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johnbrand · 1 month ago

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Runner's Gas

“Well if it isn’t our little Spark!” Brick playfully taunted, twisting around the black cap on his head. “Looking to catch up to the big leagues?”

Aaron rolled his eyes, continuing to stretch out his toned, limber legs. “What, are you afraid I’m going to catch up to your varsity team?”

Brick smirked. “You wouldn’t dare.” As captain, and the fastest runner on the team, the college senior was proud of his position on top.

“Maybe I would,” Aaron’s smile held that youthful glow all overachievers had. Although he was only a sophomore, he had been sweeping competitions left and right. No one was able to beat him and his “spark of energy” that was always reserved for the last second, hence his nickname.

“What do you say we put it to the test?” Brick prompted, his lithe frame already warmed up after a few quick laps. Besides being a bit taller than Aaron, their runner’s builds were almost identical.

“If you’re willing to lose,” Aaron cockily replied, enjoying the friendly competition. He could feel the build of adrenaline slowly pumping throughout his veins. A brisk wind was lightly pushing against them, tickling their bare skin. “Mind if I lunge once or twice?”

“Not at all,” Brick remarked, taking his place a few steps behind. “Gives me a chance to take in your backside, seeing as I won't have the pleasure of viewing it again.”

Aaron followed through with his final stretches, feeling his slim muscles flex and retract appropriately. He was excited for this challenge, pleasantly daunted to be taking on his school’s top champ. Their times had been fairly similar, but being in different leagues had meant the two had never been able to compete.

Getting lost in his own head, Aaron did not realize his bowels were rapidly processing information. His body was inappropriately following through with hereditary protocols, having accidentally registered Brick as a threat. Finishing his final lunge, Aaron registered the dreadful rippling in his stomach. But at that point, there was no stopping what was coming next. Aaron’s excitement immediately twisted into fear.

“Watch out!”

PPPPHHHRRTTTT!

Brick had no time to prepare as a massive fart cloud was carried downwind directly into his face. The flatulence bombarded him, its odorous vapors blinding him temporarily and knocking him onto his flat bottom. Aaron immediately rushed in, desperately searching for a way to reverse what had been done. Luckily no one had seen the incident, as the chemical reaction that was about to ensue was–as far as Aaron knew–unreversable.

Brick was sitting back comfortably, dazed and desensitized by the prey’s natural defense. Aaron had accidentally attacked the college senior with runner’s gas. An evolutionary condition, runner’s gas was a fumigation technique used by “weaker” species to protect themselves against predators. The flatulence released altered the predator’s abilities, rendering them bulkier, slower, and dumber, allowing the prey to flee. It was a genetic trait that should have eroded away with evolution, particularly as humans grew more alike. But some were still left with the condition, making its activation incredibly rare and almost always unintentional.

Aaron watched helplessly as Brick’s skin began to ripple. The track star’s body expanded in size, growing taller, longer, and larger. Muscle exploded across his frame, destroying the slim physique by covering it in layer after layer of pure-grade beef. Rounded arms led into broader shoulders, pillowy pecs led straight down to a thicker pack of eight abdominals. Thighs bulked into true haunches, feet so large that their width would prevent them from travelling quickly without the risk of tripping.

As Brick’s buttocks and pouch inflated, Aaron’s eyes trailed up along his victim's body, following the swarm of hair that swiftly painted itself along the surface of skin. He could do nothing as Brick’s jaw cracked into a square shape, as his forehead pushed itself a bit farther out, or as the twinkle of intelligence was dimmed in his eyes. As quick as it had come, the chemical reaction rapidly subsided, leaving behind a new dumb jock in its wake.

“Hey…” Aaron cautiously poked, the college senior now twice his size. He knew they would have to move before anyone saw them. There was one person in particular that he feared. “Come on, we need to get you out of here before-”

“McNeal!”

The coach’s gruff shout sent a shiver under Aaron’s skin. He was too late.

“What is this, your fifth one?” The coach was shaking his head as he approached. “It’s one thing to be gassing the competition, but your own team?”

“It…it was an accident,” Aaron stared at his own feet, embarrassed.

The coach huffed, “Who was it this time?” The affected party was still sitting on the ground, brainwashed and stretching his new muscles slowly. “McNeal…is this my captain?!”

Aaron said nothing. They both watched as the dumb jock began to take in his surroundings.

“Brock,” the coach provided the former captain with a new name. “What are you doing on the track? Football practice takes place on the other side of the complex.

Brock took a moment to process this. “Oh right...." his chuckle was lifeless. “Huhuhuh…I can be so stupid sometimes.” Aaron and the coach simply observed as Brock accepted this new reality.

“Luckily for you,” the coach sighed. “We needed a few more boys on the football team.”

#male tf #male transformation #dumbification #jock tf #unintended results

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trashmouth-richie · 3 months ago

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ad caelum vel ad inferos, tecum sum to heaven or hell, i am with you

the final part [4.6k] geta x reader summary: death, smut, GORE

🥀dulcis ut rosa 🥀dulex 🥀vitiosis + deliciosus 🥀frangere me

s/o to my beta @rxqueenotd , and anyone else i’ve screamed at with over this fic 🤎

Blue skies could never compare to the icy hatred that filled Caracalla’s eyes as he stood above you, flanked by soldiers on either shoulder. “Perhaps the dungeon will help you remember which Emperor you are to be serving? Hm?”

Blood trickled down your hairline, collecting in a slow drop from your chin onto the dirty floor. The cell was barely wide enough to lay down in. A piss pot stood full in one corner, its odor still more pleasant than the sickly aroma of Caracalla’s breath when he found you waiting for Geta.

You had been startled seeing him instead of the man you had spent the last many nights crying for. Trying to run you were hit hard and the rest was gone until you woke up here.

A swift kick to your legs and chest, had you doubling over, the pain boiling hot in your veins.

“How incompetent do you think I am?” Caracalla spit. “My brother doesn’t move throughout these walls without me knowing. Months! He’s been fucking your mouth raw, spilling his seed down your throat after nights spent in luxury with me!” A giggle bullies out from his lungs, “did you think I hadn’t a clue? An inkling as to why his chamber stood empty at the same moment that you left mine?”

You haven’t said a word and you refused to, he didn’t deserve an explanation.

A tear slips down his rouge painted face, “I confided in you, we were soulmates you and I. Geta is nothing! He feels nothing!”

You shook your head, unable to accept his words. “How did you do it, magae. How did you bewitch my brother to fall for your wickedness?”

Raising your chin in spiteful defiance, you glared into his disgusting putrid eyes, “You pathetic, sniveling swine— I am no such witch, but I can not wait to witness the carnage Geta will bestow upon you.”

Caracalla giggles in a high pitched tone, “oh my dear, he will be long dead before that shall ever happen,” he looks around at the moldy holed dungeon, “maybe you can charm the rats while you’re rotting away waiting for your precious Geta.”

—

Wind and insects scratched at his face as he pushed his horse faster, hooves kicking up sand and rocks in a storm as they raced for Palace Hill. Geta screamed with rage when Acacius told him of your demise, knowing exactly who was behind it. What a fool he was for leaving you unattended. Caracalla must have found out, and maybe he himself was too blind by Cupid’s lust to notice the changes within his own kingdom.

Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes as he imagined the perils of danger you were now in— because of him.

His reins slapped sharply against the muscled backside of his horse as he pumped every ounce of strength from the mare to get home- to get back to you.

Whatever Caracalla had done, heads would fucking roll once he got back. That was a promise.

—

How many days had it been? Four? A week? The dark had made you lose count.

At times you weren’t sure if your eyes were open or closed, the pitch black was endless, curling around you like smoke and suffocating any happiness you had tried to muster.

The dungeon was crawling with vermin, caked with disease and body fluids from decades before you had been tossed in here like a rabies riddled dog. Food had stopped coming, water was scarce except for the trickle of fresh springs that siddled down the stone wall. At least you told yourself it was a fresh spring that you were consuming, but more than likely it was tainted water that kept you alive.

You prayed to the Gods that Geta would come for you. That he wasn’t head first into a war that he agreed to when you pushed him away. You were so stupid for doing so, but you couldn’t help the racking sobs when you pictured how hurt he was… and crying harder yet when realizing, that was the last time.

Days had passed and you could feel your mind slipping from you. Exhaustion, dehydration settling in had you hallucinating images of the Emperor. It was almost comforting the way your mind was protecting itself, throwing you into an alternate reality of laying in his lavish bed instead of the hard shit-soaked stones.

You could feel his blunt nails tickling your sides, but in truth it was beetles gnawing on your bare skin. Geta kept you warm and safe in your head, even though it was apparent from the lack of food, proper sunlight, and clean water—that you were falling ill.

—

It hadn’t been that long since Geta had left, but approaching the Hill had his skin crawling. Dismounting his mare, everything seemed odd.

It was unusually quiet. The air felt sharp against his skin. Smelled of pungent rot, souring his nose. The wind seemed to howl a song he hadn’t recognized— the sickly tune of a kingdom at war with itself.

His father had trained them both on how to rule with force, how to command an army, to hold rank and battle to the blood flowing end—their enemies head on a stake.

Caracalla by himself was juvenile when it came to war tactics, knowing the basics of stationing men on watch, high in the walls on the terraces. Two men for each direction, pointing their noses North, East, South and West. A handful of guards on the entrance.

If this was a war with any other enemy— Geta would have spent a full sun tracking their movements meticulously. But never had his enemies captured something so dear to him.

Acacius landed from his own horse beside Geta’s kneeled form, knowing his thoughts before he could even act on them.

“It’s unwise, my lord…” he said carefully, placing a weathered hand on Geta’s shoulder, “we cannot risk the element of surprise when our emotions are clouding our judgment.”

Geta’s eyes twitched as he stared ahead at the palace, his mind traveling to where you were being kept, knowing in his heart it was in the deepest part of the palace, the south dungeon.

He breathed raggedly through his nose before he spoke between gritted teeth, “I will paint all of Rome with their innards for what they’ve done, and I will not stop until their bodies are drained of all their blood.”

Acacius shook is head in worry, clearing his throat, “you’re mind is unclear, you should rest before—”

Adrenaline raced through Geta’s veins as he mounted his mare, “I’m going, with or without your help. What good am I to her waiting for calculated time?”

Acacius threaded a hand through his salty peppered hair, eyeing his emperor— his friend. His voice was riddled with pain when he spoke, “what good are you to her if you’re dead?”

Geta pondered this, but his reply was simple, and he said the most truthful thing that has ever passed his lips, “I’ll be the man she makes me want to be.”

—

“Up! Get up!”

Caracalla had figured once Geta found out that his precious whore was locked away and starved that he would be on his way to come and rescue you. He waited day and night for his brother’s return. And finally— there was a spec in the distance. His brother returning in all his glory.

He skipped down to the dungeon— literally skipping and hopping on one foot in glee as he came down to the depths of the palace to retrieve you for the final act.

A hand clasped harshly in your hair, yanking you from a deep sleep, followed by a taunting giggle.

You had grown weak in your time secluded from light and clean air. Unable to stand on your own properly, Caracalla brought you to your feet like you were a doll, the flame he held showed just how manic and possessed he had become.

He was like a poisoned animal practically foaming from the mouth with insanity. Biting his lip constantly, chewing and gnawing, infesting it with sores. He wore his best robes, bangles jingling as he brought you closer to his face.

Jumping back, he lets your body slump against the bars, a hand to his chest, “Yuck— you smell like horeshit! Maybe we should have fed you more, bathed you… I’ve never been very good with keeping pets…”

Caracalla rubs his chin for a moment, then as if he is brought back from a different time, he claps twice, “oh well, time to go, your precious Geta is here and it’s time to play!”

You try to fight back feebly, trying to shove his face away from you, your filthy fingernails clutching at his doughy powder coated flesh.

“C’mon!” he pleads like a child, pushing your hands down and bringing a blade to your neck, “you’re going to be the star of the production and you simply can’t miss the show!”

When sunlight hit your skin it was like you were being burned alive. Your feet scuffed against the stone steps, and you were winded from the climb. Everything was so bright as if you were looking directly into the suns beams.

Caracalla hissed into your ear, the pungent smell of fruit and fish combining into a stomach twisting aroma as he whispered, “you’ve been such a delight to us here, I will be so upset to see you dead… I’ve been practicing my tears and cries of mourning for when you’re laid to rest with my brother.”

“You won’t be triumphant against him,” you croaked trying to wiggle free from his hold.

Caracalla giggled before winding back and slapping your cheek, “why do you have to speak such lies? You will die by his hand— squashed like the gnat you’ve become.”

—

The palace walls roared.

Thundered like a storm of bees defending their hive. Clashes of swords and weapons gleamed like lightning against a dark sky. Amongst the clouds of dust from the lack of harvest rain, blood splattered the stones like oil paint to a canvas.

