#that'd be way too on the nose

[biblethumpersims]

Candace safely births a healthy baby girl, Juliet Mills.

Meanwhile, Jonas grows up without anyone to witness it.

[shotmrmiller]

sugar daddy!simon would go so hard cuz he'd need no sugar but lets his hand linger on the small of your back when standing at the register with his wallet out or grab your foot to massage beneath the table at the upper scale restaurant yall are dining at.

he doesn't push (surprisingly but hey it works for you!) you give him whatever you want, be it just your hand to hold or a chaste kiss on the cheek in thanks after carrying all the stuff he bought to your room. he spoils you rotten regardless but then the issue comes when you actually want him to touch you.

simon doesn't touch. not when you model the little slips of clothing he so generously gifted you from that one overpriced shop at the mall. not when you wear his favorite skirt, the one that got him to talk to you in the first place on the sugar daddy website. not when you invite him in for a nightcap, letting your bare legs rest on top of his while watching a movie.

he. doesn't. touch.

simon doesn't touch you even when you want him to.

keeps his right hand curled around the glass he's nursing and the other laying on the backrest of the couch when you tell him if he wants to peel off the undergarments he'd just bought you today. (a shot you don't shoot is a shot missed anyway.)

"'s not necessary," he says. "got 'em for you to wear." he hasn't taken his eyes off the screen once.

that'd sting more if you hadn't caught him discreetly palming himself outside his trousers while you'd modeled these too.

"might not be necessary but it's what i want." that gets his attention, an arrogant curl on his lip making your heart flutter in your chest.

he gives your knee a squeeze. "i've always given you everythin' you've ever wanted but this is the one thing you're gonna 'ave to work for."

work for? simon doesn't wait for you to ask what he means.

"only way i'm touchin' ya is if ya beg," he rumbles.

should've known it was too good to be true. but you've got an ache between your legs that won't go away no matter how many times you've used the rose (also another gift.) guess you'll just have to "beg".

/

your definition of begging and his are not even in the same dimension. he had shot you down when you'd said please. when you'd batted your pretty eyes at him while saying please. when you'd gotten on your knees between his legs and said please with your hands flat on the carpet.-

simon had only tapped you on the nose and said, "'s good, but not good enough."

what had been good enough was you riding his thigh until sweat slicked your skin, until your lip trembled with need, until his trousers looked like he'd spilled his drink on it while you mewled out your please's.

only then had wiped the corner of your eyes with his thumb and whispered tiny words of praise into your ear, his breath warm against it.

"wasn't so hard, was it, pet?" you'd been beyond reason at that point, core burning almost painfully hot with desire, so you'd jerkily shaken your head. anything to finally get him to touch you like how you need.

his long fingers splayed out across the back of your head, palm almost engulfing your entire head. "now tell me where you want me to touch."

he touches with clever fingers, his warm tongue, even uses his crooked nose to rub at your pearl while his thumb, spit slick, presses into the girl of your arse. having him fuck you is a whole different beast you have to tackle. if you plead for something, anything, he'll rut his cock between your thighs and come over your sticky pussy :)

[julsvu]

mornings with the seven

fluff, gn! reader, not proofread

jason will always find himself holding onto you tightly, before or after sleep. he makes sure you're completely warm in his arms, and indulges in the feeling of your warmth lingering on his muscles, that tense ever so slightly whenever you make the slightest movement that'd indicate you're moving away from him. cuddles with him feels like cuddling a huge plushie. he greets you with a soft good morning, kissing you on the forehead before asking how was your sleep, his morning voice deep.

with percy, you find yourself with dozens of kisses sprinkled all over your face before you both go to sleep. in the morning, he'd admire your resting face while his fingers string into your soft hair. he adores waking up with the smell of your shampoo lingering just beneath his nose. he wakes you up with a cheeky grin on his face, asking you if you'd like to watch the sunrise with him. but, before watching the sunrise, you'd have to help him cook blue pancakes. every month, sally gives him a new recipe, or rather, a new variant for blue pancakes, and this boy always insists to try them with you first and foremost.

frank has similar cuddling habits to jason. he'll wrap his limbs around you as long as you're comfortable with him doing it, almost suffocating you (in a good way, he swears). he isn't aware of it, but his hands shapeshift into a cat's paw and makes biscuits on you whenever he's too comfortable in his sleep. he invites you to have a small breakfast date once you wake up, greeting you with a warm squeeze of affection.

leo has his limbs entangled with yours, before and after sleeping. his face will always be buried into your shoulder or neck; your scent makes him relax far too much to the point of sleepiness, hence, he'd make excuses to cuddle with you no matter the place or time. he wakes you up with countless of kisses littered upon your face, and a grin paints over his lips once he sees you flutter awake, before he tells you what he had dreamt about. (his dreams somehow always involve you.)

annabeth is big on spooning. she wouldn't mind being a little spoon, but, she prefers to be the big spoon since it feels like she's protecting you, even at times of rest. she memorizes your sleep patterns; maybe she's been hanging out with you too much, and she ends up waking up at the same time as you. however, she never fails to remind you to take care of your sleeping schedule, as she brushed your morning bed hair with a small smile lingering on her lips.

hazel falls asleep holding your hand, most of the time. hazel, like annabeth, would subconsciously memorize your sleep patterns. but, unlike annabeth, she'd wake up before you. she swears that she's grown a sixth sense for her dear lover, as she greets you with breakfast in bed. she loves getting away from everything and staying with you; especially if she gets to play with your hair while you spoonfeed each other breakfast.

piper makes sure you've got everything out of your system before sleeping beside you. she never lets you fall asleep angry, or sad, no matter the reason. she holds you closely to her as you ramble to her. one half of her is listening, while the other half is admiring the way your lips seem so kissable. when you fall asleep from venting out your feelings, she kisses your forehead, already thinking of the things she can do tomorrow morning to cheer you up.

© 2024 JULSVU. all rights reserved. please don't plagiarize, translate, put in other websites or copy my work without permission. ty!

[prael]

Perks

Kinktember Day 10: Mirror

Twice Mina x male reader smut

words: 4,108 Kinktember Masterlist

Do you ever look in the mirror and see someone who isn't you?

It was a simple question—if a rather loaded one.

"No," said Mina. "No, I don't think so. Not in a bad way, but maybe in disbelief of who I've become. Sometimes I expect to see the same person I was almost ten years ago. A simpler me. Maybe a more nervous and afraid version of me. That sort of thing."

"My therapist told me that was imposter syndrome," you said. "It's common, but it's pretty fucked up, the way we act like we're lying to ourselves."

"Have you thought of seeing her again?" Mina asked.

"God, that'd be awkward, don't you think?" you responded.

Mina paused, holding a glass midway to her mouth as if thinking, 'Between you and her or you and me?' Then she seemed to decide and smiled to herself, "Right."

Mina never erred into the intrusive or tactless. It's why you never have the impression that she is nosing around your life, because she gives you all the leeway to share only what you wish to share. And maybe that's why the both of you have lasted this long; in this arrangement, you found this unique level of trust, and you dare say it makes you damn good together.

"Our friend over there at the end of the bar looks like he can't take his eyes off you," you told her without looking up from your drink, not to draw attention. Mina chanced a discreet glance from the corner of her eye.

She quirked an eyebrow at you, "So? Feel threatened?"

You laughed into your drink before taking a mouthful of it, and then you told her, "I was about to get up, but you know that as soon as I do, he's going to come over."

"Of course, he will," Mina grinned into her own glass, then tipped her chin back to get at the last of it. "You go ahead to the room, I'll let him down gently." She patted at the front of your suit coat, above your breast pocket. It was a playful gesture. She had barely touched you all night until then.

"Early morning tomorrow, Mina, don't waste too much time now."

Mina smiled her "oh-shut-the-fuck-up" smile, before tucking a strand of stray hair behind her ear and running her fingers through the thick long black strands. You smiled to yourself and signalled to the bartender.

It's been a long day, and tomorrow will be longer still. Hotel bars had become a sort of ritual for you and Mina, you share a drink the day before you close a deal, half in premature celebration and half as a good luck charm.

And the thing is, Mina is a flirt. Through and through. Charm and wit. It works on clients, and it's an asset. The only problem is, it worked on you. It wasn't difficult to recognise your attraction for what it was, and she obviously took notice of it too. And you, well...

You're a professional, so you would never, ever let yourself act on it. This is why you returned to your room, alone, and why ten minutes later you heard the door open to her (conveniently joined) room. You're professionals, if you're going to fuck, at least you try to hide it.

The adjoining door opens. Oops, did you leave that unlocked? How silly of you.

"Sorry about the wait. Didn't want to seem rude, you know." She leans against the doorframe.

"How long after I left?"

"Barely a minute, he did the whole 'You-look-familiar' bit, so I humoured him..." Mina cocks a smile of arrogance. "For a minute. Before, you know... Letting him down gently."

"Did he go quietly, then?"

"He tried to ask me if I was sure I wanted to be alone." She shakes her head slowly as she saunters forward. "I was sure. Sure about coming up here and riding you senseless. Didn't tell him that, of course, just up and left. Anyway, for tomorrow, I was thinking—"

"Let's rewind to that part about riding me senseless, shall we?"

A playful smile takes to the corners of her mouth. "Let's."

You climb up from the bed, your shirt hangs loosely from your body, no tie at the neck and untucked from your trousers. "So, would you say it's going to be more of a—"

"If you are going to finish that with some terrible sex metaphor, I will kick your ass so hard." She kicks off her heels at the door. That long black dress she wore earlier is long gone, replaced by the lightest of sheer black chemises and a pair of little lacy black underwear.

"Kick my ass," you tell her, placing a hand on each of her hips. "Sure."

"Be quiet." She whispers it before she kisses you, deeply and softly. The sort of kiss that makes you forget yourself. Your arms circle her waist, and her arms rest on your shoulders. You savour it, the smell of her perfume, the taste of her tongue, the feeling of her hands trailing across the skin at the nape of your neck.

But in due time, that kiss breaks apart. Her hand trails down the front of your dress shirt, button by button, she has undressed you so many times now that the motion seems so familiar, and practised, but she still takes her time in doing it, as though with every undone button her anticipation is built upon.

You place your hand against the curve of her hip, thumbing gently, with feather-light touches along the black fabric, her small waist and wide hips, firm and round and so shapely in just her lingerie—your hands could have found no better resting place.

As you slip out of your shirt, Mina slips the delicate straps off her shoulders and the skimpy piece falls away from her body like petals around her feet. Mina is bare for you, save for her panties. Her tits might not be as big as her ass but your mouth still waters at the sight of them.

"Look at me." You love it when Mina demands that, love how she smiles with smug confidence when you have nothing to do but oblige her. Mina turns herself around, and your hands slide down, down the generous arch of her back and cups around her round, firm ass.

"Oh, come now," you can't help but tease her, "How very complacent of you, to think my eyes would look at nothing else but you. You know that I am a man of refined culture." You knead at the ample flesh in each palm, so soft. "I am very clearly an admirer of the finer things in life."

"How very romantic," she laughs, sliding down her underwear with a shimmy of her hips before placing her palms flat against the wall. "Go on then. Enjoy the art, like the cultured man you are."

There is something intoxicating about watching her there, propped against the wall, naked for you, your cock uncomfortable in your trousers. You unbuckle the clasp of the belt, then, in the pause, you approach, letting a single finger trace up the arch of her spine, leaning closer to her neck to whisper, "Not right here. Look over there, the mirror."

A floor-to-ceiling mirror, to be specific. She smiles a devilish little smirk. "And what of it?"

"Mina," you tell her, pressing the front of your trousers against the curves of her body, against the supple flesh of her ass. "I want to see all of you when we fuck. Every beautiful detail."

Mina purred, content. "Spoken like a poet..."

You land a solid and deliberate smack against that big ass of hers, and she lets out a groan. "Don't let it go to your head."

Mina let out an effectual moan, knowing fully how it tempts you. You roughly press your body against hers as she does it. Hooking both your arms around her naked form, you pull her to where you want her, right over to the mirror.

"That's it, take me like you want to." She presses her hand flat against the mirror, pushing back those delicious curves against your body once more. You force down your slacks and underwear until the cool air envelops you, at least until you push against her body once more. You cup both your hands at her full ass, slipping your stiffness between the cheeks and rocking back and forth. Mina is biting her bottom lip as she looks back at you in the mirror, and you look at nothing else but her deep dark eyes, her face framed by that long, dark, glorious hair.

"Your ass. This. This beautiful, beautiful thing of yours, drives men wild, drives me wild," you breathe out as she rocks herself back into your groping hands and your hard cock grinds between her cheeks, slow and methodic. "Drives me a little bit insane."

She deepens her bend, lowering her shoulders level to her ass, and her face presses against the glass. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip again, peering over her shoulder, a shameless erotic, willing for you to take her in the most raw and depraved way. You can't deny the effect it has on you, and it has you raising your right arm, palm poised to land another satisfying spanking to her ass.

The crack rings out through the room, and she lets out a soft, sweet little, "Oh!"

You wrap a hand around her, over her stomach and down between her legs, reaching for her sweet, slick cunt, and find her soaked, wet with arousal. Wet for you.

"Fuck, you're so horny," you utter hoarsely. You drag your fingers through her juices as you drive your stiff cock over her tight asshole, so much teasing, maybe too much, perhaps too tortuous. You groan into the shell of her ear. "You get so wet for me. So wet. You need it so badly."

She moans, grinding back against you and circling her hips as if it could ease her pain. Half teasing, half goading, she says, "Maybe you should stop fucking playing around and do something about it."

She hisses when you drive your two slick fingers inside her without warning, pushing deeper in one smooth motion, as you mutter into the crook of her neck, "Impatient, aren't we, Mina?"

"Just fuck me."

In response, you slowly withdraw your fingers. She gasps against the mirror, the palm of her hand curling flat into a fist. Her words get you harder as she tries to wiggle her ass and spread herself, desperately trying to draw your dick to the slick pink centre of her sex for you. She doesn't care anymore what this does to your discipline, doesn't care at the prospect of you breaking, turning this into a savage, ravaging of her body; what matters only, at this very instant, is that she gets filled and fucked, fast and hard.

Finally, you give her that. Draw your cock out from between her cheeks, sliding the tip down between her legs, feeling the moisture that glistens on the swollen lips. You don't bother to strap up, or even ask, it's long since established that raw is how she likes it.

Slowly, you push forward. Mina sucks in a breath through her teeth. You know by the arch in the small of her back, the little trembles, that it is taking all her concentration and willpower not to throw her hips back, to force you to the hilt.

You bite the edge of her shoulder, and a shiver travels down Mina's entire body. You pull out, a little, before driving forward a little further.

"You feel..." you groan, your cock feeling like it was engulfed by satin. You sink a little further. "Fuck."

"Mhm, go on," her eyelashes flutter as you begin to take her, in this raw, animalistic way. "Tell me how it feels."

"Every time is like the first time," you continue, sliding in slow, then deeper, bit by bit, until you're all the way in and her big, round ass is pressing hard against your abdomen and her thick thighs against your legs. "You feel warm and slick and tight and wet, and oh, God..."

A sudden thrust forward as her greedy cunt squeezes the length of your shaft. A delicious whimper that sends blood to your head. A long, shaky groan slips from the both of your lips. You buck hard into her ass and watch as it ripples at the contact. "Ah! There, yes. Fuck," Mina moans.

There are two of her, perfect reflections, two Minas taking a rough pounding from behind. Each little expression on her face, each beautiful feature is visible in the reflection. And behind that her body ripples just like the one below you, and she whimpers, helpless as you penetrate her over and over.

"F-faster." She whines. "Harder. God, fuck, fuck me harder."

Mina has always liked it a little on the rough side, so you grab a handful of her hair, ball it in your fist, and pull. "Tell me, how does it feel?" You rear her head back so she has to look at herself in the reflection and tell it to herself. You pick up the pace, beginning to relentlessly pummel her from behind as you bury yourself into her tight heat as deep and hard as you can.

"So... Ah! So good." You yank her hair again, making her ass tense, making her gasp. She pants hard, short and fast as the force and strength of each thrust get stronger. "I love it when you... fuck me like this." Her chest begins to heave up and down. She raises her ass even higher for you. "When you—God, ah! Ah!—make me want to scream..."

You feel that incredible warmth building and swelling in your abdomen as her sex drips around your shaft, and it is so hard to slow yourself down when her ass slaps against you in perfect sync with your every motion, when Mina's knees shake, when her desperate moans urge you to never, ever stop. Still, you would like to do a little something before she orgasms all over your cock.

You roughly jerk out of Mina, pulling away abruptly with no warning.

"No, no! Don't stop!" She cries out immediately, her greedy body already missing yours. The flush at her neck spreading, blossoming down—her shoulders pink. "No!" She whimpers as she tries to throw her pussy back against you.

She cries out so pathetically that she doesn't protest when you roughly turn her around and lift her by her thighs, allowing her to wrap her legs around your hips and sink her to the hilt onto you. You sink her down and up and down again and again, bouncing her on and off of your aching cock in front of the mirror, gritting your teeth to keep yourself from finishing the moment her tightness wraps and flexes around you.

"I'm gonna cum so hard, I swear, I can feel it," she gasps in time with your rough pounding, arms holding onto your neck tightly, fingernails digging into your shoulders. "So close, don't you dare stop."

The harder and faster you go, the louder and harder she screams, eyes rolling back and mouth falling open. She digs her heels into your back, pushing down against you so there's nothing left for either of you but pleasure. You pound hard and heavy into her, chasing her orgasm, and when that perfect heat grips all around you and consumes you entirely, there is nothing in the entire world that compares to it—to this. The thought that very soon you will be cumming inside Myoui Mina.

