#my flesh is running thin and my hair is falling out

[daydrinking75]

i mean i'll do it if it feeds my ego

[therealslimshakespeare]

|| Radio ||

Requested plot points? ☑️

Circa: early February 1944

Immediate previous fic: Favorite Escape

Summary: when your hodge podge radio won’t work, who should ya call? Probably the flight engineer

Warnings: usual universe warnings apply, 18+ but nothing very alarming really happens in this one, references to others are made, some potential slut shaming in the beginning if ya squint? perhaps some queer baiting but it’s the Buckies rolling around on the flooor, they’re one massive queer bait lbr, it’s not me. Also. My shit Crystal Radio making descriptions- don’t come for me I haven’t made one and I spent five hours falling down a rabbit hole as to how the guys made them in the camps and at the end of the day I said: screw it! And went with one of the Brit’s scenarios 🍻

Edited only by my tired little eyes, full warning and have mercy 💋

Also, just a note I feel compelled to make- this fic centers around women in the army, in a war, which they’re spending under dire conditions in a POW camp. Yes there is love here, there is also hierarchy and discipline and the enforcement of that does not make one character or another necessarily callous or less loving. They are their ranks first and foremost as all signed up for.

“They’re forging papers, you know.” Maureen broached the topic to Egan one day, late February and when her cheeks were still bruised from Ida’s book.

Bucky paused his tracing of a map, sooty finger trailing along a river with the same incomprehensible name as its twin running parallel, he didn’t know anything about papers or anyone making them and she knew that. “Who?”

“Good ones. Identification, passports.” She enumerated.

“Who?”

“The Poles. The ones with the-“

“-the liquor.” he finished for her, remembrance and condemnation heavy in his wry tone. “The ones you stayed out all night with.”

“Stayed long enough for them to get drunk enough to show me.”she replied, without heat, which was surprising.

“Some grand plan of yours, huh?” He bit back a laugh, it was a fine way to cover her ass for being insubordinate. It was a way he���d likely try if he was in her place.

“No.” she swore instead. “Just luck, I happened to see them. They got careless. Maybe an answer to all Jack’s prayers.”

“Yeah. Anything to give that rosary a break.”

“Yeah.”

“You asked them?”

“What for?”

Bucky regarded her with thinning patience but something kept him from snapping, the feeling of a riddle still to be solved. “For some papers.” he clarified, measured and intent, she knew how much easier that would make their plans for Ida.

Maureen shook her head, glancing down at her twisting hands, “I didn’t want to-“ her mouth twisted too, “-I wanted to ask a superior first.”

Bucky considered that for a moment, slightly touched at her newfound wisdom, “Why not ask Buck?”

She shook her head again, auburn hair curling under her chin just so, even here in the stalag she had some traces of the old charm. “He’s got too much to worry about for me to be bringing in hypotheticals.” she was so upset by something she would not even meet John’s eye and he felt a slice of remorse for how he hadn’t even noticed the ground down change in her since she got here, his drinking buddy and the soft fleshed rival of merry old English days was a gruff and battered and sullen woman; being a red blooded American male, he regretted that dismal change. “And I'm worried about what to bargain with. What can I promise? We haven’t got much and I don’t have— there’s not much anyway, but what we’ve got I didn’t wanna promise. Not without-“ she still hadn’t met his eye, he tracked hers; a furious roving of pale blue back and forth across the floorboards and it made Bucky itch.

“Who signs these papers?” Bucky asked, thinking the logistics through, knowing she’d perk up if he brought them up.

“Haven’t a clue. Maybe they haven’t figured that part out yet. I don’t know. I just know they’ve got papers.”

“Good ones.”

“Yeah.”

“We haven’t got much.” he agreed, clicking his teeth in thought, “What’d you give them for the liquor?”

“They just invited me.”

“Didn’t have to lend a hand or nothin’?” he balked and Maureen threw him a glare that seemed more hurt than rage, and chastened by a voice inside that sounded much like his mama’s, he amended with sheepish humor, “Hell, feel like lending a hand myself these days, if it’d get me a whisky.”

Her gnarled fist curled white in her lap, she managed hoarsely, “They just wanted to talk about home. To someone who hadn’t heard about it a million times before.”

“They got cigarettes?” he asked.

“As most common payment for their booze -they’ve got enough to insulate their shack three deep.”

“Cigarettes won’t cut it then.”

“I’ve been thinking.”-

“Yeah?”

“The radio. I’m the only one who doesn’t think it’s worth the risk but, I know, it doesn’t matter, it’s happening. Gale’s going to keep trying. And if it works-“ she rubbed at her eyes, tired and unsure, “-that’s quite the bargaining chip.”

Bucky nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as his smile grew a touch broader, “News of the outside world.” he was half in agreement, “Buck asked for a week. Been four days.”

“He’s stumped.” Maureen retorted instantly. “And he’ll stay that way and he’ll go nuts and you’ll go die going over the fence and then he’ll have no reason left not to die too.”

Bucky whistled, low and chiding, “You’re full of rainbows today, Candy.”

“You know who he oughta ask.” she shook off the barb. “But he won’t. And I don’t want him risking it for this thing anymore than anyone else, but you all want it so bad, and they’ll shoot us for it if it works or not. I’m not asking her. But you would. Might as well get shot for it working, right? Isn't that what you said yesterday? You know who he should ask.”

Bucky’s keen eyes showed the moment it dawned on him, his eyebrows shot up and his mouth sagged and he ran a weathered hand over his face, “Awww shit, Candy.” came garbled behind his palm. “Ah shit.” he said again with conviction as he shoved the hand into his pocket, wretched acknowledgment of her point clear on his face.

“I didn’t want to suggest it, told Ida it’s a fucking dangerous thing and I’ll never forgive if— but you all—“

Bucky grounded aloud, “Nah, nah she’s -Lu would solve it.” he muttered, shushing her. “Demarco really pummeled you the other day, huh?” he added, and that got her to meet his eye, she looked spooked and a little incensed, “Saw him fuckin’ you up behind B compound but sheesh, s’like he hollowed you out worse than a jacolantern; yer shifty as hell.”

“He-“ Maureen still felt like blanching at the memory of Benny’s terribly correct opinions, his disappointed eyes and his fist full of her flight jacket asking her what in the living fuck was wrong with her besides a concussion, a sick childhood and an ever nauseating jealousy of Buck Cleven’s paternal time and effort, “-he had some admonitions. After…after the other night.”

Bucky hummed, shitty smirk taking up residence on his face, “How ‘bout that.”

“I’m gonna be better.” she muttered and Bucky felt for her, could almost taste the echo of his identical and hollow determination to climb the mountain of bad habits when weak from spuds and pneumonia. He told himself the same every morning and fell into bed condoning his failure every night, like a ritual.

“You’re gonna get us those papers.” he corrected, shoving off the wall to come near her, give her the full Major treatment and maybe a friendly hand, “And you can promise your drinkin’ buddies news from the radio.”

Maureen nodded in understanding, no joy or animation left in her green eyes. She used to enjoy a bit of subterfuge, now she only felt hollow misery at the thought that she'd dragged Lu into this, too. This risk she hated so much and yet no one cared. Lu would be glad to be dragged in, it’s true, she was itching at the chance to be useful and to make Gale proud, it’s how the girl was wired. It’s how most girls were wired, Maureen supposed, desperate to make Gale Cleven approve. Lu’s enthusiasm wouldn’t make the sight of her being made to kneel in the mud and have a bullet put in her head any easier, wouldn’t make Maureen feel any less responsible for it when her lifeless body thudded to the earth.

All that lovely goodness stamped out.

Over a radio.

Bucky’s hand felt too hard and too big on her shoulder. He had gone before the vision cleared, mud and wire and the freezing main square at Ravensbruck fading back to the musty bunk room. Maureen shook herself and stood up to make herself somehow appealing, reamniante some semblance of the cheerful rashness that had led her to the Polish combine in the first place: she found it hard to inspire. She’d like to count that a victory but she knew better, she wasn’t reformed she was just tired.

A washed face and a fake smile and the promise of news from outside would have to be enough to bank all their risks on, it would have to be.

“Crank,” she greeted the man in the hall, flashing him clean, water brushed teeth and her gentlest, freshly soot lined eyes, “I’ve been tasked by Major Egan with an errand, spare a minute to babysit me?”

__________________________________

Bucky finds Buck Cleven in his own bunkroom, Demarco outside on watch and that’s all Bucky needs to know to guess the radio is out and Buck’s working like a fiend yet again to make it work. Sure enough, he’s hunched over the table with it, mittened hands shaking from cold and exhaustion and a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the paltry sweater he wears.

Bucky walks in and Gale gives him a soft, acknowledging glance before continuing to his work. Bucky takes up his usual place behind Buck’s left shoulder to watch and Buck, being used to it, goes on.

“My little Kriegie Marconi, huh?” Bucky allows the nagging impulse he has felt for weeks while standing in this position to finally exert itself, and his forefinger lifts and swirls in the curling gold strands of hair at the nape of Gale’s neck, his friend almost bolts away but then seems to choose a prey’s tactic and just stills, goes very still and Bucky scritches the scalp beneath his grab in assurance he don’t meant anything by it. He doesn’t think he does, at least.

Gale, wary and with a voice close to mechanized it’s so stilted, inquires with ever-present politeness, “You alright Bucky?”

It’s better than that whole ‘major’ business; getting called Major as if that meant shit anymore. “Yeah, ‘course I am.” Bucky rakes his fingers through the hairs there at the nape of that dainty neck, scritches the scalp with all four of his main ones, and uncovers a white long scar sliding round once he lifts the hairs there. “Why wouldn’t I be? Gonna be a father soon.”

Buck does jerk then, away from his touch and wheeling his chair around to glare at Bucky; it’s an impressively executed little pirouette and John misses the feel of his warm neck and oil soft hair. “Jesus John.” he reprimands.

“We’re gonna get outta here Buck.” John swears, he’s so sure of it because he cannot in all his thinking and predicting ever imagine a scenario where they don’t, and he chooses to think it’s not delusion but a good omen. “Ida’s gonna have that baby and when it’s safe we’ll all meet up.”

Gale is looking at him like he’s his own father again, Bucky knows that look, it always makes him equal parts ashamed and desperate, “Jus’ like that.” Gale mocks in a husky gust.

It’s devastating, and it’s intended to be, and Bucky could bear that with better humor if he could still touch Gale and his hair. “Just like that.”

Gale hums and it’s a mean sorta vocalization that makes Bucky’s heart thud and his skin prickle hot, it’s the kinda noise you kiss off a person, he thinks, but it’s Buck and so he doesn’t know what to do with it. “It’s gonna get you killed.” Buck is saying instead and Bucky lets him, “I know you all think she’s cracked up and maybe she has but it wouldn’t hurt to listen to Kendeigh sometimes when she’s tellin’ ya shit that a five year old could accurately guess, -goddamn it.”

His voice rose to a strong rage by the end and Bucky takes a chair opposite him, sick of standing there like a dumb dog waiting for his scolding to be over. “So what.” Bucky challenges him, “We just wait around and Brady pops out a child and the krauts let us keep it and it’s our new mascot and we all sing zippidy doo da, huh? Huh, Buck?”

Gale’s hands fell away from his face with a slam to the table, a shocking degree of anger showing for a split second and it gave Bucky an odd degree of gratification. “I jus’ want you to find a plan with better odds.”

Bucky sniffed and leaned forward, went in for the kill and Gale was looking at him like he expected it, like it was his turn to play daddy to everyone here and Gale for once was so beaten down he wouldn’t just allow the changing of the guard, he was close to angry at its lateness. It made Bucky’s heart thud.

“I’ve been listening to Kendeigh.” Bucky refuted briefly, “And we’ve got a plan.” Gale gave him a tired look of encouragement to go on, “How long’s it been since you slept? Huh, well, we got a plan. Practically perfect, or it will be, just need the radio.”

“Ain’t giving this away.” Gale said, “Not for anythin’, even useless.”

Bucky patted the table top in easy assurance, if he could have reached Buck’s thigh, he’d have patted that instead, “No, no, don’t need to give it away, just need it to work. So,” he softened his voice and his eyes tightened, “I’m callin’ Lu in.”

Oddly, Gale does not fight it. Not aloud, at least. There’s an anguished look of hate on his face and Bucky mirrors it. It’s for this place and the fucking awful choices they have to choose from every goddamn day.

“You run this by Ida?” is all he asks.

Bucky pops his flaking lips audibly, “What, need us both gangin’ up on you to agree? She’ll sign off. Smith’s an officer. Gotta remember that sometimes, Buck.”

The way his Buck swallows hard and dry contradicts his words, “I do remember that.”

“Really?” Bucky’s mouth gives a soft smile of doubtful incredulity and Gale’s mimics it, mournful but a smirk all the same, “Feel like she should answer to ‘Gale’s Baby’ these days. Lieutenant Smith who?”

Gale scoffs, “Careful now.”

“No really, she’s an officer and she wants to be treated like one. It’ll do her good to have work. Her kinda work.”

“Could get her killed.”

“Layin’ in her bunk could do that.”

Gale grunts, its sounds like an agreement.

“So I say Lieutenant Smith gets put on radio detail. Like her goddamn job description suggests. Huh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Gale lets out a shaky agreement.

“Aaaaand,” Bucky draws it out as he rises again and saunters over to Buck who is ready for him and loose this time, “how bout I go back to bein’ the one you’re frettin’ ‘bout all the time. Got me almost jealous of the girl. How ‘bout I do. Huh?”

Gale’s scoff is fond as anything as he looks up at John with cheerful derision, “And you ‘bout to be a father? Make me an old man? Fuck no, ya looney.”

“Alright.” Bucky concedes with hands up in surrender before lurching forward and grasping Gale’s rickety chair back by its wobbly spokes and hefting it partially off the ground, beautiful and outraged prude of an occupant still seated in it, “Then I’ll play daddy and put you to bed, how ‘bout that.”

“John Egan for fucks sake-“ Gale’s fists pounded on the meat of his shoulders and his outraged protests wafted against Bucky’s neck and his jabbing knees collided with the meat of his thighs and Bucky hadn’t felt so close to him or so happy to be alive since England.

“Major sir, the hell is goin’ on?” Demarco’s tame inquiry from the safety of the doorway made them both lose their grapple and they collided together onto the floor, bunk bed barely missed by their heads and the hapless chair mixed up between their limbs.

Bucky grinned, hip sore from his fall and kidneys suffering from Buck’s trapped elbow there, “Puttin’ Goldilocks to bed.” he replied.

DeMarco processed that and the scene before him with grave sobriety before saluting lazily and turning to go, “Right on, sir.”

John did his best to rise up without further pinching Gale who was indeed trapped beside him and beneath him, chair legs wound between a lanky human leg in a puzzle that Bucky realized might take some caution to untangle without harm. Strangely, Buck wasn’t moving, he was just looking up at him like a cat would their clumsy master who has done somethin’ stupid which was a surprise to neither. It was so innocuous a look and so nostalgic, it winded Bucky with the realization he hadn’t seen it in ages, just as he hadn’t felt his boney ribs against his own and the feel of his elegant hands yanking him around in a fight. This miserable place really was stomping out the glow in the best people.

