#sparse clouds

[boxthoughtsblog]

My Sky Today - September 19, 2024 8:16am Hawaii Join the MY SKY TODAY project!

[dimensional-scraps]

Such simple subject matter makes it all the more impressive how beautiful and atmospheric this photo is.

Moonlit hill by George Davis

[partlycloudybyghostinhell]

[cleverreports]

We report: the sun rose a little to the side today, and we felt a bit uneasy about it. We have had some time to note, notice, and observe now, and we think it is all going to be fine. There has been light, warmth, and companionship in the presence of the sun, as per usual.

[tasteofyourblood]

EEEHEHEHEHEE I MADE THIS SPECIFIC COLLAGE THING FOR MY PHONE BACKGROUND AND COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT IT UNTIL JUST NOW ITS SO PRETTYYYYYYY HEEHEHEHEEHE

[pixiepipedreams]

♡ ˙ ˖ ✧ — distant flickerings, greener scenery // in-ho x reader

♡  ⁄  pairing: in-ho x reader, hints of gi-hun x reader ♡  ⁄  warnings & tags: fem!reader, canon-typical violence & death, obsessive behavior, lying/manipulation, age gap (reader is 20-22, in-ho & gi-hun are late 40s, early 50s) ♡  ⁄ wordcount: 4.2k ♡  ⁄ summary: after losing your mom at 18, you move to south korea with your father for a fresh start. he incurs a lot of debt, and on the verge of losing your student visa, you enter the squid game. quickly adhering to gi-hun's group to increase your chance of survival, you gain the attention of the strange player 001... THIS IS PART ONE OF A SERIES!! (➋) (➌) (➍)

﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ︵︵ ๑ ⊹﹒︵ ﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ︵︵ ๑ ⊹﹒︵

Life is a series of bad decisions and dead-ends.

It's something you've tried not to believe, but your mother's misery had been infused into your bones, the code of your very being. Every day, you tried to bring more light to the world, to love even the little things - to love those little things even more, just for existing. Every shifting cloud in the sky, every gentle breeze, every moment has joy if you know where to look. As much as you love your mother, she only saw the worst in life. When she died, you were only 18, but it gave you a sense of freedom. You applied for a student visa to South Korea, wanting to live somewhere that would remind you the least of what you've lost. Your father moved with you, and things were okay, for a few years.

On the brink of losing your visa, and finding out your father has incurred a huge debt, you felt like you were running out of choices. Until a handsome man in the subways gave you an opportunity. You didn't know the game very well, but you managed to win a few rounds of ddakji, well worth the harsh slaps you received for losing even more. When he gave you a business card, a chance to earn more money, dig yourself out of the pit that threatened to swallow you whole... you hesitated.

Then your father got hospitalized. You couldn't take on his debt alone, let alone cover his hospital fees. So you called him. When you awake in a strange place, the number 132 written on a green tracksuit you don't remember putting on, you get the sinking feeling that you made the wrong choice.

Your mother's voice rings through your head when the first game starts, and player 456 shouts to everyone that these games could cost your life. He sounded insane, but the bundle of dread in your stomach was impossible to ignore. You believed him.

And then the first person died.

You were one of the first to make it past the finish line, ushering as many people as you could through. It wasn't enough. You have to tear your eyes away from the bloody bodies littering the field, feeling sick. But at least there's the sky, above you. Blue and bright and beautiful, like hope itself. The wind moving the sparse clouds makes you feel both small and big, like maybe you could make it. You're only in your early 20s, you still have so much life to live.

The vote gets announced in the dormitories, and when it's your turn at the button, you have no clue what the correct path is. Player 044's words play in your mind - The time and place of each one of your deaths was decided from the instant you were born. There's no changing it now. No matter how hard you try to fight it, you'll never be able to escape your fate. Your hand hovers, then you press 'O'. One more game.

The final player votes the same way as you, ensuring that everyone will play again. The 'X's are groaning, distraught, but some of them have the same fatalistic hope in their eyes that mirror your own. Your eyes find 456, noting his deep disappointment, almost to the point of despair. You feel a hint of guilt, but you know you're one of 183 people who voted the same. It would've been easier to assuage that guilt, though, if it wasn't such a close vote. Just one person could have changed the tides, shifted fate...

You feel compelled to approach him, but you're not the only one. You end up to the right behind player 001, the last person who voted. "You're the reason I ended up voting to stay. It's true. After the first game, I thought I was going to quit. And then I saw you, and I thought, 'One more game. Then I can go.'"

You freeze. Hadn't you thought nearly the same thing? Your mind buzzes, looking at the side profile of 001. He's older than you, like most of the people here, and you get struck by the feeling that you're too young to have ended up in a place like this. But if it wasn't you, maybe that recruiter would have found your father.

Maybe that was his initial plan, until your dad ended up in the hospital.

They're talking about the next game, how 456 played something called Honeycomb last time. The players in the crowd around the previous champion murmur in excitement at having a better chance in the next game. "It probably won't be the same game," you say quietly, almost to yourself. But everyone around you grows quiet, looking at you. You glance from 001 to 456, realizing everyone is waiting for you to continue. You clear your throat. "There's plenty of children's games, are there not? I'm sure they change it every time. They probably only keep Red Light, Green Light because it's easy, universal. It's the perfect way to introduce the true nature of these games. But everything else is probably different."

There's a murmur of agreement, but your eyes stay on 456. There's a hardness to his expression that doesn't match the deep smile lines that have formed over his life. He doesn't look surprised by the idea you'd presented. He must think the same thing, himself.

"You're American, aren't you?" 001 asks, drawing your eyes to him. Something about his gaze is intense, pinning you in place. You swallow, nodding, your spine straightening on instinct. You've been in South Korea for long enough to know their customs, and you know that those older than you are due a certain amount of respect. It's better to overdo it than do too little.

"That's right, sir. I'm here on a student visa," you say, ducking your head slightly, then meet his eyes again. His expression doesn't change, but somehow, you feel like he's looking at you differently. Sharper, somehow. Like he's taking you apart, piece by piece.

What the hell?

In-ho's quiet, for a long moment, but it's not because he has nothing to say. He has too much he wants to say - that you're too young to be in a place like this, that you must be at a disadvantage in this series of Korean children's games, that you're sharp in guessing that the next game will be different. He designed these games, he knows you're right. None of that should matter to him. He's here on a mission, to challenge Gi-hun at every turn, make him rethink his view of the world. Player 132 - he's sure if he thought long enough, he would remember your name, although he'd long since stopped memorizing every name in the files of players that cross his desk. But your eyes hold his in a way that tugs at him, makes him feel something different. He hasn't felt something new in years, not since his wife passed while he was in the games.

"You have a good point," he says with a slight nod. "Still, I hope you're wrong. It'd be nice, to have an advantage."

He finally breaks your gaze, and it feels like your insides have all been flipped around and turned over, like he'd looked over everything that makes you you. You look at the ground as he continues talking to 456. Eventually, the other players disperse, disappointed by what 456 had to say. You linger, though, leaning against the pole of a nearby bunk bed.

"Do you mind if I ask you a question? Why are you here? Why'd you come back again? You said you won the game, made it out. And that would mean you won 45.6 billion won. Did you spend all of it already?" 001 asks, eyes searching 456's expression.

"Did you start betting again?" 456's friend, 390, pipes up.

"That money doesn't belong to me. The ones who died in this place, that's their blood money. And the same goes for everything in there now," 456 says, his expression intense, like he's lived through years and years of this torture instead of 6 days. But that's what PTSD is, isn't it? The trauma persists past the actual event.

You frown, crossing your arms. That's a horrible way to think about it. Those people are already dead, aren't they? It's worse to not spend the money, after all that blood was spilled for it.

"What point is there in thinking about it like that?" 001 points out, surprising you again. "After all, it's not like you killed anyone yourself. And that way of thinking won't help bring any of them back to life."

"If you don't use that money, make a better life for yourself, it's a dishonor to their memory," you say quietly. "It's like they died for nothing."

456 stares at you like he's just been slapped. But 001... he looks at you with a hint of approval, and something else. Something like interest... or fascination. "If even one of you two had pressed 'O' like I told you to, we all could've left here alive!" 456 says harshly, a pot boiling over. "You could've saved everybody!"

"True. I was the last player to press 'O,'" 001 says quietly, drawing 456's attention and ire. "It wasn't just me, though. There's 182 other people who wanted to stay here."

"Yeah, and 182 more of them who wanted to get the hell out of this place!" 456 shoots back.

"If I hadn't pressed 'O'… If I'd hit 'X' and we'd all gone home, you think they'd appreciate what I'd done? If one of these people ran into me, years from now, do you think they'd say they were happy I voted to go? That they ended up with a great life after all?" 456 falls silent, watching him like he's remembering something.

Silently, you agree with 001. You're all here because you're in dire straits, and the winnings from the first game wouldn't have been enough to make a dent in most people's debt.

The conversation continues, and when Dae-ho approaches and introduces himself, you lay down on a nearby bed, lost in thought.

Time passes - you're not sure how much, with no clocks or sun to go by. The scenery of the large dormitories isn't appealing, and doesn't have anything you'd normally focus on to remind yourself of the little joys of life, so you resort to people-watching. The mother and her son, in quiet discussion, a small group talking and laughing about nothing in particular, the annoying guy with the purple hair...

You sit up, eyes going wide as you watch him throw a punch at the MG Coin guy. The scuffle goes on, and you get to your feet, having half a mind to step in and tell them to stop being idiots, but then player 001 is approaching them.

"Hey, kids. What makes you think you can behave like that? Especially while people are eating. And in front of your elders too. It's bad manners, not to mention it's two against one. Shame on you guys." Your eyes are glued to 001, the restrained power in his stance. You can't see his face, but you can picture it - that calm, cold expression, the intensity in his eyes. You know there's more to him than meets the eye, but you can't put a finger on it.

"You're in here just like everyone else. So cut the lecture… Grandad. How about instead of yip-yapping at me, you go back home to your own kids, you yell at them?" the purple-haired guy - Thanos, if you remember right - makes a talking hand gesture at 001, and you find yourself holding your breath.

"What did you say?" 001 replies coldly, but there's a hint of fire beneath it.

"I said, save the lecture for your own kids!" Thanos laughs, but is cut off by 001 putting a hand on the nape of his neck. "Hey, get your fuckin--"

He's cut off by a cry of pain as 001 does something with his grip that makes him fall to his knees. You watch as he takes down the two guys like it's nothing, barely breaking a sweat, and a cold chill runs down your spine even as you feel an electric tingle over your skin. Who is he? There it is again, that hint to something more, some large piece of the puzzle of his character that you're missing. It's compelling, but there's also a hint of danger. You make a mental note not to get on his bad side.

Your mind swirls as everything settles down again, and before it's time to turn the lights out, you walk over to 456, sitting down on a step next to him.

"You've really played these games before?" you ask after a moment of silence, glancing at him. You can feel the rift between you two, the 'O' on your chest and the 'X' on his. 456 is quiet for a moment, then nods. "Why would you come back, then? I know you said you didn't want to spend the money... so you don't need more. There must be a reason."

456 sighs. "These games change you. I can't imagine living a normal life, after everything I went through here... I tried. But I couldn't forgive myself if I didn't try to prevent these games from continuing."

It's your turn to fall silent. "Stopping the games doesn't change much, at the end of the day. Some of these people's debts are so bad that they've waived their bodily rights. At least here, they have a chance to try and pay it off, make an honest life for themselves," you say finally, your voice gentle.

456 looks back at you with a complicated expression. "I know. When I joined these games the first time, I'd done the very same thing."

You stare at him, eyes searching his face. There's traces of a happier man in the sorrow with which he holds himself. The smile lines, the crinkles by his eyes. Winning these games only made him miserable. They changed who he was. You can read it, plain as a book, the man he used to be. "Getting rid of these games doesn't change the way the world works. With that kind of money... the money you won, you could actually try to change things in the real world. So nobody would be desperate enough to end up in a place like this." You shrug. "But maybe that's impossible, too. I hope you do, though. Change things. That's a cause I can get behind."

You stare at each other, like you're coming to a quiet understanding. He nods a little, his lips still a permanent frown. You wonder what his smile used to look like, what his laugh sounded like.

You wonder if winning these games would turn you as miserable, as haunted, as he is now. "(Y/N)," you say quietly. He just blinks. "My name. I want to fight by your side. I think... remembering that we're human is an important step."

There's a flicker of something in his expression, and you can almost see the smile that haunts his face, the joy of a more innocent man. He nods softly. "Gi-hun," he replies, his shoulders loosening slightly. It's a start.

"Gi-hun," you reply, smiling at him. "Try to sleep tonight. We'll all need our strength tomorrow."

You leave the sad man to his ghosts and his thoughts, taking a bed on a higher level, feeling safer with some distance between you and the rest of the players. When the lights go out, you curl up under the thin blanket. There's enough people in the dormitory that it's not cold, but you're not exactly warm either. You manage to fall asleep, but it's light, restless, and you wake up after only an hour at most. You stare up at the ceiling, then turn on your side, counting the tiles on the wall. There's black shapes in the tiles that you can't entirely make out, images that are indecipherable with so many beds in the way.

There's the sound of shoes on metal behind you, and you turn on the bed, looking up to see player 001 standing above you. There's something in his eyes, almost like he'd just been... crying? It doesn't make sense, but neither does a lot of things about him.

"001," you say quietly, relaxing the shoulders you hadn't realized were tense. "Can't sleep?"

He hesitates, then takes a seat on the step by your head, clasping his hands. "Haven't tried, yet. I don't sleep well, anyways."

You nod, stretching your legs under the covers, and sit up, facing him. "Yeah. I fell asleep, but it didn't last. My dad always says I got my insomnia from him," you say with a small laugh. It feels weird, to laugh in a place like this, but it comes naturally to you. Trying to lighten the mood, to find little spots of light in the darkness. Fireflies in the night.

001 gives a small smile, a little crinkle of the eyes revealing that it's a genuine one. "Are you close with your father?" he asks, tilting his head. Curious. You hesitate, then shrug.

"Everyone growing up said I looked just like him. I used to have his attitude problem. Still do, sometimes," you say, brushing your hair behind both ears. "I moved here, to South Korea, with him. But... no, I'm not really close with him anymore." And yet, you came here for him - for his debts, to take care of his hospital bills. You'll always love him, despite the fact that his own actions sent you here, to this hell. He should be the one taking care of you, not the other way around. You can feel the injustice, the anger that secretly simmers under the surface, but you take a deep breath, smiling at him.

The man just stares at you, his often emotionless eyes studying you, like he wants to pick apart your mind. "And your mother?"

Emotion threatens to overtake you, a lump in your chest forming, and you swallow, looking away. It feels like a lot, to share with this relative stranger. It's been a few years since your mother passed, but it feels like longer. At the same time, it feels like she could call you at any moment. The silence grows, and he finally murmurs, "I see." You stare out at the room, feeling miles away. Relationships with parents is always complicated, and before she passed, it wasn't perfect between you two. But you'd do anything to have her back. "I only ask because... well. You're just so young. You really shouldn't be here."

You bristle, slightly, though you know he's right. "We all have our reasons," you mutter. You can't blame your father, entirely - although, if he hadn't acquired a pile of debt, he would be able to help you keep your student visa.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to strike a nerve," 001 says gently. "I'm worried, that's all."

You huff a breath, hands fidgeting to pop your fingers. "Thank you for your concern, sir, but I chose to be here, didn't I?" The 'O' on both of our chests is evidence of that.

"Young-il," he says after a beat. "You don't have to call me sir. We're all equals here." You finally look back at him, surprised that he offered up his name. Another piece to the puzzle. "I'm surprised you voted to stay. You're American, you probably won't know most of the games."

You smile humorlessly, shaking your head slightly. "They explain the rules for each one, don't they? And... well, I think I only need one more game to have enough. It won't cover everything, but... it'll get me far enough." You try to believe it. You don't know if you have the stomach to play more than one game. "I'm (Y/N). By the way." A sign of peace, a quiet alliance. Just like with Gi-hun earlier, it eases the air between you.

Another moment of quiet, the only sound the quiet breathing and snores of the hundreds of players in the room. "(Y/N)," he says softly, almost to himself. "Well, you have me, too. I'll help you, if there's a confusing one."

You eye him curiously, then smile, a warm, gentle thing. He doesn't take his eyes off of you, smiling back. Like Gi-hun, he looks like someone who hasn't smiled in years, but more like... he's forgotten how. It warms you to him.

"Thank you. Young-il," you say, reaching over to squeeze his arm. He looks taken aback, surprised, but his smile deepens, settling somewhere in his irises.

You take your hand back, fidgeting with the blanket. "So... what do you do for fun? When you're not playing children's games," you say, a hint of humor in your tone as you try to keep the mood light.

It works - he gives a small chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "Me? I read... enjoy art. I feel like I don't have a lot of fun these days, though," he says, his tone almost contemplative. Like he hadn't even considered fun in a long time. "And what about you?"

You hum softly, fingers dancing in a pattern as they tap the bed beside you. "I like dancing, and music. I read a lot - fiction, mostly. I do enough learning in university." You list off a couple more things, the silly things you do to occupy your day. "If it's a bad day, I usually take a walk in the park. Try to remember the little things that fill the world with joy."

His expression grows warmer, almost soft with each thing you say. "That sounds lovely," he murmurs, his expression almost wistful. He's hard to read, his expression so detached when he's not smiling, but he seems almost open now. Almost. "And dancing, huh? I'll admit, I haven't danced in a long time. I was never any good at it." He gives a wry chuckle, but you grin, eyes twinkling.

"It's better when you're no good at it. Just as long as you don't let yourself get embarrassed. It's good, to move your body, to just feel." You wonder if you'll ever dance again like that - carefree, uncaring about what anyone thought. "I'm surprised, by the way, that you didn't say you take martial arts classes. That move you pulled earlier, with Thanos... it was impressive, skilled." Your tone is nonchalant, but you analyze him for any possible reaction. Wanting to understand him.

He doesn't give one. "I've taken some. For self-defense, mostly. But not really for fun. I know what you mean, about moving your body. That's what fighting was, for me. But it'd be nice to move in a less... restrained way."

It's an almost disarming answer, and it makes something in you soften. You almost offer to dance with him, when you get out of here, but then you remember that he must be a couple decades older than you. You smile though. "You should try it sometime."

You chat for a little longer, but you can feel a weariness settle inside you, now that you're more relaxed. Something about his company is comforting, familiar. It almost makes you forget where you are. It's only when you notice a matching exhaustion in his eyes that you say something.

"You need to get some rest," you say softly.

