” You suddenly raise your voice.

Jonah was done with this conversation, he couldn’t look at you without feeling sick right now. He turned to Iris. “Watch her, please?” and stormed off. He needed to find Frankie. He hears Iris sigh, then speak to you. 

“C’mon, you can help me and Rey with laundry.”

Rey must really love her if he was helping her do laundry. He'd seen his room... laundry was not a priority...

*

Jonah slammed Frank against the wall as he entered the house from the stables. At about the same height, Jonah had an inch on him but that didn’t mean much against Frank’s broad expanse. Jonah needed to posture if he was going to intimidate him, even if Frankie was the most timid of the 4. He needed to make sure that today did not repeat. “What the FUCK was that!”

Frankie’s eyes were wide, all his prior bravery and showmanship gone as Jonah pressed his forearm into his chest. Jonah’s hand was fisted in his shirt. “Nothing!”

“That girl has enough going on without you publicly humiliating her! Are you going to bring her to one of your sex parties next? Parade her around naked for everyone to see!”

“NO!”

“What the fuck happened to you! You were the good one, Frankie! After everything Beatriz put us through, you wanna do that to her too!”

When Frankie’s mouth opened to respond, hurt and guilt flittering across his face just as Jonah knew it would, Jonah was tossed to the ground and tackled. Before Jonah even had a chance to see who it was, his face being beaten by fists, he knew it was Ben.

“DON’T! FUCKING! TOUCH HIM!” The boy shouted, pounding Jonah’s face so hard he wondered if he’d cave it in. The thought didn’t seem so bad, but he couldn’t leave Iris and the girl. It wasn’t fair for Jonah to escape this hell he put Iris in.

It was Frankie that pulled Ben off him, eyes blue and crazed and flashing with anger, keeping his body protectively in front of his lover. They were a secret from Santi and the girl, both of them too oblivious to suspect, but the rest of the household knew. 

“Ben, stop, it’s fine”

“IT’S NOT FINE!” He screams, chest heaving in rage. Ben turns around to cup Ben’s cheek. “He doesn’t get to fucking touch you, baby.”

Frankie averted his eyes, body language stiff. It seemed he was okay compromising the girl’s dignity, putting her sexuality on display but was uncomfortable with Ben touting him. The reason, of course, was that Santi was a jealous god and Ben's possession could end his life, but the irony was still there.

The men left the hall, Frankie only looking back on where Jonah lay bleeding for a moment.

It was Rey that finally found him, Jonah too pained to get up on his own. His nose must be broken and everything ached, but the shame on Frankie’s face was enough. He made his point.

“Jonah! Shit!” Rey ran to him, and jonah forced himself to sit up lest the boy think he was dead.

“I’m fine, Rey.”

“Fucking bullshit, who did this? Was it Santi?”

He laughs. As if that man could get the jump on him without a knife or gun. Jonah could take him, he wasn’t the problem. The problem was the others. Ben, obviously, was a fucking force, and Will was a human mountain. Frankie was timid but don’t let that fool you, he’d seen the man take down forces.

The problem with Santi is the loyalty he garnered. Harming him meant the other 3 coming after him, and a majority of the commune. Delta would die for him, literally drinking the kool-aid if he asked. 

Jonah refused to go to the kitchen, knowing Iris and the girl would be there, so Rey took him to his room to clean him up.

“You probably shouldn’t sleep.” Rey says, icing his face. 

“I probably should drink either, but I'm gonna ask you to get me some whiskey.”

Rey chuckles and shakes his head, but gets the drink anyway. Jonah would just get his own.

Jonah mutters a thank you. “Please don’t tell Iris…” He sighs, knowing the answer to his request.

“You know I have to. Everyone else lies to her, she needs me to be honest.”

‘Everyone’ meant him. He hadn’t been a good father, he knew that. God, did he love her. Iris deserved better, he wanted to leave with her but there were no options. Everything around them had fallen apart, the other small communities around being so afraid of Delta they’d turn them in.