It is that pure bliss, that power and sense of total control, of giving her such pleasure that you're left moaning along with her, revelling in this wonderful mess. Your bodies are sticky and tangled and you just start to let it go. Filling her pretty cunt as you have so many times before.

You grit your teeth and struggle through the overstimulation, taking satisfaction in how the trembling in her legs persists, her breathing ragged and body shaking. Doing your best to fuck your load into her—she's just so into that sort of thing—you don't think that there's anything, truly, that is better than this.

Not when Mina whimpers as she weakly presses her nails into the skin of your shoulders and when she knows not how to stop trembling. Your limits are worth pushing for a woman like her.

But even then, limits are ultimately undeniable. Her full weight in your arms, your knees weak, your legs tire beneath you and finally, as you plant a series of gentle kisses along her neck and shoulder, her mouth gasping, her nose against your cheek, you give in and fall to your knees. Mina's back leaves a mark of where it was once imprinted against the glass.

"So..." she laughs breathlessly into your ear as you sit with her on you. "Do you think management has any idea how often we fuck during these trips?"

"I imagine that if they found out it would be both of our jobs on the line." You hold a hand on her lower back, keeping her upright and then place your mouth on one of her breasts. Her nipple is firm, you suck on it and run your teeth over its delicate surface. Mina keens with her mouth falling open and her lashes fluttering, a small quiet "ah" escaping from the back of her throat.

"Guess we better stop," she jokes, breathing out in a chuckle and gently, pushing your forehead away from her chest.

You chuckle dryly into her neck, wrapping both arms fully around her naked body to pull her closer. "Something tells me you won't really be able to help yourself."

"Punishingly handsome, smart, a sense of humour—" She reaches down to where your half-soft cock is planted within her cunt. "—Great cock, excellent fuck" As though it were some sort of sales pitch. "No. No, I can't help myself."

"Is this about next week?" you ask.

"They never split us up, we're a team, so why would they send you with her instead?" Mina rocks her hips slowly on your lap. You groan into the crook of her neck.

"It's a one-off, Mina. In two weeks we'll be travelling together again." You wrap your arms around her soft, warm skin and run them down her back. "Another hotel, another set of adjoining rooms."

"Yeah," she sighs as she lazily continues her grinding. "Or, we could... See each other outside of work, you know. Like normal people do."

"We're far from normal, Mina." You let out a soft sigh as you start to harden inside her again. You pull at the small of her back, urging her on. "We're having our fun, right? It works. What reason is there to rock the boat?"

Her arms move up your chest and onto your shoulders. With that same teasing voice of hers, "There's always room for more fun. More sex." Mina pushes hard on your shoulders, and you fall back into the soft carpet. Mina is above you—over you—all-powerful beauty and you want nothing more than to grab her hips and drive up, and into her. Her hair falls over her shoulders and down her arms. Her pert little tits beg to be held. Her face, with flawless skin and those few prominent freckles, is decorated with a filthy smile.

"Two weeks, Mina, two weeks and we'll be back to doing this." You caress the silky soft curves of her sides. "Two more weeks, and then it's a real long trip. Just me and you."

She's visibly more excited, and she rides you harder now than just a gentle grinding and you hear the little wet sounds of your cock plunging into her cum-filled pussy over and over again. Her breasts bounce beautifully, and finally, you do cup one in a hand. A playful glimmer dances in her eyes, along with the lust haze. Mina's wet thighs slap against your hips, the sounds are vulgar in the best way.

"I'm going to fuck you every single morning and night for the whole trip," you tell her, and her grin widens. "Then you won't want for a thing."

Your words only seem to encourage her more, to fuck you harder and harder. She's riding your cock wildly but never has her eyes left yours. She fucks like she does everything else; with every fibre of her being, her passion is unbridled and intense. And oh, when she whimpers, it makes a hot current run straight to the end of your spine, it gets the heat in your head pulsating. That's just what Mina does to you.

"Two weeks without me. You're going to be so frustrated, Mina, so needy. You're gonna make me a promise."

"Mhm?" she gasps.

"You're going to wait for me," you say. "After tonight, for whole two weeks, no cumming."

"No," she says through clenched teeth. "Absolutely not."

"Yes, Mina, absolutely."

You clasp your hands on her hips, slowing down her speed. "Promise me."

She almost struggles to find her voice. "No way. I can't!" Her hips fight against your hold, she fights to drag her cunt over your cock and just feel the pleasure you're denying her. Mina grits her teeth, and the pain is evident on her face. "Okay! Just please fuck me now." She twists her body, trying to release from your hold.

"Promise."

"I promise. I promise. I promise!" Mina squeals, nearly shrieking as you soften your grip and thrust up into her quivering, wet heat. You let her fuck you again and she picks up right where she left off—frantic and wild. She leans in to kiss you deeply, and a little whimper spills from the corner of her lips. "Fuck. Cum inside me again."

The eagerness with which Mina rises and falls on your cock, her pussy taking in all of you, demands only one thing. Cum—the mess of you both—spilling over and running out, all over you and the floor and ruining the hotel's carpet.

"Yes," her voice cracks, high and soft, "Oh fuck. Fuck. God, I'm gonna cum."

It's good, your hands gripping her body firmly, matching her pace, and taking the chance to look behind her, at the mirror, where you can see your cock bury in and out of her again and again. Slipping up below her ass that ripples beautifully every time your hips meet.

Mina cums not even ten seconds later. With an eruption of screams louder than you've ever heard, shudders all over, and more fluid spilling between you both. She's struggling and you feel it. You slap her ass and follow with a groan of words halfway between an instruction and a plea. "Don't stop."

She doesn't stop. She sits up and throws herself back, reaching for something to balance on. A hand against the mirror, her legs spread and her body present to you, she fucks that pretty pussy down onto you so fast, she's struggling to maintain the rhythm but her nails are curling against the glass, her brows are pressed so tense together, her body shakes all over and a cry comes again from that lovely mouth.

She cums again like this as if it's a show for you and what a fucking show it is. Her legs tremble so hard they lose purchase and you begin lifting yourself up into her and the sight, the sound—her sounds—and her perfect body is making you buck and press harder into her. You've become so mindless, so desperate and hungry for her body. You can hardly keep yourself from spilling into her for a second time. But not yet, you think. Not yet and not there.

Mina's leg buckles. She fights for air. "Can't," she chokes out, breathless and shallow. Nothing left to give you. She slips from her perch, collapsing to the floor, leaning against the mirror. Her dark hair matted with sweat, her pale skin gleaming. Her expression is dreamy. "On me. Just finish on me."

On Mina, a work of art. Over her pretty face, or those luscious tits, or that soft tummy. Over that thick, firm and oh-so-perfect ass, or those equally tasty thighs. Maybe even just glaze over her messy cunt. Her eyes flicker as she looks up at you, and you have a decision to make.

"Anywhere. Cum wherever you want."

[alchemistc]

i present my latest offering of an au first meeting: the poker game.

Big Blind

Tommy's been on plenty of bad dates in his time, but this one might actually take the cake for worst first date he's ever had. They're just -- not right for one another, and it's clear they can both feel it, but for some reason Jeff just -- keeps talking. About his border collie rescue, and his sixth fourteener (this year), and the his upcoming promotion and the Cybertruck he's thinking about getting wrapped in matte black --

"Jeff," Tommy cuts in, when he starts in on Tesla stock talk. "I'm gonna pay the check and head out. It's been..." he gestures. Considers calling Stout right here at the dinner table to tell him no more blind dates with his stock broker brother-in-laws friends, no matter how gay they are.

He's gonna get shit from Stout's wife the next time she stops by with a casserole, but honestly a half-hour tirade on politeness from Heather Alexandra Stout sounds better than learning how much of an Elon Musk fanboy Jeff really is. Jeff looks like he might be offended by the implication that he wouldn't have paid, but Tommy's already waving down his server and gesturing to the bar by the time Jeff even thinks to reach for his wallet.

"You have a good night."

Andrea slides his check under his elbow with a raised brow and doesn't say a word when he hands her his card immediately, but he can tell she's judging him. Third date in a month he's barely contained his disdain for long enough to pay up, although this is the first he's outright ditched before the bill was even paid.

Gary slides a beer across the bar to him and refuses the cash Tommy tries to give him for it. "Do I look that pathetic, Gary?"

Man of few words, Gary just taps his nose and tips his chin to his date, who is doing a terrible job of trying to sneak out the door.

"You're too good for him, anyway," says Andrea, back already with his card. He tucks an extra twenty into her folder and downs the beer in silence while they watch through the window as Jeff seems to get into an argument with the Uber pulling up in front of the restaurant.

"Maybe it's me," Tommy says, and Gary hums in commiseration. Or maybe he just has gas. "Maybe I'm the problem."

It's been a string of bad dates, and before that a relationship that'd gone up in metaphorical but nearly literal flames. Tommy's spent a lot of introspective time wishing he could kill Gerrard with lasers so that he doesn't have to blame himself for staying in the closet so long that blind dates and Grindr meetups were his real introduction to the dating scene.

"Someday, Tommy, you'll meet someone who can't get enough of your morbid humor and your pessimism and your obsession with haunted cars."

"One car," Tommy argues, although that's beside the point. "I think maybe I should give the search for love a break, Gary."

Gary hums, again.

Tommy drinks the rest of his beer in companionable silence and pulls up his phone to order an Uber himself. Jeff is, thankfully, long gone, and Tommy's halfway through confirming his home address when he remembers the invite he'd received last week that he'd hesitated scheduling a date around. He shoots off a text instead, and updates the address before he slides from the bar stool.

Gary shoots him a look. "Headed home?"

Tommy shifts on his feet. Shoots a look behind the bar. "Nah. Gonna try to hit up a work thing. Pour me a shot of Tullamore for the road?"

Gary accepts the twenty this time and doesn't make a comment about the way Tommy downs a sipping whiskey, which Tommy appreciates.

He's halfway to his destination, enjoying the chat with his driver, when the text comes in from Lucy.

Had to bail, but you should go if the date went that badly. Williams will enjoy slowly ruining the remainder of your night.

Tommy taps his phone once, twice, three times before he makes up his mind not to be the asshole who changes his destination halfway through the ride. Worst comes to worst, he'll tap out early and Venmo Mehta the rest of his stake.

Better than moping at home with the pint of freezer-burned Ben and Jerry's.

-----

He's fairly rushed down the stairs once he's in, because apparently Williams is on some sort of time crunch, or something, and he's fairly certain the drinks are catching up to him as he takes in the table. Mehta and Wilson are regulars, and he's seen Rosen around, but there are two new guys settling in across the table and Tommy has to take a long, long moment to remind himself this is technically a professional setting before he can look too closely at either one of them.

Yeah. Shit, he'd definitely drank most of that second pitcher by himself, listening to Jeff talk.

"Kinard. We weren't expecting you." Rosen's eyes glimmer with amusement. He'd caught maybe six months of her probationary year, but every time she sees him she likes to remind him of the first time she'd seen him post-transfer, at a gay bar in WeHo, and introduced him to the first guy he'd dated seriously in his entire life. Tommy returns the favor by reminding her exactly how terribly that had ended for all parties. "Poker night dress code usually includes more buttons than date night," she jabs, finger circling the olives in her martini glass, and Tommy contemplates tossing one of Mehta's chips at her. Her grin goes wide.

With the momentary distraction, Tommy feels a little more prepared to face the two men now eyeing him curiously.

"Tommy," he says, leaning over the table, hand out to shake. Turtleneck raises a curious eyebrow when Mr. Red Velvet Smoking jacket practically leaps across his lap to shake back. "I'm over at 217."

"This is Eddie," Red Velvet introduces, and Tommy's gaze dances between them, curious. "I'm Evan. We're with the -- wait, 217 -- Chimney's Tommy?"

Tommy's brows dance up the same time as Eddie's do. He is still shaking hands with Evan. Or - holding is more accurate, he supposes, but for the sake of his sanity and the possible date Evan and Eddie are on, if he's reading the introduction or any of the vibes right (they're both stunning and Tommy is smarting from another shitty date, so who knows), Tommy keeps it to shake in his mind. "Well I don't think Howie can claim ownership of my person, but -."

"Sorry, no, I just meant..." Evan's gaze drops to their clasped hands, still now over the felt of the poker table. He gives one more firm pump and drops Tommy's hand. "We're both at the 118. Pretty sure you helped save this guy's ass once." He tips a thumb sideways to indicate the man he'd introduced as Eddie.

Tommy's eyes drift. He's had a few drinks, and up until about halfway through the date he'd been expecting a very different outcome for his night, so he's maybe not keeping a lid on things the way he normally would in a work setting. He's guessing the ass he's purported to have saved would look great, if it weren't firmly planted in his chair and out of view. The rest of the view ain't bad, either.

And.

Shit.

Williams is giving him a look, which means he's not being even a little subtle. "The gas main explosion," Tommy finally gathers from the cobwebs of his brain, and wouldn't it be his luck to transfer out of the 118 just in time for two annoyingly attractive men who may possibly be boning each other to take his place.

Evan grins. Beams, more like, and Tommy slides firmly into his own chair and tries not to be blinded by it. Or entranced by it. God he needs to get laid. Get this - whatever this is - out of his system.

Tommy's cool. Tommy's calm and collected and he hadn't even had that much to drink, actually, so why is he having such a hard time behaving like he's had forty years of experience dealing with attractive men?

Tommy sorts through the memories.

Eddie he can pinpoint fairly easily -- he'd shot off a message to Chim the moment they'd learned one of the 118 had been shot, and had been happy to break the news of his recovery to an anxious Harbor station in the tense days after it had all gone down. Evan, though - he doesn't have a clue who that could be. He's still got a few buddies from B Shift he talks to on occasion, but he doesn't remember any stories about an Evan from them, and Howie hasn't mentioned one, either.

Of course, it's not like either one of them does a great job of keeping in touch.

The mystery is solved a moment later when Williams tips her head at him. "Feels like we're being overrun by the 118 tonight," she says with a grin, but her gaze slides to Evan, rather than Tommy. "And we've got an honest-to-goodness legend tonight."

"You know I still can't believe you survived that, Buckley," Mehta says, and the puzzle piece slots itself into place. "Uh, although we're all glad that you did."

Buckley. Tommy shifts. Reassesses. Eyes the glance between Diaz and Buckley like he's gonna figure out their deal while he's already four and a half drinks deep into the night and hasn't already heard the larger than life tales of this duo from half-a-dozen gossipy paramedics. According to some, there's a secret torrid love affair going on behind the scenes of their codependent friendship. According to others, the ones he more or less trusts not to stretch the truth too far, they're friends -- closer than most, and maybe a little weird about each other, but friends all the same.

Buckley's a shark. Or, if Williams is to be believed, a bit of a cheat.

As the game goes on, and the conversation drifts from the morbid details of Buckley's three-minutes-seventeen-seconds of lifelessness, past the special skills near death experiences are rumored to cause, past the time out where they'd all admired the pictures of Buckley's Lichtenburg scars ("They faded pretty quickly," Evan says, with a soft little frown like he's a bit disappointed not to have any physical proof beyond a few shots of his naked brick shithouse of a chest.) Tommy can't help but admire the shift from bashful to smirking and smug as Evan keeps racking up monumentally improbable hands. He's a bit of a brat, actually, and Tommy can feel Rosen's eyes burning into the side of his head every time he ups the ante just to watch the flicker of triumph aimed in his direction every time Evan wins a hand Tommy raised.

Tommy's no slob with cards, on a normal day, but he's too busy trying not to read anything into the way Evan's eyes keep drifting to the v of the shirt he hadn't buttoned back up just to spite Rosen, or the way he keeps licking his fucking lips every time Tommy takes a sip of the whiskey at his elbow to really care as his chips dwindle to nothing. Tommy can't be entirely sure, but it seems like maybe Evan pouts, a little, when Tommy pushes back from the table to join the rest of the losers crowded around to watch Williams, Mehta and Buckley battle it out.

He's trying to think of a subtle way to ask Howie if Evan Buckley is just like that with all the men in his life when Eddie slides in beside him with a refill on his whiskey. Tommy grimaces. "I shouldn't."

"Thought you were trying to drink away a bad date?"

Tommy shoots Rosen a glare over Eddie's shoulder, but she's too busy chasing her straw with her tongue to notice.

"He was a Tesla fanboy," Tommy intones, and the braces himself for the reaction. He's used to it, now -- the constant cycle of coming out and waiting to see which new acquaintances bow out of getting to know each other any better. This is... earlier, than he usually drops it, but he hasn't been in the mood to lie about it in years, and Eddie had asked. He gets a raised brow and a grimace.

"Don't tell me you didn't know ahead of time," Eddie says, and Tommy loosens the grip on his glass.

"Hazards of blind dating."

Eddie's look is commiserating. He tips his beer bottle against Tommy's rocks glass. "Yeah, my tia keeps finding reasons for me to run into the eligible daughters and granddaughters of all her friends." Which Tommy supposes is answer to half of the question that's been plaguing him since he sat down.

Buckley gets cocky a few times, but it's clear the night is going his way even before Jeshan Mehta's pot gets swept up in Evan's arms. Williams holds out as long as she can.

"Beginner's luck!" Buckley crows, when Williams' last chip is added to his pile. Eddie's been supplying him with a steady flow of drinks for the past thirty minutes, and his smile is crooked as he tilts backwards in his chair for a fist bump. His eyes flick to Tommy's once he's received his congratulations from Eddie, and Tommy pretends he's not a little bit fascinated by the pull of his jacket over his arms, or the way his closed hand lingers near Tommy's even after Tommy has smacked his knuckles against his as well.