"So do you," he points out, eyes tracing over your face once before reaching your eyes again. "You only got a little bit."

You hesitate. You do feel tired again, but the moment you're alone, you know that racing thoughts will prevent you from succumbing to your body's needs. "Would you sit with me?" you blurt out, then feel embarrassed. But it's too late to take it back. "Just... until I fall asleep. It's easier, with someone else here."

You have no reason to trust In-ho so quickly. The bonds formed in these games are as concrete as they are breakable, he knows this. He can tell, already, how full of life you are, and he has to fight to keep the thought away - she shouldn't be here. You were right, everyone chose to be here, including you. You voted to stay. But something in him does care, as much as he doesn't want to. And, very quickly, he finds himself wanting to save you, keep you alive. Keep you by his side. Your request only fuels that ember inside him, stoking it, and soon a flame will be coaxed. He has had nothing to want to protect in so long, so many years, and it dismantles him. Makes him feel like the man he once was, the man he's pretending to be.

"Okay," Young-il says quietly, giving her a soft smile, scooting closer to her on the step he's sitting on. You lay down again, on your side, facing him. On impulse you reach out, placing a hand on his wrist. He hesitates, then rests his hand on the bed, letting you curl our hand around his jacketed wrist.

You ignore the strange feeling in your chest, letting your eyes slip shut, relaxing fully for the first time since you got here. "Thank you," you murmur, and you can already feel the fuzz of sleep creeping up on you. His hand slides into your hair, gently massaging your scalp, and it might be the best thing you've ever felt.

It doesn't take long. And this time, your rest is peaceful.

[lay-z]

cotton candy clouds | 5

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samoyed (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts/personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; slow-burnish; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff/domesticity; humour; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

The match is still on after dinner and Simon only objects a little before he lets you usher him out of the kitchen to clean and fill up the dishwasher—the one he’s barely used since moving into this flat once he’d reached the rank of Lieutenant. It’s only ever been him, after all, and his diet mostly consists of MRE’s on and off duty or the occasional takeout treat—and those plastic dishes he simply throws away when he’s done. 

Simon doesn’t question it this time when you ask him if you can take a shower, at least you’ve already stopped asking for permission to use the guest bathroom to relief yourself, but knowing the only shower is in the en-suite bathroom to his bedroom, makes him bristle. 

It’s not like has anything physical to hide from anyone, quite the contrary. There are no old family pictures to study, nothing to snoop for between his sparse wardrobe. He’s already taken off his mask in front of you, deciding it doesn’t matter if someone as simple-hearted as you sees his mug or not. 

So, he lets you use his bathroom, because he has no other choice and he’s not going to send you to the communal showers at the base gym, knowing he’d have to at least take you there as your… handler; making sure no one bothers you and all that shite. 

The grip around the bottle tightens as he thinks about the soldiers coming and going to that gym, thinks about the ones who would definitely attempt to chat you up, charm you. A vein in his temple throbs and Simon takes a drink of beer to soothe the sudden churning in his stomach. 

Some time passes. His beer bottle, now emptied, rests on the coffee table along with his socked feet crossed at his ankles. His team, Man United, is winning 3:0 against Newcastle, the faint smell of food is still lingering in the flat comfortingly, his belly is full, and his head is pleasantly—and surprisingly—quiet, so Simon allows himself to sink further into the couch cushions, his arms crossed in front of his chest self-soothingly while his head tips back against the headrest. 

It feels oddly relaxing, this whole new atmosphere, no matter how mundane it might be, it's big to someone as awkward as him, and even the knowledge about having another person inside his flat, albeit demi-human, isn’t too terrible. A strange comfort lies there—knowing he isn’t alone right now. Perhaps this isn’t going to be so bad, perhaps he can work with it all, with you. He’s managed worse before. 

There’s some faint commotion eventually; the shower turning off, doors opening and closing softly, followed by the pussyfooting of you walking down the hallway towards the living room. 

Simon is too distracted by the added match time and too relaxed on top of that, when you finally flop down on the couch next to him; flooding his nose with a pleasant whiff of warm shower steam and some fruity body wash or shampoo which you definitely didn’t find in his shower but brought along with you instead, and only when something is suddenly gently placed on his thigh, he realizes the state of undress you’re in, and he does a double-take while his heart drops into his stomach at once. 

With your back slightly angled towards him, you’re towelling off your hair, only draped in one of his larger towels that clings to your body—casual as ever while his eyes widen and his first instinct kicks in to scoot over to the other end of the couch. His eyes flicker down to the floor as the object drops onto the carpet—a rather fancy looking hairbrush with black bristles and a polished, wooden handle. 

Peeking over your shoulder, you shoot him a puzzled yet amused look. “Are you alright, Simon?” 

That question alone pisses him off for some reason, makes him even more flustered, and you have the audacity to giggle at his reaction. His eyes drink you in briefly—involuntarily—and he catches the way your tail rucks up the towel, sopping wet white fur lightly dripping on the leather while the curve of your bare ass cheek peeks out; all supple and plump and—fucking hell—is that a birthmark? 

He swallows thickly; his heart begins thudding so hard, he can feel it in his throat while a sudden jolt of arousal, a sensation he long thought dormant, goes straight to his groin, causing him to jump into action. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask delicately, brows furrowing in a way of genuine concern for him that makes his chest feel tight. “You don’t… want to brush my hair? Groom my fur?” 

His breath rushes out of his lungs with a humourless laugh. “Whot? N-No! ‘course not! Why the bloody hell would I want to do that?” He crosses his arms over his chest, trying to regain composure and will away the pulsing warmth continuously gathering in his lower belly. 

“Oh.” Your dog ears droop as you clutch the towel around your chest, shifting in your seat to face him directly, gazing up at him with those bright doe-eyes that can probably disarm any other man while Simon has taken a few measured steps backwards to create some distance as if you’re a king cobra about to strike. 

Still trying to get a grip on himself, Simon takes a deep breath before inquiring: “Seriously, lass, why–why would you even ask me that?” And as soon as the question is out, he can practically see the invisible question mark appear above your head in the way you tut, fiddle with the hem of the towel just above your knees, blinking slowly as you process his words. 

“I mean–” you give a small shrug, “I just… assumed you’d want to do it like–” 

Like the previous wankers who owned you, Simon fills in the gap in his head, jaw clenching and fists balling tightly in anger. 

Then you flash him a sugary smile, which only makes it all worse. “They wanted to brush my hair and fur for me. Ryan always said it calms him down.” 

“And I assume they dressed ya, too? Bought ya all this shite they wanted you to wear?” Simon brings forward through clenched teeth, knowing the answer to that already. His arousal is replaced by a hot ball of fury that coils in his guts and simmers through his veins. If he could only get his hands on them, he’d break them in half in a heartbeat. 

Your lips part with a silent gasp, damp furry ears twitching atop your head nervously. “Simon, are you… Are you mad at me?” 

His face twists into a grimace at that. Of course not! How could he ever be mad at you for something you clearly had no control over? He shakes his head, swallows the angry bile rising in his throat. 

“No, ‘m not mad at you,” he rumbles, dragging his rough palm over his face to keep his eyes from wandering along the curve of your bare shoulders as you continue to sit on his couch in a simple towel. “I’m gonna take a shower. You stay here,” he adds gruffly, keeping his darkened eyes averted as he gazes down the hallway towards his bedroom, “–and get dressed.” 

The bathroom door shuts with force, causing the glass shower cabin to rattle and the remaining steam from your previous shower to swirl around him. His hand is trembling with adrenaline as he locks the door swiftly; his breathing choppier now that he’s alone. 

Fucking hell, why is his heart beating so fast? 

It’s nothing and it certainly means nothing, Simon keeps telling himself as he turns on the shower and twists the handle until the temperature turns cold. Nothing he can’t handle. He’s Ghost—he has defeated death more times than he can count. 

He can handle a bloody hard-on, but—oh god—it smells like you in here, like you’ve marked your territory, the dog that you are, and force him to deal with it now. 

Stuck in his paranoia, Simon checks the lock on the door again before he begins shedding his clothes and dropping them half-heartedly on the tiled bathroom floor. His breathing becomes more ragged the more skin he reveals and by the time he pulls his boxer briefs down, he almost feels dizzy now that all the blood has rushed to his groin. 

His chest heaves as he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when his throbbing cock is freed; bobbing with its hefty weight and stiffness, making his stomach churn hotly with pleasurable sensations with every step when he moves to enter the shower cabin. 

The icy shower spray hits his flushed skin, and he bites back and swallows a low groan. A violent shudder wrecks through his body, pebbling his skin with gooseflesh and making him all too aware of all his scars littering and criss-crossing his body as the raised flesh tightens and tingles with phantom pain. 

Resting his head on the cold shower wall, Simon lets his eyes squeeze shut and exhales a shuddering breath while the water rains down on him mercilessly, cooling down the heat in his veins and the urge simmering in his loins; his hands clench and unclench at his side, struggling not to reach out and touch himself—struggling not to cave and submit to his most primal urges. 

He feels like he’s losing it—this precarious yet perfected control he’s been leaning on since everything has fallen apart around him for the first time—and he cannot let that happen. 

His eyes flutter open when the image of you sneaks into his eye, torturing him. “Fuckin’ h–hell,” he mutters under his breath as he watches his cock twitch tauntingly. 

The cold shower helps, but Simon can still feel himself reeling internally; his mind a disastrous frenzy while he gets dressed in a hurry, eager to cover himself up as he fears the slightest gust of wind over his skin might tip him over the edge this time. He goes as far and holds his breath in his bedroom before deeming it useless—you’ve already left your scent everywhere, and he can’t escape. 

When emerges from his bedroom, dressed in a black hoodie and an old pair of sweats, he finds you sitting on the couch, wearing the shirt he’d given you in a fit of generosity, grooming your damp tail with the brush he’d previously dropped like a landmine. 

“You’re sleepin’ in m’bed tonight,” Simon announces like giving an order, though he’s scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m takin’ the couch.” And before you can open your mouth to speak, he already interjects: “Don’t ask, jus’… do as I say, lass.” 

It’s easier than he expected it to be until he remembers that’s what you do—following your nature. Following orders, obeying, and submitting. He can’t say he hates it that much right now, though his own thoughts disgust him. In the back of his mind, Simon even hopes you would ask him why, perhaps even argue with him about his sudden change of mind, but you don’t, and he is grateful for your blind obedience in this moment. 

And there it is again, that look you’ve already shot him once last night and a second time when he left you at Price’s office; jutting your bottom lip out like that, literally giving him puppy eyes while your ears droop along with your bloody tail. The picture of vulnerable and sadness, as if he’d just kicked you out onto the streets. 

“We can share the bed,” you remark softly, though it sounds more like half a question. “I don’t mind.” 

“Aye, but I do.” Simon objects swiftly, then clears his throat awkwardly. 

It doesn’t take too long for Simon’s self-control to snap at last once you retire to his bedroom. 

As soon as he settles down on the couch for one of those restless nights when the TV must keep running and sleep won’t come to him until the first rays of dawn peek through the cracks of these old curtains. 

And now, he is keeping his eyes trained on the telly, the ceiling, the fucking dust collecting on the drapes covering the window—anywhere but the pathetic sight of his weeping prick currently grasped in his hand; pre-cum drooling from his ruddy tip and mixing with his spit while he squeezes his shaft harshly, pulling back his foreskin until his back arches with something like a choked whine, and tiny electroshocks of pleasure running up and down his spine, making his toes feel numb and his chest feel tight like he has been put in a straitjacket. 

Always so rough with himself, though he can’t even mind the callouses on his hand as he fists his cock faster, feeling his heavy balls draw up tight already, almost painfully. “Fuck–oh fuck–” he huffs through clenched teeth, nostrils flaring and jaw locking up with the effort to keep his ugly gob shut; not wanting anyone to hear him engaging in his wretched urges. 

The volume of the TV, currently playing some random old spaghetti western, is turned low enough to keep his trained ears aware of his surroundings, though loud enough to drown out any compromising noises escaping him that you could potentially hear. 

He pumps his cock from root to tip, twisting his wrist and swiping his thumb over his piss slit, eyes rolling at the sensation while his mind goes to war again��torn between slowing down and drawing this guilty pleasure out or simply giving up and getting it over with. 

The decision is taken from him when he slips up. 

And he thinks about the curve of your rear, the suppleness of your flesh; imagines himself licking those renegade droplets of shower water off your ass cheek while groping the other, feeling your skin under his starved tongue, hearing you squeak then purr his name, glancing at him with those pretty doe-eyes of yours— “Simon.” 

“Oh, fu–mmpf–!” He shoves his other fist between his teeth right when he comes, muffles his deep groan of pleasure while he bites down hard on his knuckles, eyes rolling back into his skull as the pleasure seizes his body violently, too intensely, pulling him right under the surface as his cum shoots from his tip in thick, white ropes, spilling so far up his torso that it lands on his black hoodie obscenely. 

His massive body shudders, his chest is heaving as he keeps fucking his fist, hips bucking off the couch cushion, muscles twitching and quaking to a point of discomfort—a point he feels too vulnerable, where shame and guilt can kick in quickly; sweep him away into the darkest corners of his mind—the ones he feels weakest at, powerless. 

[darkmatilda]

𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’re starting to suspect that, to spencer, you’re nothing more than a form of comfort—a bandage for a lingering wound, a way to cope with the ghost of the girl who came before you.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x female!reader, spencer is not over maeve but starts a new relationship, alex blake's first appearance in my fics, reader is kinda a people pleaser who takes the blame for everything and it hurts me so much that i just want to hug her and tell her she deserves the whole world...

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.5k

𝐚/𝐧: this fic was written for @mggslover celebrate her 1k followers event <333 it took me a while, but belated congratulations—you fully deserve it! love you, girl!

wildflower

billie eilish ♥︎

⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻

01:05 ━━━━●─────────────── 04:21

but i see her in the back of my mind. all the time.

"Snow?" You slowed your pace, lifting your head in surprise.

Above you stretched a starless night sky, with the moon faintly emerging from between the clouds. The falling flakes were small and sparse, drifting toward you in a lazy, graceful descent, only to vanish almost instantly upon landing on your clothes or the ground.

You glanced to the side at Spencer. Your…well, probably boyfriend. You had only started seeing each other recently, but ever since he appeared in your life, you knew there was something special about him—something you wanted to keep close. What began as casual meetups had gradually turned into hours of rhythmic conversations, your first honest confessions, and real dates. Wonderful dates.

You were walking to the restaurant on foot, and you liked the way your arms remained intertwined as you moved side by side, step for step. You had often seen older couples walking like this—it carried a certain elegance, and to you, it had always felt like something deeply tender and full of care.

Matching your pace to another’s, making sure they were right beside you, never falling behind by even an inch. Sharing your warmth, reminding them of your presence and your feelings, even when you were both lost in silence, unable to express it with words.

"I admit, it's unusual for this time of year," Spencer replied after a moment, raising his hand as a snowflake landed on his skin—only to melt instantly. It vanished.

It was only then that you realized you had interrupted him mid-sentence earlier. He had been talking about…With a hint of embarrassment, you realized you couldn’t remember. At some point, the conversation had taken an unexpected turn and drifted into territories you weren’t entirely familiar with. Not only did you lack a degree in that field, but it simply wasn’t something you had a particular passion or deep interest in.

From the moment you met him, you knew he was a man of knowledge, and it hadn’t taken long to realize that in his voice, everything sounded at least three times more interesting than it should have. Plus, he had a sexy voice.

So listening to what sometimes felt like full-blown monologues was nothing short of a pleasure. Even if, at times, you didn’t fully grasp the bigger picture. You wondered whether you should apologize and ask him to repeat what he had said, but by then, you had already reached the entrance of the restaurant—a small, cozy place within walking distance from your apartment.

Its windows, framed in black, were made of slightly amber-tinted glass, softening the light that spilled inside, making it warmer, easier on the eyes, and undeniably soothing.

“Spencer?”

A voice called out behind you just as you were about to step inside—before you even had the chance to open the door.

Both of you turned toward the pair standing nearby—a man and a woman with brown hair, the hem of a blue dress peeking out from beneath her coat. She was just tucking her car keys into her purse, though her sharp eyes didn’t leave your faces for even a second. Then, as if realizing herself, she blinked and quickly summoned a smile.

“Running into a coworker on my first day off in ages—what are the odds, right?” she said lightly.

You glanced at Spencer out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he saw this coincidence as a good thing. He always said the team was like family to him, but you were still holding onto his arm, and you could feel the subtle tension in his posture. His expression shifted into something unreadable—strange, almost.

But then, he quickly composed himself, introducing you to Alex, as it turned out, and then introducing Alex and her silent husband to you.

"Nice to meet you," she said as you shook her hand.

She seemed friendly, but either some previously unknown paranoia had just kicked in, or she was studying you a little too closely. Especially after Spencer hesitated slightly before using the word girlfriend to introduce you.

"Sorry," she murmured suddenly, shaking her head slightly. "I just had no idea Spencer was seeing someone. And I definitely didn’t expect to run into a familiar face at our favorite restaurant," she added, glancing at her husband, who confirmed her words with a small nod.

"Well, it’s slowly becoming our favorite too," you joked. She was just surprised to see you, nothing more. You tried not to show any reaction to the fact that Spencer had apparently never mentioned you before. You kept your smile in place, reminding yourself that it wasn’t a big deal. Because it wasn’t, right? He didn’t have to report his love life to everyone around him. "They have the best ravioli here. Have you tried it?"

"Hm, you know, I don’t think we have? But if you recommend it, maybe I should…"

The conversation continued for a little while—just casual, friendly small talk. Spencer barely participated, only forcing a polite smile when necessary or nodding with a slight delay. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the way he briefly pressed a hand to his furrowed forehead for just a fleeting moment.

It started to worry you. You wished Alex a pleasant evening, and on your way to the table, your thoughts revolved around how to bring up the topic. You sat across from each other at a round table, the waiter took your orders, and only then did he manage to speak.

"Is everything okay, Spencer? You suddenly went quiet," you observed gently. "Or maybe that small talk outside just drained you. They tend to do that, true. Not like our conversation about CRISPR," you added with a smile, only now remembering what topic you'd interrupted him on earlier when it started snowing.

Spencer slowly returned your smile, shaking his head in an almost apologetic manner.

"Sorry. Alex really caught me off guard, that's all," he explained, focusing his gaze on you—but not on your face—before widening his smile even more. "You look beautiful."

The sweetness in his voice as he said it made the previous topic vanish into the depths of your attention.

"You told me that before we left," you teased. "I'm starting to suspect you’ve been lying to me this whole time about your eidetic memory. Could that be true, Dr. Reid?"

