#more the outline but same thing in the long run

[headfullof-ideas]

I have finally finished outlining up to the point in which the prologue happens! Now I know what events can be referenced in conversation because they’ve already happened!…whenever I get back to writing, I’ve been drawing a lot recently because my writing brain is fried and I have stuff I wanna draw beyond my HTTYD/The Deep crossover.

[fayes-fics]

Mirror, Mirror

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When Benedict's wife tries on his clothes, things happen...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, cross-dressing, clothing kink, light biting, breast play, a smidge of intercrural sex, very mild exhibitionism, mirror sex, vaginal sex.

Word Count: 2.2k

Authors Note: Request fill for @d-caryophyllus (HERE) about Benedict being aroused by his wife dressing up in his clothing. I hope this fits what you were hoping for, my dear. Thanks as ever to @colettebronte for the beta read. Yes, the title is a nod to Season 3, lol. Err, enjoy! <3

It’s early in the morning on a mundane Thursday when a somewhat daring idea forms in your mind. 

Fresh out of your morning bath, you dismiss your maid quietly when usually she would assist you with dressing for the day. As the double doors click closed discreetly behind her, you glance through the open archway into your bedroom; heavy curtains still drawn there, obscuring the sunlight. In the darkness, you can just decipher the outline of your husband sleeping soundly after a late night of carousing with his brothers.

With a little secret smile, you decide that, yes, now is the perfect time. He is asleep, and you have a few hours to spare until your first social engagement - a ladies' luncheon - so why not use the time to satisfy your curiosity?

You stride to your husband's side of the dressing room, opening his wardrobe doors and running your fingers over the items within—a symphony of wools, silks and cotton, all luxurious to the touch. While he is arguably one of the more flamboyantly dressed men of the Ton, with eye-catching jewel-toned waistcoats and colourful cravats, the basics of his outfit are mostly the same every time: dark trousers and a white shirt. A large part of you is envious of that easier choice. Sometimes, it feels like a veritable minefield being a woman during the social season, the looming threat of an unintended fashion faux pas simply by wearing the wrong colour to the wrong event.

Upon a chair, you spy the outfit he discarded when he came home in the early hours, not yet tidied away by your staff. You decide this shall be your choice, a frisson that they are already worn.

Dropping your bathrobe from your shoulders, you grab the pair of his trousers and pull them on. The finely woven wool feels plush on your skin, and there is an undeniable novelty in having fabric between your thighs. They are, however, almost comically long for you, and you have to bend to roll them up a few times around your ankles. Bemused, you briefly catch sight of your reflection in the full-length dressing room mirror, topless in oversized trousers. 

You snatch his white shirt and pull it on, pausing to tug the ruffled lapels up to your face and inhale deeply, enjoying the flood of scent there. His woodsy citrus cologne, yes, but also that undercurrent that is all him. That tang you cannot help but bury your face into, be it upon his pillow when he is away or his body while you cling to him, moving together in ecstasy. 

You fasten a few buttons, then tuck the shirt into the trousers and loop the braces hanging loose around your hips up onto your shoulders, once again inspecting your reflection in the mirror with a wry smile, twisting this way and that, admiring how different you look dressed in his clothing.

“Wife, what are you doing?” 

You almost jump out of your skin as that velvet tone, slightly roughened by sleep, calls out from across the room. You twist to see Benedict leaning casually upon the archway into the dressing room, shooting you a look that is pure menacing intrigue while looking like sin himself—all riotous bedhead, and, as your eyes slip further down, gloriously naked. It makes you swallow hard.

“I… I was trying on your clothes,” you stumble sheepishly, a blush creeping over your cheeks being caught doing something perhaps rather bizarre. 

“Any reason?” he queries, bemused, that crooked smile claiming his features.

“They just seem so much more practical and comfortable—especially trousers. I would like to wear such things…” you confess, turning back to the mirror to appraise your appearance again, watching him prowl towards you in the reflection. “Are… are you vexed with me, husband? For taking such liberties?” Your words petering out, mildly abashed.

A large, warm hand wraps around your shoulder, yanking you back almost roughly, making you gasp as your shoulder blades collide with his chest.

“The precise opposite,” he rumbles, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror, a sudden burning intensity that makes your lungs feel tight. 

Long fingers spider down his brocade brace, draped down your chest, lingering where the strap rests over your nipple, swiping his thumb in a deliberate tease, his face triumphant as you swoon back into him from just this simple touch. 

“My clothes look much better upon you than me,” he opines duskily, his lips tracing your temple as his fingertips push the brace aside to capture your nipple through the thin cotton shirt, making you inhale sharply. “Perhaps we should attend a party with you dressed like this?”

“That would be a scandal!” 

There is a vault in your stomach at the idea of attending a social event dressed in his clothes, even as you melt under his questing touch.

“Not in the more… bohemian… circles that I know of…” he contends; his breath is a warm gust in your ear as his other hand does the same, fondling both nipples now.

He waits until you meet his gaze in the mirror again, then lowers his lips to your neck and bites gently. His incisors a faint scrape, immediately soothed by a wide, wet lathe of his tongue. A little crest of victory as something sizeable stirs against the cleft of your bottom. 

“If I were dressed as you, then what would you wear, husband?” 

“Whatever you would like, my darling,” he offers between soft, damp kisses, a tingle running up your neck from his lips to the top of your scalp. “I could wear your clothing should you wish it. Or perhaps just your corset and underwear?” He nuzzles into you, taking a deep breath. “Our little secret…”

Something about his tone, the images he concocts, makes your blood run warm, your hand reaching up and diving into his luscious hair, tugging gently upon his roots so again he feels compelled to use his teeth, a groan bubbling up from within as he does. With a flick of his wrists, the braces fall from your shoulders, and he cups your breasts through his thin cotton shirt. It makes you sigh his name, asking for more, arousal coursing thickly through your veins—a yen to be taken right away. 

“The thought arouses you, does it not?” he correctly surmises, trailing his touch down over the shirt, brushing your ribs and belly to the fastening on the trousers, making short work of the buttons.

You nod demurely, biting your lip as you watch his dextrous hands in the mirror, his arms encircling you; it is almost as if he is removing them from himself. The air feels heady as he pushes the loosened fabric from around your frame, and it hits the rug with an audible thump.

Standing before him in just his ruffled white shirt with only a few buttons fastened, you feel his weighted stare in the mirror, lingering on the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs peeking out between the shirt sides.

“I shall prefer you keep this on…” he asserts, popping open a button over your chest so the fabric opens enough for him to slide a hand inside, tweaking your nipple and pulling you back into his frame, rutting his now solid cock against your bottom.

You turn your head to press your lips to his, imploring for more of his touch in a fervent whisper before seeking a kiss. His mouth is hot on yours, rolling his tongue with yours, endless caresses of your breasts as you burn so hot you rub your thighs together in delicious anticipation of more, already more than ready for him, your clit pulsing with each tease of his tongue.

“Here?”

You know what he is asking—if you wish to have sex right where you stand, in front of your dressing mirror, his shirt loose around your body, him naked behind you.

“Yes. Yes please…” you murmur into his mouth, rolling your body against him, telegraphing unmistakable need.

“The window is open,” he points out with a smirk, nodding towards a high window that allows in light to the dressing room but affords you not to be seen; it is open this morning to let in the summer breeze. “What if we are heard?”

“I care not,” you confess, exhaling jaggedly, knowing he likes you in this state, desperate and debauched, uncaring if you may be overheard in your pursuit of pleasure. 

Rubbing yourself upon him akin to a feline in heat, moving so his cock passes teasingly between your thighs now as you writhe. He groans and tells you not to stop, hissing his approval. So you squeeze your legs together tightly, allowing him to rut between them, the pass of his cock glancing maddeningly over your engorged clit.

His touch becomes heavier, hands mapping your body as his hips surge, and you see the red, weeping tip of his cock emerging and disappearing in the mirror, an intoxicating sight. You moan lightly with every pass, a tantalising swipe, not enough to bring you real pleasure, just notching your want higher.

He finally takes pity upon you, angling his hips differently and driving into you; you, moaning at the invasion so deep and encompassing, rocked up onto your tiptoes. Every time he has entered your body, it's always the same: a force that steals your breath and makes your eyes roll. His hands are a firm grip around your waist as he withdraws slowly back, then surges in again, capturing your earlobe in his teeth as he does.

As your eyes meet in the mirror, you idly wonder how many other wives are watching themselves being fucked by a handsome husband like this; a bright weekday morning, birdsong wafting in on the scented breeze, body wrapped only in his shirt. You suspect none are quite so lucky.

You moan his name and arch back against him, wrapping your hands around his neck and watching yourself being taken, relying on him to keep your stance steady as he starts to fuck into you in earnest, large hands sliding up to cup your breasts, engulfing them in his warm palms.

Unable to stop the noises you make, each pass hitting all the spots inside that make your toes curl into the thick pile of the rug beneath your feet, your pussy clenching around his invasion, making him growl and move faster, taking you harsher, an onslaught that is as pleasurable as it is powerful.

His mouth is a breathy litany of praise into your cheekbone, your eyes fluttering closed to focus on the carnal moment - the sweat, the skin, the ragged breaths, the meeting of your bodies so primal and glorious, but he has other ideas.

“Look at yourself,” he purrs dulcetly, your eyes reopening to do as he asks, to watch this unrestrained moment of passion, to see the little marks blooming on your body from where his fingers dig into your flesh as he pounds into you now, a flourish of colour on your neck from his thorough attention.

You plead for more throatily, pushing back as best you can against his thrusts, wanting him to make you scream, uncaring of any audience inside or outside your townhouse, only craving the sweet, blissful release he always provides.

Abruptly, he wrenches open the shirt you wear, one button pinging forward and tinking against the mirror before skittering across the floor, your naked body framed by his crisp white shirt, the ruffled lapels tickling the sides of your breasts, catching sight of his handsome face in the mirror contorted in a passionate tempest.

Then one hand slides down your front, you feeling it rippling in your belly and seeing it in your reflection before you until those fingers slide between your legs and hook over your clit with a force that steals the air from your lungs, a sharp stab of pleasure that makes your knees buckle, him pausing in his motions briefly to brace your weight, keep you upright.

Then it is a blur as he restarts his motion, his fingers dance on your swollen pearl, slipping silkily over his touch as he grunts encouragements. It feels like you are circling for so long, so close to something mind-blowing, but then he flicks harshly with his fingernail and bites your neck, and you are hurtling. Everything is loud and quiet at once, no doubt your voice calling his name as you tumble over the edge, clenching hard around him as your whole body shatters and rebuilds in a blissful puzzle. Dimly, as you float, you feel his entire body tense, and with a roar, he follows you over, a warmth blooming inside you as he reaches completion. 

There are a few moments of panted breaths as you both recover from the intensity before he spins you around and sweeps you into his arms, carrying you back to bed. There, he lays you down gently and proceeds to turn you into a molten, quivering pile, mapping your body with his lips and fingers until you are begging for him again, which he more than obliges. So much so you are almost late for your social engagement.

If there are a few derogatory looks as you swan into the ladies' luncheon with a blissful smile and a burgeoning mark on your neck from your husband's amorous intentions, well, so be it. You wouldn't change it for the world.

And it is also most definitely not the last time you dress up in his clothes…

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[causenessus]

ALSO!! I ASKED THE LOCAL OMI ENTHUSIAST @/NECTARDADDY WHAT OMI WOULD SMELL LIKE SO CREDIT FOR THAT BRAINSTORM SESSION GOES TO THEM I'M SORRY I FORGOT TO WRITE THAT IN THE EXTRAS </3

try again

part 0.4. NEXT TIME

"the playground seemed so big when they were younger. and now they’re here again, 10 years later, and it looks small. their world is bigger than just this playset now. the metal that forms the foundation of the structure is still a shiny, vibrant red, but the cracked, faded plastic shows its age. where has time gone? 'who are you now?' she wants to ask. as a kid, time goes by slowly, and you tell your parents you can’t wait to grow old. they tell you to enjoy your childhood, but you never believe them. and even now, she’s not sure she does. she's not old, but old enough to know time goes by fast. since their meeting in her office, she’s reflected more on how she’s grown up. she doesn’t miss her childhood– she likes the freedom that has come with adulthood, but at the same time, it’s slowly weighing her down. she’s old enough, that she can no longer spend her summers relaxed in a quiet house, laying in bed all day with the door open while both her parents are at work. she can't spend the nights stretched out on her back, against wet, dewy grass, looking at the stars with him while staining her favorite shirt. now she has responsibilities to take care of every day, and any little mistake can no longer be taken back. she’s an adult now, and no one is there to pick her up when she falls."

content warnings + notes: calling atsumu a little cupid whore (/lh), drinking, y/n is having a crisis, pay attention to unsent messages :) very long written part... oops </3

she downs the last of her glass in one go. 

it’s cheap whiskey, and she hates the taste. it’s probably the worst she’s ever had, but the burn down her throat is a little pleasant. 

completely going against her plan to drink something light, she decided she would need some liquid courage if she was going to do this. her hands are splayed across the cold bar counter as she stands from her chair, mind buzzing a little as she grounds herself. 

akaashi doesn’t notice her absence in his drunken state, but iwaizumi does. kita looks up as well, but remains seated, keeping akaashi company after nodding to iwaizumi who stands up.

“where are you going?” he asks following her out of the bar, pushing past a few groups of people in their way. he's not asking it like he's accusing her of anything, he just sounds concerned.

but he doesn’t need to worry, and she faces him as they make it out. “going to see omi,” she practically sings the answer, her voice careless as the nickname spills out of her mouth before she even realizes it. it comes too naturally to her, and the thought ruins the nice numbness in her veins from the alcohol. instead, she starts to feel the guilt build up again.

iwaizumi still stands in front of her, arms crossed, matching her own stance. “you’re going to see sakusa?” he repeats, brows raised.

“mhm,” she hums, shifting from one foot to the other. her shoes are starting to bother her, too. she'll probably take them off as soon as iwaizumi lets her go.

“where?”

she sighs, starting to feel restless just standing there. the warm lights and ruckus from inside the bar invite her back in, and so does the pull she feels in the opposite direction down the street, where she'll see him. “an old park, can i go?”

“no, hold on,” he stops her before she can even take a step, “you’re going to go meet a man you haven’t talked to in years after a single interaction at a park this late at night?”

“yes?” she quirks a brow at him, “it’s an old park we used to go to a lot. it’s not far from here and i know him. i’ll be okay.”

“i’m not saying sakusa’s going to do anything to you, but i’m not letting you walk there alone. especially when you’ve been drinking. let me make sure you get there safely and then i’ll leave you, deal?” he proposes, and she sees how much he cares in his eyes. they’re a pretty olive green and despite how sharp they are, there’s so much love in them. it reminds her of her own eyes, and how she feels when she looks at sakusa; her head starts to panic in alarm and get defensive, but at the same time, her heart slows down, as if telling her he's safe.

she knows iwaizumi makes a good point, and there’s nothing wrong with having a little extra safety, or a human purse. “fine,” she sighs, “but only if you hold my shoes.”

their walk to the park is silent, but it’s a peaceful silence. she’s walking next to him barefoot, feeling even shorter than before. he questions her a few times, to make sure she actually knows where she’s going, and she insists that she does. she’s had a little bit to drink, yes, but she’s not drunk. and she's confident she could still find her way to this park blindfolded. she’s walked these sidewalks hundreds of times, ran to this park from every direction and route possible. it was always their spot, whether they lay in the wet grass or sat on the playset. the memories of being with him back then make her feel a little grim, and iwaizumi looks down at her, noticing.

“you okay?” he asks, nudging her shoulder closest to him with his arm.

“yeah,” she sighs, watching the way her shoes clank against each other in his hand with every step they take.

“what’re you thinking?” he asks, still looking down at her and she looks back up at him.

“i just don’t know what i’m doing,” she says, trying to voice her feelings while she turns to stare back ahead of them. “what are we gonna do? what does he like doing now? what if i’ve changed and he doesn’t like who i am anymore? i'm so scared of disappointing him.”

“you’re good enough as you are, y/n,” he silences her and she glances back at him in surprise. “don’t let a man change how you see yourself. you’re good as you are, and if he doesn’t think so, he can fuck off. there's no such thing as an expectation or a right way for you to act. he’s probably changed too, and that’s just how people work. did he text you or did you text him?”

she gives him a smile at his words, nudging him back with her shoulder as a way of thanking him, “he texted me.”

he gives her a grin at that, “he texted you? asking to see you?” when she nods he continues, "damn that's ballsy. he really wants you, y/n. and i hope he's a good person. i’ve seen him around and worked a little bit with him, he seems alright.”  

she flusters a little bit at his words, “i’m sure it’s not like that. we just used to be very good friends, you know that. i’ve never stopped missing him, maybe he felt a little bit of the same way.”

he nods at her words, giving a hum in thought. they’re walking along the fence that’s been set up around the park, and she can see the entrance coming up, where a lone lamp post is lighting the way. “but you want him, don’t you?”

she knows he’s asking it in a romantic sense, and she does. she knows what she feels for him is more than just friendly, and she’s felt stupid for never being able to fall in love with anyone else because she’s been stuck on him this entire time. “i’m happy with anything,” she decides to say, “if we start hanging out again, that’s enough for me. i just want him to be a part of my life.”

they stop at the park entrance, and she can see the playset from here, just a bit down the path. “do you want me to walk you there? or are you’re fine from here? i think the walk helped you sober up a little bit, so i feel better about leaving you here now. just make sure you text me if you feel even slightly off, got it?”

“got it!” she responds with a smile, giving him a small salute as a joke. “thank you for walking me here, iwa. i'll be fine on my own now and i’ll text you when i'm walking home.”

he rolls his eyes at the salute but gives her a smile, “sounds good. i’ll check in with you then as well. i might come meet you halfway or who knows, maybe your guy will want to walk you home?”

he’s giving her another shitty grin that she’d like to slap off his face, and it’s her turn to roll her eyes, “whatever, iwa. see you in a little bit.”

she pulls him into a hug, trying to tell him all her feelings at once, thanking him for his advice and for walking her here, and he’s quick to reciprocate it, rubbing her back for a second before they pull away. he gives her her shoes and waves her off, making sure she steps onto the playground before he leaves, and she sees him.

tonight, it seems they’ll be sitting on the top of the playset, above a tube that connects one platform to another. she steps up onto one of the platforms first, dropping her shoes on it before clambering on top of the structure.

he offers her a hand after watching her (probably ungraceful) climb which she hesitates to take for a second. her heart feels like it's trying to escape her chest as she takes it, the contact sending chills along her skin.

“hi,” she whispers after she's sat down, stealing a glance at him, unsure of where to start.

“hi,” he says back, already looking at her. he looks better than when she saw him last, but perhaps that's just because today has been better for him. there are still bags under his eyes that she can see despite the lack of light around them, but she can also see that his eyes look brighter today. she wants to mention it, say she’s glad to see that he looks like he's doing well today, but she shouldn’t. it’s too early–

“you look good today.”

the words spill out of her mouth and she immediately slaps a hand over it. she had drank more after texting him purposefully, knowing that it would mess with her ability to reason and this was the consequence, although she wasn't sure yet if it was a positive or negative one.

he laughs in response, giving her a small smile that she hasn’t seen in years. she missed seeing it; she missed him.

