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thinkinonsense · 20 hours

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i just listened to sabrina's new album and oh my god the song slim pickins is such a song that was written from daydreaming about lumberjack!logan, oh and the recent fic that you reblogged was just so yummy and perfect for that song especially the lyrics "a boy who's jacked and nice" like god having to settle down for less because nobody can be him 😭😭😭 need him expeditiously im afraid

it's slim pickins

lumberjack!logan howlett x fem!reader

cw: yearning!! fluff, tiny nsfw conversation (nothing graphic)

a/n: this request couldn't have come in at a better time because i'm seeing sabrina on opening night of her tour tomorrow night!! <3

masterlist

"am i just destined to be alone forever?"

another friday night in the hole in the wall bar outside of town. another date gone horribly wrong. your question hangs heavy in the air as you gossip to your best friend who's bartending tonight.

"you keep picking douche bags." she answers without missing a beat.

"well, that's fuckin' rude." you slur slightly, sipping on your third fruity drink tonight.

"well, it's fuckin' true." she smiles, looking over your shoulder at a group of men that walked in. "why don't you go talk to one of them? they look hot."

you spin around in your stool to see a group of lumberjack workers. these were the men that you worked with, you can't flirt with them.

"i work with those guys!" you hiss.

"sooo...?" she smirks.

both of you quickly end the conversation with the five guys approach the bar. the last thing you needed was for these guys to see the desperate and pathetic look on your face. quickly, you rummage through your purse for some cash to put down.

"what are you doing here, doll face?" a familiar voice asks.

you look up and see the most handsome of the men, in front of you; logan. twice your size, buff, toned, tan... god, you had such a crush on him. never in a million years would you go after him though, he's too good to want a girl like you. you were just a friend. he make small talk with you, laughed at your jokes, calls you little nicknames, and refills the coffee pot for you but thats what friends do, right?

"oh... um, i'm just-"

"she's been sitting here moaning and bitching to me all night about her horrible date." your best friend smiles then introduces herself to logan with a handshake.

"thanks asshole." you mumble under your breath at her, making logan chuckle.

"tough night?" he asks, looking down at you in a way that makes heat rises up your face.

"kinda, but i'll save you all the gory details." you admit, sliding off the tall stool a little ungracefully. "have a good night, logan."

"wait, doll face." he says, grabbing your arm to balance you. "wanna talk about it? i'm sure your friend here is busy."

the alcohol let him take you to one of the booths. all the other men noticed logan and you sitting together, definitely making mental notes to tease you both on monday.

"so, what's on your mind?" logan asks, taking a swig of his beer.

"it's nothing really..." your mouth says one thing but your phone says another; practically buzzing off the table.

"you sure?" he raises a brow.

"uh... yeah?" you sound confused as you peak at the notification. an annoyed groan falls from your lips as you slam the phone back down and sink into the booth. "why? why? why?"

"why what?" he squints.

"be honest, do i have dumbass written on my forehead?" you sigh, hazily looking over at logan. the question threw him off guard; unsure if you're joking or not.

"no." he answers.

" well, i sure feel like one. every guy i've gone out with is either the most obnoxious asshole i've ever met who's still hung up on his ex or he's absolutely perfect but he's just not ready for a commitment right now? what the fuck does that even mean?"

all of your drunk rambling surprised logan. at work, he's only seen your shy personality as you scribble down numbers and log them into spreadsheets. this was a completely different side of you.

"i know what you're thinking, 'why not just try dating a woman?'. well, i fucking would if this town wasn't stuck in the 50's, except the men aren't going to war in order to get away from you, instead they just run back in between their ex's thighs and pull that 'it's not you, it's me' bullshit."

it was getting harder for logan not to crack at your silly yet, adorable expressions as you rant.

"and the worst part is that they can't even get a woman to orgasm." you say a little quieter. logan stores that quote in his pocket for another time. "a few weeks ago, i literally had a man in my bed who didn't know the difference between their, there, and they're! i don't know who's stupider, him for not knowing or me for letting him give me the worst head in my life."

if you were even a little sober, this would be mortifying. sitting in front of your work crush and spilling pathetic details of your love life to him. if you were even a little sober, you would have notice his eyes turn dark and lustful under the dim bar lighting. logan couldn’t fathom that you were having trouble in your love life.

"sounds like it's slim pickins out there."

"you have no idea." you sigh.

"if it makes you feel any better, i don't think that you're stupid."

"you're just saying that to be polite. trust me, everyone thinks i'm an idiot for taking these guys back every time. im just like my mom, my sisters, my friends, and every other girl i know. we make up excuses for their shitty behavior because we are afraid to be alone."

logan could see tears forming in your waterline, about to roll down your cheek. it hurt him to see you so heartbroken over these losers. everyday at work, you came in like a ray of fucking sunshine. you didn't deserve to be treated like this.

"it's not your fault that those asshole don't know how to treat a woman." he sighs, leaning forward in an attempt to comfort you.

"i know, i know..." your voice was cracking and you didn't want logan to see you so vulnerable. suddenly, you rise from the booth. "thanks for listening, logan."

"where do you think you're going, doll face?" he asks, following you out the door.

"should head home." you mumble, pulling up the number of a car service about twenty minutes out.

"let me give you a ride home." he offers. "you've been drinking too much."

it's late, you're exhausted and heartbroken so, you let him help you into his truck. it's kinda old but full of character, like logan.

"what's going on in that pretty head of yours?" logan asks, breaking the silence in the car. "still sad?"

you shrug. "think i'm just going to become a nun."

he tried, he really did, but he had to laugh.

"sweetheart, there's no need to become a nun."

"well, i'm never going to find the man i'm looking for so, might as well join the sisterhood."

"what are you looking for in this dream man?"

logan's question has your eyes wondering over to where his left hand sets on the wheel and his right on thigh. the images of what his hands could do flood your fuzzy mind.

"j-just a good guy who's um, who's kind, jacked... respectful, good with his hands...."

it was shameless, your staring that is. logan worried you might get drool on the car seat, not that he would mind.

"hm... those seem like simple requirements there."

"apparently not." you giggle. "it's fine, though. i'm sure the nuns will be friendly."

"still thinking about joining the 'sisterhood'?" he asks, pulling up to your drive way.

"maybe... i'll give it twenty-four hours and if he doesn't come knocking on my door, i'll just buy a chasity belt and go off the grid with the nuns." your smile warmed his cold bitter heart. "thanks for the ride, lo. i'll see you monday."

as logan watches you fumble with your keys and make your way inside, he fights an internal battle over his feelings. he has had a crush on you since the day the two of you first met. by the end of the week, you had baked him some cupcakes, babbling about how you do this for all the new employees, which was far from the truth he later learned.

you captured his heart. even when he tried to burry his feelings for you, when logan looked at you, his world stood still for a moment. he looked forward to all your silly jokes in the break room or the ridiculous gossip you would tell him when he lingered outside of your office door. he couldn't let you slip away into the arms of another asshole who didn't deserve you.

before logan could comprehend what he was doing, his feet lead him up to your door, knocking twice. the wooden door opened and he knew he made the right decision.

there you were in your light blue and grey plaid pajamas with a cupcake in your hand and vanilla frosting on your bottom lip. logan had never seen you look prettier.

"hey? did i leave something in the–"

in the blink of an eye, logan’s hands reach up to caress your jaw, leaning in until his mouth engulfs yours. the taste of vanilla and alcohol surrounded both of you. forgetting the cupcake in your hand, dropping it to reach up and pull logan closer. kissing him was like drinking a glass of wine after a long day. no more stress or anxiety over anyone else’s bullshit. the two of you gasp against each others lips, catching your breath.

“i could be the good guy, you know?” logan pants, now forever addicted to your taste. “i could be the good guy for you.”

your heart fluttered as you stared up at his pretty hazel eyes, twirling a piece of his hair around your finger. this had to be a very realistic dream, thats the only answer to this.

“you would do that for me, logan?” your delicate voice could bring him to his knees, worshiping the ground you walk on.

“i would do anything for you, honey.” he whispers, leaning back in to kiss you again. maybe your dream guy wasn't as far away as you thought?

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poisonf0rest · 17 hours

Text

The Best Dreams Come in Threes

♱⋅── rafayel x reader x xavier

♱⋅── about: Rafayel and Xavier have always been there for you. One is your fire, your passion, the twin flame to your temper. The other is your light, a guiding beacon, your twin star. So when you have a nightmare, they take it upon themselves to comfort and remind you of their unconditional devotion. Even if it does lead to competition every now and then.

♱⋅── word count: 7.5k (mf...)

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, it's just nasty, threesome, jealousy, somnophilia, oral, pussydrunk boys, breeding kink, double penetration, slight spoilers

♱⋅── a/n: apologies to the two random strangers on the plane that I sat next to when the idea of this fic possessed me. I really, really hope you didn't read anything I was frantically writing down in the midst of me finishing my work report cause that shit was nasty.

art credit and inspiration due to the wonderful @/sakimenz

Lonely star, who do you shine for?

The weight of all your pasts- of all your futures- the guilt and pride you carry will only cause you to collapse, and all that will be left will be an all-consuming black hole.

Your desperation won’t bring your sun back.

Lonely king, don’t you know a kingdom devoid of life is a crown devoid of purpose?

You were the fire that left them, and all you have to show for the betrayal is a drowned memory and a heart wrenched from your chest, a broken promise and a forgotten story.

You’ve changed with each lifetime, but you’ll forever be at the mercy of fate.

And you? You’re the very curse that haunts them.

Claws, so cold they burn, emerge from the darkness before piercing through flesh, tearing through muscle and bone as they dig into your ribcage, dragging you down into the shadows. Drowning, falling. You’re spiraling through lifetimes of failure, lifetimes of pain both your own and not, all while the claws dig closer and closer to your heart, clutching the muscle like a songbird in a cage.

It’s the price, the price you must pay for all this pain you’ve caused, for dooming a star and killing a god.

The clawed hand wraps around your heart, the piercing into the fluttering pulse faster and faster until—

You wake up crying.

A hot trail of tears slides into the pillows, and a sniffle rakes through your body, the sudden movement causing a subtle disturbance to the two forms still sound asleep on either side of you.

Funny, you can’t remember a thing, but there’s a painful throb in your chest. You’ll take another dose of your heart medicine in the morning.

But for now, your bedroom is still dulled by the pale blue moonlight filtering through the curtains, and you’re in no hurry to get out of the warm covers and their embrace.

The nightmares have become routine at this point. You never remember what they are, but you wake up with a sense of fear and dread, as though you can feel the pain all over again. It’s best not to think too much about it.

Taking a deep breath and closing your eyes, you inhale shakily one last time, trying to shake off the looming feeling when the arm around your waist shifts, tugging lightly at your loose sleep shirt before slipping under to massage the skin beneath. You let out a soft sigh, a light shudder going through your body as the gentle hands work away the tension.

“The same?” Rafayel’s words are slurred with sleep and concern, hot breath dancing along the crook of your neck as he props himself up on his elbow. You nod.

Rafayel makes a small, displeased noise before his other arm pulls you closer, his bare chest now flush against your back. The sudden movement forces Xavier, who was once tucked against your shoulder, further away, grumbling at the loss even in his sleep.

His face scrunches, brows furrowed together before the corners of his lips turn downward, and he blindly reaches for you. He eventually finds the curve of your waist, and his hand tightens on the fabric of your shirt as it slides in above Rafayel’s.

A huff, and Xavier buries his face back into your chest, his warm breath tickling you. And then, gentle snores— you should've known better than to think that would be enough to wake him.

Rafayel, still pressed firmly against your back, begins to move, propping his body up just enough to look you in the eyes as he wipes a stray tear from your cheek. "Wanna talk about it, cutie?"

“I… I think you were there, both of you. But it felt lonely, painful.”

Rafayel's face contorts into a worried expression, his hand moves down your cheek, cupping your jaw, and you lean into his warm caress with a sigh.

You place a kiss on his palm. "It's okay, just a scary dream. Nothing real. Nothing to worry about." You repeat it, more to yourself than Rafayel, but his arms wrap around you anyway.

And yet Rafayel looks at you with a deep furrow in his brow, a seriousness you’ve almost never seen on him.

You give him a questioning look, but his lips press to yours in a searing kiss, stealing the air from your lungs. He pulls away only for a second, whispering sweet nothings against your skin before returning his lips to yours, the hand cradling your face slipping down to rest on your hip.

He kisses you softly, gently. First pressing a trail of light, chaste kisses along your jaw, the corners of your mouth, and nose, then moving back to your lips. “We’ll never leave you. We’d tear through every universe, every destiny to get back to you.”

Strange, how Rafayel says it with all the reverence of a vow.

You want to tease him for the sudden declaration, for making all this fuss over a stupid dream, but you never have the opportunity, not when Rafayel's signature smirk settles back onto his lips.

His hand slides down to your thighs, fingers teasing around the band of your sleep shorts, toying, pressing, but never crossing the self-imposed boundary of your clothes. “Unless, you’d prefer it if I proved it to you?”

“Rafayel,” you warn, hoping your narrowed glare would dissuade him.

Of course the man only seems to take that as a challenge, smile widening as you flinch at the cold touch creeping under your shirt. One palm traces up your ribcage, long, nimble fingers rubbing circles against your skin until he brushes the underside of your breast.

You shudder, hissing out another string of curses before turning around so your back is to Rafayel.

Really, you should know better than to think that alone would be enough, and a hot trail of kisses now joins his wandering hands down your shoulder blade. They start innocent enough, sweet, lingering touches along the hem of your shirt, but that quickly changes when Rafayel’s arm under your shirt practically yanks it up, sucking wet, messy kisses into the bare curves of your chest.

Each nip against your sensitive flesh forces the possibility of sleep further and further away, and you resort to distracting yourself with the motionless silhouette of Xavier. Petting through his hair, your rhythm is jolted every time Rafayel decides to leave a mark, nails pulling through Xavier’s locks as you bite your lip on a moan.

You don't miss the curve of his smirk against your skin, and the next kiss is accompanied by a bite, hard enough to elicit a sharp gasp that stirs Xavier. Tense, you scan the blonde's face, but he's nothing if not a heavy sleeper, and he nuzzles further into your touch, still unconscious as his head tucks under yours.

You don't get to sigh in relief. Instead, a whine builds in your throat, the wet heat of Rafayel's teeth tugging on the strap of your underwear as he fists your sleep shorts down.

"Rafayel, stop it,” you hiss as his hot breath hits the already embarrassingly damp center of your underwear.

His smile grows, lips brushing against your clothed core as he tilts his head. “Hmm? But you don’t sound like you want me to stop. And she certainly doesn’t sound like it either.” Two fingers dip under the band, and he parts your cunt with a lewd click.

Your face flushes in embarrassment, refusing to acknowledge just how easily your body gives in to them. One hand leaves Xavier, roughly fisting into Rafayel’s curls as he groans from the sharp pressure. “That’s because you and Xavier refused to wear protection!”

