#she hulk press

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

HER GAMMA RADIATION WORKING OVERTIME -- POPPIN' FRESH EVERY TIME.

PIC INFO: Resolution at 551x840 -- Spotlight on a commissioned piece of She-Hulk in a "Fearless Dawn" one-shot Swimsuit Edition issue, published by Asylum Press, artwork by Steve Mannion, c. 2022 (via Patreon).

Source: https://twitter.com/stevenmannionFD/status/1646145525723324424.

[todayisafridaynight]

i am haunted by image of ryuji (enough said you can stop here) who lives through kiwami 2 and then when kiryu leaves for okinawa he FINDS HIM (cause man still wanna throw hands it's round 2 babe cmon kiryu come at me) but kiryu is like. chill and surrounded by kids and fuck off ryuji im makin soup theyre hungry maybe later maybe uhh go get rikiya hes into wrestling stuff.

and hes like woah huh uh huh yeah im going to get kids some takoyaki instead of ur soup and THEN we'll fight

also i think rikiya would LOVE ryuji sorry kiryu no aniki but this aniki is better and bigger and also have the cool scar and also he learned how to takoyaki. every day is takoyaki day in the morning glory orphanage now.

god i wish i was an orphan in okinawa to get takoyaki every day

[reineyday]

just putting down chidi anagonye beside roy kent on the list of people i didnt expect to see in marvel properties lol

[tonycries]

BUTTER

Synopsis. First time cúmming inside = first time losing his mind.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, creampíes, PÚSSYDRÚNK JJK MEN, breéding, cúmplay, men whímpering, virgínity loss (Choso), overstím, ínnapropriate use of jujutsu, GOJO’S POWERS, proposals, full nélson, true form Sukuna, dp, sp��tting, p slápping, p talking, limitless, oraI (fem rec.), pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 5.9k

A/N. Hope y’all have a lovely week <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Earned it.

“I-is she really tellin’ me to hah- f-fill her up inside, doll?” Toji breathes, dazed eyes locked down at your stuffed entrance. And he can barely focus his gaze - barely even try to sound like himself right now. “I-is this real?”

Ragged rasps just about half as ruined as he feels, lilting up in pitch. In strain. Sharp intakes of breath becoming so labored when his entire hulking body wracks with a heaving shiver. 

And Toji’s scrambling his thick fingers to latch roughly onto your face, your waist - anywhere and everywhere that might help him keep an ounce of his sanity.

But it was too late.

“Heh, did I hngh- fuck the rationality outta ya? You really want me t-to-” Head throwing back, he can’t even think of finishing his sentence. Of doing anything other than curling one set of fingers around your throat. Biceps flexing when he shoves you even harder onto all fours on the silken sheets, he cranes over to place a line of pretty pecks down your teary cheeks, panting, “Well…wh-whatever my girl wants- she gets, right?”

And he meant it.

Oh, he couldn’t even believe it. Toji had your pretty pussy overfilled with all of his thick, thorough inches - slamming his hips drunkenly against yours when you’d babbled to cum inside. Fuck, it’s so real.

And that’s all it takes for him to clamor up one of his staggeringly muscular thighs up onto the plushy bed. To messily slip and slide across the saturated puddle of your sweet, sweet dripping juices and press his foot down shamelessly on your head. Like he couldn’t get enough.

The new angle nestles his hefty cock disruptively, dredges of his sweltering hot precum splat! against every inch of your clingy cunt.

“Oh yeah- th-this is the stuff.” His dark, dewy eyes veer to the very back of his head, hissing when his achy cock expands open your gummy walls. Throbbing head swelling plumper to curve even deeper, “Let me- l-let me hear ya, ma-”

Your trembly fingers rake a reddened line down his calf. Gasping for air at the way the rotund end of his angry, strawberry-pink tip kisses against your g-spot so snugly. “W-wan’ it so badly- please.”

“Want what?” Toji’s teasing tone rumbles from behind, and he’s gyrating his hips ever-so-slightly slower. Making sure to draw out those wet, translucent glides down your tight channel, “Can’t- can’t hear you-”

Honestly, he had absolutely no idea whether it was because of your honeyed tone breaking out into the cutest of whimpers, or because Toji’s ears were popping. Swatting a wet smack! at your beading clit to get you to yelp, his drawling mouth moves all by itself. “Already asked- t-tell me now unless ya want me to cum outside-”

“No! No no no-” And that was all the threat it took to have you careening unsteadily onto your elbows, fully forgetting the mean restraint of Toji’s foot on top of you. “Please- need you to cum inside please-”

“Louder.”

You’re sneakily shivering your hips down every one of his rummaging inches. “Toji-”

“Ohhhh- my bad.” With a slight snicker, his tongue glissades a wet gloss down the very edges of his scar. Leaving rounded circular bruises at your bobbing throat just how harshly Toji was jostling you with the vice-like embrace, and you can only manage out a few sniffles when he drags by one strong arm to crash the recoil into his ruthless hips. Dangerously stopping you in your tracks. Humming, “Stop fuckin’ running, I w-was talkin’ to ya pretty pussy.”

Your bleary eyes snap open, “What–”

“Shhh, doll- stop whining so much–” he’s cooing in a syrupy slow cadence. “Jus’ needa- needa hear it from her.”

Slapping down his leaky cockhead along your sloppy hole every few strokes, having you drooling a glossy sheen down his thick shaft like you were painting him. So much of it that the dripping wet noises were resounding in Toji’s ears, dancing around his melty mind like his new favorite song. 

Oh, he loved to hear it. Over and over and-

“S-so soaked.” he’s groaning out like a mantra, darkened eyes grifting together. Mouth can all but lift his drunken maw slack open at every tightening clamp of your syrupy pussy, “You want me to cum inside this badly, doll?” 

And you feel your puffed-up pussy lips get even more soaked at the utter pussydrunk look on Toji’s usually smug-features. “Because I’ve been thinking about this e-ever since the day I met ya-” He’s craning over - hunching, more like.  Baring you with his most crazed gaze, “To breed ya- to fill you up ‘ntil you think you’re gonna hah burst. To make ya a pretty momma so-” Back muscles flexing, abs aching with fatigue, lips dragging a sopping wet kiss. “-please let me cum inside.”

Ah, who was Toji Fushiguro against you?

Because as soon as your head even dares to move within the inch of that half-delirious nod you send his way, Toji’s sopping your insides sloshing wet with his cum. For the first time. In awe. Load after load being fucked up into you - white flashes behind your eyes when you feel it knock against your womb, trickling down over your cervix.

And there’s so much of it.

“Gonna have yer g-gorgeous eyes-” he slurs, crushing you with his full body weight. “-n’ your smile fuck- my love for ya-” It won’t’ stop - Toji can’t stop, can’t reel back the weepy curving divot of his head. “M’thinking four- no- five.” Still oozing out a milky gloss even when he’s dragging his fat cock out of your hole. 

Still cumming. Smearing every nook and cranny of the sheet below white as he flips you around and plants a sudden smack! on your overspilling pussy, gushing out obscenely when Toji’s urgently bringing his face down, down, down.

“Oh. Fuckin’ delicious.” His eyes droop half-lidded at the heavenly sight - shit, he could get used to this. Mouth watering, his feverish breath wafts all over your sensitive pussy. “I earned this, didn’t I, ma?”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Happy wife, happy life

“Ken-”

“...”

“Ken.”

But oh, Nanami Kento can’t even hear his pretty wife right about now. Can’t do anything but shove his greedy tongue down the ends of your sopping wet slit, pooling your syrupy juices all the way down to his throat.

In fact, the only response you’re being gifted with is a furious pull on his dangling work tie - barely even bothering to change out of it - to be able to swipe his nose down more freely in a long kiss down your puffy clit. More, more, more-

Keening, your fingers tangle into Nanami’s blond strands - tugging, dragging, but shit, he couldn’t - wont. It hurt for him to even think of pulling away. Roughened palms scissor past your folds, and he pants, “P-please- fuck- just a bit- more-”

He was addicted. Gone. 

“B-but Ken-” Couldn’t register anything past the way your voice was dipping into a whiny territory right now that made him twitch dangerously. That is, until- “Wan’ to cum w-with you- to have you ah- cum inside-”

Oh.

If you thought that Nanami was drunk on you before then you were completely unprepared for the way that singular babbling plea make him still. 

It makes him gasp, honeyed eyes widening, feverish breaths spilling out in heaving puffs of condensation - once, twice. Before your back is suddenly slamming down on the counter, legs splayed out shamefully by Nanami’s sturdy forearms, and your cunt-

Fuck, in a few split-seconds, you were being stuffed so thoroughly open. Nanami’s reddish cockhead springing down to gift a wet thwack! thwack! thwack! on your puffed-up clit, he’s swiping down the ends of your drooling lips. 

“I-inside?” he breathes, a few octaves higher than usual.

You’re nodding, your fingers twirling around his haphazard tie. “Inside.”

“Anything…” Nanami breathes, and he sounds like he doesn’t even know that he’s saying the words. Barely ripping his gaze from you to scramble for your left hand - before placing a sweet, sweet peck on that cool wedding band on your ring finger. “Anything f-for you, my love.”

You’re almost crying at that ruthless stretch of his globular tip poking at your insides, he’s caving in a way open - and even after so many years, you’ve never gotten used to how staggeringly big Nanami’s girth was. How his curved divot was steaming out a thick wad of precum that already made you feel so full.

Now, you two had discussed kids - but never acted upon it like this. This needy. This frenzied-

“Wh-whatever you want, y’know-” He’s humming depravedly into your mouth like a mantra,  thumbing past your pouty lips to spit into your mouth. And that very sight of those translucent splatters makes his hips stutter mindlessly, “Anything for you- anything for the future momma of my kids-”

Shit, you throw your head back as soon as he’s grazing two digits down the very hood of your neglected clit - only for Nanami to jostle your head over his hands.

“C-careful-” he murmurs, hand dipping down to massage your neck. Your shoulders - all while his fat cock was rummaging every nook and cranny of your insides. “-don’t wan’ you to hurt your- hah-self, darling. S’not good f-for the-”

Baby.

Nanami doesn’t think he can even bear to say that simple word right about now. 

Risking losing whatever’s left of his sanity, he’s wrapping one beefy arm around your middle to crush your body to his. And before you know it, you’re being hastily jostled off of the counter and dangled midair - all while your gentle husband barely even breaks a sweat. Utilizing the lewd properties of gravity to let you bounce down onto his long length and back upwards. His voice cracks, “-baby.”

“Ah-” your trembly hands wrap their way around his neck, giving Nanami the perfect angle to pepper peck after sultry peck onto your bouncing tits. “D-don’t hah- drop me, Ken, m’kay?”

Drop you?

Drop you?

God, he lets out a slight chuckle at the very thought. Angling to rut his inches even deeper upwards, every tiny massage of your elastic walls around his painful cock makes Nanami nod. So fervently that stray strands stick to his prespired forehead. Such a pretty mess of your sensible husband. “Mhm- w-won’t drop you, I swear- I swear-”

Hips speeding up in such a sloppy way now, but even how you’re tightening his tie won’t make Nanami stop - slow down.

“Promise?”

Slowly, his dribbling cock gushes out even in even more velvety ribbons, you’re watching in such delirious awe at the way those delicate strings of slick and spit stretch all down his pinkish shaft. 

“Promise-” he groans, feeling light-headed. Heavy balls thwacking in a sticky staccato against your ass. Fingers gliding up, up, up to where he was nudging your sensitive g-spot, bruising out his circumference on all your sensitive areas. Kiss after French kiss into your gooey heaven. He presses down. “-gonna f-fill you up right here- won’t miss. Swear I won’t m-miss-”

And he doesn’t.

God, he grows sullenly quiet to hear all those delicious squelches the very moment Nanami’s steaming hot cum is spilling into you. Warming you from the very insides- and your own orgasm has you seeing stars. 

Sloshing around in his favorite little swivels, he can’t help but let his hips gyrate slowly to feel it coat a creamy gloss down his sensitive cock. To feel your tiny whimpers and whines when his seed dredges down your womb. Drip! drip! dripping onto the kitchen tile in an echoing splatter from your slobbery slit. 

You leave a wet peck at the ends of his curled lips, “W-wan’ keep it all inside, Ken- all of it-”

God, you were going to be the death of him.

“M’gonna marry you all over again- s-swear and- and…” And just then, he shudders so violently that you fear for a split-second, legs around his toned waist tightening. “-o-oh, my love- m’gonna cum again.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - “U-use me.”

“I-I’m so close-”  Geto finds it in himself to grit his teeth, to force his jittery fingers up to pinch your plump clit. “-gonna cum- fuck, s-stop riding me, honey- unless ya want me to fill you up heh-”

It’s said so low and sultry and even through your hazy mind, you know that it’s a simple tease coming from your boyfriend. You know that he didn’t mean anything by it - but that certainly doesn’t stop the way that your hands grasp around his shoulders, knocking your heads into a messy French kiss. “But, I want you to, Sugu.”

Oh. 

Geto Suguru can’t hide the way his chest heaves with a choked-up moan, how his head throws to the very back of his silken pillowcases when his hips rut upwards into you like a fucking animal.

It’s like he was out of control. Ears ringing with the words, it takes the cult leader below you every shred of will in his entire body to groan out, “D-don’t joke like that- fuck- gonna give me a heart attack, y’know-”

“M’not joking.”

Shit, his eyes widen. Straying down to where your puffy pussy lips were bulging around his fat girth, swallowing up every greedy inch that you were being drilled with. Throat dry, every sound that comes out of him now is painfully raspy, “Y-you fuckin’ mean it? Better not be fuck- talking outta this naughty-” Swat! Coming down to kiss a punishing smack against the edges of your drooling cunt. “-pussy.”

You couldn’t fake the way that makes you glissadingingly drenched even if you wanted to. Nails raking down Geto’s curvaceous pecs to steady your stuttering hips, your bounces grow frantic. 

“Please- c-cum inside-” begging. Maybe you were cockdrunk already, pouting in a way that has his hefty, cum-filled balls squeezing. “Jus’ want you all inside-”

And when Geto thinks back to this situation, he doesn’t know how he was ever supposed to stand a chance. Because with a gasping ricochet of his fat, curved cock onto your most precious g-spot, he’s surging stringy wads of seeds that trickles down your inner thigh. Cumming and cumming so hard - it’s never felt this good - that he almost forgets it’s too early.

That is, until you’re gasping a soft “Baby, did you-”

“Sh-shut up-” And you swear your big, strong boyfriend whimpers. He’s furiously blinking away those glittery globular tears at the ends of his eyes. A tiny pout smeared across his rosy pink lips when you’re being flipped.

One hand around your throat, the other plugging back creamy dredge after dredge into your drooling cunt. Almost as if it was offensive to him to catch that syrupy drizzle, he’s making such a fucking mess. 

“Such a filthy girl- n’ a filthy cunt-” He sputters out, and Geto felt like he was burning a bright red blush all down his pretty features. Matching the angry way your hips were being slammed into his, “Think you s-sooo fuckin’ fuck- fuck fuck fuck-”

And shit, he can’t even finish his sentence before those moans are petering out into speechlessness. A singular tight squeeze of your gummy walls encircles his hot girth. And it’s enough to make him whine, “Please- fuck, how are you doing this-”

Sounding so genuinely in disbelief, you watch as Geto’s mouth drops lewdly at the way every pearlescent bead of his cum was directed towards your cunt. Seeping out through the edges of your sopping lips.

You’re giggling in a drunken way that makes him flinch, “S-something wrong, Sugu?”

“Don’t-” he bares you with a feral grin. Heavy limbs throwing apart your limp legs to jostle his hips into you even harder, and it’s like Geto was spearheading into your lungs. Swiping up translucent wet splatters of his fat head in delicious drags down your spongy cervix. Hissing that even the slightest bit of recoil had him parting from the melty depths of your pussy. “-don’t call m that ‘nless you want me to- oh-” His dewy eyes roll to the back of his head, leaving another unapologetic smack! on your peaked clit. “-t-too late. M’gonna cum- fuck fuck fuck- n’ s’all your fault-”

“Awww–” Teasingly, your fingers drag through his long curtain of hair, scratching lightly at Geto’s scalp in a way that makes him purr. “-how can I hah- make it up to you, Sugu?”

The only thing he wanted right now was to cum inside you again. Once more. Twice. Thrice. Again and again and-

“Use me-” Geto gasps, and he’s careening his head down for what you assumed would be one of his favorite messy kisses - only to wrap those pinkish lips around your tongue and suck. “Use me use me- ohh please, use me- honey- make me a daddy. D-don’t even care anymore-”

And when he cums, Geto’s filling your already sloshingly drenched cunt with heavy loads of his seed. Sticky and honeyed enough that it’s next to impossible for him to pull out and sheath his rock-hard dick unforgivingly into your pussy. 

One of the biggest threats to jujutsu society - whimpering when he spews out a stream of wet swears into your open-mouth, shivering at every one of your milking clamps to drag out something delicious from him. 

He’s curling his hulking body into yours, dripping fingers glistening all the way down to Geto’s wrist with just how much of his loads he’d shoveled all the way back inside your cunt. Giving your sloppy hole a languid circle around the diameter with his slender fingers, before popping them into his mouth. 

And Geto can only see stars behind his eyes, he can only moan at the taste, “I think…” Peaking out a hazy eye at your squirming figure - where the hell did you think you were going? He’s hypnotized, dragging you back into his clutches with a hand curled prettily around your throat. “-that w-we’re not done until m’cumming b-blanks, honey.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Marry you…

One swipe - just one swipe of Choso’s fattened, blushing red tip down your slit is all that it takes for his stupidly pussydrunken eyes to run to the back of his head. For his drooling mouth to slack open with all the utter need of a virgin, “Please-”

You’re humming through your moans, arching your body just right for him to feed you more and more of his half-flaccid inches. “Tell me what you want, baby-”

Fuck, he’s winking open his eyes to peer down at you. Hands traveling their way to roughly jostle your pliant body into one of the meanest mating presses you’d never thought your dear inexperienced best friend possible.

“N-noo–” Choso’s whining, pressing wet pecks down your lips. “Don’t call me that, baby- or else m’gonna…”

Choso’s handsome cheeks burn a shameful red when his eyes drift down to the gooey splatters of cum smeared along your stomach from not too long ago. Just the prospect of being able to put it in too much for his fried brain to handle.

And you’re finding your fingers darting across the glossy sheen sticking to your skin, bringing those drippingly wet digits up, up, up for Choso to gladly wrap his lips around. Sucking. 

“But I want you to, Cho–” Watching as his eyes widen, mouth dropping into a soft oh! Your voice drops into such a hum that makes his swollen tip twitch startlingly. “Want you to c-cum inside m-”

Shit, he doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence - and he doesn’t want to. 

Not unless Choso wants to make an even bigger fool of himself in front of his pretty best friend that oh-so-kindly suggested taking away his virginity. Not like there’s anyone else he’d even dream of giving it to.

Thick, sculpted thigh hiking up, he’s slamming his hefty cockhead down until your swollen folds were kissing up in a sweet, sweet pucker against his thick hilt. Grinding in slow, sultry gyrations upwards like he still wanted to stuff you with more, more, more- 

“I-I can can cum inside?” Forehead beading with sweat, lower lip wobbling with the sheer effort that it took to merely hold back the way that his achingly hard cock was straining for release once more. Hissing at the almost sizzling drag of precum down your bulging g-spot. “For my first time? Inside? R-really inside?”

And despite the way that he was so patiently waiting for your answer, Choso couldn’t help the way the greedy curve of his thumb swipes down your peaked clit. Rolling in lazy circles - low, and slow to make your gummy walls clench in that particular way he’s slowly gotten addicted to. 

You’re nodding with a smug smile at how pretty he looked all fucked-out like this. Darkened eyes all droopy and half-lidded like he was blinking through syrup, muscles twitching mouth-wateringly, hair browner than usual with his sweat-dampened streaks. You can’t help but wring your fingers through his locks and tug, in a way that makes him hiss. In a way that makes him gasp. 

In a way that has him spurting out a thicker stream of precum into your gooey cunt - close. So close. “Mhm– let it a-all out inside, baby.”

Oh god, and then he does-

He does and Choso’s sure he sees the pearly gates of heaven right then and there, and he knows you’re his very own angel.

“Move your pretty fingers, baby– I wan’ you to t-take it all-” It’s not even mean the way he swats away one of your hands subconsciously cupping your split pussy - it’s just desperate. So that he can place pound after filthy pound to fuck you into the soaked sheets. 

Whining out, “Yeah please- fuck-”  Snapping his flexible body down until you were folded helplessly in half, every languid second is spent with such velvety ropes of cum being stuffed down to the bottom of your pussy. “Wan’ this forever- forever please-” Thick, stringy wads that stick and slide down your walls - that overspills when it’s too much for your snug channel to take. “W-want this…”

And just one look of his greedy gazy downwards And Choso’s gasping like he couldn’t even believe he could cum this much - couldn’t even believe he could stop at this point.

“Marry me-” he’s sputtering, eyes clearer with the sudden idea. As if he’s imagining it already. Hips shifting to lazy down his sloppy staccato into something more thorough. “B-be my wife- have my kids- please-” Something that has your toes curling with pleasure, branding every ridge and thumping vein down his shaft into your walls contorting around him. Hiccuping - little sobs curling at the back of his throat, “Please- please I need you to marry me-” 

It’s overspilling - adding to that little milky pool from below. He’s barely even thinking before swiping a hand through some of those creamy remnants of cum. Sucking. Taking your own - popping that ring finger of yours into his mouth.

Drool drips down the side of his sodden lips, moving to mewl softly. “D-did that really just happen?”

The words come out nothing but a whisper, strangled and strained from the very depths of his rumbling chest. And Choso’s peering down at you like you were everything - his softening cock sending sparks down his spine with every slight rub down your sopping wet folds. 

“Mhm–” your hands make their way down his pecs, rubbing over pert, pink nipples. Something that makes him let out a low shudder, reddened divot bursting in a few more wispy strings of seed. “N’ you did so hngh- good, Cho.”

“D-did I? Was I your oh- good boy?” he stutters, before letting out a keening pout. “B-but I need to have you cum, too, baby- need to have you cum-” And you’re so at his ravenous mercy when Choso swipes a wet thumb over and over down your throbbing clit. “-and then- then can we get married?”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - MESS!

“What the fuck-” The king of curses breathes - he heaves - like never before, even in that human form of his right now. “Wh-what the fuck have you done to me, woman-”

And all the foes in the world had nothing against your honeyed whines. Absolutely no match for the way your elastic walls were clinging around his throbbing cock so tight. No match for your cockdrunk babbling that drove him insane.

“Such a filthy mouth you h-have-” he groans, leering over his inhumanly powerful body to bend over yours. You’re gaping when one of his big, beefy arms jostle you upwards into a headlock. Even shapeshifted from his true form, he was still so strong. Spitting, “Do you dare to- fuck- move those pretty lips of yours n’ repeat those words back to me, brat.”

As if you could do anything else. 

“I-I said-” you’re choking out, panting in feverish gasps of the heady air. “-said I want you to c-cum inside-”

Oh. 

In a split-second, you’re feeling your tautly stretched walls expand to limits you weren’t even sure were possible. The very bottom of your pussy being ravaged with two circular brandings - two. Two matching rock-hard cocks jostling around you. 

And the stretch of Sukuna’s devilishly true form opening your cunt to its very limits is so maddening that it takes you a second to realize that the rest of him had shapeshifted, too. 

Suddenly bigger, suddenly more towering, suddenly the king of curses. 

His strong forearm curls even tighter around your throat, knocking the remaining gasps out of your lungs. “Seriously? L-look where talking outta ya slutty pussy hah- got me-” Sukuna chuckles. Deep and rumbling from his bulging pecs, “-c-can’t even hold a n-normal form- you made me do this- fuck-”

He was fucking you like it was your fault.

Solid inches upon inches that were bruising. And if you thought that Sukuna’s size was staggering in whatever human form he’d conjured up for the safety of your poor pussy - it was absolutely incredible with both his twin girthy cocks. Bigger, thicker. The slightest ruts and grinds into your gushing cunt having him knocking into your lungs, painting down a hefty load of steamy precum. 

Messy.

“Messy-” you hear a primal rumble from above you. Shit, did you say that out loud? Condensed breath heady and hot against your ear, “Heheh- you think this is m-messy, lil’ human? Wait until I-I- hah-”

“Y-you’re really gonna cum inside, Kuna?” you’re batting your teary lashes up at your king, a delirious smile smearing itself all over your face. 

Wobbling when his snapping hips purposefully slow down to mere gyrating squelches, every push and pull feeding your slobbery pussy languidly. You have him hypnotized, maw slacking open with every lazy drag of his heavy cocks back and forth back and forth back and- “Mhm- gonna fill ya up. Breed ya u-until you’re begging that ya can’t take it. Until y-you’re all round n’ glowing with my heirs.”

God. He was out of control.

“I-I can take it-” Your nails rake airily down his ever-tightening forearm - nothing but mere kitten scratches to Sukuna. “Promise Kuna- I can-”

“Tch- this damn naughty m-mouth of yours.” he smirks in a sleazy way - just about all that Sukuna can do to not let his voice break out in whimpers right now. All he can do to hold back his building high, curvaceous tips of his thickened cocks spazzing out tight, voluminous globs of wispy white. He’s covering your prattling mouth with one hand, “Take it then- take it- but ya better make an equal mess f’me. Heh-”

Even through your bleary mind, you already knew what he wanted - to have you squirt all down Sukuna’s weepy cocks. To make a mess. 