“thank you,” he says, holding her gaze and she’s unable to look away, “you look good too. although maybe a little drunk.”

her cheeks are burning red and she feels hot despite the fact that she was practically shivering the entire way here, latching onto iwaizumi and his body heat. “no i– well– yes, i have been drinking but i didn’t mean it that way– i mean you do look good–” she has to take a deep breath, trying to calm herself down, “i meant you look happier today, sorry.”

he’s still looking at her, smiling. and maybe it’s a tiny bit bigger than it was before, and she smiles back.

she has no idea it’s because of her–that he seems happier today. he’s only just found her again after so many years apart, and yet he’s glad she’s in his life again. this is only the second time they’ve seen each other after so long, and she’s already had this big of an impact on him. and maybe it was due to atsumu’s influence, and the way that he kept bringing her up, and how it had been their entire conversation over dinner, but he didn’t really care. he was happy to be talking about her again, and to see her again. they had been so close, and it felt strangely nostalgic whenever he saw her, as if he was a child again, tossing and turning on a bed stand, sick to his stomach for home.

but he had been homesick for her this entire time, and he didn’t want to talk about her as if their time together had passed; he wanted to be close to her again. but only if she let him: “that guy you came here with, are you guys–”

“oh, no no no,” she immediately cuts him off, shaking her head before he gets the wrong idea. “he’s just a friend. my roommates and i went out to dinner today and then we went drinking. he just didn’t want me to walk here alone.”

he nods, feeling strangely relieved to hear that. “i just came from eating out with my roommates, too. i cut it short because one of them was being annoying.”

she hums in thought, a smile breaking out on her face, “hm, that can’t possibly be atsumu, can it?”

he can’t even joke back, just rolls his eyes with a sigh at the mention of his friend.

“i just texted him earlier tonight. finally scolded him for setting up that entire meeting between us. i mean– who even thinks to do something like that?”

“just him. he’s got one brain cell working for him and it’s got a funny way of working,” sakusa responds, looking forward to the field in front of them. they used to spin around on that field, trying to stay standing the longest before they both fell onto wet grass, too dizzy to keep standing. “i think it worked out nice, but there were definitely other ways he could have planned that out.”

she can’t help but look at him, slightly surprised. so he was happy to see her? perhaps she should’ve understood that by now; here they were sitting side by side on an old playset. “yeah, it did,” she can’t help but say, not even thinking twice about agreeing with him. “and if you don’t mind me bringing it up, do you think you will come back for a second meeting? i was just wondering.”

“yeah, i’m thinking about it,” he answers, still not looking at her, and she thinks maybe she shouldn’t have asked the question. she’s brought the topic of conversation back to her job, and reminded herself of everything she shouldn’t be doing right now. she shouldn’t be doing any of this. she’s looking forward to seeing him in her office again, but she shouldn’t. she should be treating him as a client, not as an old face or a silly old crush. and she shouldn’t be seeing him outside of the office; it ruins that professional relationship she should be trying to maintain. she's giving into him too easily, even after he had been the one to accuse her of something hurtful upon their first words to each other in years.

a particularly cold wind blows through and she shivers, breathing in sharply as her shoulders raise towards her ears on instinct, trying to protect them from the cold. in her defense, she hadn't foreseen sitting on a playset in the middle of the night today and had not dressed accordingly.

“are you cold?” he asks, hand already reaching towards the open black jacket he was wearing, a plain white shirt underneath.

she’s looking at him, face completely blank. her mind is so far gone, thinking about countless other things, including every single way this interaction could go. ‘what was she even doing here? why did she agree to come?’ the moment he texted her she put up little to no resistance. she lasted one text, trying to set up a boundary between them to prevent herself from getting hurt and then completely dropped it. how could he be so casual about seeing her again? was their friendship something shallow to him? something he could easily replace or come back to?

he’s saying her name, and her mind returns to the boy in front of her, blinking twice before responding, “sorry. i was just thinking about something. i’m fine. you don’t need to give me your jacket or anything.”

“but if i want to?” he asks and this is where she failed last time, and will fail again, and will always fail, because she can never resist him.

“i–”

the jacket is already around her shoulders before she knows it. it’s warm, and the weight of it on top of her shoulders is comforting. the smell of him is enveloping all of her senses and her entire mind, and she squeezes her eyes shut, trying to focus on anything but it.

it was simple, and really not that heavy or distinctive of a smell. just clean clothes–his detergent, and maybe a hint of lemon or lavender. it was easy to get used to, and it had become familiar to her after being around him so long in the past, but she hadn’t smelled it in so long, she felt like she was suffocating now. with the smell came so many memories associated with him, and it took everything in her not to let out a shaky breath, giving away her emotions.

he didn’t know what to say, looking at her. her chin was resting on top of her knees, pulled up close against her chest, and her eyes were closed, brows furrowed as if she was trying desperately to hold something in. had he come off too strongly? he liked to think he still knew her, could read her mind, tell when she was cold, and when she needed something, but maybe he was wrong, or just moving too fast. maybe she didn’t feel the same way, and didn’t want to be friends again.

“thanks,” she murmurs finally, eyes opening again, although she’s staring at the ground below them, and he’s unsure of where to look–at her, or the ground as well.

“yeah,” he replies, and the conversation falls quiet between them again.

it’s almost comfortable between them. it would be if she wasn't feeling like she was ruining everything and only digging herself a bigger hole. maybe they went quiet because he was sick of her now, and regretted asking to see her. and should she even care or not? should she get up and leave right now? what was the right thing to do right now, objectively? not what was right according to her heart, but according to her head?

she should be keeping her distance from him, not allowing him to get closer, giving him the chance to hurt her again. he had let them get distant, she reminded herself. he had let their friendship crumble without saying a word, he didn’t see her the way she saw him, and she couldn’t rely on him to be there for her.

“how are you?” he breaks the silence, and the question sets off every nerve in her body. it’s like her mind is being torn in two, trying to find an answer to the simple question. it’s not really that simple– he’s asking it, referring to the last 10 years of her life, and he’s asking her to be vulnerable and share about herself, and she can’t do that.

“don’t do that to me,” she says, shutting her eyes again.

“do what?” he’s looking at her, at his jacket draped around her shoulders, and shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to hold himself back from reaching out to fix her hair, which has been slightly caught underneath the jacket. 

she lets out a heavy, quiet breath, “don’t ask me that– like you care.”

“i do care,” he responds immediately, and she’s sure if she looked up at him, he’d be looking at her. but if she looks at him, she’ll break.

“we shouldn’t be doing this. we can’t be doing this. i shouldn’t be seeing you outside of my office. i listened to you talk about your struggles for an hour that you would've otherwise paid for if it wasn't the first meeting. you can’t turn around and ask how i am for free. that’s not fair. we should be nothing more than a therapist and a client. it’s easier for me to look at you that way because–” her voice gets caught in her throat for a second as she tries to talk confidently, but her voice gives away her feelings. she sounds like she’s on the verge of tears before they even reach her eyes, but she blinks through them, “because i look at you and still see what we used to be. but so much happened between us, and then you left, and that still hurts.”

‘then will you let me make it up to you? then can we go back to what we were before? and can we be more?’ the words are heavy in his head, and too forward to say out loud, but he has to say something. he has to say something now because he didn’t say anything back then.

he had always assumed that she had just been disappearing from his life altogether–from his notifications, the school hallways, and his walks home, but he realized now she had done that on purpose. she had purposely removed herself from his life so they would never see each other, and he had never stopped her. of course she hadn’t believed him, when he had said it was good to see her in her office, and of course she hadn’t fully understood what his ulterior motives were when he texted her out of the blue about wanting to see her again, because he had never showed how much he cared back then. but he had to tell her now that she was worth everything.

“i don’t mind paying it,” he ends up saying, and finally gets her to look at him, “i don’t mind paying to see you for an hour. i’d pay to be around you anyday, especially if you’re going to refuse to see me anywhere else, then i’ll just force you to put up with me for an hour every week.”

she laughs with a shake of her head, “you’re not forcing me to see you. i want to see you outside of that time…i just–i shouldn’t.”

“why not?” he can’t help but ask. “you’re still friends with atsumu, too. you text him outside of your appointments all the time.”

“yes but–” i like you more than a friend. hell, i’ve been in love with you for the past 10 years of my life. actually, probably for even longer, but who’s even counting at this point– she takes a deep breath again. she should leave soon, and think about this. she’s going to end up letting him convince her if she keeps listening to him, “maybe next time. i’ll tell you how i’ve been next time, okay?”

she’s giving him a next time, and he’ll take whatever he can get. they can start slow again. being her client is like being her acquaintance. people are always acquaintances before they’re friends; they can grow from here.

"when is next time?" he responds quickly, realizing it sounds like she’s going to stand up and leave soon, but he's not losing sight of her again.

she avoids looking at him, keeping her knees are pulled to her chest as she picks at the worn-down plastic of the playground tube they're sitting on, "i don't know, sakusa. i really need time to think about all of this. i don’t know what i’m doing here, or why i showed up tonight.”

her words feel like a burn in his lungs, but even when his sides are aching on his morning runs, he keeps going. "but you showed up anyway."

she finally looks at him, and he swears he could get lost in her eyes forever. he can’t believe he went through their entire friendship without telling her how beautiful she was, in every single way. he can’t believe he ever let go of her. perhaps that cliche saying was true, that you never know how important something really is until you lose it.

"i did," she echoes, continuing to stare into his own eyes.

"are you going to leave?" he asks, unable to look away.

she looks back down at the threads of green plastic she was pulling at, and his eyes follow. they used to meet at this playset all the time. during the summer, when she’d sleep over, they’d stay up until three in the morning, and then she’d nudge him about sneaking out. he used to worry about what would happen if his parents checked on them and saw that they were gone if they sneaked out, but she always ended up convincing him in the end. they rarely fought or had disagreements. with enough talking, they always managed to persuade the other to agree with them.

“i am. because we both need time to think. you need to think about if you’re going to see me again for therapy and i just need to think. about everything," she replies, and he watches her grab the edge of the tube, steadying herself as she moves to stand before he slides himself off the tube onto the ground below. it’s not that far of a drop for him now, although it was the scariest drop ever as a kid. now he stands eye level with most of the playset, but she's looking at him like it's still that big of a fall, mouth slightly agape in surprise.

“i’ll help you down,” he says with a smile and she blinks.

“no, i’m fine–” her words die out as he looks at her, brows raised in expectancy. this is what he meant: they were always able to push the other to do something, no matter how much they tried to resist in the beginning.

she lets out a sigh, trying to buy time as she fixes her skirt, preparing herself to slip off the tube. it really shouldn't be that scary, but she exclaims as she drops, barely registering the hands on the sides of her waist that catch her while her own clamp down on his shoulders.

her face is red as he lowers her down gently to the ground. whether it’s from the embarrassing noise she let out or the fact that he caught her, she’s not sure. maybe it’s both. even when he lets go of her, she can feel his hands on her still, as if they've been permanently etched into her skin. he’s looking down at her, and there’s a hint of playfulness in his eyes and the smile on his lips. he's too close to her, and she can't stop looking at his lips so she looks down at the ground instead, clutching at the jacket around her shoulders before she remembers it’s not hers.

“oh, here’s your jacket back,” she starts, moving to take off the piece of clothing before he stops her with a hand over he own.

“you can keep it for a little longer if you– if you let me walk you home,” he says, on the verge of losing all of his confidence, but he just can’t let go of her. he doesn't want to watch her leave, but he knows she needs a break.

she looks up at him, feeling like her lips are quivering with how nervous and flustered she feels, “you don’t have to do that, really. i can walk home by myself.”

“but if i want to?”

it’s a repeat of a conversation they had earlier, because she can never give him a complete no, and he always knows to take that as a yes.

she’s ruining everything she’s trying to do for herself right now. she’s trying to set a boundary between them, and horribly failing. because what if he walks her home, and he happens to live nearby again? what if they start to see each other more often? or worst of all, what if he ends up leaving again?

well what if he doesn’t?

oh, whatever.

fuck the what ifs.

they can try again.

.

.

.

"it's gonna rain soon / and pull me back in.

"i had the words / you thought a hundred times

"oh darlin' / will you still walk me back home?'"

prev. | m.list | next

extras <3

not really any extras! i just hope u enjoyed <3 and that this chapter was good and not too long or just a bunch of rambles!! i had like three ideas i had randomly wrote down and then just copied and pasted into this chapter and was trying to make them all fit 😭

IWAIZUMI AND Y/N HAVE A PLATONIC SIBLING-TYPE RELATIONSHIP!!! JUST MAKING THAT CLEAR also i'm a sucker for iwaizumi but that's besides the point

omi just kind of got up and left at some point during dinner when atsumu got tipsy and started talking to shoyo and bo. he said goodbye to osamu and then left

they all have each other's locations anyway and shoyo and bokuto trust him to know what he's doing

kita, akaashi, and iwa ended up going home soon after iwa got back from walking y/n to the park and then he and kita stayed up all night waiting for her to come home while akaashi was passed out <3

this fic lowkey goes a little bit off the rails!! but hopefully u guys enjoy it <33

AND I KEEP FORGETTING TO SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THIS I'VE KIND OF LOST IT NOW!! but y/n's pfp is a pufferfish because they symbolize protecting yourself and setting boundaries <3 interpret that as u will

taglist: @eggyrocks @wyrcan @guitarstringed-scars @strawberryuri @violetesensou @kakeru-eem @glmge @heytheredemonsss @mollyrolls @bemebiu @daszy @snail-squasher @0moonii @thiisisntlovely @todorokiskitten @rory-cakes @iiwaijime @iatethemochi @yuminako @savemebrazilhinata @kismyscars @bokutoko @nobodybutnnoorr @wolffmaiden @daisy-room @softpia @lees-chaotic-brain @v3nusplanetofluv @crispchocolates @phoenix-eclipses @hhoneyhan @encrypta @rockleeisbaeeee @cr4yolaas @zombriesworld @localgaytrainwreck @moucheslove @hibernatinghamster @notverymarley @certaindreampost @akaakeis @ciderscape @lucien-luna @strawbrinkofdeath @wave2mia @samuel1004 @01trickster10 @dazqa @cosmiicdust @chemiru

[bi-writes]

attached | ghost x f!reader

i have no idea what it is that binds us together. but it doesn't really matter.

type: one-shot (8.4k)

cw: zombie apocalypse au, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, dark!reader, reader described as curvy/plus-sized + has hair long enough to braid, graphic depictions of violence + murder + gore, depictions of suicidal thoughts + intentions (no actual action), mentions of depression + sadness + loneliness, depictions of assault + harassment (not by ghost), horror movie vibes, unprotected piv, allusions to baby trapping, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), 18+

Death can be a curious thing. It used to be something definitive. Exact. It used to mean the end of something.

No, now it's a beginning. Not a sweet beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. It turns a new tide. Reactivates cells that were once dead. Sparks nerves that used to be dormant, that used to be dark. It makes muscles move even when they aren't supposed to. Brain-dead, but still hungry.

He hasn't been able to understand the phenomenon quite yet. He's tried. He's picked up a few books and tried to do his own research, but it's difficult when there is no way for him to view the cellular structure of it all on a micro-level. He cannot see the way it grows or how it takes over. He hasn't been able to figure out what techniques it uses to keep a body awake even when the central organs no longer function the way they're supposed to. What keeps it moving? What keeps the feet running and the stomach hungry and the saliva warm?

Why is it that when he plunges his blade through its heart, it still kicks? The brain is its engine, as with his own body, but this is different. The brain runs even when it has lost its necessary components. Blood circulation, oxygen, the things it needs to thrive; but this state of being is not like his own. It doesn't need the same things it used to need because its purpose is not to keep a body running. Its purpose is to eat. To infect. And that is all.

He likes to play games these days. He has a lucky silver euro, one he pried off the dead body of someone that he hated. He spit on that body before raiding his pockets. He hated that fucking brute; he disgraced the style of wearing a mask by using a fucking t-shirt instead. Perhaps Austria is a beautiful country, but it certainly produced one of the most unlikable of men. He thinks even if the world was still right-side up, he would've killed him anyway. The only thing useful about him was that he was carrying a few extra magazines and this coin in his front pocket.

Every morning, when he wakes up, he makes whatever will happen that day a game. If the coin lands on heads, he gets to kill himself today. If it lands on tails, he has to endure 24 more hours before he can play again. The rules are simple. The game is easy. Everyone knows how to play it, but not everyone will like to win it.

Today, he decides to do something different. Today, he decides if he wins, he will wait another day. He has never won this game; he decides if he can't win it, he'll manipulate it until he gets what he wants.

It hits the table with a light clink. It rattles around in a few circles before settling, and when he leans back in his chair, he sighs. He knows what it will be even without looking, but he looks anyway. When he sees the carved outline of its face-side up, his eyes flash. He won.

He never wins.

Something is keeping him here. He chooses not to ask questions. There isn't anyone to ask anyways. No one answers when he speaks. He doesn't think there is anyone left to listen.

If someone would ask him why he doesn't just put the muzzle to his temple and pull the trigger, he would just say that it was because that was how the game is played. Those are the rules. He can't try unless that's what it tells him to do. There is no fun in cheating the game; it wouldn't be proper, it wouldn't be correct. It would be grounds for disqualification, and that just wouldn't do, not for him.

He has to do things the right way. Always. It's how you keep order in a world that has none left. It's how you maintain structure even without the lines drawn in the sand. This is the way things are done; God is not waiting at the end of a very long staircase, He is rattling that coin on the table and waiting for Ghost to take a peek.

He thinks it keeps landing on tails because perhaps God is tired of playing this game with him; Ghost has never been surprised. He will always be ready for disappointment. Giving a gift is no fun when the recipient simply receives it.

It landed on heads today. He won the game. He tried to play it differently, but someone won't let him.

There's snow on the ground this morning. It snowed all night, coating the ground in a few inches of powdery ice. He looks away from the window and back towards the mirror, continue to run the razor over his head. His blonde hair falls in clumps in the sink. He keeps it neat and short, close to the head, and then he does the same with his face. He cuts the stubble close, keeping his face clean, but it doesn't wipe away the rest of his face, the things he can't just cut away. The scars, the ridges, the skin that closed over wounds angry and white and uneven. He can see his teeth through the broken skin above his lip, the yellowing of them now that he only brushes them a few times a week with his lack of proper toothpaste, and he grimaces when he sees the new red spots of raised skin left behind from the dirty mask he wears now. He dips his toothbrush into his bottle of water before brushing, careful to scrub his gums properly before spitting into the sink.

When he finishes, he makes his way back into the bedroom to get dressed. He did the washing yesterday; he found a creek only half frozen over, and he made use of the bar soap he keeps and managed to clean off most of his clothes. He feels a little better slipping into his cargos now that they aren't drenched in sweat or dirt. He tucks a long-sleeve into his pants before putting a thick windbreaker on over it, but he finally feels complete once he slips his mask on over his face. In the mirror, he adjusts it, making the skull straight, and he blinks back at himself. The mask does more than just hide him from the dead.

It keeps the living walking a careful circle around him, and he wants to keep it that way. He hasn't spoken to a single person since it began. He stopped counting the days once his boots ran out of space for notches. Anyone he sees now, he scares them off with one look, or he puts them down before they can take a step closer to finding out if he's real or not.