In the barren environment, Iris would die of exposer or be raped and killed by raiders within weeks, even with him and Rey protecting her. Not that she needed much protection, she was a skilled shot… which is why she wasn’t allowed a gun. Will kept careful eye on all the guns in Delta, Jonah himself only allowed his pistol during the day time, turning it in at night.

But Jonah hadn’t given up. He wouldn’t give up on getting Iris out until his last breath. If he could get the girl and Rey out too, he would, but Iris was the priority. 

*

The energy had shifted, and Santi noticed.

Santiago fucked into Frankie who he had flipped naked onto his stomach with Will having Madonna on her back. Frankie, who previously in these moments had focused on him or Ben was now eying her tits as they bounced in time to Will’s thrusts. He had kissed her, even, which hadn’t sat right with him. He tolerated it with Will or Ben, but her? She wasn’t for Frankie to love, she wasn’t for Frankie to be attracted to even. She was for Frankie and him to fill.

You were on the edge of an orgasm, but so was he, and as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t waste his godly essence on a barren hole. And he wanted to, god he wanted to. He wanted to cum so hard into his lover that Frankie swelled with child. Could it be possible? They were god, they were powerful… Maybe if he fulfilled his duty, maybe if he produced the savior with the whimpering girl impaled on his brother's dick, Mother would grant him this. If he had it his way, he’d have this child with Frankie only… but even now, even in his 30’s and the primary leader of Delta, a demi-god and son of the Holiest Mother on high, he could not control this.

With a strangled, pained groan, Santi pulled out of his most favored lover, shoving at Will as he stroked himself. Taking the hint, Will came inside you, kissing you deeply even as he pulled himself away to make room for their leader. As Santi angrily pounded your core, making your eyes roll back as he was the one to make you cum, not Will. He watches as your body writhes under him, Will’s cum coating his cock and spathering on his hips as it leaks out. Frankie joins Will in kissing you, your pleasured face chasing both their mouths until it was a blur of who was kissing who, the two mouths intertwining. 

Your moans grow louder again, chest heaving and back arching off the mattress and unable to kiss back as another orgasm began to eclipse you. That’s right, your pleasure was his. He controlled your body and what it felt, good or bad. Kneeling on either side of you, Will and Francisc straight and made out above, you sloppy and wet with Will shoving his large fingers into Frankie’s mouth. Santi wanted to cum, but his anger, his jealousy the white-hot fury that bubbled at his life-long inadequacy was holding him back. Will was practically throat fucking Frankie with his fingers, his left hand wrapped around his throat and Francisco’s whimpering moans gargled by his spit that dribbled down his chin and onto your breasts.

Pleasured sounds from your lips intensified when your hands went to your breasts, spreading the droll on your tits and playing with your nips with the slicked-up pads of your fingers. Despite fucking you, from where Santi knelt between your legs he felt on the outside of the scene, like he was the dildo and they were your porn, like he was being cucked in his own goddamn home.

Will pulled his fingers out, ordering Frankie to spit in her mouth. Santi watched in jealousy as you swallowed that part of him, quickly followed by Will’s own saliva. When Will went back to kissing Frankie, wet smacks of lips on lips, he used his dominant hand to jerk off Frankie's, throbbing, massive, uncut cock and the other shoving two fingers in your mouth. He wasn’t aggressive with you, merely giving you something to suck on as you came around Santi’s cock again. And then again. When Santiago watched Frank cum on your face, streak after streak of white liquid on your skin, Santiago couldn’t take it anymore. Angry, he reached out to fist Frank's brown curls and yank him towards him, lips crashing together. 

SLAM, SLAM, SLAM he thrust his hips into Madonna until she screamed a final orgasm with the help of Will's lips lapping at her nipples. As Santi came into your womb with fury, biting down on Frankie’s lips until he tasted blood. When it was done, he shoved Frankie to lay down where Santi joined him, lapping at the tangy blood and sucking on hip lip to draw more out. Will laid down by you, kissing you in a stark contrast. It was gentle and soft, making you smile. 