Geta’s revengeful carnage had begun.

Carnage was colored with maroon and deep sets of rubies in a hilt. Specs of pinkish brain membrane laid out like flower petals at a wedding.

Carnage was the sound of teeth chipping at the root being ripped away from the gum line, the sheath of a knife embedded into a lung, an abdomen, the muscular thigh of one of Caracalla’s more prominent men.

Carnage reeked of shit and death. The humble hands of Pluto himself, stretching his claws to welcome home another victim.

Carnage was Geta, annihilating anyone who stood in his way to get to you. A force built with bared teeth and rippling muscles, sweat dripping from his honey hair. Eyes as black as coal— soulless in every sense of the word.

The men falling dead by his hands trembled in cowardice when they saw him coming, forgetting how powerful he was with a sword.

Swords drew silent, the only sound being the pooling fountains now tainted with blood from the dead. Everyone in the palace was either lying deceased or were in hiding, waiting for this hell to end. But Geta had only just begun.

“Brother!” he shouted, his voice echoing against the marble stone, deep and ragged with exertion. He was standing at his throne then, bodies laying at a heap by his feet, his body covered in their blood, “I know you’re around, Caracalla—answer me!”

Beyond the pillars behind the tapestries, Caracalla stood with a knife pressed into the meat of your neck, his breath hot against your cheek— a giggle forming in his throat like a child tucked away during a game of hide n seek.

“It’s a shame, Geta,” he announced, his voice ricocheting off the walls, “a fucking shame that you are so soft for this common whore when you’ve had so many, father would be disappointed.”

Geta’s eyes narrowed, listening for any bit of noise underneath Caracalla’s feet to give him away. He moved on nimble feet, each move more quiet than the next as he waited with trained ears for Caracalla to speak again.

“What is between you and I, has nothing to do with her— she is merely caught in the middle of our feud— let, her go.”

Caracalla’s laugh pierced your ear, ringing loudly like a hyena as spit flew from his manic mouth. “She is much more than a simple bystander dear Geta… otherwise you wouldn’t care so proudly.”

Geta strode towards the direction of his brother’s voice, waiting in the shadows. “You have always been less, why do you think mother and father had me? I was to make up for your shortcomings, so that Septimius Severus would have a decent heir. One who could actually keep the family name in Rome.”

“Enough!” Caracalla screamed, shoving you forward into the clearing, his blade still pressed into your neck, a line of crimson dripping from it, his frantic panicked laugh bubbling behind a shriek, “there will be no heirs for you, brother! I was going to offer her life in place of your crown, let you both be on your merry little way but you just don’t get it do you? I will rule on my own, and you will both be left to rot in the dungeons. Poetic isn’t it?! Two lovers dead by my hand.”

With the way your head was arched toward the ceiling, you couldn’t see Geta. You could only hear a hitch in his throat at the sight of you. The sodden robes you wore, the filth caked to your skin.

Geta didn’t move, knowing that Caracalla would be more likely to accidentally cut you deep enough to kill you if he tried to do anything drastic. But the look of you made his stomach curdle like cows milk left in the summer heat.

The once plump and luscious curves you had were gone. The robes you wore were next to rags. You had been locked away far longer than he had imagined. Possibly weeks before he had even got word of it. If you truly had been with child, there was no tell of it now. Tears stung behind his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them drop.

“Mother should have drowned you in the river like a litter of pups,” he nearly whispered, eyes trained on his brother, “release her or I will slaughter more of your men leaving their poor wives to be widowed.”

“Now why would I do such a thing? I’m having the time of my life orchestrating this production.” They both moved then circling like the gladiators would in the coliseum, baiting one another to strike first.

Geta’s eyebrows furrowed at Caracalla’s choice of words… production?

“Must you be so dense? So surface leveled?” Caracalla answered, “Jessaphina, that wart—terrible actress but she did the job, made this concubine believe every word.” Caracalla grinned like a opossum eating a pile of shit, dragging you with him, your hair wrapped tight in his clutch.

Geta’s eyes never leave Caracalla, his movements smooth and languid as he counts his steps, seconds.

“Pliteus, the guard who told her to meet you at ‘your spot’ another spy, made actor by yours truly, for the Theatre, of course. And all that leaves is you, Geta. You will be the widower, the brute left in tears of sorrow pleading for a whore’s life. Gods!— I shall be famous when this is through!”

“You’re demented,” you managed against the sharp blade, cutting yourself in the process, “sickenly so.”

Caracalla wretched his hand twisting your head back with a snap, causing you to yelp, ”I’m an artist you rancid cow! Can’t you see that?! This was all a form of expression— your uneducated brain would never be able to appreciate such a thing— it’s why I put this all into motion!”

“So what?” Geta spit, “you were bored? Needed an activity to keep your cogs oiled enough for you to not slit your wrists in the baleneum, again? You’re a child!”

Caracalla giggled wickedly mad, “People will write about me for the end of time and how I bested Publius Septimius Geta! You will be nothing more than a myth—erased from memory entirely!”

Geta stopped, his sword pointing toward his brother. The wind didn’t howl, silence fell between them.

“It will be a true honor to breed my empress in a bed of your blood while she wears her crown.”

With a jerk of his head, Acacius moves, causing the distraction they had planned. The arrow missing Caracalla’s foot purposefully, causing him to lose his balance and hold on your body. You fell to the ground taking advantage of his blundered state, crawling on all fours away from him.

Just as the swing of Geta’s blade was centimeters from the skin of Caracalla’s neck, it was stopped with his knife, a crude smile licked onto his lips. “I know your moves dearest brother, you forget it was you and I as children playing these games.”

Caracalla pushes the sword from him and jabs the tip of the knife into Geta’s bicep. Tearing through tendons and muscles with each twist of his hand.

“War is not a game,“ Geta gritted, tripping Caracalla with a swipe of his foot until he was on his knees before him, “…and it’s time you realize that.”

A toss of Acacius sword into Geta’s open hand, and he pressed two blades crossed beneath Caracalla’s chin.

Caracalla’s throat bobbed against the sharp steel, accepting his defeat, “make it swift precious brother, I intend to see father before the sun sleeps.”

The blades sung as they severed his head from his spine. Blood sprayed and pooled from the limp teetering body of Caracalla, swords clattered to the ground as Geta stumbled to your side, holding you to him in a bone crushing grasp.

“You’re safe now.” A tear fell onto your head as he cradled your body into his.

Your body was still weak as you clung to him practically lifeless as he lifted you from the ground. He instructed Acacius on what to do with the mess. Geta carried you to his private bath, stripped you gingerly of your clothes and bathed you with exceptional care. His lips kissing tenderly to every scrape, every bruise.

He tutted through his teeth and hissed when your tears fell as he gently wiped the dirt and infection from your cuts. His own tears flowing down his cheeks, mumbling how sorry he is how stupid he was for ever leaving.

When you tried to speak he shushed you quietly, “not now my dulcis rosa,” he soothed as he scrubbed soap into your hair, you lifted a hand to caress his cheek, coaxing a small smile from him.

Geta called to his servants— that weren’t killed—to gather fresh robes and to fix you something warm and easy to eat.

He dried your skin once you were cleansed. Rubbing oils and ointments into each ache and pain, dressing the wounds in such expertise you wondered if he had done this often, probably to his own scars.

Up those winding stairs he carried you to his quarters, never wavering, never once adjusting you in his strong arms.

The room was thrown into its usual cozy dark ambience. His bed was made with enormous feathered pillows, a tray next to the bed with a plate of porridge dressed with honey and figs.

Once Geta had set you gently onto the pillows propping you up so you could eat, he shook his head when you reached for the spoon.

“Let me,” he commanded quietly, his eyes large and wet.

More tears slipped past your lashes as he sniffed largely, blowing gently on the bite of food. “When was your last meal?”

“I’m not sure of what day we are in,” you answered quietly, “or how long I was there… I lost track.”

Geta bit back a sob as he brought the spoon to your lips, “It shouldn’t have happened, I shouldn’t have left you so vulnerable.”

“Please,” you practically begged, swallowing the warm sweetened wheat. He looked broken, his under eyes dark and his eyelid twitching uncontrollably. Weeks the two of you had been separated and you couldn’t bear the thought of him spiraling for what had happened.

“We are together again,” you whispered, “I do not want to live in past mistakes. Caracalla is gone now, we must move forward, no dwelling.”

“Forgiveness of thyself has never come easily for me,” Geta admitted wiping a dreadful sigh from his face, “but I can only hope you now know that there has never been another for me—I am so deeply in love with you, gnat.”

You reached for him pulling him into you until the weight of his body melted with yours. Feverish lips tasted the sweat from his neck as you desperately ached for more of it, pressing your own devotions into his skin, your own words of cupid's love.

Geta’s strong arms wrapped around your back, holding you tenderly as if you were glass. pressing a single searing kiss to your collarbone before leaning back, his eyes staring into yours, “In this lifetime and the one that follows, I will forever be yours— ad caelum vel ad inferos, tecum sum.”

“Ad caelum vel ad inferos.”

—

Caracalla’s room was sealed off. His belongings burned in the coliseum along with his body, as if he were a monster that could only be considered dead by smoldering licks of flame.

Geta left the fate of the others up to you. He had wanted them dead the next day, hung from a rope by their necks as they swung with the breeze, paraded around behind his team of horses until they’re skin was pulled from their bones. But you… had other plans.

Animals from other territories were brought in by the shipload, each more vile and vicious as the next. They were hungry, trained to attack at the smell of garments worn by a certain woman with a healing broken nose.

It was maybe a bit too grotesque, maybe a bit unhinged the way you had Acacius’s best men tie Jessaphina up from her ankles and wrists one to each post in the center of the coliseum.

And maybe it was a bit over-the-top when you personally rubbed greasy fat and cow entrails all over her body to taunt the beasts on even further.

But Geta only smirked at your own impressive drive for bloodlust when you stood before your throne hollering for the men to open the gates, releasing the hungry scavengers one by one letting them sniff out their meal.

Geta watched in admiration as your eyes turned dark, black pools taking over your pretty gaze as Jesspahina’s screams rang through the air

You couldn’t get your hands off of him when her body lay ripped to shreds, her bones being tossed around between snarling teeth and sharp black claws. The sand colored in her crimsoned blood. You pulled him from his own throne by the front of his shirt, yanking him into a small private room covered by a drapery for a door.

“My little demonic empress,” Geta growled as he pushed himself further into you, groaning when you whimpered out, your lip bit between your teeth, robes rucked up to your chest, “you just might be more evil than I am, have my ways rubbed off on you?”

The passion between you two had never dulled. Each day it seemed to grow with fervorous desire. Some days Geta fucked into you until you were too sore to walk. Your bodies were both painted with stains from sucking mouths and marks from gnashing teeth. Each time better than the last.

You were soaked when Geta knelt before you, his nose pressed into your sex as you circled your hips onto it. He stood and shoved his clothing out of the way, yours already stuffed beneath your chin. and when he slammed his fat cock into you the darkness returned. Two demons fucking at the loss of life and smell of blood in the air.

“Practically getting off to a hideous murder in front of my mother and the others, my my…” he hissed, wrapping a hand around your throat squeezing until your breath rattled beneath his palm, “you truly were sent to me from the Gods weren’t you?”

You nodded, moaning when he attached his lips to your neck, pinching your nipple until it purpled. “Nothing makes me happier than seeing the deserved slaughtered.”

Geta groaned as your clenching pussy gripped him as you came undone, his own release following closely behind, yelling out your name.

“I have a surprise for you,” he breathed raggedly into your neck, adjusting your robes back into place, sweat pouring from his brow.

Your smile squeaked against his ear, “it is not even my birth date, Geta, you are spoiling me.”

Leaving the room Geta kisses your palm, “no,” he agrees, “it is not, but am I not allowed to gift my wife with divine luxuries?”

“You are, but you don’t need to give me anything…” you say, holding your belly with which the healer confirmed that you were indeed with child all along. Something Geta never let you forget that he knew you better than you knew yourself.

His lips pressed to your cheek, his hand laying delicately on your stomach as you whispered, “you’ve given me enough as it is.”

He smiled wickedly pulling back to lace your fingers with his own, “come,” he commanded, pulling you back towards the palace.

—

The great stone table stood bare except for a golden cloth. Acacius proudly stood guard next to it, bowing upon the sight of you.

“My lady,” he greeted, smiling at the sight of your radiant face, then facing Geta with the same warm smile, “Emperor.”

“Thank you,” Geta said, rubbing his hands together excitedly, “hope you didn’t have any trouble getting it?”

Acacius smirked and adjusted his sword on his belt, “not at all, they were quite thrilled to be rid of it.”

Geta rippled out a laugh from his throat as he stood behind the table, his large hands pressed into it, “I can only imagine… Gnat, my love, are you ready?”