The accusation earns a hushed laugh, his shoulders shaking against the insides of your thighs. It would have been innocent, the same contagious sort of smile gracing Rafayel’s face, if not the shadows cast across his face in the dark, teeth gleaming like fangs as he traces his tongue up the entire length of your clothed cunt.

"M’sorry, we thought you'd enjoy the mess," he says, words muffled over your thighs, nose practically buried in between. "How can I make it up to you, cutie?”

You don’t get a chance to respond, not when Rafayel’s tongue dives into your clothed cunt, moaning against the soaked fabric as you gasp and force him closer by his hair. To muffle his sounds, you tell yourself. A pathetic lie considering how much louder he gets now, nose grinding up against your clit as his tongue tries to press into your fluttering cunt even with the barrier of cloth in between.

God, he’s addicted, and it doesn’t take long until Rafayel’s spit and your slick soak through your underwear, the near-translucent fabric sticking to your lips as the bare minimum friction nearly drives you insane.

“Say it,” Rafayel whines, nuzzling his face against your inner thigh. “Please, just tell me how badly you want me. Tell me, and I’ll do anything you ask.”

Like he wouldn’t already.

But how could you ever deny him when he begs so sweetly?

Your palm cups his face, watching his near-wrecked expression and flushed skin tremble beneath your fingers. “I’m yours, Rafayel.”

And the fabric is ripped into pieces.

Refusing to even breathe, Rafayel places an opened-mouth kiss on your cunt, lapping up your slick with the most satisfied moan. He doesn't waste any time, not while your confession coated his mind with the sweetest type of intoxication, eating you out like he was depraved.

He might as well have been with how he moans, hips grinding desperately against the edge of the mattress, his not-entirely human tongue curling in and out of you as it writhes with terrifying accuracy against your walls.

It feels too good to be ashamed of the noises you make, gasping and crying out until you slam your palm over your mouth, biting down hard as the other claws into Rafayel’s hair. You can barely control yourself, half fighting to squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure, half rocking your hips up and down his face as you jerk him closer.

“Mhm, greedy.” Fucked-out, broken little grunts leave his throat before his words are muffled into your cunt, not baring to part for even a breath. “Pull on it, please. Harder.”

You tug Rafayel’s hair almost in vengeance when he purposefully kisses away from where you need him most, licking and sucking obscenely into your thighs just to hear your frustrated cries even over your hand.

He loved being used like this, so long as it was you.

So long as it was him that turned you into such a beautiful, pathetic mess.

It's not long until Rafayel pulls you close to the edge, nose pressing against your clit while thrusting his tongue into you, eyes rolling back from the taste and from the thought of your tight heat fluttering around his cock instead.

And then, he stops, pulling away and leaving you gasping into the tear-stained pillow.

You bite back a sob, releasing only a choked little noise that has Rafayel's eyes flicking up to your face, the soft, concerned look in his eyes melting into something far more dangerous.

With viciously dilated pupils and your slick dripping from his mouth, Rafayel stares you down as every inch the dangerous siren the legends claimed him to be. He smiles, tongue raking over his teeth as though he couldn’t get enough of your taste, and you swear you’d let him eat your heart and soul. Gods, you’d let him eat you whole.

You realize you must have made a sound, because Rafayel hushes you, pressing quick kisses to your knee. "Aw, what happened to being quiet? Aren't you afraid we'll wake the poor sleeping bunny?"

At the mention of your other partner, you turn to where Xavier’s nuzzling his face further into your side, each warm breath damp against your feverish skin, still lost to the realm of dreams.

Not that Rafayel allows your attention to turn away from himself for too long.

He leans over Xavier, the hand that wasn’t supporting his weight cupping your face, and his lips are crashing into yours with all the viciousness of a summer seastorm. Your lips part, and Rafeyel fucks his tongue into your mouth the same he did your pussy, wet and desperate, the taste of yourself enough to make you dizzy.

"Tell me,” Rafayel’s tone dips into something darker, kissing down your throat and stomach as he eyes Xavier. “Who’s the better lover?"

Xavier's fingers flex, the tips brushing against the curve of your breast as he sleeps, and Rafayel's smile is almost predatory.

"D-don't ask stupid questions you dumb fish," your voice cracks as Rafayel's mouth ghosts over your cunt, teeth bared to your thigh, threatening to bite. "I chose you both."

The confession, as expected, doesn't please him. If anything, he seems overly offended, pouting and huffing a cold breath of air right against your aching core. The chill makes you squirm, trying to force him back to your center with the grip you have on his hair.

"No. Nope. That's not an answer."

"Raf–"

His name breaks off in a moan, sound ripped from your throat as Rafayel's thumb starts rubbing firm circles around your neglected clit. He doesn't relent, the pressure too much, too quick, your body already trembling from the pleasure Rafayel knows how to torture you with.

Only, it seems that all your sudden noise and movement have finally begun to affect Xavier. Not enough to wake him, but enough that you can hear his breathing become heavier, following your every twitch and buck from Rafayel’s onslaught as his body begins to grind into yours.

Mumbling into your neck, Xavier’s hand tightens around your waist before slipping under your shirt to palm your breasts, squeezing and kneading until the touch has you keening.

Xavier's still fast asleep, nonsensical words slurred against your skin, and yet his body is now far from it. His erection is thick and heavy against your hips, grinding desperately into your warmth almost in time to Rafayel’s ministrations, whimpering under his breath with every forceful thrust.

Rafayel notices too, his gaze drifting up to the blond. You can't see his face, already busied between your legs once more, but a pleased hum vibrates through his entire body, fingers finally slipping into your cunt as he curls them just right, your back arching off the sheets with a silent scream.

Xavier whines at your sudden thrashing, tugging you closer and unknowingly forcing you immobile and at complete mercy to Rafayel’s unfairly skilled fingers. "Mhm, so warm. Please, m’want to..." Another needy, slow grind against you follows his sleepy request.

"Rafayel," you choke out a muffled plea, but his eyes only narrow, taking a breath as his free hand grabs at Xavier's ass, the touch just light enough to tease and make him rut harder against you.

"What is it, cutie? Don't pretend like you don't want more, not when your pretty pussy's drooling for his cock. She’s so needy, am I not enough?”

Rafayel rests his head on the inside of your thigh, fingers thrusting roughly into that sweet spongy spot inside you just as his other hand wraps around the base of Xavier's cock through his boxers, thumbing over the pre-cum staining the dark fabric.

You're forced to bite down on the pillow beneath your head to stop the desperate cry tearing itself out of your throat. "This isn’t- ah- isn’t right."

"Isn't it? You’re dripping and the little bunny’s still asleep, yet look how desperate he is, rutting against you." Rafayel's voice dips, a raspy edge from his throat still fucking into you making it even more sinful, slurping everything you give him around his fingers before it drips down his wrist and into a puddle below. A huff, “I should get rewarded with how much effort I’m putting in.”

You cry out, legs trembling as his thumb begins its relentless attack on your clit, tracing mindless circles just random enough to keep you on edge. You're close, and Rafayel can feel it.

Xavier isn’t faring much better, whimpering a string of incoherent pleas into the crook of your neck as his hips keep rocking into the fist around him. He doesn't take his mouth away from the skin of your shoulder, biting down on it as he cums, shuddering and whimpering as the mess splatters down Rafayel's knuckles and onto your thighs.

“You’re next. If you won’t be honest with me, I’ll make your body is.” Rafayel’s taunt is the last coherent thing you remember before you come. Hard. His words ring against your skull as his fingers pump into you faster, and the pressure against your clit becomes almost unbearable, and you're falling apart, crying and thrashing, the only thing keeping you grounded is the feeling of Rafayel's weight and the scent of Xavier's strawberry shampoo, and then—

Rafayel finally shuts up to let you ride his face through your high, letting you use him as your thighs lock around his head, grinding desperately as though he were no more than a toy. No chance of breathing, no chance of escape.

Not that he could care less, not as long as he could keep his lips around your gushing cunt, humming and sucking into your release as cum sprays over his tongue and down his chin. Gods, he could never get enough of this.

You're still shaking through your orgasm, pliant and stupid from the dizzying pleasure, that you don't notice the rustle of sheets until a second pair of hands slide down your thighs.

"You’re doing this without me?"

Xavier’s voice is a whisper, husky from sleep and his orgasm as he presses a kiss right below your ear, fingers squeezing rougher against your breasts.

"S-sorry. Didn't want to wake you," you try, biting back a gasp when his thumb flicks over a nipple. Rough. Mean.

Rafayel snorts. "I think it's a bit too late for that.” A glare at Xavier over your leg, showing off your cum still dripping from his lips and fingers. ”Besides, I didn't need you."

You want to argue, really, but then Xavier is grabbing a fistful of your hair, tugging just hard enough to push your head back, coaxing a moan from your throat as he marks down your neck with kisses intending to bruise. He’s pouting, grabbing your jaw as he forces your gaze away from Rafayel, nipping your bottom lip until you surrender to his drowsy advances.

“Why…” Another kiss before Xavier's licking desperately into your mouth, “Why didn't you wake me?"

The question comes out a little breathless, almost petulant, eyes hooded and dark as he looks over the mess Rafayel has made of you. He can't tear his eyes away, watching Rafayel even as he kisses you. His fingers flick over your nipple again, twisting and pinching until you're shaking, your thighs squeezing Rafayel's face, all while Xavier watches.

Said man only smiles, all smug arrogance. "Didn't you hear her, Xav? She said she didn't want to wake you, so don't blame me."

Rafayel drags a wet, open-mouthed kiss over your cunt, the overstimulation making you break the kiss with a gasp.

"Liar." Xavier's voice trembles, and you can't tell if he's referring to Rafayel's words, or the way he's staring longingly at Rafayel's lips now, still slick with your release. "You just wanted her all to yourself."

He doesn't bother giving Rafayel a chance to retort, taking the punishment out on you as he dips his head underneath your folded-up shirt, groaning as his hot tongue rolls over your nipple, sucking at the stiff peak as his hand continues to assault the other. The onslaught has you whimpering, pushing and clawing against Xavier’s shoulder to try and fight him off as he refuses to let go for even a moment.

Rafayel's not one to be ignored, not when he has the advantage, and his tongue is back to fucking into your cunt with no reprieve, a cruel smirk on his face as you writhe and beg for their mercy.

Your hips roll, torn between pleasure and oversensitivity, unable to escape either of the men. It's overwhelming. Too much, too quickly, you only just came and you're already getting dragged back.

"Ah! Stop, I'm already mhm—"

You're interrupted by Xavier's tongue slipping into your mouth, a filthy, lazy slide that makes you grind up into Rafayel's tongue. It's like he doesn't even need to breathe, the wet, sloppy sounds of him eating you out drowned out only by the sound of Xavier kissing you senseless, pausing just to nip and suck at your breasts as though he'll get rewarded if he just tries hard enough.

"You want him to stop? Is the mermaid not enough to satisfy you, princess?" Xavier taunts, lips brushing against your ear as his hips push up, grinding his cock against your thigh. "If that's the case, perhaps we should switch. I can give you exactly what you want, remember?"

“Shut up, I’m the one making her cum.”

“Only cause I wasn’t awake yet.”

“You snooze, you lose. Whose fault is that? Oh ya, yours.”

They're at each other's throats yet again, practically clawing and snapping at each other, and you're helpless to try and intervene when they take their faux anger out on your poor abused body.

You can't think, can't focus, can't do anything but shake and pant and sob into the pillow, their combined weight on top of you, forcing your pleasure higher and higher.

“Xav—" He cuts you off with a kiss.

“Shh, just take it."

You can't even tell who’s sloppier anymore- Xavier fucking your mouth with his tongue or Rafayel still eating you through your second orgasm, the sudden hit of it thundering down your body.

“You look so pretty when you come," Xavier moans into your lips, his eyes half-lidded and glazed, hand coming up to stroke your cheek as he watches you, a sharp contrast to the other still rolling against your swollen nipple, loving the way you jerk into his touch. Then a glare to the man below. "My turn.”

Your body is still trembling, Rafayel's merciless fingers not allowing you to come down from your high, aftershocks of hypersensitivity crashing down your spine as every muscle spasms. No more. No more, please. You can’t possibly come again.

You don't realize you’re begging out loud, not until Xavier shushes you with another bruising kiss.

But it doesn't seem like Rafayel has any plans on stopping, not until Xavier’s hand skims down your thighs and yanks him up by the chain of his necklace.

Rafayel growls as he's practically forced off your weeping cunt, eyes bleary and unfocused as he fights the blond's grip. And god, he looks absolutely wrecked, spit and cum dripping from his mouth and chin, connecting his lips to your pussy in sticky wet strands before they break, and you feel the unmistakable bulge of his cock straining against his soaked boxers.

Xavier yanks him forward, pulling the necklace chain until he crashes his lips onto Rafayel's, all teeth and tongue, desperate to get a taste of your cum from his mouth. It's filthy, and Rafayel is the first to give in, still drunk off your taste and now Xavier's too.

"Mhm, you taste like her," Xavier whispers, pulling him closer until their bodies are pressed together, his mouth still moving against Rafayel's swollen, parted lips.

"Ya?" Rafayel’s grin is predatory, all fang and sin. "You wanna try too, don’t you? Give in then, bunny, lie down for us.”

"I don't take orders from you."

Xavier scowls against Rafayel's lips, but you can feel his resolve breaking, his arm trembling where it rests against your thigh.

"No, you take them from her, and she asked us so, so nicely to make her come. You wouldn't dare deny her that, would you?”

The Lemurian is nothing if not dangerously persistent, one hand coaxing Xavier backward so gently you don’t think he realizes how easily he’s falling, the other clawing down his abs as Rafayel bites against the erratic thud of Xavier’s pulse. Sharp and bruising, a silent promise for what to come. "Or do you wanna eat her out like I did? Have her ride your face while I fuck into her poor, desperate cunt? I can't decide, there are so many options."

“No.” It’s more a plea than a demand. Xavier's voice shakes with need, and you watch, dizzy and panting, as Rafayel's fingers slip underneath the waistband of Xavier's boxers. His fingers, still dripping with your cum, brush down the length of his cock, thumb circling the sensitive head and smearing the copious amount of pre-cum leaking from it. “You had y-your turn.”

He can hardly finish his objection, not when Rafayel’s thumb comes up to abuse his leaking slit, Xavier’s words slurring into a desperate whine as he practically collapses back onto his elbows. Immediately, Rafayel is atop him.

"A competition, then." Rafayel leans down to whisper into Xavier's ear, but the words are purposefully teased out loud enough for you to hear, “But you lose if you cum first, and I get to fuck her.”

It's a low blow, a challenge he knows Xavier can't turn down.

A challenge that somehow has you poised once again as the torment and the reward.

And it's true, because the second the words register, the blond's eyes shoot open, and his cock jerks violently against Rafeyel’s palm, a broken sound leaving his lips as his eyes lock back onto yours with all the promise of a starving hunter.

"Deal.”

Xavier doesn't allow the agreement to go without a price. Something snaps, the bedroom flickering with a sudden darkness as all the light vanishes.

