#someone give me oxygen

[hellfire--cult]

take my FUCKING MONEY BETTY

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST

I want to give a hug to Steve, like he really deserves it, BUT ROBIN BETTER GO AN FUCK EM UP

and I can already sense craig dying because bitch u aint comin in between.

I'm on Fire//biker!older!Eddie x fem!Reader//90's au

Part 12: For Whom the Phone Rings

WARNINGS PLS READ: 18+ONLY, MATURE THEMES, violence, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), creampie, jealousy, threat of violence, homophobic slurs, threat of sexual violation (does not actually happen), threat to someone's family, foul language, derogatory slurs in general, mention of a gun, financial struggle, bribes, mention of blood, ANGST, biker MC, mention of violent past, hurt and comfort. WC: 8.2k

Summary: You and Eddie take another leap in your relationship and get cozy together, while Steve rolls into high gear with the MC, biting off a bit more than he can chew. Robin takes matters into her own hands to protect Oliver, and past relationships come back to haunt. Playlist

Series Masterlist

A/N: I rarely go into these chapters knowing what will happen, and this story in particular definitely has a mind of its own now. That being said, you won't ever read about the act of sexual violation in these or any of the main characters getting killed or detrimentally hurt, because I just can't stomach writing about it. This part is definitely angsty, but I hope you enjoy ❤️

pls NO MINORS beyond this point

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For Whom the Phone Rings

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You decided that making it through the rest of the dinner with John would be too painful knowing that Eddie was in love with you and he was out there on his motorcycle waiting like some Cool Rider dream out of Grease 2. Knowing that you were also in love with him and all of the endorphins that went along with that feeling made your body tingle. You didn’t want to let go of his hand; you wanted to just walk right out with him. Yet, the business side of you didn’t want to lose John as a contact, or Richard Gere for that matter. No need to burn unnecessary bridges.

You went back to the table and gave John a reluctant, sad smile, and told him the phone call was an emergency and you had to run. He got to his feet and insisted on driving you, but you assured him that your boyfriend was coming to pick you up. You realized in that moment that’d you’d never referred to Eddie as your boyfriend out loud before, and it felt really fucking good.

Eddie was straddling his motorcycle and smoking a cigarette when he caught sight of you coming out the front door, and you both grinned like idiots at each other.

“That was quick,” he swung his leg off, taking hold of your hand so he could yank you toward him faster, cause he couldn’t wait to get his lips on you again. He pulled his leather jacket out of one of the saddlebags and opened it up for you to put on. “It’s cold out on the road, baby.”

And so you let the heavy jacket with all of it’s zippers and buckles envelope you, smelling his cologne and a hint of nicotine in the leather. You of course hadn’t brought the helmet he bought for you, so you wore his again, buckling it under your chin as he revved the bike, throwing one of the body guards a dirty look for keeping his eyes on you for too long.

The only problem was your dress. Eddie anticipated the slit that went all the way up to your hip when you mounted behind him and the material fell back, exposing your entire leg. He instantly swung his arm back to block the view of your limb from the other dudes present, palming your knee. “Scoot in as tight as you can, baby,” he said to you above the growl of the engine, his wrist working at the throttle. During the ride home, his hand kept returning to the same spot, and you rubbed his chest with your hands, pinning your cheek to his shoulder, liking the way the ends of his hair flew back and tickled your nose.

Back at the garage, neither one of you could keep your hands off of each other after Eddie parked the bike. He actually tossed the helmet skidding to the pavement when you handed it to him because he didn’t want to miss a moment of being able to cup your ass and pull your mouth to his.

“God, I love you,” Eddie breathed, parting ways only to get the key out and unlock the door, and then you both stumbled in, laughing as you playfully bit his arm. You shrugged out of his jacket and he threw that over his head to the bottom of the stairs, just as your fingers hooked into his back belt loops and you stomped up the old wood stairs behind him.

This was one of those moments you knew you would cherish for the rest of your life. Even as it was happening, your body was registering it as one of your favorite memories. This new love with Eddie, this intense urgency to get somewhere to worship each other in peace.

He tugged you inside his apartment, pushed you back against the door, and held your hands above your head, kissing you as he braced you there. Tongues were quicker to touch than lips, and then his forehead pressed to yours; adrenaline surging.

Eddie’s hands released yours and slid down to feel you, pulling your breast free from the front of your dress so that his thumb could graze your nipple. His other hand found your bare leg beneath the slit of the dress and dipped down between your legs.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed, fingering your arousal as his cock flexed in his jeans.

“See what you do to me?” You slid your hands around the back of his neck, fingers into his hair, and picked your chin up to find his mouth again.

His knuckle dragged along your damp underwear, and you had your hand down his jeans now, palming him through his boxers. Your pussy throbbed as you got a hold of the bare skin of his length, tip leaking for you.

“Get me out of this dress,” you begged against his mouth, knowing that you couldn’t reach the zipper in the back by yourself.

“I hate this fucking dress,” Eddie added, blocking you against the door, slipping your underwear aside, dipping his finger into your pie, making your breath catch. “I hate that he bought it for you.”

You pushed away from him only to try and pull the dress up over your head, but the material was too stiff, and you were only able to wiggle the lower part of your ass out.

“Stop right there, baby,” Eddie mumbled. He came up behind you to pull your thong aside and press his cock up along the warm wet silk of your slit. “Fuckkk,” he groaned, cupping the front of your throat and pulling you back.

You shivered as his tip got close to entering you; the need pulsed at your core, and you whimpered as his tongue found your ear, flicking around the outside. With his cock stiff and lifted enough to ride between your legs without assistance, both of his hands pushed the front of your dress down, cupping your breasts, pinching and twisting the nipples, making you drop your head back with a gasp. You were only wearing the dress around your mid-section now, knees weak, sighs hot and heavy.

“Are you my girl?” He grumbled it, and then blew air on your neck where his saliva was, making you shiver.

“Mhmmm,” you responded. His pelvis was bouncing off your ass as he worked his length along your dripping slit.

“Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me who you belong to.”

You reached a hand up to grab his head, ass pressing back against his thrusts, pussy clenching. “You, baby, only you,” It was urgent; the hole between your legs begging to be fed and filled by this man, and this man only.

Eddie reached down to finger your core with his big hand, cock kicking up at the mess he found there soaking through. “I love you so fucking much. You’re killing me.”

He ducked back to try and find the zipper, but it stuck at the top. In a moment of passionate fury, he took hold of the material with both hands and ripped the back open with a grunt. The threads spit open at a jagged angle, exposing the soft skin of your back, and then he just kept pulling, yanking the material away. “Fuck this dress,” he hissed as it met the ground in pieces.

He ripped your underwear off with a single yank, the sensation of breaking material hot against your hip, and you yelped at the surprise, but then he had you on the bed, pulling his shirt up over his head to expose the wash of tattoos, and pushing his jeans and boxers down. The length of his cock bounced up, showing the thick vein underneath, the upper shaft still glistening with your juices.

He crawled on the mattress after you and you urged him closer, sealing his mouth to yours, brushing his hair out of his face. “I need it so bad right now baby, please,” you mewed, a desperate whine in the back of your throat. You felt the head of his cock knocking at the swollen folds above your entrance, and you spread your legs wide; dripping and begging.

“I need it too, baby,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours. “So fucking bad.”

You looked down to watch him hold his huge cock at the base so he could run the tip along your slit; preparing it for duty. “Tell me if it’s...too much?” He whispered it just before he kissed you again. You were sure it would just melt right in.

But then he buried the tip and your body stiffened, a tiny squeak escaping your throat. Eddie’s hand clamped onto your hip as his lips parted and his eyebrows cinched together. “Fuck, you’re so tight baby,” and he rose up a bit to look down at the way he disappeared inside of you, working the tip back and forth, taking his time. “This is all mine, yeah? No one else.”

“No one else, baby,” you gasped grabbing his neck, meeting his eyes. He searched your face, flexing his hips to sink in another inch. He had one hand braced on the bed while the other cupped your jaw, and then his thumb sank into your mouth and you sucked it.

Eddie glanced down again at your beautiful body open for him, and decided he couldn’t wait another second to own you, and buried himself the rest of the way in, cursing, feeling like he might cum right then and there. You cried out, exposing your throat for him to paint with his tongue.

He sat back on his knees briefly to thrust in hard a few times, base deep, needing to know he was deeper than anyone had ever been inside you before. Needing to look at what he did to you; the way you unraveled for him.

But then his eyes snapped to yours, needing something else.

You could see the ask in his soft dark orbs as he braced his hands at your hips, locking his length inside of you for a few breaths as the gravity of emotions vibrated in the air.

“I love you,” you told him. And then the dam broke and you said it over and over and over, and he dropped his body close, bucking his hips, his own affirmations of love flowing with each breath. You clung to his shoulders and wrapped your legs as he stretched you out, digging heels in, needing him to be as close as two humans could possibly be.

The intensity of the experience mounted a quick release and soon Eddie’s face was right above you, taking your chin to turn your face. “Look at me,” he said. “Don’t look away, okay?”

His pace quickened, forehead tightening, and a warmth started to spill through your body like liquid sunlight until all you could do was search his eyes and babble, “fucfuckfuckIloveyou...fuck.”

Eddie slowed for a moment. “I’m gonna cum so hard inside you, baby. Do you want that?”

“Yes baby please,” you whined. “Fuck, please, all of it.”

And then he was down close to you again, slamming into you with purpose, one hand on your throat, headboard banging the wall. Your eyes locked and then you were cumming, hard, seeing white, velvet tugs rippling at your core.

Eddie felt your walls clench like a heart beat around his cock and watched your eyelids flutter, sending his release into action, the bark of an exhale in his chest.

You were riding the wave of your orgasm when you felt him tremble, his hips stuttering, pupils blown. The feel of his warm seed pumping extended the ripple affect, and you both clung to each other with aching breaths as Eddie dropped his head to find your mouth.

You palmed his cheek as he finished, eye clamping shut for the first time to take in all that had just happened. He brushed his lips on your palm, your eyelids, your cheeks, all while buried inside you; nurturing a desire in his belly to curl up and live there forever.

His jeans and boots on, denim pooled at his ankles, too ripe with eagerness earlier to even consider the seconds it would take to remove them. It was a while before he pulled out of you, and the tender way he brushed his lips across your face and neck had your ears ringing, skin buzzing. It wasn’t fair that you would automatically think the worst in a situation such as this, but you were afraid of how much you loved this man. Already considering the rejection or the thing that would inevitably go wrong, and how bad it would break you. How you might never recover from this one.

He officially had your heart and he could do whatever he wanted with it. There was no longer a decision to be made or pros and cons to consider: you were completely, utterly gone.

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“I hope you rot in hell you greedy cunt!” Steve said as he slammed the phone down on the receiver with a clang.

Robin rushed into the kitchen from the living room, eyes wide, hoping that Steve’s outburst hadn’t woken Oliver from his nap. They both froze for a few seconds, ears perked to listen for the sound of his tiny footfalls or a door opening.

“I hope that wasn’t your mother,” Robin chided, throwing the dishtowel in her hand over the side of the sink.

“Think bigger cunt,” he said in a much lower voice, throwing on his leather Coffin Kings cut. “They’re staying at that seedy motel over on Chestnut.”

Robin bristled, knowing it has been Tina, Oliver’s biological mom. She crossed her arms. “Do we need to get a lawyer?”

“With what money, Rob?” He braced his hands on the back of one of the dining table chairs, facing her, rolling his neck.

Robin was taking on more shifts at the hotel and Steve at his two jobs, but it felt like they could never dig out of the hole they were in lately.

Steve took a deep breath and straightened, rolling his shoulders. “Don’t worry, okay? I got some things lined up. We’ll have enough to make that pickled whore and her dog-faced pimp go away for a bit. Hopefully they overdose and fucking die---”

“Steve.”

“What? I hope they die. I’m not afraid to say it.” He snatched his sunglasses off the table and slid them over his eyes. “I won’t be back till late. I got a thing with the Kings, and then I’m at the Hammer tonight.”

He said it all over his shoulder as he was crossing the distance to the door and opening it.

“Wait,” Robin called after him. “What thing with the Kings?” He’d promised her numerous times that he wasn’t doing anything illegal or detrimental to his health for Oliver’s sake, but the Coffin Kings weren’t ones to just meet up for a casual cheese and wine picnic in the park.

He stepped outside into the early afternoon sunlight and shut the door behind him. “It’s nothing,” he told her through the open window. “Kiss my boy for me when he wakes up.”