“Ya know Buck,” he ventured, clearing his throat for extra casualness, “I’ve missed you.” When Gale only kept looking up at him, perfect porcelain face with its unsettling scars and wary eyes without a lick of storm in them, John Egan grabbed his shovel and dug his own grave a little deeper, drug a finger down his cheek. “Missed all this.”

Bucky didn’t know what he meant by “this” but it felt safer and worse all at once, since he did miss Buck but he and Buck never used to hang out on floors with a chair as chaperone. Mercifully, Buck neither points that out nor moves away, acting very much like he needed to heaped on the floor with Bucky and a stray chair every bit as much as John did. Like it’s doing him good.

“And you couldn’t’ve jus’ said.” Gale murmurs with the softest eye roll of the century and Bucky feels like beaming and it must show in his face so strong and bright after a sunless winter that after a flash Gale’s cheeks flame from it and he averts his eyes.

“I dunno Buck, could I?” Egan asks one blushing cheek and Gale hasn’t got a good reply for that, so they just lay there on the floor.

“Go on now, get off me.” Gale doesn’t shove at him, he presses his hand to John’s forehead like he would a dog and John goes, obedient as one.

———————————————————————-

They found Lu with Murph and Benny and Brady, measuring out what seemed to be lot lines between Love Shack #9 and the next combine, boot scuffed perimeters already visible in the light snow and drawn in a decently tidy rectangle. There were guards loitering nearby, nosey as always with their cigarettes and their antsy dogs anytime someone did something out there besides piss or pace or stare at the fence.

“What’s all this?” Bucky inquired cheerfully, coming up to them with Gale, bundled and shivering behind him.

Benny looked up from tilling a furrow with his boot, right where Lu’s mittened finger pointed out. “It’s for the garden. S’posed to be spring before long.”

“A Chicago man oughta know better, Benny.” Egan snarked.

“Need us?”

Bucky sniffed, a casual set to his body that belied his quest, “Just the little one.”

Smith promptly looked startled, then eager. “All well Majors?”

“Need your advice on the color of my cufflinks with this suit.” Bucky extended his arm and beckoned her, “C’mon back in for a minute. One of you too, need a watch to go with the cufflinks.”

———————————————————————

With Benny on guard, Brady and Kendeigh having excavated the radio’s shell from the floorboard and table leg in which it resided, the Buckies stood over Smith’s small frame as she sat at the table and inspected the simplistic device with keen eyed appreciation for the construct.

“It’s really marvelous.” she assured Cleven, running her fingers over the carefully coiled wire and precarious pin.

Gale didn’t even crack a smile. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked instead.

She shook her head, a frown gathering. “Never made one-“ she cautioned.

“-but you get the idea.”

“Yes sir, I do.”

“So what’s wrong.”

Lu ran her fingers over the wire, again and again, the dusty metal not insulated, just bare copper, likely stripped from somewhere. It reminded her of early days as a cadet when they threw chicken wire mixed with hydraulic lines at herself and her fellow rookie engineers and told them to sort it, testing to see if they knew which was which. It had been so rudimentary she had wanted to laugh until she realized others were being flunked.

This was so basic she was stumped.

“Take your time, Lu.” Bucky spoke up after a burdened pause during which she could almost feel Major Cleven breathing down her neck.

“Candy, can I try with the headphone?” she asked at last, frustrated and out of her element, just a few months out of a plane and she had already lost her touch.

Maureen passed it over and Lu pressed it to her ear, not to discern what was quite obviously radio silence, but to imagine the whole process in reverse, track it down the cord all the way to the base, each possible breakdown of the conduction.

She fingered the ramshackle diode with burgeoning suspicion. “What’s your crystal?”

“That’s just…lead.” Cleven muttered.

“From?”

“Ground pencils.” Bucky supplied cheerfully.

Smith bit her lip, “We need sulfur added. Lead won’t conduct on its own.” She figured Cleven knew that, the grim and unmoving set of his mouth suggested so.

“Just- sulfur?” Maureen asked.

“If I had sulfur we could add it to the lead dust, ignite it and-“ Smith grinned at Kendeigh, knowing that she alone may have shared her enjoyment of a small conflagration from time to time, “burn it down and you’ve got something close enough to Galena. Just need a pinch of it should work.”

Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets and surveyed the mostly morose room. All except for the two girls grinning at each other over the hypothetical of a little chemistry experiment in a highly flammable wooden combine.

“We’ve got sandy soil.” Buck’s contemplative drawl spoke up, “Dunno if we could extract enough pure sulfur.”

Maureen stared back at Egan instead, “Other sectors have gotten portions of kits, chemistry kits, radio kits, they’ve been smuggled in with all sorts of stuff. Inside of a violin, oat bags. Nothing to fully build something. They might have sulfur. I could make inquiries and- well, Jack could pick it up next time the band goes over C compound to entertain the poor Aussie bastards.”

“How do you kno- nevermind, actually. Nevermind.” Bucky broke off, “Alright. Sure, why not. Ya sure that’s it?” he asked Lu once more.

She gave a helpless little shrug. “Gotta be. Or the wire’s dirty. Where’d it come from anyway?”

Gale gave Bucky a long suffering look as Bucky seemed to swell a couple inches and bounce back on his heels at the mention of his scrounging prowess. “The lamp.” he nodded above them all.

Jack Brady scoffed, short, clipped, betrayed, “That why it cuts out all the time? Strobed us so bad last night -thought the room was possessed.”

“Sacrifices Jack, sacrifices.”

———————————————————

Benny had hauled in enough water buckets to elicit some negative attention from the guards, and when the inspection came the inmates of the Love Shack insisted the drenched floors and table of the Majors’ barracks were due to sanitation post regurgitation. At night, with only one stolen torch light from Combine 15 to illuminate the endeavor, a basin of water beneath a smaller bowl in which lay their precious and recently procured ingredients, a science experiment began. The Majors and Ida gathered round, all looking as ghastly and spectral in the light of the flashlight as Brady’s fake ghost. It held the thrill of a bonfire night except for the stakes, which all in the room did their best not to dwell on.

“Zippo, Candy.” Lu gave the word and Maureen, with only the protection of Ida’s bent aviators to keep from a scorched cornea, flicked on her lighter and set the mixed powders ablaze.

It flamed up high and smelly, making Benny gag and mutter something about Meatball’s gas to a tittering Brady, and then died down to a yellow smoking ember.

“We should let it sit.” Lu surmised with a squeeze to Maureen’s only somewhat singed hand, her big dark eyes surveying the burnt bowl and their smoking experiment with glittery excitement at the possibility of success, “Let it cool, settle, maybe strain it. Can you get me a net? Oh Candy come now, get me a strainer?” she begged with a laugh as Maureen rolled her eyes at the idea of yet another trip to the Stalag Market for the most random items imaginable. If they hoped to not be suspicious, they’d need better lies or more money.

“How about cheesecloth?” Kendeigh tried not to grin indulgently- and failed- in the face of Lu and having recently been allowed to set something on fire

Lu kissed her cheek. “Cheesecloth would be perfect.”

In the end, cheesecloth did indeed prove perfect, and amongst the burnt dust of the combined minerals was a gritty little pinch full of the needed crystals. Or so Lu said, Gale agreed but the crease between his brows hadn’t lifted for two days; Bucky’s fingers had begun to twitch in antsy need to manually smooth them out. He imagined Maureen felt the same but she hadn’t said, uncharacteristically forbearant now she had some job to keep her sane. Even if it was playing fetch for Lu.

—————————————————————

“Well, this is it.” Gale muttered when the watch had been set once more, Murph and Hambone on the steps, Crank inside, Brady at the door, Benny at the window. Even Major Clark had joined them in the barracks for this final try and Lu’s cheeks were maroon from the attention even as her deft hands steadily pressed her concoction beneath its intended rod.

“Pass me the pliers, sir?” She asked and for a moment, the teacher became the apprentice and Gale fetched her the stalag forged tool, rudimentary like everything here yet the gripped and pulled and lifted same as the pliers back home. “You could check your look in this wire’s reflection.” She complimented Gale’s buffing of the copper wire.

He shrugged in turn. “Didn't wanna leave anythin’ to chance. That it?” he asked as her hands stalled and she surveyed her work.

Lu nodded solemnly. “Yes sir.”

Gale picked up the headphone from in front of him on the table like it was a gun he was about to bring to his head. “Here.” He extended it to her instead, “S’right, it was your job, you should be the first. Cmon.”

Despite her voiceless protest he pressed the headphones into her hands and Lu, never knowing how to disobey an officer, folded immediately.

For a good ten seconds everyone in the room held their breath as Smith pressed the headphone to her ear and gently wiggled the clothespin along the wire, searching and tuning, her face holding that old peaceful concentration they hadn’t seen since the last mission. She was at home with her mind tuned to another dimension. The pilots in the room knew that look, that was the look of someone at home with something that terrified them all the same, the gut swooping feeling of clearing the take off and sledding along the tops of the clouds. Wrong and strange and utterly incomparable to others, it was the closest to home one’s mind could be. Lu belonged somewhere on those electric currents and searching them out was like finding oneself again.

Then at last, Lu’s eyes sharpened out of their dreamy haze of concentration and she said, gentle as always, “It’s the BBC sir.”

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Wooyoung: Veins

Pairing: Wooyoung x Fem! Reader

Word Count: 725

Warning: Involves mature content containing vulgar activities and language. Minors do NOT interact.

Includes:

Dom! Woo, Multiple Orgasms, Clit Play, Dirty Talk, Swearing, Oral (Fem! Receiving, Face Riding Mentions, Squirting, Slight Hand Kink, Slight Hair Tugging

————————————————————————

The veins.

Flowing freely, running long strips underneath the thin layer of his skin. Intensified, flexing as the tightening of his grip.

Your plush thighs splayed over his face, held and squeezed firmly by his hands. Yanking you closer, he’d pulled you closer to his face to dwell himself in your wetness. “F-Fuck W-Woo—”

Lips pursed, you heavily breathed out a curse. The arch in your back perfectly curved, peaked high and off the mattress that laid beneath. Staggering pain jolted your elbows, the strength leaving your body gradually. His tongue explored your vulnerability— mouth suckling harshly on your sensitive and puffy cunt.

The breaths that escaped left rushed and fast. Eyes half-lidded, they’d threaten to flutter close whilst you stared. Body writhing against his face, the whisky tresses free on his forehead shifting as he shook his head.

“Stop moving—”

Wooyoung’s soft voice pierced in a muffle, a soft tap landing on your thigh. “You need to stay still”

Seduction raveled in his tone, kissing your ears in teasing way. You whined, squirming more against his face whilst he engulfed himself back into your pussy. “Jung Wooyoung…”

You breathed, panting frantically. “D-Don’t start… Y-You know I-I can’t—”

Ripples of your high pulsated through— the waves of pleasure crashing on your body similarly to a shore. Mewling, you’d trembled, gaze locked and immersed on the man between your legs. Sweet juices flown, gliding over the surface of his relentless tongue.

Your thighs shook, fleshing close together in an attempt to flutter shut. Pried opened, Wooyoung eased them apart— saturated in the blissful pleasure, your whines followed one after another. Echoes retaliated within the walls as he’d pulled, tongue flicking over your sensitive nub. Skin glistening, your slick glazed mercilessly across his chin.

“I know…You could barely keep your legs open…”

Voice falling, the smoothness disappeared into midair. His digits danced teasingly, skimming along your slippery slit. Shudders provoked before a moan toppled over— sudden pressure applied firmly on your clit. “How else am I gonna taste you huh?”

Eyes closing, you ravished the goodness that flooded in. Vivid imagery splayed in your mind of his hands, imagining the beauty. “Do I need your pretty pussy over my face?”

A moan wheezed, reflecting on those times:

Your cunt hovered over, gasping for a single breath. Body slouched, you would tremble before him, head dizzy and filled with euphoria. His arms encapsulated your figure, encaging you with the slightest movement of your hips withdrawing from his face.

Heavenly times, you must admit.

“That’s the only way I can properly taste you. Isn’t it?”

Shivers collided upon your skin. Tingles running throughout body as the tip of his finger swirled, nuzzling your sensitive nub in a steady-paced circular motion. Arousal pooled, gushing out of your hole; your second high was approaching. “W-Wooyoung…”

Teeth clenched, the ecstasy came crashing. Your eyes opened, piercing into the man himself. The smirk grazed him was playfully teasing. “Go ahead. Do it for me. Cum.”

The entangled rasps in his voice was enough to drive you over the edge. Welded tears streamed down as you blinked— the moans bouncing off one another, your second high pulsated within you. Your nectar splashed out messily, gushing on his fingertips.

“O-Oh M-My—”

Voice trembled, the sensitivity overloaded. Wooyoung’s lips latched, diving in the depths of your cunt. His streaky veins tensed, pushing and folding you open. The curve in your back peaked higher— your head thrown to give you whiplash. Your life was devoured, slurped away. “F-Feels t-too g-good W-Woo—”

Symphonies of your cries sung, creating a sweet tune. Unsteady, your hands rustled in his neatly combed locks, grasping for dear life. The third high brewed quickly.

Exasperated, your breathing became unhinged. “I-I think I-I’m g-gonna…”

Lips parted, widely gaped like a fish. Silent moans tumbled, the euphoria immersed in your core. Tensed, the orgasm shattered, hitting harder than a train at full speed. White stars splattered your blank vision, lighting the darkness. Wetness crashed, the harsh splashes emphasized on your thighs burning flesh.

You were dazed, confused.

Opened eyes displayed the scene in front of you: You were smothered in your own pussy juices. Glistening, shining in your essence. Wooyoung’s face was semi-clean, in tact from the mess that exploded. Gruffed, his voice danced in your ears.

“Again, but this time on my face”

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

somnophilia with John wick from the prompts? 👉🏽👈🏽

jw & fem reader

gif by the wonderful @scarlettspectra. TRIGGER WARNING(s) Somnophilia (from Latin somnus "sleep" and Greek φιλία, -philia "friendship") is a paraphilia in which an individual becomes sexually aroused by someone who is unconscious. & a bit of exhibitionism

You had waited for him all day. Flitting around the house, cleaning and cooking and making sure everything was in line for his arrival. Wearing his favorite dress, playing his favorite music on the stereo, chilling a fresh bottle of his favorite bourbon.

A month and a half. That’s how long it had been since you last saw the person  whose presence gave meaning to your life. So, naturally, you were brimming with excitement, heart pattering wild and strong in your chest, body giddy and jittery—unable to regulate haywire nerves. John was coming home. 

He wasn’t often gone for this long. It was an important job. Something involving a very, very rich man paying him to complete a very, very difficult task. Of course, you knew what his tasks usually included, but didn’t like to think about it too much—couldn’t think about it too much…

It was just hard to imagine…your John killing someone. The same John that took bugs outside instead of squashing them, who cleaned up his bar table and tipped more than generously, who always held the door open and returned shopping carts. Who was sweet and kind and treated you like you were made of paper-thin glass unless you specifically requested otherwise. 