One moment, you’re lying against the bed, and the next Xavier manhandles you to your knees, one hand forcing your arms behind your back as he tugs you against him, the other pinning Rafayel to the mattress.

Rafayel’s the very picture of smug sin, the feral expression far more genuine, less threatening and much more amused as he nestles further into the pillows, one arm tucked lazily behind his head.

Cold fingers dance up your hips, and Rafayel drags your bare cunt over his thighs and onto his lap, a pleased sigh escaping his lips as you're pinned deliciously between his cock and Xavier's sculpted back.

"So needy, little bunny."

"Shut up. I'm not the one who's leaking."

Rafayel snorts, and before the two can start fighting again, you're leaning forward, a hand resting against Rafayel's abs as you cup his erection through his boxers. And when he moans you believe every myth, every fairytale singing the doom of sailors to a siren song, because every sound he gives you is addictive and sweet enough that you’d drown to hear it again.

Pulling Rafayel's cock out from his boxers, you’re stunned yet again by the slightly non-human beauty of it, heavy and thick in your palm, the flushed, ruddy tip already drooling precum as you thumb at it in vengeance. You know Xavier's watching from the way his own cock twitches against your back, hands digging bruises into your hips. Then, the warmth at your back disappears.

Instead, a pair of hands drag your ass up, forcing you into a deep arch as you scramble for purchase against Rafayel’s thigh and the bed below.

“Closer.” Xavier’s hand laces into your hair as he pushes your head down, forcing your mouth to nuzzle against the base of Rafayel's cock.

The movement pulls a gasp from both of you, your hot breath teasing the sensitive skin of Rafayel's shaft and forcing a shudder from his entire body.

Seeing the two of you completely at his mercy does terrible, horrible things to Xavier, and his fingers dig bruises into your hips as it takes him everything not to forgo the competition and fuck you right there.

"Good girl,” he hums, voice trembling as his grip tightens against your hair, giving you a harsh glare when you whine and squirm in his hold. "Now open."

You can't bring yourself to say no, not when the sight of Rafayel's eyes rolling back the second you do makes your stomach clench. His cock twitches against you as you lick at the copious amounts of cum leaking from his tip, then obediently wrap your lips around him.

With a smile that would have you shaking, Xavier leans down, barely able to continue guiding your head as he’s entranced with the mess between your legs, licking up the slick dripping down your thighs as he sucks against the delicate flesh, marking right over the sensitive bruises Rafayel had only just left behind.

“This- hah-” Rafayel curses under his breath, the single word breaking off into a moan, the sound muffled by his palm as his chest heaves. “This is hardly fair.”

But his complaints feel half-hearted, not with the way he’s already rutting into your mouth, Xavier’s iron grip keeping you in place as Rafayel thrusts himself into your mouth in one breath. You yield pathetically quick, flattening your tongue against the slick underside of his cock, another stream of pre-cum flooding your mouth as you nearly choke on it all, unable to pull off to even take a breath as Xavier guides your head up and down in a steady rhythm that has Rafayel falling apart.

It’s cruel, but you can't help each pathetic moan that gets muffed onto Rafayel’s cock, the vibrations forcing his back to arch off the bed, head rolling back as it thuds against the pillows, Adam's apple bobbing as he gulps in shallow breaths.

You almost wish he would let you see his eyes, but then you'd miss the view of his chest, every muscle tight and twitching under his skin, the mesmerizing sight now blurry from the tears forming in your eyes. You can't resist reaching up, dragging your nails down his abs, watching his body jerk against every new line of red.

"Please,” you're not sure if the broken whimper belonged to Rafayel or yourself. “Please, I can't wait anymore, wanna feel you— fuck— wanna fill you up again, please let me cum." It's like just the very thought has Rafayel keening, his hips jerking up into your hot mouth with reckless abandon as Xavier forces your spine up into a deeper arch.

You're nearly bent in half, the new angle leaving no part of you hidden from Xavier's hungry gaze as he watches you practically drool over Rafayel’s cock, lips meeting his pelvis as he breaches your throat.

Xavier’s going to win. He needs to win.

The thought makes him frantic, tongue fucking past the tight resistance of your cunt, his hand sliding up to tease at your clit. He won't be the one to finish first, not this time. Not when he's wanted nothing more than to feel your cunt gushing around him ever since Rafayel woke him up, ever since the two of you had the audacity to start this without him.

Rafayel can’t last much longer, especially not when you bring one shaking hand down to massage his swollen balls, hardly in control of your own movements as you feel dizzy on the addictive combination from the lack of oxygen and pleasure as Xavier begins to eat you out like a man starved.

The room’s filled with the sounds of each slick, messy movement, whimpers from the man beneath you and breathless pleas from the one behind, bed rattling with every thrust.

And yet you’re still so painfully empty. So, so, empty as your cunt flutters around Xavier’s tongue before he relents to kiss your clit once more, dragging a dissatisfied whine from you as you fight yourself off Rafayel’s cock.

"F-fuck me. Please," A sob, and you feel both Rafayel and Xavier shudder. "It’s not enough. Want your cocks inside me, wanna cum on it. Need it, please-"

Oh, and when you beg like that, they should have known they never would have stood a chance.

"Shit."

"Ah, please-"

It's a blur. A rush of hands, of pleasure and pain, all of it colliding and dragging you to the edge. The room spins, the ceiling above you falling until the familiar, comforting feeling of slick muscle embraces you, grounding you as you focus on the erratic heartbeat between each ragged exhale.

You're still sandwiched between them, lying on Rafayel as Xavier's weight drapes across your back, head propped up on the former's chest as you stare blearily at his silver pendant, unable to move. You're not even sure if you can, not with the way Xavier's still gripping the backs of your thighs, spreading you open as he forces one leg higher up.

Then, the blunt head of his cock grinds between your folds.

Xavier’s pressing his forehead against your back, wrapping his arms around you before biting into the crook of your neck. "You mean it? You’ll let us come inside again?"

Rafayel laughs, a raspy sound still raw from his orgasm. "Well, we both lost. Now what, bunny? We can't just leave her like this, poor thing is trembling."

"Mhm,” Xavier forces you up, “We both fuck her then."

His words only make you whimper, body jerking uselessly against Xavier's grip. His hands lift you as Rafayel flips you around so you're now facing the blond, flinching violently as his cock brushes your swollen clit, any semblance of protest quelled as Xavier pulls you into another messy kiss.

It’s demanding, Xavier mumbling achingly sweet praises into your open mouth as he begins to press you down, faster, harsher, forcing you onto Rafayel’s lap in a reverse cowgirl as you slide down slowly, taking inch by inch of Rafayel’s throbbing cock. There’s hardly any blue left in Xavier’s blow-out pupils, too mesmerized by the slick mess you’re gushing down their thighs. And just when you begin to squirm, impatient and desperate, Xavier slows their pace even more.

"Shhh, we need to make sure you'll be able to take both of us."

Rafayel's hand is wrapped around your waist, thumb rubbing small circles into your stomach, and if it weren't for Xavier's arms locked around you, holding you upright, you would have collapsed the second Rafayel pressed into the spot his fingers had found.

"Look at you," he purrs, a low sound that has you gasping. "So pretty when you’re needy. Can you feel me?"

It's hard not to. Everywhere feels warm, and every slow thrust, no matter how gentle, has a small burst of ecstasy building in your stomach, a wave crashing higher and higher as the two of them slowly fuck you full. Just as you’re nearly seated all the way onto Rafayel’s length, Xavier’s palms come up to the back of your knees, folding them up and forcing you backward until you’re practically lying prone atop of Rafayel.

Your head lolls uselessly against Rafayel's neck, gasping at the force of the new position, and you're not sure if it's the tears in your eyes or the overwhelming pressure against your walls as they stretch around his cock that's making the world so blurry. Xavier soon follows you down, pressing you closer into Rafayel’s chest as his lips trail your jaw, your neck, your sucking against every sensitive spot behind your ears until you're distracted from the pain.

"You're doing so good, princess. Just a little more."

The sudden onslaught of pressure of both of you atop him has Rafayel flinching, and he hisses out a pained moan, hips jerking up into the slick heat of your pussy, and it's only Xavier's grip that keeps the two of you from slipping off.

"Hah- hurry up-" Rafayel's eyes are glassy, his head tipped back and face twisted in pleasure.

Strings of incoherent pleas are whispered against your ear, Rafayel marking up the left side of your neck while Xavier’s still busy with the right, that is, until Xavier switches sides, biting right over Rafayel’s marks until he’s pulled up into a desperate kiss.

The wet sounds of their lips are filthy and obscene, each hot breath and moan brushing past your ear as you writhe, pressed between them. Rafayel's cock is already swelling, twitching against the fluttering walls of your pussy, unwilling to fully pull out, settling to just grinding up in slow, cruel thrusts before something in him snaps and he switches to pounding against your abused walls.

Every time you think you’ll finally come Rafayel switches pace, the obscene slap of skin on skin muffled only by your sobs and their kissing.

You’re close, so so fucking close you feel your muscles begin to shake. Xavier only pushes you down further, every angle a new cruelty, smothering you between them, rendering you unable to do anything but take it.

Again, Rafayel slows, and you slur curses down at him as your thighs tremble from overstimulation, shaking violently until you feel something grab your calf. Xavier massages the quivering muscle, gentle until he’s suddenly pressing your knee higher and higher, going until it’s pinned to the mattress up against your head.

And now Rafayel is hitting impossibly deeper, abusing your poor g-spot with each thrust.

Xavier kisses your ankle, then calf, making his way up your leg until he can nip at your inner thighs now folded over his shoulder. And then you feel the pressure of his cock at your already full entrance. Xavier’s hand dips down between your bodies, trying to bully himself in alongside Rafayel, but his cock slides past your navel, slick and covered in your combined cum.

"No, no no, not gonna fit- ah- Xavier!"

Your words break off into a wail as he tries again, grinding closer so you’re tightly cradled between the two, Xavier leaning fully atop you both. A snarl grits through his jaw when his cock slips past again, readjusting you so your legs fall apart wider, the burn in your thighs turning delicious and overwhelming, pussy weeping around Rafayel’s cock as Xavier’s swollen, leaking head bumps against your clit.

Xavier watches the mess, every thrust and messy squirt of cum, brows furrowed and flushed a deep red, as he whines into your shoulder, "Please- can't stop- please let me fuck you too, you'll look so pretty with both of us filling you up, taking us so good- don’t make me stop."

He’s reduced to babbling against your neck, biting down hard enough to bleed when your cunt finally yields to him too, cockhead bumping into Rafayel’s as he slowly pushes in inch and inch, trembling from the combined pleasure of your walls and the violent throbbing of every vein now grinding together.

It's too much, it’s not enough, the stretch and the friction and the pressure leaving you fucked stupid, hands scrambling for purchase. Rafayel grunts when your nails drag across his thighs, his own hands coming to latch onto your wrists, pinning them above his head, forcing you motionless between them.

You can do nothing but sob, tears streaming down your face as your entire body convulses. And when they finally, finally bottom out together, the world goes white.

"Shh, you're alright," Rafayel soothes, although his voice is trembling, the sound broken as he tries to catch his breath. "Doing so well for us, cutie, so perfect."

Xavier growls, his hands grabbing the headboard. He's barely holding on, not with the way Rafayel's cock twitches against his own, your hot walls clenched tightly around the two of them as you beg.

"Please, can't- too much, more, I need-"

There's a broken sob, and then Xavier’s slamming his hips forward, fucking into you with a brutality he usually saves for Rafayel, the force sending the three of you rocking against the mattress, headboard splintering under the strength of his grip. The other leaves to thumb at your nipples, lips following suit as he rambles, drunk off your pussy, "These would look s'pretty filled, even more sensitive. Bet you'd let us milk you, fill you up even more."

"And here, you'll feel us here too, won't you?" A hand moves lower- whose you no longer are coherent enough to care- brushing over the swell of your abdomen, the slight bulge appearing and disappearing where both of them are thrusting violently into you. "Be a waste not to. Imagine it, a painted mess filled with us.”

And you are. You can't think about anything else, not with the way they're stuffing you full— every time Rafayel's cock would settle near your g-spot Xavier’s would ram back in, forcing the former up against your cervix before pulling out entirely, repeating the vicious rhythm as the pain bled into pleasure.

Tears stream down the side of your face, room spinning into dizziness until all that remains are the burning trails of their touch, the only things keeping you grounded.

Rafayel's sucking into your shoulder, biting the sweat-slicked flesh, and you can feel his hips begin to stutter underneath you, already reaching his high despite Xavier still pounding into you with the same intensity, desperate to catch up.

The moment Xavier feels Rafayel's release, it's over. Your back arches up against him, convulsing against their hold, your abused walls clenching down so tightly that you’re practically begging for them to come inside, sucking them in deeper and deeper until it’s impossible for them not to follow.

It's a violent orgasm, hot squirt of your cum drenching Xavier’s abs, the intensity of it causing Rafayel’s vision to white out too, unable to hear the desperate sounds of your moans, not when his blood is rushing past his ears.

Then, the world comes crashing back.

Rafayel’s panting, still thrusting weakly into the slick, tight heat as he emptied himself inside you, the sheer overload of it gushing down your legs and onto the sheets.

"Ah- Xavier," you whine, the sound muffled into his chest as Xavier continues to chase after his high, too lost in his late orgasm to pull out.

The overstimulation is torture, your body twitching and trembling with every sloppy thrust. The moment he finally pulls out, the mess follows, thick, white rivets leaking down your thighs, the sheer volume near damn concerning had you the capacity to focus on it.

Rafayel laughs, fingers swirling through the cum as though painting your thighs, "That's not going to be easy to clean up."

"S'gonna look pretty. Messy. Full." Xavier murmurs, still pinning the both of you beneath him as he collapses in exhaustion, fingers dancing over the small swell in your stomach. Pressing lightly, he watches in fascination as their mixed cum gushes out faster, and you whimper, gripping his wrists to stop before they get any more ideas.

You're not sure what's worse, the fact that they're both still hard and the way they're looking at you, or the fact that their words have your exhausted body already trying to recover, a shiver running through your sore muscles as the room's cool air brushes over the slick, sticky mess between your thighs.

"You're both so disgusting," you groan, the words coming out slurred and barely audible.

"You love it."

"Yeah," Xavier's agreement is soft and almost hesitant. "You love us."

"Yes, I love both of you. Now get the fuck off of me." A shove, your shaking arm barely affecting Xavier as he finally relents, a small smile on his lips as he rolls the three of you down into the bed, resting on your sides.

The muscles in your thighs scream in relief as they’re finally placed down, every inch of your body sore and marked up in one way or another, every visible bruise and bite getting pampered in faux apologies by the two men snuggling up next to you.

It’s a tangle of limbs, Xavier already claiming your chest again as he nuzzles into your breasts while Rafayel simply curls himself around your back. A hand there, an arm there, and a little more muffled bickering. Yet you all fit together, and sleep comes easy now.

And the nightmares never return.