"Maybe," he admitted with a small shrug. "Or maybe some facts just deserve to be repeated. After all, we choose what we believe."

You let out a short laugh.

"You’d probably prefer if I blindly believed the second version. Fine, I’ll do it—but just know, I’m keeping a close eye on you, okay?" you warned, pointing a finger at him. He raised his hands as if washing them of all accusations.

You smiled again, but behind it still lingered the interrupted topic. You swallowed.

"Alex seems really nice. You’ve told me a little about them, so I thought you might have told them about me too."

You said it before you could stop yourself. You saw the expression that crossed his face—surprise that you had addressed the issue so directly, mixed with a deeply buried nervousness at having to explain.

"I..." he began, drawing in a breath. "You know, I just prefer to wait with things like this. They’re my friends, but I keep a lot to myself. That’s just…that’s just how I am. I didn’t think it would hurt you..."

"It didn’t," you cut in quickly. A wave of discomfort washed over you for even bringing it up. Spencer was right—that was just the way he was, and you didn’t want to criticize the way he navigated relationships. Besides, it really wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t want to ruin the evening over something like this. You really didn’t."Seriously, it’s not like that. I was just curious. They know about me, but I don’t expect you to tell everyone about us. They’re your friends, and you should tell them when you feel like it."

"Your opinion matters here too," he pointed out, a faint crease appearing on his forehead. "Did you…did you tell your friends you were seeing someone?"

You pursed your lips, pretending to think it over. The real answer was pretty much everyone. But you knew that if you said that outright, he’d feel awkward about it, so you held back.

"I might have mentioned something…but I was waiting for things to be clear between us first. Also, that was the first time you called me your girlfriend."

"Was that okay?"

"I hope so. I mean…was it okay for you?"

For a moment, you both fell silent before bursting into laughter at the sheer absurdity of the conversation. This was exactly what you needed—to wrap yourselves back up in the lightheartedness the evening called for. The occasion. The date. 

You let out a quiet breath of relief, inwardly pleased with how the evening was unfolding. Conversation flowed as easily as ever—teasing remarks, grins smudged with amusement, and chaotic little anecdotes filling the space between you. Then your meals arrived.

You both followed a natural path in your discussion, one that inevitably led back to the topic that had dissolved along with the snowflake on Spencer’s hand. Genetics. And the longer he spoke, the harder it became to pretend you actually understood what he was saying.

Because this wasn’t like summarizing the history of Henry VIII’s wives—an engaging tidbit that could be followed with interest, even without prior knowledge. No, this felt more like jumping back into a conversation that had been paused, except you were the wrong person to be continuing it.

You shifted in your seat, uneasy.

You had never found yourself in a situation like this before, and you weren’t sure how to handle it. There was also a strange, nagging feeling—like this wasn’t the first time it had happened. Had Spencer done this before, and you’d just never noticed because you hadn’t been listening closely enough?

You knew you should address it, but it took you so long to work up the nerve that, by the time you finally spoke, he had already been talking for several more minutes without your active participation. The fork in your hand suddenly felt heavier as you took a deep breath.

“Spencer,” you forced yourself to interrupt.

He stopped immediately. Then, as he took in the worried expression on your face, his lips parted slightly in surprise. You could tell he was already wondering whether he’d said something wrong.

You tried to keep your tone light. “Why…why are we talking about this, exactly? I mean, it’s not that it isn’t interesting, but I’ve never had anything to do with genetics. I can’t really keep up with this conversation.” He stayed silent as you let everything spill out, and you instantly felt like it was somehow your fault. The urge to apologize nearly overwhelmed you. “Sorry. You know…never mind. I must have just not been paying enough attention….”

Spencer froze in place, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him for a moment. There was a fleeting devastation in his expression. Emptiness didn’t just appear in his eyes—it spilled out, breaking through like lava erupting from a torn surface in disaster films.

But suddenly, he looked into your eyes, and in an instant, it was gone.

It had only managed to tighten your stomach.

"You're right," he admitted, nodding with guilt. "Sorry, I just..."

And then he trailed off, gazing at you with a kind of helplessness. Slowly, you set your fork down.

"Restroom. I'll be right back," you excused yourself gently, offering a soft smile as a quiet reassurance that everything was okay.

Bitterly, you called yourself an immature runaway in your mind. You didn’t understand why you couldn’t stop yourself from bringing up these topics, from manifesting your discomfort during moments like this. You knew how to ruin an evening—you did it almost habitually, as if it were your job.

You could have just let him talk. He was happy; you could have let him stay that way.

You always cared deeply about the people around you. But when it came to Spencer, it was different. In some special way. Because even though you hadn’t been together for long, you were beginning to fall for him, and his worries were slowly becoming your own. He didn’t talk much about it, but he had told you about his previous girlfriend. About grief, about feeling lost. You knew his job affected him, too.

Very, very rarely did he allow himself to have moments of weakness around you. At least, you hoped they were just moments. You prayed they were only fleeting, not something permanently etched into his face or clawing relentlessly at the inside of the mask he wore every day.

That was when his gaze would slip away in that same distant way. When he would sink into himself, only to snap back to order. He never spoke about it out loud. You wished he would, but maybe it was too soon between you to ask for that. You didn’t want to scare him off. You didn’t want to lose him.

You pressed your hands against the sink. They trembled.

You promised yourself that you would go back with a smile on your face and make this evening the best one you had shared in a long time.

That was when you felt someone watching you.

Alex stepped into the restroom, but she didn’t look like she intended to use it.

You forced a smile onto your lips, though it took effort. You turned to the sink and started washing your hands, pretending nothing weighed on you.

"Can we talk?" Alex asked. Her arms were crossed, and she spoke softly, delicately—like she didn’t want to scare you off. That tone reminded you of a teacher talking to a preschooler, and you disliked it immediately.

"Sure," you replied. Despite your best efforts, you sounded dry. "About what?"

She sighed. You didn’t look at her in the mirror. You didn’t meet her gaze.

"Do you know why I was so surprised to see you with Spencer?"

"Because he never mentioned me before?"

"Because it’s been so little time," she said, ignoring your response.

At last, you turned to face her, forgetting to dry your hands. Something inside you already sensed where this conversation was heading, and you didn’t like it.

Alex’s eyes widened.

"He…he didn’t tell you…?"

"About his ex-girlfriend?" you cut in. "That she died? He told me, of course, he told me. We’re together. I just don’t understand why you’re bringing this up now."

She tilted her head to the side with a solemn expression.

"Because I don’t think enough time has passed for him to be dating someone new."

Her words hit like a slap, and you immediately took a defensive stance.

"Good thing it’s not up to you to decide what Spencer should or shouldn’t do," you stated, no longer hiding your sharpness. "Grief is a personal matter."

"That’s true," she admitted patiently, inclining her head. "It’s a very personal matter. Everyone experiences it differently. But it’s only been two months since Maeve’s death. And forgive me for saying this—it might sound harsh. You seem like a wonderful person, and Spencer is my friend. I really don’t want to hurt either of you. But he hasn’t moved on. I can tell because I see him every day. You need to be aware of how this looks from the outside. Like he’s seeking comfort..."

"I won’t have that," you cut her off, your voice trembling.

Your head buzzed. You didn’t want to take her words to heart, didn’t want to believe her. She didn’t know what she was talking about—she knew nothing about your relationship with Spencer.

For the first time, you heard her name. Maeve.

He had never said it. He always just called her girlfriend.

He had also never told you when it happened. You had assumed it was much longer than two months ago. Especially since…

“How long have you been seeing each other?” Alex asked, undeterred by your tone.

The worst part was that she genuinely seemed concerned about you. At least, that’s what her expression suggested. You would have preferred pity over sympathy. You would have preferred if she was just trying to sabotage you. Then you could have ignored her.

You met Spencer a month ago.

You turned your back to her so she wouldn’t see the look on your face.

She saw it anyway. The mirror was right in front of you.She stepped forward, reaching out as if to place a hand on your shoulder, but you moved away. She nodded in understanding.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” she said. “But I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t tell you. You have the right to know. I’d prefer…I’d prefer if you didn’t mention this conversation to Spencer.”

You just wanted her to leave.

But she stubbornly waited for a response.

Eventually, you nodded.

Once she was gone, you dropped your head over the sink.

You needed a long moment to untie the knot that had formed in your stomach as a result of that interaction. Her words kept coming back, and they hurt. They came back and hurt, over and over, knocking on the door and then running away like kids playing a game to annoy the neighbors. Your eyes burned with tears of disbelief, but you quickly pushed them away. You didn’t want Spencer to notice anything.

You started rationalizing it all.

Yes, you had only been together for a short time, but you had never questioned his intentions toward you. He had never lied to you, never deliberately hurt you. Besides, he was a smart man, and you couldn’t believe that someone like him would toy with another person’s feelings—his partner’s—just to make himself feel better. He wouldn’t use you as a temporary bandage for his pain. That wasn’t his style, and the argument about his recent grief didn’t convince you.

Yes, it was soon.

But as you had said yourself, it was personal matter. 

You almost felt foolish for letting Alex’s words—those of a woman you had only just met—affect you so deeply. You smoothed your hair, steadied your breathing, and smiled at your reflection. That was how you intended to return to the table—composed, ready to immerse yourself in conversation, to lift both your spirits, to let him talk about anything he wanted as a form of atonement for your doubts.

And that’s exactly what you did.

You listened to him from beneath lifted lashes, delighting in the happy spark in his eyes, even though the meaning of his words barely registered. The knot in your stomach had dissolved, and you could eat again, savor the meal, the evening, his presence. Nothing could change that.

So even when, caught up in conversation, he mentioned a phone call you didn’t remember ever having, you just let it slide.

*

You couldn’t remember the last time you had woken up next to each other.

You lived separately, and in the end, you both worked so much that the opportunity rarely presented itself. The rest of the evening had been absolutely wonderful, and when you opened your eyes, your first fleeting thought was that the morning would unfold in the same warm atmosphere.

But then you quickly realized it was far too early to be waking up.

The room was still cloaked in darkness, broken only by the faint outline of your tangled bodies and the soft glow of white sheets.

You hadn’t woken up together.

You had woken up alone—or rather, you had been woken up by his sudden movement, the sharp inhale of breath.

Still drowsy and dazed, you propped yourself up on your elbow, trying to get a better look at Spencer. His hair was tousled, his eyes squeezed shut far too tightly for someone in peaceful sleep. He mumbled something under his breath before jolting again, this time murmuring something almost pleadingly.

That’s when you realized—he was having a nightmare.

You felt a pang in your chest, a rush of compassion filling you. His face looked so defenseless against whatever haunted him—even in sleep. This was the first time you had witnessed something like this in your relationship, so you hesitated for a moment before deciding on your next move.

Gently, you wove your fingers through his hair, stroking it soothingly. Then, you pressed yourself closer to his side, wrapping your arms around him as much as you could, whispering quiet reassurances.

At first, he didn’t move. You thought the nightmare had passed, and you remained still, wondering if it had been your doing. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that he was okay now.

Still caught in sleep, Spencer turned toward you, burying his face against your neck. His breathing started to even out, the steady warmth of it tickling your skin. You couldn't help but smile softly.

He mumbled something you couldn’t quite understand.

Was he still dreaming?

“I love you.”

You finally made out the muffled words, and they caught you completely off guard. You had never said it to each other before—you thought it was too soon. You thought those words needed the right moment, something special. But as you lay there, wrapped up in the quiet of the night, you realized this was the perfect moment. Just the two of you, small in the arms of the darkness, so drowsy you were forced into honesty.

I love you too.

You were just about to say it when Spencer spoke again—just a little faster, just a little softer.

And what he said was like a quick, unexpected stab. You didn’t feel the pain yet, but you could already see yourself bleeding.

“I love you, Maeve.”

[comatosebunny09]

grab the wheel | sylus

cw: femme reader, female bits mentioned, naughty things done in a car, “good girl,” heavy petting, pretty tame, i swear, 600 words, mdni

now playing: buzzin - alina baraz

“—joyride?” he suggests with troublesome eyes.

You look at him inquisitively over steaming coffee and waffles, fork clamped between your teeth. “Huh?”

He chuckles. 

You swallow. Ask, “Where did this come from?” setting your silverware down with a soft clack. 

The leather booth seat groans as he leans back and crosses his arms, shrugging, massive. “It’s not a bad day out.” He looks past you, gesturing toward the diner’s window with a nod. 

You track his gaze, observing the scenery outside. It’s highlighted by golden streaks of sunlight, shivering trees, and the laughter of passersby. 

Today is an ideal day. Not a single grey cloud inhabits the sky, and it’s not too humid. There’s been a lull in missions as of late, freeing you both from the demands of your professions.

When else will your schedules align so perfectly? And when will he next willingly agree to bask in the sunlight?

“Besides,” he says, eyes simmering with something indiscernible, “there’s something I’d like you to see.”

“Okay,” you reply, mouth filled with scrambled eggs, “I’ll drive.” 

Sylus sits forward with his elbows on the table, fingers laced, and a wicked smirk that boasts his canine. “Careful, sweetheart. Might get used to you spoiling me like this.”

—

The GPS says that you’re forty miles from your destination.

The highway sprawls for miles, sparse cars on the road, and a large, torrid hand squeezing your thigh. 

You spare him a sidelong glance from beneath your sunglasses. Lips quirk as sultry tunes fill his coupe. Sylus hums along, having heard this song a thousand times thanks to you.

He often tells you how alluring it is to watch you drive stick.

Your face burns at the recollection, tummy stirring with butterflies as you shift gears. It is then that you hear the seatbelt clink and feel ravenous eyes drilling into the side of your face.

You shoot him a look, his scarlet-spun eyes panning into your peripheral vision. He closes the distance between you, leaning over the center console to latch his lips onto your earlobe. There, he suckles gently, roughly, drawing the metal of your earring between his teeth. Elicits a soft growl from you. He chuckles in reply, the sound smoother than velvet and setting the space between your thighs alight.

“Sylus,” you warn, cut off by a finger pressed to your quivering lips. 

His digits tighten around your thigh, effectively shutting off your protests.

“Focus, sweetheart,” he croons into the shell of your ear, hot breath making you lightheaded.

He considers you through hooded eyes, melding the hard contours of his chest against your arm propped on the center console. 

You return your gaze forward, pushing delicately on the accelerator. Strangle the gear shifter once his teeth find your neck. See stars as his palm compresses over the apex of your thighs, and it kneads you in hard arcs through the rough spread of your jeans. Just the way you like it. Frigid jolts of electricity ripple through you at each rotation. Each purposeful press down.

It takes all of you to remain focused.

“Is-is this what you wanted to show me?” you ask, hips undulating off the seat to meet the artful press of his hand.

His lips curve in the juncture of your neck and shoulder, and he wedges two fingers against the seam of your jeans, jolting your clothed cunt to life.

“Part of it, sweet thing.” He laves at your throat, giving away his true intentions. “Now, be a good girl and keep your eyes on the road for me.”

[ashlovesfood]

Fast & Fucking Furious!

tags:car hood sex, bruce is shirtless, slight exhibitionism, car project, panties, pounding, p v p, squirting, moaning, grunting, your freaky, pounding, sweat, fluids, pet names, cunnie! why is this so crazy? undressing, marks, kissing, abandoned car projects, ff2

Pretty please ash what’s the link?!◎[▪‿▪]◎

୨⎯DO NOT STEAL,COPY,OR PLAGIARIZE⎯୧

Another project Bruce was working on was his cars, he wanted to experiment with one of the engines. He popped the hood of the Chevrolet Camaro and looked at the parts, deciding what to do with it. His goal was to add a new kink to the vehicle, nitrous oxide to boost the horsepower for fun.

The garage was open, showing off all his collected cars parked in a line. Bruce took his shirt off, leaving himself in a pair of jeans as he worked on the car. A bottle of nitrous oxide had to be mounted in the car, somewhere in the trunk or engine. He leaned forward, wondering where to put it. You were working at your job, stuck at your desk typing away. It wasn’t long until you went home, just a few more hours. Your hands cramped from how long you’ve been hunched over, the bright screen burned into your eyes.

Finally, at last, the clock read 5:00. You clocked out of the building and grabbed your bag, headed for your car. The parking lot was sparse, the few cars parked here and there. The door opened with a click, your body slipped into the driver's side. You turned on the engine, the car revving to life as the lights turned back on.

Your phone dinged with a message, Bruce’s contact texting you. ‘Missed call from Bruce’ ‘Are you coming home yet?’ You replied with a quick message, throwing your phone to the side as you drove out of the lot. Bruce took a moment to look at his phone, seeing your message realizing you were coming home.

His torso was covered in dirt and grease, his hands working on the engine to place the gas inside. The plan was smoothly coming along, time ticking with the clouds moving along the sky. You drove into the driveway, seeing the garage open with the show of multiple cars. “Typical Bruce..”

You parked outside the garage, opening the door to get out. Bruce was hidden from the raised hood, his body leaned over as he worked on the engine. “Bruceyyy.” Your shoes pattered against the tile, his head lifting up to look at you. “Bunny.” He was covered in sweat, the shine of his fluids making you distracted. “I, what’re you working on?..”

You tried your best to maintain eye contact, your mind playing a whole film of memories when Bruce dicked you down.

“Just working on a project, nothing serious.” He slammed the engine down, his hands finding your hips as he lifted you up. You were now sitting on the hood, caged in by Bruce’s meaty frame as he towered over you.

“Can’t stop looking huh?” Maybe, it was obvious. Your thighs clenched together, your face dusted with a slight red. “Uh, maybe…?” Bruce grabbed the fabric of your shirt, ripping it open as buttons flew all over. You gasped, the air hitting your skin as he played with your bra. His fingers were delicate with you compared to the car, his eyes drinking in the sight. You leaned against the hood, hands propped up trying to not slip.

“Bruce..! Not here-..” “Was thinking about fucking you on this car, couldnt get it out of my head.” He slid the top down from your shoulders, the bra covering your chest as the air hugged your skin. Bruce leaned in, biting the crook of your neck as he left a large bite mark. You were whining, legs wrapped around his waist as he licked your earlobe, sucking on the delicate skin. He broke away, a string of saliva connecting from his mouth to your ear.

You, however, wouldn’t leave him hanging. Your hands gripped his shoulders, teeth nibbling on his collarbone, small red and purple marks left behind. Bruce was groaning, leaning into your touch as he grinded against your clothed pussy, the air filled with bunny fucking energy. The garage was still open, the possibility of someone being able to look in making you more aroused.