He doesn't take chances. He has always had a special skill, being able to sniff out the bullshit before it begins. He leans into it now, and it isn't a bullet wasted if it stops the chaos before it can wind up.

He still wears his tactical gear. He can't part with it. His holsters have not failed him, still buckled around his thighs. His vest is still strapped on, and without it, he feels naked. He has long since discarded of the Union Jack patch on his chest; there is no king nor country anymore. They are colors in different shapes, and they mean nothing now; they were buried a long time ago.

His backpack feels light. He's running out of bullets, and he doesn't like how it feels. Nowadays, he has to go further and further to get what he needs, and recently, he's taken to picking up everything and simply moving to make the trips all the easier with no home to go back to.

It's not all that different to the life he had before. He never stayed in one place too long then either. He signed the shortest leases, and he would move once it was up, never lingering and never buying more things than he could carry in the back of his truck. His memories are in his head and nowhere else. He keeps no trinkets. He saves no pictures. There is nothing from the old life that needs to be brought into the new. He shifts between both lives, one foot in the past and one in the future, and he thinks that's what really makes him live up to his name.

He's a Ghost. A drifter. Standing between two places at the same time, not knowing which to stay in and which to leave. It would hurt, if he was really human inside, if he could feel anything at all.

But he's not. His insides are nothing but organic matter. His head is a clock, ticking, counting down, but he's not aware of when it runs out.

He digs the heel of his boot into the snow to gauge the depth. It barely comes up over his toes. He huffs a little before taking a peek at the map tucked into his vest. He had circled a place just north, a main street he is hoping will have a stash of things he will need.

Ammunition. Weapons. Food. Water. A new book, for fuck's sake, maybe a Sudoku puzzle that isn't already scribbled into.

The forest gives him cover, so he sticks to it. Out in the open, he would stick out, dressed in all black. He keeps to the trees, ducking under the leaves and trying not to leave too much of a track behind. He doesn't plan on staying in that cabin again, but if he must, he doesn't want anyone seeing a way to come back to it.

The one thing he does appreciate about this new place is the quiet. It lingers, and it's calm, and when he breathes, the world breathes back. He feels like he had always been telling everyone to shut up, but now, his voice hasn't been used in months. Even when he passes other people, he doesn't speak to them. If they don't spot him, he keeps to the shadows, and if they do, they don't see him for long enough to know what hit them.

It's a good stash. The store had been rifled through by now, but in the office, there had been a nice drawer filled with supplies. A few boxes of ammunition, a revolver, and a new blade to stick in one of his boots. He picks up some other odds and ends. Batteries. A roll of yarn. A small sewing kit. A few pens. His backpack feels a little heavier, and it's a weight he appreciates when he makes his way back outside.

He sticks to the alleyways as he searches for the roof over his head for the night. He decides the cabin he slept in last night was too close to the road; if anyone was driving or following it, they could find that place too easily, and he wouldn't be able to sleep another night comfortably there knowing this truth.

He finds himself veering off road just enough. It's fucking cold, freezing, and he's grateful to the mask for helping him keep it together as he ducks under the wind and keeps an eye out for any nearby landmarks. Sometimes, on slow days like this, he would sit on a ridge and kill infected for sport. Practice focusing his sight, calculating the wind, keep his mind in check by hitting his targets and ridding the world of another one of those things.

There are different kinds of hunters out today.

He hears them before he sees them. He knows what kind they are when he hears their laughter. Low and untamed, sloppy and fucking messy. They always are. These kind spoil their treasures. They eat their food until it makes them sick, and then they do it all over again. They never learn their lesson.

When he settles his rifle down along a fallen tree, he eyes them through his scope. There are two of them. Both are fattened, with dark hair and lazy eyes, and they look greasy. Their clothes are in ruins, and their packs are light, and Ghost figures that they look enough alike to be perhaps brothers, or maybe cousins. Their smiles are equally as sadistic. The taller one tugs something along, and when Ghost aims the scope down a little, he sees her.

Her.

He's dragging her by her legs. She's kicking, but it's hard for her to do much when her arms and legs are bound by mismatched bits of fabric and rope. She's crying, that much is clear, squirming as she spits and gargles around the gag in her mouth as she tries to break free. She has heart, but she isn’t a fighter. If she was, she would’ve realized her teeth could snap that fabric of her gag, and she would know that the knot they’ve tied succumbs easily to upwards pressure.

He follows them. They keep going, dragging you and laughing as they make it to a makeshift camp hidden amongst a clearing. There's a few tents set up, a small dip in the earth to hold a campfire, and when they settle on tree trunks to sit, the smaller one takes a blade and cuts your gag off, leaning over you with a low chuckle. They mean to maim and to take and then to kill, and you know this when you look into his eyes.

"Hello, darling."

"Bite me."

He laughs again, dropping onto his knees over you, but when he gets close enough, you sit up with what little strength you have and bite him along his ear. The cartilage rips, and you tear half his ear off, and then he's scrambling off of you, screaming, holding the side of his head as he rolls around in circles in the snow. He colors it red, and you snarl with satisfaction. Ghost takes a deep breath in and lets it out shakily. The look in your eyes–he can taste that, roll it around on his tongue. You did not clock the poorly-tied knots, but you do see opportunity, and you are the kind to take it.

"You bitch!"

Just as the taller one is about to get on top of you, Ghost decides he's seen enough. He closes one eye, lines up the sight, and he lets out a cool breath as he drops the both of them within a second of each other. They fall easy; a bullet clean through the back of their heads, and now they're finally quiet again. They will not get up, either.

Your lip trembles as you look towards the trees. You watch as the leaves rustle, and when you see a man emerge from the thick of them, you start to cry. You think maybe you're seeing things; you must be so dehydrated, so hungry, that a reaper has come for you, and you are much deader than you thought.

The reaper stares down at you curiously. He swings his rifle over his shoulder, tilting his head to the side as he bends, getting a blade out of his boot before he cuts the restraints that bind you. He doesn’t hesitate when he does this; he does not deem you enough of a threat to keep you bound.

You sit up slowly, wiping your face, and when you meet his eyes, you're surprised to see how human they are. They're dark, but alive, and he has blonde lashes and pale skin underneath. He covers himself, but you can still see him. There's a man under there, not a reaper.

Just a man.

I hate men.

You shake off the rest of the restraints, turning your wrists and ankles and flexing your muscles for good measure. When you realize you are nothing but a little shaken up, you look back up. He's still staring at you, hard eyes lowered in a glare as he looks you over. He's sizing you up, maybe, deciding what to do with you. You meet his eyes one more time before gathering the saliva into your mouth and spitting onto the floor. It's a garbled mess of blood, from the flesh you had severed from that man.

He blinks slowly at that, makes some decision that he doesn’t voice out loud, and then he starts to walk away.

You stand on shaky legs, taking it as your cue. You watch as he rips open the flimsy tents that those men had left behind, and he's already grabbing backpacks and rifling through them for goods. He already starts filling his own vest and backpack with the things he finds; some flashlights, fishing line, more food and ammunition. You follow him, moving to the other tent beside it and starting to grab their things and toss them outside. You get to your knees and open the packs, laying out what you find carefully. They have interesting materials in here, ones you associate with explosives. C4. Lighters. Batteries. Wiring. You clench your jaw when you pull out the last box in the bag.

Condoms.

Bunch of pricks.

He finds your discoveries useful. He opens up an empty pack he found and fills it to the brim with supplies. When he zips it up, your stomach drops when you think he might toss it over his shoulder and leave. It only sinks for a moment before he turns the backpack around, holding it up for you.

You pause for a little and think. It only takes a few seconds for you to decide to stand up and slip your arms through the straps.

When he walks again, you follow.

The sun is setting by the time you find somewhere to sleep, but it looks like luxury to you. A quaint little brick house tucked between the hills, a ways from the road and positively hidden. He spotted it through his scope a few hours ago, and he made a beeline for it. It's difficult to keep up with him; he has incredible stamina and the longest legs. He moves like a ghost, too quiet for his own good. You would never know from looking at him how stealthy he could be. For such a huge man, you would never notice him before he could get the drop on you. It makes you conscious of your own steps and how loud they are, and you try to mimic the way he moves as you keep walking.

You don't know why, but you think he must be very pleased with how quiet you've gotten. You don't know why that fact pleases you, too.

He makes you stay outside when you arrive. He pulls a small handgun out of his backpack, and he checks the chamber before handing it to you. He clicks his tongue, forcing your eyes on his, and he puts a finger to his mask-covered lips, telling you to keep quiet. You take the gun from him, pointing it at the ground and holding it at your side, and he touches a knuckle under your chin before he twists a silencer onto his own gun.

You watch with rapt attention as he clears the house. His movements are quick and calculated, and he keeps low to the ground. It's mesmerizing. Big and capable, one with the shadows. The only thing you see in the dark is the white of the skull over his face, and if you didn't know it was him, you would think that you have just seen God.

But God isn't real. Apparently ghosts are.

He is back outside in less than ten minutes, nodding his head at you. You take it as your cue to come towards him, and you hand him the gun back when you pass him. You go into the house and immediately start to light some of the candles scattered around. You set your backpack down, rubbing your shoulders out, and you take a seat on the couch.

It hits you then, the gravity of it all. Men are your captors, and then they are your savior. They'll never leave you alone. They'll never let you go. You were ruled by their iron fist in a previous life, and you will endure their wrath in this new one.

You start to cry. It's the first sound you've made since screaming. You cover your face with your hands, and you don't know why you feel safe enough to cry, but you do, and it comes out of you fast.

He tilts his head to the side as he watches you. It's a strange thing to see something so...alive. He's used to only seeing things moving that can't speak back to him. If he does see things alive, he puts them down as if they are rabid dogs.

He can't find it in himself to kill you. Something is so odd about it. About you.

Everything about today seems more than coincidence. He won the game today. And then he found you.

When he tries the sink in the bathroom, he's surprised to find it working. He grabs a bowl and fills it with water, and when he comes back into the living room, you are staring at one of the flickering candles blankly, shivering. You have stopped crying, but your face is still wet with fat, lingering tears.

It looks like you've been hit by a brick wall. Your hair is matted in places, in tangles. It’s in desperate need of a cut. It's stuck to your face around the perimeter, caked by sweat and mud and dried blood. Your clothes are in ruins; you wear a ripped jumper, thin jeans, and the soles of your boots are starting to fray and come off, and he can see where you've tried to mend them unsuccessfully with duct tape. You wear no jewelry, and your fingernails need to be cut. Those men have left marks on you, but those will fade.

He kneels in front of where you sit on the couch. Using a threadbare cloth, he dips it into the water and raises it to your face. You show no resistance. You let him wipe your face off, the tears, the dirt, the blood. It stains the cloth ugly, but you can't look at anything else except for his eyes.

They're so dark. Brown, like bark, like honey. You haven't spoken a word to him yet, but the silence is sort of bliss. All you can hear is the drip of the water when he rings out the cloth.

He helped you. He didn't have to. He could've kept walking, but he stayed with you. He didn't leave you. He could've walked away again, but he let you follow.

He isn't a good man. You know that. Anyone who has lasted this long isn't a good person. You've done the same. You've let it take you, once or twice, let the snarl in the back of your throat guide your hand. You've let the voices fester, let them eat at the acid in your stomach until they begged for more, and you won't admit it, but it felt good. Felt good to protect yourself. To rid the earth of something terrible. To say no.

He must understand that. He's decorated in its essence, the one of understanding, the one that says I know what it's like to take matters into your own hands, and he did it with you, too.

He's doing it now, cleaning you up, and you don't know him, or his face, or his name, but you'll try hard to give it back. To give him something. To tell him you are worthy and not useless. It doesn't show today, how far you've come, but you'll try.

"Thank you," you finally whisper. He's dragging the cloth over your bottom lip, and he blinks rapidly, as if a bit startled by hearing your voice. When you speak again, it's to tell him your name, and he thinks for a few moments before continuing, wiping under your jaw.

He doesn't sleep that night. He stares out the window, like a guard dog, and he lets the soft breaths of your sleep keep him awake.

The gas lighter on the stove still works. It takes a match to light it properly, but when the fire starts, you take some of the soup cans from your pack and make breakfast.

Your smile when he comes into the kitchen nearly blinds him. You look more rested than yesterday, and you ladle some soup into a bowl for him, setting it down at the table. He notices the two bowls, his and yours, and he notices that his bowl has more food.

It is then that he decides to keep you.

What he doesn't know is that you've decided the same. The world has thrown you the way out. A man, built like a bear, happy finger on the trigger and capable of getting you out of harm's way. You need to convince him that you are worthy. You need to convince him that you are valuable. A keepsake.

Men are what start wars, not what end them. Men are the cause of chaos and destruction, it is prevalent throughout history, and it is why you are here now, in a place that doesn’t exist, where people don’t breathe the same air anymore. A man thought himself correct, but he was wrong, and he didn’t listen when someone told him otherwise. They are the ones that take advantage of your vulnerability, and instead of trying to understand it, they use it to get what they want.

You can do the same.

You start by mending his clothes. He's laid some out to dry after washing, and you notice the tears in his shirts. When he comes back a little while later, with dinner hanging off his shoulder, you are seated on the couch, feet tucked under you, with a needle in your hand as you sew up one of his shirts.

You've bathed, found new clothes, warmer ones, and your hair is braided and off your face. He hates to say he prefers you a little dirty, but he likes this, too. A natural beauty. A soft face.

You make a real dinner that night. There's canned vegetables that you try to spruce up with the spices you find in the cupboards, but the real meal is the venison you're served. He butchers it outside like a professional, and he sears it on the stove with a perfect touch. When he feeds you that first bite, your mouth explodes with flavor. Your belly is full that evening, and when he blows out the candles for bed, he eats you out in the dark of the corner bedroom.

He's not sloppy like you thought he might be. Not overeager. He's easy with it, casual. Big hunk of a man smothered between your thighs, and he laves his tongue through your folds like his very own personal dessert. He drinks straight from the source, holy water spilling sweet between his teeth, and when he gets his tongue inside of you and holds it there, you nearly leave earth for somewhere else. You come like that, too, his filthy mouth sucking on your clit before he's slipping that tongue in you again, and you mewl against the bed as he tucks his hand under your ass and spreads you wider.

He tells you his name a few nights later. He doesn't speak, not ever, but when you're crying around his thick fingers, he whispers it against your ear.

"'s Simon," he growls, and you know what he means by that. He wants you to say it while you bounce on his fingers, when you rut against his thigh. He wants you to say his name when you're coming undone riding his face, when you're wetting his mask with your pussy and making him choke on your cum. Such a wet, sweet girl you are, and sometimes he skips wash day for his mask so he can shove it into his mouth and pant around it and taste you while he fucks his own fist.

It's insanity, he thinks, as he's cleaning his rifle. The idea of traditional. But it's what befallen him, what he sees all around him, and he tucks his index finger into a hole too small to pinch himself just to make sure he isn't living a dream. You're in the kitchen, mending more clothes, something warm boiling on the stove. There were seeds in the greenhouse, and you're saving them to plant in the spring, so for now, you make do with canned goods and whatever Simon hunts for during the day. You found books in the attic, and you read them at night, head in Simon's lap as he plays with your hair or rubs your sore ankles or cuts your nails. You're the only one that ever speaks; he hasn't said a word to you except for telling you his name, and you're content to be the only one that uses their voice.

He always listens. You told him one time that you loved the shade of green that the trees wore, and he came back one day with a sweatshirt of the same color for you. He noticed you trying to mend those terrible boots, and he found a new pair for you, your size this time, barely worn and fit for winter. He brings lots of things for you; books, clothes, even rocks sometimes, when he just thinks he found one that you might like.

You do like them. You have started filling a small bowl with the ones he brings, and he notices you rifling through it sometimes, just looking at them, and it makes his chest swell with pride.

Like giving a treat to a dog. Like giving him a fucking bone.

He teaches you how to shoot. You know how to pull a trigger, but that’s the extent of your expertise. He teaches you how to stand, how to turn the safety on and off, how to hold the gun between two hands so not even his own can take it away from you. He makes sounds when you please him. Hums low, lets out a soft breath, sucks in the air through his teeth. You can’t see his face, but the way he looks at you when you fire a bullet and knock bottles off their ledges, it warms you, all the way down your spine, reaching your toes. You want him to keep looking at you this way, so you try hard, and he notices.

You’ll never be what he is, but the small victories are what have him chubbing up in his cargos and falling asleep between your thighs. You give, and he takes, and he keeps coming back for more.

He teaches you that distance is your strength. You aren’t like him; you aren’t built like a brick house, you won’t be bigger than a lot of your opponents. You need to keep them away from you, however you can. He makes you good with that gun because it’s your best chance, but in the even that you lose it or you run out of bullets, he shows you how to aim a hatchet so that the blade always lines up between someone’s shoulders.

The way you listen makes him salivate. The way you blink up at him and say yes, Simon and take his orders, it makes it difficult to keep away from you. 

Today marks two months in the house tucked on the hill. Simon hunts, and you cook, and you live in some sick, twisted housewife fantasy at the end of the fucking world. Simon provides, and you keep, and when the box of condoms falls out of your backpack one day, you glance at Simon for just a moment before he's on you.

It's animal, that first time. He tackles you practically onto the carpet of the living room, and he props you up onto your elbows and only pulls down your jeans enough that he can fit his cock between your thighs. You hear the tear of the condom wrapping, and then he's laying over your back, sinking to the base, cock nestled inside of you as he grips your throat gently and fucks you into the carpet. Poor beast, he's definitely going to need his knees massaged after this, but you can't think about that much when you're taking the fattest cock of your entire life and trying to survive underneath him. It's that fine line between pleasure and pain that you're desperate for, and you pull threads out of the carpet as you try to hang on and take it like a good girl.

You can hear his voice. It's low, and subtle, but he grunts with each agonizing thrust, hips snapping against your ass as he fucks you back onto him over and over and over again.

It's primal. Nasty. You wish he wasn't wearing a condom, you want him to be in your skin, you want him to fill you until you're full, let it spill over, and then do it all over again. You want him to bite into your throat and tear, and you want him to eat you and then put you back together, and then do it again and again and again.

"So big," you gasp, and he falters at that. You recognize it, the need for praise, and you latch onto it with claws and stay there. I need him to stay here with me. "So good...so good t-to me, Simon–"

He groans. It's music.

Keep me. Keep me. Keep me.

"Simon, please–" You scratch at his arm, not satisfied until you feel blood. When you break the skin, he laughs, a breathless laugh that has your eyes rolling back in your head as he shoves your face into the carpet and mounts you like a fucking horse. The deep slap, slap, slap of skin is enough to send you away, send you home, your mind foggy as your pussy squeezes him for all he's worth. The slick of the condom is pleasant, but you want it raw. You want every part of him carved into you, and you arch your back, suck him in, whine and cry and beg for him to just, "please, Simon, I need it, I need it."

"Need wot?"

The sound of his voice is whiplash. He hisses when he sinks deep, staying there, holding you at a sharp angle so he can knead your ass and watch it bounce back on him. He sucks on his teeth, and there's drool slipping out of your mouth. That accent, his voice, like velvet, from deep within his chest. You want to hear more of it.

"Be a man," you gasp. "Be a man, and fuck me."

He doesn't see the desperate look on your face when he slips out of you. He doesn't see the relief that washes over you when you hear the condom come off, latex crumbling as he tosses it, but he feels the warmth of your pretty pussy when he sinks back in, skin to skin, and feels you clench for dear fucking life.