#love and deepspace #rafayel x you x xavier #love and deepspace x reader #lnds smut #l&ds smut #love and deepspace smut #lads x reader #lnds rafayel #l&ds rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel smut #xavier smut #xavier x reader #xavier love and deepspace #poisonwrites

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cordeliawhohung · 16 hours

Text

a fox cries; never howls (1/3)

an alternate universe to In Limbo | simon riley x fem!reader | masterlist | AO3

you're a stranger across the counter. you want so desperately to crawl back over, but it will never be the same anymore.

cw: mafia!au, can be read without prior In Limbo knowledge but it does help, non-con/rape, pedophilic undertones, forced prostitution, abusive relationships, abduction, forced medical practices/treatments, self harm, suicide attempt, mention of abortion, mention of pregnancy, reader is described as having long hair for plot reasons (can be natural, braided, etc), Simon is not the abuser in any of the tags previously listed, whump with an eventual happy ending but it's going to hurt until then.

Each time it happens, you tell yourself it’ll be different, but it never is.

Broken promises lay in glistening shards around the heels strapped to your feet as you grit your teeth through the pain. No matter how much you beg and plead, it’s always the same. That visceral ache shooting through the core of your being still brings tears to your eyes the same it did the first time. It will continue to plague you. Haunting your cheeks in messy streaks as it drips onto the counter your hands so desperately palm at. Each tear that splatters by your fingers shimmer with black flakes. Running mascara. It stains everything it touches — especially you.

You’re prettier that way. Ruined. At least, that’s what you’ve been told.

Always pretty on your knees; bent over; looking up; crying; pleading; beg; beg for it; and keep crying; yeah, just like that.

Your skin is scarred, marked in the shape of greedy lips, and it stings like the wound is fresh. Words seep into the soft tissue where it continues to fester. Burrows its spindly roots until it can bear fruit. You could pull at the stem all you like, but you can’t escape the fact that it’s now a fundamental part of you. The only thing keeping your bones from crumbling. This mantra. This throe.

“Not tryna hide, are you?”

Avaricious fingers dig into the firm cartilage of your throat as you’re yanked back and forced to look at yourself in the mirror. The ripples of your defilement echo throughout your body — and you’re forced to watch it. The bounce of your breasts and the smudged makeup dripping along your cheeks. In some odd way, you are a masterpiece. You’re sculpted of nothing but obloquy yet carved just like if you were made of stone. You would close your eyes if you thought you could get away with it.

But Marco likes when you watch. Savors the tremble of your lips as your eyes find him in the mirror. Pristine teeth glint in the pallid light. Perfectly white and straight. He always takes care of himself — of his appearance. It shows in the carefully carved muscles that flex in his abdomen as he pistons into you; in the well groomed locks of his dark hair. This is the sweetest liquor he could ever indulge in — enjoying not only destroying you, but of making a show of it.

He must always be the performer and the audience; having his cake and eating it too.

A fury of grunted whispers slice straight through your ear drums. It’s a hardly comprehensible slurring of English and Russian, and though your fuzzy brain can’t make sense of it, you know what it means. Marco teeters close to the edge, hands dragging your body back against him as he holds himself flush against the crux of your ass. Hot warmth spills into you, and despite the hand around your throat, you’re finally able to breathe. This impiety does not offer you comfort in your tainted skin, but it offers you the one commodity you rarely seem to come by: rest.

That incessant ache lurks deep in the pit of your stomach, even as Marco pulls out, but it’s quiet. Doesn’t demand your attention. You feel the dull throb that harasses the raw tissue of your cunt, and you try not to wince as you feel his seed spill out. Chuckling, he releases your throat in favor of wrapping his fingers around your hair, bunching as much as he can into the palm of his hand. It’s overgrown. Messy and dead. But he refuses to allow you to cut it.

Nothing about you gets to change without his permission — not even your appearance.

“Look at you, my sweet little girl,” he coos. Sharp teeth nip at the side of your jaw and you wince. You’re surprised his mouth doesn’t unhinge; that he doesn’t shove you into his maw and swallow you whole. “So goddamn perfect. Can’t get enough of this pussy. Christ.”

When Marco backs away, you swear your knees will give out. Without his puppeteering hands to hold you up and bend you to his desires, you’re nothing but mush. A disgusting mess of smeared eyeliner and dripping cum. You can hardly stomach the sight of your body in the mirror. Neck littered with faint teeth marks, body bare and on display — used and abused to his content. You’re abhorrent. A pathetic creature you can’t stand to behold.

Marco’s belt clinks just as a knock rattles the door. Your heart thuds loud enough in your ears that it nearly drowns out the sound of his heavy footsteps crossing the glorified dressing room. You attempt to steady yourself as you back away from the mirror, but the straps of your heels dig into your toes. They’re the only article of clothing you’re allowed. Marco says he likes the way they make your legs look longer. Likes the angle it gives him when he bends you over to fuck you.

When you turn to face him, he’s already sitting on the loveseat shoved into the corner of the room. A fresh bottle of mead sits on the tray next to him, and he pours himself a generous amount before knocking it back for a sip. The soft amber liquid overflows and dribbles past his lips, soaking his bare chest. His verdant eyes find you as he collets the drink on the tips of his fingers, then sucks them clean one by one.

“Didn’t you hear that knock? You have a guest,” he says, tilting his jaw toward the door.

With each step you take, you feel Marco’s seed dribble down your legs. It makes a sticky mess between your thighs, and you know he wouldn’t have it any other way. This is how he marks you. How he makes sure everyone knows who you belong to before he lets them take a piece of you home.

A stranger with a thick neck stands at the door when you open it. His eyes are an odd shade of grey that sends a shiver down your spine as he looks you over, greedily drinking in the sight of your bare body. The chill of his gaze gets worse as the door closes behind him. He begins to crowd you and the sharp stench of vodka fills your nose. There’s something familiar about him. Every man in this club is familiar to you, in some way. Always hazy. Too fuzzy to place a name to. You think it’s your brain’s way of protecting itself. Of purging the bad things done to you as best as it can, lest you crumble in the palm of Marco’s hands.

The sharp point of your heel catches on the plush rug that sprawls out in front of Marco’s feet, and you squeak as you nearly lose your footing. Both Marco and the stranger chuckle. The cacophonous tone grates against your eardrums, but you hide your discomfort as you stare at the ground. You wait. For the exchange. For the banter. They speak in Russian with one another through laughter as cash is passed to Marco. The air is still cold, and your thighs are still soiled, but the stranger looks at you like he would never dream of having any other meal than you.

“Well, go on then,” Marco prompts. You look up at him with dull eyes. He swirls the mead in his cup as he tilts his head. “On your knees, babe. Wants to use your mouth tonight. Be a good girl, now.”

Comply. Listen. It’s all you can do. So you sink to your knees like the well behaved girl you always are. Resting on your haunches, you look up at the man with a tight throat. He smiles, and your stomach drops. Roils and screams as he begins to unbuckle his belt. As he fishes himself from his trousers, you remind yourself all things are temporary. Especially pain.

Nothing lasts forever — though, it often feels like it will.

When it’s all said and done — when you’re thoroughly used — Marco walks you to the door like a gentleman. Hastily adorned clothes hang from your body as you pull your jumper tight around your core. Your cervix still aches from the virulent abuse it had taken earlier, but you attempt to ignore it as he opens the exit. Your only reprieve from this nightmare is that he didn’t parade you throughout the club like this; looking like a whore for hire. Tonight, he allows you to take the back exit far away from prying eyes.

Cool night air cuts through your scanty clothes, and you stare out at the vast space of the car park before you. Weekdays bring little business and customers to Makarov’s club. Most of the strippers who work for him end up lazing around in back rooms and closets, getting drunk or high enough that they can forget all about their shitty night.

You wish you had that luxury.

“Hey,” Marco hums, grabbing your wrist. You turn to face him. Dim shadows from the flickering hallway lights cast his face in darkness, but the glint in his eyes is unmistakable. “See you tomorrow, babe.”

He sends you off with a kiss. Sloppy and wet — he likes messes. Savors making one out of you. Sweet mead and mint seeps into your mouth as you kiss him back with a tight jaw. When his hands caress your cheeks, pulling you closer, you wonder if he can taste the brine and bitter cum that lurks in the back of your throat. If he relishes in feeling every single way in which you’re destroyed.

“See you tomorrow,” you murmur.

Breathing only comes easy the moment you’re locked in your car. The movement is fluid — that gentle expanding of your chest — but it’s still agonizing. Diaphragm seizing with the sobs you fight back, it’s another reminder that you’re alive. As long as you draw breath, you don’t belong to yourself.

Hot tears sear down your cheeks as you turn the key in the ignition. A gentle rumble follows as the engine hums to life. It’s a smooth, quiet purr. A car that’s much more expensive than you deserve. A lovely gift from Marco. It’s not at all uncommon for him to give you things. Expensive things. A car; an apartment; clothes — you’ll pay it back eventually. The numbers just add up to the big debt that’s hung over your head since you were sixteen. It ebbs and flows but not enough to save you. Not enough for you to belong to yourself again.

As you bring the heels of your hands up to wipe your eyes, a gentle glow catches your attention. It moves. Dances and swirls in the numbra of the car park. Blinking, you focus on it. Golden yellow embers flicker and fade as life is breathed into them. It’s faint, but it reminds you of the well adored fireflies in America. Squinting, you can make out the outline of a car. It sits patiently and silent, but the windows are cracked. Faint smoke swirls through the openings where it climbs into the dull night sky and dissipates.

Someone sits inside of the car, puffing away, but when your eyes lock onto the fingers pinching a cigarette, they freeze. Glowing embers quickly smother and die somewhere inside of the vehicle, and you’re left with nothing. You stare into the darkness, and it stares back. You feel its gaze tingling along your spine. Sniffing, you look away from that void. Be it man, or be it monster, you know nothing ever happens to you without Marco’s permission.

That sentiment is equally as terrifying as it is comforting.

When you arrive home — to the apartment paid for with your own body — you shower. No amount of water and soap is enough. You can lather yourself in all of Marco’s favorite scents, but the mint on his tongue still follows you everywhere. As you exit the bathroom, you leave feeling just as disgusting as when you entered. Nothing but some sordid creature that hardly knows how to take care of herself.

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you feel sick. Golden glitter still stains your eyelids, and the teeth marks on the side of your throat have only grown more noticeable. Still, nothing is worse than the mark on the back of your neck. Though you can’t see it, you feel it. It makes your skin itch and crawl, and you find your fingernails tearing at it. As if you could rip it off like a bandaid. But it stays. Festers and embeds itself deep inside of you.

Swallowing, you try to forget it as you continue to dry off. This is your brief moment of comfort, where you’re too far out of reach and well out of sight. Your only reprieve before you spend another night rotting as a trophy of glitter and bone.

Weekends are better, but only marginally so. Wide eyed men fill Makarov’s club to the brim with wads of cash and twitchy fingers. Lingering gazes and hands brush against the crux of your ass and the back of your neck as Marco parades you through the crowd by your wrist. With your strappy golden heels and matching exiguous outfit, you’re flashy merchandise. Something soft and sweet he flaunts in an attempt to make a quick quid or two as a way to fund his means of pleasure and keeping control of you. While you’d normally spend most nights on your hands and knees, on busy nights, Marco allows you to earn your living in an honorable way —

— dancing.

Sharp heels tap on soft mahogany as your hips and arms sway, practiced and repetitive, atop a round table. Dull music thrums and shakes the dust off your bones as the men on the crescent sofa surrounding you chat and laugh the night away. Marco’s in the mix of them all, cold glass resting on his knee as his foot taps against the floor. A hazy film covers the spring green of his irises as the liquor settles deep into his marrow. Each time you rotate his way, you watch his pupils dilate. A vast forest covered by the smokey darkness of that void, he licks at the alcohol on his lips as he stares at your clothed cunt.

His fantasy fills your mind before his own can even make sense of it. Every spare glass and bottle that litters the table around your feet would be thrown on the floor in an instant just to put you on your back. To open your vulnerable stomach. To tear off the little clothing protecting your feeble dignity and truly put you to work. He’d spread your limbs and pin them like a specimen to a board, and he would cut and slice until you have nothing left to hide. Until there is nothing left of you at all.

“Babe!”

Marco’s voice cuts through the discordance of the crowd, and pulls you out of a nightmare and back into the present. Your terrifying reality. Slowly, you turn to face him, and he looks up at you with a grin on his face and a card stuck between his fingers. That sly haze still obscures his vision as he offers you his hand. Numb to the feeling of his skin against your own, you take it and allow him to help you down from the table. He wastes no time in dipping his fingers into the strap of your lingerie where he secures the card beneath the band.

“Looks like you’ve got work to do,” he teases.

Warm hands settle on the curve of your hips as he guides you to turn around, faced away from him. Then, they wander up. Greedy fingers brush along the line of your spine before they find purchase in your hair, grabbing it as if he were trying to help you put it up. You hate how long it’s gotten. That he won’t let you cut it. He doesn’t care if it’s straight, curly, braided — anything. Marco wants it long. Uses it like a leash in which he keeps you bound to him with.

“I know you’re a good girl, so I’m sure you won’t forget, but a little reminder never hurts,” he coos into your ear. Intoxicated breath fans across the side of your face as he leans closer to breathe you in. A shiver prickles across your skin as he kisses the back of your neck, and your throat involuntarily contracts at the sensation. It’s as if he’s marking you again. Branding you. “If this… patron wants more, I get to watch.”

Swallowing, you nod as best as you can with his fist gripping your hair. “I know.”

Chuckling, he relinquishes his grip on you before stepping back. “Of course you do, smart thing you are. I’ll be waiting here for you.”

You wait until you’re well away from Marco and his friends before you fish out the card he stuck beneath the strap along your hip. A pitched ringing plagues your ears as you enter the VIP section of the club. Things are quieter. Less crowded and the speakers don’t blare as loud. But the silence allows something malevolent to burrow inside of you. It festers as incessant tinnitus and broiling nervosity in your stomach. A wordless, desperate prayer breathes past your lips as you approach the room in which your patron awaits you.

You pray he is kind. You pray that he wants nothing more than to hold you and vent his problems, like others have.

When you open the door and step into the threshold that always makes your palms sweat, you think for a single fleeting moment that you are lucky. The room is abandoned. Dim lights illuminate the dull leather of the couch in front of you and yet there is no man sitting there for you to serve. Gentle music drones over the wireless speakers, giving the impression that there should be someone here with you. The attendants even set out the ice and whiskey for his drink. It now thaws on the tray, water nearly overspilling in its decay.

Brows furrowing together, you look down at the card to ensure you haven’t misread it in your haze. The attendant’s handwriting is chicken scratch. He always manages to make a nine look like a zero, but you’re certain this is a six. The door clicks shut behind you as you sigh, too defeated and confused to make sense of this confusion. A pit forms in your stomach at the thought of slinking back to Marco with some saturnine cloud hanging over your head.

If you can’t find work tonight, he’ll make some for you.