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Earlier that morning, around 4am, you were tucked close to Eddie as he spooned you, the fingers of one hand intertwined with yours, his warm breath on the back of your neck. His cum sticky between your legs. You were out of the habit of sharing a bed with someone, and so your sleep was a bit restless, but every time you snapped awake and remembered where you were---a warmth came over you, and you nuzzled against him, kissing his hand.

Eddie, on the other hand, was sleeping like a bear. Knowing you were safe in his arms was like a sedative for him. He stirred briefly a few times only to squeeze your hand or kiss your shoulder, but for the most part, you listened as his heavy breathing turned into a rattling snore in the back of his throat, and it made you smile.

You jumped when the phone rang loud and shrill, and Eddie’s head popped off the pillow with a grunt, his eyes closed.

“Whoever it is, they are dead fucking meat,” he mumbled out of the side of his mouth after dropping his cheek back to the pillow.

You moved as if you were about to get out of his way so he could reach the phone that was on your side of the bed, but Eddie’s arm held fast, locking you in place. “Let the machine get it, baby,” he whispered, tongue clicking in his dry mouth, already halfway back to dreamland.

It was so cute to think about how he ran out and bought an answering machine because you asked him to. You knew he hated them, and it was something he’d done just for you, so that he would never miss a message if you called.

It rang three times before you heard beep and the machine click on, and then there came a woman’s voice you didn’t recognize:

“Um, hey Eddie baby, long time no talk…”

Behind you, Eddie stiffened. Your eyes blew wide open.

“...I can’t believe you finally stepped into the modern age and got an answering machine. Maybe people do change, I know I have,” there was a shuffling and the sound of ice clinking in a glass. “I’ve really been missing you lately and thinking about that time we went to Sturgis and we missed Steppenwolf because we were too busy fucking in the back of the…”

Eddie started to crawl over you, ready to yank the phone cord out of the wall, but you put your hand up to stop him, and he paused there, one hand braced on either side of you, hair hanging down. “This is nothing, baby, she’s--” he whispered, but then the message continued.

“...and then on the way home ate burgers in the park. Fuck, those were good times. I know you never sleep, so I figured you’d hear this message and pick up, but maybe you don’t want to talk to me anymore? I can’t say I’d blame you. Anyway, I’m coming to town this weekend for a wedding and I’d love to see you if you want to see me. I’m staying at Chrissy’s moms house, I think you still have the number.”

Eddie fell back on the bed, gnawing on his bottom lip, one hand on your thigh, waiting for the nightmare to end so that he could explain to you that it was all ancient history. He hadn’t been with Melanie in almost 5 years, and he hadn’t from heard her for at least 2, and he didn’t want to hear from her, not ever again. If he had to guess, he’d bet that she’d dumped another one of her boyfriends and was looking for comfort; the likes of which he had none to give. God, why was this happening to him? Why now of all the times in the fucking world for her to call?

He wanted to pick that answering machine up and break it in half with his bare hands.

Meanwhile, you were trying to push down the discomfort rising in your throat. This was clearly someone from Eddie’s past, someone he hadn’t spoken to in a while, but you couldn’t help the jealousy that tightened your flesh over your bones and made your tongue push against the back of your teeth.

“Anyway, maybe if you’re up for it, we can get a drink at the Hideout for old time’s sake? Well, now I feel stupid talking to this thing. Call me, okay? Same number as before. Oh, and this is Melanie by the way, remember me? The one you were supposed to grow old with?” Melanie took a moment to giggle to herself before she finished. “Okay, miss you lots. Bye bye.”

The phone clicked on her end and the message beeped again to announced that it was finally over. You and Eddie lay in the loud silence for a few seconds, and then Eddie swallowed hard.

“Let me explain? I haven’t talked to her in---”

But you cut him off, rolling over on your other side to face him, nudging his arm to open up so you could slide into his armpit and put your head on his chest, your leg stretching over his, hand palming his bicep, thumb grazing his nipple.

“We can talk about it later,” you hushed.

He pulled you close, kissing the top of your head, “she means nothing to me, baby,” he reiterated, and then it wasn’t long before you heard the purr of his snores again. His arm went lax and slipped down to the bed with a flop.

But you, you were wide awake. Blinking ever so often with the rhythm of the red light on the machine cast on the ceiling, announcing that there was a new message.

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In the dark corner of an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district, Steve’s fist cracked into the jaw of a guy tied to a chair with duct tape over his mouth. This was not the first punch, and his knuckles were raw. The guy in the chair was a snitch who’d tried to run, but Steve and a few of the others caught up with him. He had a shaved head covered in tattoos, his eye was now swollen, and nose broken, so he was struggling to breathe through the snot and the blood.

Steve stepped back, kicking his chin up, signaling to two of the Hell’s Belles that were there. “Take his cut,” he told them.

One of the two women slipped a knife of of the sheath at her hip and twirled it in the air before slicing the leather of his cut off at the arm hole so that they wouldn’t have to untie his hands. They cut and yanked on both sides until the material opened up and The guy screamed inside the duct tape, drool dripping down his chin from a tiny gap in the tape.

Steve’s tattooed hand was seeping watery blood from one knuckle as he pinched a cigarette between thumb and forefinger and took a drag. “You know, Jerry Dog wants your head. He told me to bring it to him in a bag with a pretty bow on it.”

The guy had stopped trying to battle the restraints, but he glared at Steve with hard, dark eyes, shouting something that only came out as muffled noise. Two of the Coffin Kings were standing at Steve’s back, legs braced wide, hands resting on the hilts of weapons at their sides. Steve turned on his heel, following the Hell’s Belle with the torn leather vest out of the damp building and into the sunlight. She had shoulder length, orange hair with one side completely shaved, and she went by the name Ratchet.

Ratchet made sure to put the cut in the saddle bag on the back of her bike and tighten the buckle closed before she turned around to address Steve again. “I thought you and War Machine were taking a step back from the life? That’s the rumor, anyway.”

War Machine was Eddie’s nickname, and had been ever since they were young and he was always getting into fights with kids who tried to pick on him or others. Steve had been known as Taz around the MC, in honor of the Tasmanian Devil, because if he was in a mood, he’d fight anyone--even if the odds were stacked against him. The gold tooth he had was to replace one of his incisors due to the original one getting knocked out when he was 21 by a guy with metal rings on. Steve’d spit the tooth out at the time and started laughing, blood dripping down his chin like a mad man. He never though things through like Eddie did. Back in their school days, Wayne would come around the corner to the principals office with that tired look on his face as he removed his hat, and there’d be Steve and Eddie; bloody noses and swollen lips. They were both never far from each other, and neither one let the other go into battle alone.

But Eddie hadn’t gone by War Machine in years; he’d grown to hate it, actually. The things he’d done in the name of the MC as War Machine were some of the things he hated most about himself.

“I got a son now, ya know,” Steve sucked hard on his smoke, cheeks caving in, and then he exhaled to the side. “And Eddie’s just, a good guy I guess. Just cause you grown up in the life doesn’t mean you’re made for it.”

Tiger Lily—the other female biker with Ratchet--and the two Kings with Steve were also wandering around, having a smoke break and taking a piss, while they let the guy inside sweat, wondering if these were his final moments.

Ratchet tucked the long side of her hair behind her ear, her nickname tattooed in cursive on the side of her throat. “How’s Robin?”

Steve hadn’t seen Ratch in a while, but it was standard procedure for her to ask after his best friend. The two had a thing many years ago, but Ratch was a dog at the time and went sniffing too many other butts for Robin’s liking. Fucking things up with Buckley was still one of her biggest regrets.

“We’ve got our share of the shit pie,” Steve assured. “But we’re making it work. I couldn’t do it without her.” He tapped his heel on the toe of his boot and flicked his cigarette. “I’ve got a gig lined up with some rich bitch. Easy bag, some lame body guard gig. It should get our heads out of water, at least.”

“Who’s it for?” Ratchet squinted, exhaling smoke out her nose, down the piercing in the middle of her bottom lip.

“I don’t really know,” Steve shrugged. “She seems to have a lot of money to throw around, that’s all I give a fuck about.”

“Careful, bro,” Ratchet held the two fingers up holding her cigarette, chipped black polish on her fingernails. “There’s a wealthy cougar in town who likes to hire MC’s as body guards and she’s been pitting different clubs against each other. Three of Lucifer’s Own got the piss beat out of them the other weekend trying to defend her fortress. Put Donnie in intensive care.”

Steve’s mind flicked to the night Eddie was stabbed, and the way Eddie wouldn’t tell him who did it because he knew Steve would go off the rails.

“Like I said,” Steve rolled his neck, crushing the end of this cig into the mud with the toe of his boot. “I don’t care what the drama is, long as she pays.”

Ratchet respected this, offering a twitch of her brow.

“Let’s get this over with,” Steve motioned to the rest as he opened the aluminum door to head back into the building. “I got shit to do.”

The guy in the chair was struggling to breathe through some miracle opening in his inflamed and bleeding nostrils. His broad chest heaved, nearly popping open the buttons on his black and blue flannel, gasping for air, cheeks puffing out, his bald head slick with sweat.

Steve took position in front of him again. The whole cutting his head off thing was a bluff. Jerry Dog had never requested such a thing. The other two Kings, Rooster and Emmett, would toss him in the back of the utility van and dump him down at the train yard and wait for further instructions.

The guy in the chair barked something at Steve through the tape, eyes narrowing, but it only came out as a strangled mumble.

“You trying to say something to me, Inky?” Steve cocked his head, referring to the man’s nickname.

Steve reached across to rip the tape off in one quick swipe, taking some of Inky’s mustache with it. The guy wheezed, bending his head to take a few deep inhales through his mouth, coughing a few times at the greedy pulls of air his body was taking.

“I got good news, man,” Steve’s tone was sarcastic as he rested his hands on his hips. “You get to keep your head. For now.”

Inky spit. He’d clearly intended the projected saliva to land on Steve, but it hit the ground next to his boot instead. Steve looked down at the spit, and then back up at Inky. “To think I thought you’d be grateful?”

“Fuck you, Taz,” Inky sneered at Steve, his voice full of vitriol. “I never did like you. Jerry Dog is gonna let me walk, and then you know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna come to your house and fuck the gay right outta that dyke roommate of yours, and I’m gonna make your kid watch.”

If Steve ever had a voice of reason that spoke to him in his head, it wasn’t about to change the impact those words had on him. There would be no more talking, no more negotiation, and no one in that room would dare to try and stop him, even if they wanted to, as he started pummeling his fist over and over into Inky’s face. At one point, Inky lost consciousness, jaw broken and slack, and the chair fell sideways, landing his head to the cement with a thunk. Steve followed, dropping on top of him, seeing red, unable to stop his fist from working, smashing, breaking.

When the other four were finally able to pull Steve off, it was too late for Inky.

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“Who is this Melanie bitch?” Katie came to visit you that night during your shift at the Velvet Hammer because you felt like you needed a pep talk. You’d just come up next to the bar where she was having her whiskey sour, and the ask was loud enough for Shanna, the longtime bartender and manager to hear.

Shanna had on a platinum blonde wig shaped in a 1920’s bob cut, a row of 6 tiny hoops curving up one ear, and a long, red upside down cross dangling from the other. She squinted at Katie while she squeezed fresh orange juice to make a screwdriver, and then her eyes shifted to you. “Melanie. You mean Melanie Drake? Your old man’s ex?”

You knew Eddie had a past, and you were glad for the most part. He was in his early thirties, for godsake, and if he hadn’t at least tried to commit to someone before you, it could easily be seen as a red flag. And it didn’t matter how much in love you knew you both were, or how devoted he clearly was to you—there was something unsettling about the girlfriend before you coming to town. Not just any girlfriend or one night stand, but someone he’d clearly had deep feelings for. Not only was she coming to town, but she explicitly wanted to see your boyfriend.

“Yeah,” you moved your jaw and absently straightened the little black pocket apron around your waist. “She left a really flirty message early this morning on his machine while we were in bed together.”

“Nooooo,” Katie blanched, making a yuck face. “What did you do? What did you say? What did HE say?”

Shanna passed the screwdriver and two pints of beer over to Jackie who loaded them on her tray. The dancer in the back was giving a wild show to the tune of Unsung by Helmet, sliding down the pole slowly, both legs spread wide, dropping to the floor in the splits with a head bang.

Shanna was clearly invested in the story now too, waiting with baited breath for you to answer Katie’s questions. “We just...went back to sleep. I told him we could talk about it in the morning. But then we woke up late and he had to rush out.”

Shanna and Katie exchanged a look.

“He loves me, we are good, I trust him,” you moved the four tequila shots and limes to your tray as Shanna passed them to you, and you couldn’t tell if you were trying to convince yourself or them.