“As I will ever be,” you said cautiously, stepping up to the table.

Acacius stood back as Geta pinched a piece of the cloth between his fingers, “presented to you, my undying devotion,” he said sweetly before pulling the cloth revealing your present.

Anyone else would have ran and screamed, damning him to hell. But you were unlike everyone else, and you saw the beauty in his gift and the meaning behind it.

Blood had been drained, the smell minimal, and judging by the way the darkness that filled Geta to the brim and now poured into yourself was clouding your eyes, the mad tick of your lips as they perked up in greed: you were pleased.

“It is exquisite, amor meus,” you smiled wider, getting closer to your present.

Geta looked at you proudly, his eyes inky and shining. His gnat, his dulcis, his wife, his empress— his tainted heart content for the first time in his life, and it was all thanks to you. “Where shall we put it, the mantle?”

You picked it up, holding it high to the sky for the Gods to see, “a gift more precious than gold deserves to be seen, for all—don’t you think?”

Sat on a pedestal, his name engraved on a piece of wood, a large red rose sewn between his lips, was the severed head of Caracalla.

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@rxqueenotd

#emperor geta #joseph quinn #gladiator 2 #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta smut

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bonefall · 2 months ago

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Hi there! I know you've made posts about warriors who have lost their sight and hearing, but would you have any ideas of how losing their sense of smell could affect a cat? I have to imagine it'd be a pretty big deal for a hunter or medicine cat

You know, you'd think it would primarily affect "tracking" skills, since as humans we tend to think of following scent trails and hunting down wild game, but the truth might shock you a little;

The first thing the other cats would notice is that the warrior is getting lost a lot.

When it comes to scents, the most important use that cats have for their sense of smell is navigating their territory. Through scent, they can tell the direction towards camp, exactly where they are in a territory, and if they're getting close to a border.

Most media (including WC itself) tends to depict scent like a floating, colorful "trail." A direct line leading you to the target, like this;

But this is actually not very accurate. You'd have to be dealing with a VERY stinky animal for this to be the case, like boar or elk.

Scent acts more like this;

It "collects" on solid objects the animal brushes past or intentionally marks, sometimes including the ground if they've lingered there. Newer brushes on the object have more of the scent particles present just as a matter of not having enough time for the odor to disperse. Think of it sort of like liquid; a "stale" scent is like an object that was soaked now simply being damp.

A warrior's "scent marking" is like a big stink bomb. It will make the entire area smell. Anyone who has been unfortunate enough to have an intact cat spray their house knows that it's not a dainty little spritz. It's STINKY.

To a cat though, the marks that are placed down by individuals and patrols give the entire area a sort of comforting "aroma." Because of the smell, they can perceive their home territory as if it's a map.

"Hub" areas have a stronger smell than "limnal" zones, and camp has its own unique scent. Just by combining these two things, you will always know EXACTLY where you are and how to find your way back to safety.

(Note; this is a major reason why I assert that blindness should be one of the least debilitating sensory disabilities for a warrior to have. Cats have a built in scratch-n-sniff RPG map.)

I mentioned in passing, earlier, that this is comforting. That's the second thing that would probably start to affect a warrior losing their sense of smell; it would be very common for them to start developing anxiety.

It's VERY unsettling for a cat to be in an unfamiliar place, and this is usually because nothing smells right! Providing the right pheromones is actually a way to treat anxiety, and this is the reason why you can often find a lost cat by putting one of their blankets outside. Pride aside, an elder might request more escorts outside of the camp simply as a matter of comfort once their nose isn't working so good.

For tracking itself, though-- in comparison to their Clanmates, hunters with a bad sense of smell would be bad at finding prey. Being a solitary hunter would become unfeasible.

The simple solution is that they shouldn't hunt alone. Just having one good tracker in the team to bring the party to big game could work fine. In WindClan in particular, they'd get put on lagomorph hunts very often (since 2 average-sized rabbits feeds a Clan for a day, let alone a hare).

For a Cleric, it would force them towards retirement.

Tracking down herbs is one thing; they could still be good at knowing where things grow, even with the added risk of getting lost. More importantly, MOST of a cat's health information is discerned through smelling their scent-- through their glands, their breath, and most importantly their scent marks. A Cleric who can't smell would start making inaccurate diagnoses.

And all of this doesn't even factor in how much communication is done through scent. When a cat bumps you with their head, "kisses" you with their teeth, or runs their side along you, that's them putting a mark on you. It's saying, "I want you to smell like me and I want to smell like you, because we're part of the same group!"

The important thing about that is that it is happening a dozen times a day with different Clanmates.

Rosetail demonstrates the point with some gossip: "Did you notice that Snowfur smells a lot less like Bluefur, lately? Yeah, she totally reeks like Thistleclaw. Since you smell like Thrushpelt, I feel comfortable sharing this with you; I don't think they're a good match at all... don't tell him I said that, though, even though he's my brother he would get really mad if he found out I thought that."

A warrior who can't scent will feel VERY socially isolated. There's an entire social network behind who you're marking, and being marked by.

In summary;

Scent has a massive role in navigation, for cats.

Cats who can't smell are at risk of getting lost easier.

Try not to think of scent like a "floating trail," but more like a series of odor marks on the objects the target has brushed up against.

Scent marks are STINKY, they make a whole area reek.

However, that's comforting to cats. Not being able to smell this has negative impacts on mental health.

It's the "tracking" part of prey and herb hunting that would become difficult.

Clerics who can't smell are liable to start making bad judgements.

Scent marking is part of the social fabric, and there is an important aspect to Clan dynamics that a cat who can't smell would lose out on.

#clan culture #scent #I actually have an even more massive guide on scent in the works with Clanmew terms for certain non-human concepts #Like how the jacobson's organ works #That one is held up because it actually needs technical drawings #Which are beyond my skill level #cw urine

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exhaslo · 1 year ago

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Puzzle Pieces (Mafia!Miguel x Shy!Reader)

Part 1 of who knows how many parts :)

Warning: Eventual Smut so Minors DNI, mentions of abuse, blood, murder, language, fluff, bullying, mentions of sex

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The heavy sound of rain flood the streets of Nueva York. The dim street lights felt faded as the mist blocked their glow. Despite the downpour that washed the streets, the stench of blood still lingered. A foul odor that could never truly be cleaned from this city.

Nueva York was riddled with crime. Each part of the city was owned and govern by their own mafia. Drugs, alcohol and fights were always a topic and always a cause to stay indoors. Only the smart stayed away from the mafia. They were the ones to survive this city unscathed. They were the ones to avoid trouble.

You had just moved into the city, unaware of its true face, nor did you really have a choice. You were desperate to get away from your old life. Despite for a fresh start. So much so, that you landed in one of the worst parts of the city. The place you rented was small, but it was enough to keep you hidden.

A soft whimper escaped your lips as you near cried at the sight of a roach. Tears threaten to spill as you sprayed the roach spray against the foul creature for dear life. You had just moved into the place. You were warned by your friends and family of the filth of the city, but they didn't know anything. They didn't know the pain you were in.

"Ew, ew!" You whined as you grabbed the broom, throwing the roach away.

Once you were freed from that horrid task, you continued to clean and unpack. You double checked everything for roaches and mice, wanting to sleep soundly for once. You shuddered at the thought as you pulled out old photographs of your high school days. Within those pictures was the cause of your depature.

Your ex.

You had fled your hometown due to your abusive ex-boyfriend, Eddie Brock. The man was so kind to you at first, treating you well until you officially started dating. Your college life was cut short due to his beatings and yelling. You were always at fault. You could never be good enough for him. You were always the problem.

The thought made you sob. You moved to this city on a whim thanks to your small job. You just wanted to stop living in that hell. Everyone loved your ex. They never truly saw what he was. They never even asked how you were.

"I-I need to s-stop crying." You whispered to yourself as you looked out the window, "I-I have work tomorrow. I...I need to be ready."

-----------

Meanwhile, a few blocks over, Miguel was sitting before his large patio, watching the rain. He held a glass of vodka in his hand, watching the lightening brighten the sky more than the city lights itself. He inhaled to the loud roar of thunder before being interrupted by a knock at his door.

"Que? (What)" He hissed lowly. Lyla smiled as she walked over with a folder, placing them on his desk,

"Just something for the morning." She chirped and approached the door, "There's another one waiting outside. Shall I send her in?"

"Ha, and get some fake praises. She can only come in if she wants a quick fuck. I won't deal with gold diggers." Miguel grumbled.

Lyla just hummed in response before shutting the door. Miguel could only groan in annoyance as he placed his glass down. His night would have been better off alone. Closing the blinds to his patio, Miguel approached his desk to the file. It was going to be another long day tomorrow.

---------

There was a scurry to your step as you tried to please your new boss. It was your first day working in the chain supermarket, and you were stressed. This version of your old job was far busier, louder and ruder than what you were used to. You were a shy and quiet person, so having so many people yell and pull you around was breaking you.

"(Y/N)! Deli needs a hand, you ever did that?" One of your coworkers asked. You flinched at the sudden yell,

"I-I have helped packaged an-"

"Good enough, go help and put a kick in it!"

You just agreed and hurried to the deli. You grabbed a hair net and gasped lowly at your fellow coworkers there. They were all so tall and mean looking. You were like a deer in headlights the moment they saw you enter their kitchen. You just bowed your head slightly and quietly made your way to the meat wrapping station.

"Why'd they put her here? She don't know anything yet," One of the taller men whispered. You're ears perked up since whispers weren't exactly in their volcabulary,

"She's a scaredy cat. Ain't nothing comin' outta her mouth. Same like the rest of us,"

You wanted to ask them what they were talking about, but you were too scared to find out. That, and you learned the harsh lesson of minding your own business. Dear ol' Eddie gave you that cruel lesson. Shaking your head at the thought, you didn't want to be known as the employee who cried on their first day.

"Hey, new kid," One of your coworkers called out, approaching you, "Yer new here, so let me warn you. We got three freezers in the deli. One is full of the fresh meat we get. Leave that to us big guys. You can enter the second freezer with the small cuts for the customers. The third freezer, you never enter. Don't ask questions about it. Don't peak into it. Just pretend it never exists. Oh, and don't make eye contact with those who enter it."

"Okay,"

Hell fucking no. You were going to stay far away from dear freezer number three. That was a lot more information than you even wanted to hear. Hell, you weren't a fan of entering freezer number two. Once your coworkers were reassured by your understanding, they returned to work.

Your hands trembled over your station as you tried to focus on your job with the seven men yelling around you. This was your sad new life. You had to get used to this. You were either going to make it in the city or die trying.

--------

Miguel lazily glanced out his window seat, spotting the upcoming supermarket. There was a rumble in his throat as he leaned back in his seat. His men tailing behind him in different cars. Miguel told his driver to stop, wanting to walk the rest of the way while his men parked around back.

"Peter, take our guest into the freezer. I'm going to make a pit stop at the deli," Miguel said over the phone.

"Miguel, we talked about this. You're the boss, let us handle the work." Peter tried reasoning over the phone.

Miguel wasn't even paying attention. He hung up and proceeded to enter the supermarket. His presence alone made the managers cower and the workers silent. Of course, none of the regular customers knew anything. None of them suspected that he, Miguel O'Hara, CEO of Alchemax, was the leader of the Spider Mafia. One of the biggest and ruthless mafia in town.

"The usual?" One of the deli men questioned. Miguel glanced over his shoulder, noticing you shaking like a leaf while avoiding your coworkers,

"And they say I'm cruel. New hire?"

"Transfer from out of town," The man replied.

Miguel raised a brow towards you. You were pale in the face as you apologized for getting in people's way. Miguel couldn't help but snort. It was cute. Something he was not used too. Returning his attention to the deli worker, Miguel could only smirk as he watched his men drag their guest into freezer number three.

"The bird needs to be plucked." Was all Miguel said for the man to understand.

-------

You whimpered softly as you moved away from everyone's path. It had gotten far too busy for your liking. Once you caught a break, you noticed the deli supervisor talking to a handsome man. You tilted your head, stealing a glance. The man was tall and gorgeous. He wore a slick all black suit. Something very fancy for this part of town.

The man took notice of you and smiled. Your cheeks immediately started to heat up as you quickly returned to your job. As you did, you noticed some men enter the third freezer. You paled instantly. It was your first day! Biting you lower lip, you tried to focus on your work. Right as you did, you noticed the handsome man from earlier walk by you and towards the freezer,

"Keep up the good work, conejita (bunny)." He whispered.

You felt your heart race as the door shut. His voice was so deep and low. If only he hadn't entered the freezer. Perhaps, you would have gotten to know him as a regular.

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Next Chapter!

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel spiderman #atsv miguel #across the spiderverse

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cintailed · 4 days ago

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Tumblr loves the Orpheus myth, but I’ve never seen anyone post one of my favorite poems on the subject.