That pit quickly becomes a gaping hole the moment a fat palmed hand clasps over your mouth. Cardstock flutters out of your fingers like dainty butterfly wings, and hits the ground just as your back collides with an immovable chest. You don’t scream, but your heart nearly stops when you feel the cold press of metal against your throat. You are stuck in a vicious cycle. One of fear and sharp blades you’ll never wield yourself.

“Not a fuckin’ word.” The voice that growls in your ear rattles your spine as the words erupt in his chest. Faint tobacco stains his fingers. Its earthy aroma seeps into your nose as your hands tremble against his tattooed forearm. “Don’t wanna hurt ya, so make this easy and listen to me, yeah?”

Marco has taught you plenty well enough that the word no should be expunged from your vocabulary, so you nod.

“Good.”

You’re as stiff as a board when this stranger releases you. No amount of curiosity can get you to turn around and face the violent truth, not even as a thick jacket is tossed over your shoulders. The fabric is warm. Freshly removed off of the man behind you and placed on you as if it were a blanket. He presses his hand on your lower back and despite his caution, you still jump.

“We’re going for a quick drive. Easy now. You’ll be home before sun up. C’mon,” he mutters.

There is no such thing as saying no. There is no such thing as fighting.

The knife vanishes from your sight but it’s all you can think about as this stranger leads you through the haze of the club. Everything blurs around you as you’re escorted to the nearest exit through quiet hallways that reek of cheap perfume. The only thing you can focus on is your feet. The glittery heels that match perfectly with your pedicure. You want to trip. To fall forward and hit the ground. Cry out and demand attention. The hand on the small of your back is all too grounding for you to make any mistakes.

You approach and exit through an emergency fire door and the alarm doesn’t trip. Night air hits your skin like razor blades as you’re escorted across the car park. He shoves you into the back of a black car, and you only squeal a little when he slams the door behind you. When he situates himself in the driver's seat, the car hums to life and quiet lights flicker on just enough to scarcely illuminate his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes are dark. The darkest you’ve ever seen.

“There’s a blindfold in the seat next to you. Put it on,” he orders. Stuck on autopilot, you do as he says. It’s a thick scrap of cloth, something you hastily tie around your eyes and knot at the back of your head with trembling fingers. It only touches your skin for a fleeting moment before it’s soaked in briney tears. “Don’t even think ‘bout takin’ it off.”

Not even your morbid curiosity can convince you to peek from between the threads. The word no is not in your vocabulary. Neither is disobeyment.

Each turn the man takes as he brings you to some unknown destination has you swaying in your seat. Every pule that leaves your lips is smothered behind the palm of your hand as you wipe snot along the ridges of your knuckles. You do well to keep the aftermath of your fear to yourself. Even though this man has abducted you — something that was all too easy for him to do as you fawned. You’ll surely pay for this when Marco finds you again — you do not want to ruin the coat around your shoulders with spit.

Of course you think of escape. You always do. It’s a self soothing daydream that florescences in the neurons of your brain. Unlock the door. Open the handle. Jump out. It’ll hurt. It always does. And it’ll hurt when you’re caught, but it always does.

You don’t move. Freedom is just a dream.

Despite the knife he greeted you with, this man is surprisingly gentle. His touch is soft when he eventually parks the car, and his fingers do not dig too terribly into your skin as he helps free you from the back seat of his car. You do not trust his softness as he leads you into a room that smells like alcohol and cigarettes. Nicotine burns your nose as you’re settled into a plush seat, and for a fleeting moment you think you were only driven around the block before being thrown right back into Marco’s maw.

That theory is proven terribly wrong when your blindfold is ripped from your eyes.

A man with impressive tepidity sits across an antique wooden desk. Rich red walls close in on you. Crushing. Looming. Smoke blurs the space between the two of you as he puffs away at a thick cigar, blue eyes scanning a single piece of paper. He’s dressed nicer than you anticipated. A dark button up shirt, neatly combed hair and groomed beard — he hums to himself as his eyes scan the page in front of him before they land on you. You look away as if his gaze has burnt you. Instead, you focus on your nails and the manicure Marco made you get last week. Baby pink gel; his favorite color on you.

“It’ll take more than crocodile tears to tug on my heartstrings, love,” he hums.

The climate in your mouth suddenly becomes sere. All the snot and saliva that had built up before seems to vanish at his words. He’s nonchalant; terrifyingly so.

“I don’t… uhm,” you attempt.

“No need to explain yourself,” he interjects. “I understand. We all need to make a living.” Pausing, his eyes flicker back to the paper in his hands. “You’re Marco’s girl, aren’t you?”

Thick obloquy heats the pit of your stomach as your fingers twitch. That term — that title. It fills you with more shame than you can name. You attempt to swallow down the cotton-like dryness in your mouth as your hand paws at the back of your neck. Expertly manicured nails scratch at the skin, and you wish nothing more than to peel back the layers of your epidermis and toss them aside to rot.

Stiff, you nod.

“John Price,” he introduces.

He drops the name like it bears weight. As if it should crush you with each heavy letter that it carries, yet it doesn’t add on to the anxiety raging in your stomach. Your hand falls back into your lap as you dare to look at him once more. His eyes are sharp, as if he’s using his gaze alone to cut back your layers, but there is nothing to show for it. No secret except for a sour ignominy that you’ve carried for so long it imprints in your very skin.

“Has Marco not told you about me?” he asks. He’s not upset; or if he is, he hides it well behind curious eyes.

“No,” you answer truthfully.

John chuckles. “Thought the man would’ve at least told his benefactor about me.”

You blink. “...Benefactor?”

“No need to play dumb. Like I said, it takes a lot more than faux tears to get me to feel sorry for you.”

Your fear and confusion grips you so relentlessly that you don’t even feel it anymore. It’s wound so tightly around you, restricting blood flow to your body, that everything tingles if it is not numb. This man — John Price — gives you no chance to rest or fix your muddled thoughts. He tosses the paper in his hands across the wooden top of the desk, and your eyes nearly cross at the numbers printed on the pristine sheet and the amount of commas between them. There’s math. Addition and subtraction. Transactions of a bank account with a name at the top:

Marco Anatolijus Smirnova

Funny. You’ve never seen his full name before. He’s only ever been Marco.

You’ve only ever been his girl.

While you stare at the numbers, John throws question after question at you, none of which you know how to answer. He asks about transactions. He asks about what they’re for. Each and every time he’s met with the same answer. You are just as clueless as him. Marco does not concern you with his real work. The work that gets him enough money to have a bank account as padded as the one you’re looking at currently.

His finances make the sparse contents of your stomach curdle. The amount of money you owe him for your unfortunate existence is trivial compared to what he already has. So minuscule it would hardly budge his savings. Marco has been making you work half your life away for something akin to a mere couple quid to him, and it stings just as bad as it always does. Seeing it at face value just how trapped you are — how Marco owns you and always will.

“Don’t get coy with me.” John’s getting frustrated. Each question he presents you with is met with the same carking response of I don’t know. It’s nothing but the truth, but he seems to be informed otherwise. You’re significantly less important than he believes you to be, but the man looming behind you doesn’t help in settling your nerves enough to explain your situation properly. “Word on the street is Marco’s girl supplies him with his spending money. You’re tellin’ me I heard wrong? Or are you too daft to ask him what he’s using his finances on?”

You swallow. What a polite way to put it — the things Marco does to you.

“He… He makes money off of me but I… I don’t know how much or what he uses it for,” you choke out. “Well, I… I know a little bit but it’s not, it’s not like, whatever you’re asking, it’s just… it’s stupid things, it’s like, my housing or… it’s not… important.”

There’s a quiet beat that settles between you and John, and you feel whatever vexation he harbored for you previously quickly evaporate in the air. He’s silent for so long that you force yourself to look up at him. You’re expecting curiosity, even the most morbid of iterations. John Price is not curious. You can tell by the way his jaw unclenches and eyes soften that he finally understands what you’ve been too inept to say.

“How long have you been workin’ for him?” he questions, softer this time.

“Since… I was sixteen,” you reply.

“Sixteen?” He’s appalled. Repeats the word like it’s the worst taste he’s ever had on his tongue. “What’s he making you do for work? Dance?”

Shame sears the back of your neck, leaving nothing but wounded, marked skin in its wake. You palm at the burn. Try to will it away with desperate fingers, and the movement causes the coat resting limply around your body to slip off your shoulder. This is the first time you’ve considered lying to John. Omitting the truth just to save the small shred of dignity you still have left, no matter how imaginary it might be.

“Yeah. I… dance on stage but he… has me do private sessions too but he… sometimes he-”

A hand brushes against the side of your arm and you flinch so hard your teeth nearly pierce through your tongue. Weathered wood squeaks beneath your weight as you freeze after nearly jumping out of your skin. This well meaning hand that startled you so terribly is well meaning. It pauses in its endeavor to cover your body once again with this stranger's coat, and instead lets it fall. You had almost forgotten all about him — the strange man who stole away Marco’s favorite toy from right under his nose.

John and the stranger share a look as you retreat back into yourself. Hands folded over your bare lap, you didn’t feel naked until they finally understood who you are — what you are. Pristine nails dig into your palms as you swallow back the bilious vomit that threatens to spew free.

“If we take you home, will you be safe there?” His eyes land back on you, but you can’t bring yourself to give him the same courtesy.

You shake your head. “He’s going to be so mad. He… he pays for my apartment. I don’t have any money of my own. I don’t have a phone. I… There’s nothing. I have nothing. Marco’s provided everything for me and I never… he never gave me the chance to…”

“I understand,” John interjects, carefully quelling your rambling. He waits for a moment before leaning back in his chair, retracting every bit of malice he exuded while interrogating you. “I’m sorry, love. Should’ve done our research better.”

“It’s okay… Marco didn’t leave much of me to find.”

John’s eyes darken in a way that would leave most men with their tail tucked between their legs. You’re too busy making yourself small to notice. “We’ll fix that.”

In the next few hours, your life changes drastically. It’s sudden and feels just as violent as everything always does, yet it is intimidatingly soft. The gazes that are cast your way scream pity instead of lust, and you are handled with so much care you’re convinced you’ve become nothing more than a tchotchke. At least these men treat you with fragility rather than flippancy.

You learn the man who took you from Makarov’s club is named Riley. You’re able to get a better look at him without the blindfold and terror willing your vision elsewhere. He’s intimidating. Arms drenched in ink, it’s almost enough to smother the scars that map the story around his body. It can’t shroud the ones on his face. The thin line that dissects his eyebrow, or the one on his nose which only makes the curve of the bridge more dramatic. His eyes are darker than anything you’ve ever seen before — so empty and yet full at the same time; nothing but a contradiction as he watches you pull his coat tighter around your shoulders.

It is decided that — for your safety — you are to live with Riley until it is determined you are out of Marco’s reach.

Despite your apprehension, you can’t say no.

Riley’s house feels like a den. Well guarded but comfortable, the plush cushions that cradle you on the couch feel false. Fake. Everything does, but it’s mostly you. Your hair. Your clothes. Your skin. Nothing about you is tangible, not even to yourself.

You’re still swaddled in Riley’s coat by the time he tells you that your room is ready. Really, it’s his room. You want to tell him you’d rather sleep on the couch than in some stranger’s bed, but you can hardly bring yourself to speak a single word to him. He scares you, but not in the way people usually do. It’s not the fear of pain that he riles within you, but rather something light. Something that flickers and sputters, waiting to grow. You smother it as he hands you proper clothes to change into. You don’t know where he got them from or why they fit so well, and you don’t care to ask.

His room is… what you expected of a man like him. Plain walls, sturdy wardrobe and bed. A wristwatch ticks on the nightstand. It laments quietly, so much so that you only notice it when you sink into the mattress. He’s changed the sheets and pillowcases for you, but it’s not enough to snuff out the faint scent of tobacco. You like it, you decide. Or rather, you don’t mind it. Grounding earthy notes are much better than the synthetic chemicals Marco soaks himself in.

Sleep comes about as easy as you expect it to. A TV drones on quietly in the living room as you toss and turn among unfamiliar sheets. Dull anxiety claws within the cage of your chest, but it holds itself at bay better than you anticipated. Or rather, you are just too numb to fully appreciate the pain. You should be afraid. You know it, and it’s lurking there even if you can’t fully feel it yet.

It manifests suddenly as you feel the ghost of Marco’s hands on you. His teeth digging into your skin, demanding flesh. He wets his maw with your blood just as he wets his cock with your cunt. It sears. Rips through you in the brutal way it always does. Raw. Sinew on bone. And you don’t cry because it’s what he wants. He wants that brine and that sapor and he’ll claim it with claws and a smile.

His mantra pants. It sweats and drips. It’s wet on your ear.

There’s no escaping him.

You wake just after the sun does, and it is only then that you cry.

Grief is the quintessence of escape. You’ve crossed the threshold — you were dragged beyond it — and now there’s no way back to the way things were. Your life wasn’t good, and it was far from comfortable, but it was familiar. You only know how to navigate things when bound. Chained to an unforgiving master. How are you supposed to live with free hands?

What happens when Marco yanks your leash and finds no tension?

What becomes of his favorite toy — Marco’s girl — then?

By the time you finally gather the courage to leave the room, you find Riley in the kitchen. It’s what drew you out of your hiding spot originally; that scent of freshly cooked food. Sizzling meat and steaming eggs. He works at the stove with his back turned to you, arms dancing above the heat as he fries up a breakfast that should make your mouth water, yet it fails to do so.

“Morning.” He hears you before he sees you, but he pauses with a spatula in hand to look at you from over his shoulder. He gestures to the island in front of you — something you suspect was only built to compensate for the lack of counter space on either side of the stove — then hums to himself as he turns his attention back to his work. “Breakfast’ll be finished soon, if ya wanna grab a seat.”

There’s a stiffness that plagues your limbs as you sit on the high top chair Riley pointed to. It rolls off you in waves. Taints the air; souring it with your presence. You are not comfortable in this place — with this man. His palm haunts the chapped skin of your lips the same way his chest haunts your back and you can’t help but wonder what he and John would have done to you had they deemed you guilty. If they had looked at Marco’s girl and saw an opportunity rather than a pitiful creature, would you be sitting here now?

Breakfast is a quiet affair of scraping plates and muffled chewing. Riley doesn’t sit next to you. Rather, he stands on the other side of the counter with a bowed head as he shovels egg and bacon into his mouth as if he’ll starve if not. He tries to rest his elbows on the counter, but it’s too low. It curves his spine uncomfortably, and he shifts as if standing on hot coals.

Hunger does not pull at your stomach. Nervosity fills you to the brim — too full to consume something other than the ache.

“I’m sorry ‘bout last night.” Riley’s nearly finished with his food by the time he speaks, prompting you to look up at him for the first time since you sat down. All you’ve managed to do for the last few minutes is drag the tip of your fork around your scrambled eggs. “Boys really thought you were dangerous. That you were workin’ with Makarov and Marco. Shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.”

Dull teeth dig into the wet flesh inside your cheeks. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Riley argues adamantly. “But I am sorry.”