You feasted on the way Bruce’s skin looked, all marks and bites made by you. He kissed you, clashing with teeth and tongue as you held onto his neck. He undid the clasp of your bra, the flesh bouncing out as your nipples pebbled. “So soft, and bouncy for me, I can't get enough of you..” Bruce grabbed one of your nipples and popped it into his mouth, suckling on the bud like a newborn.

You were trembling with pleasure, waves of desire coursing through your body as he continued his attack on your chest. He moved off on to the other nipple, hand fondling the lone one to give it attention. “Brrucceee!” That’s all it took for you to cum, legs clenched around his torso as you grinded against him, slick creating a wet spot on your panties. “Fucking little minx- grinding against me while I lick your boobs, huh?” Bruce wasn’t any better, his dick begging for attention while he focused on your pleasure.

You moved your hands down towards his jeans, unzipping the zipper revealing his boner hidden by his boxers. You freed his cock, his tip hitting his bellybutton with a loud squelch, the tip twitching.

“Oh shit..!” Bruce pinned you down onto the hood, sliding your pants and panties down in one swift motion. He threw them onto the floor, obsessed with your cute little pussy glistening with juices. “All for me, my good girl. Fuckkkk..” Bruce leaned down, taking kitten licks at your folds teasing you, your back arching. You were shivering, the tiny amount of energy making you frustrated yet fulfilled.

You grabbed his head and shoved him between your thighs, his lips having a sloppy french kiss make out session with your pussy. “Right theree! Oh ‘m cumming..!!!” Squirt, all over his nose, cheekbones and chin. It dripped down all onto the shiny surface of the hood, his mouth curving into a smirk. “Taste so sweet. Like candy.”

Bruce pushed your legs apart, slapping his tip onto your clit. You were buzzing, full of need and horniness that only Bruce could satisfy. His tip leaked with precum, his length being lubed by your juices. It was one big leaky mess, his cock entering your hole inch by inch, your mind focused on the delicious stretch. It was mind numbing, as Bruce moved alllll the way out only to push hard into your hole, your cervix being kissed. You were cockdrunk, your mouth drooling side to side and your eyes rolled all the way back, all from Bruce.

He was mind boggled, the way you sucked him in like a vortex was insanity to him. Your nails made angry red scratch marks on his back, the lines running down his skin making him turned on. “More, oh- give me more angel.” Bruce was plowing into your cunnie, the juices making a puddle below your ass cheeks.

Sweat ran down both your bodies, his hands lifting you up as he fucked you in the air. There was a body print on the hood from you, the combination of juices and sweat left on the surface. His dick was reaching all the way up into your lungs, your mouth opened in a cute ‘o’ as you leaned into him.

“Cummminnnggggg!” Bruce came along with you, balls clenching as he emptied his seed into you. “Gonna get you all swollen with my seed- make you glowing for me.!!” His arms bear hugged you, your body shaking with pleasure as you felt his sperm fill you up. Car project was abandoned after..

⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧ ⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧⑅୨୧ ⑅୨୧

A/N Really tried for this one but idk how to feel.. also went to a party and ended up getting a headache \m/(>.<)\m/

[boxthoughtsblog]

My Sky Today - February 13, 2024 8:49am Hawaii Join the MY SKY TODAY project!

[starkeyisthelastname]

a trailerpark!rafe blurb for @islandclubchampagneroom 🚬 this is a lil filthy.. you’ve been warned. 😶💦

You looked like a little gorgeous doll, skipping from trailer to trailer with your basket full of goodies you made. You came across your new favorite place, which was Rafe’s trailer. It was kinda run down, but that didn’t matter to you. To your surprise, he was outside already, washing his beat down pickup. You couldn’t help but ogle him a little as he was shirtless, his toned upper body on full display. He made your tummy feel funny every time you were around him, especially when you heard him speak. “It’s a lil’ hot for you to be outside, ain’t it’ baby doll?” He would rasp out.

He held a cigarette in the same hand as he did the hose, rinsing off the rusty truck as the other one brought a can cheap beer to his lips. His hooded blue eyes would stare you up and down, the nasty thoughts already running through his mind as he soaked up every inch of your stunning little self.

“I made cookies! Do you want some?” You asked, voice sweet as you ignored his question about it being too hot.

He eyed you, gulping down the rest of his beer before smashing the can and throwing it behind him. He brought the cigarette up to his mouth, motioning you to come closer. He wrapped an arm around your waist, peering down into your basket. “What kind you make, sweet cheeks?” He asked, squeezing your hip roughly.

You felt giddy every time he touched you, biting your glossy bottom lip as you felt the heat shoot down to your core. “Sugar with sprinkles and umm.. chocolate chip with pink frosting. It’s kinda getting melted though…” You pout, not realizing his hand had slipped lower to feel the lack of panties you had on underneath your cotton dress. He blew out the smoke away from your pretty face, before chuckling darkly. “Well how about you come inside and cool off for a lil’ bit and you can set those pretty cookies down..” He suggested, knowing you’d fall for his trap.

He’d be three more beers in, last cigarette in his hand as the other lifted up your dress. “Why you walkin’ around the trailer park with your cunt all out?” He finally asked, large hand coming down to give it a firm smack. He’d have your back, pinned to his broad chest, his sparse facial hair, tickling your neck. You wiggled against his denim covered lap, the funny feeling in your tummy growing the more he touched you.

“You think this sweet lil’ hole is ready for a grown man’s cock?” His voice in a low drawl as the cloud of cigarette smoke blew down your body.

You were an adult, but your father had kept you sheltered away from everything that was bad. You never had been touched by another man until you met Rafe, and you were desperate for more. You didn’t know what his words meant, but they sounded dirty and your poor little self couldn’t help but nod. He shuffled a bit behind you, putting out the cigarette bud into the overflowed ash tray and lifting you up a little from his lap.

With a pop of his jeans and tug of a zipper, his fat cock smacked against his lower abs as he positioned you back against him. He ran the tip along your dripping folds, loving your whimpers as he teased your greedy little hole. He felt you tense up, gasping as he began to slowly push up into your untouched flower. It took every ounce of him not to completely ram up into your fluttering pussy, your cunt squeezing the fuck out of his dick. “That’s a tight fuckin’ cunt.” He grunted to himself.

You were so full, already dumb on the older man’s cock as the pain subsided for a pleasure you had never experienced. You were at a loss for words, body lazily collapsing against his muscled chest as his dirty hands hooked under your thighs. He began to thrust up into you, his light mustache grazing the smooth skin of your shoulder as he started talking dirty to you. “This is why you don’t come around a bad man like me, sweet baby doll. You get your fuckin cunt ruined.”

You were already too attached to him. Your head spinning as he said the most filthiest things you had ever heard in your sheltered life. Even if he was the exact type of man your father told you to stay away from, you didn’t care. You just didn’t know any better but to be obsessed about the first man to ever give you attention and that happened to be one of your father’s tenants.

“I own you now, sugar. Got that?” Rafe groaned in your ear, the sounds of your pretty moans getting increasingly louder throughout his messy trailer, while he fucked you through your first orgasm. “That’s right.. cum all over daddy’s fat cock, make a mess all over that shit my little fuckdoll.” He told you, feeling you clench around with a scream.

Oh how he was gonna have some fun with you…

[dollfacefantasy]

LOCK AND KEY ♡

pairing: yakuza!ryomen sukuna x fem!reader x yakuza!satoru gojo

summary: you finally have a chance at a big break in your career, a story that would take you from a measly crime reporter to a real journalist. the only catch is it's about the two most dangerous men in the city. when they find out about it, surely nothing will go wrong...

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, non/dubcon, kidnapping (sort of), threesome, p in v, blowjobs, facefucking, biting, spitting, praise/degradation, mentions of violence + blood + murder + typical crime stuff

a/n: this is a belated birthday gift for my bestie @kaitkatme who i love so very much. i hope you like it <3 also thank you to @explorevenus @nexysworld and @fearcvlt for beta reading!! as always reblogs and comments are appreciated.

Your eyes fluttered open to stare at the ground below you. They found carpet you didn’t recognize. The spot directly beneath your face was soaked a darker shade by a pool of your blood. You could feel the source — a steady stream of crimson leaking from your nose. A dull ache throbbed through your skull as you tried to recall what led you to this point. Where were you? And why were you waking up here?

Lifting your head, you scanned the rest of your surroundings. Whoever was keeping you put you in a dark room doused in red lighting. Windows speckled the walls parallel to you while a large grand door took up the one opposite. Every surface appeared ominous, drenched in shadows. Obsidian carpet dusted the floor. You were thankful for that aspect since you’d been positioned on your knees. That foamy layer was the only thing sparing your joints from soreness right now.

Furniture was sparse throughout this place. A large sectional couch with thick seats sat in one corner while what looked to be a small kitchenette took up another. It seemed like a guest house; though, you didn’t see any makings of a bedroom. Perhaps it was located in the alcove you couldn’t see to your left.

Near the entrance stood a mirror. Through its reflective pane you were able to see your situation and the position of your limbs despite the stiffness in your neck.

You were bound at the wrists with restraints that tied to your ankles. They connected back to the wall behind you as well. That was how you managed to stay upright even while unconscious. Thankfully, all of your clothes had been kept on. Despite the bruising and blood on your face, you couldn’t see or feel any signs of other injuries.

Still, these factors didn’t answer any questions.

Your memories were returning to you, slowly and one at a time, but building a bigger picture nonetheless. This morning you’d woken up at the same time you always did. You went through the usual steps of your routine before walking to work. A man had catcalled you on your way. When you’d told him to fuck off, he called you a ‘stupid stuck-up bitch’ in return. You remembered fishing your phone out, jotting down a sentence in your notes app about doing a story on street harassment at some point in the future.

Earlier in the day, gray clouds had masked the sky as water drizzled down like half-hearted tears. When you arrived at the dreary office complex that constituted your workplace, you strolled right into the elevator and stood silently. Two men entered after you, crowding your smaller frame towards the back. They spoke as if you weren’t even there and carried on their conversation about potential solutions to the problem that was their wives not putting out enough since having babies number two and three.

Another note. A potential investigative report into marital rape.

When the doors in front of you had finally parted, you squeezed between the two sets of broad shoulders to freedom. You made your way through the array of desks ahead and found your own towards the back corner of the room. Right away, you slipped your phone into the drawer before booting up the computer. Those other stories could wait. The one you were working on today blew both out of the water.

You had clicked on the little folder in the top right corner of the screen. The one with no label. A slew of documents popped up across your screen. Faked financial forms, criminal records, suppressed victim statements, old news clippings. And your itinerary with one last interview lined up for tonight at 8 pm. 

The final nail in the coffins that you built for Satoru Gojo and Ryomen Sukuna.

It would be the last piece of evidence you needed on the two leaders of the worst crime families in this city. An exclusive account with a former member of the Gojo Clan who worked closely with Sukuna’s circle on their shared endeavors and was now turning on them both as he fled for his life? This would make your career.

No longer would this paper have you reporting on the lower rungs of the crime beat. With all the work you’d done for this, your editor would be forced to acknowledge your talent and dedication. You’d be given good stories that would help innocent people and make actual change. You wouldn’t have to interview burnt out cops or clueless onlookers about a car accident. With Satoru Gojo and Ryomen Sukuna’s collective downfall as a mark on your resume, you would do so much more.

Finally, you would be a real journalist.

The rest of the day had been pretty mundane if you remembered correctly. You’d spent most of your hours writing the beginning of your article and then prepping for the interview later.

The interview…

You’d been on your way to that when the memories stopped. The sky was already dark when you left the building. Golden streetlights glowed every twenty feet or so along your path. You remembered running your questions through your head as you walked, preparing for the possibility that you’d have to talk this guy back into sharing if he started getting cold feet.

Someone had called out to you though. It startled you. That you remembered. You didn’t see anyone else on the street, but that deep tone hailed you all the same. He hadn’t said your name. It’d just been something vague like lady or miss. Clearly not anyone who knew you.

But you looked in that direction all the same. Your eyes met a shadowy figure before pain radiated through your entire face.

Then everything went dark.

The most obvious conclusion to you now was that this had something to do with your scheduled interview. But you figured if that were the case, your body would already be floating through some river by now. Such was the fate of those who came too close to toppling the house of cards.

Something similar happened to the last guy who tried to expose the Yakuza syndicates. It was a few years ago, but you didn’t forget. How could you? He’d sat at the desk closest to your left. You could still remember his pudgy face and thick glasses.

Even worse, you could still remember the photos of him strung up in that slaughter house.

Well… at least you weren’t strung up yet. Bound and bruised maybe, but that didn’t mean certain death. After all, this was a pretty nice room to keep someone in for the sole purpose of execution.

The thoughts swirling through your head soon came to an end as you heard muffled voices outside the room. They started out barely noticeable but grew louder as seconds ticked on. You had just enough time to mentally brace yourself before that large door opened.

Two men entered the room. Your eyelids were still a bit heavy, but you didn’t need 20/20 vision to recognize them.

Standing next to each other, the pair looked like polar opposites. Both were muscular, but one was lean and the other bulky. Both wore designer t-shirts, but the lean one sported black while the bulky one chose white. Both of them looked at you like an apex predator, but the one in black with piercing blue eyes and the other in white with smoldering red.

Satoru Gojo & Ryomen Sukuna.

Your heart stopped beating in your chest. As if lifted by mere survival instinct, your eyes no longer gave you trouble. You could see in clear view as the two men approached you. An unnerving smile claimed Satoru’s face. The arrogance was there on Sukuna as well, just a much more muted version of it.

“Good. She’s awake now,” you heard Sukuna’s deep voice rumble. “She’s been passed out for a few hours.”

“I bet. Poor thing’s probably tired. Looks like your guys roughed her up a bit,” Satoru said, his lips turning into an exaggerated frown.

Your eyes flitted between the two of them. They didn’t have any weapons that you could see. Maybe you’d be spared for a little while longer.

“What… what’s going on?” you asked, struck by how raspy your own voice sounded.

The two of them looked at you, taking in your haggard appearance along with the will to survive you still possessed.

Satoru grinned impossibly wider.

“Awww, that’s how you know she’s a good little reporter. Already asking questions,” he teased.

His hand stretched out towards you as if he wanted to pat you on the head like you were a prized pup. Instead, you wrenched away like a wounded animal. You tried to escape his touch with such force that you nearly toppled over. He simply laughed at your close call, but another strong grip on your shoulder spared you from faceplanting.

Nausea rolled through you at the sudden touch. Never in your life had you wanted to crawl out of your own skin so badly. Sukuna’s palm was warm but rough. Something someone might mistake for human if they didn’t know the kind of man it belonged to. You looked up at him through your lashes. Unlike Satoru, he didn’t wear a teasing smirk or hold any amusement in his eyes.

“Let go of me,” you whimpered. You hated how weak your voice sounded. It came out scared and desperate, which to be fair, you were both. You just didn’t want it to be so obvious. But something about Sukuna stripped you bare, shattered your usual methods of concealment.

“Quiet,” he said. 

To your surprise, his fingers released your bicep, giving you a second of peace. But that was only so they could grab your jaw instead. The calloused tips dug into your cheeks. There was no pulling away now.

Satoru clicked his tongue. “You’re gonna learn real quick that you wanna be nice to me, sweetheart. I’m much more friendly than him.”

While held still, Satoru fished a white cloth from his pocket. He brought it to your face, wiping the tacky blood off your nose and lips before tossing it onto a nearby table.

Despite his minor kindness, you chose to ignore all that his statement implied. In your mind, both of them were equally horrible, and you didn’t want to get to know them well enough to discern which of the two was slightly less evil.

At work, you were forced to look at pictures of them constantly. Their cocky grins and intense stares filled the paper. You had to flip through page after page of stories about their scandalous escapades or legal dramas to get to your pieces at the back. 

You loathed it. 

Everyone in this city knew they were dirty. All of you knew that they made their money from the blood of others, that they stayed in power by shooting down any competition. But somehow everyone came to an agreement that you would all pretend they were just typical elite socialites. That their money came from their established bloodlines and that they kept it up through skillful investments.

You’d been so close to unraveling the lies. But it didn’t matter anymore. Not right now anyways. All you could do in this moment was survive. And to do that, you decided to focus on the more serious member of the duo. You figured he would give a better chance at getting out of here. Or at least a way of reaching a destination without so much drawn out anticipation.

“Where am I?” you asked.

Another brief moment of silence went by. Your question remained unanswered.

“Why are you keeping me here?” you tried.

“You really don’t know?” Sukuna said. The words sounded rough and scratchy, but his cadence was so smooth it sickened you. “You’re a clever girl. I’m sure you have some idea.”

You shook your head.

With your face held in place by Sukuna’s strong hand, Satoru reached out and actually managed to sweep his palm over your head. And not just once. He took advantage of your predicament and pet you several times, smiling at the grimace that overtook your features.

“Come on. Don’t insult us. We know you’re smarter than that,” he teased. “You’d have to be to find out all that you did.”

“How did you-” you started to ask. You’d been so careful. You secured every connection, terminated every unnecessary history of contact, kept all your information as private as possible. They couldn’t have traced you, so how did they know?

“It doesn’t matter how,” Satoru said.

“I was careful! I-”

“You were so careful, you didn’t think that it was possible we might have a few of your coworkers on our payrolls?” Sukuna interjected.

Fury, anguish, and humiliation rushed through you all at once because, no, you hadn’t considered that. You’d never entertained the idea that any of the people you worked with would sell you out. No part of you regarded any of them as paragons of journalism, but some optimistic shred of your psyche had refused to even contemplate that idea.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Satoru said, taking clear enjoyment from your faith in the world being shattered.”Your boss couldn’t have been more willing to give you up. He let us know all about your little story a few weeks ago.”

That reveal stung even worse. The past few weeks, all the nights you stayed late, all the hours you spent poring over documents and trying to find people willing to talk, all for nothing. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised if that interview you’d been heading to had been set up under the supervision of one of them.

You tried to stifle any further dismay, not wanting to give them any more satisfaction. You should’ve known asking how was futile. You had to change your angle, focus on the relevant information. They had discovered your intentions to go after them. Now you just had to look for a way to survive.

Internally, you tried to contemplate your current options. Really only two came to mind. Comply or deny. Neither sounded appealing, but you decided on the one you believed would speed things along.

“So what? Why am I even here? You killed my story already. There’s nothing else I can do,” you said. You fought with your vocal chords to keep your words even, to appear some kind of tough.

“Do you think we really believe you’ll just let this go?” Sukuna asked in return.

“We know you won’t accept a pay off. You’re way too honest for that. And a few vague threats won’t do the trick either,” Satoru said, squatting down to be eye level with you. “But-”

“Why haven’t you just killed me then?” you asked, cutting Satoru off. Your eyes stayed angled at Sukuna.