Always his favorite.

“Th-think ya can do that?” He snarls down at you, twiddling a few sopping wet digits to toy with your pulsing clit. Third and fourth arms snaking around your waist to keep from your pathetic scrambling. To stop your escape when his hips jackhammer away harder. “Can you- my queen?”

Oh, he cuts himself off with a whimper.

Because all of a sudden your gushing cunt is surging out in waves of translucent slick. It sticks to his rubbing cocks - and all the way to his washboard abs -like a gloss, stars behind your eyes when Sukuna’s fucking you through your high. Praises slipping out in a way that would’ve tarnished the king’s reputation if anyone found out.

But right now, he didn’t care. 

Not when he’s all but bursting from his bawling tips - such thick rivers of cum that knock mercilessly into your gummy spots. The force of both his fat heads streaming out relentlessly is enough to leave your forbidden sweet spots all bruised and battered. 

Inflating your snug channel until Sukuna only had to slide a hand down to about halfway down your abdomen, pressing down at that nudge. “Heh, s’right at h-home-” 

And now that he’s filled your pretty pussy with seed, Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t think it’s possible to cum anywhere else. With a shuddering hiss, he’s dragging his cocks out, spying down with hooded eyes at the way your sloppy entrance was molding and constrictign around him - like you were trying to milk the fucking soul out of him.

But Sukuna had other plans - plans that included letting his second tongue loll out, rough tastebuds sweeping a long lick down your leaky slit. Creamy cum trickling down the pinkish muscle, and he could feel his mouth grinning. Something he’s been wanting to do since he moment he fucking saw you.

“H-hey-” you’re turning your head to huff back at him. 

Smack!

“Ahh, stop yer whining-” Sukuna’s smoothing one hand down over the raised bumps of all five digits on your ass, another one of his hands guiding his fat bases to drive up your sopping crease. Pooling the milky remnants on his rotund tips. “-because m’not done breeding this cunt properly yet, my queen.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Limit(less)

“This time-” Gojo’s heaving out a dragging shudder, his face burying hotly within the tender crook of your neck. Spitting - panting, “This time this time- this- time-”

Oh, it’s been just about the same thing that he’s been babbling for the past few hours now. All that he can utter after so long of his sensitively overworked cock stuffing in and out over your overspilling cunt, flickers of jujutsu bolting with every sodden drag down your melty walls.

Truly, the strongest didn’t expect to be addicted the first time he filled your drooling pussy with thick globs of his seed - it was an accident, the first trial of trying to use limitless for its…unintended purposes. 

But right now, Gojo had absolutely no clue if this was the nth trial or whether he was simply addicted to breeding your pretty cunt.

“T-Toru–” Your fingers scramble backwards to bury in his snow locks - difficult, with the way that your boyfriend was wrangling you into a tight full nelson. Feeling the push and pull of thick cursed technique in the air - inside you. “-s’not gonna work.”

God, just the sear of your grip on his scalp is enough to have Gojo’s hips rutting up in a perfect curve off the plush king-size mattress. Fucking up into your cunt so thoroughly that you gasp at the syrupy slosh of his cum from before inside you. 

His hiccups, voice cracking into a whine at the very end. “D-do you hate me, sweetheart?”

“No?” you’re breathing out in exasperation. But shit, you underestimate just how crazed this tiniest sentiment would drive him, choking back a strangled cry of your name when he’s sending a buzzing smack! down to the hood of your plump cunt. “Fuck- why would you think-”

“Th-then let me use limitless as a- hah- condom, pretty girl-” he’s whining. And you jolt at the wet splatters of a few stimulated, pearlescent tears slipping their way out of Gojo’s eyes. “It’ll work- this time- m’the strongest- s’gonna hah- w-work- a-and if not m’jus’ breedin’ my girl’s cute cunt, r-right?”

But even as he’s prattling on and on about this, you’re feeling the flickering falter of jujutsu around Gojo’s hefty girth. Molding your gummy walls taut around his fat circumference, your spine arches with electricity. 

“Heheh-” Goosebumps prickle down your spine at the high, humorless bout of laughter at your ear - and you crane your head to look at Gojo. Sure that he’s lost it. Already wondering just how high the kill count would be. “-didn’t think th-this pretty pussy of yours would have me so ruined, sweetheart.”

And truly - he sounded like it. 

He looked like it, with his rosy lips ajar, those cerulean eyes watery and half-lidded. Glowing with power and tiny shivers of lighting at every sodden kiss to the bullseye of your g-spot. Clashing over and over in a wet push and pull, Gojo thinks that he could almost feel the rotund indentations of his curved tip right on your sweetest spots. 

“Looks like y-you’re the one ruining me- Toru-” you whine. “Just look-”

Drunkenly, Gojo’s lolling his head to the sound of your voice. Not even looking, barely even thinking - that is, until he sees.

And Gojo can’t help but let out a slew of honeyed, pathetically cracking profanities at the heavenly sight below. Pale forearms stretching out your trembly thighs even more shamefully wide to get an even closer look. 

Of your quivering hole winking up at him glisteningly, coating his fat hilt a creamy ring of white from so many of his failed attempts. Your saturatedly wet pussy lips were practically gulping up all of his heavy inches, slobbering a slow trail of drool down the side of his strawberry pink shaft and onto his twitchy balls. Needy. 

And if Gojo’s limitless protection was unsteady before then-

“Shit-” Gojo takes in a shuddering gasp, slender digits falling down to plant a wet smack! on the very middle of your bulging slit - as if all of this was your fault. “Shit shit shit shit- I-I can’t- oh-” Sharp canines sinking down so hard into your skin that you think he might break through. Just about all that’s keeping Gojo tethered to reality when his limitless shatters. “Oh god. Th-think s’gonna be another b-baby…”

All the way into a zillion pieces of nothingness and-

And then he’s cumming. 

Cumming so hard that the dim lamps by the side of your bed flickers. Then explodes. 

Pouring out such steaming hot piles of his cum - once. Twice. Before his swollen, overwhelmed balls are clenching and then he’s shooting nothing but pathetic blanks. 

It takes you a second to register the sudden darkness - all across Tokyo, in fact. You’re gasping, “O-oh, Toru did you-”

“Run out-” he’s giggling. Giggling. “Fuck you m-made me- hah- really milked me dry, didn’t ya- Spread those pretty legs a bit more, pretty girl. Let me see.” All five rounded pads of his fingers are bruising on your thigh when Gojo’s splaying them out to confirm the sputtering way his cock was driving into you. “Can’t- can’t believe- no way, baby m’supposed t-to fill you up-”

Shit, he was babbling out his true intentions so stupidly. But luck was on his side, because with a final, jujutsu-sheened swat at your cunt, the buzzing power finally sends you over the edge. 

Crashing headfirst into waves upon waves of white-hot pleasure, the engulfing goodness made you squeal. And it made Gojo grit his teeth with a low whimper at the way the simple clenching convulse of your gripping walls wrapped around his cock made him twitch in another dry orgasm. Another. And another. 

God, his first - well, not quite first - time cumming inside you and he’s already so fucked out.

Yet, despite it all, Gojo could almost count it a success…almost. 

“S-sweetheart, y’know Yaga always taught us that science experiments have hah- twenty-five trials, right?”

“...”

A/N. Gojo’s so annoying I love him.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[love-toxin]

MEAT - thomas hewitt (leatherface)

a/n: i had to be a little silly ehe <- delusional

(cws: fem!reader, DDDNE, extreme violence, blood, gore, broken bones, a whole array of weaponry, domestic abuse, forced relationship, evolution of victim -> perpetrator, psychological torture, mentions of very dubious consent, breeding, huge size difference, ownership marking, protective tommy, implied cannibalism, unnamed victims of the tcm.)

wc: 10.7k

Lungs burning in your chest with the humid Texas heat, you forced the corn stalks aside as you stumbled through them in a frantic sprint. Each leathery pod whacked against your shoulders, your hands, your chest, and your bruised-up legs, but you wouldn't stop for nothing.

You couldn't stop. The people you'd hitchhiked with were all dead, or at least very well on their way to being so–they had been hunted one by one, by bear traps and shotguns and hay hooks, and you were sure you were the only one the family were left hunting. It'd taken all night to spread you thin and weaken you all with sadistic tortures of every kind. Now your group was down to one. You. Hauling ass was not enough to describe how frantically you were tumbling through the crop field, practically hand-over-foot crawling with how dizzy you'd gotten. Blood loss and a few hits to the head would do that to you.

Finally, the maize parted one last time to spit you out into the dewy grass, the labyrinth of sameness finally coming to an end. But when you tilted your head up to the starry night sky, your heart dropped into your feet at what laid before you. The farmhouse. You'd run in the wrong direction. Warm light glowed from within the drapery behind the windows and you spotted the older woman standing on the porch, a rag tucked between her hands as she called out a name. Terrified and hoping for the blessing of going unseen you army crawled your way right back to the corn–

Thunk. Only halfway there, the grass split with the force of a sledgehammer dropping into it. A boot stepped into view right by your head; attached to it was an enormous calf, and your eyes trailed upwards slowly to reveal the whole of that crazed maniac you'd seen manhandling the others into that house of horrors across the lawn.

Greasy hair hung down in long tresses, wary eyes pierced into your skull, an apron sat snug around his midriff stained with dark blood. Up close, you could listen to the way he breathed heavy through the mask that obscured his lower jaw, only the bridge of his nose and his forehead visible through it. He stunk of sweat, rot, and fresh meat. His weighty hand tightened round the handle of the hammer he'd set down, veins popping out with the sheer size and strength of his enormous, hulking body.

“Tommy!” The woman's voice cracked out in the night, the name finally ringing clear enough for you to hear. His head whipped around to the source and he stared in her direction; you watched her turn a blind eye to your predicament in the grass and step back inside the house. It felt as though your heart might burst in that moment, the fear and tension running through you like a taut wire about to snap in two.

The giant grunted overhead. You looked back at him again and squeezed your fists against the dirt, expecting him to lift that hammer and crush your skull into the ground with it. But upon resting his palm on the blunt end of it, the monster instead used it to lower himself to one knee. With a hand outstretched, he slowly, carefully brushed your damp hair aside, and pressed his fingertips firmly into your cheek. You shuddered as they moved downwards, probing around the soft spot beneath your ear and the curve of your jaw. He tilted your chin back and slid his whole, grubby hand down your neck…and with the most tentative squeeze around your throat, you swallowed and he all but jumped back. Your skin ran cool again as his warm hand ripped away from you, but with just as much hesitation he grazed your lips with his knuckles and trailed them across your forehead, leaving smudges of wet blood behind.

“Tommy!” A harsher voice tore through the quiet night, yanking his attention away from you again. The sheriff–the fake sheriff, that is–came stomping up from around the back of the barn, the shotgun hanging at his side causing you enough panic to scramble to your knees. But you wouldn't get far. Not even a couple feet. Your body hit the earth within moments of you climbing to your feet, and you heaved out a pained moan at the mountain of weight that pinned you down and crushed you underneath him. The giant had thrown himself forward and taken you down without thinking twice; his beefy arm came around your neck and tightened, his muscles flexing under the coarse fabric of his shirt for him to hold you in place.

“Attaboy, Tommy.” The older man came around his side as you struggled, clawing at the bicep that was crushing your windpipe with barely any effort. The sheriff kicked your flailing leg with a holler, cackling at the way you squirmed under his nephew's brute strength. “Stupid bitch. Gonna learn your lesson now, aint'cha?”

Dying squeaks for mercy escaped your throat, your words barely tinged with any discernible syllables. Thomas’ grip only grew tighter. Your arms went slack, then your legs slowed to a trembling halt…and before long your head slumped forward as you passed into unconsciousness, hoping to god this would be the last time you woke up in this sweltering Texas hell.

Clink. Clink. Clink. The chatter of voices melted into the gentle clatter of silverware. It wasn't the sounds that stirred you from your sleep rife with nightmares, though–it was the sliver of a sunbeam cast through the window that shone gently on your face. You blinked blearily as your head lolled in a stuttered circle, slowly and quietly coming to. Clink. Clack. Eyelids cracked half-open, you raised your head up despite the weight of a pounding headache, and watched a pair of wrinkled hands set down a teacup on a saucer in front of you.

Although there was much to see, you instantly turned your gaze to the woman you'd seen on the porch. Your nerves jittered and you flinched as she reached out to touch you, but it passed with her gentle shushing as she tenderly caressed your cheek. The age showed in creases all across her face, her eyes soft but wet with something terribly uneasy behind them.

“Such a pretty girl,” She crooned, a smile like nothing had happened plastered across her face. The eagerness with which she watched you unsettled you to your very core, but it would be second to the nightmare that was waiting to explode on you across the table. “I always wanted a little girl. Never seen one so pretty.” Despite the sweetness of her words, a shift of your hand rattled the chair you'd been tied to; both wrists buckled under the tough ropes used to bind you, indented where you could see dry blood crusted over the fibers. Either you moved a lot in your sleep, or someone really wanted to punish you for trying to get away.

As tenderly as if she was your own mother, the lady brought your teacup up and tilted it for you to drink, which gave you a moment to let your eyes wander. With a glance around you took a mental sweep of the place. Your chair sat at the end of a dining table, and aside from the woman you spotted two other older men; the frightening man with the shotgun, and an elderly man in a wheelchair. Framed photos hung around the room against peeling wallpaper, and aside from a decent amount of clutter and antique decorations of a house long lived in, nothing struck you as out of the ordinary from the cutlery to the frayed rug that cushioned your bare feet.

The aging woman tottered around the table to pick up a plate and slid a few eggs on from a saucepan in the middle. That and a few strips of bacon made their way down to your placemat, still sizzling.

“Why're you givin’ this bitch special treatment, mama?” The fake sheriff glared you down from his seat at the head of the table, spitting off to the side with his hands still clasped in front of him. “Already got enough mouths to feed.”

“Hush.” She finally snapped, and gestured with the spatula still in hand. “This is your fault. You wanna play sheriff so bad, Charlie.”

“It's Hoyt, mama, for god's sake!”

“Don't you cuss at me!” The old woman warned, aiming the spatula right at his chest.

“U-Um,” You whimpered softly, and drew the attention of all three of the frightening strangers, who turned their heads in your direction. The focus on you made you falter, but the problem at hand was far more pressing than fear. “Th-The rope…please..” You managed to squeak out, and only then did they seem to notice your hands were changing colours. They were so tight the blood wasn't circulating, and you feared even a few moments more of the ache would result in something very unpleasant in the near future, especially when you knew there was a chainsaw floating around here somewhere.

Just then, the floorboards creaked at your back. Too afraid to turn your head you only shifted your gaze, and in your peripheral you saw it. Two thick, fat-fingered hands reaching downwards to tug at the binds round your wrist. For someone so huge, he made short work of untying you even without the aid of one of the knives scattered round the table settings. The rope loosened and dropped to the floor in a coil like a dead snake, but as he reached over you to undo the other–and you got a whiff of soap amidst his sweat in the process–the man naming himself Hoyt grumbled and slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the plates and silverware.

“Goddammit, boy–what'd I say? We ain't keepin’ her, for Christ sakes!”

“Watch your mouth!” The woman–mama–shrieked, and her fist shook as she dumped the spatula down on the table with a thunk. The other cuff came loose and you released a sigh of relief as you touched your wrists, wincing at the open cuts that had only half dried over. And while the two continued to bicker about one thing or another, a great shifting of clothes and a thump beside you caught your gaze. Thomas, the giant that you'd watched haul the others off to the slaughter, had knelt down by your chair like a dog and still came up to eye level. God, he was just massive. Somehow it made him less intimidating though, since he looked at you like he was waiting for scraps from your plate. It was somewhat pathetic, but…endearing? Was that a word you could even consider using for a maniac like him, or was it beyond all common logic to even think of him in such pleasant terms?

“A-Are you…hungry?” You whispered, only to be met with a slow shake of his head. Thomas raised a melon-sized arm and pushed the plate closer to you, as if to say ‘eat up, it's getting cold’. Emboldened by his tender gesture, you shakily plucked your fork off the placemat and leaned in to examine the bacon. It looked like…bacon. Hot, crunchy, cut in strips like you would see any day in the supermarket. Still, you tentatively went for the eggs first, and raised the tiniest bit to your mouth as the two older ones finally managed to settle down whatever argument they'd been having.

“Boys, time to say grace.” Suddenly flushed hot with embarrassment, you lowered your fork in an instant and followed their lead. You bowed your head with them, listened to mama say her standard prayers of thanks–and then, when everyone else began to eat, you cautiously lifted the bite to your lips and chewed thoughtfully. It felt like forever for you to discern whether or not it was normal, if it tasted like it should, but after a while of chewing you had to relent to the fact that it didn't taste abnormal, so it was about as fine as you could expect. You ate in silence alongside them, but just when you pondered whether the food might be drugged or other awful possibilities, the sheriff cleared his throat and drew your attention to him once again.

“Now,” Mama scowled at him, but he continued to speak nonetheless. “You got two options here, kid: eat, or be eaten. Them's the laws of life.” He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, readying himself to say more, but an interruption came with a grunt from your side. Hoyt raised a hand and waved the wordless concern off. “Don't you mouth off, boy. Gettin’ to it.”

You shifted your gaze to Thomas, who only nudged your plate closer to you to urge you into eating more. Something gnawed at the back of your mind. Their behavior was so strange, the looks exchanged even stranger–there was something that wasn't being said, like a plan was brewing right under your nose.

“See here, this is how it is. You got choices. Now, my nephew here happens to like you,” His honeyed southern drawl couldn't hope to mask the hopelessness that stirred in you at those words. “Ugly as sin, but he's a good enough boy, ain't that right?” He looked to Thomas, but the ‘boy’ in question stared right at you when he nodded. “So you choose. You wanna eat-”

“I'll eat,” The answer flew from your mouth without hesitation, so much so that even the most uninterested of folks around the table caught your gaze. Your breath hitched in your bruised throat. “I'll eat, I swear. I'll eat.”

“Mm-hm.” Hoyt eyed you and nodded. Something about the way he watched you made you feel overexposed, like your skin had been stripped raw from the bone and he was peering into every inch underneath. “Fine then. Whore's all yours, Tommy-boy.”

At those words, your world shifted with a violent blur of motion. Before you could even gasp there were huge, strong hands under your armpits, and you were lifted out of your seat like a child who weighed less than nothing. You'd be thanking yourself later that you at least polished off most of your plate, because aside from an accidental thump of your foot hitting the table on the way by, you wouldn't be touching the rest of your breakfast again. Thomas slung you over his shoulder and cradled your lower half in the crook of an enormous arm, and with a shriek you felt yourself being carried off by the giant and taken away into another world.

The basement.

It had been a month and a half since you'd been taken in, now. Life had gone on despite you vanishing from the world you knew, and regardless of whether or not you woke up each morning and wondered why you were still kept alive, the earth continued to turn. Time went on and you adjusted, albeit shakily, to the routine of a life in the backcountry of rural Texas. You learned to help on the farm and Luda Mae, or momma as you were taught to call her, passed on her generations-old knowledge of cookery and cleaning and caring for the household. Sometimes you'd get driven out with momma and one of the uncles to tend the store, but that was on the rare side since they didn't trust the locals not to mess with you. Pretty things like you didn't come by often and you had values to uphold, now.

Plus, you had a man at home. Tommy was the reason you survived that awful first night, but now it was expected that he was also the reason you kept on living.

The rest of the family kept out of your business together for the most part, but you'd long been perplexed by the dynamic that had ensued since you'd first arrived. For as hulking and strong of a beast he was, you came to find out that Tommy's appearance was a shell that sheltered a soft-natured, sensitive boy at heart. His penchant for murder was not so, rather it was a duty carried out regardless of will in the service of a family he was lucky to have, despite you certainly thinking otherwise. He liked to work, and eat, and make things. His rage could certainly be a problem, but it was a rare thing that only cropped up once in a great while. He would endure more than ten times a normal person before he finally snapped, and even then he wouldn't ever let you see it. The few times he got mad, he would stomp out to the barn or head to the now-abandoned slaughterhouse, and take out his aggression on the thing he knew best. Meat. And most of the time it was a beating from Hoyt or a few too many bouts of yelling before he felt the need to get away.

After all, it wasn't anger that led his interactions with you. It was odd; he'd pointed you out specifically as the one he wanted to keep, but he seldom showed any entitlement in taking whatever it was he wanted from you. He'd lean in for kisses but most of the time he missed anyways. You weren't exactly sure what you could call your one occasion of intimacy with him that you recalled, because he didn't ask if you wanted it, but you didn't really tell him outright that you didn't. Would it have even mattered? Maybe not. But he barely managed to find the hole he was looking for anyways, and by the time he did it was obvious he had no clue what he was doing. Fumbling hands and a bit of awkward thigh-humping later and he'd finally left you be, albeit soaked and sticky with sweat and the residue he'd clumsily left behind on your bare stomach. Since then, it'd been just a few fingers on your thighs and some tame through-the-mask kisses, nothing more.

Not that you should really be questioning the love of a serial chainsaw butcher, but as the days passed it grew harder to see him in that light alone. You witnessed too much of the deformed, mentally-disturbed man who refused to eat before you did, who wouldn't lay a hand on you like he'd had laid on him all his life. Thomas showed affection in odd ways but they were more endearing than you thought they would be, from picking you flowers off the side of the road to cleaning up the small room you shared so you'd feel more at home. Sometimes his arousal would grow against your back while you laid in his arms, but a bit of shuddered hip-rocking through your pajamas while he thought you were asleep and the moment would pass. He was pretty easy to please.

There came a time when new visitors drove through town, however, and you knew what was going to happen as soon as Hoyt came home and called for Tommy to come upstairs. You stood at the sink washing dishes while you peered through the window; out in front of the same cornfield you'd crawled out of nearly two months ago, a van sat parked next to Hoyt's stolen Dodge. You watched with your breath held tight in your throat as five people hopped out the sliding door one by one, all seemingly chipper for where they were. Three girls, two guys. Their sunbleached hair and fancy beach clothes said all you needed to know about what type of people they were. One of the girls had a pendant hanging round her neck that caught the light just right, and you found yourself staring at it as it jostled against her sweat-soaked collarbone.

Chnk, thuuunk. At the sound of the basement door sliding open you turned your head, and there stood Tommy in the kitchen. Quiet as ever he came walking up and placed his thick hand on your head. The look in his burning eyes said it all. “Everything's okay. Don't fret.” He touched your hair a moment until Hoyt's voice rang out again, and with a silent huff he stepped away and made his way out to the lawn.

The light in each and every one of their eyes left the moment they spotted him approaching. One of the girls even grabbed her friend’s arm, stepping behind him halfway out of fear of the hulking giant that couldn't sleep without cuddling you at night. A dish slipped from your hand into the sink and splashed you, but as you pulled a rag from your apron pocket to dry the counter a bang and a high-pitched scream cut through the peaceful din of your quiet afternoon. You hopped up to see what was happening, but struggled to piece together the aftermath of the last five seconds.

On the ground lay one of the girls with a cavernous opening in the back of her head, collapsed in a steadily-growing pool of her own blood. Her lifeless eyes stared through you from across the lawn, they pierced into your very soul as she choked listlessly on her own blood, and you dropped to your knees behind the counter. Hands clamped over your mouth, you heaved each breath and hoped not to puke all over the freshly-mopped floor. Momma would have a fit if you ruined your own hard work.

Blind to whatever senselessness resided in their screams, you held back the churning of your stomach on your own bruised knees while the two of them took care of the rest. Within a few minutes you'd managed to pull yourself back up on shaky feet and finish washing the dishes. Within the hour, Tommy and Uncle Hoyt had gathered up the remaining survivors and taken them in. Two in the barn, one in the guest bedroom…and one locked up in the basement.

“Momma?” You called out softly into the hallway, wiping your fingers on your apron. Your chores for the day were finished, and the sun was starting to set on the horizon. Now would usually be the time you headed out to the chicken coop to lock it up, but with new visitors around, you didn't know the protocol. The last time this happened was…well, you didn't like to think about it.

“Down here, darlin’.” Luda Mae popped her head out from the living room, and you hurried down the hall with your skirt fluttering around your legs. All your dresses were pretty modest and most of them were out of a trunk stored up in the attic, since momma had a whole collection of clothes she'd worn in her younger days that she figured would suit a young lady just fine. When you stepped in, you weren't expecting to see what you saw lying on the couch near uncle Monty's favourite spot.

It was one of the guys from the hippie van. His long hair had been soaked with blood and he was gagged, his face sporting bruises from an undoubtedly rough encounter with uncle Hoyt, who stood on the opposite side of the living room glaring at him.

“Fucker tried to escape.” He sniffed, nursing a bloody nose with a hanky as he spoke with momma. “Other one's putzin’ around somewhere. You two keep an eye out, you hear me?” He pointed in your direction and you nodded out of instinct. Your eyes flicked towards the bound man on the couch as he made muffled noises of panic, but he was soon silenced by Hoyt whacking him over the head with the butt of his shotgun before he left to continue the search. Meanwhile, uncle Monty sat in his wheelchair unbothered, listening to the radio as it played on the windowsill and reading without a care in the world.

“Momma-” You tried again, but she turned to you with gentle eyes and gripped your shoulders lightly.

“Go clean up the kitchen for me, sweetheart?” She asked in earnest, and the plea you had to beg her not to make you take part died on your lips.

“Yes, momma.”