Evan Buckley is frustratingly adorable. Tommy's had too many drinks for any kind of decent decision making. He bows out while Evan and Eddie are collecting his winnings.

-----

Tommy's eyes flick to the readout on his phone. He doesn't recognize the number, but it's a local area code, so he picks up on the forth ring. "Go for Kinard."

"Uh - hey, hi. Hey Tommy." The voice is familiar, sweet and low. "It's Buck - Evan. Evan Buckley. I uh -- I got your number from Chim, I hope that's alright?"

Tommy's got a solid fifteen minutes before he has to leave for work, a raging headache that has thus far refused to accept electrolytes or Advil as tribute to his overindulgence the previous evening, and a full understanding that he's going to spend his shift listening to Donato swear up and down she's the better option for finding him a man, but the voice on the other end of his phone might at least give the headache a run for it's money.

"Evan. Hi."

"Hey. So -- you dipped before I could ask -- which is fine, obviously, I'm not -- uh..." He pauses. Tommy can practically picture the way he wets his lower lip while he searches for the right words. "Anyway I was wondering -- would you maybe wanna grab a beer, sometime?"

Tommy spends about fifteen seconds rearranging his entire schedule in his mind. Says, cool, calm, collected: "Sure. When are you free?"

Evan's voice goes distant for a second -- he's putting Tommy on speaker. "I, uh -- I didn't expect you to say yes so quickly. Actually I didn't expect you to answer -- who answers unknown numbers, anymore?"

"Who calls expecting to get sent to voicemail?"

The brat rises up immediately. "Uh, literally everyone. The missed call is just an excuse to text. It's basic phone etiquette, Tommy."

Tommy likes the way he says his name. Soft, sweet and slow, rolling over his tongue like molasses. This feels incredibly like flirting, but he can't get a fucking read on this kid. "Clearly I've missed out on an important cultural shift. I can hang up and we can do this the right way, if you want."

"No!" It's sharp -- louder, like he's raising the phone back towards his mouth. Tommy can't hide the grin leaking across his face. "Uh -- no, it's fine. Too late, anyway, I already know you don't know phone rules."

"Hopefully that doesn't change your opinion of me too much."

"I could be convinced to ignore it, with the right incentive."

"I'll buy first round," Tommy says, and wonders if he's got any other shirts he can play off as fitting better with three buttons undone. The flirting should be enough, but -- Tommy's still not sure drinks isn't just drinks.

"Wednesday night," Evan says, voice further away again. Tommy has a sudden, desperate urge to see what his Google calendar looks like. For all that he'd cut loose at the poker game, Tommy bets it's color coded by type of activity. "If that works. Or Saturday, any time, really. I'm uh -- I'm free then."

If Tommy bows out of trivia on classic car week Cynthia will have a whole ass bitch fit. And it makes him seem a little less eager, to boot. "Saturday. I've got a shift early Sunday, though, so maybe something in the afternoon?"

"Yeah -- yes, th-that works." The stammering isn't something Tommy can get a read off of. He'd done it just as much with Eddie as he'd done with everyone else. "There's a new brewery just off Pico and Prosser -- Chim said you were a fan of craft beer?"

Sounding more date like by the minute, but -- some guys toe the line. Could be Evan Buckley just wants to know more about flight operations, for all Tommy knows. "Text me the details. Look, Evan, I'd love to stay on this rule-breaking phone call and chat but I've got to head in for a shift. Just -- let me know the plan." He's got five minutes to brush his teeth and rue the moment he'd asked Gary for his first whiskey of the night. He's also rolling back his last few sentences and cringing at how abrupt he'd been. "And yeah -- good to know Chim hasn't forgotten the three facts I ever told him about me."

Evan laughs, just a soft little huff but Tommy already knows the grin behind that sound is all sorts of knee-meltingly sweet. "Cool. So. Yeah, I'll text you."

"I'll talk to you later, Evan."

"Yep. Talk to you -- talk to you soon."

Tommy waits a moment in silence. The call doesn't end. "Goodbye, Evan."

Evan huffs out another awkward laugh. "Yeah. Bye, Tommy."

The call disconnects just in time for Tommy to press his forehead into the cool tile beside his bathroom mirror. He might be monumentally screwed if this isn't a date. He hasn't been this fucking charmed by a man since -- well, it's been a while.

Tommy's phone buzzes in his hand. It's a pinned address from a number he doesn't have saved. Tommy swipes into the contact and updates it before the next text makes it through. Saturday 3PM?

Tommy brushes his teeth, downs the rest of his preworkout in the hopes that it'll ease some of the nastier parts of his stupid decision to keep drinking liquor past midnight, and stares at the text all the way out to his truck.

See you then, Tommy sends back, and he has to toss his phone into his passenger seat when he gets a series of incomprehensible emoji's almost immediately in response.

He holds up a hand to Donato the moment she catches his gaze, halfway across the parking lot. The brow goes up, the hand slots to her hip, and she rolls her tongue over her teeth, clearly ready for her speech about how Stout doesn't have a clue how to find Tommy a proper date. Tommy has other problems.

"You worked with Evan Buckley, for a while, didn't you?"

Her head tilt rights itself. The second brow dances up to meet the first. Whatever she'd meant to say disperses behind her eyelids as she seems to work through something in her mind. "Oh, this is compelling," she says, and practically skips forward to loop her arm in his.

[ceilidho]

The catfish price things is giving me vibes of “I’ll make her pay for daring to play with me like that, I’m a god damn respected man” and then just stalking her for a few days until he finds the perfect opportunity to make the pretty little thing pay, maybe take *real* pictures of her, after he messed her up pretty cute, filled up holes.

"Oh, you're fine," John clucks, verging on dismissive when she tries to twist out of his grasp again. He yanks her back by her hips before she's managed to wriggle even an inch away, relishing in the sound of her ensuing yip.

She squeals from where she's bent over the back of the couch, little feet kicking out, her painted toes barely grazing the floor. Her pleas come out garbled, muffled by the ring gag in her mouth. It's more than fair after what she's put him through. As much as John enjoys the sound of her pleasure, he prefers this, only the squelching sound of her pussy every time he fills it up and her pathetic little mewls.

He likes the way she looks like this. Hands bound at the wrist, toes curling and flexing every time he bottoms out, still a bit too tight to take him to the root. She clenches deliciously around his length, tighter than sin, hotter than hell. Everything he'd imagined she'd be like in the weeks since they started chatting online. The only thing he's thought about since the first time she messaged him unprompted and he laid eyes on the sweet thing smiling back at him from the photo next to her name.

"Miserable little thing," he murmurs, fingers squeezing into her hips hard enough to bruise. He'll have to tend to those later when they bloom. "After everything I've done."

John likes to think that he's a good man, but even his patience has its limits. He can handle being blown off once or twice, but five times in a month? While still brazenly asking him to send her another month's worth of rent? If he's going to be taken for a sucker, then he thinks some taking of his own is well deserved. Earned, even. He's paid three times over for the wet peach between her legs.

No one would call him the most technologically adept, but what he lacks in know how, he makes up for in resources. It hadn't taken him long to find her - or, more accurately, it hadn't taken the intelligence analyst whose shoulders John had held in an ever intensifying grip long to find her. After that, all he'd had to do was put in for his leave and pack an overnight bag before plugging her coordinates into phone.

"C'mon, 'nough of that. Can't push a man this much without expecting him to snap."

She wails something unintelligible behind the gag, but he's long learned to tune her protests out. She'd been full of them when he'd barged into her apartment earlier, steamrolling past her. The display of innocence would've been more impressive if he weren't in such a foul mood, in no right mind to hear the woman that'd been bleeding him dry for weeks claim to have never so much as heard his name before.

He lets go of her hip just long enough to pull his phone from his back pocket, sliding the camera open and framing everything from the line of her back to the soft curve of her ass. The soft shutter of his camera is loud enough for her to crane her neck back, eyes going wide at the sight.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," John tuts, tossing his phone away and bearing down over her until he can run his nose down the sweaty line of her neck. She shakes when he widens his stance, seconds from letting his mind go blank while he thrusts into her like a rutting bull. "You'll get yours too."

[bunbunlovestowrite]

-Sugar and Salt

A/N: Sylus fluff based on the poll results! :3

Cw: Slight cursing, Sylus smacks your ass twice, Reader is not MC, Fem!Reader, explicit references to sex

Waking up next to Sylus wasn't super comfortable. Nothing was wrong exactly but you always woke up on his bare chest which was, in case you haven't noticed, hard as a rock. Every morning with no fail.

Yes you love your husband and he loves you, he wouldn't wear his ring all the time if he didn't, but he was not a good pillow.

-

The sound of thunder is what woke you up that morning, that and a pain in your neck. You grumble and try to sit up but fail when Sylus' forearm kept you down. He was still asleep under you and his head was turned to the side.

You blink slowly and huff against his chest, your cheek pressed right between his pecs. It had been like this ever since your first ever night together. You were embarrassed the day after and couldn't look him in the eye while he enjoyed the feeling. You were kinda like a weighted blanket that enjoyed nibbling on people while she slept.

Even now, more than a year later, you still manage to end up here.

"Wake up." You say as you try to poke his cheek but Sylus grabbed your wrist, eyes still closed. You knew he'd do that. You got the drop on him once and he never let it down.

"Good morning to you too." His chest rumbled under your cheek as he spoke. He brought his limp arm up and rubbed his eye, groaning. "One day I won't know it's you and I might break your wrist." He slowly brought your wrist to his lips and he kissed it, his eyes shutting for a few seconds.

"Oo that'd be a great way to guilt trip you into buying me stuff." You giggle softly as you cup his cheek with your hand. Sylus huffed and bit your palm lightly, eyes glancing at you. "I already do that, sweetie."

He tilted his head at your giggle and pulled you higher on his chest so that your face was above his. "Pet names so early in the morning? My my you must really love me." You flip your hair dramatically and Sylus felt the ego radiate off you.

"No, I just married you for fun and I was bored." He rolled his eyes and lightly smacked your ass which made you jump with a yelp. He chuckled and kissed your cheek. You huff and cross your arms on his chest before laying your head on them.

"Yes well, I married you because I was broke. Well, my reasoning actually changed." You smirk again in early triumph. Your attempts to make him mad never worked. Sylus rubbed his hand up and down your back, the blanket stopped just before your ass.

"Oh yeah? What's the new reason?"

"Mediocre dick."

That is what ticked Sylus off. He scowled slightly and yanked your hair back slightly. "Mediocre? Well if that's what you call you squirting on my cock multiple times then I need to see what good dick is." He smirked at your muffled moan when he pulled your hair slightly harder. "Maybe take a few notes."

"No, no that's fine." You whisper through your teeth as you try not to moan. Sylus chuckles and releases your hair. "Cute attempt."

The thunder outside got worse and rain pounded on the roof. "Ugh, it's gonna get cold in here." You grumble while playing with Sylus' hair. He let you do as you wished while he rubbed your sides subconsciously.

"You have like 12 blankets on your side of the bed. I hope you know the light pink pillows look very out of place." Sylus motioned his thumb to your side of the bed which was cluttered with blankets and pillows.

"Not my fault you're fine with two thin pillows. Maybe that's why you're always so salty~" You poke his nose while you tease him, grinning at his scowl. Sylus furrowed his brows and rolled his eyes. "Oh shut it."

Sylus rolled on his side and took you with him, holding you against his chest. "We need to get up soon."

"nuh uh."

"You cant just say nuh uh at everything."

"yuh huh."

--

This is my third attempt at fluff in my lifetime :') sorry if it's not the best <3

[laurorne]

Hi, can u write Daemon Targaryen x reader where she’s daemon second wife. He married her on the Valyrian way so Viserys had to acknowledge their marriage. Rhea Royce came to the capital because even hating daemon he’s her husband and humiliated her. A meeting between daemon and his wives ahahah

༊*·˚ WITH EACH LOVE YOU CUT LOOSE | daemon targaryen x niece!reader

summary: beheading is the only punishment fit for uncouth behaviour directed at the wife of daemon targaryen.

content: targaryen typical incest (uncle x niece), blood, mutual infliction of wounds, cheating on daemon's behalf, fluff, daemon is a softy, reader is catty towards rhea but feels sorry, possibly innacurate valyrian wedding?, murder!! no beta i'm so sorry

word count: 3.1k

a/n: tadaaa! sorry it took so long hun, i've been flat out with exams but i honestly loved this concept. i wasn't sure about the relationship dynamic you wanted so i assumed you meant for reader to be viserys' daughter, i hope you enjoy tho!!

The cold steel meets your lip in kind, Daemon's pointer and thumb pinching your chin in place so you don't slip from his grasp as he drags it across the soft flesh. Your nose scrunches for not even a second before you're pushing the pain back down. Your eyes meeting those of the man before you as he stares so lovingly at you, your heart hurts in its cage. Your pulse is wild and skittering as you take a deep breath.

His brow pinches slightly as a smile plays on his lips, something akin to hope and possibly admiration settling in those lilac iris'. Oh, ever-sweet Daemon, back from war and he's already offering his mind, body and soul to you in their entirety. It seems being back home, after the Stepstones had lifted a weight that'd been on his shoulders since he was sent away by his brother, your father.

His hair is fluttering along with the night breeze that cocoons Dragonstone on its spring eves. The scent of the lit candles invades your nose as you allow the wind to pull the curtain of your hair along its path.

A droplet of blood begins beading on the curve of your lip, Daemon traces his rough fingers down the edges of it, coaxing more blood to rush from the slit as he blows air onto it, perhaps comforting or enjoying the way your lashes flutter as he does so.

He seems to think the blood enough, as he swipes the pad of his thumb over the beads of blood that bloomed from the cut and he marks the Valyrian rune -fire- upon your forehead. The hand with the knife of dragon-glass upon your outstretched palm, willing you with the dip of his head to do the same he had just done.

Your hand isn't as steady as you bring it to grace upon his lip -you're far too flustered, after all these years of praying to whatever higher power would listen for him to come back to you safely. Utter infatuation and eagerness on your behalf made your cut slightly off but the dragon-glass was sharp and ensured a clean cut that allowed hot blood to pool on the bow of his lower lip nearly immediately.

Another breeze seems to coax you forward as you brush your own thumb along the trail of blood that began oozing its way towards his chin. He tilts himself forward so you can reach him with ease, his hair gathering around his face as it shields you both from the onlooking eyes of the maester and your witnesses. His eyes ever delicate as they trace the way a ringlet of hair dances along your cheek. You catch the droplet of red before it can begin its descent and mark his forehead with 'blood'.

A lingering emotion rolls over his face as your heart skitters to keep up with what's happening, not even a moon ago had he sent a letter pleading for you to greet him on Dragonstone before he returned and here you were, willing to wed this man without so much as a thought about the consequences or the rage your father would berate you with upon your return to Kings Landing. A part of your mind whispering that it was worth it, that you deserved to be loved by a man who didn't only want you for a birth claim of dragons or those pale Valyrian features of snow white hair.

Daemon's hand clasps over your smaller one as he brings the dark edge to the open planes of his palm, pushing down onto it as he guides you through the ceremony with little care of the proper way to do this.

He's waited far too long for this, and he cannot bear another second of not being able to have you as his. His flame, his soon to be wife.

He eases the blade from your fingers as he brings it down upon your own palm, it makes your breath come in shallow bursts at how oh-sp close you are to kissing him. To having him by your side, on the plush bed in the royal apartments of Dragonstone, as your husband and twin soul. Blood of the dragon mingling, like how it was supposed too.

Your tongue rolls over your top lip, licking away the coppery liquid that begins smearing across the entirety of your mouth as part your lips and watch him so delicately hold your wrist and split the warm skin in the cradle of your hand. His thumb brushes across the pulse point of your wrist as he presses your bloody, weeping hands together.

Not even the maester speaking can pull your eyes away from the deep lilac of Daemon's gaze, his pupils are dilated, round and dark as he stares into your own. You can nearly see the way he thinks, can feel what he does with the way he tightens his grasp on your hand.

"Hen lantoti ānogar." Blood of two.

The maesters cold hands brush across both of yours as he begins wrapping the reddened silk around the only point you and Daemon are touching as thick blood mixes and drips to the cup he holds beneath.

"Va sȳndroti vāedroma," Joined as one.

Your shoulders rise and fall as you breath in the salty brine of the ocean, but you cannot escape the man you love dearly as you catch a huff of him. Heady and warm and everything you crave.

"Mēro perzot gīhoti." Ghostly flame

He pushes the cup into your hand and your stomach churns as you bring it to your lips, the intricate headpiece you wear making your neck tilt as you stare deeply into his eyes over the rim as you drain half the cup, licking your lips as the rich blood smothers out anything else you could possibly feel.

Elēdroma iārza sīr. And song of shadows.

He looks down so proudly as you lick the crimson away from your teeth, tongue peeking out for a split second as you capture a stray droplet at the corner of your lip. He had preached when you were but a young girl, that dragons weren't afraid of blood, and you'd be damned by the gods now if you didn't live up to that.

Izulī ampā perz��. Two hearts as embers.

You bring the goblet away from the seam of your lips as you offer it to him between your bodies.

Pūmī lanti sēteksi. Forged in fourteen fires.

He glances down at it with a straight face before looking back up to you, hand wrapping around yours as he moves to take the cup. Warmth spreads from the contact as your lids flutter.

Hen jenȳ māzīlarion. A future promised in glass.

