#the love is actually a fucking cage that you have to claw yourself out of hmm? what then?

[ramrage]

getting close to people has unfailingly bitten me in the ass so eek eek eek eek imma just move those walls that circumscribe my existence a lil closer in

[princessbrunette]

kinktober : oct 16th

leon kennedy x vibrator

a smallish, rubbery, baby pink vibrator. with a suction feature, and 10+ speed and pulse settings. it fits in your purse, it fits inside of you, it fits in the palm of your boyfriends hand. you loved it, you really did — but really, it was leon’s pride and joy.

from spending so much time with you, leon had started to pick up on when you needed certain things. you often got restless and agitated by small things when you were hungry, you’d bite at the side of your finger when there was something on your mind that you weren’t telling him, you’d smile with a certain twinkle in your eye when you wanted something from him — but his favourite and most challenging moments, was being able to tell when you needed to just let go.

sometimes, you’d have a particularly hard day at work. you’d be more teary and quiet than usual upon arriving home, and when you’re ready he’d let you rant and cry it out into his chest. it was like clockwork, and once he’d supported you emotionally, he knew you needed something to make your brain totally black out and forget the day you had, and that’s where the vibrator came in handy.

to the surprise of many, leon wasn’t actually that big on punishments unless you really deserved them — so whilst it might be assumed overstimulating you with a toy would be used for the purpose of reforming a bad attitude or breaking a rule, leon preferred to use it as a reward. a reward for being so brave at work as he’d tell you — enough so, that now he would allow you to forget everything you know until all the negative feelings had vanished.

so that’s how he’d have you, and your only grip on reality would be focusing on sound. your back was to his chest, head resting against his shoulder, his own legs caging your spread thighs with a thick forearm across your stomach holding you to him as he presses the toy against you. you can hear his deep and low breathing in your ear, you can hear the obscene wet clicking noises made by your cunt each time he shifts the vibrator through your folds, you can hear the relentless and incessant buzzing from the toy itself, a lone thought swimming around the back of your brain questioning the durability of its battery life, and loudly — you can hear the uncontrollable noises coming from yourself.

your moans were broken, whiny and bordering on pathetic. your brain was mush by this point, so coherent sentences were something of a distant memory as he pressed the buzzing toy against your abused clit. you poor thing, begging for something and you weren’t even sure what for anymore. it’s a good thing leon was there to look after you. “does that feel good baby?” he has the audacity to coo, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone— god he’s sick.

you try to respond, but it proves impossible, only managing something akin to ‘mhm’ which is good enough for him. “i’d say i’m pretty good at this, isn’t that right? knowing what my girl needs. knowing when that pretty pussy needs to cum.” he soothes and you claw at his thick, strong wrist weakly, feeling yourself near yet another orgasm as your clit pulses painfully.

“another one? alright sweetheart, let’s hear it.” he purs, continuing the repetitive movements around your clit with the toy until you’re squealing, tensing up and completely blacking out as you feel yourself gushing.

“take what you need, i’m right here.” he calms you as you ride it out. leon was right, as always. he did infact always know what you needed.

added extras: there’s times where you get needy, and just wanna play with your exhausted boyfriend after he returns from work— you being all hyper and giddy as he lounges back on the couch. he lets you play with his cock, dragging your vibrator over his wet, pink mushroom tip, staring up at him with glassy eyes eager to please as he tips his head back, casually spreading his thighs with a groan. “fuck, you’re good at that baby. didn’t know it would feel so good, damn.” he strains out, and you can’t help but place a kiss to his tip as you run the vibrator down his shaft. “j’st wanna look after you, like you do for me.” you hum, and he runs a hand over your head appreciatively.

“my girls too sweet.”

[itsphoenix0724]

could i request an azriel x reader body worship. reader sees azriels body while he works out and gets flustered and aroused. She stares at his arms flexing and abs like omg. he notices her and goes harder👀 or he catches her staring at the most inconvenient time, they’re newly mated and they have a meeting with everyone and reader can’t stop staring at his ARMSSSSS

You Lookin'? (Azriel x Reader)

Warnings: Mentions of sex. sexual thoughts

Word Count: 972

A/N: Hi Anon! Thank you so much for requesting I hope you enjoy what I wrote for you! Please feel free to request again! I hope you have an amazing day love, and as always constructive criticism is welcome! <3

Being newly mated truly was a beautiful thing. 

You and Azriel had taken two weeks to pass the energy surge fully. Your family had cleared out of the townhouse for the time you needed, and you were now finally starting to get back to your normal everyday lives. So, here you are now, reclined on the settees atop the House of Wind with Nesta and Feyre watching your mates train. It was a boiling summer afternoon, the golden sun bouncing off the rock making it hot enough for all the males to strip off their shirts.

Watching Azriel train was like looking at a work of art—strong cords of golden muscle working and rippling as he did a set of sit-ups. You were shameless as you watched the sweat drip off his trapezius, the only thing you could think of was licking the sweat straight off of him. Visions of the nights Az spent over you flash in your mind, in fact, you could still see the faint claw marks from your ceaseless two-week honeymoon. 

Frankly, you were insatiable. 

The Spymaster knew it too, and he may have been showing off just a little. He could see the hot flush of your cheeks and the heaving of your chest from where he was pushing a large stone above his head. Even if he wasn’t looking his shadows were whispering to him, floating on a summer breeze, about your every tell. They talked about the way your eyes snagged on his straining biceps, and what he surely knew was pooling between your legs. Sitting up from the bench he rubbed a hand through the sweaty hair and watched as Feyre tried to get your attention. 

“She’s going to need this,” Nesta shook her head and laughed, pouring a glass of cold water before passing it to Feyre, who then pressed it into your hand. The cold of the glass shocked you out of your dazed state, Azriel had the gall to wink at you before returning to his training, and your two friends now sit snickering at your attempt to focus on something that wasn’t the Shadowsinger. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You were currently pressed up against the cold tile of your bathroom wall, the towering form of your mate caging you in, shadows teasing at the edges of your clothes. Azriel might kiss like he doesn’t need oxygen, but you certainly need to take a gasping breath. He doesn’t seem to mind though, he takes advantage of the opportunity to latch onto your neck. 

“Az-” You pant, clawing your hands up into his hair. He cants his hips against yours and you mewl in response. 

“Say my name again and we won’t leave this house for another two weeks.” He growls, going back to his assault on your neck, biting devotion into your pulse point. 

“We have a meeting we have to go to.” You try to pull yourself away, but the Spymaster is relentless in his pursuit.

You’re starting to think you might not make it to this meeting.

That is until you both feel a wave of dark power tap on the shields in your minds. You know Rhys doesn’t actually want to talk, he’s just politely reminding the two of you that you were supposed to meet at the River House five minutes ago. 

“Fucking cockblock,” Az slumps his head against your shoulder and takes a few minutes to compose himself. You rest your hands on his cheeks pulling hazel eyes up to yours.

Pressing a kiss to your forehead he winnows the two of you to the sprawling estate. 

“Nice of you to finally join us,” Rhys purrs perched on a chair in the meeting room. Your cheeks flame when you find your seat as Azriel levels a glare at his brother, slumping into the chair across from you. 

Feyre cleared her throat before starting the meeting. 

You were not listening to a single damn thing she was saying.

You felt a little bad about it, but not bad enough to stop staring at your mate across the table. You just couldn’t help it. He was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest which only made the immaculate muscles pop out in the Illyrian leathers he donned for the meeting, blue light bouncing off the sculpted cheekbones on his face.

You could truly spend hours staring at Azriel, and you fully intend to do so for the rest of your lives.

It didn’t help that Azriel was also shamelessly stealing eyefuls of you from his seat. Hazel eyes tracked you, the green running through like veins of emerald.

You remembered how those eyes looked nestled between your legs last night. 

“Okay, are the two of you even listening?” You snap back into your body and find Rhys’s incredulous stare. Cassian and Feyre look like they’re barely containing laughter, Elain is quietly averting her eyes, and Nesta has a sparkle in her eyes that tells you she’s very amused at not being the one reprimanded for once. “Alright, the both of you fucking reek. Clearly you can’t keep your desire in check.” Rhys says rubbing the crease between his eyes. “If you two can’t focus maybe we should just reschedule the meeting?” He raises one dark eyebrow in question and Azriel shoots out of his chair entirely, rounding the table to you. He hauls you up and against his chest in one smooth movement, and you’re looking at Azriel like he’s grown two heads. 

“Sounds like an excellent idea brother, We’ll see you in a week,” Az sends Rhys a saccharine smile. Cassian starts roaring with laughter so hard he almost knocks his chair over and it doesn’t look like Feyre is far behind him. He sweeps an arm behind your knees and scoops you into his arms before sending Rhys a wink and winnowing away. 

It looks like maybe that energy surge hadn’t quite passed after all. 

[morgoonie]

Monstertober Day 1 - Marking the Territory

Getting ahead of the October monster prompt that @ozzgin made and, as with every story I've written so far, its with a roswell conspiracies vampire (I have a problem I know)

Featuring Davos, he's in like one episode for a short time (but I love him anyway)

M!Vampire/Naga x F! Reader

"D-Davos slow down it's t-to much." You whined as your nails dug deeper into your boyfriends chest in a fruitless effort to push him off of you. You poor pussy was drenched and overstimulated from the hours he's spent stretching you out with his fingers and tongue for his first dick, your body desperately needed a break.

However your giant serpentine boyfriend was to far gone as he continued to grind his hips against yours, hoping that your body would miraculous accept his far to swollen knot, to hear your soft pleas. As he continued to pump his still hard cock into you each twitch and roll of his hips nudged you closer and closer to another orgasm.

Crying out his name as you clung to him Davos pressed himself more against your warm sweat covered body, his inflated knot throbbing against your wet hole as he filled you with more of his cum. You could only weakly moan in a mix of pleasure and pain as his sharp claws dug into your plush hips leaving bright red marks that you know will be replaced with bruises in the morning.

Panting against his neck an idea crossed your mind on how to properly get his attention and without hesitating you bite down onto him. While your teeth aren't able to actually harm your vampire but it's enough to make him go still.

A shiver courses through your body as a deep growl rumbled through Davos as he finally pulled out of you. His hand came up to press against your neck making you let go of his neck, but not before swiping your tongue over the light pink bitemark you left on him.

The triumph grin you had from finally getting him to pull out of you faltered when you saw the burning lust in his golden eyes. Before you could utter an apology Davos grabbed your plush thighs and pushed your knees up by your head, exposing more of your soaked pussy to him

"Hush now my sweetling~ you know what you invited when you bit me." His second cock twitched in excitement as he watched your hole quiver and clench around nothing as he let his words register in your mind, pearls of precum leaking from the tip coating the underside of his thick shaft down to his knot.

You always knew that Davos had a thing for leaving marks on you. It was his silent way of making sure others, both vampire and human, knew you were already claimed. Mentally cursing yourself all you could do is let out a resigned sigh and wiggle into a more comfortable position "Try not to go overboard at least? I want to be able to walk later."

Moving his hand to cup the back of your neck Davos pulled you closer so he could bury his face into your neck, giving you a soft "maybe" as he took deep slow breaths of your scent and nuzzled you affectionately. His larger body caged you completely under him as he pressed you further into the mattress tail shifting to coil around and under you as he lined up with your entrance again, hissing in satisfaction of feeling your combined juices slick up his tip.

The hiss quickly erupts into a possessive growl as Davos clamped his jaw around your throat, fangs piercing the soft skin enough to force your instincts to keep you still as he slowly pushed his second cock into you, burying himself to the knot in your sweet warm folds.