For the first time, your defiance seemingly got under his skin. It cracked the cocky exterior he’d so carefully crafted with each word he spoke. That sparkle in his eyes dulled a little bit. 

Before you could really register it, his hand darted for your face again. He wormed his long fingers underneath the thickness of Sukuna’s palm, flexing off the other hand. With a small jerk, you were looking at him again.

“What’d I say about being nice?” he asked. The words weren’t overtly angry. Impatient, low and tense sounding, but not angry. Not yet.

You didn’t dignify the question with a verbal response. Without even breaking your harsh glare towards him, you spit. Your saliva flew across the small gap between your faces and struck his cheek. The clear glob landed right below his eye. You almost flinched at the contact, so certain a volatile reaction from him would follow. But it didn’t. Instead, that sparkle flickered again. Amusement glowed at the center of his irises once more.

With a quiet chuckle, he wiped your spit from his cheek. He then brought those same saliva-coated fingers to his mouth and popped them inside, cleaning them of your fluids. 

Your face twisted into a grimace. You couldn’t recall seeing something more repulsive in your entire life. That made him laugh.

“You’re disgusting,” you said.

“And you’re so cute,” he teased, pulling you back in his direction.

On his other side, Sukuna tilted your chin upwards. He didn’t interject to help you, didn’t bother pulling Satoru back. He just watched as the other man leaned forward, brushing his nose along the shell of your ear before nipping at the lobe.

Your eyes squeezed shut, and you tried to pull away. Satoru’s tongue slid from between his lips to trace a path down your neck. He kissed along the thumping artery in your neck, his lips pressing against your skin in time with the strong pulse.

“We have other uses for you,” Sukuna answered your original question, his grip on your neck still firm. “You’re much more valuable to us alive than dead.”

Uses. The word sent a chill down your spine.

“I’d never do anything to help the two of you,” you said.

He chuckled, deep and raspy, not at all concerned with your protest. “That’s not your decision, little one.”

A rush of involuntary heat flooded your body following the term of endearment. You refused to acknowledge it. Your body was just confused by the objectively pleasant touches. 

His hand slipped around to the back of your neck as he crouched to be level with you too. He gave the sensitive flesh there a squeeze. You had limited mobility with your limbs bound, but you still tried squirming away from Satoru’s wandering mouth.

Upon feeling you recoil, Sukuna’s hold tightened further, like an owner’s grasp on the scruff of their puppy’s neck.

“Just tell me what you want. You don’t have to torture me first,” you whimpered.

“Oh c’mon, princess. Does this really feel like torture?” Satoru cooed with a final kiss to your cheek. He pulled back to look into your eyes. Despite the softness in his voice, he still looked so fucking smug. You hated it.

“What do you want from me?” you tried again. 

While you could put up a good fight, you found your resistance breaking down pretty quickly under the constant touching. Half of you trembled with visceral hatred, pure revulsion at the feeling of their skin on your body. But the other half, the one you wouldn’t admit to if you could help it, felt something closer to frustration welling up because they were teasing. They weren’t giving you any real satisfaction.

Everything was too much, and you just wanted away from them. The contradictory mix of emotions was making your head pound and your chest ache. You closed your eyes tight again, hoping that maybe if you believed it enough, this would turn out to be some sick nightmare, and you’d wake up alone in your own bed.

“All we need from you is your cooperation. Be a good girl and listen,” Sukuna said. He gave the nape of your neck another squeeze, his nails digging into the delicate skin.

Your eyes opened again, connecting with his red ones. They gleamed so bright it looked as though actual rubies had been embedded into his sockets. 

At the same time, Satoru ducked in again to lay some more kisses upon your throat. His hands settled on your waist, smoothing up and down your soft curves. Every time they lowered, you could feel them pushing the line, testing how far they could delve beneath the hem of your shirt before you gave a severe reaction.

“You know this feels good,” Satoru murmured between kisses.

“No it doesn’t,” you said.

He chuckled at that, not letting up in the slightest. With a soft, disapproving click of his tongue, he tutted at you. “You’re lying. You can say you don’t like it all you want, but your body betrays you. Your skin is getting all warm, you’re squirming, and I bet… if I were to feel right here, you’d be all nice and wet for me,” he whispered as his right set of fingers slid between your legs, pressing on the seam of your slacks.

You jolted in surprise. A small squeal bursted from your lips at the sudden pressure there. You tried clenching your legs shut without losing balance, but it didn’t matter. His lithe digits continued sliding back and forth unobstructed.

Against your will, you whimpered. You couldn’t help it. He was stroking you just right, and as much as you hated it, it felt fucking good. His fingertips coasted over your pulsing clit and massaged your entrance where you already knew, true to his inference, you were starting to drip.

Drawing your attention back to him, Sukuna’s other hand came up to cup your jaw. His thumb landed on the seam of your lips before nudging its way in.

“Try to bite, and we’ll both lose a finger,” he warned.

You didn’t even entertain the possibility that he could be bluffing. If you caused the slightest bit of pain to his thumb, you were certain he’d inflict ten times as much onto you. So you did nothing. You felt the warm thickness of it on your tongue, felt the calloused pad against your soft muscle.

He pulled it back and forth a bit, in and out, testing you. In all honesty, you didn’t find yourself wanting to bite. Rather, your lips closed around his thumb with more purpose, actively accepting the digit instead of loosely allowing it.

“There you go,” he praised. “You already know what to do.”

Nausea bubbled up in the back of your throat again, but it was short lived, overpowered by the muted bliss Satoru was stroking into you down below. You let your eyes droop closed and even laved your tongue on his digit. 

It was slowly setting in that you weren’t going to get out of this. You figured the next best thing would probably be playing nice until another opportunity for escape arose.

Seconds later, you felt warm breath puffing against the side of your throat unoccupied by Satoru’s mouth. Little chills broke out over your skin. His other hand fell from the back of your neck, down your spine to the small of your back. He pulled you a little closer to the both of them. As close as he could while you were still restrained.

“You don’t have to admit you like it, little one. Just stop fighting. Let it happen.”

With that, he moved in on your neck too. He was rougher than Satoru. His teeth scraped over your sensitive flesh before his mouth latched onto a specific patch of skin. He bit it. Not just a little tantalizing nip. An actual bite. You gasped, tilting your head back and inadvertently giving them more access.

The bite on your neck wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but it was sure to leave a mark. He started with just that one before continuing with a series of more down towards your shoulder.

Despite this, Satoru remained relatively gentle. He worked in the opposite direction, heading up towards your lips. His eyes rose to be level with yours. That same cocky attitude glimmered within.

“Still think I’m disgusting?” he asked.

“Repulsive even,” you replied.

“Let’s see if I can get you to think of some other big words to describe me,” he said, ducking in to connect his mouth with yours.

At first, your body tensed. You stiffened up under his touch. But in a matter of moments, you slowly began to kiss back. Your lips tentatively mimicked his movements before you found yourself settling into a rhythm. He was still vile, but his kisses maybe weren’t so bad…

With Satoru occupying most of your attention, you didn’t notice Sukuna’s hands falling away or his mouth receding from your marked-up neck. Your eyes were shut while making out, so you also didn’t see him stand up. You didn’t catch him undoing his fly and dropping his pants either.

The first indication of his changed position you got was the fat leaky tip of his cock nudging your cheek.

Reluctantly, you disconnected from Satoru’s mouth, turning your head to eye the interruption. As it came into your view, you had to make a conscious effort not to let your brows raise to the ceiling. In all your life, you’d never seen a guy so big. Not only was his shaft long, but it was so fucking thick. Your mind wasn’t even concerned with who it belonged to right now. You could only watch in awe as his fist slid up and down, stroking it with a tight grip.

Satoru didn’t seem as phased as you. He grabbed the other man’s cock without hesitation, eliciting a sharp hiss from him.

You watched as he gave it a couple strokes of his own while rising to his feet. It was only a few before Sukuna pried his hand away with a strong grip on his wrist.

“Watch it,” he warned, similar to the tone he used with you.

“Cool it, big guy. You’re just as bad as her. Acting like you don’t like something that obviously feels good,” he teased.

You were sure if anyone else had said that, they wouldn’t get the chance to speak like that again. But Sukuna only scowled at him before reaching for your head. He pulled you in closer, looking down at your wide eyes as his dick slid across the side of your face. 

He rubbed it across one of your cheeks, then the other. His eyes took in every little reaction you had. The small crinkles of discomfort, the shuddery breaths of desire. He took his time, toying and teasing before he actually brought it before your lips, so close that a few beads of precum smeared on your bottom lip.

“Wha- what do you want me to do?” you said. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t know. It was that you didn’t think you could.

For the first time, he laughed. And it wasn’t like Satoru’s. Nothing about the sound was lighthearted or fun. It was a deep, sadistic rumble. A sound that was the final many heard before they met their end.

“What does it look like I want you to do? Open that pretty mouth and suck it,” he said. The hand on the back of your head moved you in closer, slipping the tip just past your lips. “Same rules as before: you try biting, and I’ll make the slaughterhouse seem like a fantasy.”

You hadn’t planned on resisting anyways, but after hearing that, all the fight seeped out of your body. At first, you didn’t put much effort in either. You just kind of sat there on your haunches, letting him do as he pleased.

He pushed his hips forward. His cock slid into your mouth inch by inch. It was only a second or two before you felt his head starting to nudge the back of your throat. The urge to gag pricked at you, but you tried your hardest to suppress it.

You squeezed your eyes shut while keeping your jaw loose and your fists clenched. He rocked in and out of the warm embrace your throat provided.

Even with your eyes closed, you still sensed Satoru’s presence. His spindly fingers caressed the top of your head and trailed along your temple. A touch probably intended to be soothing, but one that came across to you as teasing.

Following a few more shallow thrusts, you felt a tug at the back of your head. It was too jerky to be Satoru. Your eyes opened to find those same red eyes staring down at you again, a lecherous grin spread across Sukuna’s mouth.

“Trying to make me do all the work?” he said. “You’re still as a corpse down there. If I wanted to fuck one of those, I would’ve killed you.”

You tried mumbling out a sorry, but around the dick in your mouth, the word was incoherent. He didn’t need to give further direction. You began lightly bobbing your head. The movements started off tentative, as if you were still figuring out how to move at all, but slowly, you found your rhythm.

Your eyes closed again, but this time not as tight. Like his thumb before, his cock served as a distraction. You didn’t have to think right now. Didn’t have to worry about how you would get out of this. Didn’t have to ruminate over how you would day get revenge. All you had to do was work on taking his dick farther and farther down your throat with each push of your head.

“Atta girl…” he mumbled from above.

A slow exhale blew from your nostrils. His relaxed tone eased your nerves as well. The pace at which you sucked became more languid. Your head swooped closer to his pelvis more fluidly. Saliva oozed from your mouth, thoroughly coating his length and your chin.

In the midst of losing yourself to the task at hand, a whisper broke through your bubble.

“Gonna untie you now, princess, so we can both play with you.” Satoru’s breath fanned against your ear as he spoke. “You better behave. I won’t mind chasing you down, but I don’t think it’ll be as fun for you,” he said as his fingers came around back to free your arms from their bindings.

The ties fell loose and dropped to the floor. Instantly, you brought your wrists to your chests, massaging the skin that felt raw from the rough material of the restraints. You swiveled them to get the blood flowing normal again all while still flicking your tongue against the ridge of Sukuna’s tip.

You heard him choke out a groan before pulling you off, a ragged breath spilling from his lungs. At the same time, you sucked air in. You took in all that you could while your airway wasn’t obstructed.

“Fuck… that’s a good girl,” he praised. You again ignored the heat that flashed through your lower abdomen.

Your eyes opened again, your lids feeling a little weighted this time around. They both came into your view. Sukuna’s cock hung between you and him, shining with your saliva and dripping pearly precum from the head. On the other side, Satoru also had his dick out now. He stroked it in your direction. It was also impressive in size, long and thick enough to make your mouth water, but after seeing the monster between Sukuna’s thighs, you didn’t feel apprehensive.

“Cute… she already looks a little cockdrunk, and she’s only had you,” he said.

Less patient than his counterpart, Satoru yanked your head closer and sheathed himself entirely inside your mouth in one go. You actually gagged this time around, globs of your spit leaking from your mouth as your eyes watered. Your hands flew up to his thighs in an attempt to brace yourself, but he kept you as close as possible, your nose nestled against the swath of coarse white hair.

You could hear them both laugh a bit and say something back and forth to one another, though specifics evaded your ears. Sweet humiliation floods your veins at the sounds. Satoru keeps you in place, not moving while throbbing in your mouth.

Although Sukuna had explicitly said no biting, he never said anything about your nails. You dug them into the meat of Satoru’s thighs as hard as you could, until the pale skin turned pink with little crescent markings.

Instead of hissing in pain and ripping you off of him, Satoru moaned. His hips bucked forward, lodging his shaft so deep in your throat you actually thought you were at risk of choking and dying. Your vision faded and noises grew distant.

Just as you thought you were about to lose consciousness, he tugged you backwards. Not all the way off his dick, far enough that you were still drooling on the tip as oxygen came back to you. The clear fluid oozed from between your lips like a leaky faucet.

“There we go. That’s better,” he hummed before easing your mouth on him again.

You took some initiative, hoping that might spare you from another close call with blacking out. Your tongue slithered over his veins as you’d done for Sukuna. The other man in question who was reaching out to stroke your head.

“Don’t forget about me,” he teased, nudging his hips at you a bit.

Your hand came up without thinking. You wrapped your fingers around his thicker shaft and began stroking it at a rhythm a bit slower than the one your mouth moved at. It seemed to satisfy him. He didn’t say anything else, nor did he make a move to handle you.

Satoru did however.

Your mouth’s smooth pace only staved off his enthusiasm for so long. Before you knew it, each of those large hands came to rest on either side of your head. They held you in place, held you still so he could take over the motions.

He wasn’t too rough at first, gentle as someone could be while fucking your face. His thrusts remained shallow and even. You kept your focus on twisting your hand around Sukuna’s length. You couldn’t see what you were actually doing, but as large as he was, there wasn’t really a chance of losing him.

As the pleasure started to build for Satoru, he got a little faster, a tad overeager. He wasn’t ramming his dick down your throat, but he was starting to move faster. You could barely keep up with it. It was intoxicating in a way; left you feeling lightheaded and spun out of order.

We have other uses for you. Sukuna’s earlier statement echoed through your mind again. They definitely were using you. Satoru rutted against your mouth as though it was a toy crafted just for him, and Sukuna watched the skilled swivel of your fingers like it would be eternal.

You lost track of time down on your knees.

You weren’t quite sure how long you’d been down there by the time Satoru was stepping back and letting his cock drop from between your lips. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t like you were so eager to see what else they had in store for you.

Your eyes cracked open again. You hadn’t realized they’d even shut. The first thing in your line of sight was Satoru’s shaft, still hard and flushed and soaked with your saliva. From there, your pupils rose, gazing upon the two grins above.

Satoru reached out to pet your head, and this time you didn’t pull away in the slightest. Instead, your head leaned into the tender touch, nuzzled at the palm providing you a sliver of comfort.

“That’s it. You’re coming around,” he cooed. “We just have to break you in a little.”

His voice actually sounded kind of nice when it wasn’t polluted by that arrogant lilt. It hit your ears all smooth and soft, like a steady stream of champagne poured into a glass.

Almost a polar opposite, Sukuna spoke from beside him.

“Get her up. Move over there,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the couches.

“You got it,” Satoru said in a sing-song tone.

He gave your head one more caress before ducking around back to untie your ankles. The restraints came apart quickly under his nimble fingers. After they slipped off, you felt the same relief flood your feet that you’d felt earlier in your hands.

He scooped you up off the ground, cradling you in his arms like a bride. Despite being leaner than Sukuna, he didn’t lack any strength. He moved with the same fluidity that he’d entered the room with.

Under normal circumstances, you would have fought him every step of the way. Each step would have seen you kicking and squirming, trying to get him to drop you just so you could scramble to freedom. But in all honesty, you were in no condition to scramble. Being on your knees so long had left them feeling like jello. You doubted you could successfully make the short trip to the couch let alone bolt through an unfamiliar house in an unfamiliar area.

Upon reaching the luxurious seats, Satoru sat down and put you in his lap, another move you would have protested if you didn’t feel so off balance right now. He held you to his chest, stroking down your neck and onto your shoulders. Sukuna sat one cushion over from the two of you.

Without saying anything, he took your legs into his lap. You just watched, unsure of his intentions. But all that came of the move was the soothing feeling of his thick fingers massaging your calves one at a time.

All you could do was blink. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting, but that wasn’t it. His digits dug into your muscle with obvious strength, but it wasn’t at all painful. If anything it felt nice, like an aid to your circulation after being bound for hours on end. You just couldn’t comprehend why he would want to do it.

Breaking you from your confusion, Satoru whispered in your ear, “Let’s get you out of this dirty thing.”

At first, you didn’t know what he meant. However, upon looking down, you realized the front of your shirt had become stained with both blood and saliva. It was in rough shape, much worse condition than when you’d put it on this morning for work.

You didn’t really try to stop him from pulling it off your body. It would be pointless. Instead, you remained motionless as he slid each of your arms from the sleeves and guided it off your torso. The fabric’s absence sent a small shiver through you.

He brought the shirt up, using it as a makeshift cloth to cleanse your face of any remaining spit from your jaw.

“So pretty even when you’re all messy,” he praised quietly, dropping the garment to the floor beside the couch.

You assumed your bra would be the next thing to go, but Satoru’s fingers targeted the button on your slacks instead. He popped the silver out of place and slid the zipper down before shimmying you out of them. Again, with your current lack of strength in your legs, the process went easy, like removing clothes from a doll.

“You’re being so good right now. Keep it up, and you’re really gonna like it here,” Sukuna said while continuing his slow massage on your legs.

For a split second, that sentence triggered your journalistic instincts that you thought Satoru’s cock had knocked out of your head. You’re gonna like it here. So they were planning to keep you around. This wouldn’t be a one thing. They weren’t sending you out with a bang. It was as Satoru had said. They were breaking you in.

You didn’t really understand why. The trouble of keeping you prisoner didn’t seem worth the spoils they gained from it. At least in your mind.

Reading the confusion written all over your face, Sukuna’s palms slid up to your thighs. He tugged you down a little bit. You shifted from Satoru’s lap to the cool material of the couch, leaving only your head on his thigh.

The large hands spread your legs apart. Another shudder coursed through your body. You felt completely vulnerable in this position, like a small puppy caught between two wolves, your soft belly left exposed for their sharp claws and teeth.