Santiago reached out repeatedly, scooping up the cum on your face and shoving it inside your sore, puffy pussy.

“Can’t be wasting a single drop, Frankie.”

WHAT ARE WE THINK WHAT ARE WE THINKING WHAT ARE WE THINKING

I don't know what came over me with that smut bro, I blacked out and wrote it. im on my period a lot is happening.

Oh Frankie.... c'mon dude, don't do Jonah like that :((((

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LOVE YOU ALL!

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[cynicalrosebud]

Rumor Has It (6)

My Masterlist

Series Masterlist

CW: Betrayal, blood, canon-typical violence

Rumor sat on the edge of the cot in the team's temporary safehouse, staring at his Glock 19 resting on the small metal table beside him. His reflection in the dark window was a ghost of someone who had been through hell and come out the other side, though not entirely unscathed. The past month had been a whirlwind of chaos, betrayal, and bloodshed—more than he'd seen in all his years of operating on the fringes. He had a lot of experience with morally gray areas, but what had gone down over the last few weeks had pushed the boundaries of everything he thought he knew.

Graves' betrayal had hit the hardest. It wasn’t like Rumor trusted the man—he never had—but there was a certain level of professionalism you expected from a team leader. Watching Graves flip, aligning with Shepherd and turning Shadow Company against them, was something he hadn’t seen coming. The missions had turned from taking down cartels and terrorists to cleaning up a mess left behind by those who were supposed to be on their side. And then Shepherd…

Rumor rubbed his temples, the memory of Price’s cold stare as he pulled the trigger replaying in his mind. He didn’t feel any pity for Shepherd—not after the missiles, the lies, and nearly losing their lives chasing down Hassan. Hassan… Rumor's hand tensed into a fist as he remembered their showdown. Killing him hadn’t been satisfying, not like he thought it would be. Just one more name on a list of people who made things worse.

Then there was Makarov.

Rumor’s heart tightened, his thoughts darkening as he replayed that moment. The sniper shot, Soap dropping like a stone, blood pouring from a graze along his head. For a terrifying few seconds, Rumor thought he'd lost him. Soap had survived, sure, but seeing the Scot nearly taken out had shaken him in a way nothing else had. And it wasn’t just him. Price, Ghost, Gaz—all of them had a moment where they thought Soap was gone. That day had left them all on edge.

Price killing Shepherd had been brutal, efficient, and—more than anything—quiet. Rumor doubted Shepherd had seen it coming, but Price hadn’t cared. Shepherd had crossed a line. Price had made sure there were no loose ends, no trails. He wouldn’t be caught for this, not unless someone dug too deep. But who would? There were so many bodies piling up in the wake of Shepherd’s lies that no one would bat an eye if one more disappeared in the chaos.

Laswell had taken charge of Task Force 141 after that. It made sense. She had always been the real backbone of the team. Rumor respected her, though it felt like something had shifted in the team. Shepherd’s betrayal had taken more than just their trust in their chain of command—it had left a scar.

Rumor let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. He’d been promoted to Sergeant and officially brought into the 141. It wasn’t how he imagined joining the team, but then again, nothing about the last month had gone according to plan. He was part of the 141 now—officially. No more hanging around the edges, no more being a wildcard. He was in it, for better or worse.

And yet, despite everything, they were still standing. The 141 was battered but unbroken, moving forward, mission after mission. They had to. There was no time to rest, no time to dwell on the betrayals, the close calls. There were always more enemies, more threats. And as long as they stood together, Rumor knew they could handle it.

But the weight of it all still clung to him. He glanced back at the Glock, then at his reflection, whispering to himself, “Bloody month, huh?”

The door to the safehouse creaked open, and Soap stepped in, rubbing his head where the graze had left a thin scar. "Rumor," he said with a half-smile. "Ye ready? Price says we’ve got a briefing in five."