Orpheus, Eurydice, Hermes

By Rainer Maria Rilke

Translated by Stephen Mitchell

That was the deep uncanny mine of souls.

Like veins of silver ore, they silently

moved through its massive darkness. Blood welled up

among the roots, on its way to the world of men,

and in the dark it looked as hard as stone.

Nothing else was red.

There were cliffs there,

and forests made of mist. There were bridges

spanning the void, and that great gray blind lake

which hung above its distant bottom

like the sky on a rainy day above a landscape.

And through the gentle, unresisting meadows

one pale path unrolled like a strip of cotton.

Down this path they were coming.

In front, the slender man in the blue cloak —

mute, impatient, looking straight ahead.

In large, greedy, unchewed bites his walk

devoured the path; his hands hung at his sides,

tight and heavy, out of the failing folds,

no longer conscious of the delicate lyre

which had grown into his left arm, like a slip

of roses grafted onto an olive tree.

His senses felt as though they were split in two:

his sight would race ahead of him like a dog,

stop, come back, then rushing off again

would stand, impatient, at the path’s next turn, —

but his hearing, like an odor, stayed behind.

Sometimes it seemed to him as though it reached

back to the footsteps of those other two

who were to follow him, up the long path home.

But then, once more, it was just his own steps’ echo,

or the wind inside his cloak, that made the sound.

He said to himself, they had to be behind him;

said it aloud and heard it fade away.

They had to be behind him, but their steps

were ominously soft. If only he could

turn around, just once (but looking back

would ruin this entire work, so near

completion), then he could not fail to see them,

those other two, who followed him so softly:

The god of speed and distant messages,

a traveler’s hood above his shining eyes,

his slender staff held out in front of him,

and little wings fluttering at his ankles;

and on his left arm, barely touching it: she.

A woman so loved that from one lyre there came

more lament than from all lamenting women;

that a whole world of lament arose, in which

all nature reappeared: forest and valley,

road and village, field and stream and animal;

and that around this lament-world, even as

around the other earth, a sun revolved

and a silent star-filled heaven, a lament-

heaven, with its own, disfigured stars —:

So greatly was she loved.

But now she walked beside the graceful god,

her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,

uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.

She was deep within herself, like a woman heavy

with child, and did not see the man in front

or the path ascending steeply into life.

Deep within herself. Being dead

filled her beyond fulfillment. Like a fruit

suffused with its own mystery and sweetness,

she was filled with her vast death, which was so new,

she could not understand that it had happened.

She had come into a new virginity

and was untouchable; her sex had closed

like a young flower at nightfall, and her hands

had grown so unused to marriage that the god’s

infinitely gentle touch of guidance

hurt her, like an undesired kiss.

She was no longer that woman with blue eyes

who once had echoed through the poet’s songs,

no longer the wide couch’s scent and island,

and that man’s property no longer.

She was already loosened like long hair,

poured out like fallen rain,

shared like a limitless supply.

She was already root.

And when, abruptly,

the god put out his hand to stop her, saying,

with sorrow in his voice: He has turned around —,

she could not understand, and softly answered

Who?

Far away,

dark before the shining exit-gates,

someone or other stood, whose features were

unrecognizable. He stood and saw

how, on the strip of road among the meadows,

with a mournful look, the god of messages

silently turned to follow the small figure

already walking back along the path,

her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,

uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.

#poem #orpheus #eurydice #hermes #rilke #rainer maria rilke #tumblr really seems to love the tension of orpheus/eurydice #the inevitability of looking back #(cocteau’s infernal machine sorta stuff)#and i understand the appeal #but this version of the story speaks to me more deeply

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innerfare · 5 months ago

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Random Shanks Headcanons

Summary: A random collection of Shanks headcanons

CW: None // SFW

———

Has a fake arm that he uses for gags. Only he and Yasopp find it funny. Beckman once tossed the arm overboard after Shanks ‘lost’ the arm in a pot of Lucky Roux’s stew, only for Shanks to enter the mess hall the next morning with another attached to his body.

Can do magic tricks, especially good with coins and cards. A very skilled sleight of hand artist. Also not above using these tricks to cheat while playing cards. (Inspired by the coin game w/ Luffy flashback). Cheating is the only way he can beat Beckman, who’s by far the best player on the crew. But he doesn’t even cheat to win, he just likes the thrill of getting away with it; also enjoys the thrill of getting caught. There was a rabbit loose aboard the Red Force for a solid month after the captain tried to learn how to pull it out of a hat.

The best beer pong player in the New World, probably the entire world. Would challenge all of his enemies to a game of beer pong to settle their disputes if he thought they would respect the results of the game. Good at drinking games in general (has a little too much experience).

Is an infamous gossip. If a member of the crew wants word to get out about something, they just mention it to their captain.

Enjoys playing matchmaker. Always acts as a wingman for his crew when there’s a pretty bar maid. The only one he never tried to fix up with one of his crew mates was his darling Makino.

Are soap operas a thing in the One Piece universe? Because if so, he has a favorite that he never misses an episode of (fights hardest on Thursdays so he can be home in time to catch the latest episode of Search for One Piece, a pirate drama based loosely on Roger’s life. He particularly enjoys the harlequin character).

Loves meddling in any drama that comes up aboard the ship. Sometimes even starts drama just for entertainment, like the time he told Lucky Roux that he saw Limejuice sneaking steaks from the freezer, or when he robbed Beckman blind and left traces of a turkey leg at the scene of the crime.

Thinks childish pranks are the funniest thing in the world. Pranks prospective crew members to see how they respond; screens them based on whether they find his jokes funny. Beckman insists this is not the best way to do things but Shanks persists. But Shanks isn't just being childish. He's making sure everyone who joins his crew has a good nature as that is, in his opinion, the most important thing. If you can't trust your crew, you're dead in the water.

Was definitely posing when the government snapped the photo for his wanted poster but pretends it was completely candid. Has a habit of comparing his wanted poster to the posters of his enemies.

He also uses his wanted poster to fish for compliments, especially from his crew. “That’s a pretty good picture, isn’t it?” “I don’t look half bad in that, do I?” “The real reason the marines are hunting me- the sight of my wanted poster makes their wives swoon.”

Refers to himself as, “that handsome devil.”

Smells like body odor and weed, but in a Matthew McConaughey kind of way (that is to say, it works for him).

Animals and babies always like him. He insists the trick is to act uninterested.

He is genuinely good-natured, but he definitely uses his sense of humor to disguise how terrifying he truly is. Is a pro at lulling people into a false sense of security. Definitely slouches on purpose to seem less intimidating.

Secretly paid off Luffy's "treasure tab" at Makino's bar. Didn't do it just to be kind to the poor kid but actually because he believed Luffy when he said he'd pay it back in full and did it to annoy Luffy a decade or two down the line. (When Luffy finally goes back to pay Makino and she informs him Shanks already did, Luffy blows a gasket.)

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

#one piece #shanks #red haired shanks #akagami no shanks #benn beckman #beckman #buggy the clown #buggy one piece #lime juice #lucky roux #yasopp #red hair pirates #red force #shanks headcanons #one piece headcanons

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bowdownperv · 2 years ago

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😩🙈Waking up horny for billy. You want to ride him and he mumbles agreeing but trying to go back to bed. You get under the covers and ride the hell out of him and he lets out the biggest moans into your neck, grab your hips and makes you grind harder into his huge cock.

Morning Wood [B.H]

Warnigs: 18+, sexual content

It was one of those mornings where you were awakened naturally by the gleams of yellow through your bedroom blinds. Yawning with an eye rub, you looked over at your boyfriend still sleeping. Highlights of sunshine making his warm skin glow. He looked ethereal. You noticed small things about him. Like how his chest lifted up and down with each one of his peaceful snores. And how his closed eyelids fluttered like butterflies flapping their wings. You also noticed big things about him. Such as his massive morning wood.

Billy took up a lot more of the bed than you. His muscular body sprawled out so invitingly. His thick legs spread, large arms and pecs bulging. He was the shape and embodiment of a man. You so desperately wanted to hop on top of him and milk his cock. Feel his hot cum shoot up into your pussy while you bounce up and down on his thighs letting his cock stretch you out.

“Billy?” you asked placing a hand on his breathing chest.

Nothing.

You nudged him again.

“Billy.”

Still, nothing.

You shook his body as hard as you could.

“Billy!”

You heard him groan and watched as his body squirmed.

“Mmm...whats wrong baby?” he mumbled eyes still closed.

“I’m horny,” you whispered shyly.

“Hmm...what?” he replied, still barely conscious.

“Fuck, Billy! Can I ride your cock?”

“Uh...yeah sure," he grumbled throwing his head back down tiredly on the pillow.

You dove your body under the white covers. It was a new world down there. The aroma of Billy’s masculine odor. The morning light muted and echoing throughout the material of the duvet fabric. And there it was. Billy’s cock. Standing straight up holding his briefs up like a tent. You were amazed by how hard and long it could be even when Billy was asleep and it had no use. You were ready to give him a reason for being so hard.

Underneath the covers you crawled your way to Billy’s cock and released it. Flinching as you yanked down his garments causing his cock to spring out and slap you in the face. Normally you’d play with it a while, give it a few good licks. Give him a sloppy blowjob. Suck his balls. But right now in this moment, your mind was so set on giving him the ride of his life.

After hastily tossing your panties off. You revealed your swollen little pussy already leaking out a couple drips despite him doing absolutely nothing. Static making you hair stick to the sheets above you as hovered your core over his manhood and assumed your position. With your hands on his pecs for support and your legs spread in both directions, you began lowering your body down.

Your tight pussy walls were squeezing onto his cock so tightly that you were slowly struggling to get all the way down. You felt everything. The mushroom shaped head of his cock being the hardest to get squeeze in due to its bigger size. The veins of his raging cock pushing against your pussy’s walls. Billy had a great cock, and he knew how to use it. Whether that was when he was grabbing your hips with his big hands and fucking your mercilessly doggy style, or after a date night when he would get on top of you and fuck you in missionary until you were both cumming together. But this time was different. You were on top. Dominating him.

There was no lube, no condom. Just pure raw sex.

Your mouth remained agape the whole time as you felt your ass finally cushion itself on his big balls. You were right there. Sitting on top of your sleeping boyfriend. With a giant cock standing inside of you.

There wasn’t any movement and you were already ready to cum. Just the feeling alone of his pulsing cock inside of you and your pussy walls fighting around it trying, but failing, to acustom to his massive size. Billy was a sex god, and you were his little devil.

You leaned forward to place your small hands on his hard chest. Keeping his cock well tucked into your folds. You looked at your boyfriend, sleeping so beautifully with eyes still closed. He looked completely unaffected meanwhile you were losing all your composure. You felt like your pussy was going to explode. You too, baby steps. Pushing down on his chest with your little hands as hard as you could. Feeling the tension of his mighty cock pulling downwards in your little pussy. You were whimpering from the feeling. Despite you being on top and in charge, his cock was still completely destroying you. You shook your ass a little trying to get your pussy loosened up as you shimmied yourself way down his cock.

Eventually, you began getting the hang of it.

Your pussy replaced and you were able to begin hopping up and down his length. You felt sexy. Your hands moving up your chest and grabbing your bouncing tits, then going up to your hair and running your hands through it as your ass was able to hop up and down keeping the momentum. There was a power in watching yourself dominate such a big and powerful man.

When Billy first woke up he thought he was having a sex dream. This was even better.

“Oh shit, baby,” he groaned. “You’re really taking my cock like that all on your own?”

"Mhmm," you moaned, tossing your hair over your shoulder.

Billy's hands lazily latched onto your hips. Not hard enough to take control of you, but just enough to appreciate his warm touch.

Billy's tired gaze on you was full of pure lust and excitement. You watched as his deep eyes locked onto your body like he was enchanted. How his head nodded up and down every time you bounced on his huge cock. He was under your spell. Hypnotized by your body.

Suddenly, he was sitting up and leaning into your body. His face falling into your neck as he took control of your hips, throwing them up and down with his strength. All you could do was gasp. Billy's large hands were squeezing the skin around your ass making it turn red. Holding onto your body so tightly as he commanded you on his cock. His baritone moans echoing throughout your throat.

Billy was a mess. His sloppy morning hair bouncing wildly as you felt him kiss and moan your name into the fragile skin on your throat. Giving you deep hickeys as his saliva dripped down your breasts. His hips working hard thrusting into your cunt while his hands roamed to your bouncing tits cupping and squeezing them.

It was as if each time his cock thrusted into you, it was hitting a button that sent you straight to Heaven. You could see stars. Your head was falling back with a whine as Billy's hips drove his cock deeper into your cunt than ever before. Your legs shaking, pussy swollen, and vision blurry. Your breasts and hips being manhandled by Billy as he occasionally delivered a hard slap to your ass every other bounce. His way of encouraging you as he continued pulling and thrusting you into his cock.