Wasting no time he begins slowly pulling out of you leaving only his tip inside. He gave you a momemt to mentally brace yourself before plunging back into your wet folds with a purr, your needy moans and the lewd wet squelching only spurring your boyfriend on as his continued to fuck you with a steadily increasing pace while his knot pressing more and more against your overly sensitive pussy begging to be let in.

Letting out a hiss that reverberats through your whole body the sensation forces you to relax more in his hold despite his fangs gripping your jugular. Releasing your throat with a pleased groan as he feels your body grow limp against him Davos' tongue softly flicks along your flushed skin tasting your heavy arousal.

Whining his pace faltered for a moment from your taste. Replacing his fangs with his lips Davos kissed and sucked along your neck leaving small marks of his love to have you show off later "F-fuck sweetling you're so perfect, my perfect little mate. Gonna be a good girl for me and take all of me this time, right? Gonna let me breed you and give you a nice big clutch~"

Moving your legs to wrap around his hips Davos uncoiled his tail and dragged you up with him as he stood, his large hands holding you up with ease as he bounced you on his cock, the one from earlier rubbing against your clit and coating both of your stomachs with your combined cum as he held you tightly against himself, his long tan and dark brown tail slapping against the mattress as he murmured soft praises against your neck. He was so close to fitting all of his length inside of you.

Sharp discomfort mixed with pleasure had you arching into his hold as his thick knot finally slipped inside of you. Luckily the discomfort didn't last long much to your surprise as it was quickly drowned out by the immensely strong orgasm that came from the pressure and throbbing of Davos' knot swelling against your g-spot. Your vision blurring as your came hard around him, tears rolling down your cheeks from how utterly filled you felt as pushed himself further into your soft body to keep his knot from slipping out before he could properly lock in you.

Moaning and panting against your heated skin Davos gently laid you back down onto the mattress, or as gentle as he could be while rutting against you in his lustful state. The room shook at the volume of his growl as he came deep inside of you.

Your eyes searched for his as you both came down from your euphoric highs but his gaze was drawn further down. Curiously you glanced down to see what had his focus and couldn't help but gasp at the sight of your slightly distended belly. Reaching down between you two your fingers lightly brushed the large bulge. Feeling him through your skin made your squeeze around him more drawing out a small whine from your massive boyfriend.

Grinning you pressed down on the bulge making you both moan loudly from the sensation. Giggling from the way he whimpered about you being mean you cupped his face and pulled him into a kiss, you hands combing through his gray hair as he purred and returned the sweet gesture; that is until he shoved his far to long tongue into your mouth and partially down your throat.

Gagging from the sudden intrusion you tug at his hair and pull away gasping for air while he laughs at the deep blush forming on your cheeks "Sorry sweetling, I saw an opportunity and took-" Gasping as you purposely clenched around him in retaliation he quickly dropped his head against your neck and nuzzled you with soft whines "O-okay okay, I'll behave."

For now perhaps, but you knew by the time his knot was deflated enough to come out you'll be covered in his marks.

[arabaka]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ miguel o'hara x spidey!fem!reader. CONTENT WARNINGS: oops, all berries (i.e. angst) no smut but minors/ageless blogs go away. depictions of traumatic events. insinuations of anxiety and ptsd. WORD COUNT: 1.4K PSD CREDIT!!! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ love note from the author: this is PART 2 to PURGATORY but you can read this by itself ig... i'm not your mom ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Okay, let’s actually try to get through this, shall we?

My name is – Actually, not important. 

I was bitten by a radioactive spider… But something tells me you already knew that. Wait, how many of these have you sat through? Holy shit– that many?!

But can any of those guys say they’ve been through space and time, universe after universe, only to get stranded in a total vacuum void? 

You try to bang your head in exasperation but with nothing to cushion you, you end up pulling enough full-body revolutions to make an Olympic acrobat jealous.

Cut to a stretch of groaning that follows you around like a white flag.

Because it sure as hell feels like it’s high time to give up. He always did say you never knew when to quit. You didn’t see it as a bad thing then but now… With a little zero-gravity perspective… 

No, no, no– the last thing you want is to give him the satisfaction of being right.

This phase comes and goes. You call it the I-can’t-not-hate-you-you-sent-me-here-in-the-first-place stage. 

Grief is fluid, okay?

You despise it all the same. Because when you’re like this, all you can think about is him. Him and the last time you looked into those jaded crimson eyes. 

There’s the silver lining you were looking for when it comes to your multiverse communicator finally giving out.

At least you never have to see how heartbroken he looked ever again, perfectly recreated pixel-by-fucking-pixel.

Now if only your actual memory would degrade the same way.

Because you still see it when you close your eyes, you see it all. The strike of terror flashing like lightning in the reflection of his dilated pupils, having come as a harbinger of a terrible, terrible, irreversible decision. The taut coiling of the fists he keeps at his sides, his claws coming in– not because he can’t help it but because he feels he deserves it. 

“Miguel !!!! What the fuck?! How could you do this to me!?” You wail, lungs rotted with rage as you punch haplessly against the cocoon swiftly crystalizing around you. Panicked and like a caged animal, your eyes frantically scour the ceiling for an escape but you can only see your wild desperation repeated back to you in the many rubied eyes of the Going-Home-Machine.

I knew that was a stupid fucking name for you.

You never thought you would be on the other end of this wretched thing, be the little fly caught in its web and when you look at Miguel, eyes wrought with a pain too much for even Spider-Woman to bear, you look pitiful like prey too. Your chest spasms with a choked, “I…” Your fists, weak with emotion, unfurl and give way to open palms. Your breath ragged, when you pick your head back up at Miguel you let him have it.

“I loved you.” You say it with canines bared with poisoned malice, rage finally boiling over into heated rivets of tears down your cheeks. 

And Miguel, he’s never looked more destroyed. 

You swallow a sob, gulping so hard it rocks your chest. Your bottom lip warbles. You’re not good at this tough guy routine.

You never were.

“You can’t let it get to you.” Miguel’s voice, direct and to the point, precedes him in echoes as he makes his way to the high corner you’ve wedged yourself in.

Angling your body away from him, you avoid your superior’s gaze. Superior, because right now he’s not your boyfriend. He’s your commander. 

“You’re terrible at comforting, has anyone ever told you that?” You call back, deadpan tone as good a deterrent as any. You sniffle, your throat clenching when you try to stuff the remainder of your cries down. When you finally wad up all your feelings for later, you turn back to face him with a mock look of happiness on your mask. “Who said I’m letting it get to me? I’m not letting it get to me. Sounds like you’re projecting.”

And because he’s your boss right now, not your lover, he sighs in frustration. “Mierda... I’m trying to help you.” He says with two fingers pinching the skin between his knitted brows after his headgear dematerializes. “You’re going to get burnt out at this rate. You know we can’t save them all. We’ve been through this.” 

Your body coils into itself, trying to self soothe but it’s not working. Miguel’s voice starts to fade into the background, the cacophony of architecture collapsing and screaming, my god the screaming, overtaking your everything just then. 

“You need to get past this–”

“Fucking hell, Miguel– Could you stop acting like my boss for one fucking minute and just be my boyfriend?!” There’s no denying how savagely ragged the last mission made you now that you’ve ripped your mask off. Your eyes are red and puffy, swollen from the tears you thought were safe to shed. Your lips are littered with little slivers of cuts from biting down too hard when you first tried to keep the devastation from bubbling up to the surface. 

His body stills, as does yours.

You’d never seen Miguel cry. Not until that day.

It wasn’t bawling. It wasn’t even whimpering. It was a single drop that ran down one cheek, you saw it for a fleeting second before he rushed over to hug you, his hulking body cradling yours in what you thought was love.

But you’ve realized since then that it wasn’t out of love. It was out of grief. Grief because he had to let you go. You weren’t strong enough for this.

And he wasn’t strong enough to watch you go through it again.

Or so he thought. But no, true agony was watching you now, jailed in a prison of his making. 

True agony would be spending a lifetime away from you.

“Stop the machine!” Miguel’s order rasps in his throat, a prominent vein down its column bulging and only worsening when Margo doesn’t move as fast as he would like. Frustrated and scared, Miguel rushes to the maze of computer mainframes, his hands a blur as he hopes just one, any one will abort a process already…

94% of the way in.

“Miguel!” Margo’s voice finally comes into focus, “Miguel, you have to stop– the machine–”

“You can either help me or get out of the way.” 

Margo stops but that isn’t good enough either.

Big hands, far too roughly, grab at her shoulders and toss her aside in a frenzy. He can fix this. He can. 

“Miguel!” 

Even the whites in his eyes are splotched red when he turns back to you but finds you weren’t even looking at him.

Your face to face with a machine on the fritz, the massive technological arachnid drawing too many strands from too many places, mixing timelines to override another– corrupting the chrysalis it had nearly finished making.

“I can fix this, Miguel but you have to– Miguel, stop!” Margo’s screams are devastating, shrill and choked as she tries to remedy the situation but her fingers go limp. Limp because she knows. 

There’s no fixing this.

The spider’s arms start jerking sporadically, its long limbs with metal claws ripping the timelines it just crossed. The connected strands start to glitch, the bot’s failsafe commands trying to pull through but it can’t fix what it can’t stop.

You watch in horror, too scared to move much less breathe, as the glowing lines stretch and tear, their dimensions ultimately being warped by…

A black hole.

“Miguel, wait–”

Your hand instinctively reaches out, memories of all the times he’s caught you just like this flashing in your mind like a flipbook animation. Only, he can’t save you this time. 

No one can.

Thaaaaattt’s enough emo for one day, I think.

You tuck your knees in, slowly folding into yourself as your spin cycle finally comes to an end. Your chest is wound up tight, your heart drumming so loud you feel it in your eardrums. You just want this to end.

A sob creeps up the column of your throat, your eyes already seared red with the tears you refuse to cry. In a rush of emotions, far too many for you to isolate, you rip off the communicator band around your wrist and send it flying to nowhere.

At least, that’s what should have happened.

Instead, your accessory’s open-ended trajectory, well–

Meets an end.

A black hole appears from what looks like a ripped stitch, its growth unstable and its edges weathered. You have to investigate, it’s the first anomaly you’ve seen in this vapid world and possibly your only way back home.

Home. 

You imagine Miguel.

So you dive, not knowing where this will take you but…

The bad thing’s already happened. How much worse can it get?

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

the counterpart

chapter 2 — if you’ve a lesson to teach me — i’m listening, ready to learn

pairing: viktor x fem!reader (no use of y/n, as usual)

word count: 3,7k

rating: explicit

cw: chess games stuffed full of sexual tension are finally HERE, viktor humbles reader (elegantly), reader is a smoker (it’s a modern 90s au, of course her lungs are cooked), mentions of blood and some nail biting injuries (reader has an anxious nail-biting problem). people who are good at chess and english: please come smack me if i wrote something ridiculous, since both of these are mostly self-taught. thank you.

ao3 link

part 3

—

Pop-quiz: what’s the quickest, stupidest, pathetically embarrassing to the point of biting off the nail on your pinky finger way of responding to White’s 1.e4 if your opponent is terrifyingly experienced? 

Your teeth closed around the poor claw, nervously reducing it to a thin, fragile little husk, then yanking angrily at the tip of it with a neurotic little squint; eyelids twitching instinctively as it ripped all the way off to the very base of your nail fold. 

The consequences of your risky Sicilian were staring at you demeaningly right from the board, sharply invading the retinas of each devastated eye with the misery of your predicament. Made you lick the creased corner of each dry lip with an alarmed shudder, wondering silently if your tiny act of autocannibalism passed more as a cry for help, or as a lamentable, hopefully lethal way out of the stalemate.  