Daemon drags the cup to his lips with a look that burns you down to the core like one of the wicks that struggle against the winds, he lights a fire in the pit of your stomach that you're sure won't be extinguished for years to come. He stares you down, the cup idly held between you as you grasp his hand just the bit harder, eager. He downs what you couldn't in a mouthful, holding eye contact as his adams apple bobs with the swallow.

Qēlossa ozūndesi. The stars stand witness.

He shoves the cup in the maester direction, and the old frail man takes the cup with a trembling hand.

Sȳndroro ōñō jēdo. The vows spoken through time.

Rȳ kīvia mazvestraksi. Of darkness and light.

He cards a hand through the strands of loose hair, tucking it behind your ear as his eyes skate across every feature and dip and slope of your face. Years apart had not changed the way he watched you, the way he took in everything about you without so much as a thought about what he would gain from marrying you, aside from your presence as his wife.

Your heart beats wildly against the cage of your ribs as you place a hand on his cheek, stroking the skin there as you lean up to him, lashes fluttering in anticipation.

His hand cradles your neck as he drags you the rest of the way in, eyes closed as his lips press against yours. Blood is smeared between you both, the cuts weeping anew with the ferocity and want that he kisses you with. Your breath is stolen from you as he bites at your lip, breathing your air as he all but devours you.

Your arrival to Kings Landing after three months of hiding upon Dragonstone with your insatiable, newly wed husband had been rather... quiet. There had not been an entourage of royal maids or knights or even the High Council. It was simply Otto Hightower, accompanied by your fiery younger sister in her riding gear who looked less than pleased as you dismounted your darling dragon alongside Daemon and Caraxes. The Hand to the King had simply said that your grandsire was waiting patiently in Maegors Holdfast, and that, should you say anything, ensure it is an apology.

It was eerily silent as Viserys sat across from you in his chambers, deep within his cups as he regarded you with what you could only consider contempt. Your sister had been no less the same, you had married the man she was pining after, afterall. But you had no qualms about the dissatisfaction of your father or sister, it was your choice, and your life. You'd left your grandsire's chambers in a flurry of fabric as he had regarded you as a child throwing a tantrum, and that you would soon realize that you would come to regret this.

Afterall, Daemon was still married to the lady Rhea Royce in Runestone and that he wouldn't be willing to annul the marriage.

You think that perhaps Daemon had spoken to your father -his brother- because no less than a moon later King Viserys had sent out letters to invite the lords to a tournament in the honour of his eldest daughters marriage. 'To officially announce this bountiful marriage', as Viserys had put it.

So here you were, four moons after your marriage to Daemon, being regarded by your husband as you sat at the vanity in nothing but a shift.

"I feel that today won't be held together well." You allow your eyes to drift from the task of brushing your hair, Daemon is sat against the bed in his attire for today. Dark fabrics that fit him well, staying in Kings Landing for the past month had perhaps tamed him. Or maybe he was laying in wait for the moment he could prove his brother right about his marriage.

"Perhaps. Though I trust you will remain civil." You all but say back, fingers weaving through loose strands as you pull it into a long plait.

"If any lords are to look at you with so much as a lewd face, I may have to pull Dark Sister from their chests."

You hum, hand drifting to your swollen stomach automatically as one of your handmaids steps in to tie the braid off, her fingers not as gentle on your snow white hair as Daemon's were.

"Oh how you make me swoon, husband."

He huffs a breath as he stands from the softness of your bed, hand sitting upon the pommel of his sword. He wanders toward your seated form as he presses a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, hand smoothing over your bare shoulder as it moves past your breast and to your bump. Thumb stroking circles on the fabric above it as he presses a final kiss to your temple.

"I'll let your maids dress you today, send for me when you're ready to join the festivities."

You lean up to plant a final kiss to the corner of his lips before you allow his hand to fall away. His scent stays with you for a moment and so does his warmth, before he pulls away fully. Leaving the room in careful strides as the maids swarm you nearly immediately.

Being apart of the Royal family meant that you had the responsibility of greeting every longwinded lord who walked into the Great Hall, with a gentle smile and a soft greeting and a monotonous non-heartfelt 'thank you for making the journey for today'.

It's as if the King knew that you hated such things, that you loathed the frequent meetings of the High Council and the repetitive greetings. The only thing that got you through such affairs was the soothing presence of Daemon at your side, his occasional mocking words and dubious glances when a lord with eyes to big for his cock made a compliment to close to inappropriate.

Dinner had been served long ago, the rich oily meats sat across the tables made your stomach churn and the berry juices in your cup seem less than appetizing. So you opted for something savory, the lemon cakes and loaves of bread and soup.

Midway through a bite of a warm lemoncake, there was a voice you hadn't heard tonight, someone that had Daemon leaning further back in his chair as he took a deep swill of his goblet, a taunting look on his face as he glared the woman who stepped towards the table that sat before the Iron Throne with the entire Royal family.

"Thank you for inviting me to the events, my King." Her short brown curls were tied back as best as could be managed, she was dressed up in bronzy fabrics that rippled in the light of the braziers that lined the walls. She was... beautiful. Roynish in her appearance and the hardness of her features, a Northern Beauty for lack of better words.

Your Grandsire grinned widely as he greeted her back, "I was afraid you wouldn't be able to make it Lady Royce, I trust you found your travel to Kings Landing well?"

Oh. So this was the Rhea Royce? The... Bronze Bitch? As Daemon had so lightly put it in all his letters.

"It was a long ride, your grace. But worth it to join the festivities. And to see... my husband after so long apart."

The glare that's thrown towards your left is surely meant for Daemon. This situation was becoming more hilarious the longer you waited for her to greet him, and you by proxy. Oh, you had to greet her first.

"Lady Royce." You smile saccharinely, lips pulling back as you rise to greet her from across the table, hand evidently on your growing bump as you bow your head. "I've heard much of your conquests in the Vale. Tell me, how did you deal with those savages from the forests?"

You can see the tick in her jaw as she bows towards you, forced too by your position on the hierarchy and the keen eyes of the other guests here tonight.

"With a steady hand and decisive mind, princess."

You laugh, a true sort of thing as you look back to your husband, he huffs out a breath at that. He knows what you're doing, and he's keen on helping play this falsity of niceties.

"Husband," Rhea says suddenly, it's harsh and possessive as she watches you hold your husbands hand. "It has been a long few years, has it not? I missed your letters so."

She looks like a scorned wife -she is, but she cannot act upon it in the presence of her King, your father. Your smile falters as your fingers tighten around Daemon's scarred ones.

"Husband? You're not married anymore." You withhold any of the ill will you feel for her as her lip curls.

"Oh, my princess. But we are. The King hasn't annulled Prince Daemon and I's marriage. He is rightfully wed to me."

The hand you had on Daemon is swiftly pulled from his grasp, the hand you had on your stomach is twitching as you glare her down, you stand taller than her both figuratively and literally.

"Lady Royce, I would be mindful of your tone. Speaking to the Crown Princess with such speech could find your lands without a Lord." You all but laugh, you can feel the mirth that Daemon holds for her and it only doubles your hatred for this insolent petulant woman.

"I only speak the truth, princess."

"Was there not a rumour that your marriage was not consummated?"

Your grandsire snaps into action at that, a bit off call of your name as you bristle at his intrusion on your conversation. "Father. It's true is it not? There was never proof that Daemon bedded her, her womb is barren and I find that mine is not the same. Would you call me a liar and fraud when she couldn't even produce an heir?"

"You have embarrassed me! I've been dishonoured and cast aside after how many years or marriage? My own husband will not speak while his mistress dares to speak on his behalf. What have you to say, husband?"

You stand with a hand over your stomach and a lip curled up in disgust at the woman stood before you with a flushed face. If this is how your father thought he would turn you against Daemon, he was deftly wrong as he often is.

"You dishonour my wife by simply being here, Rhea." Oh and how the brown haired woman seems to crumble at that. Daemon had always been a man of few words, but he made each one count all the same.

“I dishonour your wife? She is nothing but a platinum haired husband stealing whore!”

The Bronze Bitch all but snarls and picks up a plate of tarts to throw in your direction but Daemon is swift in his movements. Standing before you and taking the metal dish to his chest without thought.

The plate clatters onto the stone floor with such a loud reverberation that Rhea seems to snap out of her rage as she realises that she had indeed just insulted a royal family member, and that she may not leave this Great Hall with her life.

There's a telltale sign as a sword is unsheathed and the whoosh of a blade through air. And then deathly silence as the entire hall settles into silence, as the body of the woman steps once backwards before it crumples and her neck hinges, a spray of blood decorating the table before you as Rhea Royce becomes but a corpse for the Silent Sisters to prepare for burial.

Grandsire stands from his chair in a swift move, shouting at Daemon for such insolence and killing a guest of the King.

Daemon ignores his brother in favour of wiping the blood from Dark Sister and stares out at the full hall. "Insult to the Crown Princess is punishable by death, you will all do well to remember it as such."

Rhaenyra is tensed in her seat and your father yells at him, something pertaining to another banishment and you are left to stand in awe of the gruesome acts your uncle is willing to commit in your honour.

[celestialprincesse]

Following up from this idea here!

⋆˙⟡♡

The last twelve months had been surprisingly productive for Simon. He'd been reticent at first, pushed back against the barrage of support provided for him by both the military and those who'd remained close to him outside of mere workplace obligation. That said, it hadn't taken him long to realise how big of a change a civilian lifestyle would be after twelve years of active service. Therapy had been an uphill battle, but Tina, the nice lady he saw twice weekly, who specialised in supporting veterans and those suffering with complex PTSD, was as patient as a saint, and had eventually helped him to open up.

He still, however, struggled to find a new sense of purpose. Life had become quiet, sluggish and static. When Tina had suggested he get a pet, he'd tentatively agreed.

"Hi there! How can I help you today?" Is the sweet voice that shakes him from his thoughts, bringing him back to reality only to realise he now stands at the front of the queue, before the desk of his local adoption centre.

"I'm looking to adopt..." He trails off, somewhat awkward and still a little unsure of whether there's some sort of protocol with these things. "A dog. I'm looking to adopt a dog."

After having quietly filled in the required forms, nervous under the warm gaze of the front desk attendant, he allows himself to be shown to the kennels in which the canine residents of the centre play, sleep and eat. With a nervous, almost shy gaze, Simon takes in the rowdy pack of dogs before him, before crouching to meet the crowd of wet noses coming to check him out.

"Have you got any preferences?" You pipe up from behind him, absently scratching behind the ears of a three legged Bernese Mountain dog, Lucky, who stands loyally at your heels.

"Just - um," Simon murmurs, looking between you, the dog at your feet, and a funny looking beagle, intent on sniffing at the contents of his pockets. "Just some company really. Therapist told me I needed a reason to get out, so..."

Taking his silence as an invitation to speak up, a pensive hum fills the room as you flick though the chart listing the animals currently up for adoption, and what their ideal situation would be. "You said you're quite physically active?" You probe, shooting him a glance.

"Yeah. I run and stuff. Like to try and stay fit."

Another hum of confirmation breaks the quiet as you rule out some of the less mobile options, and, having seen the way he grimaced at a slightly dishevelled Chihuahua, you take the incentive to rule out the smaller lap dogs too. You can't help but to note the way he looks between you and your own little canine friend, a look you've seen countless times on the faces of clients, the look that says that they're interested.

"I'd introduce the two of you, but she's already spoken for I'm afraid." You hum, a wry smile pulling at your lips when you note the expression on his face, surprised at your astute observation. "She's not exactly the most mobile, either."

"Oh, yeah. Right." He stammers back awkwardly, shooting you a bashful smile.

"I do, however, have someone that might take your fancy?"

Taking the laminated sheet from your offered hand, Simon is met with a grainy image of an earnest looking dog, big, marble eyes seemingly staring at him from off of the page.

"He only came in a couple days back. Golden shepherd mix from what we can tell. About four and really good natured. He's at the vet right now, but we could book you in to meet him when he's back?"

"I'd - yeah - That'd be great. Thanks." He nods, a pale blush colouring his cheeks.

Better still, when he leaves the adoption centre with a beginners pet care brochure, flipping through the pages on the walk back home, he's met with a hastily scrawled phone number, and a little smiley face below it.

⋆˙⟡♡

[sheepispink]

The Perfect Pair

WC: 7.6k Tags: fluff, marriage of convenience, leon kennedy/ reader

Summary: Leon can barely hold himself upright most days and you've finally decided to ditch the DSO life in pursuit of happiness. However, that'd mean leaving all those beautiful tax benefits and medical insurance behind. Turns out Leon and Chris are pretty persuasive, landing you as Leon's 'wife' but you cant help but start to feel something more, unaware that Leon's already set his eyes on you for life.

It’d been a long day at work, the usual really— Chris had roped him into dealing with another bioweapon appearance, thus leading him to take a helicopter to some trashy place, locating the bioweapon, and promptly knocking its freaky nature out of action. Now he lugged his weary feet home to the apartment you shared, his stomach craving a taste of something only your skilled hands would prepare for him. After a short elevator trip that thankfully alleviated the ache of his feet for a moment, he reached the front door and, with a quick fumble with the keys he had inserted the right one inside, opening the door.

“I’m home.” He calls out, his raspy voice filling the silent yet serene space before him. He somehow grew used to this; the sight of two sets of keys on the hook, the vast difference in style as he places his shoes on the rack, and the two coats on the bannister, one far smaller than the other. “Smells good..” He mumbles beneath his breath, making his way towards the kitchen where you stand, back facing him as you work your hands through a ball of minced meat.

“Welcome home.” You turn to meet his hungry gaze with your typical warm smile, heart warming at the exhausted look on his face and even more so that he’d soon find relief in the food you had made.

“You’re lucky, we had just enough mince meat in the freezer for your favourite beef burgers.” That was a lie. You had woken up early this morning and decided he had looked far too tired recently, and it’d been far too long since he’d had his favourite meal. So, as any good wife does, you wanted to make him feel better and took to the nearest supermarket, picking up all the ingredients you needed and some for a tasty dessert too. He always denied that he enjoyed sweet treats, but he would always be the first to finish them, whether it was a sweet chocolate mousse or a tasty doughnut you picked up on the way home.

He chuckles, his hand disappearing into his work jacket as he slips off the leather and lays it on the back of a wooden chair. It then migrates to his collar, tugging on it to alleviate the heat through his body, which is proven by the thin layer of sweat covering his limbs.

“Oh? Thanks, I was sure you finished it last week when you gave Kitty a gourmet meal for once.”

This home wouldn’t be complete without its resident cat, a Siamese fur ball that Leon graciously named ‘Kitty’ though he has no doubt referred to it with a million different names anyway.

“I guess I must've missed a bit. I really treated her for nothing.” While he was smirking, your mind was far from the lightheartedness of this conversation, currently panicking over his words. He had seriously caught you out there; of course you finished the mince, last week but was he actually accusing you of lying or worse—did he know? As you let out an awkward chuckle, he speaks up again, undoing his belt with one hand as his other grabs a glass from the shelf to fill with water. “I’m not complaining though; they really are my favourites for a reason.” He drinks down the glass of water in one swig, letting out a satisfied breath before rolling his shoulders back. “I’m gonna take a quick shower—I don't want to drown your nose with my sweat.” He chuckles again, finally leaving you alone in the kitchen again as he takes his path up the stairs to your shared bedroom.

To say your relationship with him was complicated was a massive understatement; it was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, feelings that felt illicit, and signals that were impossible to decipher. Well, for you it felt like this—you’re not so sure about him. In fact, for someone who sleeps beside him nearly everyday, cooks him meals, eats dinner with him, and even drops off his lunch, you barely knew anything about the man.

This all began when you decided to quit the DSO, finally having enough money to move to a more peaceful job with flexible hours and still end up supporting yourself. You had only worked in communications at the DSO, but that was still a pain in itself. Before you left, they had an informal work dinner. A bunch of agents and other workers came along to a diner for some food before heading to mess around at a karaoke place before the weekend hit. With so many people around, it grew far too hot too quickly, and you soon wandered the halls seeking a breath of fresh air before you heard your name called by an agent. The voice belonged to Chris Redfield–your superior—who was beckoning you to come over, cigarette in hand, to where he stood with Leon right beside him. They were both your superiors in the work field but were perceived as far more important due to the missions they accomplished and lives they saved.

“Yes..?”

You were more confused than scared or anything of the like—why did they even want to talk to you? It’s not like you often saw them. Even so, you walked over to them, trying to reduce the awkwardness when you slipped your hands into the pockets of your jacket, tilting your head slightly.

“You’re gonna leave soon, right?” Leon asks, taking a swig of the golden whisky in his glass whilst Chris blows another puff of smoke off to the side.

“Yeah, I wanted to move onto a different job, a quieter one that isn't so taxing.” You shrug, having only thought out a bit of it so far.

Chris and Leon shared a glance at each other before Leon spoke once more, rolling back his shoulders a little. “You see, I have a bit of a predicament, and Chris thought you could help.”

Before you know it, he’s explaining how busy his work is and that he barely gets home in time for a sip of water before he knocks out, and you’re not really sure how this is your problem until Chris butts in.

“So basically, he needs a wife. You, on the other hand, won't have any of the perks of the DSO since you’re leaving, which includes medical insurance, tax benefits..” He trailed off as you started to ponder it, you really would lose a lot of the things you had grown to exist around. It would be very difficult to manage, and you can't say you’d miss a lot of those perks greatly. The two men give each other a glance as you speak up, nodding along. “You’re right, I will miss out a lot, but I really don't want to stay here longer..” Before Leon can even try and slide it in, Chris has already blurted it out.

“Well, you won't lose anything if you marry him.”