The text comes in mid-evening, just as you’re putting his untouched dinner away and cleaning up the kitchen. Hey, dollbaby, my flight got delayed until tomorrow at six AM. I’m sorry. Don’t stay up worrying about me.

It’s disappointing, but you have to admit you’re used to this. It just comes with what he does, and you’ll gladly endure it with a smile for him. However, that doesn’t mean you can grant his request and stop yourself from worrying. With a little sigh, you type back: Okay, John. Love you.

I Love you, too.

You try and pass the time; go for a late swim, read a book, snuggle up on the big leather couch to scroll TV channels for movies. Except none of that works to distract you from John’s missing shadow, and you just end up with your head buried in a throw pillow, inhaling his residual scent and pretending the cushion is his chest.

You decide to invite some friends over for a good distraction, and they bring card games and beer and wine. You have your own stash of alcohol, so between you and three of you closest, you end up drinking a little too much and passing out halfway through game night. 

John finds you in the icy blue light of breaking dawn, breathing even and slow and slung haphazardly on top of your mattress. The residual burn of spirits heat your skin ruddy, and you have long since kicked the comforter off to leave yourself bare and unsuspecting of the hungry wolf who’s cock fattens at the sight of you—his big tshirt snuggling against your curves, the hint of a panty seam visible along the soft skin of your hip

He discards his clothes into a pile on the floor, too starved for flesh to care about being his usual tidy self, and climbs on the bed to run the tip of his tongue along that delicious cut crease of supple flesh.

You stir and whine, hand coming up momentarily to bat the tickly feeling away, only to weakly fall back down onto the bed, its task lost in the dark deep of your slumber. 

With a wicked grin, he moves his mouth down your thigh, licks into the seam behind your knee, then treks a wet path of kisses over your calves. You squirm and kick, trapped by heavy sleep, defenseless under his tongue.

He knows that, by now, you’d be begging him sweetly to make you cum, arching up into his teasing mouth for more, hanging on to his beautiful throw of silky hair as he laps at your panties. Always so impatient, his sweet girl. 

God, he missed you. Missed your smell and taste, the way you buck your hips, that little tender space between thigh and cunt that makes you squeal when he flicks it with his tongue. 

He nudges your panties to the side to reveal an already glistening wet and swollen pussy, your clit ripe and fresh, ready for his mouth to pluck and taste. Even in your sleep, you’re more than ready to sheath his cock.

He suckles at your folds gently while you stir awake with a sleepy little moan. “J-joh-jjj,” you slurr, gripping at the plump pillows while your cunt tenses and thighs attempt closing. 

So sensitive in that foggy place between sleep and wake, with his familiar mouth on you, impatient and insistent.

He holds your thighs open and eats—devours your cunt sloppily from the back, groaning about how good you taste and how much he missed it. “It’s okay, baby, no no no, come’ere, I gotcha. That’s my girl.” Two fingers curled inside, coaxing a fast approaching orgasm from your perfect little pussy. 

“Gonna, gonna-ah c-cum,” you tell him, clenching on his fingers, once shy clit now grinding down onto his tongue. You’ve just missed him so much, and it’s been so long, and you haven’t even touched yourself at his specific request, so it’s no surprise that it only takes seconds of cunnulingus just the way he’s learned you love it to have you soaking the sheets below your hips. 

“Good job,” he coos, bringing you down with little kisses to your puffy lips and chafed thighs, sucking his fingers clean and closing his eyes against the savory flavor of your slick. “You okay, babydoll?” 

“Uh huh,” you tell him, still twitching from the heavy orgasm, eyes threatening to close again, too tired to wipe the little bit of spittle off your chin. 

You feel him shift behind you, and then his thick tip press against your still spasming entrance, ready to overwhelm and overstimulate and leave you a babbling mess. His cock is built for your pleasure and demise, and as he enters, invading and pillaging the sensitive walls of your cunt, your eyes fly open and you sob into the pillow.

Something like, “o-oh fuck-“

“Shhh, baby.” His warm touch finds the base of your skull, that soft tug on your unkempt tangles guiding you back into his slow, deliberate thrusts. “Your friends are in the living room, gotta be quiet for me.” 

“Y-yeah Jo-ohn.” You try and tell him just how much you missed him, but the words jumble and stick, translating to half-muffled moans. Tears bead at your waterline in submission to that first stretch of his unfairly girthed cock. 

He understands your incoherent babbles perfectly. “Fuck,” he growls, tip kissing your cervix, “I missed you, too. Missed this tight little cunt.”

You have to bite down on your knuckles to keep the animalistic sounds of pleasure at bay, as he fucks you. So often, this beautiful man makes love to you, slow and soft. This is not one of those times. 

If you could think, it would be about how loud the sound of his hard pelvis clapping against your soft ass is, as he chases that otherwise unobtainable high that only your cunt can bring—that he thought about every single minute he was gone…the reason he’s alive.

You’re sobbing from it all—the way he splits you open so perfectly, the tiny dark whispers of reassurance, the fact that he’s alive and well and all over and around you; big hand pressing your lower back down for better and deeper access inside your cunt.

The way he just knows, even in his own rough desperation, how to unravel you—make you see the cosmos and beyond, into the soupy blackness of unexplored universe. 

“You coming again, baby?” He doesn’t have to ask, because he knows you are, more than familiar with the way you unfold and shatter. 

“Y-yeah-huh.”

He puts you on your back with practiced gentleness, and cups your sweaty cheeks in his hands before sucking your bite-swollen lower lip into his mouth, managing to stay buried inside you through the easy transition, swallowing your whimpers while his cock works out the final flutters of your orgasm. 

“Oh, John,” you say, when he stops licking at your throat to allow the both of you some much-needed, panting breath. “F-fuck, John.”

“I know, baby, I know,” he says, brushing the sweaty hair off your temples and pecking tiny wet kisses over your face. “I gotcha, it’s okay. Johnny’s here. Open your pretty eyes, let me see you.” 

In a deep, stuttering thrust, when you clamp like a vice around him, he loses himself inside of you, and you are with him. Utterly overtaken, love burning through your blood, body singing in rapturous heavenly choir. This is as close to the pearly gates you will ever get, you think, as you float down from the high. 

There is a cut on his temple that you failed to notice, and you touch just below. “You got hurt.” 

“I’m better, now.” 

With him nestled beside you, arms wrapping around and sheltering your body with his own, legs supporting your bottom and cock still softening inside your cunt, you feel sleep creep back up like an old friend.

It isn’t long before he’s succumbed to it, himself, happily snoozing nestled in your hair. You don’t know what he’s been through in that long stretch of absence, but it doesn’t matter now. 

He’s here with you, and that’s enough.

[vaamins]

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 satoru gojo for as long as you had known him. you had been enamoured by his very presence from when you first met him back in your teen years at jujutsu tech.

had you known you would fall such head over heels for him, you would’ve transferred to the sister school in kyoto but you were already in far too deep for your own good so you stayed.

stayed and watched as the days went by and the seasons changed and yet still, your feelings remained unchanged, unmoved. not even having eroded with the passage of time. you deemed yourself love sick for a man who did not, could not, love you.

satoru gojo had eyes on none but his best friend. be it platonically you r romantically, you didn’t know, but everyone knew they were inseparable. like yin and yang. one could not exist without eachother.

when the first petals fell from your mouth after a coughing fit, you shrugged it off as an after effect of fighting a peculiar curse. it was impossible to ignore them there on.

you were coughing wherever, whenever. petals of all colours escaping the crevices of your throat. after the fourth coughing attack, you’d went to the doctors and they’d diagnosed you with hanahaki.

there regrettable looks and pity glances has been too much and that night you’d went and searched it up. oh, how you regretted that now.

coughing over the toilet seat, you could feel something sharp scrape along the inside flesh of your throat sending a stabbing pain down and into your chest. you gagged on something you did not know, a few bloodied petals escaped your mouth throughout the long minutes you lay clutching the toilet.

after what felt like eternity, whatever had been clogging your throat passed through—

a flower.

not just petals. but stem and all.

it was covered in thorns that were covered in blood.

later that night, you coughed some more and the next day, you refused to get out of bed. refused to see any of your friends faces, nonetheless, satoru’s, for fear they would read everything on your face.

days, you stayed in your room. coughing up petals and flowers alike. you started to think you’d grown an entire garden in your stomach. you laughed at the thought as you lay on the cold ground of your room. a thin trail of blood trickled down your mouth and ironically all you could to think about was satoru.

of his white hair and his blue eyes. you twirled the freshest flower you coughed up. it’s bud was still unopened, but you could see through the blood that stained it that the petals were white as snow.

how funny. the one who would kill you was the one you loved the most. a tear fell down your cheek. you didn’t want to die. no, you couldn’t die. you still had so much to do, so much to live for, so much to achieve, to see, to meet. to love.

but you couldn’t stop your eyes from slowly falling closed or even the darkness that crept in through your peripherals but you swore you could hear the sounds of multiple feet running down the hallway. you would be gone before they ever got there.

© VAAMINS 24 do not copy, repost or plagiarise my work.

[madaqueue]

gn!reader - 18+ MDNI (uhh jjk manga spoilers, scars and some blood/death mentioned but i swear this is meant to be sweet)

your fingers trace over satoru’s skin, mapping every line and curve. studying it, almost, to reconstruct him from touch alone. to have a version of him in your mind, always, one whose shape you’d never lose. ribs and hips and muscles and freckles, every cell in his body, until your fingerprint was left in each one, until you could draw it blind.

the breath catches in your throat when you dip into one of the deeper scars, its path dug around his stomach. it’s rougher here, flesh brought together imprecisely. it turns red in your vision, and you choke.

“hey,” satoru whispers, resting his hand on yours. he’s warm. “it’s okay. i’m here now, remember?”

he is. he’s here. he’s alive, he’s okay.

but the mantra doesn’t stop the tears from stinging. it hurts like the burning air the day you lost him, frigid and sharp. you wanted to gouge your eyes out when you saw him, your satoru in a pool of blood, cut open and cold.

but now he’s here. he’s alive, he’s okay.

“i’m just…” your voice trembles, thin like the wind that howled outside on the nights spent in an empty bed, “i’m just glad you came back.”

that soft smile satoru only shows to you spreads across his lips.

“i never left, you know that, right?”

your fingertips trail up, over healed skin and bones. his heart beats below your palm, counting each thrum.

“what do you mean?”

his thumb brushes along your cheek. “every snowflake that fell on your skin, that was me.”

fingers run through your hair. “every gust of wind that blew through you, that was me.”

lips ghost down your neck, resting behind your ear. “every beat of your heart, every breath in your lungs, was me.” he inhales, slow and real. alive. “you’re my everything. i could never leave you.”

the scars along his chest rise and fall. you trace them, and you remember him from touch alone.

“i’ll never, ever leave you.”

a/n: idk. been sad lately so uhhh. here's me and my very alive husband

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hiya!! I’m obsessed with your writing. You’re my favorite writer on here, I dream of your stories!

Would it be possible to request (either with Ghost or Price, I love them both equally) something like they were young love but he breaks up with reader cos he wants to keep her safe and thinks he knows what’s best for her. Then during a mission gone wrong, they need a safe house but somehow the enemy found out all the locations of their approved safe houses. He remembered her place is close by and tries his luck. Maybe she gets mad at him for making decisions for her or maybe he learns about her difficult past that happened without with. But with a happy ending? ☺️

Only if this inspires you! Thank you again for sharing your beautiful writings!

If You Bite My Hand Again

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: How dare he show his face to you after all of these years. How dare you still find it in yourself to love him.

WORDCOUNT: 6.6k

WARNINGS: Heavy angst, abandonment, arguments, mentions of death, blood, insinuations of torture & mental illness troubles, Simon's comic backstory, hurt/comfort, sort of suggestive?, anxiety attack, somewhat happy ending, etc.

A/N: This was really fun to write, lol, enjoy Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You never should have met him. In fact, it seemed like the universe had been adamant to make you not run into each other on that chilly October morning almost…well…it has to be more than thirteen years ago, now. So long. 

As you head to your kitchen and glance at the clock, the hands point to a perfect three-fifteen—an hour of pitch-blackness and whispering winds that dash past the musty glass of the windows. The thump of your footsteps blocks out the heaving sigh that falls from your mouth; rubbing at your eyes like a cat as great bags sag from tired flesh. 

The dreams weren’t uncommon. 

Simon still reigned supreme in the conjuring of them, ingrained into the sinews and pulled thin by a hand constantly working them—knitting a sweater of memories addled with age. Moth-eaten. 

As you snap on the light of your tiny and run-down kitchen, the bulb fizzing and the dishwasher still emitting that squeal as it always does, you think about him before grabbing a glass. Water hits and fills the thing up as your eyes blankly stare, fatigued but yet never more awake. 

The tremors in your hands persist.

You never should have met him.

—

Your feet take you to Primary, laces a mess atop your little shoes caked in mud and grass���you’d chased after a butterfly through the front yards, getting caught in your neighbor's bushes and having to slip your way out before she could rampage outside with her broom. 

It was no surprise that your face was lit with a bright smile, eyes shining like fire that your teachers had given you a special name for—“Ember.”

The very thing that could start a blaze over and over again as long as it still was alight.

Laughing and peeing out leaves from your hair; flattening out your uniform, you stride with pride ingrained into your body. Well, you did before you heard the soft sniffling coming from down the alley. 

Halting, your ears perk at the sounds, smile freezing as you blink quickly. Looking to your left, you lock onto the hunched figure of a boy. 

Perhaps only a year or two older than you, you stare in curiosity as he consciously paws at his cheeks, walking out of the alley in broken and odd strides. His uniform is ruffled, wrinkled, but not in the way yours was.

He must have fallen and hurt himself, you reason with a child-like frown pulling on your lips. Blinking at his blond hair, you get a glimpse of red-rimmed brown eyes.

The boy halts, looking at you widely, fear and pain emanating from his expression. You’re the first to speak, brightness still in your eyes but a deep innocence that comes with youth. All you saw was a boy your age in pain—that was strange to you. You knew what getting hurt was like; you fell and scraped your knees often, or hit your elbows on corners. Sometimes you would cry from that…did the same happen to this boy?

“You’re crying, aren’t you?” Brown-Eyes stares, hurriedly pushing at his face to wipe tears but only succeeds in making his face red from the material of his uniform. “Did you fall down? I do that pretty often—it’s okay, my Mum says you’ll be better after a hug and a kiss!”

You smile and stand straighter. 

“I,” the boy begins, sniffling. “I didn’t fall. I’m not clumsy.”

You tilt your head, confused. “Well…then why are you crying?” 

“That’s none of your business!” He snaps, brows pulled in as he comes forward on the sidewalk. Your face twists as you huff in annoyance. 

“My Mum says to treat everyone nicely. That wasn’t very nice.” 

“I don’t bloody care, do I,” you’re sent a scathing glance as he passes. “I didn’t ask for you to speak to me. Leave me alone.” 