But you didn’t have the time to eat yourself alive with that miniscule of a nibble. The clock was ticking ruthlessly — no, but actually, what were you even thinking? Pulling such a stunt; utterly hopeless in front of your unpredictable rival.

So you stared — intimidated and crushed — right at your now queenless, unsolvable quandary; not brave enough to raise your drawn to the board gaze, knowing damn well that if you do — the copper orbs will swallow you whole with the very chair your competitive ass is nailed to. 

But that’s precisely what you deserved. Some good, merciless spanking — but not for that lovely, inquisitive rear of yours. Oh no, your ego was the infamous asset on the receiving end of it. 

And it made you feel so fucking stupid. Had you muttering a heated curse against the clenched cage of teeth — an angry scold for ever considering the events of the night you met him fruitful. 

‘I shall bring the clocks.’ 

It’s funny how something as crucially significant can slip one’s mind like it was never even in there. You spent the rest of the week by the board, lazily rewinding Tal’s 1976 matches, with an occasional attack of positive nervousness. Crawling out of bed only to fetch a can of deliciously cool sparkling something, or to jump imperiously onto the windowsill, stretching each bare leg out under the cruel sunshine — so hot you could just hold your cigarette up in the air to light it.  Your mind would wander back to Viktor — but not frequently. Only when you’d lay sprawled out on the sheets, haphazardly dropping the ashes into the flexure of them, musing dreamily about what opening you should play. Or when you’d fidget mindlessly with a rook or a bishop, spinning it slowly between each finger as you pondered silently who gets to play White in the very first game. Or — but this one was more of a guilty pleasure, actually — when you’d imagine that handsome face of his in deep astonishment, one brow cocking upwards as he would witness his own omission.

‘I shall bring the clocks.’

You’ve played with them before — and quite occasionally, to be frank. Back in the day you were quite the familiar face at every youth chess tournament — until it all came crashing down with college applications, forcing you to put the fervent passion aside. You were still mourning those peaceful years: no responsibilities, just playing chess and consuming books, feeding the insatiable mind with whatever meals you could grab from the library’s shelves. 

And now here you were — wrapped up in missed assignments and a million academic burdens, hating your major with a passion more burning than the one you felt towards the board and those pretty sixteen pieces. 

The arrangement Viktor offered you felt like a warm embrace you jumped into with no hesitation, eager to escape your desperate, chess-starved state. 

But that endlessly slow Friday morning you’d run out of cigarettes. Groaning exasperatedly into the racket of damp from the overnight sweat pillows, you crawled out of bed, preliminarily throwing the empty box of tobacco treats into the darkest corner of your apartment — where the infernal July sun doesn’t shine.

Putting on your second skin made of restraining fabric felt like pure torture — and as much as you’d love to walk under that shining ball bare to escape an overheated death, the people outside would most likely not appreciate the bold gesture. Especially your new opponent; though if Jayce didn’t lie about him only having eyes for one queen — an inanimate, tiny and wooden one — the possibilities of Viktor even noticing your nude form were practically non-existent. 

You slipped thoughtlessly into whatever relatively decent pair of pants plastered across the obscene clutter on the floor, swearing copiously as a bare foot stepped into something liquid and sticky — the remnants of your late night coffee-break, a dark quagmire staining the carpet. Now petulant, you made it furiously to the bathroom — to turn the combed hair into something acceptable, or, rather, something less revolting. Looking like a mad genius — which suited you partially, since you only deemed the former word relatable — you left the dorm in redundant rush, a chess board tucked firmly under your armpit. 

It was still somewhat early for your rivalry little date: surprisingly enough, you grabbed a humble breakfast, restocked the nicotine supplies and even fed on them urgently and so very greedily in the soothing silence of a nearby park — and that still didn’t bring noon any closer, leaving you twenty endless minutes ahead of the arranged hour and negatively impatient. 

Fuck it. Punctuality is certainly not a vice — and since your expertise in the field was impeccable, you were headed to the library shortly after failing to find that trait among the endless list of your actually contentious ones. Besides, your college always remains unaffected by the heat — it’s better to endure the waiting inside its comfortingly cool walls, instead of letting the vile season fry your last brain cells outside. 

The quiet book shrine greeted you a tad bit too dryly. You passed the ever depleted librarian, trading a rushed, yet polite nod for her pretentious sigh, marking it the worst deal of the morning in your mental little planner. Eager to escape her tortuously meticulous eyes, you vanished into the labyrinth of shelves, humming a silly tune as your fingers ran over the row of books, searching for a decent one to occupy yourself with until Viktor shows up. 

“Hm, ‘Introduction to Quantum Mechanics’, is it?” someone — you knew exactly who — whispered a gentle reproach precisely above your ear, almost wheezing it into your freshly untangled hair. Technically, freshly untangled just to see him — but you didn’t entertain that thought any further. A synevy hand, armed with a set of impressively long fingers, was laid atop the book your touch lingered on, teasing you with a fleeting knuckle brush. 

“Excuse me?” you maneuvered with a subtle chuckle, spotting a spike of chestnut curls invading the corners of your peripheral vision. The man was sneaky and utterly undefeatable in that capacity — a calm, charming serpent, the one who comes and goes whenever he pleases. 

His cane tapped against the floor with a dull thump. 

“A truly peculiar subject,” Viktor observed, stroking a sturdy little spine of the manuscript before you. It had, indeed, taken you long enough to notice the cover your fingertips chose to stop at. 

“I suppose so,” you mumbled, secretly admiring the shy intercourse your hands shared on top of a dusty book, watching him extract the ‘Introduction’ out of its secure slot on the shelf, then turned around to face your all too familiar intervention. Voluntarily crawling under  the handsome obstacle of his shoulders, letting them block the exit as you leaned against the stand filled with other ‘quantum’ shenanigans. 

“A woman of many talents, are you?” he cocked a bushy brow up, half-lidded gaze inscribing into your memory. Made your breath hitch somewhat cowardly at the proximity, and the amber in each sharp eye twitched, landing on your stilled expression. 

“Perhaps,” you shrugged — a pathetic attempt at regaining some composure, “quantum mechanics is not one of them though.”

Viktor hummed, putting the book away with an understanding sigh. 

“A pity,” he chuckled, chapped lips protruding into a pensive pout, “I’m yet to find other common grounds between us, then.” 

“Don’t you think that’s unnecessary?” you queried, fingers drumming a light rhythm against the still nestled in your arm chess board, eager to turn it into your personal battlefield. “You’re not here to befriend me, Viktor.” “I would much prefer to make your acquaintance before we take it to the board,” he objected, flawless in his logic, “getting to know your opponent is… well, profitable. You might find their weaknesses while performing this so-called interest-autopsy.”

“Oh, are you a mortician now?” it came out unexpectedly bold — almost unnecessary flirtatious considering the context, but the comment seemed to humor him just fine, and he smiled, returning the shrug you offered him earlier. 

“Eh, in a way,” he budged, filling the air with raspy laughter as his hand squeezed the handle of his cane. 

“I see,” you nodded, watching him squirm oh so courteously in your powerful, grabby hands. At least that’s how it felt like to finally move him around  — a treatment suited for a little pawn: relentless and hasty. 

So you decided to push it further. A cheeky creature — you smirked, preparing for the much riskier next remark, had him humming inquisitively in pent up anticipation. 

“A man of many talents, are you?” 

Well, would you look at that. Check, and an immediate, flawlessly smooth mate, Viktor. 

Except he didn’t get it. Dropped the tactful smile and surrendered  to the panic, glaring at you like a boy who’d just experienced being flirted with for the first time in his life. As if he was utterly oblivious to your random little advances, staying there all wide-eyed and confused to the bone. 

Viktor retreated. Turned around with a sharp sigh, inviting you to follow his lead with an adorable little gesture — as if challenging ou to have your way with him on the board now. His choice of a sparring room was obvious: you both walked into the reading hall at a slothful pace, simultaneously spotting a distant desk by the window, then exchanging shy, confirming nods before sitting down at it. 

‘I shall bring the clocks.’

Your triumph was ruthlessly murdered by those infamous timers, of whose existence you’d so inconsequentially forgotten this very morning. You stared at them — puzzled and deservedly bitter, failing to notice a chair Viktor had obligingly moved out for you beforehand. Not so certain in your flawless victory anymore, you mumbled a quiet ‘thank you’ and settled into the seat, softly placing the board on the table. Your opponent followed suit, crossing his lanky legs in a clumsy manner, haphazardly kissing the nose of your loafer with the evidently polished leather of his shoe, leaving a fresh smear behind. 

“Sorry,” he blurted out, rushing to set up the pieces for you — an efficient gentleman, pretty hands not only a sight to behold, but also the nimblest of instruments. Had you laughing softly at his distinguished haste, head tilting to rest on the back of your palm. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you protested, brushing him off with a careless shrug. “Are we doing the standard?”

“Ninety minutes for the first forty, yes,” Viktor confirmed, placing one last piece in its place. “Though by the looks of it: I’m certain I won’t need that many moves nor minutes to defeat you.” 

“Are you bluffing to scare me away?” you teased, perfectly aware of just how wholeheartedly he meant that. Cocky or not — he really was talented. You’ve asked around. You had your ways. You knew you had a champion sitting before you. Setting up your board. Blushing awkwardly at your cruel flirtations. 

“Of course not,” he objected, nonchalant. “I am merely making an observation. You look terrified of that clock. It was only natural for me to assume you’re not familiar with time limits.” 

You huffed out a scoff, displeased with his sharp attentiveness. Merely making an observation. Does he always talk like a sophisticated professor? 

He wasn’t exactly wrong though. You decided to allow him at least that mercy. 

“It’s been a while since I played in a tournament,” you reluctantly admitted, lazily leaning back in your chair. “So yes, I haven’t dealt with clocks in a fat minute. But it’s nothing I can’t endure. Especially since you were kind enough to offer me the first move.”

Viktor didn’t get it either. His brow formed a perplexed arc, eyes abandoned their thorough examination of your face and flew instantly to the board, mouth dropped open to let out a gasp as he noticed that every single white piece was lined up on your side. 

“Oh, how foolish of me,” he excused himself with a sheepish smile, scooping up a pair of pawns from their squares. You watched your potential advantage get swapped a few tortuous times, cursing the fuck out of whatever stupid call tearing that last cheeky remark off your tongue. You already knew it was far too long for your own good — but now the hatred was burning with a particularly lively enthusiasm.

You could have played White first if only you didn’t make him notice. 

He could have let it slide. 

Your pupils kept jumping between his fists, scared of leaning too much onto your rotten crutch of an intuition. 

“Please, pick faster,” Viktor muttered, “sadly, I only have a few hours to indulge you with.” 

With a grunt, you gave up the pitiful attempt of finding the white pawn through the gaps between his fingers. You didn’t even squint when the hand you nodded at unraveled before you, black glistening in it with glorious mockery. 

Whatever, you hissed, coming to terms with your self-made quandary. Surely, you can beat him even without this little privilege.

You switched places with Viktor, the hostility on your physiognomy so ostentatious it had him dropping an apologetic chuckle. He was now facing you from the other side of the desk, hands tucked under the sharp chin in tacit anticipation. 

Viktor started his timer. Grazed the button with the softest of taps, then rubbed a few fingers against the pad of his thumb — picking out your poison with a meditative hum. Reducing you to a tense, sweaty disaster in an instant, made you shake on the very edge of your seat.

His first move was so… predictable. White 1e4 is a classic. An axiom, if you will. A thing you were least expecting from this mystery of a man — wasn’t he supposed to destroy you with a more complex, niche opening? You froze, looking him persistently in the copper eyes. As if silently contemplating his decision, waiting for him to be absolutely certain. 