Rumor gave a small nod, standing up and grabbing his gear. "Aye, I’m ready. Just—" He hesitated for a split second, looking at Soap with a tired smile. "Glad you're still here, Albannaidd."

Soap grinned. "Takes more than Makarov to put me down."

Rumor chuckled, feeling a little lighter. "Good. Because I think I’d go mad without your constant yammering."

Soap slapped him on the back, laughing as they walked out of the room together. For a moment, things felt almost normal—just two soldiers, brothers-in-arms, facing whatever came next.

As they joined the rest of the team in the briefing room, Rumor’s mind shifted to the next mission. He wasn’t just Rumor anymore—he was 141, through and through.

And no matter what came next, he was ready.

[sassycheesecake]

A/N: I know in the manga that Kiyoomi says that dogs are cute and way more hygienic than humans because they sweat through their paws and tongue unlike humans who sweat through the skin, so in this little os he doesn’t like animals in general. :]

„What. Is. that?“

Kiyoomi opens the door to your shared apartment, stopping immediately in his tracks when he sees a small German Shepherd puppy with floppy ears laying on the floor, chewing on what seems to be on of his spare volleyballs.

As the tall man enters, he keeps a wildly bewildered look on his face, scooching himself to the wall, calling your name loudly with a mix of fear and irritation in his eyes.

Hearing your boyfriend‘s name in distress, you almost run into the entrance hallway of where you hear him, trying really hard to control yourself not to laugh.

Seems like he found your little surprise.

The black curly-haired 6‘3 man almost presses himself into a corner, looking terrified and dare you say disgusted at the little fluffy creature that you picked up from the shelter earlier in the morning.

When you saw those eyes in a post on Facebook, how could you not pick him up to give him a loving home?

Loki is wagging his little thin tail like crazy, yapping and barking, trying to get close to Kiyoomi, who is keeping the puppy away with his foot, blocking him off.

With each bark, Kiyoomi visibly flinches.

„(Y/N). Take it away from me, please.“ He almost begs.

Giggling softly, you pick up Loki and you see the ravenette take a relieving breath.

Walking past you with big distance, he really tries to control himself not to run out of this apartment and get a hotel room for the night.

„Kiyo, stop saying it like it’s a piece of garbage or something. His name is Loki.“

„You named that thing already?“ He asked irritated while grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

„Well yeah, I am not planning on giving him back if that’s what you are wondering, that is just morally wrong.“

„It’s morally wrong to bring an animal into our apartment without telling me first. What if I have allergies?“

„Don’t be like that. I asked your sister if you had any allergies and she denied it.“ You smirk in victory.

He glares at you in annoyance, his eyes shifting to the little happy furball again that looks at Kiyoomi like he is his whole world.

Heaving a deep sigh, he hangs his head in defeat.

„I am not going to be able to convince you to bring it back, am I?“ Kiyoomi says in a tired voice.

„Nope.“ You grin proudly.

„Any more unsuspected surprises I should be aware of?“

„Nah. Hey, can we get a cat next?“

„Don’t push my patience.“

@rukia-uchiha-98 @nerd-of-karasuno @wake-uptoreality @darthferbert

[lindsay00000008]

Away from Here Pt. 2

Part 1

Initial prompt by @sowhumpshaped

This post dedicated to @eyehartart, who sent me an ask about it a few months ago :) Thanks for encouraging me to continue!

Even though I'm continuing this story, feel free to use Part 1 as a basis for your own version.

Characters are now gendered (and I kind of love them already)

In light of the poll from the first post, I've decided to make the horse-riding character a caretaker (though he may not always be a good one)

CW: Fem!Whumpee, Male!Caretaker, mentions of abuse, bruising, cuts and scrapes, allusion to assault, general distrust and fear, some witty banter

The poor, disheveled thing that sags into Dion's chest - no longer attempting to stay upright and distant, no longer jerking with an anxious tension that inhabits their spine like a whip laid there every few seconds - is finally asleep, and is, rather unbelievably, a young woman.