Naturally, you follow after, cheeks gaining heat.

“You’re being mean! Apologize!” 

“Would you run off already?!” The boy shouts, and perhaps something fires in that small brain of yours—a thought and a semblance of self-realization at the shame that emits from his tone. A tight squeeze of vocal cords. 

He was ashamed. Ashamed you’d caught him. Seen him. 

Your feet slow back to a stop, watching him hurriedly continue on and hearing the quiet gasps of breath. After a moment, you grit your teeth and run the distance; seizing him around the middle in a hug of stubby fingers and tightly closed eyes.

The boy startles, body hardening and a cry escaping his lungs. “Get off of me!” He shouts, hands snapping down to yours and digging under your hold. 

“No!” You call, stubbornly. “My Mum says that hugs make everything better—”

“Stop talking about your Mum!” The boy stomps his foot to the ground, chubby cheeks turning crimson as he tilts his head back to look at you, tears still dripping off his chin. 

A stiff silence falls but like a green branch on a tree, Brown-Eyes’ form twitchingly loosens, his prying hands softening as you hold tight—digging your nose into his spine. He minutely flinches, but you only hug him more. 

You’re both late to the building, and your teachers are going to give you scoldings. But right now, on a chilled October morning, you hug this strange, crying boy and blink your fiery eyes up at him. 

After he relaxes fully and the sniffling stops, you let go and smile brightly again, looking up into his open expression of innocent confusion. Whatever had happened, he must have fallen pretty hard, you thought, pulling out another leaf from your hair. You giggle and hand it over as a gift. 

The boy hesitantly picks it up and looks at it before turning back to you. 

“Call me Ember.” 

A pause. A hesitation. But your eyes shimmer and he relents with the memory of the hug in the front of his mind. Such a strange encounter. 

He speaks, looking away from you with flushed cheeks, muttering out as his tear streaks dry.

“...Simon.”

You walk together the rest of the way.

The reality was, if you had gotten caught by your neighbor, had snatched that butterfly—had even stayed in those bushes for three more seconds, you would have missed him. And if Simon hadn’t run out of his home crying, he never would have locked onto the burning reality that was with you. 

—

You put the glass to your chapped lips and take a long sip, throat bobbing as you take down the liquid with tears burning your eyes. Blinking rapidly, you swipe at the water at the sides of your mouth and shake your head, sighing. 

“Why can’t you leave me alone?” Your voice bounces off the walls, peeling paint and moving the dust stuck atop the fridge. “Damnit, Simon.” 

Today was worse than the others—everything building and stacking like some castle of misery and pain; windows too narrow to let in any light and your form stuck in shadows longer than an endless rope. There were just so many things that suffocated you now. 

And in the endless nights, the brain desperately looks for comfort. 

You hate that it only comes from the memories of him. 

“I have to go to work tomorrow.” Your subconscious reminds you as you blankly stare out the window above the sink, seeing the streetlights and the cone of warm light—it flickers every so often, a blinking taking place like the eye of a large, brutish, wolf. 

Work, then the grocery store, then back home to eat a tasteless dinner and fall back to sleep. An empty house with empty walls and empty memories. 

Your hands put the glass in the sink, coming back up to rub and dig into your eyes until the itch behind your flesh stops. A thump of a low pulse is felt in the thin skin, orbs of your optics moving before you pinch into the bridge of your nose and drop them with a slap of a hand to the counter. A harsh breath exits your mouth, but it’s quickly strangled away into a sound of ragged shock. 

Outside, under the light, the silhouette of a man leans heavily on the pole, feet shaking under him and face pressed into the shadows as his shoulders heave. You stare, wide-eyed, as your heart jumps to a rapid pace. 

“What the fuck?” Your mouth utters, watching the man push off the light and stagger with a heavy limp and a jerking body of immense stature. Whoever this guy was, he was out of his mind—and coming right for your front door. You startle to go and secure it, feet slapping the ground and face twisted. 

“What the fuck?!” Gasping, you re-check your locks and frantically look for something else—the stool where you place your keys meets your eyes. You grab it and place it as a barrier to the handle, tilting it on two legs and blinking quickly as whatever sleep-sheen that had been in your gaze leaves in one swoop of adrenaline.

Grunting wafts in from under the door, haggard inhales and a sudden slam of a body hitting the door. You stifle a scream and back up quick steps, slapping your hands to your mouth.

Sure, you might live in a shitty neighborhood, but no one had ever tried to just straight-up break in high or drunk off something. Your mind slashes to the knives in the kitchen drawer as the wall shakes again—something sliding down to the ground and a grunted whine. 

Just before you run off, you hear it. An utterance; a disruption of airwaves. A whisper, a plea. Your brain ceases to function with one foot back the way you came, hand on the frame with the knuckles tight. 

In one instance it all comes to a screeching halt. 

“Ember…” 

Who called you that anymore? The rare instance where you’d meet your classmates in the world they would mutter it; also be asked a few questions before they went on with their lives. You pause in your panic, slowly gazing back at the barrier and the stool like you’d just discovered you’re under the sights of a sniper. 

There’s a sliver of something that inserts itself into your brain. Fear or hope, you can’t tell. But that can’t be right. 

He left. 

“Ember!” You flinch, the deep Manchester accent grating your heart into shreds. No. “It’s me!” He says, followed by a horribly gritty cough. 

There’s a weak thump against the door, mumbled curses, and growls as if a wild animal mimicking human speech. You almost wished for that, considering you now knew the exact person behind the door down to his atoms. The brown of his eyes and the way his cheeks looked as they were stained with tears. 

His laugh. Simon’s voice. Everything.

Simon.

You’re rushing to rip the stool away with a clatter and a jerk as it hits the far wall, undoing the locks with shaking hands as you grasp the handle and wrench it sideways. 

His form slams to your feet with a loud grunt as the door hits the wall. 

“Fuckin’ hell! Mind your bloody—!” Whatever he said was lost to you as you stare at the bloodied form of the man you had thought you’d seen the last of. Tactical gear, terrifying skull mask, black on black with weapons galore. But that voice told you all you needed to know.

Simon Riley is alive and very much breathing. 

The same boy you still loved. 

The same boy who’d broken your heart.

—

After October the years with Simon seemed to strengthen. You always walked together in the mornings—or, at least, you always waited for him. The dawn of your friendship strengthened and hardened to an unbreakable amount of mid-day rays; vast and sunny. 

When he was sixteen he asked you to be his girlfriend, hand in his pockets and ache on his chin as he grunted out broken sentences. Stuttering and awkward. You’d smiled with your bright eyes and giggled before kissing his cheek—feeling his sigh and him melting into you with a grin of his own, unable to meet your eyes for a moment. 

Later, when he said he’d wanted to leave his apprenticeship at the grocery’s butcher shop and join the Special Air Service, you’d been along for the ride—anything to get him away from his father and brother. You knew what was going on, even if he was still so hesitant to allow you any glimpse of his home life.

When he’d shy away at the Halloween decorations of skeletons as if the skull would jump off the page and tense at loud cheering, you knew. You did what you could, but there was only so much for you to suggest or say without him shutting down. 

When you’d offered your flat as a safe space after graduation, desperate to help your Lover, he’d stared and blinked in shock; tilting his head at you before smiling softly and taking you into a hug. Wherever he went, he knew he’d always have a place by your side.

So, throughout his leaves of absence from the military, he’d come home to you—bruised and tired, but still the same Simon you fell in love with. You’d cook for him, tease at his shaved hair as he gave you those puppy-dog eyes, and talked him through your classes at University.

You would fall asleep on his chest, feeling the hard strength he was gaining and the way he held you tighter than he ever had; conscious of himself but not wanting to part with you. 

The love the both of you had was akin to a blaze of fire, and you often found Simon simply staring into your eyes in times like those—watching silently and rubbing his thumb along your spine until your face burned. 

He was always so gentle despite everything; you loved his perseverance, his drive to be good despite nearly every factor telling him he couldn’t be. Slowly but surely, he was forging his own life. 

In 2003 he managed to take a break from the military to get his family straightened out. His brother, Tommy, went to rehab—Simon stayed with his mother and a year later he kicked his father to the curb and out of his and his family's life entirely. Finally free. 

You managed to meet his lovely mum, still so bright, and even interacted with Tommy once he got out; went to the younger brother’s wedding in ‘06 and met Beth, his wife. When you saw Simon’s mother and the way she carried herself, you knew where your Love got his pride from. The two were so alike it was a sight to see. 

While it may not have been conventional by any standard, Simon proposed to you in the back garden of Tommy’s cheap wedding venue. Alone, so as not to cause a scene. Willow trees and a small stream of water. Fireflies. The words ring in your soul with every waking moment, and they will stay there until it all goes silent with the grip of death.

He didn’t want to use his mum’s ring—the one that holds so many bad memories for both parties. He’d used the gold from it though. Went to a man who bled him dry for money to have it re-cast. 

It was simple. A small, glinting, ruby pressed in the middle. 

“It was always goin’ to be you, Ember, yeah?” he’d muttered in his deeper voice, formal attire holding you both tight. “So…don’t make me beg too much, Sweetheart. You know the old lady’ll kill me if I get stains on my suit.” 

“Beg?” You responded, tears in your eyes but such a wide grin on your lips. The stars above you twinkle like the pupils of your eyes—the same burn still trapped. “Oh, Simon, come on, now.” He connects his forehead to yours, hand still in the middle of you and presenting the accumulation of all of his love. The other wraps your waist. 

He was shaking slightly. 

“I would never make you beg for my love, Brown-Eyes.”

You both share a breathless chuckle and lock lips, smiling like fools as he sighs into you. 

In a happy world, that would have been the beginning of a perfect life. A happy house. A happy wedding. Happy deaths. 

But something went wrong on one of his deployments. 

Missing for months, he came back…wrong. With a fiery temper and sharp snapping words—wounds on the outside as well as inside. His eyes were feral, like a dog held back by a broken chain carting around its feet. 

Simon never spoke about it—the missing days. The weeks. The months. 

You broke yourself over it, trying to help but not knowing what would make it better. Some days there were flickers of soft expressions, but it was as if he were dragging himself up from a pool so deep it was bottomless to show them to you. Simon rarely smiled. He rarely sent an affectionate glance. 

He didn’t let you touch him. 

And then he called the entire engagement off with a letter on your counter only holding four words. 

‘Don’t look for me.’ 

And then Simon’s mum, Tommy, Beth, and his nephew had all died. Been killed. And you were just supposed to move on? Live with that? There were times when you had breakdowns so bad you couldn't leave the house for days—the house that Simon and you had bought together. 

All of those years. 

All those vows and shared nights.

And he disappeared on you.

—

You have him sitting on the couch, watching silently from the chair across the room as he finishes wrapping his leg with the bandages from the first-aid kit you’d provided. 

More like chucked at his gut.

No one had said a word, and the air was as tense as a noose—choking any oxygen that traveled into your throat. Simon was getting blood all over your flat cushions, the crimson saturating the fabric as you sit rail-rod straight, hand clenched on your thighs. 

Simon’s avoiding your eyes.

“Take off the mask,” you hiss, pupils slits. If he wasn’t going to address it, then you were. Simon freezes, not breathing as his hands fall stationary around the bandages. 

“I’ll be fine in a while—”

“Take off your fucking mask, Simon.” You can’t help the way you snap, face burning with shame and hate. How dare he show up now, after all of these years of mourning him and the relationship you’d built as kids. Simon wasn’t just your boyfriend—your fiancé—he was your best friend. 

And all he’d done was left you a four-fucking-letter note before leaving you behind.

The geared man sighs silently, and you see his shoulders sag. His grip travels up as he straightens his spine in a fluid motion, pain medication working through him in waves of numbness. 

His brown eyes bore through you as if he were a ghost. Under the fabric, his mouth thins. “Ma’am.” 

Even his voice is older. More dead. How could this be your Simon?

Your heart bruises your ribcage as he grasps the top of his skeletal mask, gloved fingers peeling back the sown layers until you get the full image of a man more damaged than before. You have to stop yourself from sobbing right then and there; your throat going dry.

So many scars. Milky white and spread vastly—they weren’t pretty. Up his cheeks, down his brow line; even at the corner of his mouth and seeping down his neck. A crooked nose with damaged cartilage. Strangling a gasp, it comes out as a great expelling of horror, eyes going wide with shock. 

You hate how you want to rush to him, take his face in your hands, and try to brush them away as if marks on paper. But you don’t make any such movements beyond a hunch of your shoulders. 

“Not pretty, eh? Guess I should’ve warned you.” Simon rubs at his forehead, blond locks, hanging around his temple, and the black of face-paint stuck in his sockets. “Didn’t mean to fuckin’ drop in like this, Ember. Bloody bastard thing for me to do.” 

You flinch at the name, looking away as you’d been peeling back his skin with your eyes. “What are you doing here, Simon?” Anyone with a brain could hear the cracking hardness in your words. Face blank. 

He studies your features, taking in the changes and the bleakness of your expression. Brows furrow slightly before they go back to a state of nothingness. Simon glances around the room, finding the condition of things concerning but doesn’t show it. 

“Nothin’ you need to worry about comin’ back to you, Sweetheart. Just work.”

“It is when the bastard who abandoned me shows up years later, bloody on my doorstep. Stop acting so self-righteous,” you growl, snapping, “I should toss your arse outside and let them have you. And don’t fucking call me that.”

Silence descends, and your words echo. It’s like now that he was here everything hurt ten times more than when he wasn’t. 

“I never wanted us to end up like we did—”

“Bullshit!” You’re on your feet and stalking to him, pointing with your finger as he hurriedly stands up as well and looks down in shock as you press your digit into his bulky vest. “You shut your mouth, Simon Riley, and you let me explain something to you.” 

He keeps silent, mouth parted and scars shifting around his stubble. His hands slightly held out at his sides and hovering over your hips—not touching you but there just in case. Simon’s brown ords are carefully widened at your tight exclamation. The sound of his clearing throat enters the living room before you speak again. 

“I waited for you, hoped and prayed that you would show me at least a,” your throat bunches, but you push through. “A modicum of respect and show your stubborn self up at my door with apology flowers and a guilty smile on your lips. You know who took care of your family's burial plots, you fucking piece of shit,” his eyes flinch closed a bit, turning his head down as his breath hitches. “Me! You fucking disappeared!”

You know you shouldn’t be yelling, shouldn’t be pounding on his chest with a fist as if he was a door and you the knocker, but, dammit, it’s been years and he just shows up? Like this? Ten times the size he was—scarred and torn to shreds; laced with muscles and an expression of vacancy. Simon holds to your words, hanging off of them with a down-ward turned chin and eyes that lock with yours through pale lashes. 

“Maybe I-I did, o…or pushed some things that I shouldn’t have,” you hold back your tears, but your voice still wavers, tapering off like a line without a hook, “but I didn’t deserve that, Simon.” The first traitorous sob breaks through. “I didn’t deserve that.”

His eyes shatter into a myriad of kaleidoscope bits and pieces, brows flicking from one point on your face to another in quick slashes of guilt. But he still doesn’t touch you. Not until you tell him it’s what you want.