So, after a bunch of awkward talks and surviving interrogations from your coworkers, you ended up with a small wedding, which was mainly done to please your own parents rather than yourselves. Now you’re here, almost a year into this non formal contractual marriage, and your feelings are muddled. Very muddled. It’s hard to not catch feelings when you’re somewhat of a hopeless romantic yourself, or maybe the teenage girl mentality came back full force now you have a lot more free time. You owed him a fair amount to be fair—he didn’t realise how stress-free your life was these days. Wake up, eat a healthy breakfast, maybe watch some television too, head down to the small little bakery you own and teach the part time teenager there before wrapping up at four o'clock and heading home again. Your skin had cleared up, you were actually able to sleep in on the weekends and actually do whatever you want— pick up new hobbies, eat proper meals, and read books to your heart's content.

What you’ve concluded is that your life has drastically improved and you are more relaxed than you’ve ever been. The problem with that is that with the new addition of all this free time and air to breathe in, you’re able to actually think about the man you’ve married. In simpler terms that you tried to deny for a year now, you’ve caught feelings—a lot of feelings for him. That’s why you’re currently stuck in a conundrum; you’re technically allowed to pursue said feelings, as you’re married and no longer ‘colleagues’ needing to act professionally, but does he want the same?

The pan starts to sizzle, snapping you out of your daydreaming as you place the flattened patty into the oil, lightly frying each side. Being his wife meant looking after him as much as he did to you, so cooking was often your chore to handle. Even though you were more than happy to do most of the chores, he’d still help with the dishes after dinner and often cooked when he could—when he was exhausted from another mission. Plus, he did his own laundry. He would’ve done yours too, though after the first time he tried, your cheeks had flushed immediately when he handed you a pile of your freshly washed underwear and t-shirts, and you quickly told him you’d do your own.

The staircase groans as he steps down the stairs, his movements a lot slower now that he had let the tension ease from his muscles in the shower. So far, you’ve managed to cook four patties, which was more than enough to satisfy his stomach and yours. But you had an extra two for his lunch tomorrow and because he tended to have a third burger “just because it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.That’s when you hear him curse softly under his breath, turning back to glance at him in confusion. “What’s wrong?” His hair is damp, still dripping with water onto the white tee he wears. It’s loose and the one you bought him last month when you went on a shopping spree. You try to ignore the way your eyes naturally drift towards his chest; a small sliver of his pale skin peeks out where his hand disappears under his shirt, rubbing his abdomen in a strange way. “Did you get hurt?” You continue, turning down the heat on the hob so you can turn to face him better.

“Oh? This?”

He lifts the shirt a little, revealing the bruise on his right side of his stomach, and also gives you a perfect view of his toned abs. Damn. “It’s not as bad as it looks..” He mumbles, but his eyebrows are still knitted in a frowning gesture. “I’m annoyed because I missed an opportunity..”

That makes you blink, wondering what he could’ve missed in the time he went for his shower and came back here. Did he get a phone call? Or perhaps something happened this week you hadn't picked up on?

“An opportunity?”

“Yeah. I completely missed the chance to ask you, ‘What's cookin, Good Lookin?’. Damnit..”

Did the corniest line to ever exist really just make your chest tighten for a second?

You can’t deny the fact that the line itself had made your lips part as you stood there dumbfounded. Leon had a history with corny one-liners; in fact, whenever his colleagues happened to see you, they’d always mention whatever stupid thing he said during a mission. He’d say it to you occasionally too, usually random puns that he’d quietly snicker about, but he’d never quite openly flirt with you like that. Was it supposed to be a joke? Was it real? You couldn't tell, and so you quickly turned back around before your patties ended up burnt.

“O-of course only you would worry more about that than your own injuries.” His snickering is obvious behind you as you place the cooked patties onto a small plate. “Stop pestering me and go sit down at the table.” You feign annoyance, grumbling as you hide the furious flush of pink upon your cheeks. Unfortunately for you, he didn’t intend to give up that easily, walking up behind you and peering over your shoulder with his hands planted on the counter on either side of your waist.

“That was a good one, c’mon.” He argues, the most exaggerated pout on his face quickly disappearing when he watches the burgers sizzle in the pan. He loves your food so damn much.

“That was not a good one, shoo.”

Thankfully, he ends up leaving you alone in favour of Kitty, who had just woken up from her nap— eager to play with him even if it just means chasing after a wrapper he had thrown across the room. You place down two plates at the table, as per usual, along with a plate full of salad, a bowl of fresh chips you fried, and the small plate of patties— six to be exact. Then, you place down the two fancy glasses you bought last week and grab your usual favourite canned drink while grabbing a Coke Zero for him. Finally, you place Kitty’s dinner on the floor which she runs over for, immediately gobbling up the food. “She’s just like you.” You giggle, watching as she hungrily wolfs down the food, thus making him groan in return. “I do not eat like that.”

Dinner is the same. You’ll ask about his day in which he usually retorts in grunts and moans about the government, incompetent workers, and that woman.. Ada. Just the mention of her name used to make him go quiet back when you worked at the DSO, and even in the first few months of your “marriage”, he would shrug off the subject quickly. Now he talks about it here and there, mentioning how she suddenly appears and always seems to know his location. For some reason, it puts a sick feeling in your stomach, like someone is dragging their nails across the flesh of your insides.

“Ada.. was there. Ever since I saved the president’s daughter, it’s like she’s followed me everywhere. She helps me.. but then she claims to not care..?”

His words stopped registering in your mind after a while as your teeth grit against each other and you absentmindedly dipped your chip into ketchup over and over again. You can’t believe he could be so naive. She had played him once in Raccoon City, faking her identity and using him to her advantage. The same played out in Spain even if she ‘saved’ him. You didn't care about her damn motives; she worked for the enemy, and it irked you—she just used whatever she could to gain her benefit, and it seemed like no one could stop her.

“Earth to my beautiful wife, hello?” He waved his hand in front of your furrowed eyebrows and the obvious scowl upon your face. “You look like you just ate something you find disgusting. I thought you liked this too.”

You immediately realise you had zoned out, your face shifting to something sheepish before you finally stick the ketchup-soaked chip into your mouth. You didn't even get a chance to process what he just called you.

“No, it’s not the food; I was just thinking. Sorry, it’s nothing.”

That only serves to make him all the more curious, though he doesn't push it, instead continuing his story. “Where was I? Oh, right, then Ada shot—” He cuts himself off as your eyes immediately narrow, and you lower your head, picking with your food again subconsciously. It doesn’t take much to piece the clues together, his lips twitching upwards as a smile threatens to spread. Though he wants to test his suspicions one more time.

“Wanna hear something crazy? Ada tried to kiss me again.”

“What?!” You immediately sit up straight, the scowl returning just as fast and teeth grit, but it quickly softens when you see the smirk on his face.

“I knew it. You hate her, don’t you?” Leon always saw right through you, thankfully not with your growing feelings yet, and it made it all the harder to keep his marriage… Well, just as a contract.

“Fine, maybe I don’t like her. So what? She’s not exactly the most moral person.” You say, shrugging your shoulders nonchalantly as you take a bite out of your burger and chew it down. “She helps Umbrella, can you really blame me?” That only makes his lips twitch again, and he leans his elbows on the table, eyes trained on every feature of your face.

“Are you jealous of her?” That almost makes you choke on the burger, and you have to take a large gulp of your drink to swallow down the rest of the food, your face immediately pinkening. It can’t be possible—there’s no way you’re jealous of that cunning, manipulative, hot, extremely hot woman. How did she even look that good?

“Ha— she should be jealous of me.” You scoff boldly, finishing the last of your burger soon after.

“Oh, and why’s that? Because you’re the one wedded to me?

A moment earlier, your heart would’ve described his face as a perfectly carved sculpture, the ones that people bid thousands to place in their homes because not showing off such a perfect creation would be a crime. Right now, he wore a sly grin with his eyebrows raised as he eyed you suggestively.

And that look was very punchable.

“Because I'm living the dream. I’ve got a bakery, a ton of free time, and I guess you’re there too, I suppose.”

With a roll of your eyes, you dismiss his words quickly, even though the faintest blush on your cheeks betrays your true thoughts. What if you said yes? What happens then?

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t give me that satisfaction.” He feigns a pout before his grin returns as he takes a massive bite into his second burger of the night. Of course, he just has to make an exaggerated moan, one elbow leaning on the table as the other covers his face dramatically.

“This is heavenly, you know? One day I swear I'll start dreaming about these burgers.”

There he goes again, babbling on about Lord knows what and his corny lines again. You can't help but flash a small cheeky smile, winking as you pour yourself a glass of water from the pitcher.

“Another reason for her to be jealous of me.”

Once the dinner has been packed away by his speedy hands, he’s returned to make the couch his home again, stretching his whole body against the length of it like a cat would. You’re placing the dishes into your dishwasher before inserting a tablet and putting it on for three hours. As you walk over to wipe down the table, you notice his eyes have fluttered close as he groans and gets comfortable on the cushions. You can't say you didn't feel a tinge of affection—well, much more than that, like a heap almost—every time he crashed out like this, completely exhausted from a mission. “Weekend tomorrow..” You remind him with a gentle hum, swiftly removing any stray stains off the table. “Don’t you want to have a good sleep, y'know, in bed?”

He lets out a muffled grumble in response, burying his face into the cushions before he reluctantly sits up, making you smile a little more—you’d scold him regularly about lying down after eating. “What movie d’ya wanna watch?” He says even if he would usually wander his way to the bedroom after you said that. It’s been at least a month since you had been together like this to watch a movie. A lot had changed in that month, specifically your growing feelings for him. Perhaps distance really does bring fondness, you think.

“I don’t mind; you like action, no?” You finish wiping down the dirt from dinner to glance over whatever he’s doing on the television, only to find him flicking through your favourite genre of movies. Shoving down the warmth on your cheeks is near impossible as you speed walk back to the kitchen. Were these signs? Were you reading too much into it? Your teeth graze against each other nervously as you look up to see him waiting expectantly on the couch for you to join him. What the hell is happening right now? He had always gone to bed immediately or scrolled through his phone for a while— so what’s with the sudden change?

Moments later you’re sitting beside him on the couch, knees tucked to your chest as he presses play on the movie he picked—the one you had mentioned you wanted to watch when it first got announced that it was in production. Despite your excitement, you could hardly concentrate on the movie when he was practically centimetres from you. He was leaning back against the cushions, one arm resting around the back of the couch where you sat and the other comfortably against the armrest. If you had just moved your head back slightly, you would brush against his arm. If you did that, would he wrap it around your shoulders? Just the thought makes you shudder a little, your chin moving forward to sit comfortably on your knees. It was like you were a teenage girl again, sitting in the movies with your crush while you wondered if he thought of you as a friend or something more. You couldn't even believe you were acting like this—hell the two of you were married legally, not to mention you were both grown adults! Who cares if he had just stretched out his arms, his shirt riding up, and you could see the scars on his stomach? Your breath hitching when he had shuffled up to you was completely unnecessary; the warmth radiating off of him was irrelevant, no matter if the characters were kissing on the screen right now. You practically jump when he pokes your shoulder with his hand, your head snapping to him instantly, and you can barely even form a noise when you see how close his face is to yours. His eyes had to be one of your favourite things about him, or was it the messy mop of dirty blond hair on his head? It could even be the sharpness of his jawline, the lines of wear beneath his eyes, how perfectly his nose seemed to be carved, or perhaps, crazily enough, the way his voice rang out in your ears in the mornings.

“Do we have any dessert? I’m craving something sweet.”

Every step back into the kitchen is like torture from how hot your cheeks are, the cold fridge air doing nothing to soothe the embarrassment as you grab the microwave puddings you had bought today. You can't believe you had been so flustered by the proximity that all that had escaped you was a strangled noise before you just hurriedly nodded and escaped to the kitchen. Those five seconds between the poke and his words felt like a millennia— an incredibly romantically tense millennia— where for those whole five seconds, you stupidly thought he’d kiss you right then and there. You fan yourself as if that’ll soothe the metaphoric rush of warmth in your face right now, incredibly embarrassed by your own thoughts and desires. When you sit back down again, you quickly hand him the hot pudding and sit further away from him this time. If you even felt that again, you felt like you’d simply explode altogether.

Unbeknownst to you, he was now wondering if you were annoyed that he had interrupted, and he frowned as he glanced down at the plate with just a singular spoon. Weren’t you going to eat too? Not to mention, you were all stiff and sitting further from him than before—now you’re really twisting the knife in his heart. First he had agitated you by teasing you about Ada, then he laid on the couch right after dinner like you always told him not to do, and now you even refused to eat dessert! Maybe he isn't putting enough effort into all of this as he originally thought. After all, you did a lot to run a bakery in town and still cook, clean, and look after his cat. So, he decides to take a shot and scoops up a particularly chocolatey part of the pudding, the part he always eats first, and holds the spoon up to your lips.

“I know you’re mad, but you can't deny this.” He plasters his typical boyish grin, nudging your lips with the metal of the spoon. But he’s caught off guard when you pull back in surprise, waving your hands around frantically in denial. “H-huh? I ate a lot of sweet things today already—”

“Shut up. Don’t you dare even say you’re on a diet either; you’re perfect already.”

He pushes the spoon against your lips which you accidentally part in surprise at his words, the warm chocolate filling your mouth immediately like an instant boost of serotonin.

“See, it's good, told ya.” He says smugly as you swallow down the tasty pudding and sauce. That’s only for a moment before he notices the smudge of chocolate around your lips from his struggle, casually wiping away the crumbs with his thumb before licking it.

He had just wiped the crumbs.

He wiped it from your lips.

He wiped it and then licked it off his hand.

He didn't even think twice.

“I-its not bad-” That was all you could mutter out before he committed the crime, and now you were left dumbstruck as you watched him casually lick his thumb and then take another spoon of the dessert—the same spoon you just ate from. He leans back against the couch again, about to shove another in your mouth once he gets comfortable enough, though he quickly realises that you still haven’t spoken since. “You can’t still be mad; I’ll shove another one in your mouth, you know—” At that, you know you’re sure to blurt out the truth, and you scramble up, about to make an excuse about needing a glass of water, before your wrist is caught in his hand, and you’re promptly pulled back against the couch again.

“Hm? Where are you going, pink cheeks?”

He says it teasingly, instantly making you flush all the more. You couldn’t understand how anyone could even be so casual about these things, not that you had little experience in the area, but seriously— he had literally just licked the chocolate on your face. That was an indirect kiss!

“Do you do this with all your friends?” The frown on your face is suddenly a little harsher, accusing, and suddenly there's a hint of betrayal. That only serves to confuse him more, you’ve been acting off for a while now, had he cheated in his sleep or something? “What? You’re not my friend, though? That's not comparable.”

He doesn't even see you as a friend? You can't help the way your heart drops in a way you’ve never felt before in your life; it almost hurts the way he can just so easily dismiss you after all the time you’ve spent together—contractual or not. “I- I see how it is..”

“See how what is? You’re not making much sense.” His eyes narrow as you suddenly turn your head away from him, arms crossing firmly on your chest, but what doesn’t escape him is the sudden daze in your eyes. Gently, his hand grabs your chin, squashing your cheeks as he forces you to face him, and his mind instantly clicks all the pieces together.

“.. (Name).” He says firmly, making you let out a small hum in acknowledgement, unaware of the way your eyes are suddenly a lot wetter than they had been before.

“What did you drink earlier?”

“What? All I drank was water, mostly.”

“What about when I told you about Ada, was that water?” Your eyebrows furrow as you hear him repeat her name again, immediately growing more frustrated. “What about her now?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, wrapping a firm arm around your shoulders before he forces you to settle against the couch against him. “You drank some of my drink, didn't you? You were way too annoyed to even notice the whiskey I mixed in.”

The thought immediately clicks into your head; everything is suddenly a lot clearer now, even though you still weren't quite sober yet. Plus, you were pretty much a lightweight when it came to his strong stuff. It perfectly explained the warmth spreading through your chest, the uncoordinated actions, and the way nothing seemed to follow the way your head wanted it to. “S-still, you said I’m not even your friend.” Gently, his thumb rubs the tears that have formed in your eyes and tucks you close into him with his arm snugly around you. Just in case you decide to face plant off the couch as you seemed to want to do before. “You’re not my friend; you’re my wife. Who else would I treat like that?”

“I’m not your real wife though.” You slowly look up at him, turning your head, so your glossy eyes can stare up into his, searching for the right answer— the truth.

“Those papers seem pretty real to me. The way I feel is also pretty real to me.”

He grins at you like he hadn't doubted that fact for a second, and he hadn't, not since you both had signed and received the certificate, one he sometimes sneaks a small fond peek at whilst you’re sleeping. Not that he’d tell you, at least not yet.

“But— I’m not your wife; that’s my title, but I don't act like that.”

“So? I still love you as anyone would with their wife; do you really think I wouldn't fall for you? You’re even more perfect than I imagined.”

You’re momentarily stunned into silence, not quite expecting that but still not believing it quickly, your tipsy mind making you say things that you never would before.

“That's because I do everything for you— not that I mind b-but, I just act like a good partner. You don't feel romantically for me.” You huff, your teeth gritting together as you pettily narrow your eyes at him. What you hadn't considered is that he’d tuck your hair behind your ears, carefully pull you into his lap, and take one of your hands in his. He fondles your hand beneath his, his thumb rubbing gently over the skin before he brings it up to rest on his cheek, smiling fondly at you.

“I’ve been busy, I know. It’s quite hard having an agent as a partner, no? I already regret all the love I've lacked to give you.” This time, you’re positive that your cheeks are reacting to him, breath hiccuping when he turns his face in your grasp. His lips press a kiss to the palm of your hand before intertwining that hand with his and holding it against his heart.