Her body is thin and reveals nothing to him of curves and gentle flesh, but the bones that thrust against her skin are fine. He might have thought her a boy, were it not for the glimpse of her ears, peaking through snarls of unevenly-shorn, dirt-caked hair. They’re pierced three times on the top of each, the holes empty of ornamentation. She was once a young lady of good standing, then. Not likely a daughter of the court, but cared for.

At first, Dion had not been able to see past the dirt and matted hair to tell that she was anything other than in need of help. She’d stumbled out of the blackberry bushes and into the clearing like an androgynous personification of lost souls. Dion’s skin still crawls with the shock of her sudden appearance; but more so with the idea that, considering the way her eyes darted and her shoulders twitched, her neglectful state was likely sculpted at the hands of another man. 

Part of him, the untrusting, scoundrel of a man who cares little but for his own interests, tells him she’s just a blind beggar, crying out for sympathy and a bite to eat. It tells him the squishy, warm-hearted part of him, who scooped such a thing up without question, is an idiot. 

But the bruises. Blues and greens and mottled reds, visible beneath the dust. The scratches he sees now, on her neck and shoulders; some from thorns, others older. Deeper. Those were not for show. Nor the way she flinched and whimpered at his grasp when he lifted her onto the saddle, despite her submission to the handling. He has no doubt the bruises carry past the ragged hems of her tunic, and loosens his arms about her waist even now. She wears thin breeches that reach no further than her knees. Her feet are bare, the toes stained almost as dark as the horse’s hide and the ground passing slowly beneath them.

Dion had wanted to kick the horse into a canter, to leave the area faster. But despite that logic, and the young woman’s request, he found himself staying at a brisk walk. His horse was still tired from earlier travels, he reasoned. In reality, he did not want to disturb the woman’s injured body. Funny how a sudden bout of morality found him at this point of his trip. Hadn’t he almost killed a man just nights ago, for trying to steal his boots while he bathed? He wasn’t exactly regretful. Dion is certain that if the woman had met him at that moment, half-naked and roaring like a bear, she wouldn’t have needed clear vision to tell that he was not the kind of man one approached seeking compassion. He truly has no idea what motivated him to suddenly be a gentleman, coming to the aid of one less fortunate. But it’s a nicer feeling than he’d thought.

He considers his options as dry autumn leaves fall around them, approaching the main road to Beuhearth. He had planned to bring her to the city’s shrine as a Servant of Sanctuary, when he’d thought her a boy. He may have been able to get some travel supplies in return for the labor she’d provide. But women aren’t allowed to enter a shrine, much less to clean the altars or pour the elder’s wine. He might still try it, trick them as he was tricked by her mask of filth – but no, the punishment once she’s discovered would be too severe. Try as he might, Dion couldn’t think of a single place in society where a lone woman would be welcome. A whorehouse, maybe. He scoffs at the idea, discarding it immediately. He’d occasionally thought to offer such businesses his patronage, but in the end always shied away from the sunken, tired eyes of the women who called to him from the doorway. Sometimes he thought of his mother, and wondered how she had supported him, after his father left. It always turned his stomach.

But this mangy thing cannot remain his responsibility, can she? Is he to support and care for her, suffer hunger and poverty for her, just because he sat her on his horse? Of course not. He’ll simply take her far away from the country roads and drop her off in the city, where she may live off the compassion of more generous folk. He may even find a tailor shop to take her in, if her hands are any good. That’s more than what he promised.

The land turns from wooded hills to flat prairies. Farms appear on either side of the road as it widens. The city is still a day away, yet the sun already begins to set. Dion sighs, resigned to set up camp rather than ride through the night. The young woman shivers at the cold already, pushing her icy feet between his calves and the horse’s warm body.

“Are you awake?” he asks. Her feet retreat quickly and she stiffens, pulling away from his chest. She breathes in deeply, as if awakening to reality. He waits for her to calm, to breathe out and settle, before he speaks again.

“We will camp soon. There’s a river here. You should bathe, though it’ll be cold – I will try to make a large fire before nightfall.”