Simon opens his mouth but closes it just as quickly, unable to find any words that would even matter. You let your tears slip down your cheeks, dribbling off your chin. The man’s chest hurts, pulse thumping to mirror yours. 

“I waited for you and you broke me,” you whisper, mouth twisting with odium towards the man under your fist. “I wanted a life with you, Simon, no matter the trials.”

“I didn’t mean to…” The man trails off, clenching his jaw. You scoff, backing up a step and pressing your palms into your eyes. 

“But you did.”

“I had to keep you safe, Ember.” Simon’s fingers twitch outward, eyes frantically moving around as you sniffle and shakily walk away to the kitchen. He follows, desperately on your heels as your spine bows forward with resounding cries of anguish. “I...I wasn’t right in the head, I need you to understand I didn’t want this! I never wanted to fucking hurt you!” 

Your hand connects with the junk drawer, tearing it open and digging a hand inside as he pleads with you to listen. 

“If I didn’t leave I was worried I’d do something—!”

“Then you should have trusted me!” Your hands rip out the ring held on a small leather strap. The ruby glints where it always sits, held in tarnished gold. You chuck it at his chest and suck down breaths so you don’t pass out. “I would have listened! Gotten you help! We don’t abandon the ones we love, Simon! Not us!” 

Simon catches the object by slapping a hand to his chest, pinky finger latching through the leather cord before he jerks his limb back up. When he looks at the ring, he goes utterly still, gazing back up at you slowly. 

“We were supposed to be different,” you sob, trapping it behind your hands. He’s shaking, brows tight and lines along his face as he brings a free hand to run through his locks, gripping the strands for a moment and pulling. “Simon,” you say again, and he looks back at you with glossy eyes. “We were supposed to be better.”

“What did I do to you to deserve that,” he stares, his jaw is loose and he can’t stop clenching and unclenching it. You can see his heart working through his breast. Bloodied. Beaten by fists and slashed with knives. “What did I do to you?”

“Nothing,” he gasps, taking a step forward. “Fuck, Ember, you didn’t bloody do anything to me besides love me.” 

You sputter out, “Then why did you leave me here alone?” Your knees buckle and he darts forward, catching you under the arms as you wail out, shoving on his waist, “You never should have come back. Never should have come back.” 

He lets you push him off; lets you back up to the counter as Simon tilts his head higher to stave off the tears in the sides of his eyes. He’d known coming here was a bad idea, for lack of a better word, but after the Op went bad and all of his safe houses were compromised, he didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t to say he didn’t regret his actions in the past with you, or that he didn’t punish himself for them, yet at the time it was the only thing he could do to give him the sense that you would be better without him. Safe. 

After everything that had happened, he wasn’t in the right state of mind anymore. You deserved so much better. But hearing all of this…

Christ, could he have been wrong? Everything blurred; hurt. Hearing your sobs was like a knife to his heart every time, digging and cutting with serrated edges at the veins and pumping muscle, carving away flesh to shed the pounding redness to light. You held that heart in your hand and in his he held the ring—the ring he’d given to you as a promise of love and honor. 

A pact of loyalty. 

Simon doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the blurring edges of his vision make itself known. His eyes bore harshly, prodding into you as he makes known what he’s been broken since he first locked gazes with you again. The man’s voice shakes, accent deep and tight.

He asks the first thing that comes to his head.

“What happened to your eyes?”

“What?” You ask, incredulously, brows furrowed as your hand digs into the counter to keep you upright. Simon stares deeper, the sides of his eyelids wrinkling with a not-so-hidden sheen of great concern. Unbearable pain.

“What happened to your bloody eyes?” Where had the spark gone? That flare that grew and spread like fire that was the entire purpose behind your name. An unconquerable ache for life. 

You only watch him with a parted mouth and tear-stained lashes, sniffling. Simon tries again, taking a step forward on unsteady feet. 

“Please, Sweetheart, d…don’t, don’t…” He can’t finish, the leather cord intertwined into his fingers as he comes closer. “Don’t tell me I took it away. Not my Ember. Not my Girl’s fire.”

Your eyes are so overflowed you can’t even see him as he hovers over you, fingers coming up to brush your cheeks as his mouth is open in hard pants of breath. “No, no, no. Fuckin’ bastard, not me. Not over me, please.” It’s like Simon’s not even talking to you but rather himself. 

He mutters in fast sentences, eyes panicked. “You were supposed to be better off—‘posed to move on. Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you find someone else?” 

“You’re an idiot, Simon. An idiot,” you sag into his neck, nose digging into his pulse as he quivers, legs having to reset themselves. His heat melts into you as your body gives out with a final sob, “It was always going to be you.”

His arms snap around you like a vise, dragging you into him as he breaks and stifles his whimper on your scalp, breathing right by your ear; gasping for breath. 

“M’sorry,” he mutters, so silent below his sniveling stutters, “M’so sorry, Sweetheart. This is all my fucking fault.” 

You shake into his chest, face nuzzling and desperate to smell his scent again—tired from all the yelling and fighting. It was still late, you still needed to go to work tomorrow…but Simon. 

Oh, Simon. How could he be so…him?

Your sobs are quieter than his, tiny cries that make the man’s arms tighten around you every time. Hands coming up, you can’t stop the way you want to hold him; how you wish to keep him close to you and push him away all at once. How dare he? 

How dare he still make you love him after all he’d put you through? 

Simon sags to the floor with you in his hold, head bowed and trying to gasp down his vulnerability as tears stain your shoulder. It’s as if the realization that he’d made a mistake had broken him back down to when he was young, past hatred of messing up infesting his brain like maggots. A fear of it, even. 

The man presses quick, panicked kisses to your neck as his breath hitches every other second, rocking you back and forth. 

“Didn’t mean to do it,” Simon utters. “Didn’t mean for it to hurt you—” 

He breaks off and you realize that despite the years Simon’s mind was still very much fragile when it came to home life. You blink and take a deep breath, unable to get out of his unrelenting grip. 

Your hand travels up to find the back of his head, spreading through his hair and massaging his flesh. When things got bad you used to do this with him. Give the man something to focus on so he could pass through his hysteria quicker.

Simon’s ribcage bangs against yours, nearly hyperventilating with how he’s trying to hide his small grunts and whines.

“Simon,” you clear your throat, trying to calm yourself down as seriousness sets in your tone. “Simon, breathe.” 

Your ears twitch, noticing him listen to you as he takes down a long gasp of air and breathes out in puffs on your neck—hot and humid. 

“Ember…”

“Shh,” interrupting, you shush him in tiny whispers, still rubbing at his head. “Brown-Eyes, just sit here, okay?” You feel a jerky nod, his fingers squeezing your flesh off and on as he mimics your own lung pattern. 

It’s a few minutes before he goes completely still again, and you feel the burn of shame from his face in your clutch. The relationship was strained—or whatever you could call this—but you never wanted to see him in pain. Never.  

You knew he was better when he sighs deeply, completely going limp in your arms; great weight leaning into you as you lean back to the cabinets to help with the pure might of his physique. With a slow hand, you un-velcro his vest and his gear, letting it hit the floor with dull thumps and clatters. 

He doesn’t protest, doesn’t move to help or hinder. You would give anything to know what he was thinking. 

“M’sorry,” Simon whispers and you respond accordingly, softly.

“You’ve already said that, Love.” He grunts, taking in a long, deep breath. 

“Need you t’know it.” 

“...I do.”

“Okay.” You close your eyes and stave off your anger at everything happening right now. While it would feel better to yell at him until dawn, what would that even achieve? Everything had needed to be said, had been. And you’d never felt lighter than at this moment. 

You knock your head against him, the both of you panting for breath and hands vibrating with leaving adrenaline. Sweaty and twitchy. 

“You never should have done that, Simon.” Whispering, you sigh. “I needed you. I needed you here. With me.” He stays still, but you feel his lips press deeper into your pulse. You’re practically in his lap, back to the woodgrain. 

In a moment of weakness, or pure longing, you pull his head back and situate your hands at his cheeks, looking over his scars and his broken skin as he lets you move him how you wish. His half-lidded, red, eyes stare—grip around you not letting up. 

Simon doesn’t speak as, unprompted, you kiss the shattered bridge of his nose; you only feel the fluttering of his lashes as they tickle your cheeks. 

“I was scared of myself.” He mutters. “After they died…” His family. “I didn’t want to put you in danger, Ember. Not you.”

“We would have figured it out, Simon. You know that, deep down, you do.” Brown eyes find yours as you tilt his head. 

“You sure?” He asks, desperate for an answer even though he doesn’t know himself. 

Thumbs run up and down his stubble. Your face creases, “...I don’t know. But we could have tried.” 

Simon’s eyes close tightly, and his face tilts to press his lips to your palm, quivering breath exhaled with the strength of an open balloon. Your ring was still stuck in his digging grip, and it was never going to leave for the rest of the night. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, gravely voice lax. 

Studying him now, in this light, knowing he was so afraid of what he might do if he got into an episode, you were stabbed with agony in your heart. To be that afraid of yourself to that magnitude was nearly unimaginable to you.

Nearly. 

“What now?” You ask lowly, the last remnants of tears drying as Simon opens his eyes slowly, looking back at you. 

“Don’t know.” He admits. “I have to leave.”

“I have work tomorrow,” you relate. Your teeth find your lip, biting it. 

A small awkward chokehold captures the both of you. The reality was that both of you were akin to strangers again—such was the curse of lost years and trials you’d faced along the way. 

Brown-Eyes and Ember were dead, yet you still called their names like phantoms of sleek black fabric and chained recollections of a boy with red cheeks and a girl with muddy shoes. The walks to school were there, the dates, and the late nights spent in good company. Touches to skin and open-mouthed kisses. Fireflies that whizzed and the glinting of gold as wind ran through the willows.

Dark corruption stained the faint idea of happiness; of a good world. This was not reality. It was some joke of an existence. 

If life were fair, Simon Riley would have never grown up in that house—his father wouldn’t have latched onto his brother and done dark deeds to wrap the little brown-eyed boy in red tissue paper and barbed wire. A present and sheen of mild sociopathy; separation of any pain or torment. A fighting boy. A boy born with blood on his hands and stuck behind his eyes every time he swung a fist. 

It was a curse to love him. And it was a curse that burned your soul with his very name. 

“Are you going to go?” You ask, eyes blank but yearning for what little comfort you can grab. It had been so long.  Simon blinks, his head still in your hands; body not moving.

He knows he should. He isn’t sure if there’s anything left for him here or not. 

Simon connects his head to yours and you still. “Do you want me to?” 

“Do you love me?” You blurt, blinking at him and confused. Simon’s lips part. “Or if you walk out that door do I plan on never seeing you again?” 

You're about to open your mouth and continue before his own slots perfectly against it.

You gasp lightly, taken aback but in no way opposed. He still felt exactly the same, flesh still tasting metallic and tinged with violence down to his DNA; raised with survival instincts as his greatest ally. Until you. 

With you survival became secondary. 

Your hands go to card through his hair, latching and lightly pulling as Simon’s body shivers; growling against your lips in a dance of heated flesh and damp cheeks. Hearts hammer with the restraint of years. 

“I would never make you beg for my love,” he murmurs between lapsing passes of his mouth, open kisses and dark glances. “Tell me where you want me to be.”

You whimper against him and he goes back in, pressing the base of your skull to the cabinet as hands grip and slide, kneading your skin. 

“Tell me,” Simon whispers. Pleads through grunts. “Ember, tell me.”

“Here,” you admit brokenly, pulling him closer to you as you’re lifted and placed on the countertop. “I need you here, Simon. I need you with me.” 

Fingers capture your chin, keeping your head angled up as your eyes beg. Lips bush with every word, gazes wild as if two leopards locking jaws over a kill. 

“Fight to get me back.” Brown sparks with purpose, a small puff of air hitting your mouth as eyes darken over. In this moment, you do not know if you’re dying or living. “Make it right.”

“Affirmative.” Simon moves his head back, taking your ring and looping the cord around his neck, he keeps it there as you watch, breathless. Your face creases with question. The man’s lips flicker when he sees this, coming back and grasping your hips as you instinctually latch to his waist. 

“I’ll give it back when I’ve earned the right for you to be called mine again. Seems I have work to do, Sweetheart.” He kisses you once more, firm and true. “First, I’ll ‘ave to figure out if my Girl can get her spark back, yeah? I’ve proper gone and fucked it up.” 

That night you lay in the heap of limbs and sheets that couple the both of you together. In the morning the questions would start, and Simon knew you’d take nothing short of the truth. 

And he’d give you it. All of it. 

Because Simon Riley knows well enough that you don’t go and bite the hand that feeds twice. Certainly not when it was you. Certainly not when it offers a love he would never hope to find again, in this life or the next.

So you keep the other close and sag into a deep slumber, not to wake for a long, long time. 

And you’d both never slept better

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[bandgie]

Who Dun It?

mystery!skzmember x fem!reader

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

warnings: MDNI 18+, dubious, finger fucking, intox implied, ruined orgasm, public fingering

780 words

It shouldn't feel good, but it does.

His chest is flushed against your back, making the room even hotter. You could blame the amount of people drunk and piling up, but it wouldn't be true. You like how his hands roam your body, how he gropes and squeezes your flesh. 

He has big hands, that's one thing for sure. This unknown man can fill his hands with your breasts, pressing them against your chest and jiggling the fat. His fingers find your pebbled nipples underneath the thin material of your top. 

Each tug makes you moan, each twist makes you throw your head back to his shoulder. You rub your legs together to get any sort of friction, but the man beats you to it.

His slender fingers make their way past your short skirt, under your panties to feel your sopping cunt. 

"Wet already huh?" His voice is like velvet in your ears. "I barely even touched you." You can hear a smirk in his words. "Or maybe you like being touched by a stranger. Do you like it?"

You nod frantically, trying to swivel your hips so his fingers brush against your clit. "Yes," it's a breathy answer. "I like it."

He leans down to your ear, lips ghosting over the shell. "Then spread your legs for me."

So you do, as much as you can at least with the crowded room. You moan when his fingers slide against your slit, gathering and spreading your slick. When he reaches your clit, he rubs it in hard circles. The pressure makes you yelp, hips shying away instinctively at the rough touch.

His other hand steadies at your waist so you can't wiggle too much. He grips you a little tighter when he finally sinks one of his fingers in your warmth. The moan you let out is crude, but the college students surrounding you two hardly seem to care. Their lack of attention is an encouragement to rock your hips against him.

The man, who you think you might fall in love with tonight, pumps his digit in you at a steady pace. You swear you can hear the perverted sound your cunt makes even through the music, but it only spurs you more.

His palm slides over your exposed flesh while he finger fucks you, never letting you forget how easily you opened for him. "Gonna cum on my finger huh?" He groans in your ear. "Dirty girl, don't even know who I am."