It’s difficult to discern the purpose of his apology. Is it to make himself feel better for what he did? For dragging you out of that club and into John Price’s office? To interrogate you until your innocence was proven? Does he say sorry to comfort himself, or you? To prove he’s not as monstrous as he looks with dark eyes and tight lips. He is, after all, awfully kind for a monster. You have yet to meet a beast that knows how to apologize without digging their teeth into you afterwards.

Perhaps his apology is truly for you. To settle fried nerves. To make you feel safe.

You know better than that.

You were safer in the clutches of Marco’s jaw than you are now.

“Riley, can… can I ask something?”

A cheeky remark bubbles along his tongue. You just did. He takes one look at you and decides to bite it back. “Course.”

A noisome lurch pulls at your stomach, embittering the sparse bites of food you were able to force down your throat. Thunder roars in your chest as your heart attempts to break free — leave your body behind to rot while it escapes.

“Would I… Could I get the pill?” you ask.

“The pill?” he repeats.

“Yeah, like… the… the morning after pill?”

His silence doesn’t surprise you, but it stretches long enough to be concerning. Looking up from your cold food, you’re met with soft eyes. They’re the softest ones that have looked at you for what feels like ages. Gentle. They don’t greedily rake over your body to soak in every twitch of your skin — rather, he reads you. Between the lines and and in the margins, he devours every word.

For the first time in your life he makes you feel more like a victim than a toy, and you’re not sure if that feels any better.

“Will you be alright by yourself if I go buy it for you?” he asks. There’s no judgment; only pity.

You nod.

Riley mulls it over as his tongue swipes along the back of his teeth. When he straightens, he brings his plate with him as he steps back and hums. Your attention is quickly brought back to your hands as he sets the dish in the sink to be cleaned later.

“Alright.” You try not to choke as he motions to your plate. “Should eat. I’ll be back soon, yeah?”

Once again, you nod. “Okay.”

Not a single morsel has been consumed off of your plate by the time Riley returns home, and you are not in your seat. Disappointment buzzes at the base of his skull, but he’s not surprised. He knows what it’s like to be too full to eat — to be plagued with something not even hunger can triumph. He sets aside the pill box to clean up after you. Food in the bin. Plate in the sink to be washed later.

It’s quiet. It’s never this quiet. Not even when he’s home by himself, which he usually is. Riley stands in the kitchen with furrowed brows as he looks around the room like he’s misplaced something. His keys. His lighter.

God, he could use a smoke.

Heavy feet cause old wood to creak as he pokes his head into the bedroom. An imprint of your body still dips into the mattress from this morning, but it’s gone cold. He was going to stay politely stationed in the doorway until the thought flickers across his mind that you’ve left. Got too scared of the brute whose home you’re trapped in and ran off. Away. Hiding from the world — from Marco.

There’s little reprieve to be found when he notices the light shining through the crack of the bathroom door, but it’s smothered the moment he hears you crying. They’re pathetic, stifled pules. Ones you attempt to desperately hide, yet they bleed out of you anyway. He wants to leave you alone, to let your emotions wash over you, but he can’t.

Even with your crying, the house is too quiet.

“Everythin’ alright?”

Both his voice and knock startle you, and your sobbing swells. Breathing out of control, he can hear you choke on the snot flowing through your sinuses. You’re panicked, and he realizes that this is more than grief. More than anxiety. More than fear.

You’re terrified.

You’re standing in the bathtub like a scared cat when Riley opens the door. Tears stream down your face. Relentless. They nearly glisten as bright as the kitchen knife in your hand.

You told yourself it would be easier for him to clean up the mess of your corpse if you killed yourself in the bathtub. Blood festers and rots in the smallest of crevices, but there’s none of that to be found in the ceramic that surrounds you. However, you’re having trouble getting any blood to flow at all. You’re not sure if it’s you or the knife, but you’re hardly able to break the skin on your wrists. The crimson blood that flows through your minor cuts feels trivial. There needs to be more.

It’s not enough. You’re scared that you might have to stab yourself. Spill your guts in the tub. Witness your offals for yourself before you fade away. Something. You want to die, but you don’t want it to hurt.

You don’t want it to hurt, but you need to leave.

“Hey. Hey, easy now.” Riley feels as if he’s talking to an animal. Some feral cat poised to bite and scratch if he’s not cautious. He approaches you with his palms faced out in surrender, and the walls around you seem to close in. “You don’t wanna do this sweetheart. Give me the knife.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t. I can’t do this. You-You don’t know what he’ll do to me. Marco he... It’s- I- fuck, I can’t. I can’t do this, please just let me do this.”

Each word is muffled. So far from your ears that it hardly reaches you. Still, they spew along with your cries. It doesn’t deter Riley from closing in on you. Swallowing the spit building on your tongue, you hold the knife with both hands. A simple kitchen blade, now brandished like a weapon. It’s nearly laughable. You couldn’t even kill yourself. How can you expect to hurt him?

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s gonna be okay. We’ll make it okay, but I can’t do that if you’re not here.” His words feel stupid in his mouth, but he knows he has to try something. “Please. Give me the knife. I don’t wanna hurt you. Hey, give- fuck.”

There’s a lunge. Grabbing. Blade on skin. Blood on tile.

Riley meant it when he said he didn’t want to hurt you, but you still cry out as he yanks you out of the tub. Once again, your back is against his chest. You are enveloped by him as the two of you sink onto the bathroom floor, held down by his weight, and it is then that you truly can no longer hold yourself together. Vision darkening, chest ceasing; you panic. It rips through you with shaking hands and writhing legs, causing your feet to kick at the dull kitchen knife at your feet.

For a moment, you are lost. Consumed by overwhelming grief and fear, and still Riley holds you through it all. You feel his heart beating against your spine, feel the exhale of his lungs dance on the top of your head. It’s a flicker in the darkness. In the primal fear of knowing you are still somehow chained to the man who has abused you for countless years.

Dread transcends physical space. Marco planted it inside of you the first time his lips found the quiver in your throat.

“Breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got ya.”

Riley’s voice fades in like radio static. Disconnected and muffled, yet growing evermore clear. Then, it hits all at once. The slight sting of your wrists and the ache in your leg. Did you trip? You feel the growing bruise pulse and throb on your shin, and another one in your hip. It’s hardly bearable, but neither of them are as uncomfortable as the warm, sticky mess seeping into your shirt.

It takes several seconds for you to realize it’s blood.

“There, good. It’s alright,” Riley whispers. His voice is thick — heavy enough to make your stomach sink.

“Am- Am I bleeding?” you stutter.

“No, you’re alright. Don’t worry ‘bout the blood.”

But you do. You worry about it because you don’t want it to hurt, you don’t even think you want to die anymore — you just want it gone. For it to dissolve around you, or for you to waste away into dust. Your chin rests against your chest as you look for the source, scouring your own body for the wound. Your wrists, your arms your legs —

— the wound is on Riley.

Blood gushes through a gash on the top of his forearm, obscuring your view of the damage. It’s just as steady as every stream you ever used to jump over as a child. It slices through the meticulously crafted ink that graces his skin, and you feel as if you’ve cut through the canvas of a painting. Ruined something good. Something more useful than yourself. More than that, you hurt him.

“Oh my god, your arm,” you gasp.

“It’s nothing,” Riley attempts to assure.

“There’s so much blood, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s nothing,” he reiterates. “Just a cat scratch, sweetheart.”

His cat scratch takes twenty minutes to patch up. You count the time on the ticking of his wristwatch as you lay in his bed. Body too weak and afflicted with malaise to make something of yourself, you stare at the ceiling as you listen to him hiss and grunt. It’s the blood, you’re sure. Despite the flow, he manages to smother it to nothing more than a scab beneath pristine dressings.

It takes him another ten minutes to clean you up. He assesses the wounds you left on yourself — shallow horizontal cuts along the delicate skin of your wrists. You stare at them as he cleans and bandages them, and you tell yourself the sting from the antiseptic is what makes your eyes water.

You’ve created a mess for nothing, and Riley is the one paying for it.

“There.” He secures the last piece of tape on the gauze. It feels unnecessary. Band-aids would have sufficed, and you tried to tell him as much only for him to mutter something about infections. “Not too tight?”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

Content, he hums as he steps away from the bed, gathering up items off of the nightstand. You watch as his fingers swallow rolls of tape, forearm flexing beneath his own dressings. Teeth digging into your bottom lip, your heart lurches, as the guilt pierces through you like a blade. You’re not sure why it lurks. Is it because you hurt him? Because you tried to leave a corpse for him to come home to?

“I’ll get you some water. Ought to take that pill sooner rather than later,” Riley says, turning to leave the room.

He only makes it a few steps before you stop him. “I lied.”

Pausing, his eyes find you with more confusion than you expected. “Yeah?”

“I lied about… needing the pill. I just said it so you would leave,” you admit. You push yourself up from the bed, legs swinging over the side of the mattress to sit and properly look at him. “When… I first… Marco used to make me take birth control. Like, the actual pills. I got pregnant anyway. Made me get the IUD after that. It’s more effective, so I don’t think I’ll really need it. I mean, I’ve never needed it before, so…”

Listening, Riley nods as you bare the raw parts of yourself. It’s impossible to share without that warble in your tone — that pain that always leaks into your voice — but in some strange way, it feels good. Refreshing. You’re airing out an old, festering wound that hasn’t ever seen the light of day.

“You got a kid to take care of? If they’re with Marco-”

“No,” you interrupt. Riley’s words die on his tongue. “No, he… he made me get an abortion, too. It’s for the best, really. Kids shouldn’t be around that monster anyway.”

Again, he nods. The house feels loud. Every inch of the four walls around you seems to buzz with an energy you’re not privy to.

“Well, some water wouldn’t hurt. Food wouldn’t either, since you never finished breakfast,” he continues as he turns. “Want anything specific?”

He’s so… casual. Nonchalant despite the trauma you subjected him to. He should be angry with you. Furious at having made a mess; at having hurt him. His entire life was turned upside down the very same moment yours was — he should hate you for it, but he doesn’t.

“Whatever’s easiest.” The floorboards are loose by the door. They squeak as he crosses the threshold, and you feel your stomach lurch. “Riley?”

Pausing, he turns on his heel as his head pokes back into the room. “Yeah?”

So calm. So patient.

“Thank you. For everything. I just… Thank you, Riley,” you choke.

For the first time since he caught you in that club, he smiles; small and kind.

“Just Simon to you, yeah?”

follow @daughterofcore for updates/notifs

#ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #in limbo #a fox cries; never howls #f!reader

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goblinontour · 3 days

Text

There’s Still A Trace

he’s so predictable

warnings: smut, angst, masturbation (m receiving), cheating

word count: 3.2k

He stared at his phone for what felt like an eternity, the glow of your message illuminating the otherwise dark room. He had no reason to call you. Not one that made sense, at least. She was right there, tucked under the sheets beside him, her body curled into the mattress. He could feel the warmth of her near him, her familiar scent lingering in the air. But that wasn’t enough, hadn’t been for a while. It was you, always you, occupying the space in his mind, like a fire he couldn’t put out.

His thumb hovered over your name, hesitating. His pulse quickened in that familiar way it always did before he reached out, before he allowed himself to give in to this need, this pull. He didn’t know why he felt so entitled, why it felt like he had a right to you, even now, even when she was sleeping soundly right next to him. His chest tightened as he finally tapped your name, the ringing on the other end dragging out, each second louder than the last, until-

“Alex?” Your voice was soft, uncertain. He could almost see the way your lips parted when you said his name, the slight confusion etched in your features. It had been a while since you’d spoken, but whatever this was never really faded.

He whispered, “Hey.” The sound was barely there, his voice low and rough, and thick with exhaustion and something deeper, something that tugged at him in a way he couldn’t ignore. His accent slurred, as it often did when he was tired, making the words harder to decipher, but you knew him. You always did.

You paused on the other end, his quiet greeting catching you off guard. The silence lingered for a beat. “Alex, why are you calling?” you finally asked.

He shifted under the covers, his body instinctively leaning away from her as though even in sleep, she could feel the weight of his betrayal. “I don’t know.” he admitted, eyes closing for a moment as he let out a slow breath. “I just...I needed to hear your voice.”

His words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, it was like nothing else existed but the sound of your breathing and the faint rustle of the sheets as he adjusted himself, heart pounding against his ribs.

“How are you?” he asked. He didn’t need to know, not really, but he wanted the connection, the intimacy of it. It was a question he used to ask all the time, a habit formed from late nights spent talking with you, your voices low, as though the night itself was a conspirator in your secret.

“I’m fine.” you said quietly, the breathlessness in your voice making his stomach twist. “You?”

He closed his eyes again, head resting against the pillow as he exhaled slowly. “I miss you.” he whispered. The admission felt dangerous, like crossing a line he couldn’t come back from. His fingers, as if drawn by the words themselves, moved down his body, brushing over the thin fabric of his boxers. The faintest touch made him inhale sharply. He knew this was wrong but the thought of you, just the sound of your voice, was enough to stir something primal in him.

“Alex…” Your voice wavered, but you didn’t tell him to stop. You never did. Never even tried.

His hand slid lower, fingers wrapping around his cock through the fabric, the warmth of his palm seeping through to the other side. He moved slowly at first, as if testing the waters, feeling out the edges of his own desire before diving inside. His hips shifted under the covers, the sensation of his hand stroking himself making him bite down on his lip to stay quiet. She was still there, after all.

“Is she home?” you asked, pulling him back to the present, your voice tinged with a question you already knew the answer to.

He glanced to his left, his eyes landing on her peaceful form, the way her hair was splayed out across the pillow, her back turned to him. Unaware. “Yeah.” he murmured.

“And she’s asleep?” you pressed, your voice softer now, more curious than before.

His grip tightened around himself beneath the sheets, a soft groan escaping his throat as he moved his hand with a little more purpose. “Yeah, she’s asleep.” he managed, eyes closing again as he focused on the rhythm of his strokes, the way his body responded to just the thought of you.

You were silent for a moment, and he could almost feel the weight of your questions, the way you were piecing this scene together in your mind. “Are you in bed?” you asked, though you weren’t sure if you wanted the answer.

He exhaled shakily, his hand moving faster now, the friction sending a wave of pleasure through his body that made him clench his jaw. “Yeah.” he whispered, glancing at her again, his heart racing. His hips shifted slightly, the movement slow as he continued stroking himself, his breathing becoming heavier.

“So...you’re in bed, next to her?” Your voice was a quiet, disbelieving murmur, the words hanging in the air like a challenge, like something you both knew you shouldn’t be doing but couldn’t stop.

“Yeah…” he said again, the word drawn out. He could feel himself getting harder, the tension in his body rising with every stroke, every whisper from you on the other end of the line. His thumb brushed over the head of his cock, the sensation pulling a low groan from his throat that he quickly stifled.

There was silence. Neither of you spoke. His hand tightened around himself, his strokes becoming faster, more insistent, as though he could pull you closer with each movement.