"Fuckin' Christ," Simon groans, and you reach back for him, gripping his arms, forcing him to fall over on top of you. He settles with his elbows on either side of your head, and you bow your back and grip the carpet again as he fucks into you nice and slow, deep, fat head leaking precum and making you cry because finally, yes, please, this is it, what I want, I'll have you forever.

You're so pretty. Even in his past life, Simon never got to have anything pretty. He was too ugly, too big, too awkward. Any woman of good faith stayed 100 yards away, as if his mere presence was a warning alarm, some invisible radius that kept them away from him. He always thought it was for the better. He always thought good riddance, they shouldn't have me, I shouldn't have anyone. Not when only days before, he had tortured a Russian militant until he had no teeth and hung his severed fingers on twine around his own neck.

But you won't run away. He's given you opportunity. He's left the cottage and staked out the outside just to watch you, and all he sees is you moving between windows, shaking out the dust from old blankets and washing the dishes. All he sees is you sewing his clothes and cooking his food, and when he comes back inside, all he sees is your smile and your face and your pretty mouth that falls open when he makes you come all over his hand.

Now it's the end of the world, and he lets a coin flip decide whether or not he lives or dies. And even when he flips it now, it never agrees. When he asks to die, the coin tells him no. When he asks to live, it’s always interrupted by you.

Yes, it tells him. Yes, yes, yes, because it's been keeping him here, because it knows, because it saw, because he couldn't see both sides of the coin, but he can see it now, plain as day, and she's underneath him now, letting him inside, and she's begging him to come and to fill her up, and she's crying because he's such a big man, and she wants him everywhere and always and all at once, and Simon is nothing if he isn't an insatiable bastard that can finally be fucking selfish.

The way you say his name could make him move mountains. That soft breath you take. The falter of your voice. The whine. The world has gone quiet, but he'll make a new one, and he will leave it at your feet for you to step on or pick up.

Whichever you choose. You can do no wrong.

When he comes, he moans. Into your ear, he lets you hear him, lets you bask in his pleasure as he spurts hot inside of you, hauling you a little higher on your knees so he can make sure you come, too. He gives you the palm of his hand to grind on, fucking into you at the same time, humming deep when he feels you squeeze around him and shatter like glass.

He takes his mask off for the first time that night. You see his face, all of it, not just glimpses when he lifts it to eat or to drink, you see the whole thing. He has a terrible looking face. Something only a mother could love. Too old of scars to be from this new life. They slash across his brow, across his cheeks. He has a jagged nose, and the skin around his lips had been reconstructed poorly from however they had been slit.

He's a terrifying piece of flesh. He is surprised when you lean in and kiss him. He's even more surprised when you kick off your jeans, turn over, and fuck him again.

The mantra that sounds like mine repeats in his head over and over. He feels it, deep, warm and beating under his ribs alongside his heart that hasn't moved in a long while.

He found you in those woods, kicking amongst predators, and he took you home with him. Picked you up like a stray, fed you, clothed you, and now you've stayed. For a moment, he thought it wasn't real. Thought your full belly is what kept you here, the warm house. He didn't mind pretending, but he figured it wouldn't last.

He doesn't think that anymore. Not with the way you kiss his severed face. You nuzzle into it, cup his cheeks, and he finds it agony when you pull away.

He hovers now. In whatever room you are in, Simon must also be in it. If he leaves, he makes you board the doors, and you are only allowed to open them if he knocks in his special way. He tested you once, came back earlier than expected, and he was so pleased you did not open the door to his casual knock and only the special one that he made you come one, two, three times with your thighs locked around his face.

A terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

You're searching the greenhouse. Hoping to find some flower pots for the herb seeds you found, you're rummaging through the cabinets beside it. Your gun is sitting away from you, and although Simon would chastise you for this, you feel safe here, and it doesn't bother you.

It flings itself at you. It cries, what used to be a teenage girl, reaching for you because it wants a chunk of your softness, of the life you pump into the muscles that keep you running. You're protected by all the clothes you wear for the weather, and it is slow because of the cold freezing their rigid, dead bones, but it does not lessen the hunger, the fight, the determination to eat and spread.

Before it can bite, the back of its head explodes. You close your mouth and shut your eyes as rancid brain matter splatters the white snow and you, and it is wrenched off of you immediately. Simon stands there, his pistol in hand, and you have never seen him quite so angry as he is right now.

His eyes are wild. He heaves under that tact vest, breathing hard, and his grip on the handgun shakes, so much that he has to shove it back into the holster at his thigh and lean over to pick you up off the ground.

He jostles you. Growls. Is nearly an animal himself as he shoves you up against the glass of the greenhouse and snarls.

"Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?!" Simon snaps. "Is y'r fuckin' head on?!"

It's so quiet in your head even as he yells. Your eyes tear, but not because you're upset. You reach out and cup his face gently, and he stops. Stops talking, just watches, just looks at you as he bends and leans his forehead against yours and squeezes you to his chest.

What is this thing you have? What have you become? What innate thing has festered between you? He’s gripping the edge of the glass so hard, you hear it crack under his hand. There is some kind of sick sense of devotion among you. Some kind of responsibility. He’s angry because something under his tongue tasted bitter when he saw you struggling. It won’t be this easy. He won’t make it this easy. If he doesn’t get to die, then neither do you, and he will make sure of that, because that is the only way this game can remain fair.

You never wander to the greenhouse again. He makes you promise (lest he wastes his cum between your thighs instead of inside you, that's it, promise me).

Another terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

They're wanderers. When they knock at the door, they don't use Simon's special knock, so you don't open it. Instead, you blow out the candles and hide, peeking at them from the fogged window in the attic.

They are men (you aren't surprised, they seem to be the only thing that survives nature's heavy hand). Cold. Shivering. One of them is bleeding, you can see it from the blood trail he leaves in the snow that seeps from somewhere under the hem of his jeans. The one uninjured tries to force his way through the door, but Simon added more deadbolts to it, and it doesn't give under his weak attempts. You trade your handgun for the rifle, aiming it at them. If they get through the door, maybe you can draw them back out, keep them away from the house.

You try to stay quiet, but the healthier one uses his body and a log of wood to get through. They're desperate, desperate enough to not care that breaking through the door cuts him severely, splits through his jacket. The second man limps behind him, getting inside, and you decide to put the rifle back.

You will stay quiet until Simon gets back. Your strength is not being a bulldozer, so you'll hide until he can be that for you. You steady your breathing; even if they make it to the attic, you won't go quietly. You tried that last time, and if it wasn't for Simon, you'd surely be naked and dead in that clearing that you were dragged to.

This time, if you go, you will take someone with you at least. Severed ears are not enough. You will not make them artists, you will make them forgettable and unrecognizable, and you will give back what they give you tenfold. Even if it kills you.

It takes them all night before they finally make it to the attic. They eat your food and take showers in your bathroom and stink up the living room, you can hear them. And when their bellies are full and their minds wander, you dread the pull of the attic door as he wrenches it open and the ladder falls.

You manage to kill one as he drags you out from the corner. He latches onto your ankle, and as he pulls, you put your finger on the trigger of your handgun, and you put one right between his eyes. The other takes advantage of your moment of pause, turning you over onto your stomach so hard the gun flies across the attic from your hand. He tosses you down from the attic, and you land on your side in the hallway, and you cry as you get to your elbows and crawl, trying to get to your feet, but he's larger than you.

He catches you in the kitchen. Slams you over the kitchen counter, using his weight to pin you down, but Simon taught you better than that. He taught you not to give in. He taught you not to give up. You think about him when your fingers find the discarded fork on the counter and you drive it right through his fucking eye.

You don't stop. You don't let his cries keep you from bringing your arm down again. And again. And again. You make his face your blank canvas, and you paint it with your anger. For every man that ever touched you. For every man that ever thought himself worthy to have you. For every man that tried to make your body his prize, you poke a thousand holes in him, and you scream with him as you do it until he can't scream anymore.

You're holding the fork and standing over him when Simon comes home. His handgun drawn, silent as he makes his way in, his body visibly relaxing when he sees you. He glances at the man at your feet, still alive, gurgling there, choking on his own blood as he tries to breathe through the holes that are scattered across his face and neck. You meet his eyes, and you smile. It's uncanny to do it now, but you are happy to see him.

"There's..." You sniffle, wiping your face with your sleeve. "There's another i-in the attic."

You don’t get to see him smile under the mask. You don’t hear the near purr that leaves him as he climbs the ladder and sees the perfect place you’ve left your mark. He’d frame it if it wouldn’t rot.

You twirl the fork in your hand before going to the sink, dropping it in there, and you close your eyes as you listen to Simon's footsteps as he goes into the attic. It takes him a little less than an hour to get the bodies out the back door, and when he comes back inside, you're already wiping up the floor in the kitchen.

There's nothing to talk about. This is normal. This is just another day. Tomorrow, you might have to do it again, and you'll still cook dinner after sunset and clean the kitchen like you're doing now and sit Simon on the edge of the bathtub and cut his hair.

Simon found chocolate on his trip today, and you make cake with it. You sit in his lap under the candlelight, and you feed each other, bite by bite, and you giggle when Simon gets it all over his lips.

You kiss him to clean it off, and then you reach for another bite of cake. There's some measure of satisfaction you feel when your tongue finds the dent in the fork prongs from when you used it earlier. The chocolate tastes better somehow. Sweeter.

You catch him in the morning, limbs tangled with yours under the sheets, flipping a coin. You smooth a hand over his thick chest, along his pudgy stomach, and you watch with him as the coin lands on the bedside table, falling flat.

It comes up tails.

He decides then that he doesn't have to flip it anymore. It's pointless. He asked for answers, and he got one.

You were not luck. You were fate. And because of it, the coin will always land the same way.

His thoughts are interrupted when you reach for the coin. You twirl it between your fingers, thinking. He doesn't see what you see, but that's okay. Maybe he'll let you play now. Some other game, a better one.

Heads or tails, win or lose, alive or dead. Either way, you are attached. Woven together, thread by thread. There are no vows to say in this new place, but you aren't tested by the same kinds of things. There is no law to keep two people together, no governing power of men that say if left is truly left and that right is really right.

You are drawn together by shared experiences. The same trauma. You won't leave each other not because you said you wouldn't leave, but because there is no one else in the world that has seen the same things you have seen and has done the same things you have done. There is no one else in the world that will forgive you for what you had to do to survive. That will love you not just in spite of it, but because of it, because you did what was necessary, and you are here now to learn a lesson and not suffer its consequences.

It's just a game. If you win, he wins. If you lose, he loses. If you're alive, he's alive.

And if you're dead, then he must be, too.

[ridingthatd]

𝐣𝐣𝐤 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠

choso, nanami, toji, itadori, etc...

contains: fem!reader, rough sex, teasing, dirty talk, multiple positions, masturbation, sub! , squirting, cumming through pants, etc...

choso kamo:

choso who would already be panting. out breath as you place a small kiss on his lips, his eyes hazily looking at you begging for more of your heated touches that causes his cock to stiffen in his pants. giving a full outline of his huge twitching cock that was resting on his thighs almost reaching his knees. it drives you mad how innocent his eyes were staring at your lips, wanting more, innocently not knowing what to do while he holds such a weapon between his legs.

"yes baby just like this open your mouth for me" you warm breath fan against his wet puffy lips- red from how long you have spent sucking on them, biting them between your teeth. choso stare at your lips hungrily as he slowly parts his lips, waiting for your next move. his breath hitch as you close the distance between you again- but this time something warm and wet slides through his lips, entering his mouth.

his eyes rolls at the sensation, at the same time you roll your tongue against his. sloppily sucking his tongue into your mouth. mixing your spit with his. it's your turn to gasp as choso whimpers before he shoves his whole body weight into yours. drool slips past your lips, and choso doesn't hesitate as he licks it up with his tongue before he slips his tongue back in. messily stroking his tongue against yours.

he looked like a dog in heat, his spit was everywhere mixing with yours. he was devouring your mouth like you just gave him his favorite treat. you moan into his mouth as you feel him rotting his fat cock against your thighs, before you feel his cock twitching and a warm wet liquid spurt into the fabric of his pants.

choso was whining into your lips, but he doesn't stop suckling. not even when his body trembls against yours from the sudden orgasm.

nanami kento:

nanami roughly place you on his lap as you make your way toward his desk. seductively yet teasingly swaying your hips. you knew these past few days nanami has been pant up because of work so you're here to make him feel better. you can feel how greedy he was from the way his large hands were rooming every inch of your body, sliding under the dress you were wearing and gripping your perky ass under your panties.

he places his nose in the crock of your neck. inhaling your scent in causing him to growl lowly. you can already feel his hard cock against your thighs. throbbing as you gently run your fingers through his blonde locks. messaging his sculp and placing kissing now and then. nanami finally raise his head from your neck and hungrily stare at you, wanting nothing more then to devour you right here.

"fuck i want to eat your wet pussy baby" he grumbles against your lips, as his fingers make their way to your cunt. his whole palm surrounding it. "can you please let me eat it?" he breathsly mutters, before he capture your lips in to his, groaning at the taste of you. he's been craving to have you like this. to feel your body heat on his.

it all seems to overwhelm him. your wet tongue messily sliding against his. your drool leaving your lips and landing on his. your thighs grinding against his leaking cock. your hot breath mixing with his. it all seems to set him off. because the next thing you knew.

nanami breaks off the kiss, throwing his head back against his chair. whimpering as you feel his cock throb, his fingers digging in into your thighs. your eyes trail down his pants. a growing wet spot now visible on it. he looks up at you, panting and speechless, confused expression on his face because this has never happened to him and he didn’t even know it was possible.

toji fushiguru:

"did ya miss me?" toji whispers into the shell of your ear, taking your lobe between his teeth to suckle on. you whimper had his gut tightening in arousal. a sigh escaped your lips as you gave him more access to kiss down your jaw and neck.

"mhm, it was lonely without you," a shiver crawls up your spine at toji's big hands caressing you. he licks up your neck, feeling a familiar bulge at your backside.

"I had to listen to you play with that sweet cunt through im not gonna wait no more" he grunts into your ear. back in that motel he had stroked his cock alongside your moans, filling his ears with the sounds of your wet pussy. you were so needy and slutty that night, whining filth into the phone while he was cities away.

toji roughly grabs your face and slam his lips into yours not giving you any time to complain. he growls into your mouth as you gently start suckling on his tongue, he breaks off the kiss leaving a string of spit connecting both of your tongues.

his body shakes heatness filling every inch of him. he couldn't help the whine that left him as his sensitive cock start twitching against his boxer. his balls swollen ready to empty any moment.

you stare at him confused as he hides his flushed face into your neck. "fuck baby the things that you do to me" he mutters waiting for his cock to calm down after the embarrassing orgasm he had.

itadori yuji:

itadori never did this before. of course he had a lot of heated moment with you inside your bed of his bed. but he never did anything outside. in public to be more specific. because your cute little boyfriend can't handle such thing, you would give him an innocent kiss on his neck and his cock would already be ragging ready to fuck you.

you would press your lips against his ear wanting to whisper something to him in class and he would already be biting on his lips holding back in a whimper as your warm breath tickles his sensitive ear. and the list goes on, something as simple as holding his hand in public would have him flushed and whinning about going back to your dorm for him to have your sweet pussy against him.

and today wasn't any difference. you were at your boyfriend basketball match. trying to support him and hype him up. and of course after the match he wins you sneak into his changing room to give him a little gift and congrats him.

but as soon as you enter his locker, itadori was all over you. pinning you against the locker just to shove his tongue directly into your mouth. luckily it was just you and him. the room was filled with the sloppy sounds that you're kissing made. it seems to turn you on because you found yourself placing your hand on his visible hard on.

but as soon as your hand make connect with his cock through the fabric of his shorts. itadori trembles. and you feel something squirting against the fabric. but that doesn't stop itadori from grabbing both of your thighs and holding your weight up.

walking over to the bench where he lays down and place your pussy directly on his face after all he needed some water after playing basketball.

[nataliedecorsair]

For this Halloween, I present you my MRI monster + a little bonus story about it >:) --

It’s the tail end of October, when the days shrink down to thin slices of cold sunlight. The late autumn air is sharp and crisp. It’s carrying the scent of wet, dying leaves; it stirs a strange feeling inside you, a mix of melancholy and restless hunger for something more. An adventure, perhaps... or something darker.

And why not? You’re young, curious and like everything weird and unusual. For you anything out there is a story, and this one could be a story about the unfortunate abandoned hospital at the end of a broken road. Folks say this place is haunted, but maybe no one’s ever dared to find out for sure. You're certain it is time for you to solve this mystery for good.

You ease your way inside. The door gives a long, miserable creak as it opens, as if it hasn’t been touched in decades. The paint, once green, is almost gray now; it hangs in shreds, peeling off the wood like dead skin. The air in the hallway hits you, stale and thick, smelling of dust and something sour. You pull out your flashlight, clicking it on with a soft snap, and the narrow beam cuts through the dark, scanning over pockmarked walls and the occasional room. But, of course, you don't see anything but empty beds, rusty buckets, piles of ragged fabric left to rot. No signs of ghosts or ghouls - or anything remotely interesting, for that matter.

You explore for ten minutes, maybe more, telling yourself you’ll see something any second now. But after the seventh empty room, you start to think there's no mystery at all. Pretty expectable, isn't it? Or what, did you really think you’d find anything but dust, broken glass, and busted syringes? With a sigh, you turn to go, shaking your head.

You take a step into the hallway, flashlight slicing through the shadows, and that’s when you hear it: a low, dry crrrk-crrrk. At first, you think it’s the old building settling. But then it comes again, irregular and jittery, like static: crick-crack, crick-crick-crack. The sound’s sharper now, that unmistakable staccato of a Geiger counter ticking.

Your heart beats faster. You swing the flashlight in the direction of the noise, but there’s nothing there, just the same hollow walls and chipped paint. Crick-crack-crick. Louder now, closer... For a sick, sinking moment, you wonder if there’s something radioactive buried here, and shake your head in disbelief.

"It doesn’t make any sense," you think. "I don’t even have a Geiger counter." But your mind, stubborn as a mule, wrestles to make sense of the nonsense, to catalog that weird crackle and shove it into some drawer that fits. Maybe you’re just hearing things? The building is old, there could be some pipes. It's always the pipes that make the most uncanny noises.

But the thing making that sound... it doesn’t care whether you understand or not.

You run forward, not watching where you're stepping, and a rusty bucket clatters across the floor. You fumble as your flashlight slips from your hand, the beam ricocheting off the walls and scattering shadows like startled birds. You crouch to retrieve it, fingers scrambling over the filthy, dusty tiles. And that’s when you see it, illuminated by the flashlight laying on the floor.

Feet.

They're human, but wrong. Slightly translucent - and shot through with slowly swirling masses of black and red liquid, twisting just under the skin. You look upward, and you make out the outline of a woman in a tattered, filthy hospital gown. Her body consists of that liquid, contained within the thin walls of her grayish skin. Everywhere but her head. It looks like an MRI scan, flickering between 2D and 3D, a nightmare too strange for your eyes to comprehend. Empty white orbs stare down at you, soulless and wide. She has no lips, but her mouth peels back, revealing a row of long, black teeth: it almost looks like a smile. She leans in, and before you can scream, rushes towards you - and the world plunges into darkness.