“Of course he loves you, but is he planning to meet up with her, though?” Katie asked, taking the two tiny red straws out of her drink. “Cause, I don’t like that idea. Feels wrong. Sends her an encouraging message.”

You didn’t have a chance to answer before Shanna spoke up. “Melanie won’t show her face in here if she knows what’s good for her,” she paused only to rim a margarita glass with salt. You and Katie both directed your attention to hear the rest. “Years ago, she was hired on as one of the dancers for a couple months. Found out she was stealing from the other girls and giving blowjobs to customers in the bathroom.”

You blinked a few times, not liking the fact that she’d also had a job there. Katie lifted her glass to her lips but paused there, giving you a side eye.

Shanna raised an eyebro, smoky eye makeup rimming eyes that were so brown they were almost black. “And that was when she was still supposedly with your old man. I’m not even sure if he ever found out about it. Probably would’ve killed someone if he had.”

The news of Eddie being blatantly disrespected and cheated on like that didn’t sit well with you, either, and you realized that you knew nothing about this woman, how long they’d been together, and why it ended. You had to run your tray of drinks over to a table, and Katie ordered another whiskey sour while she waited.

You checked on other tables, and then on your way back to Katie at the bar, you saw Steve come in. He was an hour late, but he’d already called to let Shanna know, and one look at him told you why he was late.

While normally Steve had a charming, cheerful disposition, tonight his jaw was set at a hard angle, his eyes cold and weary. He was favoring his right hand, holding hit against his stomach. It was wrapped up, but poorly, as if he’d done it himself in a rush, red/orange seeping through at the knuckles. Normally, Steve would saunter over to see what the girls were gossiping about at the bar, and be eager to give his two cents. But, that night, he found his stool, and prepared to do nothing above the bare minimum required for his job. He lit a cigarette and checked ID’s, but made no move to add any banter to his interactions.

And no one bothered him or asked any questions because they were all realizing, perhaps for the first time, how scary he was once all of the casual, jovial exterior was removed.

----------

The rain was drizzling that night as Robin sat in her car facing the seedy motel on Chestnut, planning her words. She dropped off Oliver with Wayne for the night, and when they got there, Wayne already had cartoons on and some pigs-in-a-blanket in the oven; his face lighting up in a way they all thought the cancer had long ago removed.

Behind the wheel, facing room 11, here were two manila envelopes in her lap: one was full of cash and the other contained official government paperwork. She had a private savings account she’d been trickling money into for years. Even then, it only had about six grand in it. She pawned some of the gold jewelry her grandmother passed down to her, and a few other keepsakes she’d been saving to pass down to Oliver, and the final product was the best offer Tina would ever get from them. They were usually able to buy her off for a year or so with a grand or two, so ten grand should make her eyes sparkle long enough to sign away her rights to Ollie.

Steve and Katie had no idea what she was up to. Steve would’ve tried to stop her. He would’ve showed up and caused a scene, and his temper would get the best of him. Robin was calm. The only endgame that mattered to her was keeping Oliver safe and in her arms, and she didn’t care how broke she was or how low she had to grovel to make that happen.

She could see them through the window between the break in the curtains. Tina with her curly black hair, long and wild, wearing a tight, red spandex dress, and then her fiance Louis, shirtless, wiry muscles littered with prison ink. They appeared to be in the middle of an argument, but that was nothing new; they both thrived on chaos.

Robin also had a gun.

She strapped her bag across her body and reached in to palm the cool steel of Steve’s protection piece he usually kept in a safe in the closet. There was always the chance that Tina and Louis would try to jump her and take the money without following through on the paperwork, but she wasn’t going to let that happen; her plan was solid.

This bullshit would end tonight.

---------

It was so early in the morning when Steve’s bike rumbled around the corner to Astrid’s house that it was still dark. He dismounted right next to the dilapidated picket fence with the chipped white paint, and looked up to see that she was already on the porch in her nightgown, arms wrapped in a shawl, waiting for him. He hadn’t called to tell her he was on his way, in fact, it had been a last second decision as he idled at a stop light on his way home after work.

Steve needed comfort, and for some reason, Astrid always knew how to give it without him needing to ask.

“How’s your hand?” She asked across the lawn, even though he’d taken the bandage off and, from that distance, in the dark, there’s no way she could’ve known it was swollen and fleshly with raw patches.

He didn’t answer, he just came through the gate and made his way at a tired pace toward her, clomping up each step in his heavy boots, wallet chain jangling.

“Let me see,” she said, holding out her hand, palm up, for him to oblige. She hissed at the damage, and when she tapped his middle finger, he winced. “Honey, we need to get this cleaned and bandaged properly. It might even need a splint. Come inside. I put a beer in the freezer.” She always moved a beer from the refrigerator to the freezer when she had a hunch he was on his way so that it would be extra cold for him. She also had leftovers heating in the oven because it was typical of him to forget to eat.

Once inside the house, while he followed her through the candlelit living room to the kitchen, Steve caught her elbow and spun her around. Astrid’s eyes sought his, trying to anticipate his needs, but then what she found there was exhaustion, both emotional and physical, and a palpable sense of dread. Of fear that life would always take and never give. That time would continue to accomplish nothing but to wear us down and break our hearts.

He bowed his head, and then he dropped to his knees, arms wrapping around her legs, cheek pressing into her thigh, a sob hitching in his chest. He loved the fullness of her stomach and hips, the way his fingers sank in. She used both hands to comfort him, one stroking his cheek that was already damp, while the other combed through his thick head of hair, gently tucking strands behind his ear, tracing down the back of his neck.

She lowered to her shins and met him on the hardwood floor, scooping his head against her bosom while his shoulders jerked and the tears rolled. She was the only person Steve let himself cry in front of. Maybe only once or twice it had happened around Robin, and he always left the room to pull himself together. His father had drilled it hard into his head that crying was a weakness and it made you less of a man. It turned you into a sissy boy or a faggot, as if that were the worst thing, and set you up to be bullied and teased for days to follow. Better to yell, better to hit things, and make other people afraid so that they could be just as sad as you.

Wordlessly, they held each other there for a long while, as Steve choked on sobs and Astrid kissed the top of his head over and over, content to stay like that for hours if that was what he needed. After a bit, there were tears streaming down her cheeks as well.

"You're safe with me," she hushed.

-----

Eddie extended you an open offer to stay with him whenever you wanted, he even casually mentioned that he planned to have another spare key made so that you could come in and make yourself at home even if he wasn’t there.

Giving someone a key to your place was no small step in a relationship, and your heart swelled at the sincerity of the gesture.

But, you decided to go back to your place after your shift at the Hammer. You were tired, needed a shower, and some time to yourself. Plus, your cat Charlie had a lot of questions about where you were the night before.

Just as you were getting home, Katie was headed back out, her pajama bottoms still on. Apparently, she’d received a call from Robin that spooked her a bit, and made her want to go and check on her girlfriend, even though she had to be up early for work. She was in such a hurry, you didn’t have time to ask any questions, but you hoped that Robin was okay.

After washing your face and getting into something more comfortable, you were just about to sit on the couch to let television numb your brain for a bit when the doorbell rang.

Eddie’s head was bowed when you opened the door, one knee cocked out to the side, thumb hooked in his belt loop while the other fingers fanned out on his thigh.

“It’s a little late to be visited by a Bible salesman, isn’t it?” You teased.

Eddie met your eyes and leaned forward to brace his forearm on the door jam, white tee straining against his muscles just under the cut of his Coffin Kings leather. Not for the first time, you noticed the War Machine insignia on the front and realized you kept forgetting to ask him about it.

“I waited up,” he mumbled. “I hoped you’d come over tonight.”

“Work was exhausting, and I needed to feed my cat,” you explained. “But I’m glad to see you. Come in?”

Eddie couldn’t get what had happened that morning out of his mind, and the last thing he wanted to do was give Melanie any more of his precious air, but he also didn’t want you to think he had any residual feelings for her.

The living room was dark, but for a soft light from the kitchen and glow of the TV, when you tilted your chin up to meet his lips with yours. You didn’t stay there to kiss him, though---you didn’t linger with hungry sighs like you were prone to do—you just spun on your heel to head back around the couch.

Eddie let the screen door shut behind him as he grabbed your waist with both hands. “Hey now, don’t run away from me,” he came up behind so that your body was flush with his. His mouth came down to graze your ear, “tell me you fucking missed me.”

“Of course I missed you,” you tried to shrug away from him, albeit playfully, but he was too strong; you were completely locked in place. “I always miss you.”

He released you only so you could turn to face him again, reaching up to cup your hands behind his neck, fingers dipping into the downy hair behind his ears. The kiss that came next was the kind that sent emergency bells off in your loins; tongues twirling each other, tight groans on the exhale.

You pulled back to meet his eyes before you were completely incapacitated again. “Please tell me you’re not planning on meeting up with your ex this weekend?”

“Hell no,” he responded quickly, a tightness in his brow as if it were ludicrous for you to even ask. “Believe me baby, if I never see her face again, it will be too soon.”

“What are we even doing?” You asked, throwing your hands out to the side as you stepped back to rest your hip on the back of the couch. “I mean, look at us. We’ve barely known each other for two months and everything that possibly could go wrong has. It’s just one stressful situation after the next. I’m exhausted, Eddie, and I’m sure you are too.”

Eddie brought his chin back and crossed one arm over to hold his bicep. “Are you breaking up with me? Is that what this is?”

“No,” you coughed a laugh. Surely he didn’t think he could get rid of you that easily. “Believe me, I couldn’t stop being in love with you at this point even if I wanted to.”

A smile twitched on Eddie’s lips, and he came close, straddling your hips between his legs, taking your face in both of his hands. He kissed the tip of your nose, the look in his eye was tender but serious. “She never had my heart like you do. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, ever. I’d kill or die for you, baby.”

Clothes started to come off right there at the couch, but then you remembered that Katie might not stay at Robin’s and could be home any moment, and so you moved the party to your bedroom with Eddie’s belt undone and your shirt bunched up around your neck.

Eddie was on his knees with his head between your legs in a flash, flicking his tongue right where you needed it, making you fist his hair and bite your lip as you watched.

After the first orgasm, you were on your side while Eddie held your leg up and sunk his cock in over and over, hips clapping at your wetness. You turned your head to take his mouth while he stretched you out again and again, making you whimper, and your wrist flexed at your swollen nub, another release mounting.

“Oh godohgodohgod,” you whined. Eddie’s cock slipped out briefly, and when he thrust it back in, you began to see stars.

You looked up at him as your body rocked from the impact, “no one has ever been so deep, baby,” you promised, and the admission brought Eddie to the edge, twisting you to piston his hips faster.

He barked a groan of pleasure as he emptied himself inside of you, holding one of your legs up by the crook of his arm, and your walls clenched around him, producing a mingling of cum on his shaft.

Still inside of you, Eddie grabbed your chin so that your blown pupils could meet his. “I’ve never loved anyone like I love you,” he said, sealing the words in your mouth with a kiss, hoping to bury them deep in your heart.

-------

Hundreds of miles away, a phone next to a full ashtray and a tumbler of whiskey was ringing.

Before the second ring, a guy with a military insignia tattooed on his forearm picked up.

“Yo,” the voice on the other end greeted. “This Craig?”

“Yeah, dumbass, who else would it be?” Craig answered gruffly.

The other guy cleared his throat. “It’s Gopher. Hey, listen, that chick you’ve been trying to track down? I had my guy look her up at the database over at the station. She ain’t in no Oregon, man. She’s in some podunk town in fucking Indiana.”

Craig sat down on the bed next to the gun he was cleaning, eyes hooded, blonde hair in a buzz cut. “You sure it’s the right girl? My girl?”

“No doubt about it man. She just had her license renewed.”

Craig pulled a notepad and pen out of the top drawer. “You got an address for me?”

“She’s got a roommate. Katie Clayton I think her name was.”

“Fuck, of course,” Craig worked his jaw, excitement edging in his veins. All this time he’d been nosing around in the pacific northwest while you were only a state away, right under his nose.

He should've known you’d never want to be too far away from him. A love like the two of you shared never died.