“You just had to go get tipsy, didn't you?” The warmth of his hand on yours as he squeezes it gently is like a drug, one that squeezes your heart at the same rhythm whilst his teasing voice dances in the air around the two of you.

“Not my fault you always have to have a glass with dinner..” You grumble, not happy with how fast he had proven you wrong even if he had just confessed to his deepest feelings. He finds it quite endearing how stubborn a little bit of alcohol can make you. ”Alright, we can blame me for this one. How about you finish this pudding with me, and we can get you settled in bed, how does that sound?”

Before you know it, he’s wiping chocolate stains from your lips again as you sniffle in his lap, mumbling some nonsense about your so-called lack of lovelife while the movie plays in the background. He enjoys all your little comments about the movie, even when you subconsciously glance back at him when the couple starring do something romantic. Taking you up to bed is easy enough considering you’re only just bordering tipsy at the moment and you hardly weigh anything compared to the things he usually deals with. Your head just lolls lazily as he helps you upstairs, your eyes slowly blinking up at him when he sits you on the edge of the bed. “What pajamas do you want, pretty girl? How about your favourite?” The water he helped you drink before had sobered you up a little so you’re starting to feel better already. However, your mind is still a little hazy so you just nod along, not minding if this is the first time he undresses you.

Making sure to be gentle with you, he strips you down to your underwear before helping you pull on your warm sweatshirt and plaid pants. His lips twitched upwards when your own fingers tried to beat him with dressing yourself, finding it adorable how you still insisted on doing everything yourself. He could just put you to bed, but after watching for countless nights how you slave away at your skincare routine and keeping your teeth brushed well— he’d feel awful if he broke that. Before you know it, you’re sitting on the sink as he gently holds your jaw, his other hand using the electric toothbrush to clean your teeth. You’re a little uncooperative, swerving your head away at first until you just settle into a sleepy calm and he handles you with no problems. In no time he has you back on his lap, sitting at your small vanity as he carefully attempts to remember the order of your night time routine. What even is this? He thinks as he picks up a suspicious looking serum, labelled as snail mucin and gives it an experimental sniff. He thought it’d smell worse to be fair.

“No, you have to put the toner first and then the serum.” You mumble at him, gently tugging at his hands with your fingers and before he knows it, you have a toner pad all up in his face, wiping over his nose and cheeks before you cover the rest of his face.

“Hey- i’m meant to be doing your skincare. I don't need this stuff.”

He almost feels a pang of hurt in his chest as you raise an eyebrow at him, as if accusing him of having bad skin. With a huff, he removes the toner pad from your hands and throws it in the bin before gently pulling at your cheeks. “I have great skin, thank you. Dont give me that look.”

You immediately frown and attempt to puff your cheeks, causing him to have mercy and let go before he grabs a new toner pad and repeats your actions to yourself.

When you come back to your senses, your head is smushed against a pillow whilst he changes by the closet behind you. Your thoughts don't feel as hazy as they used to be, and you’re even starting to contemplate everything that happened earlier. Did he really mean what he meant? Did he actually like you.. romantically? You physically cringe at your own thoughts and hide your face behind your hands, groaning just quiet enough that he doesn't quite hear it. Sleeping next to him had always felt odd to you, but you always slept at different times so it never really felt romantic in any sort of way. You liked to stay up late and he liked to get a decent rest before the next morning. It was only recently that you started glancing at his sleeping face beside you, admiring the peace in his expression when he lost himself to his dreams and no other worries. Otherwise, it just felt like a roommate, nothing more nothing less.

But now his trousers were falling to the floor behind you, and you were laying in bed not quite falling asleep nor attempting to stay up. Suddenly, he wanted to sleep with you, not only beside you. It suddenly felt all too real that you two were actually married, actually partners and actually slept beside each other each night. What next, were the notes you left in his lunch romantic too? In truth, you were slightly freaking out but that might’ve been the alcohol making things a hundred times worse than they should’ve been, especially since you had started crying unannounced earlier. That’ll play in the back of your mind forever but for now you’re focused on his soft footsteps as he approaches the bed, dressed in a much looser shirt and pants. He always slept like this but this time he looks down at you, one finger gently poking your cheek as he sits on the other end of the bed.

“I actually prefer to sleep with my shirt off. But we always fell asleep at different times so I never got to ask your permission.”

He hums quietly, the finger now gently rubbing along the soft curve of your cheek instead.

“You can.. I don't mind.” You say quietly, eyes trailing over his form as he settles himself against the headboard right beside you. Touching you.

“Are you sure your cheeks won't get too red?”

He teases, hand moving towards the top of your head to gently card his fingers through your locks. You push yourself up to a sitting position, letting out a soft yawn as you do so before you blink at him hazily again. This time, you press forward and place your hand on his abdomen, absentmindedly rubbing your finger there back and forth. “I want to see your injuries.”

Not even he can stop the way his face softens at that and he tucks you into his side again, his other hand pulling the shirt up and over his head to discard onto the carpet beneath the bed. This view is only for you: his paled skin, the fresh scars, the old scars, fading bruises and fresh bruises, stitches that fall out and others that are pulled tight but most of all, his body. All for your eyes only, only for you. Your hand runs gently over the outline of his newest bruise, a deep purple that covers the entire expanse of his hip. It’s blooming into something worse and you’re sure it’ll hurt more tomorrow, not that he’d ever complain about that anyway. “You always come home with injuries, and you just play them off. Don't they hurt? Don't you want me to care for you?”

You say quietly, voice even softer now that you’ve sobered up, and he just lets out a breath, his face turning to watch the way your brows furrow and your lips press together. To have someone fuss over him like this is something he never thought about much, but it didn't mean he hadn’t craved the idea before. Yours was genuine worry, and you always held that genuine care for him. But it felt different now, more natural, more intimate. Like he was the only one you would worry about like this— he loved that feeling.

“I don't ever want you to worry about a thing, even if I do like the way your eyebrows crease when you do.” He chuckles softly, leaning down to press his lips affectionately against your hair before sitting back up properly again. “I suppose if you really want to.. I couldn't deny I'd be flattered to have you care for me.” The curve of your lips is what makes him smile as well, finding it all too endearing how easily a grin can form on your face.

“You’re such a flirt..” You mutter, trying to play it off and wiggle out of his hold on you, only serving for him to raise an amusing brow at you. “I’m only making up for what I can’t do to a tipsy girl.”

“I’m not tipsy..” You argue, sitting up a little straighter which makes his arm gently rest on your lower back instead.

“Oh? Really now? Let me test you then, since I used to be a policeman.”

“Fine, give me what you’ve got.”

“Sing the alphabet backwards if you’re sober.”

You instantly splutter, shaking your head quickly.

“Hey! Not even a normal person can do that. I knew you didn't actually like me.” He has to stop himself from rolling his eyes up at your grumbling, squashing your cheeks to make you shush.

“Is it really a crime that I don't want you to forget our first kiss because of some stupid whiskey?”

“Your stupid whiskey.” He finally rolls his eyes at your retort, gently pushing you back into bed and pulling the covers up and over you. “Alright fine, my stupid whiskey. Now, be honest with me, are you sober?”

The little frown on your face has disappeared with the hope his question brings, and you nod quietly, wide eyes looking into his.

“Are you very sure?” You were definitely sober now, his voice immediately lowering to a rasp as his hands travel up to cup the soft curves of your cheeks as they begin to turn pink. Just like that, he’s the man you’ve fallen for all over again, soft strands of fair hair framing his chiselled face as if they’re perfectly placed to put you under his spell. His index tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, gently rubbing the skin of your cheek with his calloused thumbs. His skin is so rough and yet you can't help but feel he is so soft at this moment; his eyes are like gentle waves, looking at you so fondly that you finally remember to reply.

“I-i'm sure.”

He doesn't hesitate, leaning in closer until his nose just touches the tip of yours, eyes locked onto every small movement you can even think about doing. “Can I?” The nod you give is the green light he’s always dreamed of; this day is all he has ever thought about since you joined his life. You let your eyes flutter closed, feel the warmth of his breath that tickles your skin as he draws closer and closer until his lips meet yours so gently. You have to physically stop yourself from giggling, probably the alcohol still trying to make a fool of you, but you just can't believe he’s the one wrapping you in his touch. Likewise, you wrap your arms around his neck, and he lets out a small gasp when you suddenly gain the strength to meet him upright, almost as if you’re threatening to pin him instead. Of course, he couldn't just let that slide easily. So, as anyone would, he pushes you back down into the mound of pillows, causing you to squeal as he leaves his touch all over your face, fleeting kisses painting your skin a rosy red. “You better not forget this in the morning.” He scoffs playfully as your eyes squeeze shut, giggles that spill out your mouth while he gives the affection he’s craved to gift to someone for years.

His job is hard, his life has been hard, and even this marriage initially felt the same. It wasn't so much the fact that he had essentially tied himself down to someone he barely knew, it was the realisation that he would never find his one person. That's why he did this after all, it seemed like it’d benefit the both of you and the day where he’d actually have a woman by his side slipped away with each mission. You, you were different though. You may have been an agent before, but outside of work you were the sweetest thing. Always subconsciously fussing over him, delaying sleep to prepare his lunch no matter how much he insisted you didn't need to, taking a personal duty to look after his cat, and still not being afraid to ask him when he seemed low or uncomfortable. You were everything he never had, even the annoying nagging of trying to get him to not lay on the couch after he ate or the fact that's his third whiskey yet.

Corny lines, the occasional flirty remark, dragging you to watch a movie— he wanted to do all of that before so you’d become actually his, actually the one he could say he loves and loves him back. But things got in the way, life got in the way, and he was starting to see his opportunities dissolve with each tired return from the mission. Despite his grumpy attitudes some days, his exhausted look as he collapsed into bed at eight, you still managed to fuss over him all the same— never once did you treat him differently, if not for the fact you’d cook him a slightly nicer meal after missions.

He was still busy, yes of course, but somehow he had managed to win you over. Maybe it was his silly jokes, though he’d seen you stare at his hair many times before so maybe that caught your eye. In any case, he’s happy to give any part of him to you, if not all of him. So when he’s pressed the last kiss on your nose and pulls the covers high over you, he tucks you into his chest, a final kiss to your temple as he looks down at your angelic expression. The way your smile curves at literally nothing but his touch is enough to make him fold right there, but he doesn't right now, squeezing you against him.

“Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.”

He whispers out, and you can't ignore it, eyes snapping up to look at him just from those three words. He sees the wonder in your eyes, the way they question the truth and if this really is real. Then you nod slowly, tuck your head into his chest, nestled against the beat of his heart.

“I love you too.”

[sugoi-writes]

In Every Sense - Part 2 to Scent Kink!Alastor x Reader

It's heeeeerrreeee~ Here are some warnings: we get some internal monolgues of Alastor hopelessly trying to seduce you, oral (f!receiving), light man-handling, begging, and some really just... absolutely raunchy filth. Please enjoy~ (please note, this is still overwhelmingly inspired by @hazelfoureyes so please please GO READ HAZEL'S CONTENT. IM BEGGING YOU. ITS SO JUICY)

Right. Where was he? Oh yes... this mess.

Alastor straightened himself out quickly, mess of his clothing and floor included. Your clothes, however, were discarded to his bed... probably never to be washed again.

After he freshed up, his eyes scanned and paused in his armoire mid-search. His taloned hands brushed against a silk top... not one of his preferred fabrics, but one he could certainly pull off. His fingers danced on it a moment more, before deciding it was worth changing it up.

Black, lattice-patterned top and tailored, wine red trousers... simple, but classy, right? As he tossed around the idea of a belt, he decided to skip that step. It would make the process of settling between your sweat-covered thighs take an eternity too long. That is... if he didn't devour you first.

Alastor threw his casual fit together, opting to keep his pointed, black dress a part of the ensemble. But should he try boots...? Would that be too much? Maybe it would be easier to kick off...?

He wondered over to his personal liquor cabinet, pouring himself a whiskey. He needed to get a pep in his step and to still his rambling thoughts. Though he usually preferred to take things slower, savoring the bite of liquor on his tongue... He instead took it as a shot, hardly reacting to the harsh intake. His shoulders hunched, huffing as he turned to look in the mirror. How ridiculous he must've looked...

Hair disheveled... eyes half lidded. His hands were sweating, the loose blouse serving as a juxtaposition to his too-tight pants. Maybe his shirt should be tucked? No, that'd look stupid without a belt...

How strange it was for him to fret... at least, fret over impressing another person. Moreover, trying to impress someone he pined for. He almost loathed the way you made him feel, and how his core seemed to clench everytime you walked by... but, there was no room for doubt now: he would make you answer for his obsessions tonight. Surely you would take responsibility, wouldn't you...?

Alastor's head shook, before he opted to tuck half of his shirt in. He saw this often in modern fashion, targeting the front corner of the shirt to show off or bring attention to his thigh and... well-- downstairs.

He quirked a brow, intrigued with this look. It was... messy. Not the neat-and-narrow hes accustomed to. And in a way, he quite liked it. Maybe with the disheveled top, your eyes would be distracted enough to be drawn below the belt...?

Hah, what a pun. It doesn't work anymore if you don't have a belt, right?

Alastor chuckled, absolutely tickled by the thought. Alastor pulled out a wine-colored blazer, which perfectly complimented his pants. Can't be too prepared for the hellish night, right? He paused, walking over to your discarded top again for one final sniff; one final tease before the real thing. He shuddered at the thought, already feeling a light twitch coming from below. 

With a resolute nod, he walks out from his room, heading towards the lobby. Maybe you would be retired for the night? Maybe he could catch you before your evening shower... He sought you out, his nose steering the way as his thoughts swam with visions of you. He would have you tonight, he thought, his hands summoning and twirling his microphone with a prideful flourish.

--

You hadn't known how it got to this point. You hadn't known how much liquor both you and Alastor had drunk, round for round... but, Alastor's plan managed to work. He caught up with you, just before you were retiring for the night... and now, you did manage to head to bed... just the wrong one.

You yelped as you were slammed against his bedroom door, hands flying to grip the collar of his shirt. The passion of his kiss made you weak, his own knees buckled. Your sounds mirrored the other's, hips rolling in tandem as the heat between your bodies danced and mingled with one another. Alastor was already getting carried away, hands grabbing at everything he could touch... your cheek, your ass, your waist... He needed more. He needed you to be absolutely bothered and sweating.

Alastor pulled away, licking a long, wet trail from your collar bone to your ear. You trembled as ghost-like kisses were placed along your jaw, pleased sigh his reward. Your head tilted back and to the side, allowing better access to the longing demon.

"Ahh-- Alastor!"

His name fell from your lips, bruised and hanging agape as your breath came out in labored puffs. Alastor groaned, eyelids fluttering as he inhaled once more. A shaky sigh soon followed, making your thighs clench together. He licked at the sweat that ran down your neck, swirling his tongue before kissing there again.

More... he needed more of this.

No words were exchanged as his lips wandered lower, your clothing coming down and off with his lecherous journey. You could only cradle and grab at his hair, trying to slow or stop his descent when he would kiss a particularly gratifying area... but your eyes widened as his kisses lingered on your lower abdomen. Your eyes met his candy apple reds, swirling with lust and intrigue.

"Mon cher, I simply cannot bear to wait... I must have you." He couldn't contain his raspy sigh as he took your pants off, sliding them down your trembling legs. You'd be lucky to have these clothes back after this night...

Once you were bare before him, he kissed at your mound, the smell of your hormones and sweat making his brow furrow with desire. His eyes nearly rolled back into his skull as you moaned, nodding feverishly," I-I... I don't-- fuck, Al... Don't stop..."

Al looked firmly at you, mouth hanging open, but not coming closer. You huffed, trembling as your cheeks flush.

"... Pl-please... keep going... I want this."

Alastor smiled up at you, toothy grin absolutely drunk with adoration as he lowered his head. He spread your legs apart, arms moving to lift you. You were pushed up until you sat upon his shoulders, suspended a few inches off the ground. You were shaking at the realization of how powerful he was; how easily he was able to sustain you with just his shoulders. It was a strength that made your abdominals clench in anticipation.

The moment his tongue ran up your slit, you saw the light, eyes widening from the feeling of his warm muscle. Alastor grunted as he started to gently lap at your core. Finally: something that distracted him from how divinely you smelt...

Now he had a new muse (and problem) to keep him up at night... the taste of your arousal.

Like a man starved, he began to lavish you earnestly, hands trapping your thighs around his head. He showed you no mercy as his tongue alternated between stimulating your clit and delving into your relaxed hole. You convulsed with his minstrations, one hand stabilizing you against the door while the other gripped an antler for deer dear life. You soon found your hips rolling into his face, his nose brushing your clit with every thrust. Your head collided with the door as your moans transformed into animalistic whines and huffs, unable to control the ravenous sounds he tore from you. Alastor wasnt any more refined, hungry like a tramp in heat.

His expression shook and strained with pure bliss as he took you in whole: touch, sight, sounds, scent, and taste. This truly was the thing that he needed most; to seek you in your entirety. He knew now that he needed to own your body by ways of physical desire and passion... something he only became keenly aware of recently.

Now, even if your soul would so pretty under his grasp... this seemed to outweigh that desire. This was the ultimate way to both have you, and for you to tie a metaphorical leash around his neck. He hadn't fully realized it, but he was completely and utterly yours, and after this display, you'd surely have him the same way...

His dignity be damned. You were too sweet to resist.