You don't, and you don't care. "Faster. Ngh~ you're so good,"

He moans in your ear at that, opting to not only go faster but to add an extra finger. It feels as though just two of his digits are a cock in you, hitting you deep and stretching you wide. You want so desperately to turn around and see who's touching you, but you like the mystery. You like that twinging sense of the unknown as the stranger brings you closer to completion.

With your clit being slapped consistently and your cervix being prodded, you can feel your legs trembling from your soon orgasm. It makes you scramble to find purchase on the man's thighs, on the wrist that's disappeared under your skirt. He lets you reach back and tug on his hair. 

His long hair, you note.

"Holy shit," you breathe. "I'm gonna cum. Cum, cum I'm gonna cum!"

He picks up his pace. He shoves his fingers so deep and fast you know everyone can hear it. Your toes curl, your eyes roll, your-

"COPS!" Someone shouts. "COPS!"

People around you begin to push one another, scrabbling to leave the apartment that's overly filled with smoke and spilled booze. They effectively shove the man away from you, tearing his fingers from your heat that makes you cry out in such desperation. 

More people hit your shoulders, some scream with laughter while running. 

You turn your head around, hopeful to find the man in eyesight. But all you see are the back of heads, then your friend's face amidst the chaos making her way to you. 

"We need to leave. Now."

She yanks you by the wrist, not commenting on the arousal dripping down your thighs or how your skirt is drenched in the front. 

Never in life have you been more frustrated, more distraught. Being dragged away while all you can remember is how well he finger fucked you, how beautiful his fingers looked and felt. His voice, his breath on your skin. And never in your life have you been filled with such determination. You'll find this man. Have him finish what he started. 

With new vigor, you head home.

a/n: can you guess who the mystery man is?? and im thinking about making a part 2 but I wanna see how this performs first lmao.

[farfromstrange]

Fictober Day 13: Lingerie

Fictober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Prompt: Lingerie (✨)

Summary: You buy red lingerie just for Matt, and he enjoys it to the fullest.

Warnings: SMUT (18+), oral fem!receiving, mentions of p in v, lingerie, face-sitting

Word Count: 951

A/n: Matt would go feral if you surprised him with lingerie, and that's a fact.

Read Me On AO3!

You bought this piece just for him—this red, silken piece of sin you paid a fortune for. The fabric is incredibly soft to the touch, running through fingers like water. 

Matt rests his hand on your chest, over your heart. His fingers dig into the silk that covers the body he worships, and he has to bite into the flesh of his cheek to stop himself from moaning. You did this for him. 

He likes you naked. He likes you spread out for him. He likes the feel of your skin against his, but God, you’re wearing lingerie made of the softest fabric the earth has ever seen, and his cock is already so fucking hard against his stomach. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hands roaming over you so he can paint a picture of you in his head. A picture of you wearing this. 

You gently take his other hand and place it on your upper thigh. “Here,” you say.

His heart pounds against his ribcage like a chainsaw. “Fuck,” he grunts. 

You’re wearing a fucking garter belt, too. 

He’s sure he must have died sometime tonight and gone to heaven. You can’t possibly be real. So beautiful, so hot, and you are all his. His to touch, command, and take until you are begging for mercy.

You did this for him.

“I love you,” he says, bringing his lips to where the fabric has ridden up above your belly button. “I love you so much.”  

His breath is warm against your skin—warm and wet, and desperate. 

“I want you to ride my face.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

Matt lifts his unfocused gaze toward the sound of your voice. “I want you to ride my face. Right here,” he pulls you into his lap, “wearing this.”

Oh.

He has had you in all sorts of compromising positions, but this… this is something else. The thought of him lapping at your pussy as you’re kneeling above him is both incredibly arousing and absolutely terrifying, but if there is anyone you would trust with your life, it’s him.

He falls back against the mattress, taking you down with him. His lips taste like home, the kiss he presses to your lips so full of love that you forget for a moment what this is even about.

Greedy hands roam the silky lingerie, and your pussy starts to ache for him. For his fingers, for his cock, and his lips on you. You need him to touch you, to drive you to the brink of death just to pull you back with nothing but his magical tongue. You need him. 

Matt pulls you higher, your legs now resting on either side of his head. You must look divine like this. He can smell you through the thin fabric of those sheer panties, soaked through and ready for him. He wants to dig his finger into you, to drink from you like a spring carved by God himself. 

The panties are the easiest to get out of the way; they barely cover you as is, and it makes him wonder if you would let him keep them for the nights you’re not there and he needs something of yours to keep him company—to jerk off to.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’m okay.”

And ready, though the words die on your tongue before you can utter them.

His hands soothe your shaky muscles, tangling in the garter belt around the plump flesh of your thigh, and without a warning, he pulls you down. 

You cry out into the quiet of the room. His mouth covers your pussy as he feasts, tongue darting between your folds and to your clit. The moan he breathes into your core is utterly guttural. 

“Ride me,” he begs, the silk now bundled in his fist. “C’mon.” 

Hesitantly, you bury your fingers in his hair, and you start to rock your hips in sync with the desperate drag of his tongue. You chase that high, the pleasure that is curling in the pit of your stomach and spreading through your pussy like a wildfire.

Matt pulls at the lingerie, knuckles white with his flailing self-restraint. He’s telling you to move faster, to lock your legs around his head and ride his face until he suffocates. He wants your orgasm. He wants to drink your essence like a fine glass of wine. If he could, he would even drown in you.

He cups your breast, feeling your heart race underneath. It’s silk, silk all over. You feel like a cloud—a fucking cloud. 

“Matthew,” you breathe. 

He’s still fisting the garter belt, teeth dragging over your flesh and soothing it with the tip of his tongue. The pleasure tightens its noose around you. 

He tugs, and tugs, and tugs. Your orgasm keeps building, reaching the crescendo of the symphony you’re playing. You’re so close. 

You don’t know where to put your hands anymore, and he’s so immersed in eating you out, the sight alone is enough to set fire to the rain; the fabric snaps, suddenly and without warning, and with it, the wave finally crashes into you.  

You couldn’t have seen this coming, couldn’t have anticipated what only a piece of fabric could do to him. He rocked your world. He always does, but tonight, it felt different; it felt different and you loved it.

You slowly come back to yourself, lying there completely boneless as he pries himself away from you. 

Matt props himself up on his elbow beside you. You look over at him, the content expression on his face, and it makes you smile. “Lingerie, huh?” you say.

He hums in agreement, “Lingerie.”

@ebathory997 @the-b33skn33s @scoliobean @drmeghanjones @lanae111 @steve-chandler @lucienofthelakes @xnatyx @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @zomtart @ethereal-blaze

[thedancingcostumeyoungadult]

Bf!Eddie Munson x plus size!fem!reader

This is smut for smuts sake my loves 🫶🏻🫶🏻

You and Eddie enjoy some time together and a bit of herbal refreshment 🍃

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, weed, reader has a v 🤷🏻‍♀️ lmk if I missed something

Eddie has you on his lap, his hands big and warm and everywhere as he cradles you close while your head swims lightly with the effects of the stubbed out joint still smouldering lightly in the side table ashtray. Just as intoxicating as the herb are your boyfriend's lips as they drag along your skin, laving hot kisses down your throat to the slight dip in your shoulder. His fingers catch the thin straps of your maroon bodysuit and drag them quickly down off of your shoulders, your breasts spilling out as he surges back up to kiss you, catching your lazy moan halfway through and silencing it. You return his kiss with as much enthusiasm as you can muster, your fingers winding into his curls with a light tug. You start to pout as he pulls away, but the expression is quickly wiped away as his grip hardens on you, his fingers digging deliciously into the plush flesh of your ass as he hoists you a little higher on your knees, his lips locking immediately around your nipple and sucking hard. He's needy, probably even more baked than you are, and the way your skirt pools over your ample thighs combined with the way your bodysuit clings to every curve is driving him out of his mind. All he can think of is you, under his hands, in his mouth, every bit of you loved as it should be. He's pulled from his hazed thoughts by a pathetic mewl falling from your lips as his grip on your thighs makes your clit catch on his belt buckle.

"Teddy." You whine, clinging to him as your thoughts swim with more more more. The need for him burns almost painfully in your belly, the slight friction from the metal running through you like a shock. He understands even through the fuzz what you need, lowering you back to sit on his thighs and fumbling for his buckle and fly. Still lavishing attention on your tits as he pushes his jeans down, you melt into the touch, oversensitive and just as needy as him. 

You'd gotten too lost in the hypnotizing sensations to really notice one of Eddie's calloused hands sneaking under your skirt until they slid into your panties, pressing against your clit for just a head spinning second before he hooks them to the side. Your brain just barely registers the brush of his tip against your core and jumps gears. God you need him, you need Eddie's cock more than air, more than sunlight, your body is practically screaming for it and you act without thinking. 

Usually Eddie would take a moment to stretch you out, make sure you were ready for him but before he gets the chance you're sinking straight down on him, his hands flying to your hips as he throws his head back with a broken groan. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, baby-" your hips meet his and you suck in a gasp. He's so deep in you, you can't feel anything else, you can't breathe, you can't think, you're just full. And you want to kiss him so badly. Clumsy hands flutter to cup his face and bring his lips to yours as you can't help but roll your hips, his thick length dragging along your walls ever so slightly. It's hard to tell how long you continued just like that, but the blissful haze of weed and kisses and loving hands brings you both to a soft crescendo, Eddie coaxing you over the peak just before chasing his own. 

The room has gone that soft evening grey as he lays you both down, melting into each other as his hands work absently through your hair. Your face is so smushed against his chest he almost misses your soft mumble as you fall quickly into sleep. 

"Love you, Teddy." He smiles against your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Love you, baby."

[iliketangerines]

hi I love your stuff can I ask a Bi-Han x guardian angel reader smut where the reader is training and they look so hot training and Bi-Han is trying to hold back not to fuck them right there and now but once they go back to there bedroom Bi-Han just pushes them on the bed and just fuck them and btw this is my first ask and I was a little shy asking you this

sweat and tears

a/n: lol i remember being nervous the first time i ever requested something too

pairing: bi han x gn!reader

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), nipple play

Bi Han was going to kill you, he swear to god he was, because right now you’ve shed the outermost layer robe of your outfit, leaving you only in a thin t shirt

he can see your nipples through the thin shirt as you train, guiding the trainees through the practice set, and his hands are itching to get themselves on you

for now, he presses his icy hands to his face to cool himself off as he watches you sweat underneath the blazing sun, and he looks down to the floorboards to try and control himself

you jog on over as the trainees leave for dinner, and you pant into the air, smiling at him as he continues to release his frustrations onto the practice dummy, nearly tearing it apart

laughing at his anger, you slap him on the back and ask what’s wrong, and Bi Han turns to you slowly, pupils blown wide as he stares at the sweat droplets tracing the outline of your muscle and the curve of your body, soaking your shirt

your shirt sticks to you in just the right places, and Bi Han’s mouth goes dry as he looks at your sweaty neck, glistening in the setting sun

he grabs onto your wrist with a cold hand and walks with you in tow, and you follow, confused by your husband’s strange behavior

as your bedroom comes into sight, you let out a confused sound, but before you can even ask a question, Bi Han slams the door open and practically throws you inside

sliding the door shut, you ask what’s got him so worked up, and he whips around and stalks to you, footsteps heavy on the wooden flooring as his chilled breath billows out of his nose

you let out a nervous laugh and take a step backwards, falling onto the bed, and Bi Han crowds around you, crushing his weight into you as his lips crash onto yours

a moan leaves his throat as his hands finally trace your body, squeezing at the strong muscle and at your chest that had been teasing him all day

his chilled hands cause a shiver to run through you, but you welcome the kiss all the same, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in closer

he parts from your lips, looking at your dazed eyes and the light sheen of sweat covering your neck, and Bi Han can’t help himself as he moves his mouth lower to kiss hickeys into your skin

you sigh and ask what’s got him so worked up, and he grunts, knowing that you know exactly what had worked him up so much the second his hands had attacked your chest

they still knead at the soft flesh, your chest relaxed and soft as you let him grope at you and kiss hickeys into your skin

your fingers undo the bun in his hair, and you run your fingers through the locks, sighing at its softness and its thickness

he hums into your neck and sinks his teeth into the sensitive flesh to make you yelp and groan, and he drinks in the small sounds that you make

the contact isn’t enough, he needs to be touching your skin, and Bi Han pulls away for just a moment, just long enough to rip your shirt from your body and leave it in tatters

you gasp at the feeling and stare up at him with indignation, complaining that that was a nice shirt, and Bi Han rolls his eyes, saying that he was the grandmaster and he could get you another one if you so wished

ignoring the rest of your complaints his hands come down onto your chest, pinching at your nipples and and rolling them between his thumb and pointer fingers

the stimulation makes your voice warble and unsure as you heat up out of embarrassment or arousal, or maybe both

Bi Han moves his head down to latch his lips onto one of your nipples, his other hand continually teasing the other, and his tongue laves over the pert bud

it’s almost like heaven in his mouth as he listens to your soft moans and sighs as he bites and runs his tongue over the bud over and over again

he grinds his hips into the mattress, groaning at the friction on his cock, and he nearly loses focus on the task at hand as he grinds against the sheets

but then your hands grip onto his hair, lightly tugging at the locks and bringing hims back to you and your soft chest

Bi Han groans at the feeling and flicks his tongue against your nipple, pinching at your other with an icy hand, and it makes you shiver and groan

your hips buck up into him, and he has to restrain himself from cumming in his pants at the friction, biting into the soft flesh of your chest instead

a loud yelp comes out from you as you grip onto his hair tightly, and he can’t help himself as he moans loudly, grinding his cock further into his pants as he cums anyway

it would be more embarrassing if Bi Han actually cared about cumming so quickly in his pants just from teasing and tasting you

more or less, he just wanted to cum on you, watch it drip onto your skin and claim you as his, but he supposed he could always just do that later

he rocks his hips back and forth slowly as he rides out his orgasm, and you look down at him and pet his hair, letting him come down from his high

you let your head fall back onto the pillows and let out a strangled sound as Bi Han moves onto the other nipple and lavishes it with attention

your voice is strained when you say that you thought that he was done, and Bi Han momentarily disconnects from your sweet skin to tell you he wasn’t done

he wasn’t done until he’s tasted every part of your body, and with that, his mouth delves back onto your chest, ready to tease and torture you for the rest of the night

[melancholyhigh]

mother do u think u can do subby leon with a lactation kink? or dom leon. (re4 him is so daddy)

masterlist.

note. thank you sm for the request anon <33 there's def a lack of dom leon on my blog. i haven't written a dom character in a while so i'm sorry if i'm rusty ;(

content. nsfw. 0.7k words. dom!leon, p in v, sleepy & soft sex, fingering, squirting, creampie.

It takes a few kisses shared between Leon, and you’re already soaking through your panties. It’s humiliating as you whimper into his mouth, his soft lip pressed to yours.

In your defense, you’re fucking tired. Leon couldn’t sleep, and even though he didn’t want to disturb you from your peaceful slumber, what kind of lover would you be if you didn’t try to help? You didn’t know it, but your warmth presented with so much comfort you would never understand. 