But he pressed the button again, letting you shoot your reciprocal shot. Still wholeheartedly convinced it’s a trap, you timidly moved your pawn to c5. For better or for worse. 

The first handful of moves felt quite… tasteless. You decided to be the pioneer: swallowed his d4 pawn and watched him mimic you shortly after — except he went for it with a preliminary prepared knight. Your boldness was nothing but an empty threat to him. 

“Greedy much?” you needled with a vicious smile, moving to use your own knight in a frantic rush — turning it into a figurative shield from his sly tricks. 

“You can’t win without sacrificing a piece or two,” he replied, taunting you with a crooked half-smirk. Moving his other knight to c3. Sneaky bastard. 

“A piece or two?” you laughed, baring your teeth for him to witness your precious derision. No doubt imagining how he’d look with your fingers digging into his throat. “I plan to take much more than that.” 

“Take whatever you want,” Viktor replied, too wrapped up in studying the board to pay any mind to your bragging. “Take all my pawns if you have to. I don’t need them to put you in a stalemate.” 

You loved the quarrel while it lasted. Both on the board and whatever this sexy verbal bile-spitting was: you’d run away from him by hiding your king behind the bishop, he’d chase you with the peculiar positions of his pieces. It’s like he didn’t know what he was doing: forming a tiny row of pawns, covering the queen with both of his bishops, letting the knights remain still — evidently baiting you to attack, yet still keeping a respectable distance.  The actual problem occurred much later though. After a heated session of running around you were done with him. It was pushing past your twentieth move — and Viktor still had almost all his pawns thrown around the place, with only a few substantial pieces missing. This eye for an eye situation — despite looking quite counterpart-ish — still didn’t entertain you as much as you predicted. He took your bishop — you got rid of his shortly after. He chewed your knight up — you were paying him right back.

But it wasn’t enough. You wanted it all, and that included his king lying lifeless on that damned board in an old-fashioned way of resigning. 

You decided to go for the bishop’s pair. It seemed logical: the piece was asking for it, standing so dangerously close to your powerful d7 knight. You consumed it without hesitation: had Viktor whistling out an amused little sound, appeasing you with what you believed was a sign of regret. 

And a sign of regret it was. However, not to mourn his bishop. But you were too drunk on your freshly annexed trophy to notice the complete lack of defense around your abandoned d5 queen. 

Of course: knowing what you know now, you would’ve never let that happen. That game turned you into a changed woman: you’d analyze it countless times months down the line, memorizing each tiny detail. Smacking yourself with a mental whip for even allowing him such an opportunity in the first place.

But that day, he took your careless offer and slayed the royalty. At first, you thought your vision was betraying you from looking at the chequered space for too long. But oh well — he still had one rook, and carefully moved it precisely one square forward, prying your precious omnipotent piece with one subtle movement. And only when it was gone were you able to comprehend the damages. You watched him throw your queen into the pile by his elbow — a makeshift bed for all the fallen soldiers he took from you. 

That’s how you lost your nail.

“Fuck,” you groaned, squeezing that poor finger between the hard press of your teeth.

Viktor simply snickered. As if he didn’t just disarm you, guaranteeing himself an easy checkmate. 

“A bit too harsh of a word to describe your predicament, don’t you think?” he provoked, gently nudging you towards the already rushing you with its ticking clock. “Surely, you can get out of this.”

“No,” you disputed, feeling the thick metal taste invading the cavity of your mouth. “No, I can’t get out of this. Technically, I already lost.” 

“There you are: jumping into conclusions again. I can think of a few ways we could turn this into a draw–“ but he didn’t finish. Something got in his way —just like a sharp fish bone stuck in one’s throat; he even sounded choked up and hoarse, eyes widening with a petrified little gasp. 

The way your name rolled off his trembling tongue insisted that his fright was targeted towards you. 

“You’re bleeding,” he uttered — a nervous constatation.

You blinked, utterly bewildered. Only then did you register the weird flavour, withdrawing that tremendous finger from the pinch of teeth. Watching the trail of crimson flow rapidly down your arm, a mere inch from snaking into the sleeve of your shirt. 

“Oh,” a guilty thing, practically unintentional. “I’m aware.” 

Viktor froze, now perplexed to the point of reaching over the desk and shaking some sense into you. 

“I bite my nails when I’m anxious,” you quickly offered a breathless explanation, “I simply must have bitten too hard this time.” 

He didn’t respond. Well, not with his words, to be precise — his hand stopped the timer, signaling the game’s inevitable delay. You almost stuffed your mouth full of still presentably looking digits, almost certain that your opponent was now grabbing his cane to walk away from you as fast as his thin body was capable of moving. Had you grabbing his wrist with a desperate plea, panicking eyes meeting his — strict and half-lidded. 

“Where are you going?” you queried, childishly hoping to hear something that wouldn’t include an insult. 

“To the pharmacy, of course,” Viktor said, allowing you to hold onto him. Peering down at your contorted with astonishment face: as if he was judging you for ever thinking of him that low. 

Because he’s sweet. Sweet boys don’t run away from their dates. Nor from their unfortunate opponents. 

“What for?” you dared to ask, releasing his wrist in order not to overstep.

“To fetch you something to disinfect that with,” he laughed, registering your gesture as a non-verbal permission for him to go. 

You watched him walk away from you oh so slowly — as if he made each step that pretty of a torture on purpose, tempting you to yell something foolishly grateful while your eyes could still swirl his posture, brimming with glassy, sheer excitement. 

Or perhaps the pain from your injury finally decided to kick in. 

“Viktor!” you managed to find your voice — shaky, a little too resonant for the library. He didn’t comment on that though. Just turned to face you once again, nodding quizzically.  “Will you show me the draw thing later?” you offered him the loveliest smile — not a smirk or a devious snicker. A smile, sincere and pretty. Had his lips arching into one of his own — so warm you wanted to slap yourself for ever considering toying with this polite, darling man. The thought didn’t linger, of course — but it swelled deliciously inside your mind, making you forget about the stinging finger for a few seconds. “Sure,” Viktor replied — no hesitation prominent in his tone, “just don’t chew on any more of your nails while I’m gone, please.” 

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @thehistoriangirl @queen-of-elves @vyshnevska

[nonbinarypirat]

Ok, so I have few ideas about Kalego's evil cycle based on the knowledge we have about his mana dogs. It's clear his evil cycle is very violent. While I am sure that it was worse than normal due to a multitude of stressers that exemplified the problem, his whole house was fucked up. His curtains, his bed, his floor, couches. My man is going to need either a repaining spell or just replace everything. So yeah, its clear its exteremly bad

Since you loose control of yourself during it, I imagine it gets harder to control Cerberus thus letting them roam freely. But, espeically in this instance, they feel caged. They are trapped in a fairly small space with no place to roam and full of their master's rage with no outlet. We already know that without strong control and careful handling, the dogs will turn at the slightest provocation. Even at Kalego himself when they were first bonded to him. They bit and clawed at him mercilessly

So, it's possible that because his willpower is low during evil cylce plus having no target to take their fustrations out on, they try to take it out on Kalego. I'm sure Kalego could still fight without his mana dogs, but we have seen its his primary weapon. So it would be a fight for dominance, not mentioning that Kalego would be full of rage and frustration as well. It would be a back and forth anger fest but nothing really being fixed, unless the actual fighting becomes a sort of catharsis activity? but I think it would just anger him more because on top of the stress that led him to having an evil cycle in the first place, now Cerberus is acting up and he has to deal with that. Thus why it becomes SO destructive.

It could also be that the dogs become extra protective of their master causing it to bark and attack at anything percieved as a threat. An evil cycle, while the demon is at its strongest, is also when they are at their most vulnerable. Think about it, sure you can use strong attacks and even have new abilities (ie, Sabro's weapon ability) but it takes a lot out of them, phsyically, magically, and mentally. Your powers skyrocket but your control decreases by a fairly large margin (Azz almost attacking the Dorodoro brothers). The dogs could see it as their mission to protect Kalego at all costs.

They have beem bonded together for so long that maybe they won't turn on him specifically but anything around them. Going down this thought, maybe it's less of a protective thing and moreso that they have too much pent up energy and decide to trash the place. I mean, as someone who currently has a puppy in the house and a grown dog, trust me they will mess with shit just out of pure frustration. (Though my grown up doggie only does it sometines, he's well trained, my lovely boy.) Back on track, maybe it's as simple as they are out, have nothing to do, and just chew everything up. But since this is Iruma-kun, i don't know if that'll be the case. I want it to be "oh, silly puppies" but i think there's a strong possibility of it being the "we are going to fuck you up now master" route. But them fighting Kalego does make for a fun if messed up story lore.

Hopefully we will get insight into it later in the series and also witness it!

[oonajaeadira]

I'll Never Fall In Love Again: Scene 7: The Sex Scene

Fandom: The Bubble

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Warnings: story jumps back and forth in time, playing fast and loose with "how things are done" in the film industry, consensual troublemaking with just a little boundary testing, frottage and thigh-riding (nothing super explicit but still very much a focus of action), messy feelings, indulgent yearning, angst, performance anxiety.

A/N: Thanks for your patience on this. It's nice to get back to these two idiots. I went light on sex and heavy on feelings and I hope that's okay with y'all because you know my kind of porn is feeling porns, right? Right. Okay. Let the disaster continue.

On film, kissing can’t be faked. Sex most certainly can.

When you enter the dim studio, Natalie and Nate, your stand-ins, lay artfully folded around each other in the back seat of a sedan, bared to the world in nothing but nude underwear as the crew work to set proper lighting levels and the DP makes sure this tight shot’s gonna work.

Unlike Natalie, you’re in a skirt and blouse, but only for the time being–it will be Dieter’s task to open that blouse and get that skirt rucked up around your hips soon enough.

Shit. You really should have taken some time to mentally prepare yourself for this. Taken a page out of Dieter’s book and, what? Had a stiff drink? (Heh. Stiff.) The butterflies that are escaping the cage of your stomach and eating at the supports in your knees should have been tended to prior to this shoot–

But then Dieter comes and takes a stand next to you and those nerves just…go away.

Yes, you both had your feelings out the other night, it should be awkward now, but it isn’t. There’s understanding now. Healing is coming. Has started already. And there’s never been anyone you’ve trusted more on set than Dieter fucking Bravo. You know he’s a pro. He’s a mess and a menace. But he’ll take care of you. Still.

“Hey,” he bumps a shoulder into yours. “You wanna have sex with me?”

Smiling down at your feet, you nod. “Yeah, let’s get this over with.”

Maybe not the best choice of words, even jokingly. You can feel his energy droop beside you, almost hear the wattage of his good mood bawooing out. “We okay, Cakes?”

Reaching for his hand, your fingers weaving into his own, you serve him a confident smile. “Of course. I’m glad you’re here.”

Like you have been for so many of my major career firsts.

The frantic kissing and the tussle in the rear car seat goes well; it’s okay to let your character get lost in his, to lean in and borrow from the way you and Dieter claw at each other. He kisses you hungrily, hands grasping your jaw, sucking in any breath you’ll give him, taking control of the kiss so you can concentrate on stripping him of his shirt and pants in the confines of the car seat as parsed out with Annie and the intimacy coordinator. But it's work and it's professional. Mostly.

You’d fall in love with his talent if you actually thought he was acting.

A few takes with resets of hair and makeup, a few different angles and a few shared giggles, and a few hours later you’re moving into the full shot, from the moment of first contact all the way through the deed.