...You wake up in your own bed, the morning light spilling through the curtains. What a horrible nightmare you just had! Head feels so heavy, it hurts with this annoying, pulsating, throbbing pain deep within your brain. You feel feverish. You got sick, perhaps? It would explain the dream, so realistic - and so ephemeral at the same time.

With a sigh, you brush your palm through your hair, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep... but your fingers snag on something. A clump of hair. You pull it free, bewildered. Since when have you started balding? Confusion morphs into unease as you glance down at the skin of your hand, red and sunburn. Sunburn in October? In this area?

"I should definitely see a doctor," you think, an anxious knot tightening in your stomach. "But not in this abandoned hospital." Nervous chuckle escaped your lips, as you tried to calm yourself down with this silly joke. "I will never go there again, whether it's a dream or not."

…At least, you thought so. -- More spooky art here and here

[writingouthere]

neighbor!sukuna x singlemom!reader. Sukuna picks up your daughter from school, he makes quite the impression and we learn more about his background.

cw: None really here except I guess this is low key becoming a slow burn, idk.

You were stuck at work and didn't have anyone else who could go get your daughter so you had asked Sukuna. The tattoo shop was usually slow in the evening this far into winter anyway, and he couldn't imagine saying no to you even if he'd been fully booked.

It felt strange to be going outside when it was still light out but Sukuna took in the sights as other people walked around, other parents clearly in the process of picking up their children from school.

Not that Bug was his kid, at least not as far you knew. Yet.

Sukuna didn't do things halfway, just wasn't in his nature. He knew he was moving fast, he had put up with his little brother Yuji's nervous protests at dinner the week before when he had explained his new living situation, but he wasn't going to slow things down when they were going so well.

For a long time, it had just been him and Yuji. There had been other relatives, like Yuji's grandfather and his freak of a mother, but the two had mostly bounced around foster homes and made due until Sukuna was old enough to take care of them both. Yuji was graduating college in the spring and Sukuna had been alone since he left for the dorms and now he had an apartment with some friends from school. Sukuna was proud of his brother, he was one of the only people he really gave a fuck about. Their lives had been hard and that had made Sukuna even harder. Yuji had never been like that, he had come through even kinder than the average person and Sukuna could admire the strength that showed in it's own way.

The point was, Sukuna had paid his dues. He had done right by his brother even when the world had done them so wrong and now he was ready for his reward. You and the little girl he was about to go get.

The daycare was inside of a little beige building, decorated with those tacky outlines of children playing and some fucking mural with birds that always seemed to cover the walls of places like this. Parents, mostly moms, walked out with their children in tow, asking about their days and zipping up coats. Sukuna noticed the double takes as they took him in, the way the adults seemed to pull their little ones closer. That was fine by him, he didn't want any of these fucking rugrats near him except his own.

"Ryomen Sukuna, mom should have added me to the pick-up list," he told your daughter's teacher, showing her his ID. She didn't react to his tattoos or general aura with anything but a smile and he supposed that childcare workers must be aware more than most that they really do let anyone be a parent.

"Of course, I'll go get her while you sign here," she said handing over a clipboard with the names of all the kids in the center along with blue pen with a fuzzy pompom attached to it. While he was signing his name he heard a familiar squeal and looked to see your daughter running towards him as fast as her little legs could carry her.

"Sukuna!"

She tripped on some particularly tricky air and Sukuna moved forward to pick her up before she could face plant on the hard tile.

"Careful there bug, told mom I'd bring you home in one piece."

She ignored him and started babbling nonsense about her day that Sukuna could only really catch half of, but he nodded and hmmed as he finished signing her out and with a quick nod to the amused staff member, he headed out.

He shifted her on his hip so he could finish zipping up her coat. What was it with kids and their refusal to just zip up their damn coats? He remembered Yuji had been the same.

Bug continued to regale him with tales of her day until she eventually squirmed on his hip, the universal signal for "put me down until I get tired and whine for you to pick me up again" and Sukuna put her down on the sidewalk but took her backpack which he slung across his shoulder and then grabbed her hand with his. He could see people take second looks at the two of them and he supposed they cut quite the picture. The tall scary guy with tattoos carrying a pink princess backpack and the little girl pulling him down the sidewalk.

"We in a rush or something?"

Your daughter laughed and said something about being hungry for dinner with mommy which he could get behind. You both had only been living with him for a week but you already had a bit of a routine. He made breakfast in the morning while you got the kid ready but you always made dinner that was ready when he got home. It was nice, domestic. It felt like what he imagined life was like for people who had normal families when he had been a young kid. Holding a crying, hungry baby Yuji on his lap while they ate whatever he could scrounge up in whatever shithole they were in that week.

He remembered when Yuji had been the same age as your daughter and the idea of her ever living in the places they had, or going through the things they had made him pull her a little closer.

He wasn't going to lie to himself and say he was a good man or that he wanted you, the both of you, for some pure love nonsense but he knew he wanted you all the same. He had done terrible things and he would do them all over again if it led to this moment where he watched as your daughter cooed over the neighbor's dog. Said neighbor looking at him in confusion and fear as he told your daughter they needed to leave the fleabag alone and go home.

Later, when Sukuna was working on dinner and your daughter was sitting on the counter, "helping", he heard the sound of a key in the lock.

"I'm home," you called out and Sukuna called out that they were in the kitchen.

"Hey, thank you so much for getting her. I just wasn't going to make it in time," you said, picking up your daughter.

"No worries, we weren't busy at the shop today anyway." You hummed and smiled at him.

"Still."

"You can go ahead and change," he told you and you looked ready to protest when he went to grab your daughter from you but then Bug went willingly and he saw how you melted at the two of them. Good.

"Okay, but when I get back I'm taking over dinner."

Sukuna agreed and he watched as you walked away, admiring the way your clothes hugged your frame. He was glad the only witness to his hunger was a toddler who was more interested in poking his cheek than observing social cues.

The rest of the evening passed peacefully and Sukuna felt what he could only describe as content. When your daughter started to nod off on your shoulder, you got up from the couch to take her to bed, telling Sukuna he should stay and that you got it. With your daughter on one hip, you used your free hand to press against his shoulder and lean down to where he was still on the couch. He closed his eyes at the feeling of your lips pressing gently against his cheek and then with a quick goodnight, the two of you were in your room, the door closing with a quick 'click'.

The gesture had been so innocent and Sukuna would have mocked anyone he knew who got so flustered over a gesture as meaningless as a kiss on the cheek.

But how could any gesture be meaningless when it came from you?

[nariism]

ೃ⁀➷ MY LOVE, MINE ALL MINE ★

a/n: fluff!! neuvillette being a touch starved loser (affectionate) + lots of terms of endearment. happy belated neuvillette day! may all neuvillette wanters be neuvillette havers ≧◡≦

Neuvillette can't stand coming home if not into your arms.

The deafening silence of a sleeping home drives him mad. It used to be welcomed after his terribly loud days. Now only serves to remind him of the millennium he spent alone, of the heartbreak he had to endure with no one to hold him, and of the growing emptiness within his heart long before he knew you.

It's unlike him to come home so late, but duty calls and as the Iudex of Fontaine he must go wherever summoned.

For days he has come home well into the latest hours of the night, sliding off his shoes in the darkness of the hall and allowing the silence to swallow him up whole. Five unbearably long days of missing your smile greeting him at the door, hands all over his face and squeezing his cheeks until he nudges them away in lieu of kissing you hello.

He expects tonight to be the same. It's so late that there was not a single soul wandering the streets of the city, no one awake to witness the very tired, very cranky Chief Justice.

You always find a way to defy his expectations.

The hall is quiet when he cracks open the front door. Crushing loneliness swells in his chest and sinks into the pit of his stomach when he realizes that you must have gone to bed long ago, as anyone sane would do. But then there's a click, followed by a small flame dancing in the dark.

You ignite an array of candles one by one, each additional glow illuminating your beautiful face in warm light. Neuvillette can't stop the hitching of his breath, nor the confusion knitted through his brows.

"What are you doing awake?"

You know he doesn't mean to scold you. Soft laughter fills his ears as you saunter over to him slowly. Realization crashes down on him as you approach, allowing him to see closer what has kept you up.

"Happy birthday, my love."

It's so late that midnight passed hours ago. He hadn't even realized amongst all the chaos of his work that the 17th had come and gone, making way for his birthday.

Only you would remember. It was a talent you had, memorizing every detail about him that sometimes even he lost track of.

("Neuvillette, dear, I picked up some dark roast on the way home today." He didn't even realize he had run out.

"Welcome home, I made ragout!" He wasn't aware he was craving it until you brought it up.

"Do you want this?" It's the last cookie in the bag, saved especially for him because you know it's from his favourite bakery in town.)

He leans in and blows out his candles, eyes never leaving yours as he blinks at you slowly. You look so beautiful even now, in the dimly moonlit hall. Darkness envelops your bodies again and yet he never tears his gaze away. Not even for a moment.

"Now put the cake down, please."

"Hm?" Your head tilts, clearly confused by his request.

"So I can hold you," he quickly explains, fingers itching at his sides because of how much he aches to hug you.

You gently set the cake down on the entrance table before you get scooped into a warm embrace, pressed snuggly to his chest as he memorizes the outline of your body against his once more.

"I've missed you, my dear," he says, face burrowed into the crook of your neck.

"It's only been a couple days," you laugh, and then remind him: "I see you every day at lunch."

"No, this is different." He pulls away slightly, forehead pressed against yours as he looks into your eyes. There's something in there— vulnerability and love all mixed into a beautiful purple harmony. "I miss coming home into your arms after long days," he admits.

"Oh, love," you breathe, reaching up to cup his face the way he's so used to. "Things will settle down again soon."

His eyes close as he savours your presence, soaking up all the affection you're giving him in his moment of weakness. You've always spoiled him.

"I suppose so," he agrees, a smile finally settling on his lips. Your thumb runs along it, tracing the curve of his happiness. There's a beat of silence before you open your mouth again.

"What did you wish for?" You ask curiously, voice growing quieter as you lean in to kiss him. And the answer he gives comes naturally.

Neuvillette has always wished for things he read about in novels; imaginary promises of treasure and desire and fame, sealed with the wispy smoke of blown out birthday candles. He isn't even sure if he has ever actually wanted any of those. But as he looks at you, with the slow beating of his heart and the brushing of your lips against him, he can't think of a single thing he could want more than this.

"I did not wish for anything," he tells you honestly, giving your waist a squeeze. "I already have everything I could ever want."

© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.

[duck-a-doodle]

COD Headcanons: Soft Intimacy

SFW thoughts on what would unravel the COD boys. This is my first post for this fandom, and my entry point to it was the MWII campaign and a few comics, so it might be slightly OOC. In the meantime, I will keep doing research and I hope this brings you joy! :-) -CH

Masterlist 7/14/2024

Simon "Ghost" Riley silently relishes light scratches. The kind that runs slowly, gently down the scalp or round the ears, feathering across his scapula over the thin fabric of his shirt and the underside of his arms. He shudders at getting his spine or ribs traced, head spinning at the idea of fingers so tender taking long, tantalising hours to outline all of himself, the electrifying comfort flickering his heavy eyelids. Heavy as he is, the man is quick to persuade that you rest your weight upon him during such domestic ministrations; he curses, however, at your much more compelling affections, falling prey to the charms of your worship. Slowly, but surely, he leans forth — first dropping his head to your shoulder while languid nails crawl down his cheek, then falling to his hands and soon, his elbows — gliding his head down your collarbone and onto your beating chest, where he recognises that you are most ardently obsessed of him as he is of you. “Obsessed” is much too simple a word  and “reverent”, too large an understatement. His skin is yours, his mind is yours, his breath, his tongue, and every crevice of himself he can count; a gift and homage to your hands, his temple. As he finally sinks all of himself into you with a groan and a sigh, he gingerly lifts his heavy hands, resting them warmly by your sides and over your ribs, in hopes to return all your love with the altogether humble gesture. On days which he stubbornly wishes to do the same for you, he mimics the way you touch him, in every precise manner and every exact order, seeking nooks and crannies that warm your skin or hitch your breath. He will weakly protest, however, moments which your hands reach too close to him outside of these intimate instances, causing light, inadvertent whimpers from the back of his throat.

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Captain John Price likes using his hands for carrying. “Brutish” is an adjective familiar and frequent to his bear paws, trained to caress cold, carbons steel and paint itself in red, smelling only of matches and rust.  The warmest things his hands have known are the arms and backs of his fallen men and the barrel of his heartless iron, the touch of it comparable to a Londoner’s December. You, in place of the metal, you, strong yet brittle and you, lighter to him than a C4, grenade or flashbang, are his respite, reprising over the smoke of his numerous deployments, where his hands took more than they gave. He cannot help the pliant hips and waist that fit his palms seamlessly, more harmless than the many miry grounds he trekked before — a kind, relenting texture which spoil his weathered, calloused digits with the knowledge that they are utterly malleable to you, benign to you, void of all menace. Coarse fingers drag and curl your silhouette as your mass rests weightlessly on his arms and shoulders, yielding to his calculated strength. That he can evoke a laugh or an exclamation of surprise is a source of endless pride; a gentle nudge that the Captain John Price can tickle fancy by exercising a fraction of his brawn on something worldly. He could lift your groceries, the couch, your books — but  he likes to sweep off your feet the most. Trailing your thighs, calves, the small of your back are the hands that seek reminder of his humanity, tendons and phalanges flexing with every curve it meets, venerating eyes never leaving yours which watch his display of muscle with great wonder. For you, he would carry the world. Thus, in his words, “my back is strong enough to carry both our weights for a lifetime, if you’d let me.”

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John "Soap" McTavish has developed a habit of pawing. The abundance (if not exclusive presence) of tough military equipment, smoking alloys and dogged combat routines necessitated his use of hard, impenetrable gloves. Its rugged, protective textile has unwittingly sensitised his hands to various surfaces, including bare skin. He hesitated to touch you, timorous from his own want, curiosity and the unknown. Gone are his inhibitions when graced with your guiding hands, easing the earth-riddled cowhide off his palms. Aimless hands follow your lead, pressing into you over his Henley you borrowed. Finding purchase upon your stomach, he gradually grows accustomed to the fondness of your abdomen, shortly braving his way to your chest with sturdy yet clumsy paws. A current crackles down his body as he toys with the ripples of fabric adorned by your skin, indulgence rapidly surging from his fingers to his giddy head — he is soon to be all over you, his newfound contentment switching into overdrive. Respiration turning laboured, those once shy hands grow ravenous and wayward, roaming under the influence of his enthusiasm; every sharp inhale and strained noise he extorts from you only serves to encourage him further, inciting cheeky gropes at your sides, inner thighs and behind. What would eventually drive his mind over the edge, when you finally decide he is too much, is your folding a very surprised McTavish down onto the couch over you, keeping his head to your tummy and his hands tucked to your sides, imploring him to behave himself. Chiding him to act proper was an error on your behalf; his demeanour shifts, mischief clear in his eyes as he unabashedly explores all of you, pawing at you with every naughty intent fathomable.

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Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is crazy about being sat on. By no means a foolhardy nor gormless soldier, he holds himself to high decorum with immense discipline, ever an air of diplomacy about his person. None would have imagined that a simple act as sitting on his lap would send him reeling, rendered silent for fear of speaking with neither form nor cohesion. He turns light-headed watching your thighs pool like molten lava, quads sweltering from mere contact, let alone the pleasurable tension of your weight balancing precariously off his trembling knees. Worried that his legs would tire, you made to rise, wanting to relieve him of your own gravity but you were firmly held in place; two large, veined hands anchor you resolutely onto unmoving thighs, and any attempts of persuasion, made in the interest of his own comfort, faced flat rebuffal. Gratitude towards Lady Luck nearly spills from his lips, numb with inadvertence, as you nestle your heft upon him, for want of better comfort. You mistaking his lap for an empty stool was akin to setting his legs on fire, but to make yourself comfortable against him? For a man who prided himself for his class and propriety, he quickly found himself immensely burdened with sin, and subtlety became a language long forgotten. Had he any sense left in him that was not knocked out of the ballpark by your charming self, he would not be finding himself gently playing with the hem of your shirt, folding funny shapes with the fabric between his clammy fingers. Savoury dreams of you enticed him, swimming behind his glossy eyes that are unresponsive to the lights that danced across his features. Oh, you were so much trouble to him, colouring him brazen and so very warm. He loves it, however, and you will soon find what a fiend and a devil you can be when you later use this against the soldier's poor heart.

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Alejandro Vargas will die for your scent. Tantamount to a hound, no vaquero could catch the winds of change for miles around the way he could. The smell of burning tyres against the asphalt of the streets, the oils and perfumes of the same shop houses, the settling dust of his own base, and the routine spritz of air freshener that now smelled of lemon instead of mint ever since the new hire came on duty. Where Alejandro worked, the bittersweetness of gunpowder that sweeps his olfactory is his peace, and the constant heatwave that boils a Proust phenomenon out of the hanger persists in the back of his senses, subtle yet certain. No delicate change challenged his sharpness. He has a full bible to list it all, memorised from the front to back — and though he may not be religious, he is a madly devoted man. A hypervigilance that cannot be removed must find a reprieve, and only a single odour, long seared into his mind, pulls at him not first from the mind but from the heart. You, who smelled of his blankets, you, whose shampoo and T-shirt he recognised not from the brand but from its lingering aroma, and you, who could never surprise him with your presence because the scent of you would enter the room before his name falls from your lips, and before his eyes could reach yours. You remain the only person who turned his head with such impassioned and obsessed vigour, and he knew he was done for ever since. He would press his nose deep into your cheek, your neck, or the back of your nape and find himself at home as he stood in a room full of coldhearted artillery. No proper explanation was ever given when you find a shirt or two missing over the months of his deployment, but secretly, you had always known. And like the cheek you are to his mischief, you bask in the darker colour of his cheeks when you find that mysterious missing shirt hidden in the pile of laundry from his deployment.

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Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra likes soft whispers. Such light, airy and vertiginous words that kiss the shell of his ears — they would rob the man of his joints. Everyday exchanges of each other’s day ground him and ruin him, discernible only by both your ears. While he lends his body to the field, bloody and savage, in his heart there stands a single white flag signed in your name, by his hand; in a head overrun with sounds of distorted infrared voices, caterpillar tracks crushing against gravel and of heartless iron shells dropping at two hundred rounds per minute, your quiet words remain. A man of few words must have so much thought that weighs on his tongue, until it becomes too heavy to express. Surely, you must be a godsend. The way you effortlessly loosen the words from his hardened teeth, clenched too tightly still lest a bullet comes to bite, pulls shivers from his lips and down his watery lashes. Something about your bottom lip renders him helpless, and he finds that he must rest his thumb on your lower lip to lessen the giddiness that threatens to beat his heart out of his flaming chest. Permanently latched onto the rich timber of your voice was a man desperate to preserve you, so much that he keeps all your voicemails to him and labels them by the topic, just so he can find exactly when he needs to hear, when he needs to hear it. Moments of quietude in his bunk led one thought to the next, and he often ended the day with your voice embracing the deepest parts of his soul through an old, wired earpiece, wondering if you knew what gravity you had upon him. Perhaps you do know, he believed decidedly — because when he played a new recording you sent him during his deployment, his fingers violently mashed the volume-down button of his device at your rather unique choice of words, spoken at a careless whisper. You knew he had listened to it, as the first thing he did when he returned was to hold you in your place, and return all the salacious whispers he received right back to the bane of his heart. Ten-fold.