She shakes her head, leaning forward as if she stares at the horn of the saddle, or his hands on the reins before her.

“You do not wish to stop for the night?”

“No, I… I do not wish to bathe.”

Dion can’t stop his short laugh from escaping. Her head turns to observe him, her brow pinched and eyes red beneath dark clumps of lashes. He stops laughing when he realizes she’s looking right at him.

“Can you see me clearly?”

“I can,” she says, turning away once more. Her tone is still hoarse, but steadier than it was when he found her.

“What troubled your sight before?” A golden sunset comes soft through white clouds. The path dips and curves, and the sound of rushing water filters through sparse trees, farmland still sprawling along the other side of the road. Dion keeps his spine straight, so as to not crowd her as the horse makes its way down a slope. He waits for her to answer his question, unsure if she will.

“... It was too bright, when I… when I came out.”

“Came out… into the clearing?”

Again he waits for an answer. This time it doesn’t come.

“So, you do not wish to bathe.” he supplies.

She hesitates, then shakes her head.

“We’re almost to the city. Beuhearth, it’s called. I wish to give you clean clothes, so you may have a better chance there – but I won’t waste them if you do not bathe,” he adds, not unkindly.

“What sort of man are you?” comes her faint reply. She must have seen his scars, then. If not the one across his face, then the ones on his rough fingers that hold the reins just below her belly.

“A ruffian. But one who would not neglect to protect a lady in need,” he answers. Her head whips around at that.

“What makes you think I’m a woman?” her tone is suddenly harsh, accusatory. Or fearful.

“My apologies,” he says hesitantly, focusing on the road and away from her intense brown eyes. He doesn’t believe her in the slightest. “But it does not matter to me whether you are a scrap of a woman or a scrap of a boy. I am certainly a scoundrel at times, a man of loose morals. But even I would not harm a…er-”

“A scrap?” she finishes for him, turning away right as her lip twitches upward.

“A scrap, laundered or not. I assure you, your suffering will not appeal to me any more if you are scrubbed clean. It would bring me far greater pleasure to have you comfortable, in clothes not moth-eaten and torn.”

She quiets, likely because he’d guessed her reasoning for refusing to bathe. When she speaks again, it’s a line of questioning Dion had been prepared for, now that her survival is not necessarily tied to escaping down the road with him.

“And why would my ease bring you pleasure? Why help me at all?” she asks, distrust still evident in her posture. He is not insulted by this, though. It shows her intelligence, at least, even as she agrees to his help.

“Hmm. Not many wish to travel alongside me, upon seeing my scars and the sword at my hip. Those that approach me do so to steal or to fight, not to ask for help or companionship. I have met no one but equally unpleasant scoundrels along my path, and it would be foolish of me to turn away a person who will not slit my throat or steal my boots.”

“I would not do such things.”

“Whether you would or would not, you will not.”

“Do you mean, because I cannot?”

“I said no such thing.” His smile colors his words. “What is your name? I am Dion. The beast beneath you is Fleur.”

“I am… Willow,” she says, just as they pass such a tree, dangling its thin arms in the slow-moving water. The path trails along the river now, lined with rocks and bushes.

“Surely not.”

“I’ve elected to change it. Just now.” Her voice displays a defensiveness, a haughtiness somehow, behind the rasp and the unease still coloring it. He wonders if she’s blushing.

“You certainly are decisive. But do let me know if you change it again, Willow.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the name,” she mutters.

“Nothing at all,” he agrees.

Part 3

[tracklessreason]

-MP100 WIP featuring Reigen and my Depersonalization!Yoshioka!-

It's seldom so quiet at the Spirits and Such office.

Even now, as Mob drifts further from the island of familiarity towards his own future, Reigen's life is hardly empty.

The quiet tap-tap-tap of Serizawa's pencil against the desk, the anxious chatter of nearly everly client to pass through the doors, even Reigen's presence, calm and contemplative as it can sometimes be, has a way of taking up the space.