“That's my good girl.” Your hands fell at your sides, while she petted your hair lovingly and turned you away from the scene, patting you on the back as she ushered you back towards the kitchen. Blowing your hair out of your eyes, you resigned yourself to at least being a bystander to the horrors that were about to come, and made your way down the hall with your arms crossed over your chest in contemplation. Was there nothing you could do? No way to get out of playing a part, or at least ensuring they wouldn't ask? You had no doubts that you didn't have the stomach to do anything to the visitors, but then again, momma didn't have to do much either. Maybe you'd be saved by the tradition that dictated the six generations-deep household, and be regulated to the homely chores you'd tended to since first becoming a part of the family.

As you pushed through the door that led into the kitchen, the sounds of pots and pans clattering already grabbed your attention. It would be too late to do anything, however–because before you could even take a breath, someone's chest hit your back and there was a knife pinned to your throat.

“Don't you fucking move!” An unfamiliar voice whispered harshly in your ear. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase on the hand he had at your neck, but he jolted and the blade sunk deeper into your skin, causing you to cry out–and immediately be hushed by the stranger now holding you hostage. The bruising grip he had on your wrist now moved to clamp over your mouth, his body moving with you as you struggled in a momentary panic. Despite his warning, you brought your elbow backwards and loosened his grip on the knife as he choked in pain, throwing his arms off you as you stumbled forward and tripped over one of the dining chairs. Your skirt ripped as he tried to grab ahold of you again, but in his scramble to pick his weapon back up you kicked it away; and that was when fear truly started to pulse through your limbs like a heartbeat, when he glared daggers into you with a murderous rage, and you cried out the one name through tears that came to mind.

“Tommy!” You sobbed, crawling away and trying to use the table to hoist yourself up, only to be kicked down again with a harsh shoe planted in the middle of your spine. Coughs ripped through your lungs as they seized in desperation, the wind having been knocked clean from your chest, and the sticky wetness of blood started pooling under your chin from hitting the floor face-first. Your nose wept with scarlet-red blood into your trembling palm, but that realization couldn't come close to the terror you felt at being grabbed by your hair and painfully lifted up off the ground.

“You fucking bitch!” He screamed, voice hoarse and frighteningly loud so close to your face. “I'll kill you–I'll kill all you psycho motherfuckers!” He brought the knife so close to your heart you felt it cutting through the air–but before he could bring it anywhere near your skin, a muffled thump from close by yanked him right to attention. He turned his head frantically towards the source, and you took the opportunity afforded to you. You brought your foot up hard into his groin, and released his grip on you for the second time for you to drop to the floor in a heap. Your dress smeared the blood you'd left on the pristine, freshly-mopped floorboards as you shuffled away from him, fearing the worst of retaliation from the panicked, indignant captive.

That is, until the thumping grew so loud you heard it clearly coming up the stairs, and without so much as a hint of ceremony your savior burst through the kitchen door; his eyes wild, his fists clenched with indomitable rage. His gaze swept over the scene to you, so small compared to him, huddled in the corner between the cabinets with a blood and tear-stained face. What could only be described as a growl erupted from his broad chest, and he grabbed the legs of your hunched-over assailant and dragged him closer between his feet.

“No!” He cried, but it was far past too late. Tommy grabbed him by the back of his head, yanked him upwards to the height of his shins, and slammed the guy's head so hard into the floor that you could hear the sickening crack of his skull. Dazed but still semi-conscious, he fumbled for the knife he dropped or for anything that could save him, but it wouldn't be enough even so. With his nose ten times as smashed up as he'd done to you and his eye sockets bruised, Tommy's grip trembled on his head like he was considering whether or not to end him right here, right now. Evidently he figured that would be too easy, and before your very eyes he hauled the man up and carried him screaming down into the basement, where you heard the thwacks of him being cuffed down to the workbench before footsteps came echoing back upstairs. He found you in the same spot, still shaking like a leaf, and pushed the table aside to waste as little time as possible getting to you.

“Tommy..” You winced, touching your own face for your fingers to come back bloody. He knelt down like a mountain sinking into the sea and felt around your neck, his concerns for the shallow slash you'd gotten in the struggle that you hadn't even noticed was bleeding. He grunted in reply; one hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, while two meaty fingers lightly pinched the sore bridge of your nose. Knowing what he was about to do wouldn't make it hurt any less, but you still gave him the go-ahead to do it anyways–he forced the bone back with a gut-churning twist, and you squealed out in pain, but it was momentary and the ache that followed was a dull one, thank god.

But still, you sat with a face full of blood and bruises and cried, half out of pain and half out of pure misery. This wasn't the life you wanted to lead, and you hated that you had no choice in the matter. You wanted to go but you knew it would mean the end, and you hated that whenever you thought of all the things you despised about this life, your mind would always wander to Tommy and you'd feel guilt over hurting him or leaving him behind. You hated it all, but somehow you couldn't really hate him, and it left you trapped in this cycle that you loathed to think would never, ever end.

While the tears continued to streak down your face, Tommy took to patting your cheeks gently. He held them and squeezed them carefully, so tender and cautious when it was you that was the meat between his destructive hands. He moved in close, his breathing hot and stifled beneath the mask he never took off in front of you. His head tilted, tongue wetting his lips in anticipation, and he-

“Boy!” Uncle Hoyt roared as he burst through the kitchen door, alerting you both and tearing Tommy's reverent gaze away from you. He stood fast and took you with him, your elbows cupped in his rough hands as he hauled you singlehandedly to your feet. “You find that fucker yet?!” He swung his shotgun around and you flinched at the way he aimed it so carelessly. The ‘boy’ in question tucked you under his arm out of habit and shielded you almost entirely with the sheer enormity of his titan-esque frame. Wordlessly, he gestured towards the direction of the basement door with your trembling self still pinned tightly to his chest. The pseudo-sherriff narrowed his eyes at the both of you, namely the blood caking your otherwise pretty face, and scoffed. “Hose her down, Jesus almighty..” He muttered that last blasphemy under his breath as he moved past out the back door, leaving the two of you wide-eyed and uncertain; his arm squeezing you tight against him, and your calloused fingers digging into his dirty sleeve as the crickets chirped outside the screen door.

“You..” You swallowed dryly. The words came to you when no others did the same justice. “You're a good boy, Tommy. You did a good job.”

Your praise hit his ears just right, as it always did. Tommy nuzzled his face into yours just so gently, barely grazing your skin with the damp leather as he tended to your wounds. With your broken nose already re-set, he rummaged through the drawers around you without taking his hand off your arm, sparing little time before his hand clasped around a roll of familiar gauze and he nudged the drawer closed. Though it was shallow enough to have stopped bleeding already, he wrapped some around your neck for the cut that would surely leave a scar, and used a clean rag to mop up your face with a bit of water from the tap. As he moved down your body to your waist, clearly concerned by the generous bloodstain marring your pretty, cotton dress, something caught his eye that froze him in place and sent a throbbing anger right into his dense fists. Worried, you set your hand on his shoulder, but it would do no good at comforting him after what he saw.

Your skirt. Torn like it had been yanked apart, desperately, and it had. Was he worried you'd be upset over the damage? You wondered for a passing moment, but as his fists shook with rage and your dresses’ hem balled within them you knew it to be a different reason entirely. He thought–

Oh. So that's what he thought. You sought to comfort his fears but he'd had enough. Your delicate hands tugging at his mammoth arms made barely a dent in his intense march towards the basement, your begging too saccharine to even reach his ears. He walked with purpose into the hallway, wrenched open the sliding door with a force that bent it slightly, and with a palm outstretched to ward you off from following, he slammed it shut with an enormous bang that rattled the whole house. Standing there in shock and horror, you listened to his footsteps pounding the stairs before turning away and heading back towards the kitchen.

You had quite the mess to clean up in there, and there was nothing better to distract yourself from the howling screams of agony that would persist until dinnertime.

Maybe this was exactly how awkward it was when you'd been sat in that familiar chair. You remembered little of your first meal, the very first breakfast of many you would share with the family that had adopted you in to their home.

This was a lot less…friendly, though. Out of the five people who had arrived, two of them were dead. The one that had attacked you in the kitchen had grown silent in the basement. The other two–the hippy with the long hair and a redheaded girl–had their wrists bound to two chairs diagonal from each other. The guy sat at the very end where you'd once been, and the girl to his right with tears streaming down her cheeks, sobbing softly as you filled everyone's bowls. Luckily for you, Monday was chicken soup night, so you had no worries over what kind of meat Hoyt would want to prepare for the special occasion. You'd been the only one to stir the pot, and the only one who made it at all for every Monday that rolled around. It had quickly become Tommy’s favourite, hence why he was only a few minutes late to arrive outside the dining room for dinner. Though you could tell that he'd barely cleaned up, his apron and his pants still soaked liberally with clotted blood.

“Hands?” You questioned, your ladle poised over the pot of hot soup, and waited until the hulking giant tentatively stepped in the doorway to hold out his massive hands for inspection. When it was your turn to cook, you learned that you held the authority over the table for that evening. So you rarely followed the lead of uncle Hoyt or the others, and wouldn't wait until after grace to invite Tommy into the room. You checked over his knuckles–bruised, but scrubbed clean–and only then did you nod towards the seat you saved for him and waited until he settled uncertainly into the chair to pour him a bowl and set it down in front of him.

If not for the whimpering captives at the table, it would be a better-than-average night. You'd improved on your recipe with a bit of creative seasoning, and the night had cooled off considerably to offer a bit of respite from the oppressive heat. You led grace, and smoothing out your fresh dress to fan out under your thighs as you sat, the table commenced with clinking spoons and bread being buttered that you thanked the stars hadn't gotten stale yet. Though of course, the unexpected visitors weren't so keen on your homemade cooking and didn't so much as look down at their bowls.

Tommy was too distracted to be frustrated by it, though. With his head dipped down to the table like a mutt, he slurped up his soup through the mask and chewed noisily on bits of chicken and corn. You'd saved the biggest roll for him and he tore into it like it was nothing, ripping chunks of bread off with his teeth and enthusiastically gulping down broth to wash it down. You hadn't even had time to butter his bread for him first like you usually did, but it pleased you to see him enjoying your cooking even more than usual.

“Please,” A wobbly voice pricked at the tense silence. The redheaded girl pulled at her restraints again, shaking the table in the process. “We didn't do anything…please, please, let us go!” She sobbed, wailing even louder as she thrashed against the stiff arms of the old chair.

“C'mon, man! We won't tell anyone, swear!” The hippie chimed in, only for Hoyt to slam his fist down on the table to silence the whining of his two captives.

“Shut the hell up!” He snarled, whipping out a revolver from his holster to point at each one of them. “Had enough of your shit today. Shut your mouths.” He motioned towards his still-bloodied nose, and endured yet another scolding from momma for cussing at the table as he tucked the gun back into its place. You peered over at the two of them, but regret came immediately when the hippie's green eyes locked on yours like he saw a glimmer of hope within them. You forced your gaze back down to your bowl. You couldn't be their saviour, no matter how much they wanted you to be.

“Lovely soup, sweetheart.” Momma smiled over at you, while uncle Monty nodded quietly in agreement.

“Mm-hm. Momma taught you all her secrets, eh?” Hoyt added with a slurp off his spoon, the irritation from earlier having vanished. You thanked them politely, keeping your pride to yourself at the coveted praise directed your way. In a household where anything could go wrong at any time, you had to hold the good things as tight to your chest as you possibly could.

From beside you, Tommy lifted his head from an empty bowl and sighed softly with satisfaction. The remnants of spilled soup dribbled down his mask and his grimy neck, so with your own cloth napkin you reached over and did the job that was normally momma's; you wiped his face clean with a gentle hand, and he sat still for one of the only people he didn't flinch away from when you touched him.

“Good, Tommy?” He wasn't used to being asked his opinion, much less on something as scarce as food, when you didn't have much choice on what you ate. He nodded slowly, looking at you like you held the world as you finished wiping up the mess he'd left on the table.

Just then, one of the captives–maybe both of them–kicked their legs out in frustration, and shifted the table with a jolt that sent hot soup splashing out of the pot. The redhead's bowl tipped over and dumped her untouched meal all over her lap, but the porcelain shattering as it hit the floor wasn't what had Tommy rising out of his seat.

Wasteful. That's what they were. Insulting your cooking. You saw it in Tommy's eyes as anger overwhelmed him again, and for the second time tonight your reassurances weren't enough to halt him in his tracks. His chair legs scraped the floor loudly as he got up and maneuvered around the table, the tense quiet peppered by the screams of the girl as he grabbed the back of her head and slammed it down into the slick tabletop. Not nearly as hard as he'd done to the other guy, but enough so that he brought her back up with a nose gushing blood and a harsher sob on her lips.

“You teach her a lesson, Tommy!” Hoyt eagerly encouraged the violence, but you reached your hand out over the table and pressed your palm flat against her forehead. At the resistance you gave her, Tommy's grip grew slack and a look of panic came over him at the distress etched clear on your face. He looked conflicted, peering over at Hoyt and then back at you. Was he being bad, or being good? Was what he was doing right, or was it wrong? Hoyt started shouting and cussing at you for stopping him, but Tommy skirted back around the table to your side and put himself between you and his furious uncle. A swat to the back of the head wasn't totally uncommon for you, even if it didn't happen often, but the punishments Tommy received were always far worse. The belt or a two-by-four were considered light work in Hoyt's sadistic mind, but after what you'd been through today you were certain Tommy wouldn't be keen on letting you endure any more pain. He would take punishments and beatings for you whenever he had the chance–sometimes Hoyt had even asked him what he preferred, and not once had he put you up for the chopping block if he could take it for you.

“Enough of this shit!” Hoyt finally roared. He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the basement and shoved both you and Tommy towards it. “Take these sons a’ bitches downstairs, and don't come up until they're meat!”

Both of the captives shrieked and flailed in their chairs at his demand, but you managed to undo their binds despite the struggling and let Tommy haul each one up in his arms; one over his shoulder, and one tucked up under his armpit. Your heartbeat thudded in your throat as you followed Tommy's lead towards the stairs, and when it came time to shut the door, you had to swallow your fear with a gulp as the metal scraped on metal and a heavy thunk pitched you into darkness.

The only times you'd watched Tommy work before was when he'd taken you to the slaughterhouse. It was an aging, now-abandoned building that had seen generations of hard workers come and go, and despite it no longer being in business he still came by to do some work when he wasn't needed for chores at the house. You weren't sure why he didn't usually take you along or why he decided to on those few occasions, but regardless of the stench, the blood, and the intensity of chopping and cleaning meat, it was easy to tell that Tommy was good at it. Real good.

It was a little different today. About a week had passed since the visitors came through town, and by now all five of them were taken care of. You'd barely eaten since you couldn't stomach the fresh meat, and with you excusing yourself to throw up that first dinner after you'd had guests, the rest of the family had been looking down on you. Momma was sad for you, and Monty was mostly indifferent when he wasn't straight up disappointed in you. But Hoyt was vindictive and angry. He thought you were turning your back on the family, judging them, acting “all high and mighty” and worst of all, risking your family's safety. You'd gotten caught leaving the locks loose on the two survivors' shackles, and they'd nearly escaped out the basement before Hoyt caught both of them in the cornfield and finally shot them dead.

You swore it was an accident. Hoyt thought otherwise. He would've killed you right then and there if Tommy hadn't stepped in for you, and even then the air had been strained in the house ever since, as uncle Hoyt demanded you be properly punished for your sins.

That's why you'd been dragged along with Tommy to accompany him to the slaughterhouse. By the end of the day, Hoyt wanted a proper apology–one in the form of a bloody limb, an organ, or maybe just your head on a platter as recompense for betraying your family. And worst of all, he wanted Tommy to be the one to do it, to decide what would be a fitting price for you to pay. To ‘grow some balls and be a man’, as Hoyt put it so delicately.

But since morning, he'd just been chopping meat. Tommy hadn't even looked at you the whole time you'd been here, not even on the walk down the side of the road to get here in the first place. He'd picked you up under your arms and sat you up on the table behind him, and then he'd turned his back to you as he brought down his cleaver on the piles and piles of dripping meat. Sometimes he would turn around and hand you chunks to wrap up in butcher's paper, but for the most part he indicated nothing towards the task he had primarily been sent here to do. Somehow it just made it all worse; you felt on the edge of snapping from the anxious terror that tightened up all your muscles, wondering what on earth Tommy would do to you before the day was done. Was he just procrastinating? Because if he arrived back home with nothing to show for it, it wouldn't save you in the end–it would just make it worse for both of you when he got punished too.

“Tommy.” You gnawed on your bottom lip. He brought the blade down on the chopping block with a thunk. With the bone separated, a squelch hit your ears as he slid the sections apart and dragged over another hunk to slice through. “I'm sorry.”

Thunk. Not even a passing glance over his shoulder. And it was hard to tell if he was mad when he wouldn't even look at you.

“I didn't want to get you in trouble…”

Thunk.

“I was just scared.”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“Tommy-”

The slow escalation of his measured cuts finally culminated into an uproarious clatter, his cleaver smacking down on the soaked table before he turned himself to face you. Blood marred the clothes you'd taken off the laundry line for him that morning, apron slick and sticky with viscera as it almost always was. Sweat poured down his arms and his hairy chest and beaded at his dense forehead. Every inch of him was dirty, and yet you didn't cringe away from it when he closed the distance between you and came up harrowingly close. The stench of blood and meat wafted off of him from barely an inch away. His hips edged in between your knees as you sat on the lip of the counter, keeping personal space far from his mind when he grabbed your arms and dwarfed them under his massive fingers. Each breath heaved beneath his mask like swallowing a bubble, ready to pop.

This time, Hoyt was nowhere around to interrupt him. Momma wasn't there to scold him. Nobody would hear for miles what he would do to you, and you had no idea what he'd had brewing in his mind since he'd choked you out in the cornfield that first meeting. That intense stare of his was like a bear honing in on a rabbit, and if you had the thought to run, it was already too late.

Thick fingers clamped down around your neck, dug into the scar that had formed from the asshole that had sliced you, and you felt your heart stutter as Tommy pulled you along the length of the table and slammed you down into it by the throat. This way you were laid out like a cow would to be butchered, plenty of room for him to work as he held you down and reached over to pull a leather strap over your midsection. He affixed the buckle tight to the opposite side and tightened it more when you squirmed against the pressure, but not quite enough to be as painful as the ropes that dug into your wrists at your first family meal. With that in place he didn't need to hold you down to keep you pinned against the table, and although you whimpered in fear and fought against the bindings he paid your resistance little mind, instead looking through his tools on the cutting table to find a decently-sized paring knife–drenched liberally in blood–for him to hook under the neckline of your dress and make a cut down the middle. Once he hit the tough leather over your stomach, the tool skittered across the table as he abandoned it in favour of ripping your skirt apart with his bare hands, the thin layer of cotton offering no resistance to his brute strength.

Why did it make you so wet? You couldn't shake the feeling of arousal from how animalistic he was behaving, nor the sheer, overwhelming musk of man and sweat and blood. Tommy was never rough with you but he was certainly making up for it now; you flinched at the firmness of his fingers digging into your skin, leaving trails of thin blood and dirt behind as he tore your cotton bra into loose pieces. His hands trembled at the sight of you exposed like this, too much skin to handle, and such soft flesh that filled out his palms when he cupped your breasts in each eager hand. A hitch of breath was enough to show him that you liked it, whether it was the attention itself or exclusively because it was him touching you. It didn't matter.

Tommy massaged each one with such eager reverence, his handwork clumsy compared to the ease with which he handled so many other forms of meat. He wasn't keen on ripping these off your body and eating them; although he did want to test how they would feel in his mouth, especially those plum, soft nubs of yours that perked when he brushed his thumbs over them. By now you weren't completely certain he wasn't going to butcher you, but you had a pretty good idea that this was his plan B–take out that inner aggression on you that would not make his god-fearing family proud.

A deep, weighty groan slipped out of him at the taste of sweat on your skin. Every bruise he left with his teeth would have to be covered up and powdered, but god, god it was so easy for him to undo every vestige of purity you'd put on for show. Your back arched and your worn shoes squeaked against the steel table as you wiggled, the globes of fat he held in his palms jiggling with a mesmerizing glow every time you moved. As much as you wanted to wrench yourself free in some moments, in most others you couldn't bear the breaks he took to catch his breath, leaving your chest prickling with goosebumps as a draft hit your spit-sticky skin. He squeezed and kneaded to his heart's content and took a twisted glee out of making you squirm, especially when you made those gurgly noises that were so traitorous to the pristine image you painted for momma. She'd made it clear that you weren't to go off messing with boys when they came strolling up to the store's counter, or return any of their flirtations no matter how many times they called you pretty.

Obviously she didn't think her son would be the one you had to keep from tempting, but that train had long left the station now. Thomas’ index finger tore through the thin fabric of your panties with a swipe, and there you laid bare and naked to his wandering eyes while he yanked the shreds of them down the rest of your legs. He probably didn't know what positions were which and how girls had their periods, but he knew enough to slide those thick fingers through your folds and to keep going when you moaned like a dying animal. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy”, it was a mantra that hit his ears just right and urged him into clambering on top of the table with you with wild eyes. They drank in every inch of your sweltering body, the pulse of your heart through the hole he was jamming his fingers into, and on instinct he was guided to push down his waistband and throw off his apron as he knelt back on his haunches.

You might've thought he was nothing but hair if he wasn't so thick. Clearly he'd never shaved in his life with the erroneous bush he sported, curly hair matting down his thighs and his belly too once his shirt started riding up. But that fat, drooling knob of his swayed to hit his thigh, and you got an eyeful of pure, veiny, gut-smashing terror that you were sure would kill you if you didn't manage to relax. The further he leaned over your body, the more you felt like he was going to crush you as soon as he lined himself up with the hole he'd be stretching out like a little homemade cock sleeve. His hands slid under your knees to prop them up, but rather than sling them over his shoulders he bent them back and pinned them to your chest. An aching burn raced up your thighs but he paid no mind to your trembling; Tommy knelt over you and settled between your legs, and without warning, started sinking slowly into that hot opening he'd been dying to get deeper inside.

“H-Hold–wait, T-Tommy, hold oh-!”

Were you really so convinced he would play nice with you? Maybe you'd become complacent with the gentleness he showed you at his best, because when Tommy finally pressed in past the tip, he was gone. Forcing your knees back even further, he let out a groan and pushed himself up higher over you; all just to settle himself into your deepest pits and trap you in a violating mating press. After doing nothing but enjoying your heat, smushing his hips down against yours in a grinding motion, he soon seemed to realize he could move–and move he did, drawing back just to crush your hips with a deep, stomach-punching stroke.

“Unh,” What most resembled a moan fell from his scarred lips, and he fumbled around the back of his head to unclasp the leather from his face. This was the first and only time he'd ever felt safe enough to take it off since you'd met, and it was when he'd finally listened to his body and acted on his need to force every inch of him inside you. To be one. Now you finally were, and his synthetic face dropped on your chest before slowly sliding off to hit the floor.

If your jaw hadn't already gone slack from his violent thrusting, it would probably fall from the realization of what hid under that mask day after day. The sallow, sunken nose, the scars, the jagged skin and self-inflicted wounds…why wasn't it as scary as you thought? You figured, in the moment, you'd just gotten too used to him in personality, or maybe because you were just too distracted at the moment, but…

“Tommy-!” You squeaked out. The wet smack of his balls on your ass stuck in your ears, the strings of creamy slick linking you flesh-to-flesh as he went to town on your pussy. If he truly was losing his virginity to you, then all that pent-up frustration must be the source of him absolutely ruining any semblance of tightness you might've had. “A-Are you tryin’ to–you wanna gimme a baby? S'that it?” You slurred, slowly losing your good sense the longer he showed you your place.

Though you thought it would be to your horror, his slow nod only sparked something dark and tremulous within your loins. Something more than sweat and slick and the vile squelching of his seldom-washed dick rubbing up to your womb. It hit you then; this was your punishment. Every clap and sticky smack of flesh on flesh was a promise, an urge fulfilled to tear your meat from the bone and thrust a new purpose unto you. A homemaker. Tommy's little bride. A momma. Make his momma a grandmama like she was always praying for.

Shluck. Shluck. Shluck. Shluck. No doubt in your mind that was exactly what he was doing, and exactly why he brought you all the way out to the slaughterhouse to do it. The leather strap over your stomach kept you from wriggling away, but that would only be if you could somehow get him to pull out, and that for sure wasn't happening. He didn't bother with long strokes and leaving the tip in, your cunt was a home for him to bury himself in and he wasn't about to waste a second of this. His thick thighs trembled over yours, and he ground the swollen head of his cock deep against your cervix. So deep it was painful, but why would he care? He was doing a good thing. He was being a good boy, giving you what uncle Hoyt told him all women wanted, even if they didn't say it out loud.

Tommy's moans grew to a higher pitch once he affixed his hand like a necklace round your throat, swelling with the faster, faster, faster pace of his thrusts downward. He pressed his other meaty hand into your knees and shoved each one further apart, which made you whine but gave him easier access to pound you into greedy, delectable mush. Whereas it might've turned off weaker men, your nails digging deep, long scratches up his back made Tommy groan and tilt his head back in delirious pleasure. His knees kept you pinned at your sides and his weight–his stomach squishing into you from above–held you down where you belonged, where you'd be the most beautiful and of best use. Beneath him with a womb spilling over with cum, sown by his seed and his seed alone. His picturesque, pretty little wife. Hewitt property. He wouldn't stop, and you wouldn't beg him to even if you weren't being choked of any air you had left, and the world started to spin as the ecstasy took hold and Thomas was squeezing your moans out of you with trembling fervour. It felt as though your lower half exploded and left you with a warm, full, tingly sensation, marred by pearly-white globs of a load he'd had saved up since birth.