Thank you for reading! xoxoxoxo

-------

Taglist: @notsobubblybaby @eighty6babyyy @unfocused81 @aysheashea @etherealglimmer @manicmagicmayhem @dream-a-little-nightmare @hellv1ra @chaoticgood-munson @ms1oftheboys @emxcast @rhirojo @bexreadstoomuch @micheledawn1975 @lma1986 @falling-solar-system @secretdryrose @kurdtbean @whatwedontdointheshadows @miarosso @seventhlevelofhell @corrodedcoffincumslut @lofaewrites @goldyghoul @chloe-6123 @kelsiegrin @chelebelletx @stylesxmunson @dandelionnfluff @lilpotatobean2 @clincallyonline17 @tlclick73 @munsons-mayhem28 @eddiemunson95 @sidthedollface2 @hideoutside @truffleshuffle12 @tenthmoon @texasblues @emilyslutface @mmunson86 @onegirlmanytales

[duusheen]

It’s time for Pandora to leave, and not everyone in the family feels the same about her leaving home 😔

[thesnivy123]

yknow what. i hate to be rude but the oxygen not included fandom has to get their heads out of the sand and acknowledge that HEY, THERES LORE. I know minmaxxing is fun and all but holy fucking shit. the steam artwork page is 90% screenshots??? Theres a seperate tab for screenshots. People are just posting their screenshots in thebart page anyways for fuck knows what reason. like fuck you I don't wanna see your sourgas boiler in the fanart page, what do you even need to boil sourgas for, whys it so important you wanna smother any fucking ember of creativity left here???

like jesus fuck for once i got attached to a fairly major character and i cant even find anyone making fanart like AT ALL. Ive seen one singular person on tumblr acknowledge the characters in the lore logs beyond their dupe equivalents. The wiki page for the lore is horrifically outdated.

please. I beg. If you're readung this just. just spend five minutes reading the emails or investigations or whatever tab of your guidebook while ur waiting for your dupes to build something. acknowledge the fact that every menu and popup is written in first person. did you ever notice that the quit game confirm text uses i instead of you. Have you looked at the flavour text for the algae terrarium

please

theres so much lore. please j

i just want to see people care i cant be in another dead rotting fandom

[pedroschka]

Wh....WHAT

WHY HAS THIS BEEN KEPT FROM US OMG 😍

[mythology-void]

I need SOMEONE to make a atla Zuko edit to "Would that I" by Hozier bc??

you can't tell me that's not literally his character

[medicinemane]

There's honestly... just so many people, just so so so so so many people in this world where I'm like... aren't you people tired of this fucking... you know, I was going to call them clowns but that's really disrespectful to clowns, these people could never get their face on an egg...

Anyway, aren't you tired of this childish jackass? Don't you just want to ignore them and never have to hear about them again? If we just ignored them they legitimately would go away... don't you want that?

And this applies to... just ungodly amounts of people, from jake paul to even elon musk (just... don't touch his shit, he'll run out of money eventually with how bad he is with it), to just... name an annoying famous person and you'll name someone I've literally forgotten right now that I could never have to hear about again if people would just ignore them (unless they committed crimes, investigators are welcome to pay attention while gathering a case)

Yet the answer's always "no, we're paying so much attention to them!" and I'm just like... why? Why would you watch jake paul box? I heard about that and was like "he's still doing that shit?", and yet I guess it made a lot of money yet again and it's just like... ignore him

These people could go away, and yet

[kavehater]

AAAH I have a mutual who’s 18 and he sorta kinda is flirting with this one guy who is a minor as a joke of course ( to which a concerned anon said that it’s weird ) but I can’t help but flashback to er*s

[corpseaten]

i liiiied i always say im going to sleep then stay up an hour or so to see if anybody send me anything . . . hhh I should sytop it is 4 . . .

[sporkspud]

i keep getting practice questions wrong because they keep describing ob/gyn symptoms as "painless" and I'm like. Hm. That Does Not Seem Like It Would Be Without Pain

[sunnynoki]

m so tried. maybe its the fact that it's nearing 4am, but.

they knew. they knew and they hid that information. probably to not taint their popularity. not that it really affected it anyway. because people still follow them. reblog their content. etc.

they knew and drew it anyway. do they feel shame? they didnt say sorry. did they feel any sort of disgust? they didnt say sorry. do they know what they have caused? they didnt say sorry

now they flock towards them. and the people who forgave them now share a community with them. the same people i trusted to NOT do EXACTLY THAT.

i shouldve saw it coming to be honest. when she shared "neutral works." people who went "oh i didnt write it that way but feel free to interpret it as such!" or "please be civil with each other" or "i dont care either way." but i gave her the benefit of the doubt. i trusted her.

even still, her betrayal feels like the worst of all.

is it really a betrayal? or was it me just being willfully ignorant and then blinded when i couldnt anymore? should i really blame her? i was the one ignoring the signs. i guess it was partly because i liked her writing

guess that makes me no different from the rest of them.

even still, some lines shouldnt be crossed. they crossed it. she was toeing it and then crossed it with them. and the rest of them? the same.

some people give out their empathy too willingly.

"ohhhh i can understand needing the money" "ohhhh a jobs a job." you do realize that those don't absolve you of moral responsibility right? like. god am i really needing to spell it out? those were the same excuses used after ww2. i get that this is a much MUCH smaller scale, but my point still fucking stands; money or a job doesnt give you the right to ignore morals like that.

im so tired. this is eating me from the inside out, to lose friends like this. i used to be active in, what, at least 6 servers? now its 2, and its the ones i used the least.

i trusted them; i thought we were on the same page. turns out i was stupid enough to ignore the signs and it blew up in my face. great job.

maybe im dumb for dropping nearly all my friends over this. maybe im a fucking idiot for dying on this hill. maybe i deserve to die over it. maybe i would make lots of people happy for dying: "hooray! the evil anti is defeated!"

maybe im just a very, very unstable person that deserves to be locked away in a room with no key.

maybe that room should be set alight, leaving me to burn in it, my screams muffled by the padded walls.

maybe i shouldnt have written this post at all.

maybe i should have never existed at all.

[7s3ven]

FILE LOADING. TF 141 x hacker! Reader, pt 1

( full master list) (intro to this series)

IN WHICH… you needed a way to lessen your prison sentence and TF 141 needed an efficient hacker… as well as someone to spoil.

Notes: hacker! Reader, reader has a criminal background, reader has piercings, tattoos + tooth gems

A/N: first cod series finally lol… please like this post guys, I finished it right after I slipped while practising a taekwondo kick and body slammed into the tiled floor 😭.

—

The air inside your prison cell was muggy and overall unpleasant, causing beads of sweat to form on your forehead as you fanned your face.

The pathetic excuse for a window was not helping, letting only a small amount of oxygen enter the tiny room.

In all honesty, you weren’t treated as badly as other prisoners. A coworker of yours had pulled some strings the moment you were arrested, which meant you got better food and some perks.

But as always, life in jail still sucked.

You were too busy staring at the blank wall in front of you to notice the metal door keeping you locked up was now creaking open.

“Get up.” The warden harshly nudged your shoulder, barely giving you a moment to compose yourself. Your hands were yanked behind your back, the cool metal handcuffs digging painfully into your soft skin.

Your jaw clenched as you were dragged down the dimly lit hallway. You knew better than to ask questions as they would not be answered. All you could do was walk in the direction the warden shoved you in.

The breeze from the well-ventilated interrogation room was the first thing to hit you as you entered. You arched an eyebrow at the woman sitting at the table, her hands gracefully clasped together.

“And you are?” You didn’t recognise her as you slumped into the seat across from her, purposely sending the warden a biting glare.

“I’m Kate Laswell, a CIA operative.” She didn’t waste time before she spoke, leaning forward to catch your attention.

Your lip peeled back into a sneer, “The worst kind of people.”

She ignored your jab. “I’ve come here to give you an offer. You see, SAS is in need of a hacker and I’m told you’re the best fit for the job.” You watch as she opens a slim folder, spreading out the images for your careful gaze to study. They’re printouts of your exploits, files nobody was supposed to obtain. You had deleted your digital footprint after hacking databases, you were sure of it.

“You’re good. Too good to waste in a cell." You hear her softly sigh.

“I did what I did. The justice system isn’t so flattered by my ability to retrieve their sensitive information. Plus, I did murder someone… a few people, actually. So in all honesty, this isn’t an unfair punishment.” You leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“We are well aware of your long record.” Laswell sends you a pointed look. You merely grin, your canine teeth glinting in the light.

“Did you see my arson report?” Your lips spread into a grin, “Because that’s the best one. Set an ex-boyfriend’s car on fire and it just lit up. It was great. You should read it sometime.”

Laswell cleared her throat, reminding you of the situation at hand. “As I was saying, I can lift your jail sentence with a click of my fingers but only if you agree to work for me.”

“Thought I was working for SAS.” You interrupted.

“You’ll work for an elite team called Task Force 141… but you’ll answer to me. I give you the orders.”

“And the catch of this job?”

Laswell’s lips curve into a faint smile. “This is not a job offer, Miss L/N, it is a uniquely presented opportunity. You will get no pay for your services. The reward it reaps, however, is greater.”

You paused for a second. What could possibly be better than money?

“Freedom.” As if reading your mind, Laswell spoke again. “If you do this, you’ll be free before next year. This is possibly your only shot at freedom, do not throw it away. If you stay locked up here, you’ll only rot while the world keeps spinning.”

Now she had your attention. “You must be desperate if you wanna hire me.” A chuckle slipped past your lips but it was mainly to ease the awkward tension that had settled. “What would the job include?” You tilted your head, subtly shifting forward to hint your interest.

“You’ll be working alongside Task Force 141, giving them intel on possible threats and making their jobs easier by gaining access to classified information. I hear you don’t work well with other people but really, what choice do you have?”

Her words prodded at you and the teasing smile on her face aggravated you but she was right. You had no other choice.

The room was silent as you weighed out your choices. The walls seemed to close in on you, a stark difference to the freedom you were promised mere moments ago.

“So I risk my life for this so-called elite team… and in return I get some vague promises of freedom? Smells like bullshit. You lot will probably stab me in the back.” You scoffed.

“You’ve already painted a bright red target on your back. It’s only a matter of time before people realise you’re worth more dead than alive. With us, you’ll have protection. And a purpose.”

Laswell stood up, pushing her chair back with deliberate calmness. The legs scraped against the concrete floor as she did so. “Make no mistake, L/N, people like you don’t simply disappear. Someone will come for you… someone who wants your head on a stick.” Her words hung heavily in the air.

There was a flicker of fear in your eyes and like a feral predator, she ate it up.

“Okay.” You slowly murmured. She had convinced her with her carefully concealed threats. “I’ll do it.”

Laswell smirks. "Good. Pack your things. Your new team will be picking you up in an hour.”

—

The loud roar of the helicopter blades filled the air as you stepped onto the tarmac, shielding your eyes against the bright sun. You rubbed your aching wrists, clicking your tongue at the bruises the tight handcuffs had left.

A few soldiers are waiting for you into the chopper, their silhouettes barely visible through the dark tinted windows.

“Couldn’t just send a car?” You grumbled as you climbed into the helicopter. Laswell followed close behind, unbothered and seemingly used to such a commotion.

“Always for the theatrics, John.” She jokes with the man sitting across from her, eyes crinkling as she grins.

You glance at the man’s name tag, reading Captain John Price. He’s handsome… for a man his age. In a ruggish and rough sort of way. A cloud of smoke slips past his lips as he calmly puffs on a cigar, not at all caring how the chopper unsteadily tilts to the side.

“This the hacker? That pretty ‘lil lass over there?” A voice, thick with a Scottish accent, cuts through the silence. Your eyes dart to stare at the burly man with a Mohawk as he looks you up and down. “Thought the hacker was a bloke. Ain’t complainin’ though.”

You stiffen at the comment, running your tongue over your top row of teeth. It unintentionally gives him a view of your shiny tooth gems. “Thought you lot were an elite crew. Y’all don’t fact check?” You lean back into the cushioned seat. It’s surprisingly comfortable, much better than the stone-hard mattress back in your cell.

The Scot laughs, unbothered. “She’s got bite. I like ‘er. Name’s John McTavish but most call me Jonny. You can call me Soap if ya want.”

You sarcastically laugh. “Soap? What kind of muppet name is that? You had a reputation for eating soap as a kid?”

Soap’s eyes light up, not what you were expecting with your insult. “Ay! The cap’n said the same thing! Called me a muppet too!”

“You still are.” Someone chimes in from the front. You didn’t even realize there were two more people squeezed in to the seats in front of the controls.

The one in the passenger seat turns around, smiling. With his soft brown eyes and gentle features, you can’t help but find him pretty.

“Y/N L/N, right? Nice to meet you. I’m Kyle Garrick.” His voice has a slight British accent to it. “This is Ghost next to me.” He jabs a thumb at the man wearing a skull mask who’s doing a poor job at steering the helicopter.

“Ghost?” You question, “What sort of name is that?”