And the kissing continues to go well–easy, pleasing, second nature. You’ve done enough takes to be able to get his clothes peeled away with ease.

But it’s when it comes to exposing you–to his big fingers somehow making short work of your dainty blouse buttons, to his palms sweeping up the sides of your thighs to push your flounces up and away–something yips in you, steps over a line into an unknowing void and you fixate.

It would be the same with any other actor, but it seems so strange here with Dieter–technically your husband–that you’ve never been in this state of undress with each other. With your breasts out, him slotted between your legs in nothing but a genital sock thrusting without actually making contact other then his hot breath in your neck and hands curling under your back and would it be better if he was making contact and you think about that night on the couch and what came after and your head’s not in the game here and Annie makes you take one shot, two, five–

“Cut, please,” Annie begs after take eight. “Take a break you two. Reset. We’re gonna try another angle.”

This isn’t good. Dieter peels himself from you, and you look anywhere but his face–although you have to avoid staring at the cock sock, at his whole bronzy naked body, really.

Something’s not working here.

And you both know it’s you.

A PA approaches Dieter with a robe open to receive him, but before you can ask him for reassurance, he simply snatches the robe as he passes the poor assistant, lazily throwing it on and padding off the set into the darkness of the crew area, covering his naked ass in his own time. “Hey. Annie, can I talk to you?”

Shit. FUCK.

It’s very telling that neither of them are turning to you immediately. Annie giving up on offering direction and Dieter has no encouragement in him anymore. Like they’re gonna huddle up and decide what to do with you. The thought of disappointing not just one but both of them–a director you admire and a friend and fellow actor who you had looked up to not so long ago–is heartbreaking and ego-shattering in so many ways and imposter syndrome shrinkwraps itself around your heart, preserving it in a marinade of cringe.

Why? Why can’t you just portray sexual pleasure? Sex can be faked! Tap into the arc of your character using this man who’s crazy about her to get off? You’ve got real life experience to draw on, and–if you're sly about it–you can play a little of life imitating art here….no. You don't need that. This shouldn’t be hard.

But it is. And you know full well why.

You can just make out Annie’s serious face and Dieter’s waving arms over by the craft table.

Shit. Well, union rules are union rules, and you might as well take advantage of the break. If you make it quick, you can get all the tears out and still swing by makeup to cover it up before anyone misses you.

____________

That summer after Cannes and Seattle was a whirlwind. Fall of Timon had its major release and there were regional premieres and panels, talk shows and interviews, everyone fawning over the director and Davey and Dieter; those few who paid attention to your involvement mainly asking about your experience with those two and then of course your marriage to the latter.

Auditions came hot and heavy. Dieter had some last minute ADR work for Hunger Strike and then took on a voice acting gig for a major video game company, so he rarely allowed himself to speak much after hours in an effort to manage his instrument.

But there were a few nights that hot summer, balcony windows open, curtains billowing and blowing through your room out into the lounge where you and Dieter sweated against the couch, taking turns getting up for cold beer and ice cream, laughing through a classic 80’s romcom. Those were good nights. Happy nights. You-and-your-best-friend nights.

By the end of August he was gone. Venice’s Film Fest first, then Toronto’s to promote Hunger Strike. Straight from there back over the ocean to Jordan for filming a season on a sci-fi series.

He called almost every night. Not long. Just a harried recap of his day–your morning–the shoot, his victories, his irritations, outings with the cast, hot goss. And you fought so hard against your jealousy–of him for his adventure, and of the cast for getting his presence. You found any and every excuse to be out at night with friends rather than streaming tv by yourself in a big, empty house.

But more and more he’d tire of talking and beg you to tell him about your day. Well. Your yesterday. If you didn’t have much to tell, he’d push you for details of a meal you ate or what you wore or even what the weather was like. It became clear that he was growing weary of being away from home and just wanted to hear you chatter, that your voice was his bedtime routine, that he would sleep better just hearing you complain about traffic.

And more and more, you realized your day was better when you could speak to him at the beginning of it.

And soon enough it was Thanksgiving week, Hunger Strike’s Stateside premiere, and Dieter was coming home. His schedule was tight–a mere five days to hit the premiere, the afterparty, the talk shows, a few auditions, and a recording session–and yet, he took you by surprise and reserved an evening just for the two of you.

Dieter new people, like any celebrity might. And one of the people he knew–an old college friend–happened to be working an install at Geffen Contemporary, able to open the gallery after hours for a private walkthrough on the weekend before the exhibit was set to open.

Takashi Murakami–one of your mutual favorites. A surprise for you. And as much as he was happy to get the chance to see the exhibit before he flew back to Jordan, he spent most of the time there just enjoying your delight at all of the bright colors, the insipid smiling flowers, the crazed and euphoric animals, the fountains of anime jizz.

Standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling mural of repeating cartoon faces, you’d turned to him, grinning like an idiot, only to find him regarding you with the same expression.

“This is a nice treat. Thank you, Deets.”

“Happy birthday,” he beamed, severely proud of himself.

You laughed, your nose wrinkling in confusion. “It’s not my birthday.”

“I know,” his smile faded a bit, “but we didn’t do yours properly. So since we’re done here, we’re going to the weiner stand.”

“Is that a metaphor?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Do you want it to be?” But your pseudo-husband granted you mercy, turning to go before your face betrayed the whammy he’d just dealt you, leading the way out of the gallery and into a silent Uber. The trip ended up with the two of you sharing a messy order of Holee Molee Fries with your hands, standing on the sidewalk in front of the hot-dog shaped walk-up eatery under the husky rose and umber L.A. sunset.

He always looked so content and warm and beautiful in the twilight hour.

You weren’t prepared for Hunger Strike. Or rather, how it would make you feel.

The premiere was grand, fun. Davey and half the cast of Timon were there making the occasion a mini-reunion, and Dieter’s stylist had struck up a deal with de la Renta, so you were matched in a tasteful floral cocktail gown from the same series as Dieter’s suit. Which meant plenty of couple photos on the carpet. It wouldn’t have been wrong to slip off and let him take the spotlight alone, except he simply wouldn’t let you, holding tight to your arm and joking that you were his fanciest and most slimming accessory–nobody would notice that he’d gained weight since the filming if they were all drooling over you.

But you weren’t fooled. And he wasn’t trying to fool you. Just trying to keep you beside him because he wanted you there. Simple.

It wasn’t until he found you in a quiet corner of the afterparty that he was able to seek your opinion, your mind whirring with the premiere you’d just witnessed, Dieter’s performance brilliant, unnerving, inspired, breathtaking–leagues more surprising and career-making than his work in Fall of Timon.

“Hey, I wondered where you’d gone,” he breathed, relieved to be away from the crowd for a hot second. “You okay?”

He was quiet while you gathered your thoughts, while you tried to articulate the swirl of emotions after watching your best friend–your mentor, your damned fake husband–fucking kill it on that screen. Finally, all you could manage was to pull him into an embrace that he eagerly returned, to press a kiss into his cheek and tell him, “That was astounding, D. I’m so, so proud of you.”

In those scant seconds after you let him go, he was transformed–haloed in pride, drunk on your praise, even though he’d had more thorough words from the mouths of a hundred guests–you watched the world begin to fall away from him as his eyes held yours, yearned after more. There was something he wanted to say, something that started with, “Yeah? You really think so,” and might have ended in god knows what if he’d been allowed to finish, but a couple of VIP guests had noticed the lack of crowd around you and paid no respect for the private moment, swooping in to take the opportunity to have you both to themselves.

As it was, all you got out of the night were some blisters from your designer heels and a press photo someone had snapped behind your back--your arms around him and your lips to his cheek, his fingers gripping the back of your dress and his face buried against your shoulder, eyes squeezed tight in agonized bliss as if your approval had meant more to him than the whole theater combined.

You refused to entertain the possibility of that being the truth.

You found a printout of the photo hung on the refrigerator after he flew back out to Jordan the next morning. Like a toddler that did a good job on his spelling test and wanted you to remember the best of himself.

You had a suspicion that a twin printout was in a bag on its way to Jordan.

____________

“What’s going on?”

The crew is in a flurry, doing final light checks and adjusting the car set when you’re called back into the soundstage after being redressed and reset again.

Dieter’s back in his full costume as well. Looks like it’s another full take again.

“They’re doing a slight adjustment on the lighting,” he says, watching them. “Talked to Annie. We’re gonna try something different.”

“Uh…what?” You’d just gotten used to the fact that this scene was happening and now they’re changing it? “Does the I.C. know?”

He shrugs. “She’s not here. What she doesn’t know won’t get her buttplug all twisted ‘round.”

“And were you two going to clue me into these changes or…..?”

Here’s where he finally turns to you, but can’t seem to meet your warning gaze for long, chewing on the inside of his cheek. God, he’s pretty when he drops all his swagger. If only Dieter knew how good vulnerability looked on him….“You trust me, ‘Cakes, yeah?”

An old warmth returns, melting you like the earth turning back towards the sun in spring. It’s an instant recognition that whatever he said to Annie was about you–and in your best interest–and just like he did during Timon, he wants to help you again.

“‘Course I do.”

One of the assistants calls over to the two of you, ready for you to return to the set, and you follow close to Dieter as he whispers, “Listen. You’re just wearing a snatch patch, right?”

“W-what? Yes?”

“Good. A full genital guard would have been rough."

The assistant dressers crowd you, doing a last minute swat for lint, trapping fly-aways, fixing your waistline. “Um, okay, why–”

“Alright, you two,” Annie appears beside you, all smiles, her tiny frame belying the big sass that you know lurks underneath. “So Dieter and I talked and he made me see the very rare error of my ways and here’s the deal.”

Your director goes on to explain that Dieter alerted her to the fact that this is an escalation point for your character, that little by little you’ve been taking control of your situation and this is the moment you take control of Dieter’s character. Trapping you under him was cutting you off from options to express that.

“We’re putting you on top,” Annie says to you, continuing when she sees your dropped jaw. “You let Dieter guide. This isn’t about you seducing him or dominating him. It’s about you learning to let go and enjoy him, to own your own sexual freedom. So we’ll start with the buildup as is, disrobing as is, but then let him pull you on top. It’ll give you more opportunity to play.” Pinching your chin and giving it a sisterly shake, she growls, “You got this, kid. Feel free to really give into her wildness. And remember it’s your call if you need to stop at any time. Dieter leads, but you’re in control here? Okay? Now. If you want to rehearse a take, that’s your right, but I’d like to roll for spontaneity’s sake.”

Looking away from her glittering, black eyes, to Dieter–standing there like a taught rubber band, his arms hanging but his twitchy fingers betraying his trapped kinetics–and back to Annie, you give her a nod. “Let’s do it.”

A shake of the shoulders, a fist bump with your scene partner. A silent commitment to do better for both of them.

And while Annie gets situated behind the monitor and the DP synchs, you keep Dieter’s focus, allowing yourself just for the moment–for the hour, the day–to fall back in love with him.

You wonder if he senses this change. You’re certainly sensing one in him, his fidgets melting, his jaw unclenching.

You both know what to do.

His kissing has improved since……well. Perhaps he’s more confident when he’s acting rather than being drunk or jet-lagged. But right now…now he’s intoxicating. Traces your jaw and ears with the soft bend of his nose and plush of his lips, taking care not to let his scruff tear you up too much. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to devour your breath, keep your tongue dancing tempo with his, put his big hands in all the right places to press out all your tension.

It’s not even whispered, just mouthed against your lips: “That’s good.”

His shirt comes off first, and you take the lead in stripping away his jeans, but then the choreography changes as he slows you, brings your focus to him, pushing up your skirt in order to hold your hips and guide you to his lap, pulling you into a straddle, watching your expression as you land.