In contrast to the violent lovemaking he'd just shown you he was capable of, you were slowly brought back to life by small, soft little pecks. Kisses like the fuzz of a bumblebee brushing by your cheeks, pressing into your lips with a sweetness you weren't used to. This felt like Tommy again, like the gentle touch he used when nobody was around to laugh at him for being so sweet on you. He shuddered with bliss as his cock pulsed with your heartbeat and milked him of what little he had left, but with his chubby fingers rubbing at your jaw and brushing your sweaty locks aside he managed to drag himself off of you. Slowly, like molasses on a cold day, he brought himself back down off the table and let his feet hit the floor, having to brace himself against the table to keep from stumbling to the ground. Click-shuuunk. The leather belt snapped back into its holder as he released it, which left a sizeable indent across your abdomen that you'd have to hope would be covered enough not to show bruises. All you could do was watch as Tommy did up his pants on his way around the table, only to return to your side with the biggest, sharpest knife you swore you had ever seen. You flinched away and nearly cried out-

Shlip. With a strand pulled taut, Tommy made quick work of separating a lock of your hair from your head. Just a short one, so as not to make much difference–but he held it to his face and sniffed deeply, and it ashamed you to say that the gesture in itself just made your clit throb with need you thought you'd been completely overdosed on. Despite that, you laid still while Tommy reached over and retrieved his mask, tucking the tuft of hair inside it so he could smell it all the time. To calm him down, to cool him off, to just enjoy…all the things that you brought to him when no one else did, or could. From his pocket he produced something small and shiny, and dangled it over your face to show you before he set on fixing it around your neck. The pendant you'd seen that girl wearing a week ago now hung against your collar, the gleam of gold in it polished clean of the blood spilled to take it.

You barely let out a moan as he set on rearranging your limbs, turning you over, letting his cum spill down your thighs and all over the table like the blood from a fresh cut of beef. His calloused digits traced down your spine and up again til he found a sweet spot, and padded down your springy flesh that separated bone from his fingers. The carving knife had tinged when he'd sharpened it but he didn't show it to you–that would be too much for you, given what he was about to commit to.

Every arc, long and curved or short and straight, burned. The tip of the blade dug into your flesh like a red-hot needle, but Tommy's warm palm on the back of your neck kept you from moving out of his reach. He needed to start and to finish and his hand was already unsteady, mostly from the way his breath still hitched and his cock stirred all over again at the sight of your writhing body. Your blood turned him on. He hadn't touched any of the victims before you, not in that way, but you weren't really the same as them–no, you were special. If you weren't, Tommy wouldn't be carving those words into your back, and putting on display his ownership over the one and only thing he would ever see as more than meat.

If you didn't get pregnant this time, then this would surely be enough for the family to forgive. The letters scrawled in bloody ecstasy that would heal over, scar, wounds to be reopened over and over again.

Tommy's girl

forever

[graphicpolicy]

Graphic Policy’s Top Comic Picks this Week!

Graphic Policy’s Top Comic Picks this Week! 10 comics and graphic novels to check out this week! #comics #comicbooks #graphicnovel

Wednesdays (and Tuesdays) are new comic book day! Each week hundreds of comics are released, and that can be pretty daunting to go over and choose what to buy. That’s where we come in Each week our contributors choose what they can’t wait to read this week or just sounds interesting. In other words, this is what we’re looking forward to and think you should be taking a look at! Find out what…

[readwritealldayallnight]

Love is a Verb

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 3k words

warnings/tags: fluff, allusions to smut, Simon gets in his feelings™️

It was the first time that you dropped a plate stacked high with heart-shaped pancakes in front of him, that you realized just how much Simon had been starved for love in his life.

“What’s this?” He asks, eyebrows scrunching in confusion, staring down at his plate as though it were a bomb in need of defusing.

“Breakfast? You’d mentioned pancakes the other day and I’ve been craving ‘em since.” You shrug, walking back towards the stovetop where the next batch are waiting to be flipped over.

“They’re- you’ve never-” You glance back over your shoulder at him, watching as he appears to struggle to find the words for what he means to say. He looks almost out of place, his large, hulking frame sitting at a breakfast table with flowers adorning it (he’s the one that brought you that bouquet, of course), his bed head on full display. “You’ve never made ‘em like this before.”

“What, like hearts?” You giggle, scooping up the last of the breakfast onto a plate, making your way back to the table, seeing Simon give you a nod in confirmation. “I just wanted spread some love to my love. Is that alright?”

Setting your plate down next to his, you go to take a seat before you feel two muscular arms wrapping around your middle, pulling you backwards and seating you onto his strong lap.

“‘Course s’alright.” He mumbles into your hair, pressing a kiss wherever his lips may land on you. From those two words alone, you can tell his throat is getting scratchy, and you almost think you hear the slightest sniffle coming from him. You can’t help the surprised blush that creeps through you. You weren’t expecting him to react this way. You’re willing to bet he also wasn’t expecting to react this way.

Knowing that communicating, as well as understanding, his feelings isn’t something that always comes with ease for Simon, you decide to give him a moment, not wanting to put him on the spot. You spread some maple syrup across your stack, tilting it in the direction of his plate and receiving a grunt of confirmation before you drizzle some onto his as well. Taking your cutlery in hand, enjoy your breakfast in quiet bliss, taking turns feeding bites to yourself and your shadow behind you, always receiving a loving squeeze to your thigh after each piece you slip between his lips.

“Mum never made anythin’ like this.” His revelation arrives just as your chewing on your last bite, stomachs content, hearts even more full. You can count on one hand the amount of times Simon has brought up his family to you. You’re aware of the circumstances, and while you don’t know every detail (nor do you need to), he has over time opened up to you about what happened. “Not ‘cause she didn’t love us. I think she would’ve if she-” he clears his throat, and you readjust yourself in his lap so that you can wrap your arms around his neck, leaning your head against his shoulders, rubbing reassuring circles into the muscles your hands come across.

You don’t want to overwhelm him by looking at him as he opens himself up to you, but you want to reassure him that you’re listening, you’re here with him. He can tell you as much or as little as he wants to, and you’ll listen.

“Beth did though. Once or twice.” He adds, resting his chin atop your head, running a hand through your hair. “I mean, I’m sure she did it more than that but, I saw her do it, once or twice. For Joseph.” Your grip around him tightens ever so gently at the mention of his late sister-in-law and nephew. You’ve never seen a picture of the boy, but you can just picture him, a small little blond head of hair, maybe with eyes like his, running around, keeping his young parents busy. Knowing the fate his family endured, a shiver runs through you, but you don’t let it overcloud the moment that Simon is sharing with you. Certainly not when it appears he’s thinking of them fondly right now, reflecting on his past with a happy lens.

“I’m sure he must’ve loved it.” You whisper into the skin of his neck, sending goose bumps sprawling across the flesh.

“He did. Tommy too.” At that he gives a slight chuckle, shaking the two of you. “Even when we were younger, he could always eat us out of house and home. Was like you couldn’t get anything to stick to his bones, either, that kid. More than half the time I wound up shop liftin’ it was to feed his skinny arse.” You sit there together for a moment, holding one another, basking in the newest glimpse of his past that Simon has just offered you.

“They would’ve loved you.” He mumbles into your hair, emotion evident in his voice, his grip on you tightening desperately, as though you two might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold you close enough. “Think you would’a liked em as well.” At that you pull away from his shoulder, slipping your hands to cradle each side of his face, bringing his forehead to meet yours.

“They loved you, Si. Of course I would love them too.” You whisper against his lips, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to each corner of his mouth, the top of his nose, each closed eyelid, before returning to his mouth.

It’s the next week when you decide to finally tackle the last of the moving boxes. You and Simon finally moved in together a few months ago now, and Simon seems to have placed more priority on ‘christening every room’ (also known as fucking you senseless over each and every available surface in the place) over unpacking.

The handful of boxes that are left are more of the miscellaneous, don’t really have anywhere to put them, sort of items that you can’t exactly part with but don’t have any real use for. Most of it being your stuff. His time in the military has left him without a need for many material items, and so you’re surprised to find a smaller box shoved to the back of the pile labeled as ‘Simon’.

Upon opening it, you find it contains a variety of what appears to be memorabilia he’s collected throughout his time in the military, small souvenirs from his travels, old folded up uniforms, and what not. But slipped between two folded shirts, you can feel something more sturdy. Carefully slipping it out of the box, you discover a frame containing a multitude of medals.

In spite of being in love with a Lieutenant, your knowledge of the military is still slim. You don’t recognize any of the medals shining up at you, but they are numerous, and you can tell they must be incredibly important, something he’s worked so hard to earn. Why is he keeping this tucked away?

“Hey Si!” You shout in hopes that he’s near enough to hear you.

“What are you up to now, mischief?” He asks, his tone playful as you hear his footsteps approaching. “Christ, we’ve still boxes left?”

“Acting as if you don’t purposefully walk around them every day.” You tease back, rolling your eyes at him. You stand up, turning to face him with the frame clutched to your chest. He takes you in and raises a brow in question as to your discovery. “What are these?”

He steps closer to glance at what you’re holding, shoulders tensing for a moment before releasing, letting out a deep sigh.

“Ah. S’nothin’.” He tries to reach to take it out of your grip, but you swing your arms behind your back, hiding it from his grasp.

“What do you mean nothing? Doesn’t look like nothing to me, mister award winner.”

“They’re not- I don’t-” he seems to struggle with his words, and it’s only then that you realize perhaps he doesn’t view these medals in the same way you do.

“Do you not like ‘em?” You ask, bringing the frame back around to your front, glancing down at them with a more quizzical eye this time.

“I just- I’m not always proud of how I earned em, love.” He attempts to explain, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. “Some I reckon’ I don’t mind but- all just seems unnecessary to me. I did my job, all there is to it.”

“Are these like, the kind they have big ceremonies for and then someone pins them on you in front of everyone?”

“Somethin’ like that.” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his large chest.

“And let me guess, you never attended any of them?”

“Don’t need all the fanfare, lovie.” He says, stepping forward and slowly slipping the frame from your grasp, tossing it back into the box you’d found it in. “All I need’s right here.”

“I just wish you’d let yourself be celebrated sometimes too, Si…”

“Well if it’s celebratin’ my birdie is wantin’, how’s bout we go celebrate with you on top of the washing machine eh? Don’t think I’ve made you cum up there yet.” You roll your eyes at his changing of the subjects, but can’t contain the giggle that erupts out of you when he swings you over his shoulder, apparently having decided the laundry room is exactly where you two are going now. “Just put a load in the machine, only right I put a load in here too.” He adds with a smack to your ass.

You’re worried you’re about to make an absolute fool out of yourself. No, you’re sure you’re about to look like an idiot. You know how much that man loves you, but even this might be exaggerating. Glancing at the clock above the stove however, you know it’s now or never. The candles around the room have been lit, the lights are dimmed, his favourite meal is cooking in the oven, soft music is playing from the record player, you’re wearing Simon’s favourite dress on you, and you even went as far as to spruce up your hair and makeup for this. In theory, everything is perfectly set up and in its place.

So why then, do you feel so mortified as you hear the sound of keys jingling the lock at the front door? Oh right, because it’s him you’ve set this all up for.

“Hi sweetheart,” he shouts to you as he walks in, too preoccupied with removing his boots and gear to look up yet. “Smells really good, what’s-” He cuts himself off upon walking into the kitchen, eyes landing on the unusual scene before him. You watch as his irises glance around the room, taking it all in, before landing on you. He’s still stood a few feet away from you, but you swear you can see his pupils dilate as his eyes roam up and down your figure.

“Hi.” You whisper meekly to him, wringing your hands nervously behind your back.

“Hi.” He answers back, taking an apprehensive step towards you. “What’s all this then?”

“First you have to go get dressed.” You inform him, jutting your chin in the direction of your shared bedroom. The small smile working its way onto his face helps boost your confidence, nerves slowly dissipating.

“Is that so?”

“Mhmm. Even laid out your clothes for you, so you don’t have to think about it.”

“We goin’ somewhere?” He asks, beginning to undo his belt already. The movement catches your attention, likely his intention, and his smirk widens upon seeing you blush.

“Nope. We’re just celebrating at home.”

At this, he freezes his movements, belt halfway slipped out of his belt loops. His gaze scans your face, looking for anything he might have missed.

“Shit. Did I- did I forget something, baby? I did-”

“No, no no no!” You cut him off with a slight giggle, coming up to him now to lay your palms across his chest. “No, you’re okay Si. You didn’t forget anything, I’m just surprising you.” You reassure him, knowing that he only calls you baby when he’s worried he’s in trouble (or when he’s already in trouble, crouched between your thighs attempting to earn his way out of the dog house).

“You didn’t have to do any of this love.” He says, hands pulling the rest of his belt out, before he loops it around you, using it to pull you even closer to him.

“You don’t even know what I’ve done yet, mister. We’ll see if you still like me in a bit.” You stand up on your tippy toes, planting a kiss to his Adam’s apple, fingers reaching up to slowly lift the skull printed balaclava off his face. Your lips follow each inch of skin revealed as you finally slip the fabric off his visage, exposing the face of the man you love. “Now go get dressed before I change my mind.”

With a kiss to the forehead and a squeeze to the bum, your man releases you from his grasp to obediently follow your command, making his way towards the bedroom. Steeling yourself with a deep breath, you turn towards the cabinets, pulling out the secret you’d been hiding, the reason you’re doing any of this.

Minutes later, Simon is walking back into the room, dressed in form fitting black dress pants, and his large hands are finishing up the last few buttons of his white button-up shirt, the buttons appearing minuscule in his grasp. Your eyes land on his figure, and suddenly the smell of the food in the oven isn’t why your mouth is salivating so much. He glances up at you, eyes meeting and each of you fights off a small blush and a shy smile, as though you’re seeing your dates for the prom for the first time.

“You’re so handsome, Si.” You tell him, stepping closer to him.

“Think you’re just desensitized to me at this point, love.” He attempts to deflect, but you see the blush deepening across his pale cheeks. “Besides, I oughta be kissing the ground you walk on birdie, just look at ya…” He reaches a hand out towards yours, spinning you around gracefully, taking the time to admire you entirely.

The look in his eyes is glazing over, as he licks his lips, eyes unable to tear away from each inch of skin you have exposed. You’re equally become as hot and bothered, but you’ve got a goal tonight, and you want to see it through, for his sake.

“Before dinner, I uh- I wanted to do something for you.” You say, stepping back enough that your backside meets the edge of the counter top. Your hands feel behind you for what you’re looking for, hoping he can’t see what you’re attempting to conceal for just a little longer. “I don’t need to explain to you how hard you work, everywhere you go, you’re always taking care of others, Si. And you don’t get even nearly as much thanks as you should, and-”

“Love,” he tries to cut you off, stepping closer to you, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“Hold on, I really want to say this. To do this.” He nods at your interjection, accepting to hear you through. “Ever since I met you, you’ve changed my life Simon Riley, and I know I’m not the only person in the world who can say that. You are a good man, a hero to many, a leader to others. You’re just- you are good, Si. I promise you are.”

You can’t help the emotion beginning to seep into your voice now, but it’s important to you that he hears every word you have to tell him, and that he knows you mean them.

“I don’t know everything you’ve done, and I don’t want to. Your job terrifies me, and every time you walk out the door I’m scared you’re going to get hurt but- you’re so good at what you do, Simon. They couldn’t do it without you. You’re important, you’re needed.” At this, you slip the frame of medals out from behind your back, bringing them in front of you for Simon to see. “That’s what these are, at least in my eyes. They’re reminders that you’re meant to be doing what you’re doing, but most importantly, they also mean you made it back. You made it back to me.”

His warm hand reaches out to brush away a stray tear that’s spilled over your lashes, his palm staying to cup your cheek affectionately.

“You’re right, we don’t need all the fanfare, all we need is right here. But some occasions call for a celebration. That’s why I’m hoping you’ll let me put these on you? Just once, just this one time, I just- I need you to know how important you and your accomplishments are to me.”

Wordlessly, he nods to you, his own eyes appearing to be brimming with emotion. Sniffling, you turn the frame over, opening up the back before carefully slipping it off. Your fingers gingerly pick up the first medal they find, bringing it up to his firm chest. You look into his eyes once more, ensuring that this is okay with him. All you see in his gaze is pure, undeniable love. One hand reaches between the fabric of his shirt and the warm, scarred skin across his pec, as the other brings the medal to the front of the button-up. With all the devotion and tenderness in the world, you secure the medal to his front, slowly slinking your hands away to see if it’ll stay in its place.

When the medal does not budge, you repeat the process over with the remaining medals, until one side of his shirt is significantly weighed down compared to the other side, and both your hearts are bursting with affection for the human being stood before you. Sliding your now empty hands up his shoulders, his calloused palms resting on either side of your waist, his eyes communicate to you everything that his lips will never need to tell you. You know him. And you know what you mean to him. That’s why as he shuts his eyes and presses a kiss to your forehead, you find yourself whispering the sentence you hope to tell him every day of your life:

“I love you too.”

[norikuna]

SALVATORE — jujutsu kaisen x reader minors dni

prologue. → going on summer vacations with the jjk men and things get a little...hotter?

pairings. satoru gojo x afab!reader / suguru geto x afab!reader / nanami kento x afab!reader / choso kamo x afab!reader / ryomen sukuna x afab!reader / toji fushiguro x afab!reader

warnings+. non-sorcerer/jujutsu au, from the back, exhíbitíonism, mild food play, ríding, máting press, creámpíe, against the wall, oral (f. receiving), fíngeríng, hey even in a cave! reader is called good girl, princess, baby, darling, my love.

word count. 4.1k! song inspiration. salvatore — lana del rey

a/n. update #1 writing this fic had me looking up shit on wikipedia pages abt cities around the world, had me checking meteorology maps...tried to choose cities i've been to but i was still racking my brains. update #2 btw whenever i write smut like this i'm filled with outstanding self awareness and minor shame but thats the fun of it 😭 this is day no.3 of me trying to rewrite this all from scratch update #3 day 4! fawkkkk i wanna go on holiday too now. lmao if i was in the sukuna one, i would have been mad as hell, istanbul is stunning <3

mp3. everything looks better from above my king, like aqua marine, ocean's blue

TOJI FUSHIGURO ��� all the lights in miami begin to gleam 📍 miami, america

"o-oh, fuck. think she's really tellin' me to keep going like this, don'tcha think?"

your boyfriend is mean when he's like this. sharp, jade eyes narrowed as they take in the sight of your puffy folds swallowing him up over and over as he's stuffing himself into your sticky walls. and if you turn your head away, from where you're smashed against the pillow, you can see the floor-to-wall ceilings of the high-rise penthouse that offers an uninterrupted view of miami's glittering skyline.

"how - how, did you even get this place, hah, toji?" it's a wonder you can even get a coherent sentence out right now, your guts are practically being stuffed with inches of your boyfriend's veiny cock, and it's leaving you, well, delirious.

but with humble credit and thanks to what you can assume is your own nasty grip, toji's not faring much better either. his brawny frame is practically shuddering, and while you can't see his face in this position, you're certain that a sharp canine has sunk into his lip, and his breath is coming out in hulking groans.

"heh, you're n-not meant to ask questions like that, princess? gotta, ohhh, gotta keep some business s-secrets up my sleeve, huh?" and he's practically a beast right now, handling you on all fours of this king-sized bed, draped in silk sheets the colour of red wine, "just a reward for a-, haah, a job well done."

any job well done from toji was most likely something illegal, but you can't even bring yourself to care, not when there's a bucket of chilled champagne on the glass table to your left, and certainly not when his fat cock is smearing right through you, leaving a coil in your abdomen that only he can unravel.

you whine, feeling the fat tip of his cock practically rummage and make a home in your cunt, "toji, wan' more," and you're pushing the plush of your ass against his pumping hips, and you hear his sharp intake of breath.

a rough hand has snaked underneath you, creating a small gap between you and the bunched-up fabric on the bed, and his callous fingertips are now circling sloppy, messy circles over your clit, leaving you bucking in his hold.

"n-now, stay still, princess. not done with you yet."

SUGURU GETO — ciao, amore. soft ice-creams. 📍 amalfi coast, italy

you're not sure how long you've been trembling under suguru's mouth, but it must have been an eternity under the ministrations of his tongue.

the sun has been blazing high, casting a golden glow over this part of the private beach, hidden away from the towns bustling with tourists like yourselves who had descended upon the coast for the summer.

soft waves lapped in ebbing waves, the rhythm breaking the perfect stillness of the afternoon, in this wooden cabana, separated from the terracotta villas.

and no, your mind was nowhere near admiring the turquoise waters of the ocean, but rather your lover's mouth practically exploring every inch of your cunt like this.

the tapered tip of his tongue had long been probing around your fluttering pussy, taking in every last drop of your pearlescent luster that was practically dripping over his chin.

not to mention the absolutely sticky and languid trails of melting ice-cream, each biting cream drop that fell on your hot swollen folds getting promptly cleaned up by the one who was enjoying this sweet game.

"shhh! don't wanna get kicked off this beach, do ya, pretty?"

and suguru looks positively devious, his violet eyes gleaming with crude intent. his black hair is a tangled mess, long locks falling victim to your clawing nails that tumble carelessly over his bare back, kissed by the sun and glowing with a soft, rosy pink hue.

and when he smiles, the sunlight catches onto his lips, making the slick on his mouth sparkle and wink up at you.

"been - it's been an entire hour by now, can't you just let me cum," you huff, closing the plush of your thighs around his ears, boxing him in.

geto flashes you a mischievous grin, running a slow finger through your sopping folds, and lightly brushing over your entrance as you mewl again.

"where would the fun in that be, pretty?" he murmurs, "love seeing how wet this cunt gets for me, need to let me have my fun."

what a devil. clearly, getting under your skin is a sport for him.

you're hardly given a moment to breathe before he's jostling two thick digits right into the thick of it once more, in and out, in and then out, as his thumb find its home on the slope of your bare mound again.

"besides, we can take it slow for 'nother hour, can't we?" and now suguru's toying with your clit, and his teeth lean down to graze the swollen, throbbing bud, "gotta see just how much you can beg for me."

NANAMI KENTO — catch me if you can, working on my tan 📍 gold coast, australia

"w-wait, darling," nanami shudders under your touch, under your fresh set of nails raking small patterns over his neck, "anyone could just walk past here, y'know."

you curl your lip, before pressing your mouth in an open mouthed kiss to his stretched neck, warm and flushed.

you can feel the galloping thrum of his pulse beneath your lips, the heat almost intoxicating, mingling with the faint tang of the pool water's chlorine, and the scent of banksia and frangipanis in the air.

you can also feel his thick cock dragging through your walls, as you ram the weight of your hips over and over again. it seems like the shimmering skyline of surfer's paradise was just what nanami needed, after months of work, and you're determined to make the most of your time here.

he's got you bouncing practically like a ragdoll, heavy balls swinging up and smacking your skin in what little space remains between the two of you, and he's panting into your chest, "whatd'ya gonna do if someone sees?"

"mhm, don' care, no-one's here, nanami."

his broad arms loop around you in the pool chair, as you straddle the sizeable bulge that's making a tent in his briefs, "nasty, sometimes, aren'tcha?"

you smile, as your husband's large hands roam over your back, making you arch your back into his touch — as he deftly pulls at the tight knot holding your damp bikini top together.

"ah, don't get shy now. let me see these," and you can only nod hazily as he lets your tits spill out, and press up against his bare, chiselled torso, "wanted this so bad, just a minute ago, yeah?"

"s-still want this," and for good measure, you grind your hips down over his cock with even more pressure, feeling him jolt with a quiet 'fuck!' underneath you.

"haah, that's not fair, darling," and he's crashing his weeping, curved tip so far into you, that you're certain you're seeing stars on the saltwater horizon, "what happened to playing nice?"

you know you should be weary of the flicker of challenge that glints in his stern brown eyes, softened by the haze of your squelching cunt, "do y-your worst, otherwise what? can't keep up?"

a cocky smile curves over his mouth, and that's the wave of satisfaction you were looking for, hoping that he'd take the bait.

he leans further back in the pool chair, now with an arm wrapped lazily around your gyrating hips, but you can feel his grip tighten, stealing the humid air right out from under you, "we'll see who can't play nice when you're begging for my cock to fill you up."

CHOSO KAMO — all the lights are sparkling for you, it seems 📍santorini, greece

"hey, shh, shhh..."

choso's voice is a low rumble as he glides his thick, leaking tip down your slick core, and you shiver as the cool ocean breeze mixes with the warm slick gathering between your bodies, "w-wow, you're doing so good, handling it so well, my love."

you must have made a good choice, choosing this suite. one carved seamlessly into the tan-rock of one of the island's famous caves. and well, your sweet boyfriend has been fucking you so incredibly that you feel your eyes start to water, blear away from the pretty blue and terracotta accents on the mantelpiece.

his girthy cock sinking into you send shivers to your pussy that leave you fluttering and squeezing around him tighter, clenching around the veins as he sinks even deeper, so the thickened head is practically kissing your cervix, and filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible.