“Simon Riley.” Ghost grunts out. His British accent is somewhat aggressive, evident in every syllable he barks out.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. For some reason, he annoys you. It’s more like the way he’s looking at you through the eye-level mirror.

The chopper shakes again. You watch as Kyle grasps his seat, his grip so tight it almost cracks the delicate leather. “Sorry.” Simon gruffly replies.

You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward. “What’s up with him?” You nod your head in Kyle’s direction.

“Fell out the bloody helicopter when Ghost was last flying.” Kyle replies. You almost laugh. It’s not something that should be amusing but your lips quirk into a small grin.

“So… does this whole arrangement cover my food and accommodation?” You question, suddenly aware of how hungry you are. Laswell slips out a small folder, handing it to you.

“Your accomodation will be one of our safe houses twenty minutes away from base. We considered having you live on the base itself but socialising isn’t part of your job. You’ll be living with the Task Force to ensure you don’t run. And all your costs will be covered. You will be given an allowance for your own expenses such as impulsive purchases.”

“Thought you said I got no money.”

“Once you have completed what is necessary, you will no longer have access to the allowance.” Laswell clarifies.

“And I walk free.”

Laswell nods, “Then you are free to go. If needed, CIA will pay to transfer you to another country so you can start anew. Most do not get second chances, L/N, so be careful.”

You lick your cracked lips, aimlessly playing with the hem of your oversized shirt. Maybe you could go to Europe; it had been a little dream of yours as a kid.

“Should go to Scotland, lass.” Jonny pipes up above the loud helicopter blades.

“London’s better.” Simon retorts, “Can actually understand what they’re saying.”

“What about Korea?” Kyle butts in.

“You aren’t even Korean.” Jonny argues back, lightly scoffing.

“Yeah, but I wanna go. Is that a crime, Soap?”

Their pointless bickering was comforting in a way. You had spent the last few years of your life locked away, isolated most of the time and alone. It was nice listening to people talk again.

Simon landed the helicopter with surprising grace, being the first to unbuckle his seatbelt and jump out. Kyle was next. Laswell unlocked the sliding door, stepping aside to allow you to slip past first.

You merely stared at her before muttering a tense thanks.

“Watch your step.” Kyle warned you as he held out a hand to steady you.

“It’s literally three feet. I can manage.” You snap back, effortlessly stepping out of the chopper. Jonny lightly chuckled while Kyle slowly withdrew.

“Feisty.” Kyle muttered.

You stared up at the safe house, tilting your head. “It’s… cute.” You hummed. It was a cottage, not the first thing you expected as a safe house.

“Were the pink roses your idea, Riley?” You joked, pointing at the pretty flowers.

He grunts, a sound you’ve suddenly become familiar with. “I prefer Ghost.” He corrects you.

You shrug. “Used to call inmates by their last name. Helped me ignore them when they tried hitting on me in the early years of prison.” You stepped forward onto the stone cobble path, admiring it.

“A small cottage… bet this is a military dream, huh?” You kicked a pebble.

“It is, actually.” Jonny pipes up, “It’s every man’s dream to retire in a cute little house with a pretty lass.”

You lightly scoffed, “I ain’t here to play work wife, McTavish. Can’t even cook.”

“Thank goodness we have Gaz then.” Jonny retorts, “Bloke should be a chef if this career doesn’t work out.”

You take a moment to study the house and its surroundings while the others file through the door. There’s a small white Pickett fence wrapped around the land, bright green blades of grass wrapping around the neatly painted wood.

The cottage is clearly old but well renovated. Rows of vines adorn the side, a surprisingly aesthetic sight. There’s a garden filled with sweetly smelling flowers and the same pink roses sitting at your feet are also perched on top of the porch.

The windows are the favourite aspect of yours. They decorate the stone walls, a sharp gothic detail to them.

It’s almost too pretty for a criminal like you.

“You comin’ in?” It’s Kyle who notices your absence, peeking his head past the doorway. For a moment, he thought you had made a run for it but he was relieved to find you standing among the garden.

You clear your throat, pulling at the bottom of your shirt. “Yeah.” You step onto the rickety porch, the wood creaking under your weight.

The interior of the house is so different from your tiny cell. Walking past the door almost feels like walking into an entirely new life.

Jonny is scavenging through the fridge, pulling out a tall bottle of beer. “Want some?” He offers it to you.

“I can’t drink, warden’s orders.” The words slip past your lips before you can stop them.

“It’s just a beer, can’t hurt ya. ‘Sides, you ain’t in jail no more.” Jonny insists, shaking the bottle. It’s tempting but on instinct, you glance at Laswell.

She’s sitting beside Price, talking to him in a hushed tone and going over a file, presumably one containing details about you.

“I ain’t stopping you from drinking, kid.” Laswell says, feeling your stare on her face.

Hesitantly, you snatch the bottle from Jonny, popping the lid open with practised precision. You haven’t tasted beer, or any other alcohol for that matter, in a long time. You’ve never liked beer… but the first burning sip feels heavenly.

“You got any vodka?” You ask, glancing into the top cupboards.

“Do we look Russian? Nah, can barely drink that shit straight.” Jonny’s face scrunches up at the thought.

“Bourbon then.” Your words catch Simon’s attention.

Jonny grins as he reaches up, grasping a fancy-looking bottle. “Only other person here who likes bourbon is the LT. Guess he isn’t alone anymore.” He pours you a glass, handing it to you in exchange for your bottle of beer.

“Don’t understand how you lot can stand beer. Too bitter for my liking.” You mutter, pacing around the room.

You hear Simon quietly hum in agreement. “Finally someone smart.”

COD TAGLIST (comment to be added/removed): @jenepleurepasbaby @rm25711 @talia-the-gemini @margaaaa30 @mixplara @alex—awesome—22

@lunamoonbby @little-b33 @ghostswife-8 @tea-drinking-nerd @certainlygay @lucienofthelakes @supaturtl3 @pr3ttypupp4 @royalz658 @whoreforfictionalmen18 @ashy-akuma @1bucky-barnes-wife1 @chloepluto1306 @voguiing @eyeless-kun @joshwashingtonmybeloved @fuzzyducky3 @childishname @angel-bugz @kee-0-kee @undercover-smutlover @10honeybee01 @kat247 @munson24 @sweetlittleblackrose @babybimbo777 @wfinniegenx @galactict3a @hyperfixatedcatlover @creepumiku @yoontoons @moraxnomora @1ckyfairy @lunerbitch @tizylish

[incognit0slut]

Lesson learned

PART 3 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Unit Chief!Spencer x BAU!Reader Your boss decides to teach you a lesson when you question the motivations behind a certain case.

Content: (18+) 6k, breath play, fingering, a little case description, BDSM discussion, softdom Spence but borderlines to dom because hello this is breath play and reader being judgy judgy but don’t worry he’s here to teach you a lesson or two a/n: The initial plan was to make him a hard dom but breathplay is already overwhelming so I decided to go the educational route. I am, by all means, not as smart as him, so there might be some inaccuracy

You would think that after joining the BAU for two years, you’d start to understand the twisted logic of a criminal’s mind. But you don’t. Not really. You’ve dissected motives, uncovered patterns, and profiled suspects more times than you can count, and yet this case makes no sense. 

Your eyes go over the photographs pinned to the board again. And again. And again. It’s become almost a ritual now, like maybe if you look at it just one more time, the pieces might finally fall into place. But all you find staring back at you are three victims with the same marks on their necks. There was clearly a sign of struggle, but not one of fear. Not one that fits any pattern you know.

“I don’t get it,” you say. “The profile suggests the victims knew their attacker, but this doesn’t look like anything close to rage. Or brutality.”

Spencer shifts beside you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he leans closer to the board. “It might not have been an act of violence,” he observes thoughtfully. “Not in the traditional sense, anyway.”

You furrow your brow. “If it wasn’t violent, then what was it?”

“The bruising pattern is too symmetrical, and there’s no sign of panic or defensive wounds on their hands. I think there’s a chance the victims might have willingly participated.”

“Willingly?” Your eyes snap at him. “What do you mean, ‘willingly participated’? No one willingly gets strangled.”

He meets your eyes for a second before looking back at the board. “I know it sounds unlikely,” he admits, “but not impossible. See how the bruises are evenly spaced? They wrap around in perfect circles. The pressure is distributed just enough to leave a mark but not to crush the windpipe.“

“Spencer, that’s exactly what happened. The windpipe was crushed.”

“Yes, but not immediately. That’s the point.” He turns towards you again. “The intention wasn’t to kill them outright. The unsub wanted to bring them to the point of unconsciousness but not over it. At least, not at first. He was counting on their trust before pushing it too far.”

You let out a huff. “That’s insane.”

“It might seem that way to you, but it’s not unheard of. Sexual asphyxiation is a consensual act for some people. The lack of oxygen when someone’s airflow is restricted can trigger a euphoric sensation which intensifies pleasure."

You stare at him like he’s just spoken a different language. “So, you're saying they get off on... not breathing?”

“More like they find excitement in giving up that control."

You cross your arms and study him, tilting your head with a skeptical frown. “How do you even know this?”

The corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile. “I read,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You have a book on sexual asphyxiation?”

“It’s more comprehensive than that. The book covers a wide range of kinks, fetishes, and other forms of sexual exploration which are considered extreme by societal standards.”

"You’re telling me you read up on BDSM practices in your spare time?”

"I think of it as research,” he replies. “It’s part of understanding human behavior. You can’t afford to be ignorant about the complexities of people's desires."

"Huh." Your eyes travel back to the images again. "You know, I still don't understand. I mean, willingly letting someone cut off your breath? That’s not just trust that’s… I don’t know, crazy?”

His eyes narrow towards you as if he's carefully considering how much to say.

“It's not crazy,” he insists carefully. “For people who engage in it, it’s not only about losing control. It’s about reaching a heightened state of awareness, finding excitement in walking that line.”

"But what if that line gets crossed? What then? How could anyone think that sounds… fun?”

“Well, have you ever tried it?”

“Of course not!” you reply quickly, almost laughing at the absurdity. “Why would I?”

“Then you wouldn’t know,” he counters, his tone calm but pointed, like he’s presenting a fact rather than an opinion. “You can’t really understand the mindset until you’ve experienced it. It’s not something you can fully grasp from the outside.”

"I don’t think I could ever trust someone enough to do that to me."

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person to trust.”

You scoff. “What? Are you offering?”

You laugh at your own joke, and you expected him to do the same. Or perhaps a quick “Of course not”, even some rambling about how he didn’t mean it that way. But when all you’re met with is silence, your laughter dies down, and your eyes dart back to him.

Spencer’s not looking at you, his eyes are fixed on the photographs pinned to the board. He’s studying the bruises, the faces, the details like he always does, but there’s a stillness in his expression, a tension in the set of his jaw that makes you think he’s considering something else entirely. And for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s really thinking about the victims or the case at all.

Maybe you shouldn’t joke about things like that. He is your boss, after all, and even though there isn’t exactly a strict superior-subordinate dynamic between the two of you—he’s always been more of a peer than an authority figure—you wonder if maybe this time you crossed a line.

Spencer’s eyes remain on the photos for a long, agonizing second, and you think maybe he’s not going to respond at all. But then, slowly, he turns his head and looks at you, and the room suddenly feels impossibly small.

“If I were to offer,” he says quietly, “Would you take it?”

His words knock the breath from your lungs, and all you can do is stare back at him. You don’t know what to make of the question. Was it a dare? A test? Or perhaps something more?

There’s a part of you that wants to laugh it off. The conversation was absurd to begin with, so brushing it away like it’s nothing would feel like the safest option. The easy way out. But there’s another part—one you don’t want to acknowledge—that can’t help but wonder what it would mean to say yes.

What if you did? you ponder.

What would it feel like to trust someone like that?

What would it feel like to trust him?

But before you can reply, the door to the meeting room creaks open, the noise echoing through the dimly lit space of the police precinct. A uniformed officer pokes his head inside.

“Dr. Reid, we found a new lead on the vehicle.”

Spencer’s eyes stay locked on yours for just a beat longer as your heart hammers in your chest. Then, without a word, he nods to the officer, and any trace of whatever passed between you dissolves like it never happened at all.

The next few days turn into a blur. The lead on the unsub’s vehicle takes you across town, a chase that ends with the suspect cornered in an abandoned old house. It’s almost anticlimactic how quickly it all happens—sirens blaring, doors kicked in, and in less than an hour, the unsub is in handcuffs. The case is finally closed, and it’s the kind of victory that usually brings a sigh of relief.

But today, you can’t find that peace.