Only the thin fabrics of his genital sock and your modesty patch separate your softer sections from his harder ones.

And he drags you against him.

And you gasp.

There’s a moment where you pause with your eyes and mouth wide in surprise, his air trapped within him as he waits to make sure he hasn’t crossed the line.

He has.

But your skirt covers things. And what Annie and the crew don’t know can’t hurt them.

Suddenly you’re in the mood to match his trouble.

And you begin to slowly ride.

And in his escaping breath, there’s a “Yeah.”

His hands give you a gentle pull and leave you with the subtle direction to keep rocking while he takes his time working his way through your blouse buttons, pushing the fabric down over your shoulders but not your arms, leaving it to drape artfully from elbow to elbow across your back, giving you a little more cover, a little more security, allowing his naked character to be the vulnerable one.

And as you roll against him, wetting your breath-dried lips, he watches you, checks in with you.

You okay with this?

Yeah.

A rise of his hips. I’m gonna pick it up.

Please.

That’s good, Babycakes. Just like this.

And all of a sudden, it clicks. It doesn’t matter that the set is full of people, doesn’t matter that Annie is hoping for a saving take, doesn’t matter that millions of people will watch this intimate moment between the two of you.

All that matters is that you get to have it with him.

As he rocks you closer to breaking, your lips part, your eyes close, and your forehead lands upon his.

“That’s it, Baby,” he breathes, his words just hurried shapes and pops, “I want you to feel it this time. I want you to have this. I’m here. Use it. I want you to have it.”

Later, Annie will tell you what a perfect arch your back makes when your character finally lets go.

____________

After the Hunger Strike premiere, he called less often. He was bouncing around Europe, shooting a commercial, visiting friends, auditioning a few treatments, and when he was back in Jordan, he was far enough off the grid that he’d have to use the production’s satellite phone to call and that was getting governmental aerospace involved, so communication slowed to a crawl.

You’d had an unsent message sitting in your drafts for weeks and was just about to delete it one dreary January morning as you lazed in bed. Alone. In a big, empty house.

But then the phone rang in your hands and you dropped it on your face with a loud curse, fumbling and snatching it back with the hope that the call was coming from the person your message was addressed to so you wouldn’t have to say it–

“SWEETHEART!”

No such luck. “Heyyy Morgan.”

“Well, you did it, kitten,” your agent’s bangles rang over the phone as you imagined her clutching her fists and doing a little shimmy, “congratulations!!!”

“Huh?”

“Wait. Are you kidding me? The nominations dropped today. Don’t tell me you slept in.”

And all of a sudden you were a windmill of arms and legs and flying sheets, a shrieking and thudding mess across the carpet as you ran to the desk to open a laptop. “Shit! Tell me!!!”

“Supporting actress, hon. I TOLD YOU.” Morgan knew you’d be sitting there in a permanent gasp, so she took the opportunity to spill. “Fall of Timon is one of the big takers; film, director, special effects, supporting actress, lead actor–”

“Dieter?” you squealed. “Oh shit, he’s going to be so excited–!”

“Ah, no. I mean, yes, but Davey’s been nominated for Timon. Dieter did receive a lead nom, but it’s for Hunger Strike.” As if she could feel the turmoil in your silence, Morgan laced her voice with a smile pushed forward. “And this is marvelous; the press will be all over you two, the power couple who have to war with rooting for their spouse or their project. Good visibility.”

“Well,” you force a chuckle, “I mean, yeah. Davey’s my costar. But of course I’ll pull for Dieter because I know he’ll be pulling for me.”

“Yes. Although. He’s going to have to support Chelsea as well.”

“Chelsea? What? …Oh.” Chelsea Seagate. His nemesis in Hunger Strike. “But…that’s easy, right? She would be up for leading actress, so–”

“The studio thought she’d have a better chance at taking supporting, so that’s where they championed her.”

“Oh.” Direct competition.

Somehow you’d made it through the rest of the conversation. Somehow you’d managed to fake full enthusiasm for Morgan’s sake while you were sitting stunned on the edge of your bed. Somehow you’d let her congratulations sink in.

But you’d also fallen back onto the mattress, all fetal position and stunned silence.

It wasn’t anything to cry over. But your adrenaline was running high off your own nomination and you were stupidly excited for Dieter of course.

If he had been there, it wouldn’t have been an issue. You would have hugged and jumped up and down and called in a mess of takeout and downed some edibles and just been happy for each other.

But he wasn’t there. And you felt it. Had been feeling it for weeks and living in denial that it meant anything. The year was close to being over and there was no need to complicate things. Catching feelings wasn’t part of the deal and the logistics of being tied to Dieter Bravo for a long haul just weren’t built on solid enough ground.

Especially since he’d been calling less. Being out of country meant he could probably mess around easier without anyone finding out. He was doing his best, keeping his promise, slowly repairing his image and not making you look foolish for marrying a–well, a bit of a slut, really, if reputation served. And if he was getting his dick on, well, he’d been discreet and you could appreciate that.

You told yourself he was having his fun but being discreet for you. There was no way you’d believe he was denying himself for your sake. Not Dieter. Entertaining that thought would be like admitting that…

That you didn’t want him to.

Shit.

Laying with your cheek to the sheets, squinting in the cold January sun, a thumb-drag across your phone opened it to your messages. It was easy enough at first to avoid the unsent one.

--Congratulations, D!

Still skipping past the unsent text.

--I’m so proud of you!

You should have closed the phone, but your heart teetered on the edge of a gulf, hovering over the send icon.

There had to be a different way to say it.

--If you were here, I’d take you out to celebrate.

It was the wrong thing to say, because it was true.

And it hurt. And the realization of what you were then admitting to yourself pulled the tears out even faster. All the times you almost told him out of some nagging need, and then, as if he knew you needed to hear from him he’d call and then it just lived there in your drafts, but oh god, this was a big twist of the knife, and it hurt, and you just thought, fuck it, and hit send.

--I miss you so much, Dieter.

____________

Silence.

Stupid. For the next week you tried to push the mental groan of anguish out of your head. This is why you should never text when you’re emotional, you big dummy. He might have been too far out on location. Or trying to text and it didn’t come through. There was no reason to believe he was ignoring you or you’d overstepped. After all, it was text and didn’t have intonation behind it. You could still be his best friend and miss him. That was allowed.

No need to fret.

Anything would be preferable to silence though.

What was going to buoy you was a celebratory get together at Davey’s place that weekend. An invite went out to cast and crew of Timon, and Saturday night saw old friends converging in Beverly Hills, Davey and his partner Mark’s mid-century home still lit up from Christmas.

It was exactly what you needed to relax and find your smile, to be among friends, and, of course, proceed to get just a bit more than tipsy thanks to the catered bartender.

Davey mentioned that he’d gotten into pinball lately and at one point in the evening a friend asked to see his collection, so the whole party took a detour to the outbuilding that he’d turned into a throwback dive-bar setup with nine vintage pinball machines.

Everyone was crowded around Mark, watching him play for the high score on the very suggestive cowboy machine that would trip the bucking bronco. He’d just missed, and there was a loud, raucous groan, that ended in Davey cheering, “Well fuck you, you son-of-a-bitch Oscar-traitor! Aren’t you supposed to be in Egypt or some such shit?”

The group spun as a messy whole to find Dieter standing in the doorway, offering up a dumb grin and a wave, causing everyone to whoop.

You were too drunk to feel anything but delight and shock, and it must have shown, because once he saw you in the crowd–saw you gasping smile and brimming eyes–he came straight at you, bowling you backward in a sloppy embrace, growling contentment as everyone else slapped and patted his back in welcome.

“I missed you too,” he mumbled against your shoulder. “Surprise!”

And everything that felt broken in you found its way back into place.

He made the rounds at the party, said his hellos to friends, but kept you close by until it was just the two of you creating your own little bubble, both leaning head and shoulder against a wall in the hallway–you a little overwhelmed with drink and him jet-lagged–explaining that he’d hoped to be here a day or two sooner, but there were re-routes and delays and he’d be flying back as soon as he could guarantee a stand-by. He’d literally been traveling over 24 hours just to surprise everyone and come celebrate.

And you’d stood there, asking him questions about the location and the shoot, listening, laughing a little too hard, hanging on every word, holding his hand as if he’d fly away the second you weren’t tying him to you. But he wasn’t going anywhere at that moment. He was as grounded to the moment as you were.

Maybe an hour? Two? Another drink? An Uber ride home. Laughter. You almost dropped your keys on the doorstop trying to unlock the door.

“You wanna see my house? It’s really big and I live here all alone,” you joked, chuckling as you kicked off your shoes and stumbled into the dark living room, your oncoming headache keeping you from turning on the light.

Dieter followed, but didn’t join you in the merriment.

“I’m sorry for not calling more, Cakes. We’re literally staying with the Bedouins, there’s nothing out there–”

“Hey. You don’t have to apologize to me. If I need company I know where to find it.”

That made him smirk. “Yeah? You’d cuck me in my own house?”

“Ah–” stammering, you tried to make light of what you assumed was a joke. “That’s not the kind of company I meant. Besides, you’re the one out there away from prying eyes with the desert roses, Mr. Bravo. So. No pointing fingers at me.”

“That’s what you think?” You couldn’t see his face in the dim light, but his voice told a story of quiet disappointment. Oh. So not a joke then. “I flew back here to surprise you.”

You had to put some mental distance between what he was saying and what you hoped it meant. “And to go to the party.”

“Because I knew you’d be there. I wanted to get home earlier so we could go together. Like we're meant to.”

You wished a lot of things in that moment, the main one being that you were more sober.

You didn’t get that wish. But you did get another one.

Because he didn’t pull back when you crashed your mouth into his. He didn’t push you away when you wrapped your arms around him. And even when the momentum of a few kisses pushed his calves against the couch and he lost balance and fell onto it, he was the one who reached up and pulled you onto his lap and kept begging you silently not to stop.

Delirium. Bliss. You were both sloppy, but equally present and willing. “Holy shit your lips are soft. Like pillows or some shit,” he mumbled, unable to help himself.

At one point you felt the evening dragging you down and you could sense yourself slipping into fatigue, threatening to steal precious hours with him away from you, but you fought it, trying to crank it back up by reaching for his belt.

He laughed softly against your lips as he gently moved your hand away. “Mmmmnnnope. You’re drunk, ladybug.”

“All the easier for you to take advantage.”

“I know,” he groaned, just a shadow of regret coloring it. “Another time maybe.”

“But you came all this way,” you whined, reaching again for his buckle and then switching to a purr. “Don’t you want to sleep with your wife?”

That made him stop. “Fuck, you’re making this hard on me.” He pulled your hand away again, this time guiding it up to receive a kiss to the knuckle. “No means no, missus.”

Oh shit. Thinking you’d really gone too far, misread the situation–how?--you shifted backward, moving to get up.

“No, no. Wait. C’mere.” Hands on your hips guided you back and he put a thigh between yours. Urging you to sit, he pulled you back to his mouth as he whispered, “Just. I can’t… Not me. Let me help you.”

And he did. Although he denied you any payback. He simply held you, gave you his kisses and his thigh, and your head swam and your desire glowed. But each sigh got longer, longer, longer…

Until you woke up the next morning on the couch, covered with a blanket, a glass of water on the coffee table in front of you twinkling in the cold wintry morning sun, the spike of pain in your head matching the one of complete mortification in your heart.

____________

I want you to feel it this time. I want you to have this. I’m here. Use it. I want you to have it.