Though nothing so ghastly happened. Sukuna’s fingertips continued to ghost over your inner thighs and hips, the touch feather-light.

“You have something to say?” he said.

But you shook your head.

“You do,” he continued. “Come on. I won’t bite. Not again anyway.”

“I just… so you’re really not gonna kill me?” you said, your voice wary.

“We already told you we weren’t,” Satoru chided from above, his hand stroking your cheek.

“But why? What’s the point? Why would you keep a loose end?” you asked. You knew you should probably shut up. Why argue against your own survival? But the innate curiosity inside of you craved an answer.

“You won’t be a loose end,” Sukuna said. “You’ll be under lock and key here. There won’t be any risk of you getting loose.”

His hands began to push your thighs up against your sides. Heat flooded your cheeks. The position left you totally exposed in the most compromising way. You wanted to ask why; although, you had a hunch, but you figured they may begin to grow annoyed with your questions.

He could tell you weren’t satisfied.

“You may not understand why, but killing you would be such a waste. You’re smart, calculating, and you’re not bad to look at,” he said. 

One of his thumbs began to graze the center of your panties, eliciting a gasp from you. Up and down, the pad of his digit traced from your slit up to your clit.

“You’ll be nice to have around, a good little stress reliever. And when you’ve proven yourself enough, you’ll be useful to the business as well,” he went on, completely matter-of-fact.

“I don’t want to-” you started to whimper. But he cut you off with a swat between your legs.

“What did I tell you? It’s not up to you. Would you rather end up like the last guy?”

You shook your head again.

“Good. So don’t worry about that for now. Keep being a good girl, and we’ll talk about it more later,” he said.

His fingers hooked around your panties, beginning to tug them down your legs. You squirmed in response; both the cool air hitting your most sensitive spot and the idea of him seeing all of you like this making you anxious. Your thighs tried to close on instinct, but he blocked that and kept you open to his eyes.

“Ah-ah. Behave,” he tutted.

He pulled your panties the rest of the way off without incident. His eyes trained on your now revealed pussy like it was prey.

“You really are pretty,” he said. “I’ll have to get a taste later.”

Later. A part of you was almost disappointed. But before you had time to register that disappointment, his fingers swiped through your folds.

You gasped softly. His digits caressed over the slick skin with an exploratory touch, gauging how wet you were.

At the same time, Satoru’s fingers slid beneath your bra straps. The smooth pads of his finger tips also ventured South as they coasted towards your breasts. He squeezed them under the material of the cups. His thumb and index finger toyed with your nipple for a second before undoing the clasp in front so it could end up pooled with your shirt on the floor.

“You’re gonna take both of us,” Sukuna said as his fingers glided across your entrance.

“At the same time?” you squeaked.

“Not today,” Satoru teased. He leaned forward, smiling upside down at you.

“We don’t wanna ruin you right away,” Sukuna added.

You wondered what exactly not ruining you would entail, but you didn’t have to wait long. Seconds later those thick fingers receded from your cunt and tapped your hip.

“On all fours. Facing me.”

You followed the order as though you were being timed, flipping over and swiveling around. Satoru rewarded your new position with a firm smack to your ass. You bit your lip in shame. Neither of them needed to hear the embarrassing sound that wanted out of your mouth.

The sound of ruffling clothes came from behind you. Probably Satoru removing his shirt. You didn’t make an effort to find out for certain. It was only background noise to the man in front of you.

He held your jaw in the palm of his hand. With a bit more pressure, you were sure he could crush the bones there. But he didn’t. He just kept you still, watching every little reaction on your face.

You felt Satoru line up behind you. It was obvious when he started to push in. Your brows furrowed. Your lips rounded out into a little ‘o.’ Even though his girth hadn’t made you gawk, it still stretched you a little as he worked himself all the way inside.

A small squeak forced itself from between your lips as he bottomed out and his silky tip bumped your cervix.

“Good girl,” Sukuna purred from in front of you. “Just keep holding still.”

The deep timbre of his voice had your insides fluttering. Your walls massaged Satoru’s shaft with every little contraction.

He groaned from behind you. “Fuck… she’s tight,” he sighed as he began to rock his hips.

You moaned, the motion of him unsheathing himself from you almost as nice as when he filled you up completely. He started off at a slow pace, back and forth in a nice steady rhythm, striking deep with every thrust. Your breaths grew shaky, and your fingers clutched the cushion beneath you.

It was only a matter of moments before he started to speed up. He wasn’t jackhammering yet, but he was on the road there. His pelvis slapped against your ass in quick succession, the sound beginning to echo in the dark room. You bit your lip while letting yourself adjust. If not for Sukuna’s palm below your chin, you had no doubt your head would be hanging by now.

He just continued looking down at you, scarlet eyes baring into your very soul, making absolutely sure you got no break.

“You’re taking it so well, letting him get you all warmed up for me,” he praised.

Your body shuddered. You could only imagine what Sukuna would feel like. Thicker than Satoru but just as long. Would he handle you like this? Would he go harder or slower? Would he cum quick or last until you were begging for mercy. You supposed it wasn’t really worth thinking about. You’d find out once Satoru finished, and given how often he was moaning back there, you had a hunch that would be sooner rather than later.

You kind of wished you could see his face — how that pretty pale skin flushed with desire, how those dark pupils dilated within the eerie blue irises. After how he’d humiliated you, you wanted to see the proof of his desperation as well. But the sounds would have to suffice. Them and his increasingly tight grasp on your hips.

His arms vibrated with the strength it took to hold on, to not cum too soon. He clearly wanted to savor you a bit more before relinquishing you to the other man’s hands. Your back arched like a cat’s as his strokes brought you more and more pleasure with every blow.

The change in your posture prompted him to swivel his hips, to find a new angle that could brush against something else. He found what he sought in no time at all. Your toes curled and your eyes rolled back as he slammed against that sweet spot within you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimpered before you could stop yourself.

An annoying, breathy chuckle came from behind. “Right there, huh? That’s where you like it?”

Reluctantly, you nodded. To your surprise, he didn’t say anything else to mock you. He just kept drilling into you like his life depended on it.

The both of you started to pant. Your arms wobbled underneath you, barely able to support yourself upright. You knew you were fast approaching your own release alongside Satoru.

Sukuna released your jaw, and that was when you let yourself collapse. Your arms buckled, and your cheek squished against the couch. Satoru held you in place there, pounding into you even harder than he had been before.

You came first. It crashed over you in a sudden wave. You choked out a whine, your body tensing up under him as the bliss rolled through you. And he just kept going.

He had better stamina than you’d expected. You whimpered and squirmed beneath him, hoping he’d hit his high soon and let you get some relief. But he continued to hammer into you without hesitation.

Only when he’d battered you firmly into the depths of overstimulation did he finally let himself go. He slammed all the way in and shot rope after rope of sticky, hot release into you. It was a good thing you were on the pill. Not that they had bothered to ask. But really, why would they? You doubted they would be concerned about any potential problem that arose from this. They were in the business of making things — people — go away.

With a sigh, Satoru eased himself out of you. He gave you a pat on the hip before sinking back into the couch and pushing his now damp white hair out of his face.

You didn’t get the same chance at relaxation.

Before you could even roll onto your side, Sukuna had his fingers around your wrist. With a tug, he guided you into his lap. He’d sat down since letting you go. He’d also taken his shirt off, allowing you a clear look at his sculpted figure. Your hazy eyes raked along the muscles covered in scars and tattoos.

He laughed quietly at your obvious interest. His large hands took each of your thighs and spread them over his lap so that you were straddling him. It was nice in a way, to be maneuvered so gently. To be positioned like a doll, not having to exert any effort yourself. In the past, you would’ve thought it’d be something you hate. But in this situation, it didn’t feel so bad.

His hand splayed across your chest next. It kept you upright and looking at him.

“You look so pretty. Like you can barely remember your own name,” he mocked, a grin slowly spreading on his face.

The hand that wasn’t propped on your chest slipped down between your legs to grab his cock. He angled it upwards, dragging the head over your folds a few times, nudging it against your skin without actually entering. You squirmed a little at the feeling, slightly in discomfort but mostly in wanting what was being offered.

“Calm down. You’re gonna get used to this in no time,” he said. Threat or promise, you couldn’t really tell.

You were completely soaked between your thighs. The combination of your own arousal mixed with Satoru’s cum leaking out of you left a mess, but it had you slick enough that he slipped inside without issue.

Your eyes widened. It wasn’t just his size or the stretch but also the overstimulation that had your nails digging into his bicep. Strangled whines erupted from you as a weird, sweet sting settled in your center. He hushed you, the hand from your waist running up and down your back while he pushed his hips up.

“Shhh shh shhh, you’re a good girl, remember? You’ll get used to it,” he said, a sinister smirk across his face.

You squeezed your eyes shut, nearly doubling over from that tone alone. The physical sensation truly wasn’t that bad. Not as bad as you expected anyways. With a few deep breaths, you found yourself more comfortable. He was doing all of the work. It was just that fact that this was happening at all that knocked the wind out of you.

He continued to slide you all the way down on his dick. Once you were settled against his lap, ass flush against his thighs, he let you sit there for a minute. You stayed motionless on top of him, just taking in the raw feeling of him tucked inside you.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asked. You looked up at him, at that fucking smile. “Think you can ride it for me?” he said.

You knew he was mocking, and you wanted to say yes, just out of spite. You wanted to push yourself up and bounce on his dick till he was moaning for you just like Satoru had been. But the fact that you could barely find the energy to get any response out told you that wasn’t a realistic possibility. So you shook your head no.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. He tugged you close to him. Your upper body landed against his chest with a small thud. “But that’s ok. You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of it.”

He grabbed your hips and began lifting them up and down on himself with ease. His hips also rocked up into you from below. And you just let it happen like he told you to.

Your eyes drooped close and your grip on his arm became weaker. He was much quieter than Satoru, barely making any noise at all compared to the other man’s near-constant moaning and groaning. But you were quieter this time around too. Maybe it was the lingering effect of Satoru. Maybe your adrenaline was wearing off. But despite the pleasure swirling in your lower half, you felt almost floaty. Your brain felt like it had melted down into a small puddle that was slowly leaking from your ears.

“You’re gonna be a perfect fit around here,” he rasped. The words almost sounded divine, whispered into your ear from the heavens. “You might act up a little at first, but I know how to handle a brat. And you’re already showing how good you can be.”

It got no response out of you. You were in no shape to argue or disagree.

That didn’t matter to him though. He slammed up into you harder, getting a sharp gasp from you.

“I’m gonna have fun getting you to crack,” he said.

At that, you whimpered. If this was how it felt, there was a good chance you’d have fun too.

He kept thrusting up into you, pumping his own cock into your slick hole where Satoru had already spilled himself. You couldn’t keep track of how long it took for him to reach the peak too. Everything was in a fog right now. You heard yourself moaning, felt him fucking into you, but everything was distant. It was possible you came again, but overstimulation gave you a constant high so you couldn’t really tell.

But before you knew it, his breaths became heavier. His chest puffed against you at a quicker rate. His balls smacked against your ass with more force. You turned your face against his chest. You knew the end was near but every sense you had was so overwhelmed you could barely stand it.

He came with a quiet groan. The most noise he’d made the entire time. He fucked the warm fluid into you in the same way Satoru had. Maybe they’d shared someone before.

For a few minutes after finishing, he just sat there basking in the afterglow with you melted on top of him.

But then you felt a cool hand on your back. One that didn’t belong to Sukuna. Your eyes opened to find Satoru next to the both of you.

“Hey, princess. You ready for a nap?” he teased.

You whined and went to shove his face away even though, in truth, the answer was undoubtedly yes.

He just laughed, catching your hand and pulling your arm around his shoulder. Sukuna squeezed your hip before lifting you off of him completely and allowing Satoru to scoop you up like he had before.

“You did good for the first time. Let Satoru help you, and get some rest,” he said. He stood up, reaching for his clothes scattered around the floor.

You didn’t get the chance to say anything before Satoru was walking away with you in his arms. Lazily looking around, you saw he brought you into a small bedroom, just off the alcove next to where you’d been tied up.

He placed you on the bed gently and walked away to grab something. You watched as he grabbed a small towel before returning to you. With gentle hands, he cleaned up the mess between your legs. 

He confused you. Well really, they both did. While he was seemingly the more mean of the two, the one who’d tease and mock, the one who’d pound you into the couch without care for how it affected you, he was also the one coddling you, caring for you as though you were made of glass.

And Sukuna. Apparently he was the rough one, the least tolerant of bullshit, the one who’d threaten you about biting but mark up your neck like he was a wild animal, he’d been relatively gentle while you were on top of him.

It left you with a lot of questions, but you had the mental capacity for none of them right now.

“See, it’s not so bad here,” Satoru said while tending to you. “I’m sure you won’t love it right away, but you really will be a good fit soon enough.”

You stayed quiet at that. Whatever job they had planned for you after having their fun, you didn’t want to know. You couldn’t imagine doing something so polar opposite of everything you stood for. But would you give up your survival if that was the cost of refusing? You weren’t sure.

Soon enough, Satoru had wiped you thoroughly enough. He discarded the towel and smiled down at you for a second. His fingers came out and ran just along the bruise on your eye.

“I’ll bring you some ice for that. Just try to get some sleep for now. When you wake up, I’ll have them bring you some dinner. And we’ll be back to check on you later,” he said with a grin.

You didn’t bother asking who “they” were or where he and Sukuna were going or what they would do next. All would be pointless questions, and all you wanted to do now was sleep. You could think of a different angle for this when you woke up. But for now, you let your eyes close as the main door to the place shut. Vaguely, you heard the lock click into place.

[briefinquiries]

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 1

Tommy Shelby x Reader : Chapter 1

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you've seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby's) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: Seeking a fresh start in Birmingham, you never expected a late-night knock at your door to pull you into the orbit of fa family like the Shelby's. But as you work to save the life of their wounded leader, a buried memory stirs, because this isn't the first time you've stitched up Thomas Shelby.

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Violence, injury, stitching wounds, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, brief PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language.

A/N: I've decided to give a Tommy Shelby x Reader multi-chapter fic a go. Comments / replies are always so appreciated (and motivating). Thanks for reading!

--

Birmingham greeted you with coal-stained skies. The air was thick with smoke and iron, clinging to your skin and settling into your lungs like something you’d never quite cough out. It wasn’t warm, and definitely wasn't welcoming. But then, you hadn’t come here looking for comfort.

You had come for a fresh start.

You stood outside the house, studying it carefully. It was small but solid, tucked on a quiet street away from the chaos of the factories. The bricks were darkened with soot, the windows a bit dusty, but the roof was sound, and the door was sturdy. Nothing fancy, nothing remarkable. Just a house. 

Your fingers tightened around the key, the cool metal pressing into your palm. You turned it over, studying the familiar scratches, the worn edges.

The house had belonged to your uncle, a man you barely remembered. He had been a quiet, reserved man, a blacksmith who kept to himself. You recalled visiting him once as a child, the memory hazy, clouded by time. You couldn’t even remember his face.

He had left Birmingham years ago, moving out to the countryside, somewhere greener, quieter. Then, he had fallen ill. 

About a month ago, a letter arrived. It was short, written in your father’s careful, uneven scrawl. "Your uncle passed away, left the Birmingham house to the family. No other heirs. If you ever need it, the house is yours."

You didn’t think much of it at first. You were busy. Trying to survive in London while out running memories of blood and war. But as the weeks dragged on, as thoughts of the war continued to haunt you, the letter weighed heavier in your mind.

It was an escape… a place to start over.

So you took the key, boarded a train, and came to Birmingham. To this house.

You took a deep breath, the air heavy with smoke and the faint scent of metal. Then, you pushed the key into the lock and turned. The door creaked open, the hinges stiff with age. You stepped inside, the wooden floorboards groaning underfoot.

The air was stale, dust settling in the corners like forgotten memories. The furniture was sparse. In the corner, a worn armchair, a rickety table, a narrow bed in the back room. 

It was yours. And that was more than you’d had in a long time.

You closed the door behind you, leaning against the wood for a moment, eyes drifting shut. The house was quiet, almost peaceful.

You let out a breath. Your fingers brushed over the windowsill, the paint chipped and peeling. This place needed work. A fresh coat of paint, a good cleaning. But that could wait.

For now, you needed to figure out your next steps. You had made it to Birmingham. You had the house. But what now? Where were you supposed to go from here?

Your gaze drifted to the bag by the door, still packed with the few belongings you had brought with you. Clothes, a journal, medical supplies.

You had been trained as a nurse during the war, a healer amidst blood and chaos. You still had the skills, the knowledge. And if you were being honest, you needed work. You couldn’t live off of memories and dust. You needed a purpose.

But the thought of returning to the sick beds, to the blood and the wounds… it made your stomach twist. You had seen enough pain to last a lifetime. Still, healing was all you knew. And despite the memories, despite the nightmares, you were good at it. 

You thought about finding a clinic, a hospital, maybe even a small apothecary. Birmingham was a big city. Surely there was work to be found. 

You just had to keep your past buried. No one needed to know about France, or about the war. They just needed to know you could patch wounds and heal the sick. You took a breath to steady yourself. Maybe you could find work somewhere quiet, somewhere far from the blood and gunfire.

You looked back at the window, watching as smoke curled through the streets outside, people bustling about their business.

You didn’t know anyone in Birmingham. No friends, no connections. Just a house. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe a clean slate was exactly what you needed.

…

The next morning, you set out with a clearer purpose. The air was thick with the scent of damp streets, the sky an endless stretch of gray, pressing low over the city. Birmingham was loud and alive, a mess of bustling crowds, shouting vendors, and the clang of metal from the factories.

You moved through the streets, weaving between workers with soot-streaked faces and women carrying baskets of bread and potatoes. The city had a pulse, gritty and restless.

You weren’t sure where you were going. Not exactly. But you needed to get a feel for the city, to know what work might be available, to see if there was a clinic, a hospital– something that wasn’t a battlefield.

The small apothecary caught your eye first.

The wooden sign creaked in the wind, the glass windows slightly fogged from the warmth inside. Shelves lined the walls, filled with glass bottles of tinctures, jars of dried herbs, and vials of tonics. The familiar scents– lavender, mint, camphor, grounded you in a way you hadn’t expected.

You picked up a small bottle of laudanum, checking the label, when a voice broke through your thoughts.

"Excuse me."

You turned, finding a dark-haired woman watching you with sharp, curious eyes. She was young, but there was something about her– a confidence, an ease, like she was someone who was used to asking questions and getting answers.

"Could you pass me that bottle?" She gestured to a jar on the high shelf just above you towards something amber-colored and thick, labeled in neat handwriting.