Back at the precinct, the rest of the team has already moved on to debriefing. You’re left cleaning up the mess of photographs and notes scattered across the table. But your movements are slow, distracted, your fingers fumbling over the papers. There’s a prickling awareness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you know exactly why.

It’s because Spencer is watching you. You don’t even need to look to feel the weight of his gaze. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, hands tucked in his pockets, but there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes track your movements.

You pause, photos in hand, and finally address him. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushes off the wall and starts walking toward you. He stops just short of arm’s length.

“Have you thought about what we discussed the other day?”

You feel a rush of embarrassment, and the awkwardness of the moment makes you shift uncomfortably. Clearing your throat, you turn your attention back to the table, hastily grabbing a stack of photographs and shuffling them into a folder.

“We didn’t discuss anything,” you mumble, avoiding his gaze. “It was just a joke.”

“Was it? You don’t joke about things like that unless you’ve thought about them at least a little.”

You let out a dry laugh, keeping your eyes firmly on the table. “I wasn’t being serious. We were in the middle of a case, and we were all exhausted. I just said whatever came to mind.”

Spencer tilts his head, the way he does when he’s analyzing something, his eyes flickering over your face as though he’s cataloging every twitch of your expression.

“Maybe,” he concedes, and takes another step forward. “But the offer wasn’t a joke, and you didn’t say no.”

Your fingers freeze over the photographs, the papers crinkling under your touch.

“I didn’t say yes either.”

You mentally wince at how weak that sounds, almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself. You slowly look up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but all you find are those intense brown eyes staring back at you.

It unnerves you how calm he is, how easily he’s holding this conversation when your mind is spinning in a million directions.

“You do realize what you’re offering?” you start to press, feeling the need to put it out in the open. “What this means?”

Spencer doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break eye contact for a second. “I do.”

“Do you? Because it seems to me like you might be taking this too lightly."

“I’m not taking it lightly. I’m acknowledging that there’s more to it than what you’re seeing on the surface.”

“And what makes you think I want to see beyond the surface?”

He leans in closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, but not enough to cross any boundaries. “I’m offering a perspective, not forcing you to accept it. Understanding doesn’t always come from reading about something. It comes from experience.”

You can’t quite decide if his words make sense or if they’re completely absurd. It’s like he’s challenging your logic, your assumptions, but at the same time, there’s a strange clarity to what he’s saying.

“Why does it matter so much to you?”

Because he’s your boss? Because someone in his position always tries to make sense of everything for everyone else?

“Because shaming people for their interests, for something they might find pleasure in… it isn’t fair, and it isn’t right.”

Now that was something you didn’t expect him to say.

“I wasn’t shaming,” you protest quickly, the words coming out defensive even to your own ears. “I was just…”

“Curious,” he finishes for you. “And curiosity isn’t a flaw. Neither is wanting to understand, and if you’re willing to explore that curiosity, then I’d rather you experience it in a way that’s safe. That you know is controlled.”

“So what?” you snap back. “You want to prove me wrong? Show me I’ve been looking at this the wrong way?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not playful. It’s gentle, almost thoughtful, as if he’s carefully weighing each word. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t want to prove you wrong. I want to teach you.”

You blink at him. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first, the words tangled somewhere between shock and disbelief. It takes a few seconds until you manage to find your voice.

“You… want to teach me?”

“A lesson, if you will,” he explains, and the way he says it—so calm, so certain—makes your heart stutter. “Not to prove you wrong, but to help you understand. You have your perceptions about… control and trust. I think the only way to really understand is to experience it yourself.”

You don’t know what to say, what to do, and all that comes out is a shaky, barely-there laugh.

“A lesson,” you repeat, trying to make sense of the concept.

He nods, and there’s no pressure in his voice, just an offer. Simple and clear. “But only if it’s what you want.”

You aren’t sure what to feel, much less what to say, and the uncertainty must show on your face. Sensing your hesitation, Spencer takes a step back, giving you space.

“It’s a lot to consider, and I’m not expecting an answer now. But the offer still stands… whenever you’re ready.”

And with that, he gives you one last smile and turns away, leaving you alone with your conflicted thoughts.

You’re pacing in your hotel room, your footsteps muffled by the worn carpet as you make the same path back and forth over and over again. Every time you try to sit down, your leg bounces with restless energy, so you’re back up again, moving without purpose but unable to stop.

You tell yourself it’s just stress. The case, the pressure, the weirdness of being in a small-town motel with creaky walls and awful lighting. But you know better. You know exactly what’s got your mind spinning and your stomach doing flips.

Spencer. And his damn offer.

You scoff to yourself, trying to laugh it off like you always do, but the joke doesn’t land when it’s just you, alone with your thoughts. And, really, what’s the harm in admitting the truth—to yourself, at least? That maybe the whole concept doesn’t seem as insane as it did a few days ago. That maybe you’ve found yourself wondering what it would feel like to trust someone that much.

You stop pacing, staring at your reflection in the mirror across the room. There it is, that nagging curiosity, that flicker of intrigue that Spencer saw before you even knew it was there. You let out a sigh, the weight of the realization hitting you.

God help you, but you’re actually curious.

And that might just be the scariest part of all.

You slip into your shoes and take a deep breath before stepping into the hallway. The motel’s quiet, most of the rooms dark as you walk past, and for a moment you hesitate, wondering if this is a mistake. The team’s staying one more night here, the last bit of downtime before flying back tomorrow. A chance to decompress, to shake off the adrenaline of the case. Yet here you are, anything but relaxed, heading out because you can’t stand one more second of pacing back and forth.

Your footsteps come to a stop outside Spencer’s room, and you stare at the numbers on the plaque for a moment. You could turn around right now. You could pretend you didn’t walk all the way down the corridor with his words echoing in your head. But as much as you try to convince yourself that walking away is the logical choice, your hand moves on its own, and you knock.

Spencer doesn’t look surprised when he opens the door. Without waiting for an invitation, you push past him, barging into the room before you change your mind.

“If we’re going to do this, I have some ground rules,” you blurt out, the words rushing out all at once. “I don’t know what you think this is going to be like, but I need control over some things. Non-negotiable.”

He closes the door with a soft click. “Of course,” he responds calmly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“First,” you say, spinning around to face him. “I’m in control of when this starts and when it stops. If I say no, then we stop. Immediately. No questions, no convincing, none of that.”

“Absolutely.”

“Second, I need to know exactly what we’re doing. No surprises. You explain everything to me before we do anything.”

He quickly nods.

“And third… this doesn’t leave this room. We don’t talk about it to anyone else. Not tomorrow, not next week, not ever.”

He takes a step forward towards you. “This stays between us.”

You let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline settling into a nervous, thrumming pulse beneath your skin. “Okay,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, trying to process the reality of what you’ve just laid out. “Those are my rules.”

Spencer takes another step forward, close enough now that you can smell the faintest trace of him. A mix of something clean and warm, like soap and worn cotton, an understated scent that’s distinctly him.

“Then those are the rules we follow,” he reassures you. “Your terms. Your pace.”

“Thank you.”

He nods his head again. “Is there anything else you want to discuss?”

There is, actually. There’s a question that’s been hovering in the back of your mind. It feels awkward to say out loud, but the uncertainty gnaws at you, and finally, you force the words out.

“Are we… are we going to have sex?”

He holds your gaze. “Do you want to have sex?”

You go quiet again, letting the silence settle around you as you think about what you want, what you came here for. You slowly shake your head. “No,” you reply. “No, I don’t.”

“Then we won’t. There’s more to explore in this than just sex.”

“Right, that’s—good.” You clear your throat. “I have… one more question.”

He gestures for you to continue.

“You’re not going to fire me for this, are you?”

His soft chuckle fills your ear, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him genuinely smile tonight. “No,” he confirms, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m not going to fire you. Whatever happens between us won’t affect your work, I promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling a little of the weight lift off your shoulders.

“Okay, so… now what?”

“Now,” he says gently, “We take it slow.“

He guides you toward the edge of the bed, and you find yourself moving automatically, sitting down on the mattress. The bed creaks slightly as he settles beside you.

“If we’re going to do this,” he starts, turning slightly to face you. “I want you to be comfortable. And that means talking. You can start by telling me what you’re thinking. ”

“That’s… it? We’re just going to talk?”

Spencer’s mouth lifts into a soft smile. “Yes,” he confirms, “If that’s what you want. There’s no pressure to do anything else.”

The idea of just talking feels safe, but there’s also a flicker of curiosity that you can’t quite shake. You shift on the bed.

“What if I want to do something more?”

Spencer’s eyes search yours, and he doesn’t move closer, doesn’t do anything that could make the moment feel rushed. “If you want to, then we can. Something simple to start.”

Your fingers trace the fabric of the bedspread. “Like what?”

“Something small. It could be as simple as letting me guide your breathing. A way to practice trust without anything overwhelming.”

You swallow, the idea feeling both intimidating and oddly… reassuring. There’s comfort in the way he talks about it, the lack of pressure, and the way he makes it feel like there’s nothing to fear.

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Let’s try that.”

He moves a little closer to you. “We’ll take it slow,” he promises. “Try to focus on your breathing and follow my lead.”

You close your eyes, feeling your breath shallow and quick, your heart racing as you try to find a steady rhythm.

“Take a deep breath,” he instructs softly. You inhale deeply, feeling the air fill your lungs, and when you open your eyes for a moment, you find his face inches from yours.

“Good. Now let it out… slowly.”

You follow his lead, exhaling, and you can’t help but notice he’s mirroring your breathing—his chest rising and falling in time with yours. It’s oddly comforting, and a little unnerving, like he's syncing with the rhythm of your pulse.

“Again,” he guides. “Deep breath in… hold for a count of three… then let it go.”

You do as he says, feeling your nerves steady slightly with each breath. In, hold, out.

“You’re doing really well,” he murmurs, leaning just a fraction closer. His lips are so close that you can feel his breath brushing your skin. “I’m going to ask you something, but I need you to know you can say no. At any point.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“Can I touch you?” he asks gently, his words so soft they almost melt into the air around you. “Just on your shoulder, or your hand. I want to see how you feel about being touched while you focus on your breathing.”

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, but you manage another nod. His hand moves carefully to rest on your shoulder, but even with the light pressure, you feel your body stiffen. Spencer notices immediately.

“You’re tense,” he observes, his thumb brushing lightly against your shoulder.

You let out a small laugh, one that comes out more like a nervous exhale than anything close to amusement. “It’s kind of hard not to be,” you admit. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“That’s okay. It’s completely normal to feel nervous.” He pauses for a second before continuing, his tone thoughtful, like he’s considering what might actually help. "There are a few things that can help when you’re feeling this way. One of them is focusing on your breathing, which we’re already doing. But there’s also physical touch."

"Physical touch?”

"Kissing, for example," he explains, “can actually help regulate your nervous system. It releases oxytocin, lowers cortisol levels. Basically, it signals your body to relax."

Your eyes fall on his lips. "Really?"

A flicker of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, but it’s only helpful if it’s something you feel comfortable with.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Would you like to try?”

You meet his gaze again and, before you can overthink it, find yourself nodding, swallowing the nervous lump in your throat. “Yeah… okay. We can try.”

Before you even finish the sentence, Spencer leans in, his lips brushing yours with the kind of gentleness that catches you off guard. It's soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, and you can feel the slight hesitation in his movements as if he’s making sure you’re comfortable. It’s sweet, almost too sweet, and for a second, you wonder if this is how he kisses—gentle, thoughtful, deliberate.

But as the kiss deepens, you feel the warmth of him pulling you in. Your heart’s doing this erratic thing where it skips every other beat, and your mind’s racing to catch up with what your body’s already starting to enjoy. And sure, maybe the science behind this kiss makes sense after all, because there’s a part of you that’s actually relaxing, even with the buzz of nerves still humming beneath the surface.

Then he pulls back, just enough for your lips to barely part, his breath warm against your skin. “How are you feeling?”

It takes three heartbeats to find your voice. “Uh... yeah, good,” you manage, a little breathless, a little more flustered than you’d like to admit.

“Do you want to keep going?”

You pause, thinking it over, and despite the swarm of nerves in your chest, curiosity wins out again. You nod, maybe a little too quickly. The moment you do, Spencer leans in again, and this time his kiss is deeper, more intent. The softness is still there, but there’s a quiet intensity in the way his lips move against yours, the way his hand lightly cups the back of your neck.

Then his tongue brushes lightly against your lower lip, and a ripple of goosebumps spreads across your skin. You part your lips for him, and the sensation of his tongue slipping past m has you gripping the fabric of his shirt a little tighter.