Finally, Billy pulled you all the way down on his cock and held you there; staring at you. You glared back at him with innocent doe eyes. That’s when you felt it. His cock twitching, and like a cannon, blasting his huge load of cum straight up into you. His warm semen swimming up your pussy. He kept his cock tucked inside you, forcing you to hold his cum.

The extreme fullness and stimulation immediately triggering your own orgasm. You were practically crying as your pussy drained itself, squirting all over your boyfriend huge cock and swelling from his impressive size. With his softening cock still tucked deep inside you, Billy wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his embrace. The mixture of your combined cum dripping onto the sheets as he pulled you down to lay on his chest. Your fingers danced throughout his hair while he cock-warmed you back to sleep. Hoping that when you woke up he'd be ready for round two.

#billy hargove x reader #billy hargrove smut #billy hargove imagine #smut

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shiorimakibawrites · 16 days ago

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The Plan (Happy Little Accident #2)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 3431 Summary: Matt has a plan Warning(s): Undescriptive sexual fantasy (f receiving oral sex, p in v intercourse), horny thoughts, sexual innuendo, flashback, clumsiness Happy Little Accident Masterlist Matt Murdock / Daredevil Masterlist General Masterlist Tag List: @loves0phelia, @sarahskywalker-amidala, @fanfiction-fanatic221, @nowheredreamer, @marshmelloyellow02, @milkbummm, @writtenbyred, @beezusvreeland, @dorothleah, @m1cky-y-y, @yarrystyleeza, @justvalkyrie A03 link

Part 2 - The Plan

“You’ll have to. I can’t.”

Matt ignored his partner’s groan on the other end of the line. He knew perfectly well that Foggy loved his blind jokes just as much as he loved Foggy’s puns. You did too. It was one of the things that he liked about you, that sense of humor.

“Left myself wide open for that one, didn’t I?” you said, ruefully but without rancor.

“Yep,” he said, grinning at you. “But yes, I’ll see you later.” That earned him a smile. “Bye, Matt.” “Bye, sweetheart,” he said.

If he had his way, this would be a short good-bye. He had a plan.

The plan had been underway for a while. Ever since Matt realized that he liked you more than a neighbor or a friend, he had been trying to signal that. Subtle flirting at first as he didn’t want to scare you off. You were rather shy after all. Well he thought he was being subtle. Karen and Foggy had told him that he had been anything but subtle about his interest.

Subtle enough for you it seemed. You had yet to realize that he was interested in you. The same could not be said for your roommate Serena. She had tried repeatedly to get you to see that Matt wasn’t flirting just to flirt. But you kept insisting that there was no way he could be interested in you that way. That he was way out of your league.

Nonsense. If anything, it was the other way around . . .

“Thurgood Marshall’s legal reasoning was full of logical fallacies!”

“What?!” Matt said, snapping back to the present.

“Knew that would get your attention, ya big nerd,” Foggy said. “Now, how long do I and Karen have to wait for you to put your pants back on and join me at the office?”

“I didn’t take off my pants.”

“Kinky.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “Nothing happened.”

“I’m sure.”

“Nothing happened,” Matt repeated. Not that your arousal perfuming the air hadn’t been the sweetest temptation. But he had some self-control. He could refrain from having his way with you on his kitchen counter. No matter how much his mouth watered at the thought of being buried between your thighs. Or his half-hard cock longed to be deep inside you, no more walls between him and those breathy moans of his name . . .

Foggy let out an exasperated sigh. “I thought you said you were asking her out today. Remember that guy at Josie’s?”

Matt scowled. “I remember.”

‘That guy’ hadn’t done anything wrong. Just found you attractive and flirting with you every chance he got. He had no right to be jealous. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even his lover. Just a friend and a neighbor. That didn’t stop the Devil inside him from snarling in fury. That you showed no attraction to that man and didn’t even notice his flirting only mildly appeased the beast.

Especially when you returned to the pool table with the stink of his pheromones maring your sweet scent.

The Devil only stopped rattling its chains when, during the walk home, you gratefully accepted the offer of his jacket. This covered that man’s scent with his own. Much better. Curiously your scent still held traces of his. Perhaps he had “forgotten” to ask for the jacket back and you kept using the jacket during the sudden cold snap this week.

Even if those traces had made it even harder to keep his hands to himself. Which was already a struggle. You felt so right in his arms and you smelled so good . . . the crisp apple of the beauty products you favored complemented well with your body’s natural odors . . . .

“Well?” Foggy demanded.

“I was working up to it.”

“I thought you were done being subtle.”

“I am,” Matt said. “But stripping down to my boxers felt a bit much before the first date.”

“Fair enough,” Foggy acknowledged with a laugh. “So what’s the plan, Counselor?”

“You know how we have that hearing in front of Justice Watanabe in an hour? Well . . .”

His good luck had continued. The hearing had gone well. For them at least. Not so much for opposing council. Justice Watanabe had ruled early enough for Matt to arrive at the Daily Grind at a little after ten. Almost an hour before closing time. Good, early enough that he wouldn’t be making a pest of himself. The rich aroma inside was a refreshing change from the streets.

“Hi! Welcome to - Matt!” You said, sounding surprised but happy. A good sign.

“Hello sweetheart,” he said, smiling and hearing your heart make that excited little skip. It happened often around him but he never got tired of hearing it. Same with the rush of blood flooding your cheeks every time he called you sweetheart. “Told you that you’d see me later.”

“So you did,” you said. He could hear the smile in your voice. “What can I get you?”

Yourself, naked, on the nearest flat surface was the answer the Devil wanted to give. But the lawyer was firmly in the driver seat right now so instead he answered, “A latte, please.”

“Gotcha,” you said. He heard the squeak-swish of the marker writing his name on a cup. “Just the drink? We still have one of those cinnamon rolls you like.”

That was surprising. In addition to its coffee, the cafe had become known for its cinnamon rolls. Usually they were sold out well before closing. Especially the ones with the apple topping that Matt was particularly fond of. But there it was, smelling like it had been baked within the last two hours. Upon that realization, his stomach decided to remind him that he hadn’t eaten any dinner yet. By growling loud enough to be heard over the soft music playing in the cafe. Matt felt the tips of his ears flush with blood.

You giggled. “Sounds like your stomach has voted for cinnamon rolls.”

“Apparently,” he said, ruefully. In fairness to his stomach, the food here was very good. Much of it was made in-house with high quality ingredients. The things the cafe didn’t make themselves were sourced from other small businesses with a similar commitment to producing a quality but reasonably priced product. “I’ll take the roll.”

“Coming right up,” you said. “Your usual table?”

“Yes, thank you,” Matt said, paying before moving toward what he considered to be ‘his’ table. It was tucked in the back corner, away from the large windows. This lack of view caused the table to be avoided by most patrons unless the cafe was packed. But that’s why Matt liked it. It was a shame that he hadn’t discovered this place sooner. It was a perfect study spot. Quiet without being too quiet with readily available caffeine and many foods that could be eaten with one hand.

And he might have met you sooner. He remembered you mentioning that you had worked here since college.

Not that he minded your first meeting. It was so memorable. You’d probably say that was a bad thing. He would disagree.

Matt had been aware of someone moving into 6B. Hard to miss the rumble of the old freight elevator, the chatter of unfamiliar voices. Two women about his age, old friends from the sound of things. A theory confirmed when he met one of his new neighbors, Serena the barista, in the elevator the next morning.

He fully expected to run into you in the elevator sooner or later.

He had no idea how right he was about that.

He was headed toward the elevator when you stepped out of it, struggling with an armload of groceries. He had been about to offer some help when it happened. Distracted by an escape attempt by an orange, you completely missed his presence. Right up until your face smacked into his chest.

You bounced back, dropping one of the bags and scattering its contents. You babbled out apologies while trying to get out of his way without dropping anything else. Never noticing that you were backing up right toward the stairwell. Not until you were teetering on the edge of the top step. And starting to fall.

Matt didn’t think. He just moved.

He made it in time. Barely but he made it. Holding you in his arms, he let out a sigh of relief. Safe. Frightened with your heart beating against your ribs like a trapped bird but alive and unharmed.

“T-thank you,” you said, your voice thin and shaken. “Mr . . .”

“Murdock. I’m Matt Murdock,” he said. “And there’s no need to thank me, sweetheart.”

“Umm . . . sorry about . . . bumping into you like that . . . I didn’t see you,” you said as Matt eased you back on your own feet. Your voice was hesitant but pleasant to listen to.

“I didn’t see you either,” he said and waited. It didn’t take long.

It wouldn’t be the last time he had saved you from a dangerous fall. Or even less dangerous falls. It was a little concerning how often you lost your footing. But he couldn’t deny that it had some benefits. Namely how often he got to hold you in his arms.

Never for long as he would like but catching you was one thing. Holding you without explicit permission was something else. But it was nice while it lasted. Your body felt so right against his. And those times your shirt had ridden up, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from rubbing his fingertips into your skin. It was soft as satin. It always took more willpower than was pretty to let you go during those moments. His hands itched to explore, find all the spots that made you shudder like that . . .

Matt shook his head, pushing away that thought. This was not the time or place to be thinking like that. He didn’t need to get an erection right now.

He focused his attention on you making the latte. There was something quite enjoyable about listening to you work. Your hands moved with practiced confidence, much like when you were sketching or painting. Humming along with the radio as you measured out the expresso while your coworker plated up his cinnamon roll. The song was a favorite of yours. He had heard you sing it before.

He enjoyed listening to you sing. And talk. What was that Shakesphere line that described your voice perfectly? ‘Her voice was ever soft / Gentle and low, an excellent thing in a woman? Yes, that was it. He had found it comforting on those days when he got overstimulated. He could just tuned into your humming, the beat of your heart, and drown out the painful world.

The grinder was far less pleasant than your singing voice, painful even at this distance. At least the results smelled good with all the rich complexity of good espresso beans. The powerful aroma only grew as you pulled the shot.

Though he found himself curious why pouring in the steamed milk had your heart making that little skip. Your coworker at the bar gave him no clues. Just made him even more curious by whispering “Dark and Beardy in the corner? That him? . . Damn girl! You weren’t kidding!”

“Lex!” you hissed, that delightful flush returning to your cheeks.

“What? That is one fine ass.”

“Lex!”

Matt had to cough to hide his laughter. So you liked his ass. He had suspected as much but it was nice to have confirmed. He managed to get his expression back under control before you reached the table. You were less successful at banishing that flush. Or keeping your heart from speeding up as you approached him.

“Apple cinnamon roll at your twelve o’clock, latte at one, fork is about an inch to the right of your plate,” you said, giving him the rundown that he didn’t, in the strictest sense of the word, need but did appreciate. Just because he could do something didn’t always mean that he wanted to.

And it wasn’t like you knew about his senses. Not yet anyway.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said for the sheer delight of deepening that flush. He couldn’t help it. You seemed to find your blushing embarrassing but he thought it was adorable. While it was tempting to ask you for that date now, Matt refrained. You’d be off work in just under an hour. He could wait.

In the meantime, he could enjoy his meal.

The roll was soft and bursting with flavor as usual. The tart apple was such a pleasing contrast to the sweetness of the sugar and spices. The coffee matched the richness of its aroma. The warmth was also welcome. It was April so the nights were warming up but some were still bitterly cold. Tonight wasn’t one of those nights but it was cool and windy. He hoped that you brought his jacket with you.

“Hey,” Lex said as you returned to the coffee bar, “Mind holding down the fort for a minute? I need to ask Abby something.”

“Go ahead, I’m good.”

“Thanks!”

Lex ducked into the kitchen while you tidied things up at the coffee bar. There were two people moving around back there, the owner Abby and a male employee who seem to be assisting her prepare tomorrow’s batch of baked goods. Matt tuned out their conversation in favor of listening to you softly sing along with the radio as you swept the floor.

The song had finished when Lex returned, making a beeline for you.

“Hey,” Lex greeted you. “You wanna head out early? Abby said it was okay.”

“Hmmm,” you hesitated, fidgeting with the ties on your apron. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Lex said before lowering her voice. “You could bring Dark and Beardy home, see if he wants to taste your cinnamon roll.”

Matt had to pretend to cough again. Her tone made it clear she wasn’t talking about baked goods. Judging by the sputtering and blushing, you picked up on that too. He had never heard it called that before. It was an apt comparison. Soft, warm, good to eat . . .

“Alexandra!” you hissed. He couldn’t help noticing the shift in your scent. The first hints of arousal . . . If nothing else, your body was interested in the idea of him eating you out.

“What?” she asked with faux innocence. “It’s important. Trust me, never date a guy who won’t eat your cinnamon roll.”

“Since when have you dated guys?”

“Hey! I went to college!”

This got you to laugh.