You nodded, reaching up and handing it to her. 

"Thanks," she said, turning the bottle over in her hands before glancing back at you. Her eyes flickered over you, assessing. "I’ve never seen you in here before."

Your shoulders tensed instinctively, but you kept your expression neutral.

“Probably because I’ve never been here before. I’m new to Birmingham," you said simply. "Just moved from London."

Her eyebrow arched, her lips twitching with something like amusement. "New, huh?" Her eyes scanned your face again, lingering a little too long, like she was trying to figure out what kind of person you were.

"Yeah," you answered, keeping your tone even. "Looking to get settled in." 

She hummed, clearly unconvinced. "You have family in the area then?”

"Used to. Not anymore. But my…" You paused, choosing your words carefully. "My uncle left me his house. Figured I’d put it to use."

The woman’s brow arched, curiosity flickering in her dark eyes.

"Whereabouts?"

You hesitated again. There was something unsettlingly sharp about her gaze, the way she looked at you like she was putting together a puzzle. But you couldn’t think of a reason not to answer. Not yet, at least.

"Small street. On the quieter side of the city, just east of the factories."

Her eyes flickered with recognition, her mouth curving into a half-smile. "That would be on the edge of Small Heath, then." She hummed, her expression thoughtful. "Not many folks live out that way anymore. It’s mostly warehouses and old workshops."

You nodded. "It’s quiet. Suits me just fine."

"Quiet, yeah," she echoed, her voice dipping slightly. Her eyes flicked back to you, sharp and knowing. "Unless you count the factory whistles, that is."

You offered a faint smile. "I’m hoping I’ll learn how to tune them out."

Her lips twitched. Amused. "Must be quite the change. Birmingham’s not like London."

"No, it’s not," you admitted. 

"What brings you to the shop, then?" Her gaze flicked to the bottle of laudanum still in your hand. "Not feeling well, are you?"

"No," you shook your head, placing the bottle back on the shelf. "Just stocking up. I’m a nurse."

Her eyes flickered with something– curiosity, intrigue, maybe. "A nurse?" She repeated, leaning against the counter, crossing her arms loosely. "That’s rare around here."

You shrugged, trying to keep your posture relaxed. "Figured I’d try my luck."

She studied you a moment longer, her dark eyes tracing your face, her expression unreadable. For a heartbeat, you wondered if she could see right through you.

But then she smiled– a quick, fleeting thing that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I’m Ada, by the way." Her lips twitched with a smirk. 

You introduced yourself, though the way her eyes lingered on you afterward made you feel like she was filing the name away for later.

"See you around."

And then, she was gone, disappearing into the bustle of Birmingham.

The bell above the door jingled softly in her wake. You stood there for a moment, staring after her, trying to shake the unease creeping into your bones.

Something about Ada felt like a warning.

…

By the time you made it home, the sky had darkened, and the city had taken on a different kind of life. The distant hum of music from the pubs, the sharp voices of men laughing and shouting in the streets, the occasional clatter of hooves against cobblestone, all of it filtered through the cracks in the door as you stepped inside.

You locked the door behind you, double-checking the latch before exhaling.

Nights were always the hardest, but routine’s helped keep you steady. 

You lit a candle on the worn table, the dim glow flickering against the bare walls. From your bag, you pulled out a small tin of herbal tea, a habit you had picked up somewhere along the way, one of the few things that had helped keep the worst of the nights at bay.

The kettle on the stove took its time, the soft whistle filling the silence. You let the sound settle into your chest, grounding you, reminding you that you were here, in Birmingham, not back there.

You poured the tea, letting the steam rise, inhaling deeply. Lavender, chamomile. Comforting. Soothing. Familiar.

You let the cup warm your hands as you moved to the small washbasin near the window. With slow, deliberate motions, you wiped the soot and city grime from your face, rinsing away the day. Your fingers traced the edges of old scars, faint but still there, a map of wounds that had long since healed.

You pushed the thought away before it could root too deep.

Back at the table, you took a slow sip of tea and focused on the small, simple details, like the warmth of the cup, the crackle of the candle, the soft creak of the house settling. Something in your chest loosened, just slightly.

You weren’t naive. You knew the night wouldn’t be easy. It never was.

But for now, you had a roof over your head. For now, you were safe. You had to let that be enough. 

…

The days passed in quiet, measured steps.

You had spent most of your time wandering the city, mapping the streets in your mind, feeling out where you might fit. Birmingham was a city of industry, of labor, of men and women working themselves to the bone. It was restless, alive, always moving.

Finding work, however, had proven more difficult than expected.

You had stopped by a few places– a small clinic near the factories, an apothecary that looked like it could use an extra set of hands. But while people were always in need of medical help, no one seemed keen on hiring a stranger.

You filled your time with small tasks, simple things to make the house feel like your own.

The place had been untouched for years, and it showed. Dust lingered in the corners, the air had been stale, the furniture old and impersonal. You scrubbed the floors, aired out the rooms, patched the curtains that were fraying at the edges. Little by little, it started to feel less like a stranger’s house and more like yours.

You found an old wooden trunk buried in the bedroom closet, filled with relics from your uncle’s past. A few books, a rusted pocket watch, a small collection of letters yellowed with age.

You didn’t know what to do with them, so you stacked them neatly in the corner. Some part of you felt strange throwing them away.

The work kept your hands busy, your mind occupied. And at night, when the city quieted and the memories tried to creep in, you stuck to your routine. Tea. Candlelight. Wash the day away.

You set the steaming cup of tea onto the worn wooden table, the candlelight flickering as the night settled around you.

The routine had become a comfort, a way to quiet your thoughts before bed. You dipped the cloth into the basin, dragging it across your skin in slow, measured strokes, rinsing away the day’s grime, the lingering scent of smoke and iron from the city streets.

The house was silent, peaceful, save for the distant hum of Birmingham outside– the occasional shout from a passing drunk, the distant bark of a dog, the clang of metal from the factories that never truly slept.

And then– A knock. 

Not just a knock. A frantic pounding at your door.

Your body tensed instantly, the cloth slipping from your fingers, landing with a soft splash in the basin.

Three sharp knocks. They were urgent– desperate.

You froze, heart hammering, staring toward the door.

For a brief, foolish moment, you considered ignoring it. Letting whoever it was move on, letting them assume you weren’t home. But then you heard another slew of frantic knocks before moving quickly across the room, your bare feet silent against the wooden floor.

You unlatched the lock and pulled the door open. A woman stood on the doorstep, wild-eyed, breathless, her coat slightly askew.

You didn’t recognize her. Her face was sharp, lined with experience, her eyes fierce and intelligent. She looked like a woman who was used to being listened to.

"You’re the nurse?" she demanded.

You blinked, the urgency in her voice rattling you.

"What–"

"No time for questions." She said sternly. “Are you a nurse or not?”

You nodded blankly. 

The woman reached forward, gripping your wrist. "Someone’s dying. You need to come. Now."

Your stomach twisted. You could have said no. You should have said no.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed your medical bag, stepped out into the cold night air, and followed the woman into the dark.

The woman dragged you down the darkened streets of Birmingham, her grip firm as you struggled to match her pace. The cobblestones were slick with the night’s dampness.

"Who are you?" you asked breathlessly, glancing at her from the corner of your eye.

"Not important," she shot back, barely sparing you a glance. "What matters is that someone is hurt, and you’re the only nurse in the bloody area who can help."

That should have made you stop. It should have made you pull away, demand more answers. But something in the woman’s tone, the raw urgency, made your feet keep moving.

"What happened?" you pressed.

"Beaten within an inch of his life," she answered curtly. "Needs stitching, stabilizing. And we can’t take him to the hospital."

That last part made your stomach turn. "Why not?"

The woman finally looked at you then, a sharp, assessing glance that made your breath hitch. "Because hospitals ask too many questions," she said. 

You didn’t argue, though unease curled in your gut. You weren’t completely stupid. You knew the type of folks who avoided hospitals were typically the ones who had reasons to stay in the shadows. The kind who couldn’t afford questions, who didn’t want records or police involvement.

The woman led you to an imposing brick manor, its dark windows towering above like watchful eyes. It stood apart from the grime and chaos of Birmingham, looming at the end of a quiet street, a stark contrast to the soot-stained buildings you’d grown used to.

The iron gate creaked as she pushed it open, the path leading to the heavy front door lined with manicured hedges and polished stone. Inside, the air was cooler, cleaner, but no less suffocating. 

The woman moved swiftly, her heels clicking against the gleaming floor as she led you through grand hallways, past rooms with plush armchairs and dark, heavy drapes. Without a word, she led you up a winding staircase, her posture rigid, her pace quick. She stopped outside a heavy wooden door, turning to you with sharp, dark eyes.

"In here."

Your eyes adjusted to the dim lantern light, and that was when you saw him. A man lay slumped on top of a bed, his head lulled to the side limply, his body battered and broken. The white of his shirt was soaked through with crimson, his face barely visible beneath the swelling and bruises. He was surrounded by about eight other men– all cross talking and hovering. 

"Jesus Christ," one of the men muttered when he saw you, his voice heavy. “Who the hell is this, Polly? Thought you said you were getting help.”

"Get out." The woman– Polly’s voice cut through the room like a blade. Firm. Absolute. 

Most of them hesitated, but then they obeyed. Filing out into the hall with murmurs and glances, leaving only the one who had questioned you behind. 

She turned to you. "Fix him."

You swallowed, stepping closer, taking in the damage. The man, whoever he was, had been worked over with brutal precision. Deep cuts, swollen bruises, a gash at his temple still bleeding sluggishly. His breathing was uneven, shallow.

"I– I don’t know if I have the right supplies… He’s burning up," you murmured, pressing the back of your fingers against the man’s clammy skin.

"I can assure you that you will be compensated more than fairly if you help him," Polly said firmly.

The weight of her words settled between you like an unspoken challenge. You hesitated only a second longer before nodding, rolling up your sleeves and pressing your fingers to his pulse. Weak. But still there. 

You set your medical bag down. "I need clean water and more light, if you have it. And someone needs to hold him still."

The same man stepped forward immediately. "I got ‘im."

Polly exhaled. “I’ll get the water.”

You nodded once, then got to work.

You dropped to your knees beside the man and started taking inventory of his injuries. The most pressing issue was the bleeding. He had several deep gashes– one above his brow had sent blood streaming down his face, coating his cheek in dark red smears, another along his abdomen was deep and oozing. His ribs were bruised, possibly cracked, his breathing shallow and uneven.

His hands were scraped raw, the skin around his knuckles split open, he had fought back. But judging by the state of him, whoever he fought had won.

"I need whiskey," you said, peering towards the man, now lingering towards the end of the bed. "A lot of it."

He let out a grunt of approval before moving toward a shelf in the corner.

You reached for a clean cloth, dousing it with whatever antiseptic you had on hand, and pressed it firmly to the gash on the unconscious man’s head.

He flinched, his whole body tensing. Still fighting, even now. You murmured something low and instinctive. "Easy. You’re alright. Just hold on."

You focused on stitching the worst of the wounds, steadying your hands, ignoring the shake in your breath. 

The man with the whiskey stepped forward, dropping a bottle onto the table beside you with a dull thud.

"This for you or for him?" he asked dryly.

You didn’t glance up as you poured some onto a clean cloth, pressing it to a particularly deep wound along the unconscious man’s ribs.

He tensed, but didn’t wake.

"Both, probably," you muttered, shaking your head.

The man let out a short chuckle just as Polly returned with a basin full of water and a stack of clean cloths. She kicked the door shut behind her before carefully setting it down beside you. 

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked.

You exhaled slowly, stepping back to assess your work. "If the fever doesn’t take him."

Another silence. Then Polly nodded once, as if that was good enough.

"He’ll make it," the man muttered, rubbing his jaw. 

You weren’t so sure.

You took a step back, rubbing your sore fingers against your skirt, trying to wipe away the lingering dampness of blood. It had taken several hours– careful, grueling hours, to stitch and clean each wound, to stabilize his breathing, to keep him tethered to life.

The man in front of you was alive, but for how long was still uncertain.

"He needs rest," you said once you were finished. "No movement, no stress. Keep him warm, keep his wounds clean."

Polly nodded. But her sharp gaze lingered on you, like she was trying to see past your words, past your face, past whatever you were trying to conceal.

You held her gaze for half a second before shifting your focus back to your bag, checking your supplies, steadying your hands.

"You’ve done this before," she said suddenly.

You hesitated. Not long. But long enough for the moment to stretch. "Yes."

"In a hospital?"

"No."

Another silence.

Then she asked, “Where?”

But before you could respond, the door swung open.

"Told you she could help," a familiar voice announced.

You turned toward the sound to see the woman from the apothecary. Ada. Your stomach twisted slightly as you realized how this family had even found you.

She looked concerned, but unfazed by the scene in front of her, the gore, the man slumped on the bed, the piles of bloody, used gauze. She just strode in, coat draped over her shoulders, sharp eyes flicking from you to the unconscious man.

"Will he be alright?" she asked.

Before you could answer, the man spoke first. "He’s Tommy fucking Shelby. He’s bloody tough is what he is, ‘course he’ll be alright.”

The name made you pause. Your heart stuttered in your chest, and your eyes flickered back to the man on the bed. Thomas Shelby.

You knew that name. But from where?

You looked at him again, really looked at him– past the bruising, past the swollen eye and the split lip.

There was something… familiar. Like a ghost creeping at the edges of your mind.

And then, it hit you.

From France– from the trenches, from the cold earth and suffocating dark. 

From the tunnel collapse.

Your mind reeled, the memory creeping in like a ghost, unbidden, unwelcome. You could still see it– the flickering oil lamps barely cutting through the darkness, the stench of blood and damp soil thick in the air. The cries of the wounded had blurred together into one endless, agonizing sound, but somehow, over all of it, you had heard his voice.

Thomas Shelby had been one of the lucky ones, dragged out of the tunnel collapse, barely breathing, covered in dust and blood, muttering things under his breath that no one could understand.

You had been the one to sit with him for hours while you waited for help. You pressed a cloth to his forehead, wiped the dirt from his wounds, checked for broken bones. You had been the one to sit beside him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. And you had been there when he woke up later on in the infirmary.

His blue eyes had been dazed, unfocused. He had blinked up at you, confused, disoriented, barely clinging to the present.

"You’re alright," you had murmured, your voice calm, steady, the same tone you had used on countless soldiers before him.

He had just stared at you, breathing raggedly, his chest rising and falling in shallow movements.

Then, a whisper. The words were barely audible, slipping through cracked lips like a prayer, or a curse. "Still here, then."

“Yeah,” you responded. “You’re still here.” 

Then, his gaze flickered, just for a moment. "And so are you."

It had startled you then, that he had remembered you. In the chaos, in the dark, you had been just another nameless pair of hands keeping him from slipping away. But he had remembered.

Your fingers clenched around the bloodied cloth still in your hand. You forced yourself to move, to step back from him, to push away the ghosts that clawed at the edges of your mind.

"You’re not leaving, are you?" Ada’s voice cut through the thick silence, sharp and knowing.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus on the present. "I’ve done all I can," you murmured, more to yourself than to them. "If he makes it through the night, he’ll live."

The man huffed. "And if he doesn’t?"

You didn’t answer. Because you had seen enough men slip away in the dead of night, their bodies giving out long after their minds had fought to stay.

You didn’t want to see another.

Polly, who had been watching you closely, exhaled through her nose, as if making a decision. “Stay the night. Watch over him. I’ll double your payment."

Your eyes flickered to hers. Calculating. Appraising.

A pause stretched between you.

Then, finally she sighed, “Triple."

“Jesus, Pol,” the man said. 

“Quiet, Arthur–” she snapped. 

They were desperate– his family, you had to assume. And how could you say no? They were begging in the language they knew, money. 

“Triple is robbery. Double is fair,” you replied with a sigh. 

Polly’s sharp gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before she gave a small nod, seemingly satisfied.

"Okay then," she said.

Ada exhaled beside her, arms crossed over her chest, watching you with something unreadable in her dark eyes. 

The man– Arthur, then took another swig from the bottle of whiskey and muttered, "Fucking hell, he’d better wake up after all this."

You turned back to the man lying unconscious on the makeshift bed, his face still swollen, barely recognizable under the deep bruising. His breathing was still shallow, his body eerily still except for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

You reached for the cloth and basin of water that Polly had brought earlier, wetting the rag and dabbing gently at the dried blood along his jawline.

"We’ll be downstairs if you need anything," Polly said after a moment. "Ada, come on."

Ada hesitated briefly, her gaze flickering between you and Tommy, before she gave you a slight nod and followed her out of the room.

Arthur lingered. He stood by the bed, arms crossed, watching as you continued to clean the remnants of violence from Thomas’ face. "You know, when Pol said she was getting help, I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about," he admitted, voice gruff. 

You didn’t look up, just kept your focus on pressing the damp cloth to the dried blood along his jawline.

Arthur exhaled through his nose, rubbing his face briefly before nodding toward you.

"But… thanks. For saving my brother."

You finally glanced up, finding something genuine in his gaze. You just nodded. A quiet acknowledgement.

Arthur lingered for a beat longer before muttering, "Right then."

Then he turned and strode toward the door, disappearing into the hallway, leaving you alone.

Next Chapter >>

[thechaoticcherub]

Super touch deprived dbf Joel in forced proximity to reader? She has to sit on his lap in the car or share a tent while camping etc!? Love your writing so much!! X

Hi! Thanks so much!!!!

I got stuck on this one so much but I think it turned out besides it being kinda ramble-y. Please enjoy!

LMAO i totally missed the DBF part of this. I hope you like anyway!

Cumulonimbus

Pairing: Touch starved!Joel x Reader

Summary: You and Joel get stuck out in the woods while on patrol because of a storm.

Warnings: 18+ please, age gap, P in V sex, handjobs, camping, touch starved Joel, Joel apologizes a lot, UNEDITED, Daddy kink(only near the end), size kink, cum play, cum eating, creampie

Word Count: 3.5K

Notes: I'm terrible at editing, I just wanted to get this out there lmao. enjoy!

🎀👼🏻Home | Ask | Masterlist👼🏻🎀

You were already supposed to be back in Jackson, it was supposed to be a one day patrol shift for your first time out but a thunderstorm had gotten you and Joel all turned around and night had fallen. There was no point in trying to keep going in the dark and downpour so you set up to camp overnight. To your relief, Joel had a tent packed in one of his saddle bags and you tied up the horses while he worked on setting it up. 