“She can’t hear…” he whispered suddenly, his voice ragged, barely holding it together. His eyes flicked to her again, making sure she was still asleep, still oblivious to what was happening just inches away from her.

On the other end of the line, you exhaled softly, the sound making him bite down on his lip to keep from making a sound. You couldn’t see him, but he knew you could hear it. The way his breath hitched, the quiet urgency in his voice. His movements were erratic now, each stroke bringing him closer to a release that felt as inevitable as it was forbidden.

And he didn’t care. Not in that moment. Because all he wanted was you.

The line crackled. You could hear his breathing, uneven and slightly ragged, and your own heart began to race, matching the rhythm of his shallow inhales. You knew what was happening on his end, even if he didn’t say it. Even if he wouldn’t admit it, you could almost feel it, the weight of his need pressing against the quiet.

There was a faint rustling, just audible enough to make you wonder. The soft sound of fabric shifting, the sheets moving against skin. You swallowed hard, knowing the truth but wanting to hear him say it.

“Alex...” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, cautious but laced with a curiosity that burned hotter with each second. “Are you...touching yourself?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. You could hear his breathing grow heavier, the silence between you thickening. He shifted again under the covers, his hand still working beneath the fabric, the sensation making his head spin. His grip tightened instinctively at your question, his hips giving a small, involuntary thrust in response.

“How could I do such a thing?” he rasped, his voice low and hoarse, a weak attempt at denying what you both already knew. But the way he said it gave him away. His words were a thin veil, one that neither of you believed for a second.

He didn’t want to admit it. To himself or to you. But you both knew exactly what was happening. There was no point in trying to hide it. His breathing told you everything his words didn’t, the slight hitch in his throat every time his hand moved, the soft rustling of sheets that he couldn’t conceal.

“You don’t have to lie.” you said softly, the understanding between you so palpable, it didn’t need to be spelled out. You could practically feel him on the other end of the line, picture him under those sheets, touching himself to the sound of your voice.

In between breaths, he let out a soft, shaky laugh, almost as if he were trying to deflect, to lighten the tension. But you could hear it in his voice, the way it faltered. “You know…” he started, his voice low and breathy, pausing as if to gather himself. “We had sex earlier…”

Your stomach tightened at his words, the way he said it cutting through the air like a knife. You said nothing, but your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I had sex with her.” he continued, his voice rough, as though each word was being pulled from him against his will. He paused again, his breathing heavy, and you could feel the strain in his voice, the way he struggled to keep control. “I had her on her knees…”

“Alex-” you whispered, not wanting to hear any more. Not wanting to picture it. But he didn’t let you finish. His words tumbled out, raw and urgent, like a confession he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“I had her on her knees.” he repeated, firmer this time, as though saying it again made it more real, more tangible. His hand tightened around himself beneath the sheets, his strokes growing erratic, the memory of earlier blending with the reality of now. “So I couldn’t see her face…I pretended it was you.”

The admission was raw, brutal in its honesty. He’d buried himself in her body, but his mind, his heart, had been with you the whole time.

“I kept thinking about you.” he murmured, each word dragging out between heavy breaths. “I couldn’t stop. I needed it to be you.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. His hand moved faster, the heat in his body building, his skin slick with sweat as he gave in completely to the fantasy of you. His hips shifted beneath the sheets, the pleasure rising, overwhelming, as he stroked himself harder, chasing the release he could feel creeping closer with every passing second.

“I pretended it was you…” he repeated, voice ragged and strained as he neared the edge. His words came out in broken fragments, punctuated by pauses where he tried to steady his breathing, tried to calm the frantic pounding of his heart. “I thought about you…the whole time.”

You exhaled shakily. You wanted to say something, anything, but the moment was too charged, too fragile, and all you could do was listen, heart racing in your chest.

His body trembled with the effort to stay quiet, to not wake her as she slept beside him. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” he breathed, voice barely audible now, lost in the sound of his own heavy breathing. “It’s always you.”

It was too much now, too real.

Alex was right on the edge, his body tightening with every stroke of his hand. His chest rose and fell with shallow, ragged breaths, trying and failing to keep it quiet. His grip tightened around his cock, his thumb swiping over the head with every upward stroke, the friction unbearable. The fabric of his boxers was damp now, clinging to his skin as his hand worked faster, faster, faster, unable to stop. He was too far gone.

“Fuck-” he hissed, the word spilling from his lips before he could catch it. It came out louder than he intended, sharper, the sound cutting through the quiet room like a crack in the night. He felt the surge, the heat coiling in his gut, his hips giving a hard, involuntary thrust as his body seized up.

His hand squeezed tighter, the sensation cresting into something unbearable, and with a strangled moan, he came, hot and fast. His cock twitched under his fingers as the cum spurted thick and warm against his palm, soaking into the fabric of his boxers. His breath caught in his throat, a low groan slipping past his lips as his hips bucked helplessly, riding out the wave of pleasure.

The wet heat of it pooled around his hand, spreading against his skin, sticky, the fabric clinging to him in a mess of his own making. His strokes slowed, his grip loosening as the last few pulses of his release spilled out, leaving him trembling and breathless under the covers. His hand stilled completely, the weight of what just happened sinking in, heavy and inescapable.

You called his name softly, your voice still on the other end of the line, barely cutting through the haze in his mind. But he didn’t answer. He couldn’t. It was as if, the moment his orgasm faded, the world came crashing back down on him, reality hitting him like a cold wave of guilt and confusion. The pleasure was already fading, replaced by the gnawing sense that he’d gone too far. Much too far.

For a brief moment, he just lay there, frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear but his mind somewhere else entirely. The silence on your end was deafening, and the soft rustling of the sheets beside him felt suddenly too loud, too real.

She stirred.

His heart stopped.

He turned his head just in time to see her shift under the covers, her body turning toward him, her face still half-buried in the pillow. His breath caught in his throat, panic flooding his chest as he stared at her, eyes wide, pulse pounding in his ears. She hadn’t heard him…had she? No, no way.

The phone was still in his hand, his fingers gripping it tightly. The sticky mess in his boxers felt suffocating. And for a moment, he didn’t know what to do first. Should he end the call? Should he move? Should he clean himself up? The thought of her waking up fully and seeing him like this, soiled, guilty, caught in the act…no.

He glanced down at his hand, still slick with cum, his skin flushed. The sheets were damp. He felt trapped, caught in this moment where nothing made sense anymore, where desire and guilt collided in a chaotic swirl that left him breathless and shaken.

You said his name again, softer this time, and it cut through the panic, grounding him just enough to snap him out of his daze. But still, he didn’t answer. He couldn’t find the words, couldn’t even begin to explain what had just happened or why he felt like the floor had been ripped out from under him. His mind raced, his body still trembling, as he lay there, paralyzed between two worlds. Between you and her. Between the fantasy he’d just indulged in and the reality he was trapped in now.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, until finally, she settled back into sleep, her breathing slow and even again. But the relief that washed over him was short-lived, because the truth of what had just happened lingered, heavy and undeniable.

His breath hitched as he swallowed hard, the words you’d said still lingering in his ears. But he couldn’t answer. He couldn’t find it in himself to respond, not now, not after what had just happened.

Without another word, without a goodbye, he ended the call. His thumb hovered over the screen for only a second before he tapped it. The line went dead, your voice gone, and in the silence that followed, the reality of what he’d just done hit him like a punch to the gut.

He just sat there, frozen, his chest heaving with deep, shaky breaths. His mind was a mess. The pleasure he’d felt only moments ago had drained from him, leaving nothing but an aching emptiness in its wake.

With a low, frustrated exhale, he threw the covers off and sat up, his bare feet hitting the cold floor with a dull thud. His heart raced as he glanced to his left, where she still lay, still unaware. But he couldn’t stay there, couldn’t bear the thought of lying beside her any longer.

He stood up suddenly, the motion too fast, too sharp, but he didn’t care. The sheets rustled, the floor creaked beneath his weight, and he stumbled out of the bed, his legs unsteady beneath him. The sticky fabric of his boxers clung to his skin as he moved, making his stomach twist with disgust.

Just as he reached the bathroom door, his hand on the handle, he heard her stir behind him. His body went rigid, every muscle tensing as her soft voice broke the quiet.

“Alex?” she murmured sleepily, her voice groggy and confused, like she’d just surfaced from a dream. “Where are you going?”

The sound of her voice made his stomach churn. She was waking up. She was starting to notice. His pulse raced, panic flaring in his chest, but he couldn’t look back.

“I’ll be right back.” he muttered quickly, his voice strained, barely audible as he pushed open the bathroom door. He didn’t wait for her to respond. He couldn’t.

He stepped inside the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click, but it felt like a slam in the quiet of the night. His hands were shaking as he flicked on the light, the harsh fluorescent glow blinding him for a moment as he blinked against it. The brightness only made everything feel more exposed, more raw.

He stared at himself in the mirror, his reflection looking back at him with wide, guilt-ridden eyes. His hair was a mess, his face flushed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to catch his breath.

The shame crept up on him, slow and suffocating, until it wrapped around his chest like a vice. He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles white as he tried to steady himself, but the guilt was too much. He could still feel it. Your voice in his ear, the sound of your breath on the other end of the line. He could still feel the pleasure that had ripped through him just moments ago, the way he’d lost himself in the fantasy of you, while she had been lying just inches away, asleep and oblivious.

His stomach twisted violently, and he felt the bile rising in his throat. How had he let it go this far? How had he let himself slip so deeply into this? He wanted to tear the fabric from his skin, scrub away the guilt, the shame, the mess he’d made of himself, of everything.

He turned on the tap, the sound of running water filling the small room, drowning out the thoughts screaming in his mind. He splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it jolting him for a moment, but it wasn’t enough. It didn’t erase anything. It didn’t make him feel any cleaner.

She called his name again from the bedroom, her voice still soft, still laced with confusion, but there was a hint of concern now, a slight edge to her tone. “Alex? Are you okay?”

But he couldn’t answer. He couldn’t face her. Not yet. Not like this.

a/n: wrote this cause i was feeling off the other day so he has to suffer as well ig

tags: @st7rnioioss @theonlyoneswhoknowsblog @rentsturner @yourstartreatment @avxoxo1 @jqsvi @turnersfav @youresodarkbabe @psychedelicrocker @aacheinthejaw @zayndrider @humbuginmybones @tedioepica

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner x you #alex turner smut #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #smut #goblinontour

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gojoacedia · 23 hours

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Katsuki Bakugou knows the feeling of ‘your legs moving on their own to save someone’ just as much as any other pro hero on his level. That still doesn't stop him from being upset that your legs moved on their own to save him.

It was a normal patrol like any other day, and both Katsuki's and your agencies had assigned you to an area that had a recent spike in crime. You greeted Katsuki and had a small conversation with him about the crime in the area before you were in action. A villain ran right past both of you with a giant bag of illicit substances, and the two of you immediately started the chase. You had run a few blocks down when you saw a slight falter in the villain’s steps, indicating to you that he was about to attack. You jumped ahead of Katsuki as soon as you saw his falter, successfully getting hit with the villain’s quirk.

Usually, when you get hit with a quirk you shake it off and continue the chase. You had trained with all kinds of heroes with every quirk imaginable, making your tolerance to pain way above average. But this was no normal quirk. Katsuki knew your pain tolerance better than anyone, having trained with you throughout your careers as heroes, so he was terrified to see you immediately stumble before falling over. Katsuki had been in plenty of situations where his partners had dropped, and he knew the moment after a villain's quirk went off was when they were most vulnerable. Katsuki’s main focus was taking down the villain before he could hurt you or anyone else more than he already had. In a single moment, the villain was detained.

After Katsuki was satisfied with the state the villain was in, he sprinted back towards you to make sure you were ok. He thought you would be passed out or writhing in pain, but to his surprise, you were trying to stand up and swaying like a sorority girl who had a few too many. He rushed over to you, and right as you were about to take a step in his direction he caught you before you fell down.

“What the hell happened to you?” He asked you in an annoyed voice. If you weren’t in pain, why did you fall so spectacularly? He felt your hands trail up his arms and wrap around his neck to steady yourself before you fell over again. His expression turned into one of shock when he saw your face. Your eyes were half-lidded, cheeks a darker shade from all the blood rushing to them, and lips glossy and parted into a lazy smile.

“I think… I’m drunk,” you slurred back to him, biting and sucking on your lips to make sure you didn’t accidentally drool on him. You had never been in this state before, usually throwing up before you could reach this level. But throwing up now wouldn’t do anything; there was no alcohol in your body. Katsuki felt your weight on him increase as you started falling to the ground once again. He clicked his tongue.

“tch. Dumbass,” he called you before picking you up bridal style to carry you back to his agency. He knew taking you to the hospital was useless because there was no alcohol in your system, so he opted to take care of you himself until the quirk wore off. He didn’t trust anyone other than himself to not take advantage of you in this state.

Katsuki had seen you drunk before, he knew you hated crowds and that was why you were always tipsy at hero galas or work parties. But this was a different type of wasted he had never seen from you. As a hero, you were always subconsciously ready for another fight, which was why you never got to the point of being immobile. Katsuki had honestly convinced himself that it was impossible for you to get wasted. But here you were, in his arms, no care about what was going on in the outside world due to the world inside your head being too overwhelming.

Katsuki made sure to carry you in his agency in a way that wouldn’t show your face or the state you were in to anyone else, again worried you would get taken advantage of. He had that look on his face that said ‘Don’t talk to me,’ a look his agency knew all too well and respected like their jobs depended on it. In his office, he sat you down on the small couch in the corner used mostly for situations like this. After setting you down, he tried to return to his desk to get some work done on the villain he had caught with you, but you grabbed his sleeve and pulled him down. He was shocked to see you express any form of consciousness, so he sat next to you.

“What?” He asked in a tone way harsher than intended.

“How long… is this last?” You slurred, not being able to worry about using proper grammar. He sighed, wishing he could help you more.

“I don’t know, but I’ll be right here if you need anything at all,” he told you before getting up to grab his water bottle from his desk. “Drink this, it might help,” he handed it to you. He watched in amusement as you tried to figure out how to properly grab the water bottle. It seemed like you were just as shocked as he was about your level of drunk.

“Don’t you laugh at me! I was the one savin’ your ass!” you mumbled almost incoherently. Katsuki would have argued with you any other day, but because you probably wouldn’t remember this he just smirked down at you. He could tell you needed much more attention than he originally thought, so he pulled up a chair and sat across from you, ensuring you didn’t choke on the water he gave you.

“Also stop lookin’ at me like that… I already have to resist makin’ out with you while I’m sober… I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself in this state,” you dropped on him before setting the water bottle down on the floor and failing, making it immediately fall over. Katsuki couldn’t even bring himself to pick it up for you. He was too shocked by your confession. He told himself this was just the fact that you were drunk, and it didn’t mean anything. But he couldn’t deny he felt the same way.