"d-does it feel good for you too, cho?” you gasp, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, fingers playing with the soft choppy strands that fall around his shoulders, "this...this is what you wanted, right, baby?"

the pale mauve of his lips curves into a faint smile, and despite the sharpness of his thrusts making a home in your gummy walls, there's a tenderness in his shadowed, hazel eyes as his palm glides down your torso, cupping your tits gently, "w-would go anywhere in the world, if it was with you."

and he's looking at you with such love that you just cannot help but believe him when he says, no, shudders out a "you're so beautiful."

the sound of the water lapping against the rocks below fills the room, mixing with your soft whimpers, as the slow roll of choso's hips leave your puffy folds weeping. the thick, throbbing head of his cock brushes against your g-spot, right there, and you moan, lost in the sensation.

"god, y-you’re so good at this," he breathes into your ear, his voice hoarse and strained, and suddenly far more shaky, "ah - could do this forever."

"w-will you?" you whisper, eyes fluttering as you lose yourself in what is surely ropes of stringy white cum painting you lovingly inside, "wan' feel you all the time, cho."

choso's misty, flushed gaze locks onto yours, filled with a heat that makes your heart race, and fireworks shoot through your abdomen, "think you're g-gonna be my wife someday, yeah?"

you bite your lip, a shy smile painting your face despite the way that he's practically jostling inch after inch into your pussy, pressing into you like a vice, "really mean t-that, cho?"

"ahh, 'course i do," he shudders, brushing a thumb down the swan-arch of your neck, "now, hold onto me."

RYOMEN SUKUNA — dying by the hand of a foreign man, happily 📍istanbul, turkey

"huhh, oh my god! you're an animal," you huff at your fiancé, who's currently sprawled on the plush bed underneath your straddling thighs, under the sheer curtains that billow softly in the warm breeze from the open latticework windows.

and right now, sukuna looks like a mess.

and it brings you a great deal of satisfaction to see your usually composed and aloof fiancé so undone and disheveled, as he grins up at you — the black markings on his face creasing with the movement.

his rosy-pink hair is a tangled heap, but you can't resist running your fingers through the short, tousled spikes.

and his lips, which have been marking you up consistently for the past ten minutes, gleam glossy and full, as his crimson eyes lock onto yours with the smug satisfaction of a cat who's gotten its way.

he'd barely waited a mere minute after the two of you had arrived back to your hostel's room, from a whirlwind tour of the sultanahmet district, before he had pounced on you, and had practically tore your long skirt off.

you don't quite think it's worth mentioning that you've been pawing equally at your boyfriend in the same time as well, pulling his thick and lengthy shaft out of the confines of his boxers, and swiping a thumb over the angrily-gleaming tip.

"d-didn't even take a second to think about all the places we just saw? the history lessons, and - sukuna, were you even listening?"

by now, you're fighting back heaving shivers at the way the pads of his calloused fingers run under your top.

"hah! yeah, yeah. history and all that," he murmurs, low and amused, but his focus is clearly elsewhere, his lips now resuming their previous task of snapping at your torso, letting pretty berry-red marks beam.

you roll your eyes, though a smile tugs at the corners of your own glossy mouth, "y-you're impossible," and you try not to squirm as his forefinger and thumb on each hand pinch at a nipple under your top, "don' even know why i bothered bring this...this camera around. the guide said that these sights were o-once, oh fuck, sukuna, get a grip, said the sights were once-in-a-lifetime b-breathtaking."

"breathtaking, huh?" sukuna shifts closer to you, scooting you further over his wide lap, and his voice has dropped to a low and sultry whisper that sends a shiver down your spine, and leaves you aching, "i think you're breathtaking. wan' explore this," and here, he snaps at the elastic band of your lace panties, "instead."

"and besides, i was listening," and now, he's patting his sculpted, exposed thighs behind the plush of your ass on him, "the guide said that this city straddles two continents."

he's emphasising his words with a deliberate tap, clearly hoping you'd catch the awful word-play.

"say something like that again, and i'm booking the next flight home."

"hah, so now you hate it when i am cultured."

by now, his two rough hands kneading at you has left you...airless. thick heat has been pooling in your core, and you just can't help but let out a soft whimper, "sukuna…only wanted y-you to focus."

he shakes his messy head, laughter rumbling deep in his chest, under thick pectoral muscles, "no can do, brat. you’re my focus now. done enough sightseeing outside today, wanna do something inside."

"you’re impossible!" but you gasp as he skims a thumb over your cloying, dewy clit, making you jolt.

you know he must be in a rare, mellowed mood because he breathes, "impossibly in love with you," and it's quiet, teasing as the heat of his breath ghosts over your skin, "now tell me how much you want this, and maybe i'll think about giving you a different type of lesson."

franky, by now you want nothing more than to be filled with heavy, hot inches that curl into you, sloshing their way to the most sensitive spot of all, and sukuna must see that on your face.

"i -," you begin, but the words falter as he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, and the weeping tip of his cock taps against the wet pool staining your underwear darkly translucent.

"just say it, brat. tell me how bad you want it, i'll even be nice this time," he urges, his voice a sultry purr, "just gon' give it to you as you ask, yeah?"

"wan' you in me, 'kuna," you finally admit, breathless, "i want you so much it hurts."

"good girl," he mutters, his eyes darkening with desire. "now you're getting the right idea."

you sigh, content, but then still your rocking hips suddenly, "but after this, we're still going out to the bazaar for dinner."

"for fuck's sake."

GOJO SATORU — like a boss, you sang jazz and blues 📍paris, france

you're not quite sure where exactly you should be training your ears, whether you should be listening to the sultry notes of a saxophone that wrap around the plush velvet booth where you and gojo are seated.

or the thick, clingy swish of his fingers practically bullying themselves in and out of your pussy. the air is thick with the scent of expensive cigars that make you wrinkle your nose, and fine whiskey (that makes gojo wrinkle his nose) and the sweet tang of your own slick, privately, just for the two of you.

your boyfriend sits close to you, his left hand tight on your waist, and the other working a fine instrument, bunching up underneath your ysl silk dress.

"baby, look at how your perfect cunt's talkin' to me," he's whispering, and you can hear the sheer glee in his voice, his breath hot against your ear.

meanwhile, your jaw is slack and you're doing your best to not meet his touch with a sultry, rhythmic grind of your own hips, but the knot is quickening and tightening within you.

but gojo just smiles, and you can see the blue in his eyes darken underneath his sunglasses that have slipped slightly down the slope of his nose, "but can't have everyone hearing this melody, can we? might think you were the main fuckin' attraction for the night and not -" he cocks his head to the quartet serenading the paris night sky, and the other patrons of this filthy wealthy club.

you just sink your teeth into your painted lip, suppressing a whine as he curls three fingers within you, reeling you entirely pliant and having you lean against his broad chest under his jacket, "b-but satoru, 'm getting close."

he's being awful, you think. and when he had pulled his hand out earlier, it had been entirely coated in a ribbon of your arousal, the slow syrup beginning to run down his slender digit, but he had parted his lips and let not a drop go to waste on his tongue.

the music is swelling, it's a jazzy crescendo that fills the air, and your gaze hazes and wonders, focusing on the open window where the eiffel tower stands ablaze in lights. soft gasps are escaping your lips, when gojo starts slamming his fingers up and up further, right up to his glossy knuckle, clearly searching for your g-spot.

and you are so glad that this booth is turned away from the rest of the club's patrons, for if they saw you, it would be no secret as to what exactly was going on underneath your gown.

"focus on me, love. just focus on how you're soaking me."

he's pressing his fingers impossibly deeper, stroking your walls in a way that make it impossible to think of anything else but him.

"gojo, please…" you breathed, struggling to keep your voice low, "what if someone sees?"

he laughs, pressing his mouth to your neck, and you know he's inhaling the new scent that you had picked up at the luxury flagship stores earlier, his treat.

"let them. paid good enough money to get in here," and now he's getting more insistent, practically ravishing your aching pussy now, "besides, they wanna say anything about it? i'll cut out their tongue."

"p-pretty sure that's, mmph, i'm sure that's i-illegal, 'toru."

"don't want your pretty head thinking about anything else right now, 'kay?" and god, it's one of life's greatest works, how he just knows how to work his magic like this, and the way that he's pinching, rolling and twirling his fingers has you convinced that the holy six-eyes technique, passed down in the sacred tradition of the gojo clan, is being put to nasty work.

sure enough, a little spark! there, and a bigger zap! against your clit practically confirms your suspicions, as does the unearthly glow you catch in gojo's wide eyes, and you can feel yourself hurtling towards a precipice, panting open-mouthed against him.

"dirty girl, you don’t want to make a scene, do you?" he says this like he was not the one who pulled you into this booth, and palmed his way up your slip-dress. like he's not the one who tore into your lace panties, and shoved them into his pocket.

"it feels so good, satoru,” you babble, barely able to contain yourself, as he scissors his fingers wide, nudging your walls apart, "i can’t — "

"then don't," he interrupted, his voice low and commanding, "just let it happen. i want to hear you, i wanna hear her too, but only if you can keep it down."

you nodded, breathless, watching as waiters in impeccable black-and-white attire glide between the tables, carrying trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres and glasses of dom pérignon.

"good girl," he murmured, his fingers curling just right, pushing you closer to that exquisite precipice, "now, be quiet and enjoy the moment."

just as he pinches your clit, you feel everything around fall away in shattering starfall. bolts of lightning shoot and splash through your lungs, stilling your heart, leaving your cunt pulsing with a life of its own, fluttering against satoru's fingers which still haven't stopped.

it's only then you realise that the band has stopped playing, and the other patrons of the clubs are leaning out of their seats, slapping their hands together in fervount applause.

but you can only stare, dazed and boneless from the remnants of an excellent fucking orgasm, as gojo leans in, just over the shell of your ear.

"how about we go back to the hotel room? wanna see an encore?"

[muwapsturniolo]

Hockey!Matt ᯓ★ Headcannons

Warnings…. there is some nsfw ahead but there is a warning before it starts but otherwise, it's pretty chill

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who.... Is a hothead on and off the ice. He couldn't help it really, ever since he was a kid he had a temper and it only got worse when he made it to the big leagues.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who...Is the best center and enforcer, never losing a face-off and always making sure whoever has the puck has a clear path to the goal.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who...Is so focused on his job he doesn't dabble in relationships unlike his brother and teammate Chris.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who.... Has a bad article written about him by a specific sports journalist.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who.... Meets said sports journalist at a press conference and can't help but find her fiery attitude attractive.

"You called me a brute if I remember correctly." He smirks, his eyes looking her up and down. "I actually said the energy you radiate when your head is in the game resembles the hulk who is a brute force. I never called you a brute specifically Sturniolo. If you're going to call me out, make sure you know what I said."

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who...Becomes obsessed with her after that small debacle.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Reserves a seat at every game just for her, making sure it's the best seat so she can see him play.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Pays for her to come to every game, covering travel fees, hotel expenses, as well as dining.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who...Takes her out for dinner after playing against the Golden Knights, the two of them having a great time drinking, eating, and laughing.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who...Wakes up hungover with the journalist in his bed naked....and a ring on their finger.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Is oddly calm about the situation despite the girl waking up and freaking out.

"Oh god, oh god! Did we really do what every blackout drunk people do in Vegas and get married?!" Matt stands up and pulls on his boxers, walking over to the bathroom to brush his teeth. "We did, why are you complaining?"

"Why aren't you complaining?"

"Because now I don't have to face the fear of asking you to be my girlfriend when I can just call you my wife."

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Does just as he said and calls her his wife from here on out, treating her like a wife as well.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who...Demands that she attend his games and wear his jersey.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Points to her after every goal, sometimes even skating past and blowing a kiss.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Always wears one of her signature star barrets when playing, or has it clipped to his pants pocket on a normal day, claiming it's his lucky charm

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Asks her to move in with him after 4 months of being "married".

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Despite being more of a dog person, knows she likes cats, so he gets her one as a move-in gift, claiming it's their child.

��� ✦ 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐋𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✦ 」

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... The dominant energy they both have makes things in the bedroom exciting.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Loves to fuck her in the locker room after a home game win, soon taking it back to their penthouse.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Takes his frustrations of losing out on her in the bedroom, endless rounds until he feels like he 'won'

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Worships her, laying bewteen her thighs for as long as she will let him.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Won't admit it but loves when she attaches a collar around his throat, yanking on it as he drives his cock into her cunt

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Loves to fuck her while shes in his jersey, it was something about seeing the black and yellow jersey attached to her body as she begs for him to go harder that releases an animalistic drive in him

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... Loves to show off the scratches on his back in the lockerroom, enjoying the way his teammates gape at the deep scratches.

ᯓ★ Hockey!Matt who... After winning the stanley cup gives his girl the most passionate and soft sex they ever had before officially asking her to be his wife.

Purrrrr new trope! i'm very excited for this one and i'd love to do blurbs for this how i did with bunny!!

[choas232]

You get injured. G/N! Reader x Steb

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Summary: What was supposed to be a simple club raid goes horribly, horribly wrong. No use of Y/N, neutral terms and they/them is used to refer the reader. I try to be as vague as possible surrounding their anatomy. Set in episode three, season 2, just before and around the Jinx and Vi fight scene. Hurt & some comfort. ANGRY reader as suggested by @f0xtr0x.

CWs: Panic attack. Profanity. Violence. Use of alcohol. Suggestive themes. Vi and Caitlyn are briefly implied to be sleeping together. Nudity. Once again, canon typical Enforcer bigotry.  Mild emetophobia (one, two lines. both breif). Anatomically incorrect injuries. Reader is a bitter individual who needs to go to therapy!!!

Word count: 5.1k

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You’re alone.

The floor is hard against your spine, your attacker’s bloody lip bubbling down onto your face as they snarl above you. Your own lips are stained with it; as rose red as their lipstick, your bruised cheek as electric blue as the eyeshadow smeared across their face.

They tear your goggles from your face first. Harsh, fingers clashing against the soft skin surrounding them. Your eyes scream, reddened and raw against the hulking shape of the grey— the thick and almost palatable fog surrounding you two. A thin film over your eyes settles, milky and blurry and does not leave you as you thrash.

Their movements are clumsy and feral, blinded by the grey as they go for your mask.

There is a beat to the madness, one you clutch after and hold deep into you. It reverberates, even as panic flairs through you— you grab their skull in yours, and your fingers slide through hair slick with blood and sweat before you find a grip and slam them down onto the beer, plastic, glitter and vomit-stained floorboards.

Their skull makes a sickening crunch, one you hear above the awful club hit, the reverbing beat and your screaming mind.

One thing you can kindly say about Zaunites— they are as persistent as cockroaches.

They heave, pushing themselves back up inelegantly, their fingers gripping your shoulders hard enough the bruise. Cradled against them like a lover, you slam them back down. Once. Twice. The third time they choke. You wedge your knee into their stomach, and they wheeze, a rattling sound from low in their stomach as they inhale Grey.

Underneath you, they heave. For a brief second, panting, you pause, watching the blood on your face dribble over theirs, smear their makeup further.

A knife slots into your back.

The moment is slow, at first. You feel it clink against bone, your feel your flesh pushing against it. You breathe once, and the pain flares bright and bold, a hot flash of white and then you are screaming—

Their hands find your mask and tiredly, eyes red, blurred and unseeing, they pull. They pull and you heave, the choking air spilling into your lungs, slathering itself over your airways.

The lights flash above you. Your blood drips through your uniform, staining their oily fluoro mesh shirt.

The woman behind you, knife still lodged into your stomach, kicks you off them harshly. You hit the floor with a crack. She weakly lunges for them, pulling them away, and then she is on you. You both inhale Grey. You both inhale sickness. Her movement, rough against you, presses the knife further into you.

Her hands are on your throat.

You are going to die on this floor.

Did Caitlyn send you here as you continued your hunt of flashes of blue, pink and a memory of a revolution knowing you would die here? You were always going to be a piece of a game larger than the whole of you— but the sting reverberates through you like the beat of the godawful club music.

When you were fifteen, thinking you owned the world, thinking nobody could hurt you because you could hurt them harder, did the world think, you are digging your own grave?

You can’t breathe.

When you were thirteen, did the Enforcer in her neat uniform hand you a pamphlet thinking, this is my rose on your grave, this is my lit candle?

You can’t breathe.

When you were ten years old, brawling on the golden streets of Piltover, did your opponent know you would die like this? Bloody and dirtied, dressed in your finest as you knocked out his teeth, did he slump down, thinking, good fucking riddance?

Good fucking riddance. Good fucking riddance— your anger is blinding. You will not die like this. You scream. You scream but nothing comes out against the weight of her hands, the Grey, the air sucked out of your lungs.

(You are alone, with her. The grief is heavy in you, almost as heavy as the fluttering of  the oxygen deprived heart in your chest. Are you supposed to be alone? Was there ever somebody else…)

You try to spit on the woman, but all your saliva does is dribble down your face.

A memory, on the edges of your mind. Brown eyes— a streak of orange hair— frills, scales… you grasp for the revelation, but it never comes, or maybe the darkness swallows it before it can. There is something you are forgetting about. There is something— someone forgetting about you… what were you sad about?

The darkness swallows your rambling, and for a brief moment, you cannot feel her hands around your neck.

You cannot feel anything at all.

A shield.

—gleaming against the fog as it pushes your attacker’s neck down into the floorboards with a crack. Screaming— the second person’s, you think, as they stumble backwards.

Loris. It’s Loris. Loris, staring at her splayed-out body. Maddie— Maddie above you, the spinning spotlights hitting her like an angel as she hauls you up. The hand that feeds and the hand that strikes resemble one another. You flinch as she speaks, her words blurring in your ears. You can barely hear. Your mind is so heavy— the weight of it hauling you down.

Somebody else. You are somewhere else. Blue— blue eyes. Thin lips, twisted downwards, ears pressed to the sides of his head. That upsets you, though you do not remember why. He props you on your side, your lungs heaving, the hole in your back— the gaping wound weeping.

“You left me.” You slur, and then you throw up over his clean, polished Enforcer boots.

࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You remember now.

A simple club raid. A lousy place situated somewhere close enough to the surface that it had some credit, or at least enough credit that your little target felt the need to stop by. Or maybe Jinx didn’t. Maybe this was just another dead end, and you were barking and snapping at shadows like you had been the past couple of weeks, no closer to capturing her.

That dullard poster— her blown open eyes, blue braids flowing behind her. You saw it when you closed your eyes. How much longer, you wondered, storming in the club, gun clutched in your hands. How much longer until this blows the fuck up in our faces?

It was simple. It was supposed to be simple.

You had a plan— Vi take the front along with Loris, Commander Kiramman trail behind with her rifle, and you Maddie and Steb fill in the gaps left. Stick together. In and out.

Until they left you.

Steb was beside you. Maddie was gone, that was fine, it was fine, you trusted her intellect and pure dog-like devotion to the cause to not impale herself open the nearest bar tap. You watched as your teal-haired friend slammed his baton down, the following crack.

How could such a cruel action be so undeniably gentle in nature? His face was serious, stern. The swing was even, calm, aiming to incapacitate rather than kill. He was no vicious butcher, nothing like the likes of you. How was it that he made every action he took look so… heroic, like the posters they shoved into your hands, like the propaganda you hastily swallowed.

He allows himself to see them as humans and treat them as such, even in his mercilessness. You thought to yourself, very quietly. You could not do that. You could not acknowledge what they are— you cannot. Even thinking of it…

The moment your enemy is more than your enemy is the moment your guilt wraps its arms around you, peels back your skin to reveal your flesh.

Maybe this was your tragic mistake. Seeking to rationalize for a moment and not villainize.

That is why you allowed yourself, foolishly, to be separated, to not shoot first when the Zaunite hurled themself at you. You called out to Steb, but he was already gone, and you shoved them off you and then you were alone, stumbling around in the grey— the gun clutched in your hand suddenly feeling like a children’s toy. Screaming, flashing lights, music— your downfall was that through it all you could selfishly think about was that swing, that gentle movement as he swung down…

You don’t remember how it happened.

Just that it hurt.

࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You wake with a pounding head and a franticly beating heart.

Take stock of your surroundings. You are in a room. A single, double bed, occupies most of the space, on which you are situated on. There are two bedside tables. There is a counter. The walls are furnished with what looks like cheaply printed artworks, paint slathered over cracks and crumpling bricks, implying this is a cheap motel of sorts. An open window next to the window lets a faint breeze fan your face, cooling the sweat sticking to your limbs and the fever burning low in your chest.

Most worrying of all, your enforcer uniform has been discarded of, leaving you in your slacks and a thin undershirt.

Somebody is writing, a pen scratching against paper in the background. You try to move your head to glance at them, but your temple feels like a brick is being taken to it.

Access damage. Experimentally, you stretch out a finger. Most of your body is simply cramped, some bruised. The movement ends when you crane your neck, and the bruises flare, causing you to shift and in turn hit your back. You try to shriek, but all that comes out is a moan. A pathetic, mewling sound.

The writing stops.

Footsteps, light and even against what sounds like wooden floorboards.

You hate that you recognise them as his.

Steb peers down at you, his frills flaring out for a brief moment before squishing flat against his cheekbones. He’s not in uniform, rather a form fitting long sleeved white shirt, and long dark pants. It's alarming, and although you've witnessed him take a similar form this entire week, you don't think you'll ever get used to the lack of uniform.

Form and take a course of action. “Where the fuck am I?” You scrap the words off the sore surface of your throat. Lord, it feels like somebody has taken a cheese grater to your gullet.

He reaches out a questioning hand towards you, and after a brief pause in which you say nothing, he moves to gently prop you against the bedframe. Out the window, the reaches of upper Zaun stretch out to meet your gaze.

Still in Zaun. Still hunting.

You try to peer closer, take further stock, but dizzily, your head lolls forward with a rush of pain.

Lightly, he puts a hand on your shoulder, and you snap back to attention. There’s a sheet of paper clutched in his other hand, one which he carefully pushes into your hands. Struggling to read with your bleary, red-stained eyes, you squint.

INCIDENT REPORT. The finely printed title reads. The space underneath is dotted with questions,  all of which are neatly filled in, even space between each carefully stencilled letter. Reporting officer: Steb’s full name. Rank: Junior officer, for him. Then, your rank. Issued—

Two days. You were out of commission for two days. You can’t remember the last time you even slept a full eight hours— and here you were, sleeping for two whole days.

Hurriedly, you skim read the rest of the form.

Mild bruising to ribs, bruising to back, severe stab wound in back (no spinal injuries), injury to throat, damage to eyes and throat caused by the grey. 

Compensation requested—

“Why are you showing me this?” It sounds harsher then intended, bitterness settling low in your gut. Perhaps it’s the intimacy, how gross and sweaty you are in your underclothes, or perhaps it’s how his hand is still on your shoulder that makes you snap.

You should brush it away, push him off of you. Pretend this never happened. You don’t.

He looks away, very briefly, and then turning the paper on its front, he places it upon the bedside table. Digging his fingers into his pocket, his pen slots in his hands once more. You listen as he quietly scribbles.

He places the paper before you, tapping the pen on the words he wants you to read.

I’M SORRY.

Sorry for what? You almost say, but it feels like a confession. How little you are accustomed to being apologised to, of all things. The meat does not apologize to the butcher.

You shake your head, ignoring how the movement makes you dizzy and how he flinches, pre-emptively moving to steady you. “Just…" You splay out a hand, waving him away. "...help me understand.”

He swallows, a small movement as he sits down on the bed beside you. His hands neatly fold themselves in his lap. You notice, somewhat dizzily, how his usually neatly slicked back hair is loose today, falling over his scalp in such a way as you can still see the comb lines. Something has been worrying him.

“Where is Kiramman? Or Maddie? Or anybody?” There’s a lapse in his polite posture. His head lolls down, his eyes sweeping the floor, his lips pursing and then he’s back, looking at you. It’s enough to know there’s some tension behind the question.

With a careful hand, he points towards the city.

“They just left?”

He shakes his head, running a hand up to prod his hair into submission as he does.

“Well. Clearly, they did.”

He sighs, probably realizing the need to verbally communicate is growing, and then fixes you with a look that would make any lesser Enforcer squirm.

Don't be difficult.

But you are no lesser Enforcer. You are hand-picked, trained, and a member of Kiramman's strike team.

(Loris's entry was questionable but you ignore that in favour of hyping yourself up.)

Perhaps that was the wrong train of thought to go down, because you stumble. Instead of coolly meeting his gaze, you land on a childish glare, and you've lost before the wrinkles that line his mouth make an appearance.

(Those goddamned wrinkles...)

You lean back, trying to cross your arms. Instead, you hit your back against the wooden headrest of the bed, sucking air between your teeth.

Knowing your position and purposely being difficult, you ask, words stained with pain, “Who took off my clothes?”

He reaches over, barely breaking eye contact with you for a second, to grasp the paper, scribbling down  the words hastily. YOU HAD A FEVER AND ACCESS WAS NEEDED TO YOUR BACK.

A dull sense of joy grapples with you at the faint stress of his words, the smudged full stop. "That doesn't answer my question. Stop dodging it. Who?" you ask, knowing very well who did.

He gestures at himself.

Victory doesn't cradle you in its arm faster than visions of him unclothing you. Those linger. Those sink low in your gut and do not leave you.

“...When will they be back?” You choke out. He mimes a sun setting.

Shit. God, being alone with him is killing you.

Defeated, finally, you slump down.

"God fucking dammit." You mutter. Usually, you would receive a somewhat lecturing look from this, but he ignores you in favour of skim reading the paper and walking back to his prior place, where medical equipment is splayed out on the counter.

You've just dozed off when he returns, sitting back down, a cup of water and a small white pill in hand. "I'm not a child." You say frowning, but you take the glass from him anyways (do your fingers brush? no. see? dealing with this maturely) and you swallow the pill with a quick gulp.