Right now, it is quiet.

Serizawa at school, Mob briefly abroad to provide moral support for his brother whose been given the privilege of considering colleges years before his time. Dimple isn't even there. Reigen alone sits at his desk, swiveling back and forth as far as he can manage without having to remove his feet from where they're propped on the desk top.

It's long past noon, and shadows cast a dreary dim over an office with no one to turn on the lights for. Reigen's computer has been off for several minutes, but he hasn't noticed, staring blankly at the glare of setting sunlight preventing him from seeing his reflection in the monitor. He swivels in his chair, back and forth.

Back and forth.

It would be a good time for a nap if not for this lazy sort of restless energy; too wired to close his eyes, too tired to do more than sit here and spin. It occurs to him that it's about time to close the office for the day. That explains the sensation. His body has a habit of trying to expend that last little bit of energy around this hour, keeping him up for the commute home. His head doesn't move, but his eyes flick around the office, seeing only shadows where Mob and Serizawa normally stand.

"Time to pack up, everyone." He murmurs with dry humor and a wry smile. "No sense keeping you all here on a day this slow."

He shakes his head, dragging his feet from the desk so he can stand up on them, arms up over his head and back arched in a gentle stretch as he takes a deep breath.

Reigen smells cigarette smoke.

Instinctively his eyes drop to the corner of his desk, to the handmade ashtray sloppily carved with Mob's name, a little clay dish that once would have held burning cigarette butts he'd meant to extinguish.

There is only a handful of hard candies sitting in it now.

Reigen drops his arms and frowns, sniffing the air deeply. It's certainly there, a smell too potent and new for the thin yellow grime of tobacco coating the walls to be the problem. His brow furrows, and he turns, squinting through the blinds to the balcony. There's someone there.

Tall and thin, short black hair, standing with their back to the building, and a plume of smoke rising from the cigarette tucked in the corner of their mouth, angled just enough that Reigen can see it. Frame too wiry to be Serizawa, so it must be Dimple, except, when he's using that vessel, he never stands so stiffly. So it can only be that Dimple isn't here.

"I guess his vessel smokes." Reigen says to no one.

Keeping his eyes on the man, he reaches down and rifles through the pockets of his suit jacket, finding a stale cigarette and a match. Just in case.

He tucks both between his teeth, and deftly throws his jacket on, crossing to the door, and creaking it open to step out onto the balcony.

If at all possible, Dimple's vessel straightens more, a tense energy apparent even with his back turned. It's the most Reigen has ever heard from the guy.

He hardly speaks, he doesn't chat. If he's present, chances are it isn't without the rosy spots on his cheeks indicating Dimple is the one behind the wheel, leaving the body's true owner completely out of the picture. Reigen doesn't even know his name.

Strolling casually to the man's right side, Reigen leans against the railing, taking the match and striking it against the rough metal. It sparks, and ignites, a dim flicker of light against the strong blaze of the sunset illuminating them both in peachy golden light. Reigen cups his hand around the match, guarding the flame from a non-existent breeze as he holds it to the cigarette's end, puffing air through it until it burns red at the tip.

He snubs out the match.

"I don't know your name."

His tone is not apologetic, nor intrigued. It's an acknowledgement, an excuse for not inviting further conversation. He watches the man calmly, and the man seems to search around himself, expression almost paranoid in its expectance to find something there. Dimple, Reigen presumes. He's looking for Dimple to take over, both the body and the responsibility for replying.

Nodding to himself, Reigen turns away, taking a long drag from his cigarette and slowly releasing the smoke to watch it obscure the sunset.

Beside him, the man exhales too, a nervous shakiness to the sound. He turns minutely, hardly any inch, and offers out his hand to Reigen.

"Yoshioka." He says, the familiar firm brassiness of his tone remaining, though lacking the husky grovel of Dimple's influence. "Yoshioka Mamoru."

Reigen raises his eyebrows, taking the proffered hand.