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König has an obsession with trapping. Hugs come rare to a man of his nature; imposing, wild and unacclimated to the civilised world. When arms do find their way around him, his own snakes around them, encircling the sensation, holding it close and praying that it seeps into his skin, permeating his senses to remain seared in his remembrance. Yet, more than once, he finds the same arms, over and over, routine the way the birds must sing and the poets must write. Always your arms, by his initiative. Greed will be his downfall and he knows, and he gladly embraces his defeat, relenting to your winsome self without remorse. Never would he deem himself a small man, albeit despite the notion, he shrinks; younger and younger he becomes with you, compressed to his front as much as your skins would let, as much as his strength allows without colouring your flesh a bluish-purple, until he is but a boy cradling his most dear Bärchen, unwilling to let go. He watches with blooming gratification, the exhale that falls from your lips as you press together, eyes drooping from the pleasant pressure that grounds you to earth, all because it is he who holds you. He drinks the sight and lets the view inebriate his already intoxicated mind. On the occasion when he becomes the bear-trapped, he will amuse himself with your too-small arms that fail to close around him, and will quickly turn the tables, subjecting you to his drunken coos with an onslaught of “mein Schatz”es, “Schnuckiputzi”s and “liebling”s. Greed will be his downfall, but you must be his renaissance.

P.S.: Can you tell that I read Pride & Prejudice before writing the TF141's and König's parts? I can. :'-)

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Twenty-Four

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: Some family-related angst, some family-related fluff

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Your father had never summoned you like this before. 

Helion was all charming smiles and dramatic entrances into rooms without invitation. The pegasus he’d sent to your apartment to invite you to a party said as much about his character. So, sliding a letter beneath your door in the early hours of the morning felt decidedly tame in comparison. 

Although, it may have had to do with the unimaginably protective Shadowsinger sharing your bed. 

He snatched the letter off the floor immediately, wings flaring out in suspicion. Then, recognizing Helion’s familiar scrawl, handed it over to you. 

“What does it say?” He sank into bed, concerning himself with kissing the curve of your neck so he wouldn’t read the words. Nosey bastard that he was.

You scanned the words again, feeling excitement flutter in your stomach. “He wants to have breakfast with Lucien and I. As a family.”

Your hands dropped to your lap. “He knows?”

Azriel nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “He knows. He and Lucien stopped by every day to check in on you.” 

“And did you let them inside the room?”

Azriel stiffened. “Yes.” Then he wrapped his hands around your waist, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt — his shirt. He sighed. “I could have been warmer to them.”

You leaned back against his chest, breathing in the quiet morning for as long as you could stretch it. But you had a breakfast to attend. Perhaps the most important breakfast you’d ever have in your life. 

Azriel accompanied you as far as the double doors to one of Dawn’s minor halls, although “minor” was likely a relative term. There wasn’t an inch of Dawn’s court that wasn’t dripping with gold embroidery and color. 

Purple lace curtains, hand-stitched to look like peacock feathers, fanned the open windows. Stained glass threw their colors over ivory walls and the hand-painted tiles could have put the sea to shame in its color and finery. 

Your brother paced in front of the doors, and the golden light of morning seemed to follow his footsteps, outlining him in a halo of pale yellow.  

“Y/n!” Lucien’s eyes softened at the sight of you. 

You were whole. Well. Safe. 

Your eyes lit up at the sight of him and soon you were clutching the layers of your dress in your fists and running down the hall. Silent footsteps ended with a dull thud as you slammed into Lucien’s chest, wrapping your arms around his middle. 

“Thank the gods you’re ok.” You breathed into his chest. 

“I should be the one worrying. You’re the one who killed a death god.” 

You huffed. Talking about what happened felt strange. Like it was too true to be real. 

He gave you a once over glance, and you did the same, checking for bandaged wounds and new scars. 

His hair was braided back at the temples, but your keen eyes saw the strands of hair that had been shorn short during the fight. You smoothed them back into place, tucking them into braids so they wouldn’t stick out awkwardly. 

Lucien glanced over your shoulder at where the Shadowsinger lingered halfway down the hall. Azriel was trying very hard, and failing, to give you your privacy. But the moment Lucien stepped away, Azriel was at your side once again, his hand firmly placed at the small of your back. 

Together, you cut a striking silhouette against Dawn’s colors. You, with your silky white and gold dress flaring down your back like bird wings, and Azriel with his black leathers and broad shoulders wrapping around you like shadows. 

A Librarian and her knight.

A Shadowsinger and an Inkbird. 

Two mates. Different. Same.  

Your brother smirked, but there was no animosity in his tone when he said, “I was wondering when your guard dog would come to attention.” 

“Careful,” you reprimanded him. Your eyes sparked dangerously. 

Azriel slid his hand from your back to your waist, pulling you ever closer to his chest. A flicker of pride reverberated through the bond. He didn’t mind Lucien’s comment, but he did like to hear you defend him. Very much. 

There was a strange understanding that passed between Azriel and Lucien. Perhaps even some sliver of respect as Azriel kissed your cheek. 

“I’ll be waiting outside,” he promised. 

He surveyed the hall, eventually finding the darkest corner available to tuck himself into. Even without his shadows he managed to disappear from sight.   

“How is Vassa doing?” 

Lucien tried to smile for your sake. “She’s grateful to you. You took away the worst of her pain. But I don’t think she’ll truly begin to heal until she sees Jurian again… or at least where we’ve buried him.” 

You took your brother’s arm and squeezed tightly. You suspected the same could be said for him. He’d never gotten a chance to say goodbye.  

“And how are you? Have you spoken to Helion since the lake? Azriel said you both came to see me.” 

“Those have been silent visits.” Lucien’s eyes flickered over to the darkness he knew Azriel was hiding in. “And it’s not like your mate let us stay long. Territorial bastard.”

“We’re also bastards.” You reminded him. “It’s not much of an insult when we say it.” 

He hummed half in agreement. “Helion’s been busy with Court business, and aside from visiting you, I’ve been avoiding him like the plague. ” 

“But you still came today.” 

“I did.” Lucien winced and squeezed your arm. “I’m glad you’re here. I was afraid I’d have to face him alone.” 

You furrowed your brows at his choice of words. “Why would you be afraid of—” 

The doors opened of their own accord and you quickly shut your mouth as Lucien stiffened beside you. 

Helion was many things — charming, charismatic, flirtatious to a fault. Always giving off an air of carefree happiness. Like the sun in the sky, he shined brightly in every room he entered, lifting spirits with his head held high. 

You’d never seen your father so nervous in his life. Or so… normal in appearance. 

He’d forgone his crown, which was not unusual, but he’d also left off his bracelets and necklaces. Nothing but a few gold cuffs added to his locs served as decoration for his cream-colored tunic and trousers. 

You and Lucien were wildly overdressed in comparison. Without realizing it, you’d both prepared for a breakfast with a High Lord. Not your father. And Helion could not hide his disappointment at this fact. 

His eyes locked on the white and gold garments you’d both chosen to wear. Day Court colors to show respect for him. But you’d also both chosen elements representative of your new homes. Lucien kept a bronze maple leaf pinned to the lapel of his jacket and the gown beneath your robes was laced with black thread. Shadows, for your mate and for the Night Court. 

He never thought a sight could fill him with such pride and such dismay. 

You took the first steps forward before Lucien unstuck his feet from the floor and followed. 

It was a long walk across the short hall. Garlands of carnations wrapped around the ceiling arches, dripping down the walls like ivy and framing the wide spread of food that had been prepared. 

Helion stepped around the table and held his hand out for your first, pulling you in for a hug that had your toes brushing against the floor. It was the first time he’d ever held you like this. 

It felt nice. Safe. 

Lucien watched with something like longing as Helion gently lowered you to your feet and shouted, “Do you have any idea the hell you put me through?!” 

Your eyebrows flew up in surprise. Lucien stiffened, his hand drifting to the knife strapped beneath his dinner jacket. 

Helion gripped your shoulders, red-shot eyes wide and desperate as he bowed down to look at you. 

“What were you thinking putting yourself in danger like that?!” 

Your mother had never reprimanded you. You had never left the Alcove for long enough to get into trouble. So, the flare of teenage embarrassment in your chest was an unexpected and new feeling. 

“Well I—” 

“Never again,” your father commanded, shaking his head. “You are never to pull any stunt like that again, do you understand? Not while I remain your father and High Lord.”

“Helion, I—” 

“Did you ever even stop to think about what you were doing?” 

You blinked and that embarrassment turned to indignation. You were a Librarian. All you ever did was think, and think, and think. Sometimes too much. 

“Of course I did!” 

“Then why the hell did you do it?!” 

The answer was obvious. “Azriel was dying. My mate was dying! And Koschei would have killed you next, what did you expect me to do?” 

“I expected you to stay safe and to let me handle it!” 

“You weren’t handling it!” 

“I am your father! You are meant to bury me, not the other way around!” He roared. 

The chandelier and the flowers trembled. The light from the windows flared up and died down like a comet had shot past. 

You were stunned into silence. You hadn’t truly thought about how Helion would react to your death. The twist of agony on his face was painful to look at now when you were still alive and standing. You didn’t want to imagine how he would have reacted if you had died. 

Guilt simmered in your stomach as you thought of him burying you. Of what it must feel like for a parent to see their child killed in front of them. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmured awkwardly. Although you didn’t regret your decisions. “I guess I’ll… let you kill the death god next time.” 

Helion scoffed, rubbing his temples and shaking his head. “You’re grounded,” He finally declared. 

It was cliche. Obviously. But being cliche was an easy plan to fall back on when he couldn’t come up with anything else. What could he possibly say to his daughter after she’d nearly sacrificed herself to save them all? “I’m three hundred and forty-three. That’s really not necessary… or effective. ” 

“Fuck,” Helion muttered beneath his breath. 

“It was a nice try.”

As you’d told Lucien, Helion was not a great father… but he was trying. 

Lucien cleared his throat, feeling decidedly out of place as he hovered just off to the side. You grabbed his wrist, pulling him into the circle of conversation. 

“I don’t suppose you’ll try to ground Lucien as well.” 

The answering silence was a resounding No as you all took a seat at the breakfast table. The pile of tarts in the center was so tall and decorated with so many flowers you couldn’t see Lucien from where you sat on opposite sides. Helion must have recognized his error because with a snap of his fingers, the long table was replaced by a smaller, more intimate arrangement. 

“Thank you for coming,” Helion said nervously, pouring out a sweet drink into your cups that smelled of spiced apples and maple syrup. 

Lucien stiffened at the sight of the Autumn Court drink. There were many items from the Autumn Court actually — whole roasted chestnuts smothered in toffee, apple and walnut cake, pumpkin pastries, and spiced sausages. 

Helion slid a blackberry and custard tart onto your plate, needing something to do with his hands as Lucien stared without ever touching his silverware. 

You nudged Lucien’s foot from beneath the table and his golden eye whirled on you. 

Say something. Your raised eyes said to him. 

What the fuck am I meant to say? 

Helion noted the silent communication between you two and decided to take you both out of your misery by asking, “How long have you known about each other?”

You began cutting the tart into bite-sized pieces. “A few months. I recognized Lucien when he first came to the Night Court and told him I was your daughter a couple weeks after.” 

“How?” Helion asked in amazement. “How did you know?”

He’d always found it difficult to look at the Vanserra boys. They looked too much like their mother. But while she’d passed down her beautiful features, Beron’s cruelty had twisted them into something less lovely. Never Lucien though. Lucien had always been different. A little kinder.

Helion must have seen him a dozen times over three centuries. How had he not recognized his own son? 

You shrugged and took a bite of your tart. “I have eyes. You have the same nose and the same smile.” 

Neither Lucien nor Helion were smiling now, but it was true. They did have the same noses. 

Helion sank into his chair, dragging his hand down his unnaturally stoic face. “You must think I’m some terrible villain, Lucien.” 

Your brother swallowed thickly, fingers playing with the handle of his fork. 

“Did you know? Did you know who I was? Did you know what Beron was doing to us? To my mother?” 

Helion cast his gaze down in shame. “No… and yes. I didn’t know you were my son, but I knew what Beron was doing. What he was capable of behind closed doors.” 

“So why didn’t you do anything about it?” Lucien asked through gritted teeth. “Why didn’t you ever take her away from him?” 

“It’s not that simple, Luc—” 

“It is that simple! You’re a High Lord. What’s the point of all that power if you won’t do anything with it?” 

Lucien was a smart male. Years spent traveling as an emissary for Spring, Night, and the Human Lands had made him perceptive and diplomatic to a fault. He knew why Helion hadn’t done anything. To steal away the Lady of Autumn would have been an act of war. And if Beron had ever discovered the truth about Lucien, he would have killed him first and then his mother.

Yes, Helion had made the smart move by staying away. Aurelia Vanserra had made the best decision to keep her mouth shut and stay in Autumn. Even though one letter to Helion would have been enough to change everything. 

One letter and Helion would have taken her and Lucien to safety. 

But who would have protected Eris and the others then? Who else would have shielded her sons from the worst of Beron’s anger? 

Lucien knew it wasn’t that simple. But he also didn’t care. Politics and reason could go to hell. 

“You’re right,” Helion admitted with a sigh. 

Lucien blinked in surprise. You looked at your father and he seemed to age twenty years in an instant. 

“You’re right, Lucien. I should have recognized it sooner, but I didn’t. I should have protected you and your mother and your brothers, but I didn’t. And I will regret that until the day I die.” He shook his head scornfully. “I didn’t even take care of the child I did know about.”  

Lucien hadn’t expected Helion to crumple so quickly. He’d shown up to breakfast with a vial of poison in his boot and a faebane-laced knife hidden in his jacket, just in case. After all, that’s how he would have prepared for a meal with Beron if he was still alive.

So to see Helion, tears burning in his eyes and shame written on every facet of his face, was unexpected. It erased some of the anger that had been festering in Lucien’s chest ever since he learned he was a bastard. Dislodged the stone in his stomach that weighed him down.  

“But you did take care of me,” you said. “You still do… in your own way.” You pushed the pieces of tart around your plate. “I don’t like blackberry and custard tarts. I haven’t since I was seventy.” 

Helion’s face fell. “Oh.” 

“But they used to be my favorite… up until the day you brought twelve to the apartment and I ate them all behind mom’s back and threw up.” 

“You are setting a very low standard for me, Y/n.” 

“You can raise it in the future.” You looked at Lucien. He can do the same for you. Is what you were thinking, and somehow, Lucien understood. 

“I want us to be a family.” It was the first time you’d ever dared to say the words out loud. Words were precious, powerful things, fragile as they seemed when spoken to the world. “I want more breakfasts with the three of us at a table. I want to ask you how Court business and emissary work are going and I want to buy you shitty gifts for Summer Solstice. Is that too much to ask?”

Helion swallowed thickly and shook his head. “No, my darling, that’s not too much to ask.” He looked at Lucien, finding more and more commonalities with every second glance. “I would like nothing more.” 

Lucien stared at him hard and long. He was still hesitant about Helion and there were centuries of pain he’d need to let go of before he ever called Helion father.

But for you? He would try just about anything for his little sister. 

He nodded stiffly and finally served himself a helping of chestnuts. The toffee coating crumbled between his teeth. They tasted like home. 

“Let’s try this again. What should our first topic of conversation be?” Helion asked. 

“Recent events are off the table,” you muttered, sliding a strawberry and rhubarb tart onto your plate. 

“I second that,” Lucien said. 

He wanted to exist in this strange bubble for a little longer. This bubble where they were an estranged family and nothing more. Not a High Lord. Not a misplaced heir without a home. Not a Librarian marked by a death god. 

Just a father and his two children. That was messy enough as it was. 

“We could judge your new boyfriend,” Helion offered. “That seems like a family-worthy conversation.”

Lucien perked up at the suggestion, lips twitching into a smile. 

You cringed. That word — boyfriend — sounded so… juvenile. 

“He’s my mate.” You corrected him.

“It’s not too late to turn him down.” 

“Helion—” 

“I think you could do better,” Lucien chimed in, and Helion nodded in agreement. 

And so, your first meal as a family came and went. You all stumbled in the conversation, treating every word like uneven ground that could fall away into something too deep. Too personal. Too serious for a first breakfast. But you also laughed, mostly at Azriel’s expense. And you managed to keep the worst of the grief at bay. For all the centuries you’d spent on your own, this was a promising start.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note: Y'all deserved a (relatively) calm and happy breakfast between these characters because DAMN has shit happened in the last like three chapters. Hope y'all enjoyed this little bit of Y/n, Helion, and Lucien FINALLY GETTING TO BE A PROPER FAMILY TOGETHER!!!! I love them so much.

[genacity]

DAY FIVE. FEVERISH

ft. kaeya alberich — genshin impact

as a werewolf, it’s hard to control your animalistic urges as is. but while in a heat; dizzy and restless and constantly feverish with your tease of a boyfriend around, it just gets that much more difficult.

ruling. nsfw — mature content

content warnings. amab! werewolf! reader, breeding kink, heat, anal pen, “monsterfucking”, spanking, belly bulge, established relationship, mentions of pregnancy, slight feminization (using “mother” for kaeya, talking about carrying the reader’s child), reader can be viewed as gn because there is no gender-specific vocabulary except the male anatomy lol

an. hello everyone i’m back, ty for all the kind words you all sent to me! this was not proofread so don’t make fun of me for any errors. i don’t read my shit b4 i post it. enjoy!!

kinktober 2023 masterlist

heats are the worst time of the month, you think.

when your brain is a constant blur; images running into themselves and you can barely make out what is or isn’t. voices make your head pound and your body is always on fire, with hands sweating a downpour and you can’t help but shed your clothing the moment you step into your shared apartment with your boyfriend, kaeya.

kaeya. that’s right, the love of your life— kaeya alberich was the damndest thing that’s ever happened to you. when you first met he was such an angel. gentle with a sweet tongue and smooth words that made your heart race.

when you first told him of your origins as a werewolf a few weeks after you started talking, he told you he saw you all the same. not as a monster like everyone else did.

and when he experienced your first heat about a month after you started dating, he learned something new about himself.

he liked it rough.

rough with the way you’d manhandle him, tossing him around into different positions to stuff him full just the way he liked after he teased you all day.

rough with the way you shoved him down onto your shared bed, quickly tearing his shirt apart— quite literally as the buttons flung off of the fabric and he let out a dissatisfied sound.

“that was my favorite shirt,” kaeya breathed, watching as your big hands fussed with his belt buckle “you’ll have to pay for that, y’know.”

“oh, i’ll pay for it.” you grumbled, swiftly tugging his pants off and discarding them onto the floor with his belt. quickly pushing his legs apart and rushing to press your lips and teeth to his exposed chest and skin.

he let out a shaky breath as your lips left marks on his skin. deep purpling marks and outlines of sharp canines messy along his collarbone. your hands crept down to his twitching cock, but swiftly passing it as your attention was focused… elsewhere.