Just when you think you’re getting used to it, his hand shifts, sliding up to wrap gently around the front of your neck. Not tight, not restricting—just enough to make you aware of it. The warmth of his palm against your throat sends a jolt of something sharp right through you. He seems to notice instantly, and without pulling his hand away, he breaks the kiss.

“Are you okay?” His thumb gently strokes the side of your neck. “I don’t want to push you, if it’s too much—”

But before he can finish, you shake your head quickly, surprising even yourself with how fast the words leave your mouth. “No, I… trust you.”

His eyes soften at your words, and his grip on your neck stays gentle, almost protective. “Would it be okay if I touched you more?”

Your pulse beats rapidly beneath his fingers, a rhythm you’re sure he can feel, as if your heart is answering for you. “…yes.”

“Do you want to lie down? Would that be more comfortable?”

You feel the heat travel along your veins. “I think… that would be good.”

Spencer nods as he helps you shift back onto the pillow. He stays close but doesn’t crowd you, his hand returning to rest lightly on your neck, that same soft pressure that keeps your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

“Remember, focus on your breathing,” he reminds you. “The way your body responds is tied to how much you let yourself feel. Trust that.”

His other hand begins to move. His hand trails up toward your shoulder, then lightly brushes over your breast. It’s barely a touch at first, like he’s testing the boundaries, waiting for your body to tell him how far to go. Your breath catches for a second, but when you don’t tense up, he takes that as a sign to continue.

“Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” you manage to whisper, your voice a little breathless than you expected. And, God, you mean it. It’s more than okay—it’s… unexpectedly good in a way that feels almost too intimate to think about.

His hand moves lower now, tracing a path down your side, before sliding gently across your leg. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you feel his fingers brush against the inside of your thigh.

“How about this?”

You nod, biting your lip as you meet his gaze.

Spencer’s lips curls into the faintest smile. His hand inches higher, moving up your thigh with excruciating slowness until his fingers finally reach the heat between your legs.

Oh. Oh.

Your hips instinctively tilt toward him, your body responding before your mind can even catch up. The heat pooling low in your belly intensifies as his fingers press lightly against you.

“Still with me?”

You nod, but internally, your mind is spinning. He begins to move in slow, circular motions, his fingers dragging against the fabric in a way that makes you bite back a moan. The friction sends jolts of pleasure through you, and you can feel your arousal sticking uncomfortably to your panties. It doesn’t shock you—you know understand how being touched like this will make you wet—but what surprises you is how much more intense it feels when his grip around your neck tightens.

Your breath hitches, and before you can stop yourself, a moan escapes your lips.

He pauses for a moment, his grip relaxing just enough for you to catch your breath. “I want you to feel the difference,” he explains. “The pressure changes everything. It makes you more aware of every sensation, more focused on how your body responds. But if it’s too much, you tell me, okay?”

You nod, your breath still coming in uneven gasps. “I’m good.”

His thumb traces the outline of your jaw. “Do you want me to continue?”

“…yeah.”

His hand travels towards your hips, fingers toying with the waistband of your pants. “Should we get rid of these?”

You don’t have to think about it for long. The answer is already there.

“You can take them off.”

Spencer’s fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants before tugging it down. But as the fabric pools around your ankles, you hesitate for a second before your hand instinctively reaches for your shirt. You fumble with the hem, glancing at him as you pull it halfway up, your breath coming out in a small, awkward laugh.

“I mean, it’d feel weird to be naked from the waist down and still… you know, fully dressed on top.”

His eyes linger on you, and his reaction is subtly amusing. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Without thinking too much about it, you tug the shirt over your head, tossing it aside. Your bra follows, quickly joined by your panties, and before you know it, you’re lying naked on your boss’s bed.

Or, technically, the bed he’s been sleeping on these past couple of days.

Spencer’s eyes move over you slowly, lingering on the curve of your perky breasts, your smooth skin, and the unmistakable wetness between your thighs. His gaze is careful, appreciative but never lingering too long in one place, like he’s taking you in while still giving you space to breathe.

“You’re so pretty.”

Pretty? The word feels almost quaint given the situation, but the way he says it makes it feel like it’s more than that. Like he’s seeing all of you, the parts you don’t often reveal, and he still thinks you’re beautiful.

And somehow, that simple compliment leaves you more exposed than the fact that you’re lying naked in front of him.

“I can’t believe we're doing this,” you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His hand brushes along your arm. “You don’t have to overthink it. You’re in control here. We can stop whenever you want.”

“I know.”

He tilts your head with his hand. “Is this okay so far?”

You offer him a smile. “It’s okay.”

His other hand lands on your knee. “Can you spread your legs for me?”

You feel the nerves buzzing beneath your skin, but there’s also a warmth, a curiosity, a pull toward him. You inhale deeply, letting the breath steady your nerves, and then, without letting your mind spiral any further, you slowly part your legs.

His palm glides along your inner thigh, and then he touches you again, only this time, there’s no barrier between you. You can feel the rough pad of his fingertips as they gently caress your folds that it pulls a sharp breath from your lips.

“Does this feel good?”

You nod. It’s more than just good—it’s everything. The way he’s paying attention to every inch of your body is overwhelming in the best way. His fingers trace a slow path along your skin, finally pausing as they brush against you between your folds. Without hesitation, Spencer slides a finger inside you. The sudden stretch pulls a gasp from your lips.

The slick wetness between your thighs coats his fingers almost instantly, and you feel yourself responding to him, opening up in ways you didn’t even know you could. He studies the way his finger moves in and out of your cunt, and the more he touches you, the more your hips begin to move on their own.

He takes your response as a sign to continue.

"I'm going to wrap my hand around your neck again," he tells you, without waiting for more than a slight nod of your head, his fingers curl around your throat.

"The pressure here," he begins, his thumb lightly pressing at the side of your neck. "Isn't just about cutting off your air, it also means restricting blood flow to your brain.”

He pushes another finger inside you, and the increased fullness draws a sharp intake of breath from you.

“By limiting the blood flow like this,” he continues, applying a bit more pressure around your throat. "It triggers your body to release adrenaline and dopamine. That rush you’re feeling? It’s your body chasing euphoria."

Euphoria. You never really thought about it like this before, how something so controlled could unlock a part of your body that felt so overwhelming. The feeling isn’t just pleasure, it’s a raw intensity that borders on something deeper as your cunt clenches around him. Your breath stutters, caught in a sharp contrast between the slow burn in your throat and the urgent heat flaring between your legs.

He’s unraveling you, pulling you apart thread by thread, yet leaving you desperate for the moment he puts you back together again.

You need more.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs soothingly. The words send a new wave of heat rushing through your body. Your hips move restlessly, and you can hear the soft whine escaping your throat, growing louder with each thrust.

Spencer notices immediately, his fingers slowing just for a moment. “Too much?”

You quickly shake your head, almost frantic, the last thing you want is for him to stop. The moment you do, his grip on your throat tightens slightly and your eyes flutter closed as a wave of euphoria washes over you. Head falling back against the pillows, your vision starts to blur. You feel the air restrict in your throat.

“I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart.” His thumb strokes lightly against your neck. “The more you control your breathing, the better it’ll feel.”

That word alone almost undoes you. It rolls off his tongue like it’s meant to be soft and soothing, but instead, it sends a bolt of pleasure straight through you. Your chest rises and falls as you do exactly what he says, because apparently, being called sweetheart with his fingers wrapped around your neck makes you want to obey him, more than you’d care to admit.

"That’s it, keep focusing on your breathing."

You force your eyes open, but everything feels hazy, unfocused. You’re not sure if it's from the lack of air or the way he’s looking at you, but you can feel yourself losing control. Your eyes flutter half-closed again, lips parting in a breathless moan, and before you realize it, your tongue slips out, barely grazing your lower lip.

Spencer knows you’re close. His thumb presses just a little harder against your throat, not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough for your inner walls to grip his fingers tightly.

“I know, I know, I've got you,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just let go whenever you’re ready."

You can’t decide if the sound of his voice is making it easier or harder to hold on. There’s a brief moment where you think you might hold it together, but then your body betrays you. Your muscles tense, your breath catches in your throat, and all the control you had slips away in an instant. It’s as if your brain is giving in to exactly what he said it would—a surge of chemicals that makes your limbs feel heavy and light all at once.

Your orgasm slams right into you, the most intense thing you’ve ever felt. It floods your senses so completely that your lungs struggle to catch up. The tremors rack your body, and it’s only when your legs give a final, uncontrollable shake that he finally releases your neck, allowing the air to rush back into your lungs in a dizzying, breathless moment of relief.

Before you can fully recover, his lips are on yours in an instant. He moves against your neck, kissing the very spot where his hand had held you. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

When you manage to catch your breath and blink through the lingering haze, he lies down on the bed and pulls you into his arms. It takes a whole minute before your breathing fully steadies, his hand stroking your hair the entire time.

“How are you feeling?”

You don’t know what to make of it all, so you laugh breathlessly instead, the only response you can muster.

“Like I’m about to pass out.”

“What?” He looks at you in alarm. “You are?”

You shake your head quickly, offering him a small smile. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s just… it was really intense.” But the worry doesn’t completely leave his face, so you try again, placing your hand on his chest. “Good intense. I’m okay, I promise.”

He lets out a slow breath and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “So I take it you liked it?”

A flush of embarrassment washes over you, and you can’t quite meet his eyes as you nod. “Yeah… I did,” you admit, your voice soft, almost sheepish. “Go ahead, you can gloat. Tell me I was wrong.”

Instead of taking the bait, he gently traces his fingers along your neck. “It was never about proving you wrong. The judgment you made that day, about not getting why someone would like this… it’s hard to fully grasp until you feel it yourself.”

“I wasn’t judging,” you murmur, feeling a need to defend yourself.

“Maybe not intentionally,” he says thoughtfully. “When it comes to BDSM, there’s a lot of misunderstanding or assumptions people make from the outside, it’s really more than just control or pain. There’s trust, communication, boundaries. And I think, in a way, that’s what happened tonight. You trusted me enough to let go.”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing what he’s saying. “Are you suggesting I could be into all of this?”

“Not necessarily,” he replies carefully. “But I think it’s possible that there’s more to it than you realize. You trusted me tonight, and that’s the most important part. That’s where it all starts.”

You chew on his words for a second. It’s not something you’d ever considered before, but now that he’s brought it up, you can’t deny that the thought has sparked something.

“So you think I might want to explore this further?”

His lips curl into a soft smile. “It’s not about what I think. It’s about what you want. If you’re curious, then we can explore it together.” He leans in slightly. “Is that you want?”

The spark you felt moments ago? It flickers stronger now. The idea is both thrilling and terrifying, but with him, it feels… possible. Safe, even.

You feel a tightness in your chest.

“I think… maybe, yeah.”

His smile deepens just a fraction. “We’ll take our time,” he reassures you, his thumb brushing lightly over your throat. “We can talk about this when we get back. You need to rest for now.”

You shift closer to him, feeling the rustle of his clothes against your bare skin. “Can I stay here tonight?”

His chin lands on top of your head. “You can stay with me as long as you want.”

What a dangerous offer, you think as you sink further into his arms. But not as dangerous as the way your heart flutters at the thought.

[toiletpotato]

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The last donation was 2 days ago. That has to change.

[wanders-in-wonderland]

Smile for the Camera

It’s 10pm sharp when I start my stream. I’ve always been on time, always with my makeup on flawlessly, hair styled perfectly, and bedroom set curated just right to show my pretty pink sheets and collection of toys.

I smile and wave at the camera, tossing my hair back to reveal the pink lingerie set I’ve chosen for tonight.

“Good evening everyone! I’m sooo glad to see so many of you tuning in!”

The chat inbox floods with greetings from my audience and there’s an influx of money that comes from my particularly generous viewers. I giggle and flirt with my viewers, many of whom who have become regulars in my viewership population.

Someone in the audience asks for a strip tease and I feel my pussy pulse in response, looking forward to a night of performing for my devoted viewers.

I start slow, running my fingers up and down my body, brushing gently over my lingerie-clad nipples and whimpering loudly for the microphone to pick up. My eyes stare into the camera, all of my thoughts melting away as I fall into my role of entertainer.

Teasingly, I pull along the shoulder straps of my top, letting the fabric fall away from my chest to show off my perky tits and hardened nipples that are always a fan favorite. My hands dance over my chest, pulling gently at my nipples in a way that makes my moans completely genuine. My eyes glance to the screen and I see the excitement building in my chat box, and my account balance steadily rising.

Suddenly, I hear the lock on my door click and my body goes cold. The door to my room is out of the video shot, behind my camera setup and before I can even react, the door slams open.