Even on nights like these, where he couldn’t rest, the slow, sensual kisses he left on your pouty lips were enough to calm his worries. 

Running your fingers through his soft hair, you moan quietly, subconsciously grinding onto him. Leon groans at the feeling of your clothed cunt, drenched, sliding along his muscular thigh. He adores the ways you respond to his touch. Your hardened nipples, peaking through your thin shirt and the shy whimpers you let slip.

It wasn’t his intention to get you so worked up, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy you whining his name, pleading for his touch. His calloused palms squeeze the supple flesh of your waist, bringing you closer to his warm body. He continues to tease kisses down your neck, nipping the sensitive flesh. 

He wants to hear you beg for him. Beg for him to please you like no one else can. He wants to admire you as you fall apart, writhing on the sheets and crying out for him.

Your eyelids are heavy, and the building pleasure in your core makes it nearly impossible to doze off. You nuzzle your face into the crook of Leon’s neck, your nails grazing his scalp to the back of his neck.

“Leon, please,” you mumble deliriously, your words dragging out. Leon slips his hand into your panties, using his deft fingers to collect your arousal before pressing on your pulsing clit. You moan breathlessly, your teeth digging into your bottom lip, attempting to conceal your loud whines. You didn’t want another noise complaint.

“This pussy’s so needy f’me, angel,” he whispers, his breath tickling your ear. His ring and middle finger enter your hole and slowly thrusts into your cunt. Your pussy flutters around him as he rubs your sensitive nub with his thumb. His hardening dick is pushed to your plush thigh as he plays with your drooling cunt.

A hitch in your breath indicates you’re nearing your climax, but Leon ceases his fingers in your cunt. You’re dazed, your eyes glazed over, overwhelmed at the sudden loss of pleasure. You rock your hips, fucking yourself on his thick fingers, and Leon chuckles at the sight.

“Want you to cum on my cock, sweetheart,” he says, and you scoff tiredly at his words. He shifts his position on his bed between your thighs. He marvels at the wet spot on your panties before pushing them aside, exposing your leaking pussy to his eyes. 

He moves his basketball shorts down, exposing his fully erect dick, dripping with pre. The head of his cock bumps your throbbing clit as he glides it along your slick folds. He groans as he pushes himself into your tight cunt, your warm walls fluttering around his fat cock.

He begins to thrust into you, his hips moving back and forth, your arousal dripping down, coating the inside of your thighs. Moaning when you clench around him, he fucks you quickly and steady. You’ve done so much for him. The least he can do is make you cum. 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, trying to keep your eyes open as he splits you with his cock. He’s so deep that you can feel each vein of his shaft. Broken and shaky moans escape your bruised lips and your back arching off the silken sheets.

“Leon!” you cry loudly, thighs twitching and tears welling up in your eyes.

You come undone, clamping tightly around his cock and your pussy spurting a clear liquid, gushing onto the mattress and his flushed skin. He leans down, kissing you deeply and passionately as he finishes inside you with a loud groan. 

Slipping out of you, he admires his and your combined fluids as they leak out of your overly sensitive cunt. He caresses your tear-stained cheek softly, observing as your breath evens out.

“Let’s get cleaned up, baby.”

“Mfm, can’t we jus’ keep cuddling?”

[poppy-metal]

i think for a long time arranged marriage patrick doesn’t let you go down on him. that guilt left over from your start ate away at him, and, sexually liberated as he his, for a while he can only stand giving. giving your sweet cunt his cock, his tongue, his fingers. giving you kisses so tender you feel like you’re in heave. it gets to a point where you ask him; don’t you want it?

“sure. but i don’t need it.”

“but you want it?”

“i want you.”

so scared of pushing you to do anything, because you’re an angel for even being able to love him. you’re an angel for letting him touch you. you’re an angel for taking what he gives you. he could never take. he’s taken enough.

on the other hand you’re scared. scared that when the charm of you wears off and you’re no longer virginal, just his spent, used up, boring old wife, he’ll wake up. smell the coffee and realise you aren’t what he really wants. you need to be exciting to him. you need to be what tashi was. you need to suck his cock often and well. because you love him and now that he’s yours you have to keep him or you’ll die

HHHHHHHH

he doesn't even consider that you want to suck his cock.

you crave it - you've felt it stretching you out, you've seen it bobbing between his legs, flushed and heavy. you've watched him stroke it, stroking your juices over himself - stroking his own spit up and down - and your mouth has watered. the desire to feel that thick weight on your tongue - you want to taste him. feel that stretch you've grown accustomed to in your pussy, in your mouth -

you worry about being bad at it - of course. you think, miserably, about how tashi probably sucked it for him - how he probably loved it. you think about him wincing when you try it - letting you suckle at him out of pity - and you feel yourself growing insecure. your insecurities haven't come up in awhile - patricks made such thorough love to you, licked your cunt with such single minded attention and focus you haven't had the time to be filled with doubts with all the time you've spent with your legs spread for your husband.

there's not an inch of your body he hasn't tasted and worshipped - and you hate that you can't say the same.

when he rejects you again, even though he's clearly hard - leaking at his tip and rigid, thick, against his toned stomach - a rushed - "come up here.'' when you start kissing down his chest, his hand curling in your hair to drag you back up. "kiss me."

you feel tears prick your eyes - even though you let him kiss you, tentatively guiding a hand down his body, "you don't want me to?"

you don't want me? you want to ask.

your knuckles graze his cock - you feel him twitch, hot against you. his precum glazing your fingers - your hand softly gripping the hard, hot flesh of him - you can feel him flex in your grip - he kisses you deeper and moans against your mouth.

"its - ah." he hisses when you begin to stroke him - "it's not about wanting -"

you pull back - tighten your grip around him. this is a feeling you can grow addicted to, you realize. this thick warmth in your palm. his big cock in your control. yours and only yours.

"then what's it's about." you ask him. move your hand up until your knuckles are grazing the underside of his crown - feeling the silky texture of his tip. "you don't want my mouth on you here -" your thumb delicately circles his head - runs back and forth over the slit there, where's he's wet and dripping against the pad of your finger.

patricks head falls back against the pillow - his dark hair fanning out. you love his hair like this - with no product in it. untamed and wild, like he is. your beautiful husband. all yours and hard for you, leaking steadily all down your hand. his face is flushed red - he licks his lips as he glances down to where your hand is wrapped around him - "shit." he grits. "baby - you don't have to, I mean - I don't want -"

irritated you grip him hard - hard enough that he gasps and jerks under you, hips punching up.

"stop thinking about being a gentleman and think about being my husband." you snap. "are you telling me you don't want to teach me how to suck you?" you pump your hand from his tip, down all the way to his dark root - feel the prickle of the thick patch of hair at his base - you bring your other hand down to play, reaching under to cup those heavy balls you've felt slapping against your pussy - that have unloaded thick spurts of cum inside you - that have no doubt knocked you up, or soon will - and delight in the way patricks whole body seems to tighten at the sensation. he thighs spreading seemingly without conscious thought. making room for you. "- you don't want to feel my mouth here, either?" you coo, bouncing his balls lightly in your palm, like you're weighing them, loving the fuzzy soft feel of them. your mouth pools with saliva at the thought of tonguing them - feeling that warm sack in your mouth -

"fuck." patrick whimpers. and youve never heard him like this before - the closest was the night he took your virginity. the broken choked sound of his voice when he'd first pushed inside your virgin cunt - he sounds about just as desperate and helpless now. "what are you doing to me, fuck - "

his cock slides in and out of the circle of your fist - and you make eye contact with your husband as you lean down and - inches from his tip - let a string of spit dangle from your lips, slowly, slowly, slowly, making gliding closer to his flushed head - "oh god -" leaving patricks lips in a rush when the string finally disconnects from your mouth and droops to cover his silken crown. you use the fresh slickness to make the glide of his cock more wet -

"im asking what you want." you say sweetly. "don't you want to train my mouth like how you did with my pussy? don't you want to feel my spit and drool drip down your balls? you can make me your good little cocksucking wife." you tell him. lean down to brush your lips just barely over him - taste the salt of him on your lips and close your eyes briefly- wanting that taste at the back of your throat, "that's what I want." you breathe - feel his cockhead twitch against your bottom lip - "want to be good at taking my husbands big cock into my little mouth." you pout. "dont you want to give me what I want?"

patrick sits up - his hands are under your armpits, yanking you up his body like a ragdoll and he takes your lips so aggressively it feels like he's trying to eat you alive. you kiss him back just as hungrily - letting him lick inside your mouth, letting his hands wander and grope your naked body - he flips you so you're under him and on your back. his knees on either side of your hips - he reaches down to stroke his engorged cock.

you lick your lips as you watch him do it and he groans - punching his cock through his fist like it's your pussy he's fucking into - "you really do want it, fuck." he sounds awed by it, and so fucking horny. "you want your husbands dirty cock in that tight little throat?" he reaches down to paw at his sack, feeling how fucking full he is. "you want that pink fucking tongue on these fat fucking nuts?"

you're so wet - your legs slip and slide under him against the sheets. throbbing little pussy and empty mouth. "yes," you pant. "yes I want it."

his pupils are so blown out you can hardly see the ring of green through all the black - "you're so fucking perfect." he tells you, whines it almost - strokes from root to tip and squeezes hard at his fat tip. "makes me wanna - fuck -"

"makes you wanna what?" you coax, breathlessly.

"makes me wanna ruin you."

you lick your lips - patrick watching the motion as if in a trance, and you hope he's imagining your lips split wide around his girth, pouting around his head as you give it a wet kiss. "then do it." you tell him. "I've only ever been yours to ruin, patrick."

fuck. you've ruined him too. in ways you can't even imagine.

"I love you." he says it, bare bones and all and your heart flutters in your chest. his hand drops from his cock and you watch the thick organ bob in the air - so filled with blood it stands on its own. his balls heavy and dark and hanging just below. he rises further up on his knees, hugging you between them - you open your mouth to say it back but he says - "don't. wanna hear you say it back when my cocks kissing the back of your throat."

you can do that.

[beomiracles]

#serene adds ✎... might turn into a longer fic someday, this is not proofread.

pairings yeonjun x afab!reader warnings unprotected sex, teeny tiny bit of hair pulling, no established relationships, fwb but not really?

"What about, her?" one of his friends motion toward you and you can feel the way their gazes burn into your back. "That nerd?" Yeonjun scoffs as he leans back in his chair, "she couldn't even get a guy if she so much as got down on her knees and begged."

Something hard hits the back of your head and you flinch. "Ain't that right, smartie?" Yeonjun barks from behind you, soon the classroom echoes with the laughter of his friends as they join in on the fun.

You swallow the sob building in your throat as you shield your tear stained face. When was it going to end?

"Ah, fuck.." Yeonjun groans as he buries himself deeper inside of you. Pushed up against the shelf of the small storage unit, your legs wrapped around his waist and skirt hiked up above your hips, revealing your bruised thighs as Yeonjun gropes at them hungrily.

Your nails dig into his scalp, tugging and pulling at his dark hair as small moans fall from your lips. "Mhhn...fuck, pussy's fuckin' perfect." He breathes as his lips travel from your abused neck down your collarbone and exposed chest. Your white blouse unbuttoned to reveal your red lace bra, your breasts threatening to spill out as he nibbles at the soft flesh.

To think that your dignity had been reduced to this, letting the person who never failed to bring you to tears as he publicly humiliated you, fuck you senseless, tucked away from the world inside the small janitors space.

A harsh tug to your braid draws a whimper from your throat as Yeonjun forces your face to meet his. In the dim light of the closet he looked far from the person you'd grown to loathe in class. A thin layer of sweat sticking to his forehead, dark hair falling in uneven portions, framing his sharp face, lips coated in a shiny layer of saliva; he gazes down at you in such a lustful way that for a split second, you start to question his true intentions.

"Fuck, you look so pretty likes this", he murmurs, a perplexed look flashing across his face, as if debating his next move. In the end he presses his wet lips against your own, a groan of satisfaction emitting from deep in his throat as one of his hands cup your rosy cheek.

Once he finishes inside of you he stays unmoving, as if savouring the moment for just a little longer. ─ Soon he pulls out, and without looking at you he tucks himself back into his pants before running a hand through his fucked out hair.

"Mention this to anyone, and I'll have you ruined, nerd." He mutters as he wipes the remains of your lipgloss from his chin. With that, he slams the door to the janitors closet shut and you return to strangers once more.

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[cevansbrat0007]

Promises, Promises

Summary: Ari exacts a promise from you as a reward for his patience.

Warnings: Mature Themes, Needy Ari Levinson, Implied Smut, Light Oral Sex (fem rec), Allusions to Public Sex, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Written for my sweet friend, @curls-and-eyeliner. Just a little Ari Levinson goodness. Not sure if it has a place, but for now it's going to fall in line with my Trio Series.

___

“C’mon. C’mon.” You murmur as you try and fail yet again to maneuver the thin leather strap of your heel through the small silver buckle. “Almost – you little piece of shit!” While the shoes were wearing tonight paired phenomenally with your dress, you were starting to feel like the effort to fasten them just wasn’t worth it anymore.  

Sometimes you really fucking hated heels.

Huffing out a breath, you allow your body to go limp before collapsing back against the chair in defeat. You’d been at it for the better part of ten minutes. And frankly, at this point, you’d much rather go barefoot than have to fuck with this shoe one more time. 

Ari would just have to understand. Maybe if you asked nicely your man would get onboard with you rocking a pair of sneakers to tonight’s medal ceremony – even if they did manage to clash with your overall look.

“Ready to go, Bird?” Ari calls out from the bathroom. “I don’t want us to be late.”

“Almost!” Comes your frustrated reply, just in time for him to rejoin you in the bedroom. He gives you a thorough onceover, his soulful blue eyes darkening as he scans you from head to toe. Grinning, he runs his fingers through his already tousled chestnut brown locks.

Ari Levinson was virtually hopeless when it came to styling his own hair. The moment he got even a little remotely agitated or flustered he became unable to keep his hands out of it. Lucky for him, he somehow always managed to look positively sinful no matter what. 

And tonight was no exception. 

“Fuck, baby…” He rasps.

“I swear I’m almost ready.” You hurry to reassure him, thinking that he might be annoyed with you. “It’s this damn shoe, though. I can’t seem to fasten the stupid strap and it’s pissing me off.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do with you?” He mumbles, seemingly to himself.

“Well you could either give me another minute or you could help…” You trail off when your beast of a man drops to his knees in front of you before plucking the offending heel from your grasp. It drops to the floor with a soft thud. “...me with this clasp. What–what are you doing?” 

“How am I supposed to take you out now, looking like this?” His already deep voice lowers several more octaves. The comforting weight of his large palms go to rest on the tops of your thighs.

A sinking feeling enters the pit of your stomach. Perhaps you should’ve given your boyfriend a peek at your outfit beforehand instead of waiting until tonight. That way if he didn’t like it you would’ve had time to figure out a backup dress.

“What’s wrong with the way I look, Ari?” 