“gonna prep you, kaeya.” you muttered against his burning skin before looking up for approval. “gonna prep you good so you can take my cock, m’kay?”

he nodded, and you continued. your large fingers began to work him open, making your lover gasp and clench tightly around the two digits inside of his hole.

kaeya felt his own thoughts blur. your thick, long fingers working in and out of him, making his body tense up with every thrust. it doesn’t take much to work him up— the smooth-talking captain really isn’t as suave as he thinks.

by the time you’ve fucked him open he’s already melting. biting his bottom lip to silence any sounds that may slip past his lips.

“ah… darling,” he whispered before being cut off by a whine. “please, i’m ready for you.”

“are you sure?” you asked, voice almost a purr, deep and rumbling in your chest. kaeya nodded eagerly, and a smirk splayed onto your lips. “you’ve spurred me on quite a bit. i won’t be gentle.”

“i don’t care,” he shook his head. “i want you. please?”

and so you positioned yourself right. throwing his slender legs over your shoulders and pressing your tip to his entrance.

he thought you’d never give in. kaeya opened his mouth to protest, to whine. but never got to for he felt your length split him nearly into two. you forced yourself in and he keened, head thrown back and hands grasping for the pillows behind his head as you began to fuck into him at a relentless pace.

“gonna fuck you full,” you panted, the smell of sweat and sex leaving the both of you breathless. “this what you wanted, huh? wanted me to use you ‘til you can’t speak?”

all he could muster was a breathy whimper. too focused on the feeling of your long cock breaking his body and forcing him down. just the way he wanted it. just the way he needed it.

kaeya felt as if he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. until a harsh slap to his bare thigh brought him back and he flinched, gasping for air as you kept fucking him.

“answer me.” you demanded, and he immediately scrambled to answer. “yes, yes, feels good,” kaeya whined. “you feel so good. so b-big, i can’t—”

and your hips began to speed up. thrusts growing hard and sloppy, your hands suddenly just beside his head as you angled his hips up to buck into his prostate.

kaeya almost wailed— maybe he did. body jolting with every thrust. voice dissipating into strained moans and whimpers as you continued to use his body.

“y/n, y/n,” he chanted. the sound of skin against skin and your rough groans in his ear only spurred him further. “so big, so full! fuuck!”

your growls turned into chuckles of amusement as you continued your rough pace on his body. “gonna breed you.” you whispered into the shell of his ear. “gonna use your body up and fuck you full of my babies.”

“yes, please,” kaeya nodded, huffing and whining. “fuck me full. wanna— i wanna feel you!”

he knew it wasn’t possible. you couldn’t actually get him pregnant. but the thought of it was exhilarating. you, knocking him up and leaving him with a baby. would he be a good mother? maybe. maybe not. he wish he could figure out. but if not, this would be just fine.

more than so.

kaeya opened his pretty eyes to try and look at you while you fucked him. instead, his vision fell to the bulge in his stomach that grew every time you drilled your hips up into him. the sight left his mind swirling with thoughts. so badly did he want your cum deep inside his stomach— so much so that the big bulge your cock imprinted in him did a baby take its place. he whined out, staring as your dick shaped his insides and left him moaning messily out for more.

“fuck, baby.” you groaned into kaeya’s ear. “i’m gonna cum. gonna make you take all of my cum. you’re gonna take my knot like a good boy, aren’t you?”

it was all ‘yes, yes, yes’ and ‘cum with me, please!’ from the lips of your lover. so badly did he want to experience the high of your release together.

and when you finally let go, finally pump all of your cum into his hole does he scream. the loudest he has in a while. you’re so warm, you make him feel so full— his eyes roll back into his skull and he’s stuttering pleas and begging for you to fill him up more, more, more.

his voice is giving out. similarly to his legs. you groan lowly into his ear and he feels his stomach churn. his own high leaving him breathless as it crashes over him and he himself cums streams of white all over his stomach.

the captain isn’t quite sure if he can breathe. not sure if his lungs are working properly, or if he’s even alive at all. not with the way he’s gripping the sheets for dear life as if worried he’ll find himself lost if he lets go.

and this is why he teases so much during your heats. to feel you inside him, stuffing him full and threatening to knock him up as if he’d take it like a curse— when in reality, he’d do anything to make you happy. even if it meant bearing your pups.

[heauxvibez]

Dipsea 2

warning: smut (18+). I had to change my panties after typing this bad boi up..

You looked at your phone with a desperate whimper, the frustration of the sudden interruption running through you. You had just begun to sink into the sweet rhythm of it, and now, you were certain the app was worth every cent. There was no way you’d be left on a cliffhanger—not when the heat was already pooling deep in your pussy, and his words were making your body ache with need. No other free option would suffice. Joe had started this, and you were determined he’d be the one to finish it.

With a quick tap, you paid for the app, heart pounding, pussy throbbing as the screen shifted. You watched as all nine parts unlocked, the bright purple and orange hues of the app glowing softly against the darkened room. The colors pulsed much like the warmth building inside you, teasing you as you imagined what was coming next. You were ready to dive back into the sultry depths of Joe's voice, ready to be carried away again, this time with no interruptions.

With another quick tap, you clicked on part two of Watch, your excitement beaming as the screen transitioned to reveal a new silhouette of him. This time, the image was a stunning depiction of his back, his broad shoulders and sculpted muscles bathed in more hues of deep orange and violet that painted the app. The soft gradient colors traced the contours of his body, highlighting every curve and dip in his toned frame just as much as the last silhouette.

His hair and tattoo were the only contrast—bold, inky black curls outlined by thin, glowing lines of orange, the strands seeming to ripple with motion as if you could reach out and feel the soft waves between your fingers. The black tribal patterns were striking—precise and pristine. The lines were sharp, curves fluid, creating a seamless flow of ink that wrapped around the silhouette with an almost hypnotic grace. The design seemed alive, as if the artist had studied every inch of his form with care. Whoever had illustrated this masterpiece deserved a raise.

The silhouette cut off just above his lower back, but not before emphasizing the curve of his spine and the dimples that rested at the base, drawing your gaze down. The image lingered there, inviting you to the details and shadows that made him feel more magnetic. It was impossible to look away.

You pressed play and closed your eyes without hesitation, you were ready to fill your ears with his voice and your mind with his image.

"Now go ahead and play with that pussy for me, but take your time. I don't want our fun to end so soon," he commanded. It was the same line he had whispered at the end of part one, a teasing reminder that he knew exactly where you both had left off, pulling you right back into that state of arousal.

But this time, things were a bit different. Your panties, once tangled around your ankles, had now disappeared somewhere within the soft, silky sheets beneath you. Your fingers hovered above your clit, ready to obey him, knowing exactly where they were headed—into the same silky folds that ached for attention, craving the touch you’d been holding back from for too long.

You could already feel the tingling between your thighs, the way his voice alone had the power to make your body respond, your mind slipping into a haze of pleasure. Just as he’d asked, you were savoring every second, drawing out the pleasure because you both knew there was no rush. It was about indulgence—taking your time, sinking deeper into the sensations, and losing yourself completely.

Your middle finger drew light, teasing circles around your clit, barely grazing the sensitive nub. Despite the faint touch, you were already soaking wet, your juices slick against your skin, and you hadn’t even fully given in yet. A shaky breath escaped your lips as you imagined his eyes on you, the thought heating your skin even from a distance. You could picture the way he’d tilt his head back slightly, his eyes dark while lifting his hand to stroke his beard in that slow, menacing way he always did when he was gathering his thoughts. His fingers would glide over the coarse hairs, tracing the strong line of his jaw, and then move down toward his throat, his palm smoothing over his skin as if grooming himself in preparation.

You could hear the sound of him shifting in his seat, the sound of his body moving making your breath hitch. It was subtle, but you pretended as if it was an involuntary thrust, his horniness impossible to hide. You imagined his dick strained against the fabric of his tight bottoms, pressing insistently, desperate for relief.

"Just like that, sweetheart," he groaned. "Fuck, I can barely keep still over here," he chuckled, the sound rough and deep, making your body tingle in response.

"I can see you drippin' all the way from here," his voice purred through your earphones, carrying a teasing tone that vibrated in your ears.

"Those lips, glistening and glossy... all for me, right, baby?" you couldn’t stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips. Your body responded before you could think, the words slipping out in a breathless whisper.

"Yes, daddy..." you murmured into the air, your toes curling with the rush that came from answering him. You could practically hear the smirk in his voice as he spoke again,

"Good girl," he affirmed. "Now, can you slip those fingers inside for me? But tease yourself just like I would..." what he wanted from you, what he asked of you was so damn irresistible, and as your middle finger slid down your slick slit, you listened, teasing your entrance, tapping it lightly, just as he’d instructed. The teasing was unbearable, your body aching for more as your fingers played along your soaked folds.

"You're such a great listener, baby. Go ahead and slip those fingers in.."

"Whew, Jesus," you sighed, finally giving in as your middle and ring fingers slipped into you, the warm, tight sensation wrapping around your digits beautifully. Your palm brushed against your swollen clit, your body pulsing around your fingers. The friction was maddening, every stroke drawing you deeper.

You could hear his breath hitch in your ears, shaky and uneven, as he narrated your pleasure. "God damn if only you could see yourself right now," he groaned, "Your pussy taking in your fingers, going deep and curling against your g spot... Shit, you don’t know what you’re doing to me."

It was wild how his words were basically tailored to cater to your own pleasure. Every syllable felt like it was crafted just for you. His praise, the soft, commanding tone he used, was almost too much. You could hear every minor shift in his voice, the way he controlled each breath, making it deeper, huskier when the moment needed it. It wasn’t just the words—it was the way he wielded them, like a lover’s touch, knowing exactly when to soften, when to tease, when to push.

"Keep the pace slow,” he uttered, “I want you to enjoy and savor this. I want to enjoy and savor this. You know I love watching you fall apart in agony, knowing that you've been waiting to nut all night. Knowing that you're holding onto that nut just for me. Knowing you ain't gon nut until I say so."

“Fuck," you cursed as you slowed your movements, still doing as he says even though it felt torturous. Your finger slid in and out of you with agonizing slowness.

The contrast between the slow, teasing strokes and the need inside you made everything feel so much sweeter. It was as if his voice was in control of your body, holding your hand, pushing you just to the brink but never letting you tumble over. The slowness frustrated you, yet it pleased you so perfectly.

"Just like that, my love. In..." His voice purred as your fingers slipped deeply inside, "And out..." he continued, his words guiding you as you pulled them out slowly, feeling the slickness of your folds against your skin. "In..." You pushed your fingers back through your wet heat, your breath trembling. "And out..." you obeyed again, this time a soft moan escaping your lips as your fingers retreated, leaving you wanting more.

"Mmm, you hear that?" His voice was now getting lower, making your whole body shiver. You listened closely, the only sounds in the room now were his heavy, steady breathing in your ear and the unmistakable sound of your juices being pushed in and out of you. The wet, slick noise echoed throughout the room which did nothing but tighten the knot deep in your belly.

Your fingers moved with purpose, matching the slow, teasing pace he had set, the wetness coating your fingers making the motion smoother. You were getting closer to the edge.

"You ain't ever been this wet baby. I just know them fingers are drowning in that nectar of yours.." he murmured, with his words being slightly interrupted by throaty moans. The sounds of fabric rubbing made you think that he might be stroking himself through the barrier of his clothes, fueling the fantasy and pure delusion of him watching you.

"Aht, remember what I said? Keep that pace slow; I know you can take it..." His voice urges you to follow his demands despite the desperate need to cum.

"I can’t..." you whimpered, your voice breaking as your back arched in a sad attempt to increase the friction against your palm. The struggle to maintain the slowness was killing you. You were doing your best to follow his instructions, but he was too damn good at this erotic audio shit. It felt impossible to hold out much longer—his voice was relentless.

His breaths seemed to grow louder, more insistent, and his moans were becoming deeper and more profound. "Wrap your left hand around your throat, mhm," he instructed, "Make sure you grip it well. Just like I would when I'm holding you in place, keepin' you from runnin.'"

Your left hand moved slowly, trembling slightly as it glided up your body, feeling every shift in your skin. The vulnerability of the touch made you acutely aware of how fragile you were. Even the gentlest of touches at this moment felt like they would do you in.

"Just like that. Fuck, you're gonna come, ain’t you?" He questioned seductively, his voice was filled with a knowing confidence as if he could read your mind.

He laughly breathlessly, a sound of cockiness that made you want to reach through the phone and give him a light slap on the wrist for being such a know it all.

"Your breaths are gettin' shorter, your pussy’s gettin' wetter, and I can see those legs trembling, trying to stay open." You were stunned by how right he was, it was a perfect reflection of the torment yet pleasurable moment he was talking you through.

"Cum for me baby, cum for daddy," he whispered compelling your fingers to delve deep inside and your palm to press the perfect amount of pressure onto your clit. Your body quivered as your orgasm radiated from the top of your head to the tip of your toes and back up again like waves. Pure waves of euphoria that is. Waves that nearly shatter you into pure bliss.

Your back arched with each breathy word he spoke to you, “Keep going, sweetheart. Don’t stop. Don’t stop moving those fucking fingers,” he growled, his words were rough and delicious. Your fingers continued their relentless rhythm, pumping deep and steady. Your thighs tightened around your wrist, pulling you closer, your juices flowing freely into your palm, glistening with every stroke. Your pussy clung to your fingers with a needy grip, pulling them in as you withdrew, a constant dance between your walls and your digits.

Tears streamed freely from your eyes as your left hand stayed firm against your throat, the sensation of the choke making you lose your mind, while also serving as a grounding anchor. You couldn't quite tell if it was your own grip or his that held you captive. Physically, you knew it was your hand, but emotionally, this man had an undeniable hold on you, wrapping around your mind with his words, and his energy.

Your body gradually relaxed, the tension melting away after the breathtaking orgasm that had left you well…breathless. You had been holding air in your lungs, caught in the throes of pleasure, until his soothing voice gently pulled you back to reality.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmured, his sultry voice and slow, deep breaths filled your ears. You matched his rhythm, each inhale and exhale guiding you back to yourself. When you finally opened your eyes, which had felt closed for hours, you found yourself staring at the ceiling, still reeling from your release. You could hardly believe how powerful it had been. “That was good,” he chuckled, and the sound made you crack a small, satisfied smile.

“Mmm, now that I’ve watched, come over here so I can listen to you moan in daddy's ear.”

Click here to play "Listen" narrated by Joe, voiced by Roman Reigns.

--------------------------

I feel absolutely DELUSIONAL after writing this. Only because I feel like something like this could actually happen LOL.

Tags: @harmshake @southerngirl41 @sortudademais @empressdede @alichesmi

@msbigredmachine @theninthwonder @blacst4r @sassginamillls @wrestlingprincess80

@headoftheetable @trashbin-nie @sheyaish @saintmagx @mzv11

@venusesworld @tshepisho @cyberdejos2

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! I tend to forget to tag sometimes, so just direct message me. It'll be easier for me to keep up lol!

[radiant-reid]

If your up to this, could you write a smut where reader picks up Reid from prison and he's awfully quiet (she doesn't know he's horny as soon as he sees her) and so when they get home the first thing he does is fuck her 🤭

I had a dream about this and I just wanted to see someone write it lmao.

no bc he's so pretty

You're handling him like he's glass, one breath away from shattering.

He hates it, but it's predictable. He's just been through something horrible, so of course, the one person who loves him most in the world would be gentle and supportive.

The problem is Spencer wants to be rough. In his three months locked in prison, he didn't see any of his usual stress relief- you.

"Are you..." You hesitate about what to add. No matter what word you said, the answer was obvious. He wasn't fine or okay or good.

"Glad to be out." He answers, reaching out to hold your hand.

You've been hesitant to touch him, unsure if it might trigger something in him, which is why you didn't during the drive. You were hesitant to talk as well, sure that he might need silence.

He needs you. So badly.

The inside of the apartment looks the same. The mug he had last used before he went to Mexico was still sitting on the coffee table.

You notice him fixating on it. "Sorry, I know you hate the mess." You explain. "I just... I couldn't-" Once you found out he wouldn't be coming home for a while, you were paralyzed, unable to touch anything of his.

"It's okay." He assures you, gliding his hand across your back. God, you missed him. Everything about him, but especially how he feels. Then he turns to look at you. "I want you." He says.

"I didn't want to be overwhelming, but I was thinking we could get Thai takeout, and I made cheesecake for dessert." You say, walking over to the kitchen. His eyes follow you, tracing the outline of your body that is so deep in his brain.

It wasn't what he meant, but he didn't expect you to figure he wanted sex first thing. He walks closer to you, grabbing your hips and pinning you to the bench.

You squeal at the sudden movement as a natural reaction, but it lights a fire inside you instantly. "Spence." You whimper.

"I want you, Y/n." He repeats, dipping his head to breathe against your neck. It's hot on your skin, leaving a wake of goosebumps. "I need you."

You roll your hips back into his. "Have me then." You whisper to him, turning your face so his nose brushes against your cheek. "Right here."

"Fuck." He groans. There's no time to waste. He hasn't been inside you in so long. "It's been so fucking long." He tells you as he quickly unbuttons your pants, pulling them down your thighs.

You help him by unbuttoning your shirt while he works on his pants. There's less foreplay than usual, just both of you stripping as quickly as you can.

"Wait, wait, wait," Spencer stops you as you lean forward.

You stop, turning to look at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing." He assures you, shaking his head. His eyes soften, emotion taking over his features. "Sorry, I just wanted to kiss you." He says.

You can sense the nervousness in his tone, like he's worried you'll say no. "Baby." You coo, cupping his cheek. He's yet to shave, facial hair brushing against your skin. "You can kiss me whenever you like."

In contrast to how quick getting naked has been, he kisses you slowly, tentatively. "Thank you."

"I love you, sweet boy." You remind him, running your fingers through his hair.

"I love you more." He replies.

You peck his lips once more before he turns you around, and his fingers press through your folds, spreading you open and letting the slick sounds of how wet you are echo through the room.

He's checking that you're warmed up enough, not wanting to hurt you even if he needs to get his frustration out. When you feel the head of his cock against you, you spread your legs further apart, and Spencer pushes fully inside you in one swift moment, knocking the air out of your lungs.

"Fuck, Spencer." You moan, gripping the edge of the countertop.

"I know, I know." He agrees, kissing your neck. "So good." His teeth sink into your skin, and there is no doubt going to be a trail of marks. You don't care. Anything for people to know you're his. You're sure there will be bruises on your hips as well from how hard he's pounding you into the bench.

He doesn't take it slow, thrusting in and out of you with speed and force. You roll your hips back against his each time, trying to take as much of him in as you can.

"You're so deep in me." You tell him, feeling it all the way inside your stomach.

One of his hands moves off your hips, pressing your lower stomach where there's an outline of his cock. "Did you touch yourself while I was gone?" He growls lowly into your ear.

"Mhm." You admit in a whimper.

"Show me." He demands.

You move one of your hands off the countertop and move it to your clit, circling it with some urgency.

"Tell me how good it feels," Spencer instructs.

That low, gravelly tone has you clenching around him as you stutter out an answer. "Good. So fucking good, Spencer. Please don't stop."

"I won't." He promises, snapping his hips against yours. "Not until you're coming around me."

"I'm so close." You inform him, but from the increasingly loud moans and whimpers, he knows you're almost there.

"Come for me, baby." He begs. "Please."

You moan louder as you cum around him. "Fuck, Spence!"