Yoshioka's handshake, like his voice, is firm and confident, utterly lacking the anxious dissonance of their average interaction. Reigen realizes that in his mind he'd been comparing this man with Serizawa, this realization dawning if only because he now sees them as hardly being alike. Serizawa's nervousness is an impairment, a result of his lackluster social skills and inexperience with formal relationships and public speech. This Yoshioka, though high strung, displays capability that Serizawa distinctly lacks; he simply dislikes to use it.

"You've got a good grip." Reigen muses aloud, extracting his hand.

Yoshioka turns to fully face him, but their eyes never meet.

"Likewise." He says politely, nibbling on his cigarette. "Dimple undersells the effectivity of your persona."

Reigen blinks. He can only think of that response as profoundly odd, and strangely formal.

"Thanks." He says, sort of drawing out the hiss at the tail end of the word.

Yoshioka nods. His hand comes up to cover his eyes, and stays there as he continues to speak.

"He bad mouths you a lot, in this weird way that makes me think he intends it as a compliment. Typical Dimple really, but you of all people would know that."

"Mm. He doesn't talk about you much." Reigen prompts.

Talk about yourself now, he's thinking.

Yoshioka turns out towards the railing again, dropping his hand and taking hold of his diminished cigarette instead. He snubs it against the railing, and shoves it in his pocket. His hand emerges with a fresh one, which he absently lights, and tucks in the corner of his mouth. He takes a long, slow breath, completely filling his lungs before expelling the smoke from his nostrils.

"Dimple doesn't talk about much of anything that doesn't make him look better compared to someone else."

"And you?" Reigen urges once more.

Yoshioka looks distinctly uncomfortable. His hands stray to his pockets, his shoulders hunch, and he further averts his gaze.

"He makes it work." Is the curt reply.

Reigen has no idea what this is in response to, what he's trying to say. He sighs and shakes his head, spitting away the butt of his own cigarette. Turning to lean back against the railing with his elbows propped up, he gestures vaguely with his hand, advice bubbling up in his chest the way it often does when conversations reach a stalemate with Mob or Serizawa.

"You should talk about yourself more. The best way to leave a good impression is to-"

"No."

Reigen stops, the beginning of a smile that was pulling at his lips fading away.

"Pardon?"

Yoshioka shakes his head, leveling his gaze with Reigen's for the first time. His eyes are blank, blanker than Mob's.

"You don't let a ghost possess you because you're keen to get out and chat." He says frankly. "Perfectly comfortable being present in this body as little as possible. Dimple can have it for all I care."

Though offput by the response, Reigen composes himself seamlessly, offering an indifferent nod.

"Good to know." He says, his voice intertwining with another speaking the same words.

He casts his eyes out past the balcony, searching the air just over their heads. His attention is recalled by a short gasp from Yoshioka, followed by a calm sigh.

Reigen turns back with a frown to find Yoshioka leaning on the railing at an uncomfortably close distance, elbow propped up and chin in his hand, a sneering grin contorting his features as disturbingly as the bright red spots on his cheeks.

"Making friends?" He drawls condescendingly.

"Dimple." Reigen sighs, rolling his eyes.

The spirit ignores his disinterested response.

"I thought you two might get along." He muses, face scrunching with disgust as he takes the cigarette from his mouth and tosses it away, smacking his lips to rid himself of the flavor. "Same nasty habit."

"Casper has a problem with vices suddenly?" Reigen replies smoothly.

Dimple shrugs, arching his back with a sickening pop. When he rolls his shoulders forward again, there is little sign of the tension Yoshioka carries in them. It's typical Dimple to make a body seem strange, the way he wears such nervous people and practically turns them inside out trying to push the limits of what he can do in their skin. This sort of strangeness however, is new to Reigen. Dimple wears Yoshioka well.

Somehow, his presence seems to make the man feel more human than less.

-Ahh, I still have so much more to write before this is done! Please tell me if you like it or have any criticisms, I'm very much open to feedback in the comments or asks!-