“So, you stayin’ or goin’?”

“I’m going,” you said. “Before I die of embarrassment.”

“Excellent. Gonna share a cab with Dark and Beardy?” Lex asked in a tone that from Foggy meant waggling eyebrows.

“Doesn’t matter if I do,” you said. “Matt has no interest in my cinnamon roll.”

That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart, Matt thought. I am very interested in your cinnamon roll.

He waited until you had gathered your things and said good-bye to your coworkers before standing and calling your name. Despite having already clocked out, you walked over to him.

“Yes, Matt?”

“Are you coming home, sweetheart?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know.

“I am.”

“Why don’t we share a cab?” He offered. “Since we are going to the same place?”

Your heartbeat spiked at the offer. Probably due to the conversation with Lex. Nevertheless you agreed. It didn’t take long to hail a cab and be on your way back to the Kitchen. The cabbie wasn’t the chatty type, seemingly content to allow you two to talk without interruption.

“How did the rest of your lawyering go?” you asked.

“Good,” he answered. “Judge granted our motion.”

“That’s wonderful!” you said. It wasn’t an empty platitude. You actually meant that. One of your most endearing qualities was your sincerity.

“The DA will probably appeal but we can handle that,” Matt said. “How was barista-ing?”

You giggled. “It was fine. Be glad you missed the afternoon rush.”

“Busy?”

“As a bee. Abby put strawberry shortcake on the menu today.”

“Thought I smelled strawberries.”

“Really? Even after they were all gone?” you asked, surprise clear in your voice.

Matt nodded, then waited for your reaction. This wasn’t revealing his senses. Just hinting at them. But it still made his stomach clench.

Fortunately he didn’t have to wait long.

“Neat!!” You said. “You can settle the debate between Serena and Lex about what ‘starry night’ is supposed to smell like.”

Matt blinked, unsure of how to react. On the one hand, relief at your positive reaction to the barest hint of his senses. On the other . . .

“What ‘starry night’ smells like?” Matt repeated.

“Scented candle they both love but cannot agree on what its scent profile is supposed to be.”

“And that wasn’t on the label?” He didn’t have a lot of experience with scented candles. Most didn’t play well with his senses. Sometimes an individual candle was tolerable or even pleasant but just walking across from a Yankee Candle gave him a migraine. But he had been told the label had the scent profile on it. Or least what the manufacturers thought it smelled like.

“Not really,” you said. “Just something about the woodys aroma of a night under the stars. Serena thinks its oak, musk, leather, and rose. Lex thinks it's applewood, leather, and amber.”

“And what’s your theory?”

“No, no, no,” you said, shaking your head. “Not it. Wrong number. I plead the Fifth”

Matt laughed. “Not going to ask that, sweetheart?”

“Absolutely not,” you said, voice firm even with that little skip of your heart. “I remember the Fresh Rain discourse. Never. Again.”

Matt chuckled as the cab pulled to stop in front of their building. He paid the fare before you could dig out your wallet. You grumbled about it a little but the argument was half-hearted. Perhaps because you were tired. Your steps were dragging a little as you led the way into the elevator. It still smelled faintly of your arousal. Something his dick took immediate note of.

You turned toward the control panel and kicked something small and plastic that smelled like paint.

“Wha-?” You bent down to pick up the mystery object and made a faint groan. “So that’s where the cap went.”

Matt had to suppress a grin. “The cap to what?”

“The magenta paint that I sprayed all over your suit,” you said, blood flooding your cheeks again. “Along with the some of the wall . . . God, I hope the super doesn’t find out it was me who did that . . . the offer to pay for your dry-cleaning still stands.”

“Appreciated but unnecessary,” he said, then took the plunge. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

“Hmm, yes?” you said, after a moment’s thought. “Why?”

“Because I want to take you to dinner.”

“Oh! Okay . . .,” you said, fidgeting with the cap. “As a friend?”

Matt shook his head. “As a date.”

For a moment, you just stared at him with your mouth opening and closing. But then you found your voice, “A d-date? With me?”

“Yes, with you,” he said. “Unless you don’t want-”

“No, no, I want to,” you interrupted.

“Good.” The ding of the elevator alerted them to the arrival to the sixth floor. Matt offered his hand. And, after a moment of hesitation where you surreptitiously pinched your thigh, you took his hand. Your hand felt right in his. Like it was meant to be there.

The only downside was that it was a short walk between the elevator and the door to 6B. Far too soon for his taste, it was over.

“How does seven sound?” he asked, squeezing your hand.

“Seven is good,” you said, tentatively squeezing back.

“Wonderful,” he said, lifting your hand to his mouth. He kissed the skin across your knuckles. The first of many kisses, he hoped. The skin was silky smooth under his lips, tasted of coffee and sugar. So much nicer than his rough hands, crisscrossed with scars and stained by blood.

You shivered. It was tempting, oh so tempting, to trail kisses up your arm until he reached your mouth. To mold his body against yours and fill this hallway with the sounds of your moans. But he restrained himself. Soon, he reminded himself as he forced his mouth away from your skin. Soon.

“Tomorrow at seven,” he said.

“Tomorrow at seven,” you repeated, your voice a touch breathy.

He waited for you to close the door behind you before entering his own apartment. Phase One was complete. Now for Phase Two.

To be continued . . .

NOTES

Special thanks to Riley aka @chaos-and-ink for answering my barista questions.

Thurgood Marshall (1908 - 1993) was a United States Supreme Court Justice from 1967 until 1991 and civil rights attorney in NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People) where he argued numerous cases, most famously Brown vs Board of Education that ended school segregation.

Justice - In New York, trial judges are called Justices.

Her voice was ever soft . . . - quote from William Shakespeare’s King Lear, Act V, Scene 3.

Latte - Coffee drink made by pouring steamed milk into shots of espresso (usually around two), the way the milk is poured in can produce patterns like a heart in the crema.

Pulling the shot - refers to the procress of brewing a shot of espresso of pulling the lever that forces the hot water through the freshly ground compacted beans.

Bar - The counter set-up where the espresso and other machines to make the coffee, along with the supplies like beans, milk, syrups, etc.

Dark and Beardy - continuing to be inspired by the leaked Daredevil: Born Again trailer.

DA - District Attorney, the attorney who represents the government's position in a criminal case.

#fan fiction #fan fic #daredevil #matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #happy little accident series

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uzumaki-rebellion · 18 days ago

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Spinning the Block Part 3

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Officer Jessica "Jess" Sims

Warning(s): 18+ Animal violence (hunting)

Summary: Jess tries to avoid running into Terry again, but a tip given to her may reveal who killed Mike in prison.

Word count: 4. 4K

"After all that we've been through

I know we'll make it,

I know the way

The question is it true

There is nothing we can't do

I see you along the way baby

The stillness is the move"

Solange – "Stillness is the Move"

Jess spread the bucket of corn on the cob that she soaked for a week on the ground. Dawn broke an hour earlier and the morning sky barely turned a pale peach to match the time of day. She kicked around the ears of corn that soured over time and spread a pungent odor in the air. The perfect bait for wild hogs that roamed on her granddaddy's land.

She lifted her high-powered Marlin 336 rifle onto her shoulder and carried the empty bucket away, stashing it behind a snag tree. Trudging past the bait, she joined up with her father and grandfather. Wild hog hunting had been passed down in her family for five generations. Her hunting knife rested against her right hip for dressing up game on site. Plenty of wild game thrived on the property — deer, turkey, raccoons, rabbit, alligator, wood ducks — but the Sims family loved some good feral hog meat.

Louisiana hog hunting required patience, a talent for shooting, and quick thinking on the spot. In the old days, her grandfather Hebert used trained hunting dogs with her father, Jermaine, and her three uncles. The dogs had all died off over the decades except for a ten-year-old brown and black hound dog named Redbone, the last of his lineage. Jess lived with Redbone and Hebert on the property. Ever since she lost her job with the police department because of its shut down over Terry's case, Hebert's house became her refuge. She took care of him, and he gave her shelter from financial ruin.

Redbone, blind in one eye, rested near Hebert's feet behind the camo netting they used to blend into the surroundings. Hebert stretched his legs in a folding chair and peered out into the trees with his binoculars. His lank gray hair looked thinner pulled back in a long ponytail that touched the middle of his back. She noticed the once sallow coloring of his fair skin had improved. His health hadn't relapsed since she'd been home most days while unemployed. Rheumatoid arthritis wore on him before. Perhaps her presence energized him. He had his good days and bad days with pain in his hands and feet. But today was a good one. Hebert could bend his fingers and shuffle his feet along without wincing.

The hogs roused up early in the morning and stayed active, openly, until full light. Hebert wanted to participate in the hunting, and Jess worried that a long outing would bother him. She found a doctor that prescribed marijuana usage to help his pain management, and since she no longer worked, he shared his weed with her on some nights when inflammation got bad. He toked on a little before they left the house. It pleased her that the effects lasted.

Jermaine nudged the drag sled prepared to haul the meat out.

"We'll probably need to take down about three or four…if we're lucky," Jermaine said.

"We're in the best hotspot, Daddy," Jess said.

Jermaine patted her shoulder and slid his hunting goggles down over his eyes. The feral hogs on their land were invasive, and the state welcomed hunters culling their populations. Hebert often gave permission to outsiders to come on their land to hunt for a small fee. He already allowed loggers to remove walnut trees annually for extra income. Any money he made from those two ventures he split among his children and used the rest to pay his property tax.

They perched quietly behind their camo netting for four hours. Jess noticed Redbone's nose twitching, and she slid her wrap-around shades on and peeked through her telescopic sight. Four rotund hogs barreled into view, chomping down on the corn.

Jess lined up her shot. Unfortunately, the wind shifted slightly, blowing their scent toward the animals. A mottled pink one caught the odor of human and hound, alerting the others.

BLAM!

Jess and Jermaine blasted the brains of two hogs, causing the others to scatter. They both used their levers to reload and popped off two more rounds. Jess downed another hog while her father clipped the shoulder of the one he aimed for. Jumping out from behind the camo, Jermaine went after the injured hog to finish it.

"Daddy! Watch out!"

Another aggressive hog appeared from out of nowhere and charged Jermaine. Jess shot it behind the ear, and it dropped a foot away from her father.

"Getting slow," Jess teased.

"Some good shootin', Jess," Hebert called out.

"Learned from the best," she said, and winked at him.

Jermaine killed the injured hog, and Jess dragged over the sled. Her father was a big, muscular, cornbread fed man, and he used that strength to drag two hogs onto the sled. She packed up the camo net and grabbed the bucket.

"Grandpa, I'll get the chair in a minute. You just relax," Jess said.

Redbone jumped around being frisky and followed Jess behind her father. They trudged along the wooded area until they reached Jermaine's truck. She helped him lift each hog onto the truck bed and they headed back to Hebert and repeated the process two more times. Hebert admired the hundreds of pounds of fresh meat piled on the truck.

"Gon' be some good barbecue," Hebert said.

Back home, Jermaine and Jess set about cutting up the meat behind the house. They donned protective covering and surgical gloves to prevent bacterial contamination.

After gutting the pigs, Jess and her father strung them up under their hunter gazebo. Herbert added salt to three large coolers half filled with ice on standby. Jermaine would transfer the meat to his house and a few others covered in the ice, and Jess's mother would prep their share for the big Saturday cookout.

Jess used her big knife to skin the carcasses, and then she dove right in to carve out sections of meat. She deboned joints, cut off shoulders, back strap, ham parts, hocks, and kneckbones. She used a smaller knife to work on the tenderloin parts and ribs once they moved the rest to a work table nearby. The pigs were too lean to carve out bacon, so she worked efficiently to get as much useful meat as possible off the carcass. Jermaine used a lopper to snap apart larger bones, joints, and the heads when needed. It took them about an hour to cut and quarter the various parts needed for Saturday. The rest would go into a deep freezer for winter soup beans and stews. Her father would drop off the unused parts at a rendering plant to be turned into fertilizer. It was a good day of hunting.

She cleaned up the gazebo and work table and then took a shower. Hebert caught up on his marathon viewing of Law & Order episodes in the livingroom. She fixed him an early dinner of baked sweet potato with turnip greens and fried catfish, placing it on a TV dinner tray in front of his recliner. Sitting near him on the couch, she ate with him and quietly watched cops go after bad guys. After Terry's case, Jess couldn't watch the show the same way again.

Terry.

Jess nibbled on her catfish. Was he still in town? She planned on staying away from the town square. No need to tempt fate and run into that man again. He was a past that needed burying.

The landline rang, and Jess answered it. Her friend Melody sounded breathless.

"Jess…girl…come on down to the Pit with me and Alexa tonight. It's Ladie's night and free cover. Alexa doesn't have to work tomorrow, so she's up for some drinking and dancing."

Jess glanced at her grandfather.

"Who is it?" he asked.