I let out a startled yelp as my arms instinctively cover my chest. In the corner of my eye, I see the chat go crazy as my audience tries to figure out what it is they’re hearing but not seeing off screen. My attention is wholly focused on the man whose frame fills my doorway.

I scramble off my bed. “What the fuck? Why are you in my house?” My voice is shaking with fear and shrill with panic. I’m far too preoccupied to even think about the livestream anymore.

My fear deepens when I see him leer at me and stalk through my door and towards me without any hesitation.

“A fucking whore like you should be more gracious to me,” he says, his eyes taking on a dangerous glint. He and I are both in the camera’s view now and the viewers on my stream are firing off more messages than before, speculating over who he is and what is going on.

Without saying anything else, he moves to me faster than I can evade and grabs my hair. My mouth opens to scream but before sound can escape, he throws me chest down onto my bed. The air is forced out of my lungs and for a moment, I’m still and stunned. The next moment, he’s on me.

His hand is buried in my hair, keeping my face pressed down against the bed while he forces my ass up into the air. I struggle uselessly against him, unable to push up off the bed or move myself away from his ironclad grip. My cries are muffled against my bed and I want to scream and yell for help but there’s not enough air in my lungs.

His free hand lands a sharp slap against my ass that make me jolt forwards and arch my back further in pain. He doesn’t give me time to adjust as he begins to land blow after blow. My arms begin to flail, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto as I struggle.

“Stop fucking moving, whore,” he growls at me. I feel the spanks subside for a moment and I can feel my ass burning red and throbbing from the pain. My head spins from the abuse and the lack of oxygen. I feel his large hand find my wrist, his fingers locking around me in a bruising hold as he yanks my arm behind my back, straining my shoulder.

The hand on my head finally comes away and I raise my head just enough to gasp in much-needed oxygen. In that split second, he’d grabbed and secured my other arm behind my back as well, his one hand effortless holding my arms crossed behind my back. My body is still bent over, knees on the bed and ass up in the air. My only saving grace is that I can raise my head enough to breathe and glance at my laptop, showing the livestream still ongoing.

My eyes dart across the screen, reading messages as fast as I can. None of them show any concern for me, in fact, a vast majority are discussing how much they wished they were the ones holding my body down in this moment.

“Fuck yes, show that whore her place.”

“God, what would I do to be there to punish her for always teasing us.”

“I bet her cunt is dripping wet right now.”

I whine softly when I see that message because it’s right. “Please, let me go!” I turn my head to look at the menace of a man behind me. He flashes a dark grin at me, “Not until I fuck you out of your whore mind.”

His words echo in my head and panic rises within me. “Please! No! Stop! Someone help me!” I make eye contact with the camera, begging at its cold, dark lens.

He laughs behind me. “There’s no one here to help you, whore. You and I both know that every single person watching behind their computer screen is more than eager to see your whore body get ruined.”

As he speaks, his free hand pulls his belt and pants undone enough for him to pull his massive cock out. I let out a choked gasp when I see it.

“Wait, no, please, you’re too big, it’s not going to fit! Please!” My voice shakes and I start to struggle harder against him. His body dwarfs mine and I watch through the camera as he rips my panties off, the sound of tearing fabric filling the room.

“Shut the fuck up and take it, whore.” I feel the head of his cock brush against my dripping slit and my eyes widen.

“Wait, please-” My begging ends in a wail as he slams himself into me to the hilt. The painful stretch makes tears spring into my eyes but unimaginable pleasure quickly follows as his cock nudges into every sensitive spot inside of me. He doesn’t give me time to adjust as he begins to rut into me mercilessly.

Every thrust makes my body shake with pain-tinged pleasure and pathetic moans are spilling out of my mouth as my eyes roll upwards. My hazy vision catches a glimpse of us on the camera. I look like a rag doll, back arched, ass in the air, and shuddering as he towers over me, his cock sinking into my cunt.

Every thrust is accompanied by the squelch of my wetness and the sound of our bodies slamming into each other. The bed creaks under us as his body moves like a machine, drilling into me. “Fuck, you tight fucking whore, your pussy was made for me huh?”

His voice is guttural. Suddenly, he grips my upper arms and yanks me upwards. His other hand comes around to grip my throat as he traps me against his front. The new angle makes his cock stab even deeper into me, forcing a cry from my lips.

“Look at the fucking camera, whore. Show them what a fucked out little slut you are. Go ahead, smile for the camera.” His thrusts seem to come even faster now.

I have tears falling from my eyes as my face reddens from his constricting grip around my neck.

“Smile or I choke you out on my cock like this,” he snarls, hips never stuttering in their punishing pace. I let out a muffled groan and try my best to focus myself enough to obey.

I stare through half-lidded eyes at the camera, barely coherent. My lips pull up in a small, desperate smile as I feel myself gradually running out of air.

“Good fucking whore. Now tell them how much you like having your whore cunt fucked.” His hand leaves my throat and goes to pinch my clit harshly, making me squeal.

“Ah- I like having, ah-, my whore cunt fucked!” My voice is hoarse, my orgasm fast approaching as he starts to roughly roll my clit between his fingers.

“That’s right, and you’re going to cum like this aren’t you, whore? Come on, cum all over me, show them how much you love this.” His words combined with the brutal assault on my body push me over the edge and with a desperate wail, I fall apart.

I hear him groan lowly behind me as my pussy clenches around him, my orgasm ripping through my senses. He uses my body harder than ever, treating me like a sex toy as he chases his own release. He slams himself into me one final time as he erupts, his grip bruising my arms as he keeps me in place.

I collapse against him, a boneless, overstimulated mess. He lets me down gently onto the bed, pulling out of me. The sound of his cock squelching out of my pussy makes my viewers more than aware of how well-fucked I am. He steps away from the bed and towards my filming setup. He leans into the camera and smirks.

“Let me know how else you want to see this whore fucked. If your idea is good, maybe I’ll let you come and enjoy her too.” With that, he shuts the camera off and closes out of the streaming site.

My body is still limp on the bed. I feel him settle next to me and pull me close before brushing my hair away from my forehead and kissing my nose.

“Do you think they liked me?” His murmurs.

“They loved you,” I say, breathless and drowsy from what we just did.

“I hope so, I wouldn’t want my debut on your stream to make a bad first impression,” he says, frowning down at me a little. It makes me let out a soft laugh.

I tilt my head up to kiss his jawline, “Only you would fuck the life out of me on livestream and then worry that you did a bad job.”

I giggle again and he grumbles back at me, “Shut up and sleep, I’ll clean up.” His kiss on my forehead is the last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep.

[choslut]

˖ ࣪ ، ◞ せ⌇ BLACKOUT. featuring tartaglia.

↻ the 11th of the fatui harbingers has some... questionable kinks.

tags : asphyxiation, choking, dry humping, sparring kink, hate sex, light dirty talk, death threats, semi-public sex, light spanking, clit slapping, squirting, creampie, loss of consciousness // wc. 1k

author's note : another late one.. don't worry, the next one is all lined up n ready in my drafts !! this is most likely the freakiest one yet bc why does tartaglia have a sparring kink... also this is the heaviest one yet too so please mind sharp of the tags !! someone passes out in this one so be warned. i know you alr know the drill, notes n reblogs are ALWAYS appreciated here but can i remind u not to spam (esp w/o a follow) because that can decrease my reach and my stuff won't show up anymore :( i love you all, thank you for 400 followers and see you in the next one!

this work is NSFW. minors and ageless blogs DO NOT INTERACT.

“mmm, fuuuck, you’re a feisty one, aren’tcha, doll?”

you didn’t know what you were signing up for when you decided to spar with the 11th of the fatui harbingers. in fact, you were more forced to spar with him than of your own volition. he thought you were pretty, and he thought you would look even prettier pinned underneath him, panting and begging within an inch of your life. 

what ajax didn’t expect, however, was to be flipped on his back with you straddling atop him, hands closed tightly around his neck. he also didn’t expect that it would feel so good.

blood drips from your forehead and your lip is swollen from one to many punches to the face, but fuck you look so beautiful. “you gonna kill me or what?”

“shut up,” you grunt, squeezing harder. “shut up, shut up, shut up.”

you’re driving him damn near insane. you look angry and feral, and it’s a look that only the most determined of warriors wear during battle. 

as of right now, you’re determined to kill him, or at least make him give up. the thing is, you’ve clearly underestimated the man who calls himself the 11th fatui harbinger. 

“are you… hard?” something big and firm protrudes through his trousers, and he looks up at you, lips cracking into a smile. 

“right on the money, angel.” his hips thrust upwards once, his mind growing hazy at the buzz of adrenaline flowing through his veins. “you gonna squeeze tighter? i’m quite liking this.”

you scowl at him. “you’re disgusting, tartaglia.”

“it’s ajax, baby,” he manages to say through his lack-of-oxygen induced haze. “you gonna call me that while you’re chokin’ me out?”

god, you hate him. god, god god, you want him dead, but you can’t suppress the feeling of victory washing over you. you managed to make a harbinger hard, and all you had to do was threaten to kill him. “why would i give you that pleasure?”

“you seem to be happy enough sittin’ on my dick and trying to kill me, baby, the least you could do is call me by my real name, no?” he has no bargaining chips here, especially since you might actually kill him cold turkey. “move your hips for me.”

“you’re in no position to be making orders.”

“and you’re in a good enough position to get grinding.” when you swivel your hips in the slightest, his hands twitch, trying his hardest not to grip your ass under your skirt desperately. who even wears a skirt to a fight? “hurry it up. i’m starting to get bored.”

this guy. he’s so fucking annoying, but you can’t help but clench around nothing at the way he looks up at you, eyes hooded and lip quirked up in a smirk as he tries to move his hips to no avail, and suddenly, you’re left with two options;

option one: get the fuck off of him and run as far as humanely possible in the hopes that he won’t catch up to you. 

option two: fuck him, and fuck him. 

it’s a good thing that in situations like these, you like to think primarily with your pussy and not your head.

“ajax!”

“that’s it angel, fuck, you’re doin’ such a good job.”

your skirt is abandoned somewhere in the sparring ring and your breasts spill out of your shirt as you bounce in his lap, eyes squeezed shut and hands latched around his neck, nails digging into its supple flesh. 

oh, he’s liking this. you swear he grows two times bigger every time you squeeze on his neck, and your eyes roll into the back of your head as his tip bumps your cervix. this is the deepest position possible, and he’s hitting you just right, despite being delirious from the lack of oxygen flowing to his brain from your hands around his neck. 

when you decided to fuck him, he gave you one order and one order only; hold on tight. and damn did he give you the ride of your life, because you’re twitching atop him, hands attaching and detaching from his neck as you struggle to keep your consciousness afloat. 

whilst your hands stay wound around his bruised neck, his hands are seemingly everywhere. one moment he’s squeezing your tits through your torn shirt and the next he’s spanking your ass, warning you that he’s going to speed up and that you need to hold on tighter unless you want to fall off. 

“ ‘m close-!” you warn him of your impending orgasm, hands trembling around his neck as he starts to deepen his thrusts. you can barely focus on the look of his face, but the bastard is smiling, his own eyes starting to flutter shut as he starts to see dark spots clouding his vision. ajax is about to pass out, but he doesn’t even deserve such a luxury without feeling you cum all over his cock. 

with what little strength he has left in his arms, he slides his hand from your ass to your clit and gives it tight little slaps, eyes urging you to cum as his mouth drops open in ecstasy. this feeling, having you not only squeeze his throat but his cock too, has him delirious, and he totally thinks he could become completely addicted. 

“cum f’me, angel. come on, c’mon, i wanna fucking feel it, baby…” he uses the last of the oxygen in his lungs to give you one final command, and as ajax blacks out, he feels you squirt on it, plastering your juices all over the floor of the sparring ring before collapsing on top of him. 

in his newly (and partially short lived) vegetative state, his cock pumps you full, his seed leaking out of the creases in your cunt. it takes a couple of seconds for you to come to, and when you do, you’re faced with a sprawled out ajax on the floor, eyes just closed and lips parted gently. 

you panic momentarily because you think you’ve actually killed him, until you see those damn lips of his stretch into a smile. “thank you doll.”

you’re definitely not sparring with this freak again.

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© choslut 2024 — do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission. chain divider by @/cafekitsune

[before-you-are-gone]

sometimes it becomes hard to tell when i am marcel, and when marcel is me it feels different when we are each other, yet ‘it’ also feels different when i feel tired versus awake (still staying as ‘me’) so what is there to compare? 

not even knowing how to appease that part who restricts relationships...there is no appeasing, we are the same...or, as much the same as two things that have nothing in common, which is the same in our case (it makes sense if you read between the lines, or else it sounds weird)