“Absolutely nothing.” His intoxicating gaze bores into you, making you feel dizzy even as goosebumps raise across your flesh. “You look stunning, sweetheart. Like a vision and a wet dream rolled into one.”

“Oh.” Is all you can seem to manage, his whispered compliment taking you by surprise. 

Although you’re not quite sure why. You could walk around wearing a pair of his boxers and a raincoat and this man would still be ready to bend you over the nearest flat surface and fuck you stupid. 

“And honestly, as excited as I am to have you on my arm this evening, I don’t know if I still want to go.” One hand slowly trails down your leg, the slightly roughened pads of his fingers smoothing their way over your calf to gently grip your ankle. 

“B–but…tonight’s supposed to be a celebration. And you’re the guest of honor.” You rasp, your mouth suddenly dry as Ari presses a tender kiss to the inside of your bare foot. 

“So?” He gifts you with another kiss, this one accompanied by the faint brush of his tongue along the inside of your ankle. “You and this dress have me thinking about all the ways we can celebrate right here. From the comfort of our home.” You feel your pulse begin to quicken. 

“We can’t.” You gently admonish as you try to pull away. But his hold remains steadfast. “Besides, if you stay down there much longer –” you gesture towards his position on his knees – “you’re going to wrinkle your pants, assuming you haven’t already ruined the crease.” Your big beast of a man quirks an amused brow in response.

“I’m serious, Ari Levinson.” You blow out a shaky breath, wishing you sounded more confident. “Now, you help me with this shoe so we can get out of here. At the rate we’re going, we’ll be lucky if we’re only fashionably late.”

“Is that right?” Ari’s eyes light up at your words, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “That an order, baby?” 

“Uh huh.” Of its own accord, your hand reaches out to caress his freshly trimmed beard. Ari sighs quietly and leans into your touch. “You’d better believe it, Beast.” He growls low in his throat, the animalistic sound making your nipples pebble through the material of your bra.    

“Well then I guess I better do as my lady says.” A hint of mischief creeps into his tone, coupled with a smile. “Wouldn’t want to upset my gorgeous girl now would I? But before I do that, I’m also thinking I’m gonna need you to make me a promise. Can you do that for me?” 

Ari loosens his hold on your ankle only to drape your leg over one of his broad shoulders. And then his hands move to the hem of your dress, slowly rucking it up your thighs to stop just below your hips – revealing the lacy scrap of black fabric hidden beneath.

“Y-yes.” 

“In return for being such a good boy, I’m gonna need you to promise you’ll let me fuck you tonight. And when I do, I want you wearing nothing but these heels.” He leans forward and buries his face in the sweet juncture located between your parted thighs.

“Okay.” You could definitely do that.

“I get to choose the time and the place. But don’t worry, baby. You have my promise to keep you wet and ready for me until I decide on the perfect moment.” He then inhales your scent, nuzzling his nose against the increasingly damp lace. A muffled groan escapes when he does it again. His grip tightens as his fingers dig into your skin.

Almost as if he’s already regretting his decision to agree to leave the house.

“Ari.” His name emerges as whimper, soft and pleading. 

“Promise me, Bird. Promise you’ll reward me for being so good. For showing restraint.” Each spoken word feels like a heated lash against your panty-covered clit. “Please.” Ari sucks the bud into his warm mouth, making you cry out as your thighs clench around his head.

“Yes!” You hiss as he continues to tease. 

“Say my name again.” He rasps, flicking the swollen nub with his tongue. “Say it just like that when you make your promise.”

“Ooh, Ari!” Your hips buck and writhe beneath his sensual assault. “Yes, okay? I promise!”

A primal sound bursts forth from his chest – a something between a snarl and a purr – as he forces himself to pull away. “Okay.” He grunts, his breathing slightly labored.

Ari doesn’t say another word as he goes about picking up your forgotten heel. He slips it on your foot and deftly buckles the strap as if he does it all the time. Your body is on fire as you prepare to sit up and fix your dress, only for your man to stop you with a hand on your belly.      

“I plan to wear you out tonight, baby.” Two long, thick fingers hook themselves into the waistband of your panties. “Swear to God, you’re gonna feel me for days.” 

The sight of your man’s feral grin is your only warning before the flimsy piece of lingerie is all but ripped from your skin, eliciting a shocked gasp from you. Ari rises and tucks the ruined lace into his pocket before helping you stand on shaky legs. 

Ever a beast, he proceeds to haul you against his solid chest. And then your eyes flutter closed as his mouth descends over yours in a searing kiss. You melt against him as your hands fall to his biceps, holding on to him while he takes his time with you. His talented tongue dues with your own in short, playful thrusts. One of his hands slips to your ass, giving you a rough squeeze. 

When it’s over, you’re both breathless. And the impressive bulge in Ari’s slacks makes it obvious that he’s ready for more. A clock chimes in the distance, breaking your reverie. It’s a not-so-subtle reminder that you two needed to leave soon. As in now. 

“Guess we’ll just have to pick this up later.” You murmur, even though you have yet to move.

“Damned right we will.” Ari growls, his eyes glittering with unbridled lust. “So you’d better keep your promise.”

“And if I don’t?” You tease, finally finding the resolve to pull away. He lets you go before walking over to the bed to snag your clutch. Meanwhile, you busy yourself with fixing your dress. 

“You will.” Your man hands it over before linking his fingers through yours and leading you down the hall towards the stairs.

"I mean, but what if I change my mind?" You tamp down a giggle. Now probably wasn't the best time to tease your man, but you just couldn't seem to help yourself.

"You won't." Ari assures you once more before halting his movements. He turns to face you again before tenderly grasping your chin in his hand. "You'd never do that to me, sweet girl. But if you did, I suppose I'd just have to remind you of what happens to little brats who break their promises to their men now wouldn't I?" His lidded eyes practically dare you to disagree.

"Y-yes." You whisper, swallowing thickly as he brushes his thumb across your bottom lip. "I'll be good."

"Well, thank goodness for that. I'm so glad we have an understanding, baby." Ari purrs, allowing his hand to fall away as you resume your procession towards the door. "Because I'd be pretty pissed if I had to fuck you in the middle of the banquet hall in full view of everyone." He opens the door and ushers you into the garage, smacking your ass for good measure.

"But that also doesn't mean I won't."

END

[seeyalaterinnovator]

The Halocline - Rhett Abbott x Reader

Summary: Reader gets roughed up a bit, Rhett comforts her

Warnings: reader is the victim of violence, descriptions of wounds, descriptions of a panic attack, no spoilers for outer range

Word count: 1.9K

Authors note: My friend sent my a requests with rhett abbott saying "Hey, just look at me. Breathe." ... I shamefully finally got around to it.. so here we are...

Keep reading below the cut

The cool Wyoming night air brushed against your exposed skin, each step carrying you closer to the Abbott house. Certainly someone was here, if not Rhett, since he wasn’t answering his phone. You prayed he was just asleep or his phone had died, and that’s why he wasn’t answering any of your calls. The porch groaned under your feet when you hobbled up the steps, up toward the door. 

You knocked once. No answer. It was late, late enough that most of the house would likely be asleep by now, having to get up early tomorrow for chores around the ranch. Cecilia was a light sleeper though, that you could count on. So you knocked again, this time with a little more force. Still no answer.

“C’mon, Rhett!” You cried, voice hoarse from the sobs that wracked your body earlier, raw from screaming for any kind of help that never came. 

Your fist pounded desperately against the screen door, the tinny noise echoed into the open air and died off in the howling wind. There was always someone in the Abbott house, of course except when you needed them the most. “Shit.” You mutter under your breath.

Goosebumps rose along the flesh of your arms, the reddened welts from earlier burning as you sucked in a deep breath and tried to figure out your next move. Tears welled in your eyes as a hopeless feeling settled deep in your chest, but you refused to let them fall, not until you were somewhere safe again. Trembling, torn up hands reach up to scrub at your face as you turned toward the barn. 

You noticed a faint yellow light flickering through the cracked barn door, likely forgotten by someone earlier. It wasn’t the comforting embrace of Rhett, but it would have to do. The barn was far better than trying to walk back to the pit bar to get your car and risk running into Trevor again. God knows what he would try this time. Maybe if you were lucky one of the Abbotts would find you here in the morning when they started their morning chores around the ranch. 

So with a grunt, you slowly made your way over to the barn where you would hopefully hide out amongst the bails of hay. Your footsteps were heavy, weighed down with exhaustion as you crossed into the barn, the dusty smell of hay and motor oil hitting your nose. To your surprise, a familiar form was hunched over the back workbench, a white cowboy hat hiding a head full of sandy brown hair. You nearly could have collapsed from relief.

“Rhett?” You swallowed around the lump in your throat. 

“Sweetheart- what are you doin’ out here so late?” Rhett inquired, turning as he wiped his oil covered hands on an old rag. 

Stood in place, you couldn’t muster the strength to step any further into the light, to expose yourself to the careful scrutiny of his deep blue gaze. The sweet, lopsided smile that pulled at Rhett’s thin lips was discarded quickly, the tattered rag left on the dirt floor when he noticed the tear stained sheen on your cheeks. “Sweetheart? What happened?” His voice was heavier this time.

“I-..” All the air in your lungs dried up, leaving your chest deflated and empty. Paralyzed, your panicked gaze met his as you tried to choke in a breath. No air came though. Rhett saw your chest spasm with the effort of trying to suck in air. Quick to action, his booted feet carried him over to where you stood, though dread took pooled heavily in his gut.

“Jesus-” He gasped, his warm breath puffing out against your battered face. The first thing he noticed now that he was closer was the gash that marred your forehead, a steady trickle of blood trailed down the side of your temple and down your cheek. The second thing he noticed was the smattering of dark splotches that shadowed your skin, likely to be deep purple bruises by the morning. The third thing he noticed was you were without the sweater you always had on at this time of year. The neckline of your shirt was torn, seams ripped and stained crimson. You trembled in your spot, still frozen in place, skin peaked as shivers wracked your body. 

Rhett was quick to shuck off his jacket and drape it over your shoulders and tuck you into the warm fabric. His large, steady hands ran along the length of your arms, trying to rid you of the constant shivering. “Honey- who did this to you?” He kept his tone level, despite the anger that welled up inside him. 

You tried to answer, mouth opening around the Tillerson boy’s name, but all that came was a strained croak. Hot tears fell down your cheeks, burning as they rolled past the areas of broken skin. Hiccups soon took over, and breathing grew even harder. “Oh god!” You say between cries, grabbing a fist of hair and tugging at it hard enough that pain pricked your scalp. Anything to distract you from this drowning feeling that resided heavy in your chest.

With as much tender care as he could, Rhett grabbed a hold of your wrists and detangled your vice grip from your hair. His warm hands came to rest on your flushed cheeks, careful to avoid any area that looked cracked open. His touch was firm and steady as he squeezed just enough, holding your head steady and in line with his. “Hey..” He loosed a breath, barely a whisper as he searched your eyes.

“Hey, just look at me. Breathe.” He instructed in a collected manner, held you steady in his grasp despite thrashing like a bull against his hold. “Sweetheart, breathe for me. You can do it.” Wild eyes met his, and for the first time that night you finally felt safe. At first, your breaths came in frantic puffs, but you focused on trying to force the air from your lungs and exchange it for new air, inhaling deeply and blowing it out on a steady controlled exhale. 

“That’s it, good job. Keep goin’.”He encouraged, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead, despite the dried blood that flaked against your skin. 

You stayed like that for a while, breathing in and out, until Rhett was satisfied that you weren’t going to pass out on him from a lack of air. Now that the adrenaline had eddied away,  your head throbbed in time with your bounding heartbeat. You winced, shying away from the light once again. “Rhett I-”

“Let’s get you inside and cleaned up, okay?” 

There was no fight left, so you allowed Rhett to guide you into the house and up the rickety steps to the first clearing, where his room was. His hand stayed put on your low back, a calming presence as he pushed you into the threshold of his room and shut the door, careful not to wake anyone as it creaked shut. 

First he pulled off his jacket from your shoulders, blue eyes roaming over your skin. Now that he was in better light, he could see the large welts that covered your arms, and how your shirt was ripped in more than one place. His lips pressed together to keep the questions at bay, now wasn’t the time for an interrogation. He needed to get you patched up and in bed. 

“Come on.” He spoke softly as he took hold of your hand and brought it to his lips before he tugged you toward the bathroom. 

You hovered awkwardly in the doorway, unsure what to do with yourself. That was okay, Rhett knew what to do - probably better than anyone else in this house. His hands peeled away your tattered shirt and tossed it aside. He helped you sit on the countertop before turning on the faucet. The sound of the water filling up the sink was the only noise as you watched him rummage through the closet in search of the well used first aid kit. Rhett made quick work, using a pack of gauze to clean up your forehead so he could assess the damage. He didn’t think you’d need stitches, but he held pressure for good measure. You sucked in a breath, trying to back away from his hand. He muttered a soft sorry while he leaned in and pressed a warm kiss to your forehead. 

“I was at the pit bar.” You mumbled, averting your gaze to your hands which gripped your thighs tightly. “I was just on my way out when Trever Tillerson wouldn’t let me past.” 

The words were heavy on your tongue, like you didn’t quite have the right words to say. Rhett didn’t stop cleaning your wound, needed to keep his hands moving so he didn’t do something stupid like track Trever down and kill him. You knew he was listening though. A muscle in his jaw ticked when you mentioned the name, he knew what kind of reputation Trever had.  “I tried to push past him, told him I wasn’t in the mood for his antics tonight. He didn’t like that.” The tears came softer this time, only rolling down your flushed cheek when you squeezed your eyes shut. “No one else was around, I tried calling out. He-”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it. Not right now.” 

“Thank you.” You sighed. 

Rhett finished cleaning your wound in silence, placing an antibiotic ointment over the open part and smoothed a bandaid over the broken skin. His hands firmly grabbed your hips and helped you off the counter, led you back into the bedroom. He grabbed one of his old t-shirts, knowing how much you liked to sleep in them. 

“Arms up.” He instructed, sliding the tshirt over your head and helped you slide your arms through the holes. He then knelt down before you, sliding off your jeans, his warm hands grazing along your thighs. You grabbed ahold of his shoulder to steady yourself as he helped you step out of the fabric. “There you go.” 

As Rhett stood back up, he looked down at you, his gaze uncertain. A line formed between his brows, his eyes bouncing between your own as if searching through your soul. He whispered a soft ‘c’mere’ and pulled you into his strong embrace. His hands wrapped tightly around your shoulders and tucked you against his chest. You inhaled deeply, smelling the familiar, comforting scent of leather and tobacco he always carried. This was what home felt like. You nuzzled into him, muscles releasing the tension they held onto. 

“I love you.” Those three words felt right, certain even. Despite the night’s events, you knew you would be okay as long as you had Rhett. 

“I love you too, sweetheart.” His pressed another kiss to the top of your head, and then tucked you under his chin. You listened to the steady beat of his heart, slightly faster than it usually was, as it thudded against your ear. 

It would be alright. This was your home. Rhett was your home.

[A/N]- this was inspired by the song The Halocline by Hippo Campus <3