Jess covered the mouthpiece.

"Melody wants me to go down to the Pit tonight with Alexa."

Hebert waved his hand.

"Go on and get outta the house. Do you some good to be out with your girlfriends. I'll be okay by myself."

"You sure?"

"I got Redbone with me."

"Promise not to overdo it on the weed?"

"A man runs out of his house naked one time, and now his granddaughter can't trust him to be by hisself," he grumbled.

Jess giggled.

"Okay, I'm in," she said into the phone.

"Oh, good! Dress real cute, because you know Zion is on the prowl for you."

Jess sucked her teeth.

"I wish y'all would stop tryna fix me up with that man."

"Girl, do you know how hard it is to find a fine man that's single, child-free, and looking to settle down right away? He's had his eye on you for the longest."

"With all that's been going on with me, I don't see how he could be interested."

"Jess, hush, now. All that shit is over and done with. Time for a new start… and time for you to throw your hat in the ring before he gets snatched up. Be ready by seven thirty. Cover is free until nine. We get there early and we can get a good booth seat by the dance floor."

"Alright. I'll be ready. But I'm driving there myself."

She hung up and sighed.

"You don't sound excited," Hebert said.

"It's a setup. They're tryna get me with Zion."

"Zion is a nice fella. Decent family. I know his grandfather real well. You not interested in dating?"

"People think partnering up with somebody is going to make me happy now that I'm not working. I need a job, not a man."

"Zion makes good money down at the plant. Let a man spoil you a little bit if he wants to. You ain't gotta marry him or nothin'."

"You right, Granddaddy. You right. I just don't want to feel pressured about it, like I can't get a man on my own…if I wanted one."

She lifted his empty plate and glass from his tray.

"You want anymore to eat?"

"Nah, I'm full. That was a tasty dinner. Thank you."

She picked up her empty plate and piled it on his. While washing dishes in the kitchen, she thought of what to wear.

The Pit smelled like perfumed sweat and chicken grease, a thick country kind of odor that lingered in the air. Jess didn't know if that was a good or bad thing. She flat ironed her hair so that it looked long and silky falling down her back, but by the time she got inside the jumping club, her edges curled back because of the heat. A live band kicked up some fiery zydeco music, and she danced with several men before taking a breather at a booth seat with her friends. Several men bought them drinks, and Jess sulked a bit when she didn't find Zion anywhere. All that talk about him seeking her affections by her friends didn't pan out. She twisted her hair into a high bun and sipped on some bourbon. Revealing some cleavage kept plenty of other suitors barking up her tree.

Shelby Springs men loved big women. The more rolls on the belly and back, the better, too. The women were known to be talented cooks in the kitchen and in the bedroom, and southern Black Creole men had a predilection toward securing one and wifing them up. They liked buxom chests, real asses, and lively personalities.

Jess knew she was a catch.

Men eyed her up and down the moment she walked in the door, displaying her wares and swinging her hips from east to west. Tight booty-hugging jeans. Low cut V-neck top with her good strapless push-up bra. High heel ankle boots gave her extra va-voom. Her breasts were always her best lure, and then the men noticed she had a pretty face to match all the big girl curves. Pear-shaped with a short waist, Jess could use her front and back to attract dance partners.

The Pit was full of Black Creoles and Black Cajuns. There's no real hardcore distinction between the two in Jess's mind. After hundreds of years, they were all a big pot of gumbo culturally. Most of the Black Cajuns descended from the French Canadians that migrated to Louisiana from Acadie. Her great-grandfather used to tell Hebert stories about their white side. That's how Jess learned that Acadians were referred to as 'cadians by English speakers in Louisiana that eventually mutated into 'cajuns'.

The Black Creoles had immigrant French and Italian roots from Europe with some Indigenous heritage that spread out from New Orleans. Many of the Black Creoles had bloodlines all the way from Haiti. Out of the two, Creoles were the wilder by far because they had liberation DNA encoded in them from their African and Native ancestry. There was something about that Black and Red mix that stood out sometimes. Whenever Jess had to be called out as a cop to break up fights or do a welfare check, she could tell how things would go down by the ancestry. Black Cajuns valued communication first before they went off…but the Creoles? Pfft. Those negroes were cayenne pepper. Fists first, questions last.

Terry Richmond was definitely a Creole.

Jess chugged down her drink. The man lingered in her mind like a severe headache. He hugged her, and she knew what those muscles felt like now…the same ones that beat the ass of nearly a dozen men in front of her without using a gun. Pure Creole fury.

He smelled good, too.

Jess stood and walked around with Melody and left their two other friends, Patricia and Alexa, to watch their purses and seats. She tapped her feet to the hot, rambunctious music and searched around for another dance partner.

A man at the bar kept staring at her. He had a lean, rawhide build and purposely kept his baseball cap low on his face to obscure his eyes. Every few seconds, he glanced over at Jess. She sensed he wasn't interested in dancing or checking her out sexually. He studied her. She moved away to see if he would follow, and he did. She positioned herself behind some tall men near the end of the bar, facing the dance floor. Melody went to the restroom, and Jess waited for her. Right when Melody came back, a cute short king grabbed her hand to dance and pulled her away from Jess. Zion appeared then, and Jess forgot all about the man with the cap.

"Where you been?" Jess asked.

Zion grinned, flashing her big teeth. A husky man nearly six feet tall, he had rugged good looks and a flirtatious voice that sounded playful in her ear. Sweat shined up his dark brown skin. A crisp new haircut and fancy fits helped him stand out from the crowd, especially his gator skin boots.

"I've been looking for you, sweet thing," he uttered with sly charm.

"That's what I hear."

"What we gonna do about it, then?"

Jess grabbed his hand and dragged him out to the center of the dance floor, hugging her body tight against his as the ricochet of silver spoons dragging across a metal washboard and a reedy accordion squeezed by a heavyset man singing in French Creole controlled their spinning and grinding in time to the music. Jess snaked her hips and Zion swiveled his. The heat of her crotch rested on his thigh as they wiggled down to the floor and back up, the old school French La La music of her granddaddy's day pushing them to go faster and faster. Zion swung her out in a catch and release move and they yelled their delight at being alive in a sweltering club. God, it felt good to dance her blues away!

They stayed on the packed dance floor for three full songs until Jess begged for a break in her boots. She grabbed her purse and took a breather outside. A quick call on her smartphone reassured her that her grandfather was tucked in bed for the night. He told her not to come home early if she didn't need to, hinting that it was okay to hook up with Zion if she wanted.

She hung up and wiped perspiration from her brow, and noticed the reflection of the strange man behind her from the car window. Digging into her purse, she pretended to put her phone away and reached for her nine millimeter handgun to scare him. He caught her in the blind sight of the club, where no one would see or hear them by the SUV. She spun around and aimed it at his chest.

"The fuck are you following me for?" she barked.

The man held his hands up.

"Easy…I just want to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Terry Richmond."

She narrowed her eyes. Kept the gun on him.

"What about him?"

"I know who you are and I know what those cops did to him…and his cousin."

The man glanced around to make sure no one heard them.

"I have some information and know who killed Mike Simmons. I was at the prison where he was murdered."

Jess drew in a sharp breath.

"You betta not be fucking lying."

"I'm not. I also know the location of the weapon that was used on him. Hid it myself."

"Where?"

"We can't talk here. I'll meet you somewhere safe. You choose where. But I'ma need some money for the information to help me get outta town. It'll be too dangerous for me to stay here once I tell you."

"There's always some catch involving cash."

"It is what it is."

"How much?"

"Ten thousand dollars."

Jess rolled her eyes.

"You think I'm supposed to pay you that?"

"Not you…him. I know he's in town. I saw you with him."

She kept the gun on him and pulled out her cell.

"Give me your number."

"225-342-6863"

She typed and then glared at him.

"What's your name?"

His eyes diverted toward noisy patrons leaving the club in the opposite direction.

"Zeb Chapman."

Jess took a long, hard look at him.

"Zion's brother? How long have you been out of prison?"

"Eighteen months."

She relaxed and put away her weapon. Slinging her purse across her shoulders, Jess stared at him, full of curiosity.

"Call me and tell me where to meet you, Jess. I swear this ain't no con. I shouldn't even be seen with you. If they know I contacted you, they'd kill me."

"They?"

Zeb's jittery moves let her know he was truly nervous.

"Call me."

Zeb scurried back into the club. Jess stood next to her car to gather her thoughts. She assumed the "they" Zeb mentioned must've been the gangsters that had it out for Mike for snitching on a mob boss back east. It was the main reason Terry was vigilant about getting his cousin's bail. An uncomfortable tightness clenched her stomach. She called Melody on her phone.

"Where are you?" Melody squeaked, with the feisty zydeco music cracking in the background.

"I have a headache and went to my car. I'm going to head home early."

"Okay, call me and let me know you made it home safe. Are you good to drive?"

"I'm fine."

"I'm sorry you're not feeling well. Zion is looking for you."

"Tell him I'll catch him on the dance floor another time."

"Will do."

Jess dug into her purse again and pulled out a business card at the bottom. Terry's motel number was a few touches away on her phone. It might be too late to call. Plus, she didn't want him to have her number. She could just drive over there, knock on his door, and give him the information directly. He could pass it off to the authorities and she could wash her hands of the whole thing.

She popped open the trunk and rummaged around for something else to put over her top. Just a gray long-sleeve shirt sat under a pile of plastic recycled shopping bags. She glanced around and quickly yanked off her sexy top and traded it for the gray shirt.

Loading the GPS with the motel address, Jess quelled the anxiousness rising in her chest. Her Durango rode smoothly on the highway and she arrived at the rinky-dink establishment in less than twenty minutes. She parked at the far end of the guest parking and watched the property. Terry's room was the middle one on the bottom floor. The outside light was on and the curtains were drawn. She couldn't tell if the indoor lights were on because the curtains looked dark and heavy. Debating to get out or not, Jess sat in the SUV for half an hour, mustering up the guts to face him. Eventually, she hopped out and strode toward his room.

She knocked on the door and waited.

Knocked again.

No answer.

She closed her eyes, thankful that he wasn't there. It would be better to deal with everything in the morning with the soothing light of day. She turned to go back to her vehicle and bright headlights blasted her eyes. A car pulled in front of the empty parking space facing Terry's door. Summer and Terry stared at her in surprise. They both stepped out of Summer's car and faced her.

"Hey," she said.

Terry's lips quirked up into a half smile. The whites of his eyes looked pink under the overhead light of his room. But the green stayed intense…probing. He had a way of looking at people that unraveled them. Jess glanced at Summer.

"Summer was dropping me off," Terry said.

"Yeah, we just had dinner…dropping him off for the night," Summer said.

Terry took in her uneasy stance. It was after eleven at night. He turned to Summer.

"Thanks for a great meal, and the ride back," he said.

"No problem. Talk to you another time. Before you leave."

Summer awkwardly looked at Jess.

"Good seeing you, Jess."

"Yeah."

"Night y'all," Summer said.

She climbed into her car and drove off. Terry used a motel card to slip inside the door handle slot of room six instead of five. An audible click sounded off, and Terry opened the door wide.

"Come in," he said.

He reached inside and flicked on a light. Jess walked in before he did. Everything in the simple room was neat and undisturbed.

"Sit," he said, offering her the only chair in the room.

He sat on his bed.

"There's no air conditioning in room five. It broke before I went to dinner with Summer, so the manager switched me into this room. I'm glad you showed up. I had no way to contact you about the change. What brought you here so late?"

"A man approached me outside of a club tonight. He's been watching me and said he knows who killed your cousin. He wants to meet in a safe place."

Jess watched the information spread across Terry's features like water rippling across a pond. His eyes bore into hers like a sun blazing through a magnifying glass, causing her to shift uncomfortably in her seat and dart her gaze elsewhere. Like the wall to her right.

"Who is he?"

"He claims to have been in the prison with Mike when it happened. He's scared, and he also wants you to pay him ten thousand for the information."

Terry bolted from the bed.

"Take me to him right now."

He loomed over her, and those damn eyes rooted her to the chair.

"Jess…take me to him."

It was a stern command.

She jumped up.

"I'll give you his number—"

"If he's still at the club, you know what he looks like and can point him out to me. I need to talk to him tonight."

"It might spook him. He said he'll be in danger once he tells you. The money is for his escape from town."

Terry walked around the bed and pulled open the closet door. He dug into a suitcase, pulling out a fresh shirt. He took off the one he had on and replaced it with a form-fitting black shirt that fit his chest like new skin. Jess averted her gaze. His dark chinos and stylish black Moschino boots didn't need changing. He tucked a pair of shades into his shirt.

"C'mon…you drive," he said.

She couldn't protest. The determination in his face and steps forced her to comply and follow him.

Outside, she led him to her Durango.

"He might be gone already."

"Then we'll call him if he is."