Why are you still mad? A small part of you whispers. He apologized. Perhaps you're mad just for the sake of it. He understands that, you think. (you hope)

You just need to stop thinking about it. (Alone. Their hands settle over your goggles. You deserve this, you think, very distantly.)

You just need to wait for the medicine to settle in your stomach. Sinking, lower and lower in an ocean of it's own. Ocean? Blue. His eyes are blue. Baby blue—

You just need to stop thinking about him. Him? God, what are you to him? You will always be the butcher. You will always be the blood dribbling down their lower lip. You will always be a pawn. Hero, propaganda posters... he holds the baton and brings it down like the sword of a knight.

You just need to breathe.

Steb is over you before you can think. He's thinking about your bruised ribs, isn't he? When you gape and heave. The damage it might have caused. Is this your ribs, heaving? Puncturing a lung, rupturing a nerve? Are you dying? “I— I can’t—"

You can't breathe. You can feel their hands tightening around your throat. You can feel their blood dribbling down your cheek. You want to reach up to wipe it up, but do not, too scared of hurting yourself in the process.

Steb reaches over, and gently dabs at it with a tissue. You flinch as his fingers near your cheek, anticipating a blow, but none comes. He wipes the substance away gently. His skin, soft, embroidered with little sequined scales, brushes your cheek.

He pulls away. It's just snot. Saliva. Tears.

Are you crying?

Shame boils in your stomach. You. You are crying?

“I— I need a shower—” you need to snap out of it. You try to push yourself off the bed, but stumble. He’s already there, one arm wrapping around your back to support you. You do not look at him. You cannot bare to. You already know his pity will not cleanse you.

He leads you to the bathroom, the tiles cool against your bare feet. He settles you against the grimy counter, before taking a step back. Hovering. Waiting. For what? An explanation?

You feel like a voyeur watching him, finally, even as he meets your gaze. You will always be watching him across your post, the frills on his eyes flaring, his big, doleful blue eyes. You will always be watching the ark of his arms  as he swings down, the gleam of the baton.

 "Do you need to wash me too, now? Just fuck off." You rasp.

He leaves, and you let him.

You lock the door behind him.

࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Later, you hear voices— Maddie, Loris, Caitlyn, Vi.

You do not shower. Instead, you sit on the shower tiles and try to steady your rasping breathing. Each inhale hurts, bruised flesh and achy ribs snapping and scraping, and all you can feel is that blood, dripping down your face.

Loris visits you. He brings the gift of a flask, sitting beside you. He does not ask why you  haven't showered, or why you find yourself on the tiled floor. You hate the kindness in his eyes. You hate the fact you know he will not leave.

The alcohol burns your ruined throat, at first. Then, you feel nothing at all.

Your shame cannot purify you. You already know that. But marinating in it allows, at least, you to bend it into something malleable. Something useable.

You ask him why they left you, passed out in a motel. “There was some… contention on it.” His mouth moves oddly around the words, almost like it tries to swallow them. You get the feeling he is repeating something somebody else said. You frown, and he pats your shoulder, gently. “Your guy wanted to stay with you, and we needed a break anyways. Caitlyn had a new lead. Disagreements.”

You try not to think about, 'your guy,'

Eventually, you push him out, listening as his voice joins those in the adjoining room. You hear him, Vi, and Caitlyn's footsteps as they leave, not some time later.

Take stock of your surroundings. You are in a shower. The tap is not on. The tiles are cool against your flesh. You are wearing a loose undershirt and undergarments. There is nobody in the room with you, but you can hear somebody outside speaking loosely. Maddie.

Access damage.  There is bruising to your ribs and throat. You feel dizzy. You feel childish. You are drunk. Your are in love with somebody who is too good for you. You are always alone. You are beginning to doubt it is external forces leading you to always being alone.

You think you might be wrong. You think you might be wrong about a lot of things.

Form and take a course of action.

You probably need to finally take a shower.

Quickly, you discard of your garments, throwing them out to litter the counter. The relatively easy part done, you claw and grip the smooth tiled walls around you as you stumble to your feet. Your head spins, and you taste blood, harsh and wet on your tongue as you clumsily grapple for the handle, jerking it sideways. Freezing water cascades down to sear your sensitive skin.

You shriek, and hastily, you spin the handle the other way. A somewhat habitable temperature sprinkles from the nozzle, and finally, you stand, swaying under it.

Why did you do this again? Your head pounds, dizziness settling over each crinkle and curve of  your brain and refusing to give itself  a home elsewhere. The alcohol helps it.

 Maybe you should sit down again. You don't. Instead, you lean against the wall, feeling each small start of pain as you breathe in and out. In and out, in... out...

Three, rapid consecutive knocks erupt from the doors place. Your fellow enforcer. Come to check on you after you shrieked like a cat in heat, perhaps.

There is a small pause as they wait for a response, one that drags on, before the door slowly creaks open, slow enough that you could call out if you so wish.

You don't.

He carefully pushes a long, slender teal arm through the gap, his hand pushing outwards to let you know it's him.

You already know, though. You recognised the knocks. How pathetic is that?

"Come in." You croak. He obliges, pulling his hand back, opening the door and carefully, like you are a spooked animal, stepping forward. The burst of teal is garish against the off-white tiles.

He’s not looking at you. It’s polite. You’re unclothed, after all. But you find yourself rather wishing he would as his eyes meet the empty bottle on the counter. A reminder of your exploits with Loris.

His expression changes, subtly. You’re too fucked up to make it out.

You’re looking at him, trying to carve the emotions you know are there out of the lines in his face, when you’re suddenly falling. Your knees hit the tiles with a crack, and you suck in air through your teeth, groaning.

He’s already on you before you have time to process the rapidly blooming bruises from your fall, swinging the shower door open. There’s a lapse, a pause, as he struggles to navigate helping you while not manhandling your drunken naked body, before he’s tilting your head up, glancing down at you, the tiles.

“I’m fineee.” You wave him off, batting his hand away. “All good. All good.”

You swear the look he fixes you with is worse than the pounding of your head.

“Oh, come on. All high and mighty, now?” You grimace. He sighs, still crouched before you. Faint stray droplets splatter across the fins lining his cheeks, and they flicker, shimmering under the cheap motel lights. In your woozy state, you cannot but stare in wonder.

He shifts.

“Don’t leave.” You quickly push out, perhaps sterner than intended. “I’m injured. I might die.” He swallows. You continue. “I— I’m sorry I yelled at you, earlier. I didn’t mean it.”

Carefully, he mimes calming you down, waving his hands out. Then, he shifts so his position is more comfortable looking, more permanent looking.

You almost collapse in relief.

Social etiquette demands you avert your gaze, pretend like you aren’t leaning over to watch him, his little micro expressions, his baby-blue eyes blinking, his second set of eyelids… whoever decided that shit was a rule probably never met him.

“Wash my hair?” You murmur. Is that odd? Are you allowed to ask that?

Conflict dances behind his eyes. You brace for a gentle rejection, and surprise yourself when he, forgoing removing his clothes, climbs in to sit beside you. The water continues to cascade down, though he doesn’t seem to mind.

The shampoo bottles, little cheap things, sit neatly on the floor beside you. He leans over, taking one in his hands and slathering it over his fingers. You lean against him, feeling him stiffen. His muscles lose their tension when you begin the speak, your words slurring into one another.

“God. Calm yourself, fish man. I’m not gonna to tear your face off. I’ve thought about it, though. Don’t get too comfortable.”

You bark a laugh, turning your head towards him. Your faces are close enough that you feel his breathing, warm against your wet skin, before he, gently, mind you, grips your head in his hands and turns you forward.

Fair enough.

Coconut, something rich and creamy, and the faintest hit of orange, drips through your scalp, cool, but not uncomfortably cool, against your skin. It’s nice. His fingers are careful, as always, and you can’t help your mind wondering towards them tugging.

Trying to push the thoughts away from your traitorous mind, you start to stumble over your words. “I think I’m going insane. Really. Jinx’s tricks. Kiramman on my ass. Fucking politics. A curse to live in interesting times, huh?”

God, you are a chatty drunk.

“They’re all worried about civil war, infighting, and shit. I… This isn’t what I signed up for.” Your voice is quieter, now. Too quiet, for your liking. “This… the threat was… it was never…”

You hope he cannot hear you. You know he can.

"Do you think we're doing the wrong thing? We're hunting them like dogs." You say, finally. He hums, his fingers gently massaging the shampoo into your hair before letting you go. You find yourself missing the contact.

Carefully, the lines thick and smooth against the precipitation, he stencils his words against the glass shower frame. YOUNG. STILL TIME.

“I’m young? You’re just like— like thirty? Late twenties? I think? You’re not old.” You drunkenly slur. Is that what he thinks of you? An overeager, ambitious youth? Is that why he cares? Is that why he’s washing your hair?

He smiles, you think, making a small noise. It’s such an odd sight you turn, and almost accidently push yourselves together with your drunken reflexes. He’s tall enough that you don’t smash faces, but your forehead grazes his lips, the warmth of him seeping into you.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. Flickers of a smile still dance in his eyes. “Forward. Right, right. Right.”

You turn forwards.

A long pause.

“…does it get easier? I just… I don’t think I’m doing the right thing. The future is so murky, like this fucking grey, and I— I don’t know how much more of it I want to inhale trying to see.”

He doesn’t reply. You’re about to start talking again, maybe turn around again, when you feel it.

He hesitantly, very gently, presses his forehead to your shoulder blade. You feel his skin. You feel his breath, low and hot on your back.

He angles his head up, until his mouth gently pushes against the crook of your skin.

You think you hear him kiss the curve.

“Oh.” You say, very simply and very stupidly.

A moment passes, one you should probably fill. You do not. His warmth leaves you, and then he’s back to washing your hair, massaging the shampoo out of your hair like he didn’t just shatter and then rebuild your heart in your chest.

You take initiative. Your professors back at school always said it was your best trait, after all. You turn, and cradling his skull in your hands, you shift. The soft stubble growing out of the shaved sides he hasn’t been able to maintain brushes against your palms.

“Everybody leaves me. You won’t, right? Leave me?” He nods, and you see something else dip into his expression. Perhaps the realization of your circumstances, how vulnerable you are, drunk, naked and depressed. He's always been such the gentlemen. You hate it.

He gently pries your hands off of him. Fear spikes through you. He cannot leave. He cannot leave, not yet. You grapple for the conditioner bottle. "Hey, come on. You're not done yet, are you?"

He does not leave. What he does is so, so much worse.

He takes the bottle from you and continues. His movement is gentle. His movement is soft. You’ve watched him beat somebody within an inch of their life. You’ve watched him handle a rifle with even-precision. You’ve watched him, stoic and calm under pressure that would have you crawling into your skin.

And yet his hands are still tender.

You don’t know how long you sit there, his fingers threading through your hair, and then you’re up, shivering. A warm towel is promptly wrapped around you. Everything blurs, spins. You don’t think you’ve ever been so tired in your life.

"Goodnight." He whispers to you, his fingers lingering on your shoulder. When did you get here? Pillows, cradling you, the hard motel mattress beneath you…

His hands are gentle, and you are so very wanting, but he still leaves, and you still let him.

࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You wake remembering every moment of the night before you and hating it.

The open windows breeze carries the cities air, thick with smog, cigarettes, and chatter, into the room. Sleepily, you watch the sunlight flicker across the bedsheets, before you heave yourself up, taking stock of your area.

Maddie is gently snoring beside you, her red hair splayed out around her, uniform discarded. Loris is on the floor, obviously having been kicked out during the night. (You don’t want to think about why your glorious leader and her adoring, yet scary dog might object to company. Grossssssss.)

And Steb. Steb is across from you, wrangling with his clothes. The same shirt from last night, the white, long-sleeved one, is draped across the window to dry, along with his pants. Always the early bird.

You meet his eyes.

He nods once, very gently, before pointing beside you to the bedside table. A glass of water. Pills for your headache.

You take them gratefully and yearn.

࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You will not be letting them leave. Not again. Not Steb, not Maddie, not Loris, not even Vi and Caitlynn. Not now when you know how far you can fall; how hard you can scrape rock-bottom.

You will not be alone again.

࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Notes:

oh… haha, act 3 happened and i let’s just say… you will be letting them leave ao9jioehfihrfioerhfierfhrfi Suggest any ideas you may have!!! Part two of chatty reader coming next. No more angst!!! AND MORE KISSING (or will I write another 3000 words of yearning… this is my curse)

@skyetheseagull, who asked to be tagged.

thank you all for the kind words! I read and cherish them all

[emmyrosee]

hi emmy i really like your writings ✨🎠❣️ can i please request sukuna with a clumsy reader that seems to be accident-prone. and one time she denies his help and says she can take care of her own well being and then the next second she just get injured like pretty bad she just cries on sukuna because it hurts and embarrassing for her. thank youuu so muchh if you really write this request ✨🙏🎠🤍

I LOVE CLUMSY READERS ☹️🫶🏻

—

“You’re going to fall.”

Sukuna watches from a respectful distance as you step from the chair onto the countertop, the griddle up there seemingly farther away every time he puts it there. “Please, for the love of all things unholy, let me help you.”

“No, no,” you say dramatically. “You always tease me for falling, always make fun of me for needing help, don’t act high and mighty now that you think I might need help.”

“Can you not use your thinking skills to figure out that I’m teasing you when I say stuff like that?” He says, watching as your body sways softly from the height. “Oh my god, please get down.”

“Sukuna im fine,” you laugh. Your hands reach up to grab the door handle, and when you can’t open it to full capacity, you try to take a step back to open it, only to forget exactly how high up you were, and you slip.

He moves like a bullet to catch you, but your knee slams into the countertop that originally held you, and you sink your teeth into your lip as Sukuna awkwardly cradles your body against his chest, save for your now throbbing knee which dangles helplessly. Tears well in your eyes as searing pain blooms from your bone, and you can’t look up at him, no, because you’ll cry. You’ll burst into tears right now and sob in pain and embarrassment, from him being right and holy shit did you fracture your knee what the hell-

“Are you okay?” He asks, looking down at you expectantly. His voice is unusually low, probably to try and keep you comforted, but all it does is make you screw your eyes shut and try to fight off the line of tears that bubble and slip down your cheeks. “Shit, baby, let me-“

“I’m fine!” You hiss, struggling in his grasp. The minute you move your leg, however, the shooting daggers of pain make you whimper in agony. “I’m fine. Let me go.”

“No,” he snaps. “You’re fucking hurt. Don’t be fucking stubborn.”

He hulks your body up and onto the countertop, the action having you choke out a sob from the pain and shame coursing through you. He gingerly takes your leg in his hands, testing the way it bends and how your cries pitch in distress as he handles it one way or another. With a click of his tongue he spins on his heel to make his way to the freezer and grab a bag of frozen veggies.

“You don’t listen to me,” he snarls. “What, you think because I tease you, you’ve gotta go risk your fucking life to prove a point?” He presses the bag of vegetables on your knee, the pressure making you wheeze and the chill shocking your nerves. Despite his words, he shushes you softly at your distress and uses his free arm to pull you against his chest.

“You stand on chairs all the time,” you whimper, and you hear him scoff.

“Yeah, because I don’t give a fuck if I fall. You just got seriously hurt, don’t you know how scary that was? For both of us? For fucks sake, what if you cracked your skull!”

You sniffle against him and shrug at his worries, and he clicks his tongue with a sigh. “I care about you, baby. Don’t do stupid shit like that, okay?” When you nod against him, he chuckles softly, “my stupid, clumsy brat.”

“Shut up.”

[tojisun]

thinking about biker! simon going out with his girl and the other guys at a biker bar. reader hasn't really seen how scared people are of simon - who they all call ghost - until she goes to get him another drink. while she's at the bar, a guy comes over trying to hit on her. then this hulking, 6'4 guy in a skull mask appears and the guy is ready to run out of the bar. simon didn't even have to talk just glare. while readers like ???

ITS BEEN YEARS SINCE THIS WAS SENT IM SORRY FOR JUST REPLYING NOW :(( BUT YES ABSOLUTELY YES!! my stomach swooped when i saw this hhhhh im actually kicking my legs n twirling my hair n everythingg!!

naturally, im bad at making drabbles because this turned out long again :’) im sorry

biker!simon mlist // star divider by @/plutism <33

simon’s hand is warm on the small of your back as he leads you further into the bar. you shuffle along his languid steps, head swivelling as you try to find familiar faces in the crowd – so far, none yet.

simon chuckles from beside you, and you peer up at him only to see his eyes crinkled from underneath his balaclava, no doubt smiling at you. he bows his head closer towards yours, trying, in vain, to devour as much of the space made by the height difference between you two.

“what?”

“nothin’, sweet girl.” he presses his covered lips on the top of your head, breathing you in. “come on, i see ‘em.”

he shifts the two of you, the hand that’s settled on the small of your back gliding until it hooks around your waist, pulling you ever so closer to him. protective. possessive. it makes you hum in delight, happiness thrumming underneath your skin.

(you don’t notice the way many people shift to get out of simon’s way; heads downturned as though afraid of even meeting his eyes. you don’t notice the way they turn to each other when you two passed by, as though making sure that it was simon they saw. simon – ghost – with a sweet darling pressed to his side, his bulk warding away stray gazes. you don’t notice the way they huddle with each other, whispering promises that ghost’s girl should always be protected. because yes they fear ghost, but more than that, loyalty to each other is stronger.)

he leads you towards a small pack by the far side, the table doused less in light than the rest of the bar. johnny’s already turned towards you and simon, watching with a grin as you two make it across. kyle’s seated beside him, the younger man leaned to watch the ongoing hockey game. then you see the back of john’s familiar head, his beloved boonie slung around his neck.

“finally made it, huh lass?” johnny says in greeting, snagging the attention of both kyle and john, the two of them chiming in their own hello’s. you smile, waving at them as you claim the empty seat between simon and john.

“had to make a quick stop at 7-11,” simon responds, his hand curling at one of the legs of your chair before pulling you towards him. the metal squeaks against the tiles, the sound thankfully drowned out by the loud bass.

“oh did you?” john asks, ignoring whatever simon did given how they’re all so used to his soft displays of possessiveness. he offers you a smile when you turn to him with a nod.

“had to buy, um, medicine for my stomachache.”

it’s endearing how their faces shift so fast, little smiles falling as worry takes over. even simon, whose hand is draped on your thigh, tenses, gripping as though he was remembering how he heard your pained whimper or saw you sniffling as the ache echoed, throbbing just below your ribs, choking you up.

“are you feeling any better? did it subside now, at least?” kyle asks.

you nod, quick to reassure them. “the medicine worked! i’m feelin’ better, i promise!”

they relax, tensed shoulders going lax as life flutters back into the table. you smile before sinking ever so closer to simon’s side, shying away from the intensity of their affections for you – your own little band of brotherhood, visceral in the way they care for you.

simon’s grip loosens on your thigh, choosing instead to massage the muscle tenderly. you hum, turning to ask him what he’s getting.

“whiskey, maybe,” he murmurs, his voice muffled by his mask. “you getting your bellini today, love?”

“yes please,” you reply, blinking up at him.

his eyes crinkle again, a telltale sign of his smile, before he pats your thigh and gets up to place the order.

you turn to the group, tuning into johnny’s rambling, listening to him recounting his rally. it was the one you weren’t able to go to because of work, johnny having to reassure you multiple times (even through text) that it’s fine that you’re missing it. so you listened, enraptured, nose scrunching in confusion whenever johnny slips into heavy scottish in his excitement.

“english, mactavish,” simon sighs as he falls back to his seat, startling you. you see johnny flip him off and you make eye contact with kyle, sharing twin looks of exasperation.

simon slides you your bellini and you whisper a thanks, trilling when he noses the top of your head again – your clingy boy.

the conversation rises and falls, sometimes leaving your mind wandering when they start talking about shop, sometimes catching your attention so much that you find yourself leaning on the table, breathless and wide-eyed as you listen to their bike stories – johnny had continued about his rally, kyle talked about the repairs he did for a client who he’s sure is on the run, and john shared that horrifying experience he had on his way home where he thinks he saw a floating woman by the east side highway.

“your turn, big guy,” you say, tapping simon’s knee.

simon finishes his whiskey – his balaclava tugged just enough to show his chin and his lips – before plopping the empty glass on the table with a sigh. you huff a fond laugh, knowing that one glass isn’t enough to satiate the thirst so you dust imaginary dirt off your skirt before standing up.

he tilts his head up in question, arm still hooked around your waist.

“gonna grab us more drinks,” you say. “oh, tell ‘em about the gas station incident!”

he grunts, nodding, and yet he refuses to budge. you fondly roll your eyes and turn to the others. “drinks?”

they all shake their head, johnny specifically saying he’d have to order for himself because he’d want to try the house specialties. you nod, pinching simon’s arm as you dance away from him with a bitten grin, before making your way to the bar.

you prattle away your order, telling the bartender to add the tab to your table, and hover, swaying to the music. it’s a foreign rock band playing, the bass and drums reverberating loudly, you can feel the vibrations pulsing along your body, and you almost get lost in your own thoughts when a hand slides to your back.

you startle, mind quickly cataloguing that this isn’t simon. because simon, for all his impressive silence and his displays of possessiveness, never sneaks up on you like this. he has never let you doubt your safety while with him. so you back away from the stranger’s touch, your hands pressed close to your chest before finally turning to see who went up to you.

the man, who seems to be about your age, smiles upon seeing your face. “hey there, angel.”

the pet name makes you nauseous and your stomach churns once again. you have to ask for the medicine from simon when you return to the table.

“hi,” you squeak, not letting him off your sight.

“you seem new here. i am too.” he laughs, scratching his neck. then, “it really ain’t my scene.”

“uh-huh,” you say, not knowing what else to tell him.

his chuckles peter out, a suave smile replacing what had been an awkward display of forced laughter. he clears his throat. “so, what’s a sweet thing like you doing alone here?”

“she ain’t alone, kid,” the bartender answers for you and you turn to him, surprised, before thanking him as he presents you with your whiskey and bellini.

the bartender nods to you in reply before crossing his arms in front of his chest and addresses the stranger again. “go bother someone else.”

the man arches a brow in question, his lips pursing in distaste. “oh yeah? she seems pretty available to me.”

the phrase hits you badly.

your anxiousness bleeds away to make room for your ire and you snarl, dropping your hands from where they’re pressed on your chest to rest them on your hips.

“what did you just say?” you ask, your voice a measured anger. “i’m fucking what now?”

he raises his hands up like he’s pacifying you. “hey, hey. didn’t mean that, my pretty girl-”

“she’s not your anything, you mad wanker.”

the sound of simon’s voice makes you settle, a wave of safety and comfort washing over you, dousing the angry churning in the pit in your stomach. simon steps from behind the stranger, towering over him, before moving to stand beside you. his hand hovers, questioning, and you give him a soft nod that gets simon pulling you close to him. his hand falls to the small of your back, caressing, and you wonder if he knows that the man had grazed his hand there just minutes ago. if simon’s doing this to overwrite the unpleasant feeling that was sticking to you.

“oh,” the stranger breathes out and you notice the way his hands are trembling, the tight balls of his fists turning his knuckles white. “i, uh, i’m sorry, ghost.” then he’s off, running out of the bar with his tail tucked between his legs.

you huff at the realization that the mad man didn’t even apologize to you. what a fucking prick.

“you doin’ alright there, baby?” simon asks, pulling you to him. he settles on an empty bar stool – you are sure those were filled just minutes ago… – and tugs you so that you are standing between his legs.

he cups your cheeks, thumbs tracing lines just underneath your eyes, and it makes you drag a shaky inhale.

“i’m sorry, sweetheart. i should’ve accompanied you.” simon sounds distressed, his eyes furrowed in the intensity of his worry.

you coo at him, it’s your turn to cup his jaw this time. “i’m alright, si. i promise.”

he shifts his eyes between yours, searching for anything besides the truth, and he folds himself into you when he sees that you mean it. you laugh, patting at his head, wishing that he doesn’t have his balaclava so you can play with his hair, before turning to the bartender who, in the sudden absence of customers by the counter, is watching you two with a pinched smile.

“thank you again,” you tell him and he grunts, nodding. simon straightens up and groans as he stands, his big body unaccustomed to the tiny bar stools.

“yeah,” he says, addressing the bartender. “thanks for bein’ here for my girl, alex.”

the bartender – alex – just waves his hand around in dismissal. “it’s nothin’, really. now go away, i want customers.”

simon and alex laugh, sharing an inside joke, and you swivel your head around in confusion because now that alex had mentioned it, where did everyone go? and why are they all huddled together, far from the bar?

simon closes his hand on your wrist and pulls. you barely manage a goodbye to alex who waves at you in reply.

…alex?

“wait. that’s alex?”

best believe that simon has connections anywhere he goes. if not for himself, it’s for his girl!!!

me, shamefully staring at the word count (1.8k) of what should’ve been a drabble: well now…

[xiaowhore]

hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don't cry!

premise. in which you manage to make neuvillette feel better at the expense of your dignity. (a fair trade, really.)

word count. 1.5k

note. do umbrellas exist at teyvat. i really don't know.

You've never taken Monsieur Neuvillette as the type to dramatically brood in the rain when he gets sad, but to be fair, you don't know much about him at all.

You clutch onto your umbrella, contemplating. So, uh... Are you supposed to approach him now? Shield him from the rain with your umbrella? That doesn't sound too bad, actually. But then what? Ask him if his pet fish died and now he's mourning his loss? That's hardly appropriate to say to the Chief of Justice... But it would be creepier to just stand there without saying anything, right?

You could leave and pretend you didn't see anything. Of course, that's an option too. It's possible he prefers to be left alone when he's unhappy.