“Shut up… I’ll tell your agency you can’t make it to work tomorrow,” he said before getting up and walking to his desk to email your agency. You didn’t ignore how red his face got. “Oh? I like the sound of that. What are we doing tomorrow?” you yawned through your sentence, leaning back down on the couch. “We aren’t doing anything. You are going to be hungover out of your mind and I don’t want to deal with that,” Katsuki explained to you, hiding behind his computer so you couldn't see how much redder his cheeks got. When Katsuki didn’t hear you reply, he looked over his monitor to see if you were still alive. His gaze softened at the look of your sleeping form on his couch.

—

“Oh my fuck,” you growled at the booming pain in your head. You couldn’t even open your eyes, your room was too bright. You grabbed your blanket to cover your eyes with, but your blanket seemed to be a different texture than it was last night. You cracked your eyes slightly open to see what was going on. You weren’t in your room at all. And there was Katsuki, in the doorway, holding a glass of water and painkillers. Once you knew you weren’t kidnapped (by a villain), you covered your eyes once again, hoping it would calm your headache even slightly. “What happened?” You asked without looking at him. You heard him walk over to you to set the water and painkillers on the bedside table.

“You got hit by a quirk and it made you blackout drunk,” he said quickly, not wanting to recount what actually happened.

“Drunk? So I didn’t just immediately pass out? I remember walking on the sidewalk back to my agency but that’s all…” You recounted, frustrated that you couldn’t remember anything else.

“Take these,” Katsuki said before handing you the painkillers, desperate to change the topic. You reached out with squinted eyes (it was still way too bright) and took them in one gulp.

“Did I say anything? How drunk was I? I’ve never blacked out like that before…” You tried to remember what happened again but it was all too blurry.

“You were very drunk. You couldn’t even form complete sentences.” Katsuki told you the white lie before leaving the room. You laid back down, hoping the painkillers would kick in soon. Then you realized.

“I was forming incomplete sentences? What did I say?” you yelled back to him before scrambling out of bed. You knew yourself better than anyone, which means you knew how horny you get when you’re drunk. You had confessed your true feelings to far too many people being just a few drinks in, so you couldn’t imagine what you had confessed to Katsuki while you were absolutely obliterated. You heard Katsuki click his tongue. You knew that meant he didn’t want to talk. “Oh nuh-uh, you are not going to hold from me something that came out of my own mouth Bakugou. What did I say?” You yelled while stomping over to him to get his attention. He finally turned to look down at you. Anyone else wouldn’t notice, but the slight blush on his cheeks was clear as day to you. Your heart dropped more.

“Let me take you on a date. Tonight.” Your eyes widened at his request. All you could do was nod as you started to piece yesterday together. You knew you had confessed to him at this point because he wasn’t scared of rejection. He probably just asked you on a date because he didn’t want you to be the first one to make a move.

“Meet you at 6?”

#bnha x reader #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou #bnha #mha bakugou #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bakugou x reader #bnha bakugou

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sturnprime · 2 days

Text

BREAK AND FIX, chris sturniolo 🩵

from h ꨄ︎ ⎯ hi so first time writing anything like this very very nervy

i hope you enjoy 🩵 (join the taglist here)

rain pattered against the panes of the window, a sombre reflection of the current mood that filled the atmosphere. the room portrayed an almost movie like scene with mounts of tissues scattered across the floor and a tub of ice cream haphazardly tossed beside the bed.

it had been a month and you thought it was supposed to get better, thought that the aching sensation in your chest was supposed to disappear with time but it only seemed to be getting worse. books you read fed you this dream of getting over everything easily yet you sat snuggled under your covers, eyes with red rims and nose tinted with hints of painstaking rose that uncovered your mask of emotions.

the worst part was you didn’t think any of this was affecting chris as much as it was affecting you. your mind began questioning a bunch of things; whether or not he still loved you, if his current emotions were as pathetic as yours, if he was even sorry for ending things so abruptly. none of it made sense from the way things had been so perfect one second only to entirely crumble the next all the way down to that irritating voice in the back of your head that kept telling you, you should have somehow done more to make him stay or not desire to leave.

loud ringing from your phone that was resting on your pillow pulled you out of the trance you had unwillingly slipped into, your eyes widening slightly at the suddenness and even more so at the contact name that was displayed across the screen.

your fingers danced across the surface hesitantly, silently contemplating in your head whether or not answering the call was worth it. you wanted to be strong and pretend you could simply allow it to ring until it didn’t but there was a sort of gravitational pull that made your fingers have a mind of their own. you swiped to answer the call, met with a beat of silence that had you regretting everything within seconds before a heavy sigh was heard on the other end.

“i miss you so much, y’know that? can’t stop thinkin’ about you,” his words sliced through the air and your heart like a freshly sharpened knife, crimson painting your insides in a manner so harmful, you suddenly felt as though you couldn’t breathe.

what hurt more than anything was the slight slurring of his voice that told you he was drunk. surely the saying went that drunk words were sober thoughts but it felt like clutching onto air when you searched for genuineness within his actions.

for a moment you were paralysed, unable to speak or even move as you processed what he said but eventually your words found their way out and you prayed they didn’t showcase your distress towards everything, “you’re drunk chris.”

“baby it doesn’t matter,” his words were laced with a hint of desperation and for a fleeting moment it felt like he was about to apologise for one of your pointless arguments but the moment was gone as quick as you blinked and the reality of the situation doused over you like a bucket of ice-cold water.

“chris i’m not… look just hang up and we can pretend this never happened okay? you don’t know what you’re saying right now,” each word that left you sounded foreign to your own ears, your voice lacking the excitement it used to hold when you spoke to him and in its place there was a semblance of melancholy.

there was shuffling on the other end and you could faintly hear the sound of his brothers somewhere else in the house. the toggles in your mind turned because you had assumed chris was at some sort of party but now that you thought about it, the only noise from the other end was his speech. there was no music or obnoxious chatter, just him and the now gentle sound of his breathing. it almost made you cave, almost made the barriers you had built up come crashing down.

but you had to be strong because of course you could give in but who was to say you wouldn’t end up in the same place all over again, internally pleading for a different outcome. so you ignored the craving inside of you to allow his words to drape over you like a comforting blanket, instead mumbling out a small goodbye and ending the call before waiting for his response.

the hammering inside of your chest didn’t disappear when the phone call ended, it increased and you could feel your anxiety bubbling up to the surface. the only solution you deemed possible was to sleep it out, to fall into a land of dreams where the world and the problems you were facing didn’t seem nearly as daunting.

with a reluctant sigh, you placed your phone on your bedside table as well as your glasses and got more comfortable under your sheets, pressing your eyes shut and hoping sleep greeted you as a dear friend there to take away your worries.

apparently the universe was on your side and you felt your eyes slipping closed within a few minutes and before you knew it, black filled your vision insinuating you had fallen asleep. your mind rested as you slept, the concerns that were plaguing your head before now long gone and unable to reenter the gates of your blockage.

the crepuscular rays of the sun awoke you from your much needed sleep and you groggily rubbed your eyes as you sat up in bed. with a few minutes of required mental preparation for the day, you clicked your phone on and paused when you saw the notifications. hesitance flooded your veins but no doubt this would be about the night before so you pulled it together and tapped on the notification.

chris

I’m sorry I was so fucking drunk I didn’t even know I called you last night

Can we talk?

you

talk about what?

i get it you were drunk shit happens

chris

That’s not what I mean

I mean properly talk

you

what could you possibly have to say to me

chris

So fucking much you have no idea

Please just let me come over and if you want after that I swear you’ll never see or hear from me again

One chance

you

fine

chris

Thank you

Seriously.

I’ll come over in an hour?

you

okay

what the fuck had you just agreed to? you felt dizzy with the thought of seeing him after a month but you would be lying if you said there wasn’t a little part of you that was the good kind of nervous. you and chris were no longer together but the effect he had on you had not vanished into thin air the moment he left. it may have been pathetic but even the mere sound of his name still had you fighting butterflies that threatened to let loose in your stomach.

for the next hour as you got ready for the day and had a little breakfast, you felt lightheaded. the seconds seemed to turn into minutes and before you knew it, your doorbell was ringing. it was almost comical how once upon a time chris would have stormed into your house like it was his own and announced he was home but now the ringing echoed in your ears. it was a stark contrast to what you had grown accustomed to and you felt nauseous at the unfamiliarity.

with a sickly feeling consuming you, your feet made their own way to the front door as you opened it, met with the sight of chris with his hair even more disheveled than it usually was. to others it would appear normal but you knew chris better than most and the odd angles his hair was sticking up in was a telltale sign he was nervous. it was a little comforting, the fact that you were both on the same page with your emotions for a second or so.

you moved to the side to allow him access into the house, an usual silence settling amongst you. the two of you walked into the living room wordlessly and then you slumped onto the couch.

chris cleared his throat and your eyes moved up to meet his. the different shades of his blue and your hazel flickered in recognition as you swore his breath hitched in his throat.

“i’m sorry… let me explain please,” and the pleading in his tone made you give in instantly.

yes you were weak but how could you not be when this was the boy you had fallen in love with? when this was the boy who had been there for you time and time again when you felt as though you deserved no one? you may have been weak but he made you so.

when you didn’t respond, chris took it as his opportunity to keep going, “i don’t know what i was thinking… you have to believe me when i say i fucked up. i never wanted to end it, i just got in my head and i made a mistake. a big fucking mistake please you have to understand… give me a chance.”

his pleading words were the only sound filling the air and it took everything inside of you to not console him. you had to remind yourself he was only hurt because he put himself in such a position, put the two of you in such a position. but the way his eyes were flickering with utter dread had your thoughts stilling until all you could focus on was him.

his hand moved to reach for yours and you should have pulled away instantly but his fingers felt like coming home after endless time away. your hand slot with his like two puzzle pieces and all you wanted was to be complete again. his thumbs swiped across your skin and you felt the flush before it came, felt the desire in your heart to stay in this vulnerable spot for eternity.

“chris how am i supposed to believe you? what happens when i give you a chance and this all comes back to bite me in the back? i can’t do it again, especially when i haven’t gotten over it the first time,” the words you spoke were a mere fragment of what you truly were feeling but any more thoughts lingered on your tongue until the taste became sour and bitter.

“i swear it won’t be like that. this time apart has shown me that i can’t do it without you. i love you, i love you even when i break you and it’s killing me. i want to fix things,” his voice cracked ever so slightly that you almost missed it but you knew him so incredibly well that you picked up on it instantly.

that torn up response made you want to glue him together. yes he broke your heart but your heart also belonged to him, used to beat to the melody of the both of you and you were not quite sure you wanted to stop listening to the harmonies just yet.

“i love you,” he repeated and you loved him too, despite the cracks he placed within your heart because once upon a time he had healed a heart he had never even broken.

“i love you too…” and it was not a lie, never had been since the first time you said it and he looked over the moon.

his eyes lighting up reminded you of the first time, of simpler times and it made you remember all the good moments you shared — ones you did not ever want to forget and craved to expand.

his body seemed to have moved closer, the gap between the two of you on the couch almost non existent but still it felt like lifetimes could slip between you. yet when he reached his free hand to cup your face, air couldn’t slip through even if it tried.

“can i kiss you? please,” he practically whispered and you nodded your head, silently accepting what this would lead to and even though it scared you beyond belief, chris still had a way of making you want to overcome every last fear you held as long as he was alongside you.

he didn’t waste even a second to connect your lips and the surge of electricity that shot through you was a feeling you came to realise you missed so fucking bad. he was practically on top of you as the kiss deepened and when he pushed you so you were laying on the soft cushion, you let him. his body hovered over yours and tongues collided in a rushed manner, a greeting between lovers who so desperately needed to reconcile.

his eyes held a concoction of hunger, affection and gratitude and you wanted to drink it all in. his hands moved to your top and with a silent word of agreement between you, he took it off and carelessly discarded it somewhere unknown.

he looked at you like he was seeing it all for the first time, like you were the prettiest thing he had ever seen and loved and it resulted in your heart soaring.

he pressed open mouthed kisses onto your collarbone and he spoke between each of them breathlessly, “god missed you so much… you’ve no idea… fuck.”

his lips trailed lower and lower, down your chest and to your abdomen and you fought the urge to squirm beneath him when they grazed the waistband of your skirt. it was as though you forget how to speak when he pushed the material down your legs and scrambled around to move it away from you.

“fuckin’ missed this pussy,” he muttered and you gasped when he kissed over the top of your underwear. he couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the sound but deep down he too was trying not to drive himself crazy at the small contact.

“chris…” it was barely there but he heard it and it just made him want more, made him slide the only piece of clothing standing in his way off until his pupils dilated in utter lust.

“tell me you want it,” he all but asked and from the rasp in his voice, how could you not?

“please… i want it,” you let yourself go and the corners of his mouth tugged up into a slight smirk before his lips latched onto the exact spot where you needed him.

it was immediate, the way your hands grabbed onto his hair and tried to pull him even closer. the erotic noises in the air were driving you wild combined with the feeling of his tongue lapping against you. it felt so fucking good and you knew he knew it just as well because he wasn’t coming up for breaks.

he was eating you out like a starving man whilst his hands tightly gripped the sides of your thighs, “taste so fuckin’ good angel.”

you moaned involuntarily and his tongue moved faster in response, a reminder of exactly who was making you feel good. you tugged on his hair when he sucked on a particular spot and he whimpered, the vibrations against you getting you closer and closer to the edge.

“please,” your body moved to meet his mouth more and his nails dug into your side.

“please what?” he asked you, lips barely leaving their spot as the words escaped him and you whimpered at the sensations consuming you.

“god ‘m so close,” you managed to whine out and he took it as his cue to suck harder until you were nothing but a withering mess.

he loved the control he had over you, loved the way your body flailed underneath him yet you obviously didn’t want him to stop. you moaned his name like it was a mantra and he wanted to play the words on repeat for the rest of his life. god he missed the sound of your begging and whining more than he thought. he was honestly obsessed with every part of you and he couldn’t even bring himself to think of what a fool he’d been for ever attempting to rid himself of that.

“yeah? you gonna cum for me baby?” his words were all you needed and he loved that he still had that effect on you.

your hold on his hair tightened as your body let go, a blissful feeling taking over as he raised his head, his chin covered in remnants that only seemed to turn you on more.

“i love you,” he said it yet again almost like he was solidifying his emotions and for a moment it remained in the atmosphere because it only felt right to allow it to do so.

your fingers trailed to his sweatpants and he grinned widely as you flipped him over so you were now resting above him instead. “i love you too,” you replied and he leaned up to kiss you simply because he could; it was deep and passionate and telling of everything he’d been feeling for the past month or so.

you removed his articles of clothing one by one and he allowed you to wordlessly, an admirable smile on his face and adoration painting his eyes. this was exactly what he needed and he knew you needed it too from your desperate gaze that raked over his now naked body.

“come on angel be quick about it,” he groaned as your fingers teased him and you smirked, a sight he wanted to capture in his head as if it were a mental picture.

“shh, we’re doing this my way.”

TAGS @mattslolita @eyeliketoeatpoosay @chrissturniolossidehoe @middlepartmatt @raysmayhem-72 @conspiracy-ash @fratbrochrisgf @pvssychicken !

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