She drove him in silence and slid into a parking spot not too far from her original one earlier. He climbed out and she walked to the back of her SUV. She opened her trunk and picked up her sexy top.

"Turn your head, please," she said.

Terry looked away, and she pulled off the long sleeve shirt, switching back to her previous top. She adjusted it and smoothed back her hair. He turned back around and her stomach filled with butterflies. Her cleavage worked its magic despite the circumstances, and Terry showed his hand by glancing at her breasts. He threaded his fingers with hers and tossed his shades on, pulling her toward the club entrance.

"Once we get inside, you play it cool. Understand? We're just on a night out together. When you spot him, whisper in my ear," he said.

The words flew right over her head. His hand was gentle, yet strong, holding hers. She could feel underboob sweat breaking out on her breasts. They reached the front entrance, and Jess took a deep breath. Terry squeezed her hand, reassuring her, and they stepped inside together.

Part 4 HERE.

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#terry richmond #rebel ridge #terry richmond fanfiction #rebel ridge fanfiction #Terry Richmond x Jess Sims #Terry Richmond x Officer Jessica Sims #Terry Richmond x Black Plus-Sized Heroine #Uzumaki Rebellion #Spinning the Block #Aaron Pierre #Terry Richmond Smut

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mm-lurking · 8 months ago

Text

When the rain stops

I got soaked in the rain so I wrote this. Not proofread. Written with Blade, Al-Haitham and Jiyan in my mind but you can imagine your favourites.

Warnings: x fem! reader, angst WC: 817 — Nothing registers in your mind except the icy freezing water that washes over your body in large raindrops. Your fingertips are cold and rock hard from the downpour that has caught you halfway through your journey. The slashes and stab wound you have obtained from your body bleed into your clothes and the ground you stand on.

Everything feels numb in comparison to the rain. You’re trembling as the clothes you wear stick to your body and the harsh breeze that passes by makes it worse. The water has pooled around your feet, soaking through your shoes and no matter how hard you try nothing keeps the aggressive battering of the rain away.

By the time you reach your destination the biting cold gets to you and you find yourself stumbling in your steps. The loss of blood further exacerbates your fragile state. Each movement of your feet feels heavy no matter how hard you push through. The rain blinds you completely and your vision starts to blur.

Your knees give out causing you to go crashing into the gravel path. The metallic smell of blood mixes with the earthy rain assaulting your nose with the strangest odor you have ever encountered. Somehow, alongside the odor, you get a whiff of a familiar masculine scent, one that reminds you of him.

What follows are urgent footsteps and a warm pair of arms that envelop you from the back. Suddenly the rain stops above your head followed by a deep raspy voice you so dearly love to hear.

“You’re hurt.”

He says concerned as he discards his coat and kneels down to your level to wrap it around you. The additional layer of thick fabric greatly shields you from the rain and you can’t help but smile deliriously. Without a word he presses you deeper into his chest as he checks your injuries.

“This stab wound…who did this to you?”

You can sense a tinge of anger in his voice which further makes you smile. Something about him caring for you despite his reserved attitude surprises you. Instead of replying, you weakly cling your fingers on the thin fabric of his chest and lazily nod.

“Doesn’t…doesn’t matter…”

You mumble out and dig your head deeper into his chest. All you can think about is how incredibly warm he is compared to the raging rain that shows no sign of stopping. He wraps his hands tighter around you in response.

Then he immediately scoops you up in his arms making sure to avoid the injured skin before hurriedly walking to a place of retreat to tend to your weakened state. You’re cold and limp against his warm and alive body. Now that the rain no longer storms on you, you feel the pain of your wounds emerging from your throat as you uncomfortably groan.

“Shh…almost there.”

He responds soothingly to your agony. With the little energy you have left, you peek at the man who carries you so lovingly. All you can see is his sharp jawline and the popping of his neck veins as he looks ahead. You observe the rain soaks some of his hair and face, coating him with a glistening glow that makes your heart beat a tad faster.

“It’s alright…you don’t have to…”

He tries to ignore how shallow your breathing is and how your blood seeps into his own clothes. Your body feels more lifeless in his warm hands with each passing second. He notes how your tiny fingers have loosened their grip on his shirt and he tries not to panic at the lack of movement you display.

“Nonsense. We are almost there.”

His fingers almost dig into your skin despite the layers you have on. Even though his voice is unwavering and resolute, the pounding of his heart betrays him. Through the last few threads of consciousness remaining in you, you chuckle.

“You’re wasting your time on me…”

“Stop talking.”

He chides you and you smile. Everything is starting to feel more distant and dreamy as black dots swarm your vision. Your fingers that were holding onto his shirt so desperately drop into your lap and your head falls back. The sudden change prompts him to look at you and he feels blood drain from his face. You’re still like the waters of a lake with a tiny smile. He calls you out but you do not respond.

“Stay with me. Stay with me!”

He says with more urgency as he shakes you but only silence fills the air. There is a flurry of curses that run through his head as he finally reaches his destination and rushes to ask for help. When the rain finally stops and your wounds are observed carefully, all he can do is stare at your pale face in horror as your eyes remain closed and dried blood decorates your skin.

Maybe, just maybe it was too late.

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cheolism-archive · 8 months ago

Note

hello my beloved jupiter i would like to peek at the kinkiest jun thots inside ur brain pretty please 🤓

THE SCENT OF YOU

✰ wen junhui x reader ✷ wc is approx 1.5k ✰ warnings: nsfw! salirophilia and olfactophilia (attraction to the state of being dirty; attraction to body odor/scent). ✷ notes: based off of that one thing napoleon allegedly wrote to his wife asking her not to bathe before he came home. thank you mars (@onlymingyus) and junie for helping me w the names of the kinks!!

jun wakes up to the uncomfortable feeling of being terribly warm.

the summer sun blazes through the bedroom windows, peering through the blinds and casting its light. the aircon kicks on in the next room, the box fan -- set on top of a dining room chair jun had dragged into the room -- whirling gently, casting a slight breeze onto jun's face.

he's still unbearably hot.

the two of you had gone to bed at midnight, the temperature dropping considerably compared to what it had been that afternoon. you turned the aircon to the perfect temperature; jun switched on the fan. he tucked the duvet around your figure, giggling alongside you as you wiggled your toes underneath. and then he had ducked underneath the covers, pressing his body to yours and tucking his face into your neck.

naturally, cursedly, time crawled on as the two of you slept and eventually the sun rose into the sky, coloring it a lovely blue. the room had heated up, despite the aircon doing its best, and so jun woke with his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his arms and his mind hazy with heat.

irritated, he throws off the duvet and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. he had stopped cuddling you sometime in the night, and perhaps that is why he's truly pissed.

he checks the temperature outside -- eighty-seven fahrenheit, what the fuck -- and then adjusts the thermostat. the aircon kicks back on, and he stumbles back into the bedroom.

you're frowning at him from the bed, lips in a pout and brow pinched. "why'd you leave?"

jun jumps back into the bed, throwing the duvet back over his figure and latching onto you. "was hot," he explains, and then he's ducking his face to press it against your neck.

his nose nuzzles into the baby hairs at the back of your neck, breathing. his hand settles onto your hip, and then he's sliding his fingers underneath the waistband of your boxers. jun doesn't do anything more, just keeps his fingers against your skin, warm from your body.

he presses his face against you, lips skimming over your warm skin. you're wearing a tank top, and he thinks, faintly, that just like the boxers the tank top is his.

you sigh as his mouth dips to your collar. he presses his lips against your skin, pushing his tongue out and feeling the hard bone hidden beneath.

he moves again. jun presses his face into the valley between your tits, concealed by the tank top. it's hot there, heat radiating off of your tits and trapped beneath the tank top, which in turn was covered by the duvet.

you're hot there, and when jun noses along the gentle curve of one of your tits he can smell you.

it's the smell that comes from sleep and heat. it's a smell that is so inherently, distinctly you. it's the smell of your soul, he thinks, his dick beginning to swell in his boxers and his fingers twitching down down down, until the tips of them are touching the hairs of your cunt.

"junnie," you hum, reaching out and looping an arm around him. he catches a whiff of that gentle scent of sleep and heat, and then he's mouthing at your tits through the fabric and settling his hand against your pussy.

ii.

"i'll be home late," you murmur into your phone. he can hear the noise of the conference through his phone speaker. you had told him, before you left, to prepare for as much; had, optimistically, said that it would be over at four but seungkwan had booked a room with a karaoke machine so you may end up staying longer.

"are you having fun?" jun asks, bracing against the counter with his free hand and glancing over the ingredients he had set out. he'll have to put the pork back into the fridge, package the chopped veggies and hope they'll be as fresh tomorrow. really, though, it's for the best; he's low on egg roll wrappers and doesn't know if he'll have enough for a full meal.

"yeah," you say, and he can hear the smile in your voice. it's like bottled sunshine, the way it seems to settle within him and lighten his soul. "we got free pens."

"holy shit," jun says, and you laugh. eventually, though, you hang up; he can hear seungkwan scolding you for being on your phone during a company conference before you manage to end the call.

jun packs away the veggies and pork, snapping the lids onto the plastic container and stacking them in color order in the fridge.

he throws two packets of ramen on the counter; checks on the rice in the cooker. with thirty minutes left for the rice to be done, he leaves the kitchen and begins wandering about the apartment.

there's a sock in the hall. he swoops down, grabbing it and balling it into his fist. he rounds into the bedroom, and he begins picking up your discarded sleep clothes.

he throws your shirt over the crook of his arm — it once belonged to choi seungcheol, but the man had left it in jun's gym bag when he borrowed it once and so it had been put into rotation as a sleep shirt for the both of you. you wore your own panties and shorts to bed, and he picks up those, too.

they're one of your favorite pairs. they’re on the side of nearly too-raggedy, the elastic loose around your hips. jun remembers the first time he saw you wear them, nearly two years ago; remembers how he had pulled them down your thighs; how they had been soaking wet from your cunt, how he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to bring them up to his nose and —

jun presses his thumb into the flat seat of your panties, stretching them. whatever wetness that may have been there from your cunt had long dried. he can see the faint bleaching from your fluids on your panties.

he lifts your panties up to his nose; breathes in. he smells you, still, hours later. jun can smell yoru essence, the very fabric of your being. slowly jun slides his hand down his stomach, fingers gliding over the veins of his hips and following down down down.

iii.

you look, jun thinks, absolutely destroyed.

the half-assembled desk still takes up a majority of the second bedroom, metals bars sticking straight up and wooden surface flat against the floor. you’ve paused the music you had been blaring for the past hour, staggering into the living room with your phone in hand and a scowl on your face.

“you want help?” jun calls, setting his own phone flat onto his bare stomach and stretching.

“i can do it,” you snap, dropping your phone onto the lazyboy. your hair is pulled up off of your neck, strands escaping and flying about. your face gleams from sweat and your natural oils. you’re wearing a baggy shirt and pants, and when you lift an arm to grab at the ceiling fan string, he can see a patch of sweat on the armpit of your shirt.

you are destroyed; you had attempted to build the desk and came out of it sweaty and ruined, pissed and unsatisfied.

jun pats his thighs, sitting up a bit. you huff, and then you’re waddling over to him. you throw your leg over him, knee digging into the cushions as you settle back on him.

your jaw drops, and you reach back and slap his thigh. “what the fuck are you hard about?”

“you’re beautiful,” jun says, taking you in once more. you’re messy and sweaty, and he wants you.

his hands go to your thighs, settling. he smoothes his hands over your sweatpants, grabbing, groping, feeling you.

you roll your eyes. jun moves up, wrapping his arms around your body to keep you in his lap. he presses his face into your neck, and you groan something out about being too hot for this. he can smell your sweat, your stink; he can feel his dick swell in his pants, can feel it strain and want.

“wen junhui —”

jun pushes his tongue out, sliding it against your skin and tasting the salt of you. you let your head fall to the side, and jun slides a hand into your hair, feeling how hot and sweaty they are at the very start of them. it takes some shifting to get your sweatpants down your thighs, to tuck them under your knees and give him some space, but he does.

and then jun is shoving his hand against your cunt. it’s hot and sweaty here, too, just like he had hoped. he can feel, through your underwear, how wet you are. the cloth near the elastic, damp from sweat; the cloth covering your cunt wet from your juice.

jun pushes back again, and then your shoulders are against the cushions and he’s between your thighs. he pulls your sweats and underwear the rest of the way down your legs, discarding them next to the couch. jun lowers himself, pressing his face against your hot, sweaty cunt and breathing in.

#i hope you liked this junie!#sorry i didn't get it out sooner #i had IDEAS #little did u know you opened a fucking can of worms #and the worms do be wiggling around #— jupiter is writing #wen junhui x reader #wen junhui drabble #svt x reader #svt drabble #svt #svt smut #wen junhui smut

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