But sulking while standing in the rain just gives “I want someone's attention” vibes, doesn't it?!

With a fit of reckless courage and a “fuck it” mindset, you advance your way forward to where he stands.

Regretting something as soon as you do it is on-brand for you, you realize as you soon come to learn you have to be on the tip of your toes to have the umbrella barely raising over his head instead of hanging from him. You must make a pathetic sight, attempting to shield both yourself and this hulking tower of a man from the rain with a tiny umbrella.

“...What are you doing?” Neuvillette turns around, taken aback when you're in much closer proximity than he expected. Panic flares in his eyes, and like the gentleman that he is, he steps back to create some distance. His head presses against the edge of the umbrella.

“Hey, you shouldn't move away!” You follow his movements, closing the gap. His head is now safely within the umbrella's reach, but you're an inch away from being pressed up against his chest. “I miscalculated. This thing's too small for us.”

When the initial shock wears off, his shoulders slump, a sign of him lowering his guard. “If you know that much, you should use it for yourself and go home.”

That doesn't sound like a bad idea. Appealing, even. You've never felt so silly in your entire life and the option to run away is looking more enticing with each second that ticks by.

Still.

“It's dangerous to walk alone at this hour. Won't you accompany me, sir?”

...Not the best excuse you could've come up with, but your mouth runs faster than your brain. Neuvillette, being the considerate person he is, actually takes some time to think about it, and you hurry to say, “If you leave me alone now, you could have another disappearance case in your hands tomorrow. Would you really like more work on your desk rather than some company tonight?”

He gives you a long, suffering stare that looks suspiciously like the one he gives to Lady Furina when she disappoints him, but he doesn't say no. His hand wraps around the umbrella handle, overlapping with your fingers. It takes another two seconds of that stare before you get the message and you let go, finally able to rest the balls of your feet on the ground as you stand on normal footing.

“I hope you don't make a hobby of coercion,” he hums as you walk together, your shoulders brushing every so often. “Or else I'd see you as a criminal suspect tomorrow instead of a victim.”

“I see that jokes aren't your strong suit, Monsieur Neuvillette.” You laugh awkwardly, your nervousness spiking to an all-time high throughout your entire interaction with him. It's been barely ten minutes.

Silence ensues.

“Do you like showers, sir?”

You should've just kept your mouth shut, damn it.

“I like them the same amount as the average person, I suppose.” The ridiculous question doesn't phase him, and you don't know how he's able to keep a straight face while saying that.

You decide to push your luck. “...Do you prefer bathing with cold or hot water?”

Finally, you draw out a light chuckle from him, the sound deep and pleased. It almost makes playing the fool worth it. “I've been told I'm not the best with small talk, but you seem to be worse than I am.”

Your head snaps up to look at him, affronted. “It wasn't a bad question!”

“Certainly not as bad as talking about the weather. Do you want me to praise you?”

Was the Chief Justice always this sassy? “You're making fun of me,” you point out the obvious, turning away and crossing your arms. “I asked about showers because you were standing in the rain.”

“You thought I liked showers because I was in the rain?”

“Well, I didn't know for sure. That's why I asked.” Even you can tell you're sounding more and more ridiculous by the minute. Was your house always this far? You can't wait to dive to your bed and pretend this encounter never happened. “I think I'll just shut up now.”

“Really, now?”

“Every time I open my mouth around you, I embarrass myself further. I think it's for the best.”

You hear another chuckle as heat crawls up to your cheeks, spreading to your ears. “For what it's worth, you did put me out of my terrible mood. You're quite funny.”

“That's a nice way to say you think I'm being strange.” You hide your face with your hands, peeking at Neuvillette's expression between your fingers. Bathed in the silvery moonlight, he looks straight out of a painting, even with wet hair and drenched clothes.

You've never seen him up close, never even dreamed of standing next to him. Now, you're exchanging jabs at each other like it's the most normal thing in the world, like you weren't just thinking he was someone out of reach when you watched his court trial in amazement. Now, he's so close that you can almost feel the heat from his body, so much more tangible than just a figure you admired from afar.

“But I do have your strangeness to thank,” he admits, looking off into the distance. The stars shine bright in his eyes. “Had it not been for you squeezing me under your umbrella and forcing me to walk you home, I'd surely still be under the rain.”

“...Couldn't you have phrased that better?”

“In court, I only state facts.”

You laugh dryly. “You could spare me some dignity by embellishing the story a bit... Oh, we're here.” You were so occupied defending yourself from his witty comments that you didn't realize you had already arrived home until your door was right at your face. You glance at Neuvillette, who then nods towards the door. If he's disappointed to have the stroll cut short, he doesn't show it.

“Go in. It is rather late.” He closes the umbrella and offers it back to you, a gentle smile on his face. The sight is almost like a reward for your efforts; the small upturn of the corners of his lips makes all the difference, his sharp, cold gaze softening into something more affectionate. The rainbow after the storm. The gratitude for a small kindness.

“You have to get home, too,” you utter, pushing it back to him.

“The rain stopped a few minutes ago,” he insists, gesturing behind him. You blink owlishly, observing the still pools of rainwater. You didn't even notice. Why didn't he say so? You didn't have to squeeze together under such a tiny umbrella, then.

“You should still keep it.”

He raises an eyebrow, inquisitive. “Why?”

You unlock your door, stepping inside, but still not closing it shut. “Well, it gives you an incentive to see me again.” You grin at him mischievously, like you thought of a genius plan. “I work at the cafe in the main street. I'm sure we have some tea that will strike your fancy. Make sure you're not moping next time we meet, yeah?”

Not for the first time, he seems taken aback. But his gaze softens once more, his expression molding into something pleased. “Very well.”

And so, he leaves with a small umbrella in his hand, a smile on his lips, and the clear skies over his head.

The next time you see Neuvillette, the sun is high in the sky. Compared to that night, you can see him a little better now.

That's how you notice he looks unusually shy with a bouquet of flowers in his arms and a pink blush high on his cheeks. “...Good afternoon,” he starts, his lips curving to a beginning of a smile. “The weather is great today, isn't it?”

You stare. You stare some more. And when the sight finally processes in your mind, your twinkling laughter rings in the air, as sweet as the aroma of freshly baked muffins. “And who stooped so low to talk about the weather this time, huh?”

Neuvillette can't even pretend to feel bad about it, not when you're jumping off the seat in the counter to show him a table for two. “Your silliness is infectious, it seems.”

“Hey!”

(You've never taken Monsieur Neuvillette as the type to be smart-mouthed, the type to be indulgent to your whims, the type to be romantic towards the person he's interested in—

But now you have all the time in the world to get to know him better.)

[kingkatsuki]

Old man Bakugou (who isn’t even that old, but god I want him)

Warnings: 18+, retired!Pro-Hero Dynamight, Bakugou is 50, reader is like half his age or more or less idc but Bakugou is older.

Bakugou retires at fifty. It’s much younger than a lot of other heroes that have paved the way for him, and yet he’s accomplished so much that it’s time for him to step aside for the future Pros. The ones that still have so much drive and energy, and are ready to conquer their dreams just like he was.

It gives up a place in the top five rankings for another younger, keen Pro-Hero to take his place. But of course Dynamight is still popular, and he’s still got a loyal fan base that continue to adore him even into his retirement.

Bakugou is still recognised when he goes out to restaurants and coffee shops, full of people trying to grab his autograph or share stories of how they grew up with him and watched him reach number one.

And then there’s you— he meets you one night at a bar when he’s nursing a beer, trying to adjust to having a free schedule instead of protecting the city. And he can’t help but notice the way your eyes glisten when you notice him, leaning against the bar beside his stool as you tilt your head inquisitively.

“No way, you’re Dynamight? My mom used to love you.”

And once again Bakugou is reminded of just how old he is, his blond hair now mixed with wisps of silver, the thick stubble that frames his jaw well on its way to being a beard, his muscular chest now curved with soft pudge and blond hairs and his back aches as he sits on the barstool.

“She had the biggest crush on you when she was younger,” You take a seat beside him as you sip at your own drink, “Had posters and figures up of you and everything.”

Bakugou doesn’t know how it happened— or why a pretty young thing like you wants anything to do with him. He’s gotta be twice your age, maybe more— but the casual conversation continues and you’re practically leaning into him now, pretty eyes glazed over as you stare down at his lips.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to fuck an old man,” You tease, but you should be careful what you wish for, “Can you even still get it up?”

Bakugou reckons he should have you over his knee for that comment alone, but that’s all it takes for him to have his beer bottle slamming down onto the bar as he grabs you by the wrist.

Barely ten minutes later Bakugou has your knees pushed up to your chest inside the dingy dive bar bathroom. Your knickers bunched around them to keep your thighs together as he rams his thick, hard cock inside your tight cunt. The ferocity of his thrusts unlike anything you’ve felt before and you’re certain you can feel him in your lungs. Your naive hole squelches around him, your essence leaking out of you and soaking his heavy balls as the only words that leave your lips now are incoherent babbles. Your hands cling to him for some semblance of reality, painted nails leaving crescent-shaped moons in his forearms. Your grip rough enough to break his skin and join the multiude of scars that already marr his body.

Your head knocks against the mirror with each cant of his hips but you could care less. The pleasure surging through your veins has your mind hazy, his hulking body practically folds you in two as he looms over you, burying his cock inside you to the hilt as you feel so full.

You’re positive you look debauched. Your pretty lipstick ruined as it’s smeared across your lips and cheeks, certain you’re drooling down your chin as he fucks you within an inch of your life. It’s nothing like the inept men around your own age you’d been with before. With age comes experience, and you’re certain you see heaven when a calloused thumb slips between your bodies to press against your puffy clit.

“Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart,” He groans, “This old man’s gonna have you gushin’ all over his cock.”

[nighttimealone]

Cw: Nsfw (poly 141 x afab!reader, female pronouns)

Calling this anon, HBD and I hope you enjoy this.

“Woke you up, sweetheart?”

Your eyes flutter open when you feel a hand caressing your face briefly, the sunlight seep through the seam of the curtain, basking the bedroom in a scrim of orange as your mind process who’s beside you when you meet a pair of tender brown eyes.

“Kyle…” Stretching out your limbs then roll out from underneath the duvet, you rest your head on his lap before answering him “Not really, was about to get up after all.”

A click from the door turns both of your attentions towards the direction, the door’s not even open fully, but Johnny’s voice pops up from behind already.

“Who got the lassie out of her beauty sleep already?” He closes the door behind, and the mattress dips when he joins you and Kyle on the bed. “Ye know you can nap a bit more, eh? A perk of being a birthday girl.”

“Before Simon and John come back from picking up the cake?” You snicker when Johnny’s eyes widens a bit at your words, but a scoff of laughter quickly replaces the surprise, follow with Kyle’s chuckles ringing from the top of you.

“Already said that she’ll find out one day, Soap.” He reaches his arms out again, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

“Not that hard to figure it out when you both started convincing me to have a nap every year around afternoon?”

“aye,” another pair of hands tracing circles on your calf, and you shift your gaze to meet Johnny’s again. “Forgot about we got a smart one for us.”

A shudder leaves you when Kyle gently maneuvers you to sit up, your head rest against his chest while Johnny scoots closer to you on the bed, and you huff out a laughter, feeling Kyle’s warmth seeping through his shirt with Johnny’s breath fanning on the nape of your neck. “So this is why they’re the one getting the birthday cake, and you two are the one staying home with me?”

“We’re more entertaining than those old men.” Kyle eyes meets Johnny’s for a brief moment, as if seeking his approval. Yet nothing speaks louder than Johnny’s hand traveling upwards, stopping at your inner thighs and palming the supple flesh in a sensual manner.

Your hazy mind’s clouded with pleasure, Johnny’s face burying between your legs, lapping like a starving dog through your wet folds, make sure every spots are taken care of and changes between sucking the swollen nub and teasing your entrance with little swirl of the tip of his tongue. He groans obscenely whenever you squeeze your thighs around his head, chasing each drop of your essence with the same passion of a bloodhound, no way he’s going to waste any drop of those precious juices. Leaning back on Kyle’s body, his hands slipping past the hem of your shirt, his lips pressing against yours hungrily, drinking all your moans elicited by his fingers flicking and pinching your hardened nipples down with his tongue leading you in a deep kiss. It’s until your back arch upwards, thighs trembling and riding through your orgasm with Johnny’s lips giving little sucklings to your twitching clit, resting your cheeks on Kyle’s shoulder and recovering from the release, that you finally notice the two hulking forms lurking at the open bedroom door.

“Told you muppets to keep her entertained, not wearing her out before she has her birthday cake.” John chides them with his gruff voice, but the amusement in his tone is obvious, not to say the smirk on his lips when you look at him with glazed eyes.

“ 'm just having my cake first” Giving a peck to your pussy lips, Johnny unabashedly smirks back to the captain.

“You’re not even the one whose birthday’s today, Johnny.” Simon sets down the cake on the nightstand, rolling his eyes before looking down at you, gaze soften a bit at the view of your blissed out face. “But the princess looks happy enough, guess Gaz and you had take good care of her, huh?”

“Can always count on us, Ghost.” You hum softly as agreement to Kyle words, which gets a snort from Simon, but he sure does approve his statement.

You eyes land on the cake, exquisite decorations with just your favorite flavor, they always spoil you even more when it’s your birthday, from refusing you to do any chores and ushering you to lounging around in the house, to gifts and cake that always make you confuse how these hotheads know that you’ve been storing those products in your basket for months but always close the app after staring at the ‘buy’ button and hesitating whether you should buy them or not.

“Thank you.” Your eyes shift from the cake and the presents, to meet each of theirs. Each of them distinct, convey their love to you in their own unique fashion, yet share the same affection and devotion to you.

“Does the birthday girl want her cake first…” John scoops a bit of the whipped cream from the cake, letting you have a taste of the creamy sweetness, then his chest rumbles with laughter when he spots the eagerness in your eyes, thumb slide past your lips and allow you to lick the cream clean from it. “Or she wants her ‘birthday gift’ from us first?”

You’re suddenly aware of how they surrounded you in a circle, John sitting in front of you between your spread thighs, his bulge restrained by his trousers nudging your puffy pussy—still wet from Johnny eating you out and you’re sure it’s dripping juices and staining the bedsheets now, body heating with desires of all your men drowning you in their scents— and Kyle’s cock already poking at the fat of your ass, his arms circling around your waist as he waits for your response.

“Doubt she’s able to enjoy the cake when she just wants us now.” Ghost tilts your head, tossing his gloves aside before sneaking a kiss from your lips, tasting the remnants of the whipped cream from devouring you in a prolonged kiss. You don’t have to give his crotch a glance to know he’s probably rock-hard too from watching your little show earlier.

“Cannae wait to get yer pretty cunny filled with our cum, eh?” and Johnny…the shameless bastard’s already stroking his dick through his sweat pants while teasing you.

“Well…Can’t say you’re wrong…” Giggling at them, you admit your wish without hesitation, before getting pulled into a kiss again, relaxing entirely under their touches and indulging in all four men’s pampering.

Because birthday girl deserves all the attention from her lovers, yeah?

[msbigredmachine]

The Boy Next Door: Chapter Two

MASTERLIST ✨ harmshake's masterlist ✨ msbigredmachine's masterlist

Word Count: 7.3k

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, language, angst, violence

Banner made by me. Credit to the owners of the other pics and gifs.

“Uhhnnn, fuck...baby I’m comin’...”

Angelo’s deep, rough voice broke as he yanked a little too hard on Ivy’s hair, causing her to wince from the sharp pain. He thrust inside her just as hard a few more times before his body seized up, his pelvis mashed against her backside to make her feel him pulsing inside her as he came. Not for the first time, she was thankful condoms were a thing and she always insisted that he had one on him before he touched her; there was no doubt he would get her pregnant the next chance he got with the aim of tethering himself even deeper into her life. It was apparent in the desperation with which his admittedly above-average dick dug all up in her pussy every time they got together. On the bright side, his efforts got the job done…Well, that, along with the frantic circling of her fingers around her clit that never failed to drag her to a long-awaited nut that currently had her moaning noisily into her bamboo sheets. Thank goodness her daughter was a long way down the hallway, fast asleep in her four-poster bed, oblivious to the late night goings-on of her dysfunctional parents.

She hissed with relief when Angelo finally released his vice grip, flopping onto his back, his sweat-slick chest heaving up and down. The same old routine followed, with him lazily and unwisely reaching out for a cuddle, prompting her standard rebuff of rolling away from him. She waited patiently for the gradual shift in his breathing, from heavy to relaxed, signaling that he was out like a light. Glancing over to confirm, she rolled her eyes with a huff. This dude left the condom on. Again. Even in his sleep, he was making her clean up after him. Exhaling heavily, she reached over to carefully slide the thin latex off his dick and tie it up in a knot, climbing out of the bed to dump it in the trash can nearby. 

The lights illuminating the paved streets outside her home seeped through her bedroom windows, shedding more light than was necessary considering it was deep into the night. She padded over to the window to draw down the roller blinds, making a mental reminder to herself to keep them closed more often now that the house across was occupied. Her fingers wavered when she noticed that the lights of his bedroom were still on. It piqued her curiosity as to what would be keeping him awake at this late hour. Work, perhaps?

And then, almost on cue, the hulking figure of her new neighbor came into view, and her breath caught.

Roman stepped out of what was probably his bathroom, his towel hanging dangerously low around his waist. His hair was down, long, silky and clearly wet, the droplets of water glistening against his bare chest. He was walking around the room, seemingly acquainting himself with the new space. Ivy was on the money with the athletic physique, unable to take her eyes off his bulging muscles, the ridges of his abs, and the intricate tribal tattoos adorning his right arm, pec and half of his back that only embellished the majesty and beauty of this stranger. Standing there like the voyeur she’d become, she allowed her mind to wander, to wonder what those taut, rippling muscles would feel like pressed against her nakedness, his long hair fanning her face as his big body pinned her down…his voice, deep and rough and needy in her ear, talking her through her pleasure…

So entranced was she in her fantasy that she didn’t realize he had pivoted in her direction, fully facing the window, until it was almost too late. Her eyes widened as his hands slid south, unraveling the towel from his waist…

Gasping in alarm, she quickly turned away, fumbling with the blinds to snatch them shut. She leaned against the wall, her cheeks blazing, hand on her hammering heart as it dawned on her that she’d almost seen him naked.

And yet, as scandalized as she was, a small part of her wished she did. 

Damn.

Willing away the disappointment and the stirring in her loins, she dragged herself back to bed, hoping she would get some sleep.

Morning arrived too quickly for her liking, and she was up too early considering it was her day off, with her next shift not until tomorrow. Untangling herself carefully from Angelo’s clingy grasp, she rolled onto her side and checked the time on her phone charging on her nightstand. Seven a.m. was a decent hour to take Duchess out for a morning walk and be back home in time for Zaia to be out of bed so they could make red velvet pancakes together, assuming she wouldn’t be glued to her father’s side like she liked to be. 

Climbing out of bed carefully so as not to wake Angelo and kick off her day on a sour note, she threw on a forest-green sports bra and matching leggings from Actively Black, along with a pair of Nike sneakers, and wrapped up her hair in a bun on top of her head. Grabbing her phone and headphones, she stopped by Zaia’s room to check on her. As expected, her baby was sound asleep, buried beneath her Disney Princesses duvet. Ivy would have woken her up to join her but she wanted her to rest; she’d worked so hard all week in school and with her chores and therefore earned this Saturday morning lie-in. 

Laying by Zaia’s bedside, Duchess’ head snapped up when the door opened. She bolted across the room towards Ivy, her tail wagging excitedly, bouncing on her hind legs and pawing at her mama’s shins.

"Hi, girl! You awake? You’re a good girl, yes, you are!" Ivy cooed softly, shutting the bedroom door quietly before lifting Duchess in her arms to be attacked with excited licks and doggy breath. "Come on, let’s go for a walk." Grabbing her leash, harness and a water bottle, she headed downstairs and out the door. 

The route was a simple one, the expanse of tarred road sandwiched between rows of houses of various sizes and styles leading down a winding path to the public park. The weather was perfect, the fresh air sweeping over Ivy's face with a calming, peaceful feeling that was a stark contrast from the controlled chaos of her life. She let Duchess lead the way, the little dog stopping every now and then to sniff a tree or bark at an innocent squirrel. Another sharp turn round the bend brought them to the entrance of the dog park. Lowering her headphones around her neck, Ivy settled down on a nearby bench, watching Duchess run towards the puppy playground. It was relatively empty with just two other owners and their equally small dogs, but she was sure she’d leave once it became crowded. To pass the time, she scrolled through her unread emails, responding to the urgent ones while keeping a watchful eye on Duchess. A flash of movement to her left caught her attention, and looking up, her heart raced in her chest.

Slowing down to a stop on the pedestrian path, dusting his knees off, was Roman. Even with a beanie and a hoodie covering his head, there was no mistaking his striking features; the prominent cheekbones, the sharp jawline framed by his thick beard. His long-sleeved Nike shirt clung to his upper body, straining the fabric’s futile attempt to contain the burgeoning muscles underneath. Ivy found herself taking a swig of her water due to the heat that had nothing to do with the morning sun.

She shouldn’t have disturbed him. She should have let him go about his day - but her mouth and hand moved faster than her brain, waving from her seat, “Hey Roman!” She watched him glance around in search of her voice, a hint of apprehension on his handsome face before his eyes landed on her. His tight frown bloomed into a bright smile that sparked a sensation similar to the one last night when she was ‘spying’ on him. The way he walked exuded confidence and power, commanding the space around him, as she noticed, to her chagrin, other women doing double takes as he passed by them. 

"Wassup, neighbor? This seat taken?" he asked.

"Not at all,” she answered, a little too eagerly as he settled down on the opposite side of her bench, keeping a respectable gap between them which allowed her to gawk…respectfully. His dri-fit shorts accentuated the thickness of his thigh muscles that flexed when he shifted, inadvertently drawing her eyes there. She’d seen a lot of him last night and internally she craved more, craved to see exactly what lay underneath. The sunlight enriched his caramel skin, the light sheen of sweat giving him a vibrant glow. Ivy swallowed hard, willing herself to remain composed. “How’s your morning going?” she asked.

“Great, now that I’m talkin’ to you,” Roman smiled at her, leaning back in his seat to admire her in her sports bra and high-waist tights, her afro curls piled high on top of her head. “You look really nice.”

The blush threatened to burn her cheeks as she tugged shyly at her top. “Thanks. It’s just sportswear though.”

“Maybe, but that don’t change what I said,” he insisted, his deep brown eyes deliberately scanning her body. A shiver swept up her spine at the growing intensity as he looked at her. Flustered, she played it off by looking around for Duchess who happened to be just a foot away, racing two other dogs around the canine condo.

“I see you came alone,” Roman observed, “Your little girl alright?”

“She’s good. Sleeping in. She’s been a busy bee all week so she’s earned the rest. We’re gonna make pancakes when I get back.”

“Hmm, sounds delicious. I heard you call her Zaia? Am I right?”

“Correct. It means ‘precious’ in Arabic.” A fond smile fell over her features at the thought of her bright, beautiful little six-year old angel.

Roman nodded, digesting the information. “It's a great name. Pretty, just like her mama’s.” 

Ivy looked away, her grin now bashful. “Here you go again with the compliments.”

“We still on that, huh? You do owe me a couple yourself,” Roman replied with a cute smirk that made her warm all over. “I’m still working on it, tryna find the right time,” she joked.

“Any time is a good time for a compliment.” His smile faltered, his cheery tone hardening slightly, “Unless you’re worried about the boyfriend. He still bein’ a headache?” 

Ivy scoffed. She’d almost forgotten about him. Almost. “He's not my boyfriend. We share a child, that’s it.”

“Oh? He made it pretty clear when he was all over you and then tried to jump me.”

She almost laughed at that. One look at Roman quickly erased any scenario where he could be jumped. “About that…I’m really sorry…he can be a little…assertive sometimes,” she began.

But Roman shook his head, his nose turned up. “Don’t apologize for him. He might be your kid’s father but you’re not responsible for his foolishness.”

Most times he didn’t give her a choice in the matter, forced to deal with the mess afterwards. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” she sighed.

“That’s my point. There shouldn’t be a next time,” he replied, staring into her eyes, the sincerity radiating from them unnerving her a little. Her issues with Angelo was the last thing she wanted to talk about, especially with a relative stranger. Thankfully she was given a way out as the playground started to fill up with more people. “Well, I’ve been out long enough. It’s time I headed home,” she announced, getting to her feet. “Duchess! Come here, girl!”

"Cute little puppy. How long have you had her for?" Roman enquired, watching her hook the leash and harness around the puppy.

"About three months. She was Zaia’s birthday present from my friend Gemini. She’ll be eight months old next week. She and Zaia keep me fit with their combined energy," Ivy explained with a laugh, going quiet for a moment. “What happened to your hand, by the way?” She nodded at the white crepe bandage wrapped around his left hand that was peeking through his sleeve. 

Glancing down, he cleared his throat and shifted his hand out of view, seemingly embarrassed by his injury. “Oh. Knife wound. I was meal prepping and accidentally sliced my palm. A little bit of bleeding but nothing I can’t handle.”

“Wow, that must have hurt. I can take a look at it if you want, make sure it’s-”

Roman smiled and waved away her concern. “I know that’s your nurse instincts poppin’ out, but I’m fine. Don’t worry your pretty little self. But who knows? Maybe somewhere down the road I might need you for…other things,” he finished with a sly wink.