You held his fringe out of his face as Alastor groaned with every flick of his tongue, vibrations sending your nerves into overdrive. His movements, his reactions, and his blatant obsession with your scent had you seeing stars. You ground your face harder into Alastor's obedient tongue, forcing his inhales to be rapid and short. Had he breathed any harder, one would speculate he was panicking. But ahh, what a way to die again, but by your thighs and eager cunt...

"Sh-Shit-- Alastor I'm-- fuck, y-you're too-- Hah!"

Alastor's cock twitched and strained, unable to be freed as your noises grew in tempo and pitch: you were nearing your climax.

Yes.

Yes, cum on him; cum on his face.

He wanted to see your mouth hang open in a silent wail, riddled with ecstacy. He wanted to feel your legs snap his neck from the force of your grip. He wanted to taste the arousal on his tongue as it multiplied. And most importantly... he wanted to be fully engulfed in your scent as your cunt rode his tongue... At this rate, he would be making another mess tonight.

He would never wash his shirt again, aware of the cum dripping down onto the collar of his dress shirt... a notion that nearly made him squirm. Maybe he could convince you to let him keep your outfit, as a token of tonight's debauchery?

He had no more time to think as your orgasm overcame you. Both hands held his antlers as your frantically ground into his mouth, practically suffocating him as you sprayed his jaw with your release. Alastor could only take it, choking and sputtering but absolutely living in the moment. His eyes were fully rolled back, schelaras devoured by a deep, pitch color.

When oversensitivity started to make you quiver, you pulled away, utterly satisfied. Your hands went to smooth out Alastor's scrunched-up hair as he panted. You gave it a playful ruffle, apologetic for your behavior. You smile breathlessly down to the overwhelmed demon, about to thank him... Then, a shrill scream is ripped from your throat. Alastor's seering, hot tongue is on your clit again, hands digging in to the plush of your thighs.

"Mmph... more-- Please, let me have more, cher... need it-- need you!"

You whined as Alastor's pleas fell unto eager ears, head lolling. Alastor's tongue began to awaken a new vigor in you. You were more than happy to please the starved man below you... Maybe next time, you'd tie him up in your clothes, leaving him unable to do anything but take your passion, in every sense of the word...

[meownotgood]

inevitable. / gojo satoru x gn!reader, angst & fluff, love confessions; satoru writing practice.

When Satoru comes home, it's another broken promise. 

He shows up well past midnight, with his knuckles bruised purple and his palms rubbed raw. His uniform is a filthy tattered mess. His blindfold hangs loosely around his neck. His head hurts more than usual, his jaw aches from the way he's been clenching it. 

Every window is dark, all the lights are off. The key to your apartment is under the mat, same as always. He steps in and closes the door behind him as silently as possible, he half-hopes you aren't awake even though that'd ruin the entire purpose to him coming. Sighing, he tries to will himself to relax, but his hands remain shaky as he clicks the lock shut. 

"You're home." 

The familiar sound of your voice doesn't surprise him — Instead, like an instinct, it makes his shoulders slump, his muscles loosen. A tingle runs across his spine and his heart sparks alight, he's home. He's missed this. Problem is, he doesn't deserve to miss this. 

"I'm home." Satoru parrots; hand frozen on the doorknob, he doesn't turn around to look at you because he isn't sure if he should. 

"I missed you." You say, ever-so softly. It finds a way to be both the worst and the best thing he's ever heard. Don't say that. 

Satoru swallows. "I missed you too." 

A few seconds of silence. Your tone's gone level. "Thought you said you weren't coming back." 

His hands sting when he closes and opens them. Close, open, they're getting sweaty. He can feel his heart thudding and his breath quickening, his blood boiling. His pulse thrums in his own neck, his throat closes up and he can't even speak. He assumed he wouldn't be coming back too. Yet here he is. 

Turning to face you, Satoru balls those same hands up into fists. This is his fault, and he doesn't think he can fix it, there's just no way. But he can't just leave things as they are, what is he supposed to do? For the first time in a long time, he's utterly lost. 

"I-" 

You interrupt him before he can get a word in. 

"I'm glad you're here, Satoru." 

He blinks. He's got no idea what to say to that. Not a damn clue. 

"You've been crying." You're continuing, your arms fall limp from where they were crossed, "Are you alright? What's going on?" 

Yeah, he's sure he looks the part, he was just hoping you wouldn't notice. He bets his eyes are as swollen and red as they feel, with deep dark bags set in underneath. 

It's foreign. He's never cried like this. He never cried when he was a kid, he hasn't cried even when he felt at his lowest — but there's something about you that's always brought out the weakness in him. Something about you he couldn't explain, something that has him breaking down the whole way here because the thought of losing you tears his ignorant heart right out of his chest. 

Satoru sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. His bottom lip is quivering. Your quiet apartment is getting smaller and smaller around him.

"I'm fine," He hears his own voice and it doesn't sound like himself, "I'm good." 

"Stop it. Tell me the truth, Satoru." 

Satoru. The way you utter his name hurts him more than anything. 

His eyes narrow, he stares at his feet, "Don't worry about me. Please." 

"I can't, I can't when you clearly aren't okay." 

"Come on," He grumbles at that, the bridge of his nose crinkles, a defeated expression takes over his features, "I'm fine, I already told you." 

"Tsk," You take a step forward, "You're such an idiot sometimes, I think you're just-" 

"Why aren't you mad? Tell me." 

You stop, falling silent. Satoru realizes he'd spoken a little louder than he wanted to. His head dips down. His brows furrow like he's the angry one, "You tell me, because I don't get it. I don't understand what the hell you're thinking, I never have. God, you- you should be pissed!" 

"Satoru-" 

He presses his fingers to his temple, he's gritting his teeth, "But you aren't, not even close, you don't even care. I don't- you're so kind and I- Why? Why won't you tell me to leave?" 

He's being childish, immature. He knows, but he can't help it. He can't wrap his head around why you're still here. Why you've stayed, why you've greeted him at the door like everything is normal after he told you he was never coming back — This'll be the last time I see you. It's for your own good. — He's tried everything to push you away, and yet none of it has worked. Nothing. 

Satoru could never be close to you. He wants to be, God does he want to be. But he can't, you can't. You'll be targeted. You'll wind up assassinated. The strongest sorcerer has always been the strongest when he's all alone. Satoru fears the day will come where he won't be strong enough to protect you. You make him far too soft, and this world is too cruel and too dark to allow any glimmers of light. 

And you understand that, don't you? 

His eyes flicker up, he scans your face, your expression unreadable. You offer him the faintest smile, and you answer. 

"For the same reason you haven't left yet." 

You've always understood. From the moment you met him, you've known. 

You're aware of the consequences. You know what could happen to you. And you know damn well Satoru could disappear at any time; it's part of who he is, what he has to become. You've stuck by his side at every opportunity regardless. He's important to you. He's good at his core. To you, Gojo Satoru is the most pleasant dream you've ever had, an unreachable star — The universe he lives in is so far from your own and yet no-one has ever understood you more than him. 

You're the one who knows all of his secrets, and him with yours. Sometimes he thinks you know him better than he knows himself. Even when he leaves, even when he's gone off on another mission all alone with no sign of when he'll return, you'll be here, waiting for him. You'll hug him close and tell him you missed him, every single time. 

This is his doing. All of this is. He's an idiot. 

Satoru keeps his gaze focused on you: wavering skies of blue, cloudy with hesitance. You step in closer, your voice is much quieter. 

"I'm not mad at you." You reach forward, taking his hands, squeezing them. His breath can't help but hitch. He's been waiting for your touch for a long time now. You don't comment on the bruises, you're used to them. "I care about you too much for that, you know?"

"I know," Satoru rubs your knuckles with his thumbs, he lets go of a long, trembling breath, "I know." 

"Stay for the night." You ask, and between his gnawing ache to have you close and the way you lace your fingers with his own, grasping tenderly — his battered hands in your delicate hold — he doesn't think there's ever a world where he could say no. "Just for tonight, okay? We can figure things out." 

"I'll stay. I'm sorry," He blinks away the water welling up beneath his lashes, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you, I- I'm just so sorry." 

"It's okay. I've already forgiven you." 

"I won't leave like that again. I promise. I promise you." 

Your palm finds his cheek. He leans into your touch, he wants to collapse. 

You were the one who showed him peace could be more than only fleeting, but he's the one who was foolish enough to get so attached to you. And right now, he's the one who just can't manage to let you go. 

This same vicious cycle is what he's fallen into, he comes back to your arms only to leave again and again. It'll keep going like this until you get sick of it all, or until something takes you away from him. He hates it. He's always hated it more than anything, hasn't he? He wants to savor your presence for as long as it'll last, he doesn't want to keep leaving like this, he doesn't want to lose you. 

The reason why you're still here is the same as his own. It's why he can't leave you, why he could never leave you, no matter how hard he tries. It's because — 

"I love you." 

The huge weight he'd been carrying for God knows how long finally shifts off of his shoulders — like releasing a held breath, like pieces lining into place. His vision blurs at the edges, he doesn't understand the gravity of what he's just said until seconds later, when it's too late to go back and when you're staring at him wide-eyed, caught in surprise.

There's a look behind his eyes that's hopeful, soft, scared. He's shaking again, from his shoulders to his hands. "Shit, I really shouldn't say that, huh?"

Satoru hides those hints of nervousness behind his usual smile, he huffs a half-hearted sort of laugh, he brings a palm to his face and covers it, "Ahhhh, you're right, I'm an idiot. You're… important to me, that's all I'm trying to say. I still don't know what I'm going to do, I can't risk putting you in danger. But I'll figure something out. I owe it to you." 

For a couple of moments, you don't speak. Satoru listens to the pound of his heart in his ears. He'd break the silence if he knew of anything better to say. Then, you close the distance between him and yourself, and he notices, but he isn't about to stop you. 

You're reaching for him and he's letting it happen; you embrace him, wrap your arms around him tight, and he's sinking, falling. Finally. He's needed this so much. 

Hesitantly at first, he allows himself to hold you back, and then hard, he embraces you almost desperately. Curled over your form, he rests his forehead on your shoulder, he squeezes you firm, he melts into your arms. He's all around you, he relaxes fully for the first time in ages and allows his muscles to grow weary, heavy.

You're warm. Your palm rubs his back in gentle circles, Satoru draws in a slow and shuddering breath between pouty lips like a child. 

Your words are everything he's always wanted to hear. 

"I love you too." 

He can't help but smile, can't help but feel the apples of his cheeks growing warm, "Yeah? I love you more." 

You smirk even though he can't see it, your palm reaches the back of his head and you press him closer, so close he thinks he might implode. 

A pause. "I'm scared, to tell you the truth." He confesses, "I don't want to hurt you." 

His chest is aching, just at the thought. Your fingers meet his soft hair and he sighs deeply, he holds you like he'd fall to pieces if he let go. 

You mutter quietly, earnestly, "You could never hurt me. Not ever." 

Satoru grips the back of your shirt hard. "Could curse you pretty bad, though." 

Your voice curls right into his ear. "Think so?" 

Slowly, deliberately, you start to pull away from him, just enough to lock his gaze with yours and hold his chin between two of your fingers. He's in a trance as you drag him closer, your head tilting, free hand teasing when it ghosts the back of his neck. 

Perhaps he knew he'd give in to you from the very beginning. Maybe he's stupid for this. He's always been such a fool for you. But he'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe and by his side, he's already decided. He'll love you as much as someone who never could possibly can. Whatever it takes. 

"If you're gonna curse me-" You're leaning in, he follows your pull; his eyelids flutter closed, his head is so dizzy he feels light, his nerves throb with anticipation. His plush lips brush yours and you speak right up against them. 

"... At least make it count." 

And when you kiss, Satoru's finally reached right into heaven. 

his character is hard to write. but I'm learning... I think

[meowmeowriley]

Ghost wants a dog. He's thought about it for a while, done some research, put out feelers. He's allowed to have a dog where he live, has a house to himself not five minutes from base. Waste of space, he used to think, but space enough for a dog.

He needs a big dog. He's a big lad. When some people think "big dog" they're thinking of a German Shepherd Good dogs, he's sure. But only 40 kilos, max. He needs something bigger, he thinks.

At first, he thought he'd like himself a Rottweiler. Hefty. Big bodied and boisterous. Easily trainable if you've got the time and the grit, both he figured he had in spades, so long as he wasn't on an op. But then he read about tail docking and, well... he couldn't bring himself to think about it any more. Those poor puppies, he thinks.

He goes home with Soap, visiting the MacTavish farm. They're friends, he wants to see the sheep, he tells Soap. Tells himself. He won't admit that he just wants to spend more time with Johnny.

The MacTavish's have Border Collies to herd their sheep. Practical. Cute, he likes the pups, but much too small for him. Not to mention intelligence to rival the rookies he had to whip into shape on base and tripple their energy. He wasn't sure he'd want to deal with that.

But while out, on their way into town, he saw it. A huge dog standing amongst someone else's flock, head heald high and nose in the wind. Soap knew the farmer from his childhood, drove them up the lane when he caught Ghost staring. Due to his staring, Ghost had missed the sign they passed, though Soap didn't. 'Pyrenees puppies 4 sale' it read.

The farmer smiled when he noticed John, the boy who left the fields to play soldier and came back a man. John introduced him as Lieutenant 'Ghost' Riley. Ghost rolled his eyes and stuck out his hand. "Simon. Saw your dog in the field, never saw one like it. Wanted to know more." A short introduction, straight to the point.

The response was the opposite. The farmer gave him what felt like his life's story. Took what seemed to Ghost to be a year before he got to telling him about the dog, a Great Pyrenees, apparently. A large bodied, heavy white coated livestock guardian breed. He had two, the one in the field was the sire, the dam was in the barn. As he spoke, he lead the two men towards that very barn.

The farmer entered first, to separate the mother from the pups, for their protection, he said. In the barn was a sight that melted the hardened Lieutenant into a puddle of goo: a litter of snow white, fluffy puppies. Huge puppies. Sticks and hay and debris were stuck all over their fluffy bodies, Simon picked out what he could from the pups as they wallered and slobbered all over him.

Soap took over speaking to the farmer as Ghost slowly accepted that he would never again have crisp black clothes. That everything in his future would be covered in white fluff. The life expectancy of his washer and dryer had just been halved, he suspected.

The farmer explained their personality: that females tended to be more protective, they'd be a home body, not exactly a jogging companion. Loyal but brutish, often misconstrued as lazy. The beast out in the field with the flock would lay about and let the sheep climb all over him, wouldn't even bother to get up if someone hopped the fence like. But if he heard a sound he didn't like, or saw another dog or a predator in the field, he'd let loose a bark that'd freeze a man's blood, and hunt the perceived threat down come hell or high water. "And you should see her in action," the farmer laughed and shook his head. "Almost killed the male over getting too close to his own pups. Protective to a fault. 'S why I had to turn her out, you see."

Ghost saw an oversized cotton ball trip over it's own feet as it tried to get to his fingers because it needed to be pet. It was the only one without any tan or grey patch. Ghost saw his future best friend.

The farmer started to explain that these pups ought to be sent off to other farms, they wouldn't do as family dogs, but John walked him out of the barn. Explained that the man they'd left behind had no family to speak of, needed something other than work to focus on, and if anyone were able to handle the instincts and behavioral issues of a livestock guardian without livestock, it'd be Simon. The farmer agreed, so long as he made sure to choose a male, for safety reasons.

The two drove off another twenty minutes later, after Simon had listened with rapt attention to the farmer detailing everything about what the pups had been through up to that point, and what he'd need to do moving forward to make sure his little guy was happy and healthy, Ghost holding young Spirit to his chest.

From that point on all of Ghost's belongings had long white fur and drool on them, courtesy of his personal polar bear.

On the day of their wedding their ring bearer was their own pseudo-bear, and nobody left the venue without drool or fur on their clothes.

[humiliatemeplesse]

Jason got promoted from the cubicle next to you and was now your supervisor. He never talked to you. He knows you're faggot and he doesn't like faggots. He's a pretty conservative Republican and he thinks fags are deviates that ruin American society. So when he called you into his new office on his first day as your supervisor you thought, oh well, I'm going to get fired. You knocked on the door and he yelled come in. He was sitting on a nice, white leather chair with his feet up, shoes off. "So, now that I'm your Boss we're going to get things straight around here. Straight... LOL...that's an ironic use of wording for you, isn't it? This company is way too liberal in it's HR policies and with your good work record I can't fire you because they'll know I'm doing it because you're a faggot. So, you're gonna have to make up for me tolerating your presence in my department. Get on your knees at the foot of my chair. Put your face in my sweaty socked feet and kiss them and thank me for putting up with having to be around a dirty queer like you all these years and beg me to NOT decide to find a way for you. Kiss 'em and massage 'em. Sniff 'em, you deserve to be degraded like this. You deserve worse. But at least I get the satisfaction of you grovelling at my feet with your nose in my stinking socks and begging me for mercy. Stupid homo. Get started, I have half an hour until a conference call. And you can expect to be doing this daily faggot. I might even eventually tell some of the guys who think like me to come in and join. That'd be even more humiliating, huh? Now get to it, your nose in my socks and your hands massaging them. And beg, bitch

[sophsicle]

I'm Sorry I'm the One You Love

Part I (Part II)

Sirius Black isn't in love with James Potter. Though sometimes Remus looks at him like he is. Like Sirius is sad and pathetic and...he doesn't even know, pining?

But he isn't.

Well.

Alright.

Sad and pathetic, perhaps. Depending on who you ask. On when you're looking. But he isn't pining. And he isn't in love with James.

That would be too easy.