He's there just a second later, pumping you full of cum before he rests his forehead on the back of your head while you both come down from your highs.

He pulls out of you gently, kissing your skin, and you turn around to look at him. "Hi." You say. "You doing okay?"

He nods softly as he looks at you, despite the fact you're completely undressed. "Yeah. I just really needed that."

"You can have it whenever you want." You promise, knowing there are likely to be more times when the stress is overwhelming. "I'm so glad you're home and safe."

"Me too." He agrees.

[dearlot]

here, there, and everywhere | lottie matthews

— pairing: postcrash!lottie matthews x afab!reader

— summary: having sex with lottie for the first time after she gets rescued. part 2 to this

— wordcount: 1,578

"Lott?" You knock on the door, feeling anxiety swarm in your belly. "Can I come in real quick and grab something?"

The nervousness you feel makes you hope she'll say no. You don't know if you can handle being in the same room as her while she's like that without exploding. Sure, you've had sex with her multiple times before this, but it feels like you're back at square one ever since she returned. It's not her fault, of course—nor yours—but you can't help but feel shy around her all over again. You're struggling with how to navigate your relationship with Lottie after everything. I mean, you only just started sleeping in the same bed again.

You hear a soft "Mhm" from behind the door and sigh out, preparing to walk in. The door opens and steam greets your face, making you flush slightly. As you walk over to the sink and bend down, your eyes can't help but wander to the frosted glass of the shower and gape at the outline of Lottie's body. Jesus Fuckin' Christ. You forgot just how good she looks. Your hand blindly grabs something from the sink's cabinet as you gawk at the silhouette of Lottie washing her body, reaching around until you find the shape of the thing you came for. You can't even remember what it was at this point, but you need to get out of here before you pass out. You snatch it and quickly leave, gently closing the door and rushing back to the safety of your bed. You scoff in embarrassment when you realize you grabbed a hair comb.

After tossing it on your dresser, you take out your phone and scroll through your apps before you hear the bathroom door open, a sheepish Lottie poking her head out. She beckons you over with her big eyes and you almost stagger backward when you see a sliver of her wet, naked shoulder.

"What's wrong?" you clear your throat. "Do you need something?"

She nods.

"Clothes?"

She shakes her head.

"A towel?"

She nods, her wet hair bouncing lightly. You nod back and walk to the closet in the hallway, grabbing a towel from the shelf and handing it to Lottie when you return.

You decide to get ready for the night while she gets dressed, hopping in bed and warming yourself up while you wait. You get that same feeling in your stomach from before at the thought of cuddling with her and grin stupidly to yourself, wiggling your toes and running your nails down your thighs in excitement. The door opens and out steps Lottie. All of a sudden, that excitement is replaced with something more. You scoot further up in bed as she smiles shyly and shuffles over to the bed, her white t-shirt doing a horrible job of hiding her hard nipples. The outlines are so visible that you can't stop staring, and you have to force yourself to look up at her face and smile back.

She removes the blanket from you and gets in underneath the covers, shoving her face in the crook of your neck as she settles on top of you. Warmth spreads throughout your body for two reasons: One, Lottie's cuddling with you. Two, Lottie's cuddling with you, and her nipples are poking you.

Your hands come up to rub her back softly, and you hear her sigh contentedly. After a while of gentle touches, she begins to leave small kisses on the side of your neck, using her nose to move your face to the side so she can have more area to kiss. You bite your lip to conceal your moans. You're so sensitive now, especially after so long without her touch. Her back feels so hot as you run your hands along it, and you wonder if she has more freckles on there now from being outside for so long.

Lottie kisses that one spot of yours, the one she also wondered about, and smiles at how you moan softly. Yep, it's still there.

Her lips travel across your cheek and reach your lips, capturing them in a messy kiss. You both moan this time and with each kiss, things get more and more heated. She slips a little tongue inside your mouth and you squeeze her hips, fluttering your eyes open to peek at her only to find her shadowy eyes already looking at you. She pulls back from your face and a shaky sigh leaves her wet lips. Her hands come down to grab your shoulders, nails digging in slightly, and begins to slowly grind herself on your lap. You lick your lips and bite them, watching with wide eyes as Lottie moves her hips so tantalizingly on yours.

Shaky fingers find themselves slipping under Lottie's shirt, running across her stomach and grabbing her flesh. She lets out the most beautiful whine and you blush from the sound. When Lottie stops moving her hips to pull down your sweats, it's only then do you get released from your trance.

You stop her with a hand on her wrist. "W-wait, Lott, are you sure?" You just have to ask. You need to make sure she 100% wants to do this and not just because you want to.

She nods several times and pushes your hand away impatiently, making you scoff and grin. You lift your hips and allow her to yank off your sweats, watching her throw them haphazardly on the ground somewhere. She's already in her panties, so she simply rests herself back on your lap and goes back to humping you.

Your eyes travel back to her chest and your mouth goes agape at how her tits move up and down under her shirt. "Can I see you?"

Lottie nods and you grip her hips to keep her steady as she lifts her shirt to show you her naked chest. You groan at the sight of her brown perky nipples and lift your hips into hers, rutting in a desperate attempt to show her how much you crave her. Her hands on your shoulder squeeze gently as she leans over and shoves them in your face, silently asking you to touch her.

You greedily take one nipple into your mouth and moan around it, sucking on it like it's the last thing you'll ever do. Your hand comes up to fondle her other tit, groping and tugging and squeezing around her breast like it's the first time you're exploring her body. The quiet noises leaving her mouth as you please her make your body feel like it's on fire, and you're grateful that she's allowing them to come out at all. You feel full of love for her at this moment that you nearly start tearing up. All you can think about is how much you've missed her.

You pull away with a pop and wipe the spit on your lips. When you look back at Lottie, unspoken words pass between you: I love you. Her eyes are teary and glazed over as she strokes your chest, and just before you carefully move her onto her back, her tear falls and hits your lip. You lick her salt up like it'll bring you closer to her. You swallow her whole. You devour her.

Fingers tug down her panties and spread her thighs apart. "I love you."

A kiss is planted just below her belly button. "I love you."

You settle in between her thighs and lift her leg over your shoulder, nibbling at the soft flesh of her inner thigh. Your lips have longed for this intimacy with her. They shake with excitement as you kiss your way to her pussy, and the second you get a taste of her salty sweetness, you're addicted all over again. Your lips press hard into her cunt, and you eat her like you're a man starved. You can feel her fingertips press gingerly at the top of your head and look up to see her hands clenching and unclenching over her stomach. Poor girl, she's been without your tongue for so long that she's probably not used to this yet. You have half a mind to slow down and take your time, but you yearn for her too much.

"Use me," you mutter into her pussy, grabbing for her wrist and putting it on top of your head. "It's okay."

Strangled whines flow out of her mouth as you stick your tongue out and allow her to move your head however she pleases. Her heel digs into your back painfully as she tries to draw you in closer, and her back arches as she feels her orgasm approach. Her hands go limp on your head and she whimpers, feeling too tired and too overstimulated to continue. You kiss her clit and reach for her hands, holding them tightly as you eat her up and bring her to a mindblowing orgasm.

You have to hold her hips down as she shakes from it, and you coo at her gently while bringing her down. You clean her up with your tongue before she lazily paws at your ear and tries to pull you back up, her eyes barely keeping themselves open when you crawl up her body.

You give her a sluggish smile and lick her cum off your chin, reaching behind to pull the blanket back over you two before kissing her lips. "I love you."

lottie taglist: @heliolottie

[belovedivies]

Heyyy I love the killer Peter writing that you do it’s amazing🤩

Could I request relationship head canons for Peter like you did for Raphael but this time reader is an assassin like him

peter relationship headcanons

a/n: i'll be taking requests again now that i'm done with midterms (spoiler alert i got my ass beaten :3). this came out a little too long and specific for a hc but i plan to flesh this out on another oneshot- anw, enjoy anon!!! cw: minor spoiler, pre-canon, brief canon-typical cruelty wc: 1.26k m.list

IDEA

You met on neutral ground, mainly because his friend just wouldn’t shut up about this cute girl a few rooms down the hallway. You were three years older than Simon then, with a stature shorter than Peter himself.

Glory Club’s foundation is three things: violence, money, and ego. Assassins were pitched against each other on a daily basis, risking their lives to climb to the top where the Apostles rightfully resided. Where jealousy burnt red hot and became a driving force for success, the flame in you had long died out. Peter stared sometimes, and in your eyes, an ocean of arctic iciness stared right back.

He didn’t think much of it. He couldn’t begrudge anyone for it either. The paycheck was nice, and so was the control, the chokehold over others. Peter had and would play the part of an obedient puppet on strings to this organization as long as he drew breath, and as long it benefited them. Wouldn’t you do the same too? Downed a pill, cracked a skull, tossed and turned in a dusty corner later on because the dried blood felt so uncomfortably sticky on your nape, the scream of agony fresh on your mind. It wasn’t the nicest job out there, but it was for survival. A better cause. And Peter had thought about it rationally; he just owed that much to Father Gabriel.

It did get a little more complicated when you got roped in with them. Peter’s apathy had been evident while you stayed painfully austere, and Simon… was just trying his best to get both of you to talk. Five minutes in and a few hours after that afternoon, he couldn’t fathom why his comrade had thought it was a good idea for them to spar with not just a B-rank killer, but one whom neither of them had ever talked to.

OUTLINE

You really hated your job. Anyone would, at some point in their life.

Solo missions were a norm for Peter—things always worked out smoother and faster for the guy when he was on his own. On the rare occasion, he did get paired up with another person. Sometimes his fellow Apostles, the others a far too prideful assassin who chewed more than they could bite. But today there was you. And there wasn’t anything to go about besides a few surface-level exchanges and the silence in between. He couldn’t begrudge you. It’s only for survival.

A hit to the jugular and the job was done. Once out cold on the ground, the body wasn’t his responsibility anymore. Still, the boy watched with some amount of interest when you picked up the knife and poked around their insides. He left to light up a cigarette, took three brief puffs, and went back to the bedsheets covered in blood with the corpse nailed against the wall.

Sadism wasn’t intentional, but it was a running theme among the ranked Glory Club killers. The only collar made of metal and swine that bound them together by the neck. That you were so deep into the pit of insanity, you either shut off your emotions completely or learned to love the carnage.

Death reeked in every corner of the room, yet it was in you that Peter could tell the scent the clearest. You were there, so strangely out of the place, knees pulled tight against your chest. The look on your face was downright miserable.

When Peter made his way closer to inspect the scene, you tilted your head up to meet his face. The knife slipped, the moon shone, the rain tapered. Then you blinked, which was already so rare in itself. And Peter had blinked too, eyes widened, lips parted open just a fraction in surprise as tears welled up in your eyes. You sobbed and wept your dying heart out all the way until the cleanup crew showed up at the motel. One old lady, grey hair and croaked voice, held you in her arms. Months later when Peter finally asked again, he learned that it had hardly been the first. 

FIRST DRAFT

Just down the road, past the cut of dense trees leading to a lonely seashore, there was an orphanage tucked away from the hustle and bustle of Seoul. The kids always waved whenever Peter passed by during his morning run, a gesture that he had returned with equal warmth. Twice a week, the courtyard was lit up with colorful string lights and music, the mouth-watering scent of food wafting through the night air.

He had seen you outside of the Cathedral before, but not like this. The gentle fluorescents accentuated your features with a certain softness, like marshmallow, like the sea breeze carding through his hair. And you had talked, had smiled, had laughed along with them, had stared at Peter with eyes wide as saucers when one of the caregivers invited him in. You were in an apron with the children clung to your waist, vying for an ounce of your attention. It was a week after the mission and you two had rarely crossed paths. 

Peter wondered if you resented him for it; serving him a rather generous portion of seafood barbecue while dodging teasing comments from the kids through grinding teeth and knife-point smiles. But when your shoulders bumped against him on the bench, the tip of your right ear was burning red.

Simon ended up joining the week that followed, bringing more laughter to the shared space with his horrible singing and playfully flexing his swordsmanship. The edge of your smile grew softer and your shoulders more relaxed as you stuffed everyone’s plates with more food. Peter watched you through the rim of his cup with a tightness in his throat; you had only wanted to be normal. 

EDIT

“The kids are my rock.” You confessed a few months later when the ice wall between you and him finally melted. This late into the night, there wasn’t a wisp of cloud in the sky. The waves hit the shore every second, washing away the footsteps as Peter took a stroll with you along the beach.

You asked him about his dream. He didn’t know how to answer it. Taking away the cruelty and violence that made him the way he is today, what was left of the Apostle Peter? A caring brother to Simon and a good son to Father Gabriel. He might as well have been a husk before and a pretty face after, but there rarely had been anything in between for Peter to define himself. A label. A purpose.

Before he could say it, you gave his shoulder a gentle pat and chuckle, eyes glinting with mirth. “You’ll probably be a bookstore typa guy when you grow older.” And against all odds, the statement drew a chuckle from him too.

Maybe he would. Maybe if there was ever a disbandment order from the Cathedral and Peter had lived long enough to have a hunched back and a head full of grey hair, he would run a small bookstore on his own. Maybe the future Simon would drop by sometimes and tease him for his old-man look despite being older than Peter was.

Maybe the future you, still alive and kicking then, would also visit him, and the future Peter, older and wiser than he is right now, might have had the courage to ask you to stay.

But tonight, there was just the two of you. The moon hung high above the sky, the sea glistened with stars and mysticality. Peter watched as the white moonlight lined up the bridge of your nose and the curves of your cupid bow. The artificial heart inside your chest might not have a pulse, but his own did.

And it was very much beating for you.

[uplatterme]

all out?

—sub!scara/dom!reader, amab!reader | office sex, exhibitionism

—not beta read so excuse some mistakes if there are any TT

honestly, scaramouche should have seen this coming.

he stares at his empty cabinet, dumbfounded that there’s nothing inside it. surely not…

the balladeer wants to scream. just his luck, that it happened today too, when there’s a meeting scheduled that he cannot skip.

“fuck.”

the harbinger walks through the chilling halls of the zapolyarny palace. the cold has never bothered him in any shape or form, yet today proves to be an exception.

there are lower-ranked fatui passing by, hastily running off, not wanting to meet his gaze. an action that he isn’t unfamiliar to.

he hisses and stops when a certain ginger blemishes his view.

“looks like someone’s having a bad day!” he greets.

for a moment there, scaramouche thinks that he’s caught red-handed. not until he realizes that the youngest harbinger couldn’t have possibly seen through his facade.

“you’re deafeningly loud.” he bites back, continuing his steps despite the aching in his lower half.

“ah, still the same as ever. not that im surprised.” he says, chuckling echoing through the halls.

“the meeting’s to start in a few, although the director and the overseer hasn’t arrived yet.” tartaglia informs.

he flushes at the mention of your title, the one behind this problem that he’s facing right now.

“hello?” he calls out.

“can you learn to shut up just at least once?!” he yells.

currently, he sits on the chair provided for him, next to pulcinella and sandrone. as long as he doesn’t get seated next to that blue-haired freak, he considers any situation to be pleasant.

the door opens with a slam and the rest of the harbingers bow their head as greeting. there you stand, that folder you always carry in your arms and a pen between your fingers.

that’s when the memories comes back to him.

flashes of each time you’ve ripped his underwear with those fingers of yours, the scene claws into his brain as he bows down his head in unison with the others.

it was fine the first time. it was only a one-time thing, after all.

oh, how naive he was thinking that.

he then realizes that it wasn’t a one-time thing, seeing as there’s none of them left in his cabinet, forced to attend this meeting with his cock slapping against his thigh each time he walks.

it’s embarrassing. he seethes at your voice, talking about some topic that he couldn’t give a shit about. he adores when your tone is like that, commanding and strict. the more you speak, the more the harbinger wants to cave in.

his cock presses hardly to his shorts, begging for any kind of attention. unfortunately, he’s forced to endure it. to sit there in agony while he stares at you, giving out orders.

oh, how he wishes that you bend him against the table right now.

he can see it visibly twitch from underneath his clothing. if you were to see this, what would you have done? scaramouche’s imagination runs wild, thinking of how you’d make him take your cock. overusing his body and milking him dry. a doll, whose only purpose is to serve you.

“balladeer?” he snaps back to reality, hearing you mention him.

he bites back a needy whine, feeling everyone’s attention now centered on him.

“yeah?” he spit out, his eyes meeting with yours.

“you’ll be sent off to a separate mission, is that all right with you?”

god, you could ask him to do anything and he’d agree.

“sure.”

when the meeting ends, his body was moving on its own, moving towards you to grab you and pinning you to the wall.

“you! you better take care of this!” he shouts.

you were confused at first but it didn’t take you long to see his cock fully outlined through his tight shorts.

“why should i? you’re the one who decided to attend this meeting like that.”

he groans. he does not have the time for any of your teasing right now.

“you kept tearing through—just, ugh!

fuck me already!”

his voice echoes throughout the room. he would have never expected this kind of situation to happen but he needed you so badly. he’s been hot and bothered ever since this morning.

he lets out a relieved groan once he feels his abdomen pressing on the table.

then, next comes the sound of his shorts being ripped apart. he would have complained about your tendency to tear through his clothes but all the complaints in his head goes away once he feels your fingers digging inside of him.

“hnngghh—fuck, finally. only thing you’re fucking good for—oh god!”

“shit, shit, shit!”

his face presses up on his hands, far too drunk as drool goes down his chin. he’s loving each movement inside of him, the satisfaction and pleasure you give are intoxicating him and he wants more.

his body squirms, his feet constantly misplacing themselves on the floor. his dick leaking precum as you stroke it at a pace, leaving him panting and breathing like a dog who had just gone for a run.

“look at you, all loose already…your body’s just made for fucking, isn’t it? always wanting to prove something when you can just show everybody how much of a cumdump you are.”

scara grunts at your insult (praise?), wanting to spit back something to defend himself. but his body is then shifted around, his back laying on the cold table as you took no time in penetrating his hole.

his mouth is left wide open by the stretch. it burns but god, he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the pain. the pain that would soon then transition into pleasure by each. single. thrust.

pounding into him mercilessly, his mouth being covered by his own mouth to desperately hide his cries from enjoying it too much, smiling underneath.

eventually, he just decides to let go. his hands reaching up to fondle his own chest, playing with his nipples while you shape him into your own cocksleeve, his leg up as you wanted better access into fucking him as much as you can.

scara’s so damn loud. of course, he doesn’t notice it. nor does he notice a certain redhead blushing needing to do a double take to see if he’s seeing the right thing.

“f-fill me up! fuck, please!”

“haaah—! more, more!”

after a while, those sentences are no longer coherent as he’s turned to just moaning and whimpering, slurring his words that you can barely understand.

the table is a cum-filled mess, his dick spurting out white as his eyes roll back the furthest they can into his head.

and yet, he doesn’t stop.

even better, he’s started to match your rhythm and grind himself onto you.

there’s a bit of a swelling in his belly from your cum and yet that isn’t seen as a blockade.

each thrust, your cum slipping out of him and back into him and the warm feeling of your stickiness is just enough to send him over the edge.

in the end, he’s left with a satisfied smile. laughing and chuckling while struggling to breathe, his walls aching and not sure if he wants more or to just stop moving for as long as he can.

one thing’s for sure though,

he’s completely forgotten that his shorts are torn apart.