The lowered bass of his voice had Ivy biting her lip at the blatant innuendo, not missing the way his eyes flickered to her mouth. She grinned sheepishly and shook her head, tugging gently on Duchess’ leash. “Alright then, I’ll leave you to your workout…”

“I’m done, actually, and I’m about to head home. I can drop you off too, if you'd like. I drove here,” Roman offered.

For a split second, she imagined Angelo’s reaction to her pulling up in another man’s car. But the visual was gone as quickly as it surfaced. It was none of his business. “Sure.” 

As they approached the parking lot, her eyes widened as he remotely unlocked the doors to a shiny, sleek black Maserati GranCabrio. “Is that yours? Oh, you ballin’, ballin’,” she remarked, noting the blush creep up his cheeks as he opened the passenger’s door for her. “I do alright,” he mumbled.

“Wow. What do you do? I don’t think I’ve asked.” 

“I’m a Senior Finance Manager at an accounting firm downtown,” he answered, starting the car and letting the top down. “But I also freelance for private individuals, angel investors, pro and college athletes. I mainly work remotely, so you’ll be seeing me at home often.”

Ivy settled in her seat, awed by the lush beige color of the interior, feeling slightly intimidated being inside such an expensive car. “Well, they’re treating you real well,” she said. 

“They’d better, I work my ass off for ‘em,” Roman chortled, backing out of the parking lot. 

Conversation flowed easily on the drive home. Ivy did her best to keep her eyes on the road, but she couldn’t resist taking the occasional peek at Roman while they chatted. She noticed he was doing the same, sprouting more butterflies in her belly. As they pulled up to their street, he killed the engine next to his sidewalk. A tentative silence fell between them that would probably have been suffocating if it weren’t for Duchess’ routine panting. Ivy dared another glance at the big man, the feeling in her stomach intensifying as those gorgeous eyes of his lingered on her again.

“Thanks for the ride, I appreciate it,” she whispered, gathering Duchess in her arms.

Roman smiled. “Not a problem. Tell Zaia I said hi.”

“I will.” Another long look, another grateful grin before she stepped out of the car and crossed the street towards her front door, fully aware that his gaze was still on her, fully aware that she liked his gaze on her. A lot.

However, a deep frown replaced her giddy smile when the door swung open, Angelo standing there, his face like thunder. The darkening of his light eyes as he glanced over her shoulder and the sound of the Maserati’s door slamming shut told her the two men had locked metaphorical horns, the tension pulsing from both sides.

“What the fuck! I know I ain’t just seen you come out of his car,” Angelo hissed.

“Wassup, man. Ivy, you good?” Roman called out behind her. Stoking the fire.

Quick to douse it before it raged, Ivy threw a smile his way. “I’m fine! Thanks again!” Not waiting for a reply, she ushered Angelo back into the house and set Duchess on her feet, the puppy immediately dashing away in search of Zaia. “If you must know, I ran into him at the park and he offered to bring me home,” she explained, entering the kitchen. “I had to apologize to him for that disrespectful crap you pulled yesterday. I get along with all my neighbors and you’re not about to fuck that up for me.”

“Get along, huh? Zaia coulda seen you. How you think that’s gonna look, her mama joyriding with some other dude, huh?” Angelo demanded, his eyes narrowed accusingly.

Incensed, Ivy spun around, glared at him. “Are you using my daughter to gaslight me, Angelo? Seriously?”

“Our daughter, Ivy! You out here lookin’ like a thot and for what? Is that the example you wanna set for our kid? Where’s your sense of self-respect?”

Clearly, the audacity of the man she called her daughter’s father knew no bounds. “Respect?! Like the respect you showed me when you cheated on me?” Ivy countered, crossing her arms, fire in her eyes. “When you only came crawling back because that bitch dumped your slow ass and left for California? When you refused to be in ‘your kid’s’ life until you had a DNA test done, despite your dumbass knowing you’re the only one I was with? Refresh my memory, Angelo!” 

Silence. Deafening. Tense. Truth.

Angelo shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he spoke, his tone low and exasperated. “Why you keep doin’ this shit, Ivy? How many times do I gotta apologize for that?”

“I don’t want your apology. I don’t need it,” she snapped. “You lost my trust a long time ago and nothing you say or do will ever change that. Period.” She trailed off, focusing on the clock on the wall like she’d learned to rein in her emotions. It was only eight o’clock and she had a headache already. Rinse and repeat. “Don’t you got some conference to be at?” she threw at him, eager for him to be out of her face.

Bristling at her harsh dismissal, Angelo sucked his teeth, snatching his belongings off the countertop. “Ol’ meathead ass gives you some attention and now you got a fucking attitude.” His sigh was heavy and dramatic as he finally, thankfully walked away. Her eyes closed with a sigh of her own, the familiar gnawing in her chest surfacing as she overheard her daughter’s sniffles from the living room pleading with her daddy not to go, him soothing her and promising that he would be back soon. Her heart broke for Zaia, but selfishly, she was glad he was out of her space, even going as far as to wish, yet again, that he could take it one step further and be out of her life, too.

A crime documentary come to life. 

The news reporter stood in the neck of the woods, under the shaded protection of a few giant sequoias and a couple of smaller deciduous trees, a short distance away from a clearing that was cordoned off with caution tape guarded by several uniformed cops. In the background, a body bag was being loaded onto a gurney. The face of the victim splashed across the screen made Ivy’s blood run cold.

She’d seen the young woman, Rhea, just three days ago at the hospital. They didn’t interact, but she was hard to forget with her pale skin, numerous tattoos and goth clothing that stood her out from all the other patients at the Gynecology ward. Never did Ivy imagine she’d be dead just days later. Murdered. The news said she had been reported missing yesterday and was found by a jogger, bound and gagged with her throat slit from ear to ear. The woods were close to the dog park, so to know that such a horrific crime was committed so nearby, while she was out there just this morning with Duchess, sent chills down her spine.

“I’m still in shock,” she confided in her best friend Gemini over FaceTime, adjusting her iPad on her kitchen island. “I remember seeing her in the hospital earlier this week. She was so young, barely in her twenties. Who could have done that to her?”

“That’s what everyone’s trying to figure out,” Gemini said, her expression grim as she lounged on her patio. “I spoke to Officer Gable. He says she was killed in her home then her body was dumped in the woods either last night or early this morning.” She dropped another bombshell. “And get this…this hasn’t been made public yet, but they also found a positive pregnancy test in her backpack.”

Ivy clapped a hand over her mouth, floored. That poor girl was pregnant?! “Oh my god.”  

“I know, it’s wild. They’re looking for her boyfriend, Dominik. Apparently he’s outta town but they’re ruling him as the prime suspect,” Gemini went on, “If you ask me, I think there might be a serial killer on the loose. She’s not the only one that’s turned up dead in the last few months in the surrounding counties.”

If it weren’t for the severity of the situation, Ivy would have rolled her eyes. “What? Gem, don’t start with all that again.”

“Girl, you haven’t been following this like I have. Similar cases happened in the last three months in Fairfield and Middlesex. A couple of twenty-something year old women. Throats slit, dumped in ditches and bushes. The M.O.’s are all the same.”

Casting a quick glance over at the living room where Zaia was dancing with Duchess to ‘The Veggie Dance’ by Gracie’s Corner, Ivy shifted to a quieter side of the kitchen to prevent her baby from overhearing this gruesome conversation. “Well, let’s not jump to conclusions when the police don’t even have all the facts. What does the group think about this?” she asked, referring to the local Neighborhood Watch of which Gemini was a member. In the three years she had lived here, they had only dealt with vandalism and break-ins. To her knowledge, nothing this violent had ever occurred in this harmless, almost sleepy little town, and it spooked Ivy that it happened so close to home.

“We’re having a meeting tomorrow to update everyone and address safety concerns we know will be brought up. Make sure no one’s panicking unnecessarily.” Gemini chuckled at the trepidation on her friend’s face. “Girl, relax. Zaia, Duchess and I will protect you.” There was a brief pause as she stood up from her lounge chair and walked around her backyard pool. “Want me to come over later? I haven’t seen my two babies in a while.”

Enticed by the thought of having company that wasn’t Angelo, Ivy happily replied, “Of course, babe, you never have to ask. How about dinner tonight?” 

“You know I could never say no to your cooking.” Gemini wrinkled her nose. “But if that bitch baby daddy of yours is still lurkin’ then I’ll pass.”

“Nope. He’s away for the weekend,” Ivy assured her.

“When will I hear he’s away for good?” Gemini prodded, her words drawing a sigh of defeat from Ivy. It said a lot that none of her friends got along with Angelo. If she had a dime for every time Gemini warned her to get rid of him, she’d be living in the Hamptons instead. But she understood that she was only looking out for her and she would always appreciate it and reciprocate accordingly.

Beautiful, wisecracking and often cynical, Gemini was a successful, high-powered corporate lawyer with a love for fashion trends and (Ivy called this an obsession) crime and mystery shows that fed into her crazy, oft-amusing conspiracy theories. Like Ivy, she often had it tough with relationships, swearing off men every couple of months. It didn’t help that suitors were usually intimidated by her financial status and her brash, blunt nature. But all of that also came with a heart of gold. Ivy would never forget her hospitality, being the first to welcome her and Zaia with open arms when she first arrived in town. Helping her secure the mortgage on her house. Taking Zaia to the local dog shelter on her birthday and pairing her little girl with the most loyal companion she would probably ever have. She was the life of the party everywhere she went, including Ivy’s household, as she sauntered through her doorstep later that evening with a big bottle of Pinot Noir and an even bigger hug for her favorite niece. The wine was very welcome, as Ivy was forced to abstain around Angelo who was a recovering alcoholic. 

Together, the women moved the food to the dining table, with little Zaia playing her role as the dutiful assistant to her mama and aunt and filling up Duchess’ food and water bowls. As they settled down to eat, a knock on the front door startled them, their heads whipping in its direction. Gemini exchanged a look with Ivy. “Expecting someone else?” 

“No…” With a heightened sense of caution, Ivy crept towards the door and opened it, surprised to see Roman standing behind it. “Hey,” she greeted, a hint of concern in her tone. “What’s up? Everything alright?”

“Hi…wow,” His greeting was distracted, rendered temporarily speechless as he took in her sweater minidress that clung to her generous curves. “Uh…sorry if this is a bad time, but I was wondering if I can borrow some sugar? I’m trying to bake cookies for my office party in the morning and I haven’t got time to run to the store.” Scratching the back of his head sheepishly, he continued, “I know it’s cliche as hell, but I thought I’d come over and ask since your cooking smells so delicious.” 

Corny request or not, it was way too charming to turn down. Not that she would. “Mr. Compliments does it again. Come on in.” She motioned for him to follow her inside and into the warm, homey atmosphere of her kitchen. His eyes glossed over the spread of food on the table, then fell upon the two other sets of eyes staring back at him, one innocent, the other suspicious. “I see I’ve interrupted dinner, sorry about that, ladies,” he said, a demure, friendly smile gracing his lips as he waved.

Gemini got to her feet, almost burning a hole through this stranger with her sharp gaze. “Ivy, who is this?” she demanded with an attitude, making Ivy shake her head behind Roman’s back. Her friend always had a hard time warming up to new people.

“Gem, this is Roman, my new neighbor. He moved across the street a couple of days ago. Roman, this is my friend Gemini,” she introduced them, watching Roman extend his hand, the other woman hesitating for a long beat before shaking it. “Hi, Gemini. Nice to meet you.”

Gemini gave him a tight smile. “Hi. So you’re the one who got that big ass house.”

Well, that went as well as it could have.

“Zaia, wanna say hello to Mr Roman?” Ivy encouraged her daughter. The little girl cocked her head to the side, and Roman noticed how much she resembled Ivy at that moment. “Hello, Mr Roman. You’re really tall,” she pointed out, her eyes filled with awe. 

“Thank you Zaia, I get that a lot,” he laughed, crouching down to pet Duchess who had bounded over happily, recognizing him from earlier this morning. Ivy rummaged through her walnut kitchen cabinets looking for the bag of sugar she had purchased a month or two ago. Locating it, she handed it to Roman along with a small-sized cookbook. “Here. You can use as much as you need. And I earmarked the page for the recipe for chocolate chip cookies, in case you need it.”

“You are so kind. I appreciate that,” said Roman, his deep brown eyes shifting downwards shyly. The subtle action did something to her, compelling her to utter next,

“Would you like to stay for dinner? We’re having Cajun chicken pasta and Caesar salad,” she spoke up, ignoring the look Gemini leveled at her. It was the way his eyes softened right away, clearly touched by her gesture, that let her know she did the right thing.

“I’d love to.” His smile lit up the room, warming Ivy’s heart. This was her house. She could invite anyone she wanted. Attraction aside, Roman seemed like a really sweet guy that just needed new friends in this new town.

In no time though, he and Zaia became fast friends, discussing everything from their favorite cartoons and hobbies to their favorite subjects at school, and the rather funnier topic of why the adults could have wine and she couldn’t. Even Gemini seemed to warm up to him over the course of dinner, also seduced by his charm and wit. Watching them all talking and laughing caused a funny sensation to stir within Ivy, but she banished any wayward thoughts before they had the chance to settle. 

Afterwards, Roman began to gather dishes and stand, prompting Ivy to rush over before he could move too far. “Er, no booboo. You’re a guest here.” She turned to her daughter. "Baby, why don't you take your fruit salads to the living room and turn on the TV for Mr Roman?” she suggested.

“Yes, ma’am! Come on, Mr Roman.” Zaia’s little fingers closed around his thick forearm, Roman briefly glancing back at her mother as he was all but dragged away, Ivy simply giving him a reassuring smile as they disappeared from the kitchen.

“You like him.” 

Never one to beat around the bush, was she? Gemini’s words shook Ivy inwardly as she fought to maintain a poker face. “Girl, we’ve only known each other for a couple of days.”

“And he likes you,” Gemini continued, easily rebuffing her lame excuses. “I saw the way y’all kept looking at each other, you giggling like a damn school girl at his jokes. You could cut the tension with a damn steak knife. I wonder how Angelo’s gonna feel about that.”

Ivy raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about Angelo’s feelings?” 

“Never. But I bet he’d combust into flames if he was here,” Gemini smiled evilly.

Sighing heavily, Ivy loaded the last plate in the dishwasher. “Do you know he got into it with Roman on the first day? A whole shouting match. Barely twenty-four hours since the new neighbor moved in and he’s already fighting the guy. This was just me kinda trying to make up for it.”

“What?! I’d love to see that fight. My money’s on the dude that looks like a linebacker.” The stretch of silence that followed was ominous, and Ivy could already forecast her next words. “I’ll admit. He seems…nice. Sexy as hell. Charming and all that shit. But I need you to be careful, hun. There's an energy about him that I can’t put my finger on.”

Unsure she was ready for this lecture, Ivy rubbed her temples. “Judgmental much? You only just met him.”

“I’m good at reading people. You know this.”

“And I’m just being a good neighbor. You know this.”

“I do. You can’t help yourself, my sweet, wonderful bestie,” Gemini playfully nudged her friend with her shoulder. “But don’t forget you have a young daughter to look out for. I don’t want either of you to get hurt by getting too close too fast.”

Taking in a calming breath, Ivy spoke again, slow and measured to keep the peace. “Gem. I love you and I appreciate you always. But I’ll be okay. I promise,” she answered, her eyes shining with resolve.

As the two women continued to gossip, Roman stood silently by the entrance of the kitchen, his expression unreadable as he listened to every word.

Another long, tough week segued to another weekend of needed rest which found Ivy relaxing in her newly purchased hanging daybed, watching her daughter and her puppy play together as 2000s R&B tunes wafted through the Bluetooth speakers stationed in her backyard. However, her watchful eye was a bit distracted today as it kept glancing over her picket fence for any sign of Roman, who seemed to have vanished without a trace in the past few days. His outdoor chairs remained unoccupied, no coffee mug on his side tables, the house as quiet and empty as it was before he moved in. The serial killer discourse with Gemini and the feedback from the Neighborhood Watch had her feeling slightly more agitated these days, and as absurd as it was, she found herself hoping that her new neighbor hadn’t suffered the same fate as Rhea…

There was no need to worry. Maybe he was caught up with work, or was away visiting friends or family. Either way, she found herself missing his looming yet comforting presence, missed seeing the crinkles around his eyes that accompanied his sunny smile, longed for the longing glances they’d shared far too many times to count now... 

Blowing out her cheeks, she leaned back and closed her eyes, hoping to clear her head. For someone who she just met, he was on the brain way too much. She hadn’t felt this way about anyone in a long time and she wasn’t sure how to feel about it. At all.

“Hi Mr Roman!”

Zaia’s excited voice, as well as the deep one that followed her daughter’s greeting, startled her from her thoughts as her eyes flew back open, landing on his big frame as he stood at the fence that separated their homes. Ivy rose to her feet, trying to ignore the relief, excitement and nervousness bubbling inside her as she approached him slowly, their eyes locked. Other than the bags forming under his irises, he was still as handsome as ever, his cable-knit sweater and dark jeans giving off that polished, modelesque aesthetic she’d become accustomed to.

“Hey, pretty lady,” he said to her, the sound of his voice deep and soothing and sorely missed.

“Hey, stranger. Been a minute. Are you okay?” she asked, getting her answer from the way he dragged a big hand down his face with a loaded sigh. She noticed the bandage was gone. “How’s your hand?”

“Good as new.” Roman lifted his now bare hand and rotated it for emphasis. “As for my absence, just work stuff. Back-to-back late hours. It be like that sometimes. I hope you didn’t miss me too much.” He met her stare with a knowing smile, the same smile that made her swoon since the day they first met, and not the first time had her averting her gaze, tugging coyly at the hem of her retro Backstreet Boys t-shirt. 

“I never got to properly thank you for dinner, and for the cookie recipe,” he continued, “It was a big hit at the office, everyone loved it.”

Ivy beamed. “Aww, that’s so sweet. I’m glad to hear that.” 

“Man, you saved my ass, that’s for sure. You’ve been so wonderful to me, Ivy, and I was hoping I could repay it by taking you out to dinner sometime.” Gauging her raised eyebrows, he chuckled softly as he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Ay, I woulda stayed home and cooked somethin’, but my skills could never measure up to yours or my wife’s.”

Wife.

This was the first time he’d mentioned a spouse of any kind. There was no ring on his finger, so there was a story there, one she felt compelled to know more about.

“Your wife…Is she not here with you?” she asked, treading lightly on what she could already tell was a sensitive subject.

Roman was silent for a moment, then when he spoke again, his voice was a little more than a hoarse whisper. “Nah, she isn't. She, uh, passed away last year.”

That explained it. The haunted expression she perceived lurking behind the vibrance of his eyes. Carrying the burden of grief and heartbreak that she empathized with more than he would ever know. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry,” she whispered. 

Clearing his throat, he managed a nod, returning the sincere look she gave him. “Thanks. It’s been…rough, to say the least. But I’m hangin’ in there. One day at a time, ya know?”

He looked so sad, so worn down by opening up about his loss, and it tugged at her heartstrings. Without thinking, she reached out to rub his arm, offering him comfort, solace. When his eyes shut at her touch, she feared she had toed a line, crossed it, even. Until he opened them again, the sadness wiped away by a searing heat she felt in her bones. Her heart raced as he shifted their hands to link their fingers together, sending a defibrillator’s worth of electricity through her curvy figure. Fuck. He was looking at her that way again. All intense and serious and sexy and all sorts of tempting. She didn’t want him to ever look away. 

There was no denying the mutual attraction that simmered between them. It was clear as day. But it was also clear that he was still grieving and was lonely and craved some semblance of comfort. Yet, she found herself wanting to give him that comfort. She wanted to get to know him. She wanted to jump over the fence and into his sturdy arms, wanted to kiss those soft-looking lips of his. To know what his hair felt like between her fingers…

How she missed it, she wasn’t sure. The roar of the engine of the Lexus pulling into the driveway, the owner of the vehicle storming through her house. She’d been so lost in Roman and in his aura and the intimate moment they were sharing that she hadn’t even heard Angelo barreling into her home like he always did until he was standing in front of them. Her deer-in-the-headlights countenance could not have helped her cause as Angelo looked from her to Roman and then back again, zoning in on their entwined hands, the bewilderment on his face giving way to blind wrath. 

“Motherfucker, I thought I told you to stay away from my girl!” Swiping Ivy aside with enough force to send her crashing against the fence, he shoved Roman hard in the chest, knocking him a few steps back. “Oh I see what this is! You wanna fuck my woman, huh?” 

“Angelo stop!” Ivy yelled as in the distance, Zaia began to cry. Grimacing through her pain, she tugged him by the arm and dragged him forcibly away, which was a tough task as he was nearly a foot taller than her, outweighed her by a good fifty pounds and vibrated with misplaced rage. Glancing behind her, she watched with an almost morbid fascination as Roman’s disposition completely shifted, his gorgeous face twisted with unbridled fury. 

“You put your fucking hands on me?!” In what seemed like slow motion, the much bigger and much taller man leapt smoothly over her fence like it was nothing. He propelled forwards with long strides like an angry bull across her backyard and into her house in a matter of seconds. “A’ight, I’m tired of being humble! You wanna fuss like a lil’ bitch, let’s go!” 

Guiding Zaia and Duchess to safety, Ivy’s anxiety reached a fever pitch as the two men stood literally nose to nose sizing each other up in the middle of her living room. “Guys, please! Zaia’s here!” she pleaded.

Angelo puffed out his chest as he eyeballed his adversary smugly. “Don’t get yourself hurt cuz you tryna comfort my bitch or my kid when I ain’t around. You in my house, fool,” he threatened.

Thick eyebrows raised in cruel amusement, Roman looked around the house. “Funny, I don’t see your name or your face anywhere.” He leaned in closer, his next words loud enough for only the other man to hear, “But pretty soon, your bitch gon’ be screamin’ my name and sittin’ on my face,” he bragged, pointing at his chin, hoping, praying that the punk bitch would take the bait. 

Too easy.

With teeth bared, Angelo swung at him. Wildly and carelessly enough for Roman to dodge easily and retaliate with his huge fist smashing into the other man’s face. There was an ugly cracking sound, and blood spurted from Angelo’s nose as his head snapped back and he stumbled backwards.

“Stop it! Stop it right now!” Ivy cried, but it was to no avail as Angelo lunged again, crashing into Roman. She threw herself between them, trying and woefully failing to pull the warring men apart who were seeing nothing but red as they beat the crap out of each other.

“Daddy, stop fighting! You’re gonna hurt Mama!”

Zaia, bless her brave little heart, was at her father’s side, tugging desperately on his sleeve. It all happened so fast, Ivy only able to see the moment Angelo lashed out blindly, his hand smacking Zaia right in the face. Her scream of pain as her little body collapsed on the ground pierced the air, plunging the room into stone cold silence.

“Mama!” Zaia burst into fresh tears as she clutched her face with one hand, the other reaching out to Ivy who quickly rushed over, scooping her into her arms and gently cradling her little head as she wailed loudly and clutched at Ivy for dear life.

A bloodied Angelo clambered to his feet, visibly devastated by his mistake. “Baby…Princess, I’m so sorry…Daddy didn't mean—”

“No! Don’t touch her!” Ivy snapped, backing away. Enough was enough. “I told you to stop. I told you!” Grasping her baby carefully, she glowered at him through unshed tears of anger. “Get the fuck out of my house! Now!” she hissed.

Swallowing hard, Angelo edged forwards again, his eyes full of regret and focused on his daughter sobbing into her mother's shoulder. “Zaia-”

“I said get out!” Ivy shouted again, feeling for the first time in a long time, nothing but disgust towards her ex-boyfriend. “I’ve had enough of your childish bullshit, enough of you!” She hated cursing in front of her baby girl, but her father had pushed her to her absolute limit. “Leave and never come back. You’re not welcome here anymore.” He could perform his fatherly duties from across town. Today was the last day he was setting foot in this house. 

Stunned, his face contorted indignantly at her words. “You playin’, right? You seriously gonna do this? It was an accident! Zaia, come here. Come to Daddy,” He extended his hands towards his daughter, his features sagging in dismay when she burrowed deeper into Ivy’s bosom, refusing to look at her dad as her sniffles intensified. 

“She asked you to leave. Several times.” Roman towered over Angelo menacingly, his big body shielding Ivy and Zaia. “Don’t make her repeat it again.” 

Angelo tilted his chin defiantly. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you deal with me. I’ll be happy to whoop your ass again,” Roman said simply, silently daring the son of a bitch to make a wrong move. 

“Baby, you trippin’. That’s my daughter! This meathead nigga needs to know that he’s oversteppin’! You’re mine!”

“No I’m not!” Her reply was cold and exhausted. “We’ve been over for years, Angelo! Get that into your thick skull and get out of my life!”

Scoffing snidely, the man’s blood-stained sneer was a frightening visual as he walked backwards out the front door, talking his shit on his way to his car. “You’re not keepin’ me away from my child. You need me, Ivy. You’ll come crawling back,” he growled, then pointed angrily at Roman, “And whoever the fuck you think your bitch ass is, bet, I’mma see about you...”

Roman stood in the driveway, muscular arms crossed over his torn, blood-stained sweater, watching like a hawk as the piece of shit backed out onto the road and drove off. He looked down at Ivy to his left. “Are you oka-”

But she had already retreated into the safety of her house, slamming the door shut. Roman returned his attention to the Lexus driving down the street, silently vowing that today would be the last time Angelo would ever be seen again.

Thanks for reading and thanks again to this anon for the story idea. Your replies and reblogs would be much appreciated if you enjoyed!

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