Standing in the trailer at the end of the day, you flip through the divorce papers absently, unfocused, not really seeing anything but a word here and there; “differences,” “lack,” “unable,” “resolve.” Yours is the only signature. It’s inelegant–either your pen didn’t have enough ink at first or you hesitated–

“Hey.” Dieter stands in the doorway, confused, not expecting to find you in his trailer. As you turn toward him, he notices the papers in your hand and cringes in recognition, sucking in a rallying breath as he enters and pulls the door closed behind him. “That mad, huh. Listen, Cakes–”

But his jaw drops as you grip the top of the small packet….

…and give it all a neat tear down the middle.

Dropping each half to your sides, it signals an end to something between you that isn’t your marriage.

He waits for you. A little bit anxious. A little bit hopeful. Expectant and quiet.

And you make him wait.

Then you simply place what’s now garbage in the bin.

“I see you’re still in your robe.”

“I see you’re still in yours.”

“That was some trick you pulled, Mr. Bravo.”

“I can’t tell if you’re mad.”

“I’m not.”

He’s still not sure where this is going, keeps watching you with those same puppy eyes, Fight sitting on one shoulder, Flight on the other, waiting for a million shoes to drop.

“You didn’t finish during the scene.” You say, pointing to a shape that’s hiding under his robe. “How very professional of you. I suppose you came in here to take care of it.”

He swallows, nods eagerly, his hope utterly, adorably transparent.

You take a step toward the back where the crash bed is. Jerk a thumb back over your shoulder in its direction. Cock an eyebrow. “Well? I’m sober this time. You wanna consummate this thing or not?”

It’s not his birthday, but you might as well have just told Dieter you were taking him out to the wiener stand.

And this time, it would most definitely be a metaphor.

____________

NEXT

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

[slashingdisneypasta]

Dark!Pixar Villains x Reader || Drabbles

Plots / Includes: 

Charles Muntz x Assistant!Reader- Your punishment for letting the creature escape.

Yandere!Human!Hopper x Reader- He is the monster you caused. Basically he's quite aware that he's obsessed, and possessive to a massive fault- But according to him that's your fault; Not his.

Human!Chick Hicks x King’s(OfAge)Offspring!Reader- An old rival of your Dad’s turns up for your parents anniversary party and you end up fucking him... at your parents anniversary party. Oh no.

Human!Yandere!Lots-O-Huggin’ Bear x NewToy!Reader- Classic Yandere in position of Power sets his sights on you immediately and makes you uncomfortable with how close he wants you all the time, without actually making his obsession totally clear. Just enough to make it weird.

Randall Boggs x Sully’sRomanticInterest!Reader- Randall has a bit of an obsession with one upping Mike and Sully, and Celia doesn't like him much at all, so... He’s set his sights on you. Unfortunately, you're loyal to Sully-... so Randall has to get creative.

Warnings: (Starting with Muntz and working our way down. Also colour coded so you're able to be more aware:) Mental torture, monster-creature, Punishment, traumatising you as punishment, creepy boss to the MAXIMUM gage, non-con kiss, kiss while you're asleep, Major possessiveness, Hopper killing a man cuz you talked to him, murder, beating, Hopper trying to convince you his actions are your fault, VERY inappropriate relationship involving age difference and fucking fathers frenemy, scandal, references to semi-public sex, self disgust, dirty talk, mental+emotional manipulation, gaslighting, unwanted physical affection, unwanted closeness, intent to isolate, harassment, blackmail, references to sex work, forced relationship, etc.

Charles Muntz: 

You say i love you like its an APOLOGY. - Things My Ex Said Project

"Ah!" You throw yourself back against the far bars of the cage, eyes wide and mouth open in terror. This creature that's tearing and biting at the bars between you and it, that looks like it must have been an inspiration for the original Adam - the one Frankenstein made out of animal parts, - is so hungry. So ravenous. And its got fleshy, bloody, warm you in its sights.

Just as Charles intended when he locked you up in here.

A giant, scaly paw with 3 inch long claws manages to slip through the bars and swipe at you and you actually start to cry from fear; Cowering so tightly against the bars that it hurts, cold metal biting and burning itself into your skin.

Or is it from guilt? For letting the bird escape? Charles has been hunting that thing for years and you're at fault for it escaping this time! At the time, you thought it was right to let it run, but maybe this horrible feeling you have now is guilt!

A bloodcurdling roar comes from the beast and it slams its forehead into the bars. The bars shiver and the gates shift, and your eyes widen; Beginning to hyperventilate as you look around in a panic at the ever-weakening restraints.

"Charles! Charles I'm- I'm so sorry! Fuck fuck fuck!- Fuck, Charles I'm so sorry!" Again the creature bashes the flat of its head into the bars, again- and again- and again- and you feel like your heart might just rip out of your chest at the sight. If it keeps doing that- "Charles its gonna get in!" You screech, fingernails digging into the stonewall behind your bars. "Please, Charles!- CHARLES-"

From somewhere else in the room, a speaker crackles loudly and your bosses voice floats through. You know he's watching through a camera, enjoying his dinner at the screen and reaching lazily over to press the intercom- and all you want is to be there with him. You would even go straight to bed without dinner- just anywhere but here. Anywhere but here!-

"My dear... I assure you, it wont. Calm down- there's no need to sob... You'll take the satisfaction right out of your punishment, for me." He almost sounds sincere, but then you hear the sound of him chewing- taking his time with a mouthful of steak, and your heart thuds. "And we wouldn't want that... "

No- then you would have to start again. Something new; A new creature and new rules.

And you're heart couldn't take that.

"Oh, looks like the creature is hungry... maybe that pigeon we fed it earlier wasn't quite enough. What do you think, Y/N?"

Another terrified scream is ripped out of you when the monster throws its teeth around one of the bars, horribly tilting its large head, and desperately tries to rip it out of place- a huge, grotesque, rough, cat-like tongue salivating over the metal and ginormous, thick, snake-like incisors scraping against it. No no NO!-

A soft chuckle comes from Charles over the speaker, as you slide down to the ground; Fear turning you cold now. You just watch the monstrous beast struggle and fight to tear you apart and enjoy you, heart beating your chest so hard that hurts.

"I sure hope you're thinking about what you did, Y/N my love. Otherwise this will all be for nothing."

~

You're fast asleep when Charles opens up your cage again, having lured the creature back into its cell- he'll deal with it later. You're always his first priority.

When he gently picks you up in his arms, you stir the slightest bit; An adorably weak little whimper escaping you as you willingly relax into his arms and the familiar scent of his old, leather jacket. "Uh uh uh... sleep, my dear. You did well... you've earned it."

"I'm so... so sorry Charles... forgive... me... " Charles smirks at that, you begging for his forgiveness even in your sleep. That method - that beast,- works, he sees. This reaction is quite perfect; Exactly what he's been wanting.

He'll keep it mind for next time- because, with a free spirit like you, there will no doubt be a next time unfortunately for you...

Charles walks you to your quarters and lowers you gently onto your bed- and presses a gentle kiss to your soft, sleeping lips. "Sweet dreams."

Human!Hopper:

I've been dancing with the devil; I love that he pretends to care. - Forget, Marina and the Diamonds

Your eyes are blown open wide, and glued to the bloodied corpse on the ground in front of you. You don't know what to think... much less what to say as Hopper wipes off his knuckles with a rag, before dropping it on the poor carcasses face; And turning to you, the blazé expression on his face never slipping- not even a little bit.

Parting your lips then is the easy part- talking, not so much. The words come out a whisper, and underwhelmingly lacking in emotion when compared to the horror brewing inside. They're just... quiet. "... I didn't mean for this... "

Hopper looks slowly, uncaringly, back to the man he just killed outside the bar and brought you out to see - you remember how he had joked that he had something cool to show you outside, flirted with you even, wrapping hi arm around you and making you think maybe he was going to kiss you... but then immediately he stepped away from you when you came up to the body. Leaving you cold and alone, and shell-shocked when your eyes fell on the poor, crumpled heap, - , then back to you; Shrugging. "Sure you did."

The words surprise you, and you quickly shake your head; Eyes still glued to the... to what was once... a man. "No, I... "

"Yes, you did." His voice gets that much tenser, almost angry. Your eyes snap up to his, round like a doe's. He sighs as if they affect him which you know they don't, because if they really did then he wouldn't say these things, and gives his head a shake. "You know how you make me feel... you've gotta know, that if I see you with another guy... Something bad's gonna happen." Raising his hands, Hopper shakes his head. "Its outta my hands, Y/N."

Tears fill your eyes. "No- "

Before you can really speak up, though, tell him how insane he is- Hopper's talking again; His voice getting louder in order to drown you out. He genuinely sound angry at you, and it shocks you, making you feel small as you fight to not back away from him. Theirs a fire in his dull eyes that only flickers to life when he's pissed. "Oh now don't you even think... about giving me that freedom of will bull." Blood from the corpse bleeds over the ground towards your feet, but you're too busy staring in horror, at your lover. "Do you know how hard it is for me to see you with others? To not lock you up all the time? You should be thanking me; I'm being nice to you."

"But Tarrant- he- " Hopper's eyes narrow at your use of the man's name, but you gather your courage and go on. "He didn't do anything! I love you, I want you- isn't that enough!?" God- damnit! Isn't that enough!?

Hopper shakes his head, eyes dull again. "Clearly... not." No.

Its not.

As you're thinking, wondering how you got to this point, how in the world you could have missed the signs with Hopper, he comes up to you and takes your jaw in one powerful... brutal, hand; Pulling you to look up at him. God... the smell of iron is still on his skin. "... I'm sorry... its not my fault you hooked me." He tells you quietly, the slightest - fakest, - bit of sympathy across his features.

You look back into his golden eyes in defiance with terrible glare in your gaze; Peaceful resolve snapping like a bone under intense pressure.

All the sympathy and then some disappears in an instant with the next words, causing your heart to thud. "But its going to keep happening. So watch yourself, Y/N."

Human!Chick Hicks: 

Forget Prince Charming- go for the Wolf. He can see you better, hear you better, and eat you better. - Pinterest

I shouldn't have done that. Is all you can think, slipping out of your old childhood bedroom and back out to the party. That was a stupid, stupid mistake. Fuck- you can still feel it. You can still feel it, and you want more of it! How can you be this way.

Kinky is one thing- but letting the disgusting man that almost killed your father take off your clothes in the bedroom you grew up in!?? With your parents, and everyone they've ever loved, just down stairs??? Celebrating their anniversary!?

That's entirely different, and its not something you're willing to 'own'. Not ever. Even if, now that you're down stairs again and you see Chick drinking a beer and loudly telling a joke to some other ex racers - racers from his time, - with the vitality of someone who's far too happy... you just want to drag him away again. Feel his stupid moustache between your legs, push him and see how many rounds he can really go for before you're just warming a soft cock... God!-

You wince and quickly turn away, joining a conversation with some of your mother's friends. They ask you how college is going, what classes you're taking- do you have a boyfriend???

You give them your answers easily, playing the sweet daughter card that you're so used to- your parents are some of the best people a lot of people know, and you're supposed to be no different. People think you're no different. You thought you were no different!!

... But now you're thinking maybe not. Not when you have to answer yes, you do have a boyfriend, whilst till thinking about Chick muffling your moans with his mouth 5 minutes ago. Sure, you and your boyfriend are taking a break currently due to school stress- but that doesn't really help your guilt.

"Hey, hey, ladies! What's this I hear about little Y/N havin' a boyfriend??" The sound of Chick's voice so close behind you makes your blood run ice cold suddenly, and you turn with eyes slightly-too-wide just in time to catch him throwing his arm over your shoulders; Face rearing in too close to yours. You can smell the beer on his breath, and your own perfume. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck- "You old enough for that, sweetheart?? Does your daddy know, huh?"