The day had been mostly silent, which was typical for Joel, but you had tried your best to fill some of the silence with your own brand of sweet questioning. About the area surrounding Jackson, asking for tips on riding horses, wondering if Joel liked going out on patrol, to which he answered, ‘usually’ with a significant look at you. You caught his drift but you also caught the smirk on his face as he looked away. So as the afternoon went on you felt comfortable asking about the thick, dark clouds forming overhead and if they meant a storm or if it was just normal clouds. 

“I mean…I think they’d need to be like cumulonimbus clouds if it was goin’ to storm and these look too uhhh sparse to be um, storm clouds.” he said, sounding completely clueless. You looked up at the piles of dark clouds in the sky and raised your eyebrow. “Shit, I ain’t an expert.” he snapped, kicking his horse to get her moving again. Twenty minutes later it was pouring rain, you were soaked and already shivering. 

“Not cumulonimbus, eh?” You called over to Joel, he glared at you. 

Now he was letting out a stream of swears as he worked on getting the tent set up and you came back from the canopy of trees where you had tied the horses to give them a little cover. 

“Grab that end of the tarp there, help me get it over the top,” He said to you over the steady sound of the rain. You picked up the end he indicated and you both shook some droplets off of it before covering the top of the tent which was small, barely big enough to stand in but at least it would provide some respite from the rain. Joel went to the horses and came back with his pack that had been tucked in the saddle back, huddled over it to try and protect it from the rain. He unzipped the tent and chucked it in there. 

“Come on, let’s try and get dry,” he said. You watched as he ducked underneath the tarp that jutted out a bit from the actual tent, providing some shelter and untied his boots, toeing them off before stepping all the way into the tent. You followed suit. Joel had to duck his head slightly inside the tent but you could stand up straight. It was a small space inside. Once you both were in there, there was barely a foot of space between the two of you at any given time. 

You shivered, your teeth chattering as you stood by the entrance, dripping wet. Joel was already stripping off his jacket and then his flannel, laying them both in the corner of the tent, taking up more room and making things feel even smaller. Your eyes caught on him and you couldn’t force them away as he started to pull the black t-shirt he had on under the flannel up and off of his body. 

You had been attracted to Joel for a while, ever since you had first come to Jackson and met the gruff, older man but now you were alone on patrol with him, in a too small tent and he was stripping out of his clothes. 

You were frozen in place, unsure if you could stop staring at him, or move your arms away from being crossed over your body, keeping any body heat that was left as close as he could. Joel glanced over his shoulder, sitting your chattering teeth and the way your lips may have been starting to go blue. 

“Take that wet stuff off,” He instructed, maybe he sensed your hesitation because he turned away from you. “Nothin’ I aint seen before,” He said as he undid he belt buckle. You swallowed and then stripped yourself of your jacket and shirt, making sure to lay them out so they were in a pile that would never dry at all. You heard the shift of denim and knew Joel was taking his jeans off, you followed suit so you were finally just in your underwear and old tank top that was thankfully not soaked all the way through. You were still shivering but at least there weren’t cold, soaked clothes rubbing against your skin anymore. 

When you turned back around, Joel was knelt over his pack, pulling stuff out. First two compression sleeping bags and with a jolt you realized he packed one for you and you hadn’t even considered packing something like that just in case. 

Then a water bottle, his gun, a knife, and a bag that had beef jerky and crackers in it. You were shivering so badly you could barely think of anything else. Joel rolled out the two sleeping bags, with your piles of wet clothes, both of you standing there and the two sleeping bags, there was no room in the tent anymore. Joel looked back at you and he almost dropped the water bottle that was still in his hand. 

You watched his eyes flick down your body, and despite how frigid you were, a spark of heat ignited in your belly. “You can get in your sleepin’ bag, kiddo,” he said. The sound of the rain on the plastic of the tent was loud and you felt overwhelmed with cold, tiredness and something more so the words spilled out of you before you could stop them,

“Can we put our sleeping bags together and sleep close? I’m going to freeze to death otherwise,” You said. You watched Joel’s Adam’s apple bob at your suggestion and you caught his eyes glancing to your chest. A weird mix of arousal and shame stoked the tiny spark in your navel when you realized your nipples were hard, poking out of the thin tank top you were wearing. 

Joel cleared his throat, blinking and quickly looking away from you, “Oh…uhh yeah might be a good idea,” He went about opening up one of the sleeping bags, laying it out on the ground and then opening the other one to go on top as a blanket. You were still for a moment and he looked at you again, “Go on,” He nodded to the blankets and you scrambled over, sank down on one of the sleeping bags and pulling the other up and over. 

Joel went about laying out his gun, his knife, the food and water within arms reach of the sleeping bags. It looked to you like he was avoiding joining you even though it was so cold out there and there was no way he was comfortable. 

“Joel,” You breathed, looking over at him. He glanced around towards you and again you were struck with how good he looked in just his boxers. He was broad through his chest and shoulders, he had muscular arms and a soft belly. You were shocked by how attracted you were to an older guy. Your eyes swept lower, taking in the dark, course hairs peppered with grey and white that led from his belly button and disappeared into his boxers. “Come get warm,” You finished and you watched him swallow. Joel edged closer to the sleeping bags and finally knelt down peeling down the top layer of sleeping bag. Chill crept in, causing your skin to erupt in goosebumps, your nipples tightened even more. Joel crawled in and you immediately felt his body heat sweep over to you under the blanket. 

He settled down as far as he could from you while still being entirely under the blanket. You could still feel his heat and his presence so close. Your heart rate ticked up and you found yourself longing to reach out to him. 

Joel was so aware of your body so close to his it almost hurt. It had been so long since he had touched anyone and now you were both under one blanket, attempting to keep warm and he could smell your skin so close. You scooted closer and looked up at him, there was something in your eyes burning, and it was mirrored back in his. He knew that he shouldn’t do what he wanted to do, he knew that you were too young for him and that he was just a sad, touch starved old man who would do anything just to feel you. But you were moving closer to him, you were looking up at him with eyes that seemed to say, ‘please, touch me, Joel.’ but maybe that was just his hopes. 

Your breath hitched as Joel moved his hand up, towards the side of your face. He paused his movements as he heard your breath. Joel’s hand hovered just above your cheek, not touching you, the heat from his skin radiating from his fingers down onto your cheek. You were longing for it, the slightest touch but he seemed so hesitant. You wanted to reassure him, to tell him that he could touch you however he wanted but the words were lost in your throat. 

The heat under the blanket was so comforting, the sound of the rain outside was lulling you both into a feeling of security, Joel’s fingers finally made contact with your cheek, skin against skin. Course fingertips caressing soft cheek. Joel sucked in a breath at the feeling. He had forgotten how warm and soft women were, so different from him, so inviting. And you. You were particularly warm, particularly soft, particularly sweet, like a cinnamon roll. Or what Joel remembered of cinnamon rolls. He wanted to taste you. His hand against your cheek wasn’t enough. His thumb grazing along the skin of your cheekbone wasn’t fulfilling enough. 

He wanted both hands on you, lips on you, he wanted his taste to mingle with your taste. He wanted to be drunk on skin to skin. Joel let out the breath he had been holding, the scent of him washing over you. He cupped your face and then reached up with his other hand and cradled your face, unable to keep his hands off of you now that he’s touched you. You leaned in towards him, looking up into his eyes and then you heard him whisper,

“Fuck,” Under his breath, he said it like it was an admission of guilt, like it was release of pressure. Like a sudden wave across still water he swept over you and his lips attached to yours. Your heart rocketed into your throat, your hands flew to his sides and you tugged him into you. Joel kissed you deeper, his mouth opening, addicted to your taste, addicted to the feel of you already. 

“I’m sorry,” he said between kisses, “I’m so sorry,” his lips brushing yours as he spoke. You shook your head, trying to make sure he knew there was nothing to apologize for. He let out a moan, as if he hated himself but couldn’t contain it anymore. You ran your hands up his sides, feeling his skin under yours. 

Joel broke away from your lips, pressing his forehead into yours, “I…I shouldn’t do this,” He spoke so softly, you could barely hear him, but his kiss had ignited something in you, something that wasn’t going to be extinguished by his stupid guilt. 

“Why not?” you asked, grabbing his hand and pulling it up your body towards your chest. His muscles flexed, trying to stop his hand. Joel looked pained, he shook his head, 

“Because you’re…” he couldn’t finish, you had dragged his hand over your breast and he let out a shaky breath. “You’re just a baby, you don’t know-“ he tried to finish but your lips crashed into his and you kissed again. Joel’s hand flexed over your breast and you pressed your chest up towards him. 

“Shut up, Joel.” you said. He ignored that, still pressing his forehead against yours as his hand touched your breast. You craned your neck and pressed your lips into his, trying to convince him by kissing him. He kissed you back and you felt his thumb start to stroke over your nipple. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, “I need it, darlin’ He mumbled and grabbed the hem of your tank top. It was like he was giving in, his body was forcing him to give in. You were so beautiful, so soft and you were practically begging for it. You helped him pulled your tank top off up over your head, throwing it out of the sleeping bag and Joel’s eyes fell to your breasts.

“God, Darlin’, you’re so fuckin’-“ He cut himself off by cupping your tits in both hands, thumbs still stroking over your hardened nipples, “i’m sorry,” He said again. Joel shook his head, and you reached up and stroked his hair back, looking up at him while he gazed down at your bare breasts. “Beautiful,” He breathed out, his thumb and forefinger pinching. That spark in your belly that had been ignited by him stripping burned brighter and lower, heating your sex. Your brow furrowed in pleasure and you sighed and nodded. 

“Don’t stop, Joel.” You whispered and he groaned. 

“Not goin’ to, baby,” he breathed, kissing your cheek and then your chin, jaw and neck, spreading warmth all throughout your skin. You rolled on top of him and Joel let out a groan, “Oh god, alrigh’ baby, you want it?” He asked as you pressed your hips into his, feeling his crotch pressed into yours. 

“Yes,” You breathed. It was happening so suddenly but you desperately wanted him and it was clear how badly he needed it. You could feel his cock hardening in his boxers, pressing into you. You rocked your hips forward again and he groaned. You reached down towards the waistband of his boxers and pulled on it, your fingers were trembling so it snapped back down against his tummy. Joel groaned again, his brows pinching together, you giggled at his reaction but then tucked your hand into his boxers and finally got your hand around his cock. 

It was stiff and big, your fingers wrapped around the base and you stroked it, following its length down  towards his tip. 

“Oh god,” he moaned. “Baby, you do that so good,” he breathed into your cheek, placing a kiss there. You started to stroke him more earnestly, squeezing around the head, your finger stroking over the slit, his precum sticking to the pad of your finger. “Jesus Christ, darlin’, you’re too fuckin’ young to know how to do that this well,” He moaned. You giggled again and tugged his boxers down, releasing his cock from the restraints of the fabric. You stroked his cock up and down, relishing the feeling of his thick manhood in your hands. Joel moaned, you watched his eyes roll back and you couldn’t help but giggle more, your fingers tightened more, stroking faster. Joel quickly put his hand over yours,

“St-stop,” he laughed, “I need to feel more of ya and if ya keep touchin’ like that i’m goin’ to come,” He said. Your grin was devilish as it took over your face, part of you wanted to watch him come all over himself but at the same time your pussy was begging for it. 

“Joel, I want your cock,” You said, your voice dripping with fake innocence, you watched a smile spread over his face. 

“Gotta warm ya up first, darlin’” he said his hands reaching to your undies now and tracing along the waistband of your undies this time. You didn’t want to wait, you were already wet, needy and wanting his big cock inside of you. “Can’t jump right in, you’ve probably never-“

“Don’t be dumb, Joel.” You said to him, smirking, his fingers found their way into your undies and stroked once up your slit, feeling how wet you were. His face flashed slight confusion and then he raised his eyebrows at you. 

“You’ve done this before, kiddo?” he asked. You rolled your eyes and he reached up and grabbed the hair on the back of your head, dragging you down to be level with him, his lips hovering near yours. “Be honest,” He breathed. 

“Yes, Joel, I’ve done this before and I need your cock, now.” You whined and rubbed your hips forward, feeling his cock pressed into your underwear clad pussy. Joel reached up and tugged your undies to the side, and you moved up higher on your knees and he lined his cock up against your entrance, the head barely starting to penetrate you. You gasped. He was big. Bigger than you had, had and suddenly you were slightly worried about taking it. You looked down at his face, his brow furrowed, his lip was sucked into his mouth. You let your hips drop some, pushing his cock inside of you, the head seeming to split your lips open and then opening your cunt. 

“Good God,” Joel moaned, feeling your tight heat enveloping him. You let out a whine as you took more and more of him inside of you. He was much bigger than anything you had tried before and you suddenly felt  in over your head but the stretch was so good. You stuttered to  a stop with him halfway inside you, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, guiding himself into you. Your breathing was hard and you rocked your hips forward, trying to grind yourself against him and open yourself up for him. 

“Joel!” You moaned, the stretch, the burn, the fullness was so good. It heated you through and through, you took him deeper and Joel grabbed at your hips. 

“Good girl, that feel good?” he asked. You whined and babbled nonsense, unsure if it felt good or hurt too much. You weren’t used to being on top and being in charge of how much you were taking was overwhelming. “You’re so fuckin’ tight, ’s’been so long since I…fuck! I’m sorry, baby, I need this.” Joel wrapped his arm around your waist and flipped you over so you were on your back, your legs around his waist and his cock plunged farther into you. You gasped in pain and pleasure. 

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry.” Joel moaned, pumping his hips forward, watching the place where your bodies connected as he fucked into you. You could have screamed but you knew that you were out in the woods and you needed to be semi quiet. Joel leaned down over you, stroking your hair back, finally looking into your eyes, “Wishin’ you let me warm you up?” he asked teasingly. You gritted your teeth and shook your head, 

“No,” you gasped, “No, I love it,” You whined and it was true. He pumped his hips faster and nodded as he cupped your cheeks, 

“I know babygirl, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry to need this so fuckin’ bad,” he breathed into you. You tried to shake your head, you tried to do anything to tell him how much you wanted it but you were stupid from how good his cock felt filling you, stretching you and pounding into you. So you let him apologize while he fucked you. You wanted more, more, more but his thrusts were becoming faster, less steady, more needy. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m going to fuckin’ come, I know…I know it’s wrong,” he whispered to you. “I’m so sorry, just…a little…god, please.” Joel pushed your knee up and back, opening you further for him. You were whining, 

“Oh god! God! Please! More!” You said. Joel’s body pressed into you, his cock slamming into  you once more,

“I’m so sorry, darlin’, I need to come in ya,” He said, “I’m sorry! Take Daddy’s come like a good girl,” he breathed and you felt his cock spasm as he came deep inside of you. Joel kept himself inside of you all through his orgasm and then he collapsed against you, pressing as much of his body into you as he could. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, peppering your face with apologetic kisses.

“Joel, stop…stop apologizing,” You mumbled. “I wanted it,” You whispered. Joel pulled his cock out of you and pushed your legs back again to watch his own spend slip out of you. 

“Fuck,” He breathed. “I know you wanted it, but-“ He reached down and stroked his fingers up and down your abused pussy. “I-it’s so wrong how badly I needed it, darlin’,” he whispered. You wriggled and moaned as his fingers stroked over your clit. 

“N-No…I need it too, Daddy.” You said, using the name he had called himself before. Joel smiled almost sadly as his fingers gathered his come on his fingers and brought it to your mouth. You obediently opened your mouth, accepting his fingers. His eyes lit up as you sucked it down. 

“I know, darlin’, you’re naughty, jus’ like your Daddy,” he said. 

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Descriptive Sentences

Description - what an author uses to depict a character, setting, or scene in a way that creates an image in the reader’s mind.

It’s the way that authors bring characters to life and create imaginative settings.

Well-crafted descriptive writing draws readers into the story and provides essential details to propel the action forward.

Tips for Writing Descriptive Sentences

Cut out obvious descriptions. One of the most common traps that new writers fall into is using predictable words to describe something—for instance, writing a sentence like, “The blue sky was dotted with white, fluffy clouds.” For the most part, when someone hears the word “sky,” they’ll picture it blue, and when they picture clouds, they’ll picture them “white” and “fluffy.” Adjectives like these are unnecessary and can bog down your writing. Simply cut those descriptive words out of the sentence. “The sky was dotted with clouds” conjures the exact same image and is shorter and more focused.

Use surprising words. Once your sentences are free of any obvious descriptive details, you have the space to pepper in some more interesting words. Pushing your descriptions in new and surprising directions will help your sentences be memorable for readers. For instance, if you want to describe a rainy day, the easy way to describe it would be to mention “the stormy sky”—but something a little more unique could be “the angry sky” or “the boiling sky.” Brainstorm common adjectives and other describing words and use them in unique ways to keep your writing fresh and interesting.

Remember sensory details. A common adage for good descriptive writing is “show, don’t tell”—and sensory information is a great way to make that happen. Sprinkling in specific details that appeal to readers’ five senses (sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell) will bring your scenes to life and make them feel richer and more interesting.

Make use of figurative language. One of the most powerful literary devices that writers have is figurative language, which goes beyond literal definitions in order to describe things in a more interesting way. Comparisons like similes (using “like” or “as”) or metaphors (saying one thing is something else) can help paint instant pictures of your characters or settings; for instance, “His nose was a gnarled root growing out of his face” can pack a lot more punch than saying “His nose was twisted and misshapen.” Other types of figurative language include onomatopoeia, which uses words that sound like what they mean (e.g., “the pitter-patter of raindrops”), and hyperbole, which is a form of exaggeration (e.g., “he rang the doorbell a million times”).

Think about who is doing the describing. In most points of view, you’ll be writing from a character’s perspective—either using “I” and “me” in first-person or “they” and “them” in third-person. It may not seem obvious at first, but point of view is a descriptive element that can help you build a believable world for your story. To use POV properly, make sure that you’re thinking about your character’s perspective as you describe so that the description feels true to the way they would speak.

Be wary of over-description. To create effective descriptive writing, less is more. Try to limit yourself to one or two interesting details the first time you introduce a character or setting, and readers will fill in the rest. For instance, if you say “The cabin room was sparse except for the looming stuffed grizzly in the corner,” readers can fill in the details for themselves without you needing to describe the floorboards, the windows, the bedsheets, and what your character had for dinner last week. This will help readers remember each character or setting better than if you had an entire descriptive paragraph for each.

Read good examples of descriptive writing. If you start to feel stuck when trying to write vivid description, look up a few of your favorite books or short stories and see how other writers do it. Pay attention to what they do that you like—whether it’s only writing their description in simple sentence structure or making sure that the following sentences include strong action to counteract the description. Then, sit down and try to replicate their tactics in a simple writing activity to see where it takes you.

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