Sirius thinks he could bear just being in love with him. Thinks that's a pill he could swallow. Unrequited feelings and all that. He'd mope around and write sad songs and drink too much. But eventually he'd get past it the way people seem to do with those kinds of feelings. But he isn't in love with James, is the problem.

He's fucking consumed by him.

"Sirius."

"Don't start."

Remus huffs, but, mercifully, goes back to his coursework, shaking his head while he does. Sirius, on the other hand, keeps staring at James and Lily. They aren't doing anything really, Sirius doesn't reckon Evans is one for big, public displays of affection. But then, maybe that'd be better. James and him don't - they've never - done that. Kiss or anything. So. It probably wouldn't feel so much like a kick in the fucking teeth the way watching them now does. Leaning into one another, heads nearly pressed together, whispers traded back and forth, secret smiles, nudging feet. James and Sirius have done that plenty.

Remus sighs again. "Why don't you talk to him?"

After a few seconds Sirius manages to pull his eyes away from the grotesque spectacle on the other side of the library. Why the hell are they sitting there anyway? Surely they could have sat at the same bloody table?

"I talk to him every day," Sirius says blankly. Which earns him a deeply unimpressed look.

"You know what I mean."

"I don't."

"You do."

"Don't."

He gets an eye roll this time. "Fine," muttering as he picks up his quill. "Have it your way then."

Remus has freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks, and just about the longest eyelashes Sirius has ever seen. He's obsessed with them, to tell you the truth. He's asked Remus if he uses some kind of potion for them but the other boy only scrunched his nose up, giving Sirius a look he didn't understand.

Remus's eyes flick up again now, meeting Sirius's, finding him staring. Sirius doesn't look away. He isn't embarrassed. Not about this. Not about most things, honestly.

"What?" Remus ask warily.

Sirius only shrugs. "Astronomy Tower? Tonight?"

Remus holds his gaze for a long moment before dropping his head again. "Fine." He doesn't sound overly enthusiastic but then, he never does with Sirius.

Sirius has never kissed James. Not even once. Though he's thought about it a few times. Sometimes he wants to ask James if he's thought about it too. Just so he knows. He's never kissed James.

But he has kissed Remus.

Loads.

He thinks he might be an expert at this point.

It takes the edge off. Makes him feel less like he's going insane every time he sees James. Like he wants to eat him and not in a sexual way, not really, more like in the way wolves want to sink their teeth into the necks of rabbits. Want to snap their spines. Want to feel them go limp. Want to swallow them whole so that there's no difference anymore. Between them. Between us. I've made you part of me. Bone of my bones. Blood of my blood. Skin of my skin.

See. It's not love. Sirius doesn't know what it is but it's not that.

After a few more seconds he kicks Remus under the table, causing the other boy to look up in exasperation. But this time when their eyes meet Sirius smiles the way he knows Remus likes. Feeling his insides grow warm when Remus smiles back - even if he's a little delicate about it.

Sirius isn't in love with James Potter.

But he might be in love with Remus.

[rivangel]

i found an olddd 6k h/c fic i wrote kind of related to this subject, i wonder if i should post it :sss

i'm 99% certain no tws are needed because nothing is directly implied/referenced, but if i do, let me know :) —

➥ pairing: Captain!Levi x fem!taller!Scout!reader

➥ c/w: canonverse | emphasis on vanilla | comfort | praise | oral (f!receiving) | Levi is easy | handjob | Levi gets pussydrunk (typical) | multiple orgasms | enthusiastic consent | pron with a crumb of plot? | virgin!Levi | fingering

➥ wc: 2.9k

disclaimer: no one's healing is linear, and no one's goals for recovery have to be exactly the same. please don't take this as anything more than a fan-fictional fantasy scenario.

"What's wrong?"

His cheeks still warm from kissing, Levi seems to read your expression better than you can read your own feelings. You're close enough for your legs to be tangled together, laying in the center of your comfy bed instead of on your own sides, but he feels so much closer to you in this moment.

Under covers, he'd pulled away somewhat reluctantly after you helped pull off his shirt, complaining it was hot.

Maybe he's wondering about the covers, and why he hadn't pinpointed that as the way to rectify the heat. Or why you didn't.

"...Nothing," he replies.

Despite that non-answer, you get the sense he's being surprisingly candid.

You lean in again at almost the exact same time.

"Now what?"

"Now what...?" you echo.

"Fuck, what..." He's choosing his words carefully, looking away.

He's still considering when you figure out that he doesn't know what to say because he's doesn't know what to do. And if he did, all that'd change is success at constructing his question.

"It's not a big deal." You end up brushing your nose against his to gaze into his eyes.

You're telling him that, and you're telling yourself.

"Um, can I just kiss you?—Okay?"

He tilts his head and kisses you in reply. As if you hadn't stopped at all, you press deep into the smoldering softness of his lips and skin, hungry for an ambrosia only Levi can give you. It's all you want, sometimes, dangerously so—all you want is to be as intertwined with Levi as possible. Until there's no difference between you and him.

You turn away from that fact.

You're unerringly grateful for how mindful he always, always is with what you've been through. There was a period of time when he held you as if you'd break into pieces if he made the slightest off-move, but you're well-past even that. You're putty in his hands as he licks hungrily at your tongue, fist tight on the thick plush of your sweatshirt. You even hear a soft noise escape him. You notice him shifting open his legs, too.

You hum softly as you take his hand further down your hip, nostrils flaring. The heat of his skin and the solid muscle just beneath his middle is almost too overwhelming.

You see the potential in his softness all up and down his chest and back that's otherwise interwoven with strength, and with scars. Without looking, the harsh indents from the ODM gear are still paths you can follow.

He's deeply receptive to everything. Desire is burning away your doubt like a flame consuming a dense note. Giving fuel to it, you breathe his air into your lungs.

With a push of urgency, you start tugging off your shorts. You get it done much faster together.

You're breathing hard, narrowly separating at some point. He mumbles something tight you can't hear into the hot cove between your shoulder and neck, but he must need something bad by the firm hold he has on your hip.

"You don't need to be shy," you ease, and he huffs like you just inflicted a physical blow on him. "Hey. Show me... Show me what you want."

He saddles up closer to you, smacking your neck with kisses and finally hitching your leg up and pulling you against him. You gasp as it finally hits you, how painfully fucking hard he is—you feel him through his boxers against your thigh, heat pounding where his thighs meet.

"Oh, oh?"

He whispers your name.

You close your hand on the nape of his neck as you slide your thigh in between his legs, and firmly rub him.

He buries his mouth into your neck when he moans, thick from the depths of his chest, almost like that's it for him. It sends a shiver through you as you blindly guide his hand down more, till he takes a full squeeze of your ass.

He starts to speed up right away.

Levi's neediness is nothing like you expected. You actually have him stop.

Once, through drunken eyes, he sees that you don't have a complaint, he follows along with your move like you're one body.

The cool air is actually a mercy coming out from under the covers.

You sit up, making you separate briefly for him to half-crawl into your lap. It looks almost ridiculous to keep his underwear on, but his hand soon lands on yours, hooked in the waistband, so you go back to touching him like before

He's buried in your lap, his strong thighs snug outside your flanks. With your height. You have the perfect view, staring blatantly at Levi's densely toned stomach and chest. It's a shame he dresses to cover himself up so much, but you feel even more special to see him like this, and touch him, and kiss him, and just—Your hands come up from below, eagerly rubbing his pecs with your palms.

"Off..." he grunts, almost slurring the lone word. "I'll kick you if you keep teasing me."

You chuckle at the threat outright as you bring your hand up his thigh.

His cock peaks at the air as soon as it's freed. It seems like just your hand being close to it has him tensing in anticipation. It's heavy, veins bulging on his thick shaft, and bright red, raw. Sticky strings of precum make it look like you rubbed him in oil already.

You're fighting squirming at the sight—or something equally as impulsive that you're both perhaps not ready for.

"Ah, so pretty... Can I call you pretty?"

"Not in English."

You laugh again. "Can I touch you, Pretty?"

Levi's hips shift, an answer in of itself, to which you shakily say into a fresh mark on his neck, "I'll make you feel really really good, okay? Tell me to stop if it's too much."

He shudders on the first stroke in which you take him in an exceptionally loose fist. He's so fucking sensitive—still, by the urgency with which he rocks into your pumps and leans against you, it heats up quickly. He puts his arm over his shoulder and messes his bangs in the process to lace his fingers in your hair.

Remembering his objection earlier, you focus on his nipples with your free hand until they're pointed and hard, and his ab muscles are visibly tensing.

"Wait—that's..."

You stop, his cock twitched and throbbing, which seems painful by the slight hiss of air through his teeth. "Too much?"

...He takes your hand and wraps it around him again, more insistent this time. "No, touch me, keep doing me l-like that."

Your teeth hook in your bottom lip to stifle a noise as you trace the veins with your thumb and stroke his slit with a decisive middle finger, and his hips jump forward. He makes himself pant and whine with this shaky rocking.

Surprisingly, he asks with these glittering eyes, "Is-Is it... okay?"

You'd forgotten your initial discomfort a while ago—it doesn't register at first why he'd ask that. And you hear how ready he is now with every stroke. Why does he?

"Mm?"

He shuts his eyes tight, shivering. He whines, louder than you've ever heard, when you speed up—you fail to help yourself too.

That's when what he meant strikes you. A surge of confidence brightens your mind. Clueless, he's asking your permission.

You sink into this role as though into hot, relaxing water, tonguing the back of his ear and neck. "Need t'cum? Do you wanna cum in my hand?"

"I'm close"—tensing, he grips your other wrist tighter, as it's working his balls—"I'm so fucking close, I'm—"

"Yeah—yeah, there you go. Let it go for me, I've got you, baby, cum for me."

All his movements, even shivers, stutter to a sudden halt, scarcely even panting for a second. Then the most excruciating moan drips from his mouth. His lips part and close to form a near-silent shout of your name before his grip jumps to your bicep, squeezing hard as his overcome cock works. A gentle thrust is all he seems to need to moan through the peak of it before his shivers intensify, coming in waves with each eager streak of cum his throbbing cock spills across your knuckles, painting his hard stomach muscles. He groans shakily for every second spent in bliss, then shudders after the fading waves.

His weight collapses into you before he seems to think other of it, but he sits up again quickly.

You're breathing hard, in a daze from what just happened. It's astounding—how tantalizing it felt to hold Levi in your arms and talk him through an orgasm like that, and to get so many sounds you'd never heard him make...

And that's precisely why your first conclusion is you're hesitant to keep going.

Your arms loosely wrap around him, and to your delight, he turns all loose and pliant.

You get the mental sense he's still keeping you somewhat at length, though; he's holding your arm again. But you appreciate his honesty with that.

You concentrate on the blissfulness of his breathing slowing, and his shoulders relaxing rather than the frustration rife inside your body.

"Disgusting." Rather than look at himself, he turns his head, his temple brushing your blazing cheek, and your shared sweat bleeding together.

"Not."

His expression contorts in a scowl. "You're such a brat."

His soft lips press to the side of your mouth—also wet, with your breaths steamy. You put in some lazy effort, just appreciating the feel of his skin and the touch of his lashes.

Eventually, you gather the wits to crack open your eyes—meeting his lidded ones—and properly meet his lips.

Mindlessly. You're so turned on, but you don't want to move. It's not that you don't want to—you want to too much. And what if he doesn't want to?—

Maybe that's a dumb question, but logic won't toss these feelings. This sense that you're going to mess up somehow. Worse than anything, you feel so guilty for the tiny prick of irrational fear that encourages you to be wary.

You stop thinking when he pulls away—just enough to stop—and you're entranced by his looks all over again. His eyes are as blue as dusk at the moment, contrasting beautiful and bright against his blushing cheeks, and intertwined beautifully with his tender look. They search yours demurely.

"You're so beautiful," you blurt out in a whisper.

His expression scrunches like he just tasted a lemon. He doesn't say anything to that, merely pecking the side of your lips, then the thick bone where your jaw divides your throat. As you wrap your arms around him, he cups your cheek.

He doesn't so much as brush your waist until you bring his hand up under your sweatshirt there, and he sighs blissed through his nose, hot against your neck. He’s so heavy and warm against you.

You squirm in place, leaning into his touch and his mouth, craving but not quite sure how to satisfy it.

"You have to talk to me," he eventually stops kissing your neck to whisper. "Do you want something...?"

Possibilities of an answer makes white-hot anticipation flare inside you. Same down lower as he makes his first forward move and his little finger innocently slips under the thin elastic, your panties—fleeting.

"Do you need something?" he murmurs, suggestion thick in the words. "If not, it can end here."

Finally, at that, you shake your head swiftly. All your emotions swirl in a mess inside you, but that is ironclad.

His breath shakes—your breath shakes—before you lower your head to capture his lips again, deep and purposeful like earlier.

You leave one of his hands on your thigh, and card your fingers through his hair to have him go down. Despite the eagerness in your shared pace, every kiss from his lips feels doting, like giving anything less than everything he has is unnatural.

You keep your shirt on, but he's still slow to rest his stance, kissing up your knee as you get comfortable. He takes a long, slow breath as his lips brush up your inner thigh, hardly doing much, but still making your breathing labored.

It lights fiercer of a fire in your to watch him nip and lick at your inner thighs, darting between with his eyes mostly shut—than to focus on the feeling.

"Levi," you sigh, with a twinge of a whine. The fabric of your panties delivers the most faintest of friction, which is worse than if they were off. You've taken to fidgeting—fidgeting with his soft hair, and with your hips. "K-Keep going."

You assumed he'd enjoy teasing you like earlier, but no. He's still mostly kissing, so you get half of his erotic gaze that makes you blank on the spot, and that's the way he stays as delicately pushes your panties to the side. He holds it in place with his long fingers, and lowers his eyes with the blush across his cheeks deepening red, trying to assess how to continue.

Again you take his hand, so your fingers are loosely linked as you lightly rub your clit. You surprise yourself by moaning, shakily spreading wider too.

"So it’s like that, huh.”

"Please—..."

He dots his thumb on his tongue before you show him—taking his wrist—that you want him more than just your clit. He huffs.

“Like this?”

The sweeping touch by his calloused thumb feels more amazing than you ever could’ve conceived of.

“Yes.”

“I can tell. Yeah…” he muses to himself, quietly. “That’s a good girl.”

You moan. If you glance, you’d him chewing on the inside of his cheek, nostrils flaring with deep breaths.

His breath hot close to your clit, he stays like that, gradually increasing in pressure and speed until you moan his name, loudly, then stopping, just before utter release could reach you.

A pleasant fog grows around your mind and your acknowledgment that Levi is happily doing this with you—not to you, but with you.

"Levi—! Oh...!"

On your own, you tend find it difficult to grasp at climax—which had been nestled with your other worries…—but your astonishment is palpable now. How you’ve felt so close you could cry, so much now, and all he’s really done is play with your clit.

It’s getting unbearable. Embarrassment roils in you as yet another touch of warmth drips from your pussy, leaving a growing grey spot on the bedspread. Frantically, you run your fingers through his hair.

“‘Vi please!”

He hums under his breath at the nickname. You can’t even recall how much you’ve been begging.

Finally, you pry open your lidded eyes, watching as he first delicately presses his lips to your clit, which becomes two, and then three. Still taking you slowly.

“Levi, please. Please, please—more. That feels—you feel—...”

He kisses you again, but this time leaves his lips there and suddenly presses you with the heat of his heavy tongue, then raises his gaze to your eyes. “Mhm?”

You cum on the spot—you gasp like it’s the last breath you can take and shove your heels into the mattress as you cum harder than you ever have in your life. Your hips push gratefully against his—hot, wet, soft moaning mouth now making a perfect seal around your clit, creating suction you weren’t at all prepared for. You grope with your fingers, down, pushing two into your cunt and you’re on cloud nine again. You’re practically crying as you writhe in the sheets. Curiously too, your walls pulse tightly around your fingers, making thrusting unbearable without keening into your elbow and whimpering Levi's name for something familiar. It feels like your entire body shakes, on and on.

You're panting hard when you finally collapse, the muscles in your thighs angry and a new sense of wetness messing the bedspread below your spent pussy. Your rocking grows less pointed, and you start whimpering from the light volts of overstimulation. Your thighs are shaking so bad, Levi’s biceps push on your flanks, keeping you steady through these ecstatic weakening pulses.

Of course he isn’t so out of breath. What you can see are his eyes closed in rapt concentration as his tongue drags through your soaked pussy, making muffled sounds of satisfaction all the while. You feel it brush the gaps between your fingers every time he goes down, making you wonder just how his cock would feel so close to your hole. Harder and firmer, for sure—

Your teeth sink hard into your bottom lip. His hips keep shifting, you notice, now that he’s rubbing faster. A shudder rushes through your thighs each time his tongue flatly drags up your clit.

“A-Are you close…?” you moan.

It almost doesn’t sound like him because of how high-pitched it is. “Ah…”

You shakily push a third inside and groan. You fuck yourself deep and firm, feeling yourself the most you can getting tighter.

Levi’s hold subtly tightens as all his attention pours back into licking and tonguing your clit, all he can focus on. Somehow, you feel his approaching climax almost as vividly as though it was your own, between his fingertips digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, and his growing whines, the wrinkle between his brow hard.

His mouth briefly lifts off your pussy to gasp, still connected by a string of either cum or spit or both. He’s frozen like that for a second, his lips gaping, culminating in a resounding, trembling moan before feverishly resuming right where he’d stopped, just now grunting and rutting his hips hard against the bed. You don’t hold on even until then, crying out like some primal song.

Before completely easing, he helps himself to one more lick.

| more Levi |

feedback/a reblog is appreciated :)