"Oh Chick, leave the girl alone." One of the women rolls her eyes, the others sighing and grimacing at the bastard touching you like that. Oh, you think, if only they knew how he touched you before. Vivid visions of your escapade, his pelvis grinding into yours, flash through your mind and you have to fight with yourself not to get lost.

Chick doesn't let you go because one of Linda Weathers friends told him to, predictably. So, you have to talk to him. "I'm 23 now, Chick, I can do whatever I want to, actually."

He just gives a smug smirk, thinking about how he managed to get you into bed probably despite your whole family hating him, and nods. "... Sure, sweetie. So! This boy toy of yours- do we like him? Do your parents approve, eh?"

"He- " He's perfectly nice. "They like him." They really, really do. You remember, the next time you saw them after you introduced him to them, your father hadn't been able to stop talking about him. He even gave you a DVD to hand on to him, something they'd bonded over.

"But you're bored out of your damn wits, right?" At this point Chick's grinning wolfishly at you in that gross leering way and he's not talking with the group anymore- just you. Its terrifying, its making your heartbeat go absolutely berserk in your chest as you look around for your parents. Where are they? Can they see you? Can anyone tell that you can still taste this despicable old man's cum on your tongue and in the back of your throat??

"No, he's sweet!"

Chick takes a swig of beer right in front of your face, finally looking away from you. You let out a relieved breath, one you had been holding to an extent. "... Right."

He doesn't sound convinced. He shouldn't. After all, you never would've fucked him if your boyfriend satisfied you. As you're feeling sick over that small fact, the fact that your lovely boyfriend couldnt ever make you cum as awfully hard as Chick did not 10 minutes ago, he rolls his arm off your shoulders- rubs your lower back, instead. Your eyes blow open wide.

Before you can decide on the best course of action, you shove his hand off of you. At this point, the other ladies had started a new conversation without you, stepping away and leaving you to fend Chick off yourself, so you're able to hiss at him- through your teeth. "Do not touch me like that."

"You know what, baby, you're sending me some mixed signals here. I mean," He lets out a terrible laugh, full of narcissism and cockiness. Its very familiar to you, you grew up with it practically, and now it reverberates through your eardrums like an annoying song you cant get out of your head. "I can still feel your little mouth around my fingers-- and now I hear you're hiding a little boyfriend back at school?? Wonder what he'd think if he found out about what we did."

"We're on a break," You defend, fighting not to cross your arms and show the whole party something unpleasant is going on here- more so then anything involving Chick Hicks already is.

"Oh, why? Pecker too puny for you?"

"No Chick, gross- "

"Alright, so he's not willing to shove his tongue down there." When you flinch, remembering the first time your boyfriend told you he would never put his mouth on you, how disgusted he had sounded- how disgusting he had made you feel for just expecting to receive after you had already given, Chick lets out an understanding hmmm sound. "Yep. I thought so. Don't worry," Here, he winks. And you feel that horrible, twisted lust fill you up again. "While your back home, I'll give you your fill- Promise."

... The thought has your heart dropping. He means that what you two did in your bedroom wasn't it; Wasn't the end. He wanted to do it again.

And you want him to do it again. You cant deny it. The slick between your thighs wont let you.

... Fuck how are you going to stop this.

Human!Lots-O-Huggin’ Bear:

Manipulate: Control or influence (a person or situation) cleverly or unscrupulously. - Oxford Languages, On Google

The way that Lotso touches you is not right. He's not your father, not your husband, not even really your friend- so why does he think its okay to put his hands on you? Every time that he wraps his arm around your waist and leans into the side of your face, practically your neck, to say something just between the two of you, like a secret, you just want to tell him that-

That this is inappropriate. That you're uncomfortable.

... But just as quickly as it happens, he lets you go again and he's laughing that good-natured, trustworthy, Lotso laugh and you second guess yourself. Maybe you're wrong. He's just a sweet old man, trying to make you feel included.

But then why is it just you. Why do you get all this attention from him? He doesn't touch anyone else like that-

You take a deep breath and move on every time, shutting out those thoughts, the ones that say something is off here, that say the way that man acts is not okay.

At times like these- you wish you hadn't done that.

~

"Y/N! We havent had a moment alone for a hot minute- why dontcha come with me?"

"Oh, that's okay sir. I was just going to go help Ken with- "

"Aw, don't worry about him." One warm brown eye gives you a wink, that should have been comforting but really just felt like like trap. "I'll vouch for ya- come on, now. We'll have tea."

That's how it started, with an attempted escape. You should have known the rest was going to be just as bad. But you followed him off... and he thanks you, for that.

Here you are, sitting across from Lotso all alone, a cup of tea in front of you and he cant help from reaching over and patting your hand with his, affectionately on top of the table. Your pretty eyes widen in surprise at the overly gesture, made intimate by the very isolated setting, and he knows you're uncomfortable... it just doenst matter. He's glad you have the sense to stay put.

He could make your life around here reaal difficult, if you didnt play along.

As he speaks, he catches your eyes flickering over to the door behind him, yearning to get out. That's alright, he thinks... as long as you don't get up. "Now that I've gotcha alone, darlin'- I wanted to ask ya something."

"Oh... what?" Your force your eyes back on him and he grins for a moment.

Then he slowly furrows his eyebrows, sets his jaw and tightens his hand around yours, setting it firmly over the top of your hand now- like a lifeline, almost. He wants this to work- and it will. He's good at this. "I want you to be honest with me- this is a safe place, and you trust me... right?"

You blink, and slowly nod. "Oh, uh... of course." As expected. He's y'all's papa bear, after all! Ha, ha.... Of course you trust him.

"Has Ken... been inappropriate, with you?" Lotso asks this in such a way- just so- so he looks like a concerned father-figure. Uncomfortable by the idea, like he's nervous to even be having this conversation but must for your good.

Which he does. he does need to have this conversation for your own good- after all, if you went off and started something with Ken... then Lotso would have to do something he might truly regret. Its better this way.

You eat it right up, jumping to shock immediately. Your adorable mouth falling open, and eyes going as big as anything. "What!?"

"Now, now, now, calm down darlin'... I'm just asking... It wouldn't be the first time he's made one of our sweet lil' young ones uncomfortable, and I just want you to know I'm happy to talk to 'im, if that's the case- "

"N-no!" Lotso watches you think, thoughts like where is this coming from?? What has Ken done? To who?? racing through your poor little head. "He hasn't- no! Ken's been... Ken's been nice!" You're quick to defend, but don't look so sure anymore. This is turning your world upside down. Since you got here, its hasn't been a secret at all that Ken's been your closest friend- He's helped you get used to the place when Lotso couldn't do so himself,, helped you settle in! Its only natural that news as... sensitive, as this, might startle you.

Lotso watches your eyes fall down to the tea in front of you, devastated at the possibility, and takes the moment you're not looking at him to congratulate himself. It worked perfectly- you'll be leaning on him in no time.

Lotso lifts his hands to other side of his head in surrender, then, a good natured chuckle slipping out. "Okay, okay, I believe ya... " When he lowers his hands again, he restrains himself from reaching out to hold any part of you again, forcing himself to play the well-meaning old fella. Not the dirty old man you've turned him into- not that you really notice his efforts, that is. With all those bad thoughts swarming around in your mind... "... just be careful, okay honey?"

"I just cant imagine... that Ken- "

"Well," Another chuckle. "He does have a history." A history!? Your eyes flick back up to Lotso's, and get swallowed up in the pools of chocolate... trusting him completely. "But its not really something for you to worry about," He gives a stern look, and pats your hand. You flinch. "I wont let aaanything bad happen to ya."

"... thank you... "

Lotso watches you think for a few moments, then, 'giving you time'... thinking, that was easier then he anticipated. You really are the sweetest thing, aren't you? Ken aint never hurt a fly- but he was getting a bit close to you for the old timer's comfort. That wouldn't do, so... all Lotso did was feed you a little white lie. Didn't hurt no one, just... reminded you who you could really rely on.

"... C'mon, now, sweetheart. You just need a biiig hug."

Randall Boggs: 

I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife. - Take Me To Church, Hozier

You don't know how many times you've told Randall to fuck off at this point. It seems every time Sully leaves you alone in this damn factory, that slimy creep takes it as an opportunity to come onto you. How many times do you have to tell this asshole that you're in love with Sully, and that you have no interest in him!?

The count is in the double digits, its ridiculous.

Celia's the only other person who knows what Randall's like with you, and she's suggested plenty of times that you go tell Waternoose- or even Sully- but you haven't. You... cant.

... You're a grown up, and you can handle it on your own. Its not like Randall is dangerous- so there's no need to worry Sully, or make a big thing of it at all... You don't want the attention. It can only be bad.

Sully would be sweet, and want to make sure that you feel safe and comfortable, and he wouldn't tell anyone else, if you only asked him to, you know that... but he doesn't need this. He doesn't need the stress of a fiancé with a pervert stalker. You wouldn't do that to him.

So, you act normal. You push on. You can tell Randall to beat it a couple of times a week- no problem.

~

"... Y/N~ " Oh, fucking- As soon as that creepy voice settles in between your shoulder blades, you know you have to quicken up. Get in your paperwork, put the door back, and go home. "Is it a coincidence, you doing late-night paperwork tonight, when you know I'm doing mine??... Or more?"

"Its coincidence, Randall." You sigh, shaking your head without even looking up from the file you're scribbling in. Finish paperwork, send door back, return files to Rox, go home.

"Sure... " He doesn't sound convinced, more smug and it irks you, but you force yourself not to take the bait. Finish paperwork, send door back, return files to Rox, go home- "Y/N!" Suddenly Randall's hands slam into the table in front of you, making you jump and look up; Eyes wide and looking directly into his, as he's leaning in over you far too close. Oh, ugh- "We're all alone... " He takes a menacing peer around, a hair-raising smirk spreading across his face. "Don't tell me you're plannin' to ignore me... "

You nod. "Yah. That's the plan. I have to get home, Sully's making dinner for us- " As soon as you mention Sully, Randall's eyes roll- deeply, and a groan slips out of him.

"Alright... listen Y/N." How many times can this weasel say your name?? You hate the sound of your name on his tongue, he says it... he says it, like he has every right to. Like he's close to you. Like its his to say... like Sully does. You're barely even acquaintances. He's a freak and he shouldn't be allowed to utter your name; Not like that, not at all. Carefully he leans in closer to your face, and you know something bad is about to be said; The hairs on the back of your neck tingling. "... I have certain information about you... you might not want it out."

"... " For a moment, you freeze. He couldn't know... no. He couldn't know that. Its in the past, and its buried under college credits. So you force yourself to just roll your eyes, and sigh- though Randall doenst give up that smirk. That obnoxious, i know something smirk. In fact it only gets worse, more sinister. "What do you think know, Randall?"

"Oh, you cant riddle it out yourself?? Okay then- " He leans down another couple inches, his breath on your face now as you fight to just stay put. Guilty people flinch, guilty people flinch!- innocent people stay still. Calm- "... How you got through college."

Your eyes widen, your heart thuds. "N- "

"I mean, I don't have a problem with your red light past Y/N- but Sully, might." Randall goes on, standing up straighter again now just to let the whole thing sink in.

... Randall knows what you did for tuition...

He doesn't stop talking, though, which is all you want. Just for him to shut. up. You don't want to think about that time- "Golden boy would lose his mind... which brings me to my proposition."

Your stomach turns, glaring at Randall. "... what."

He's all-too-pleased to answer, giving a little hum. "Don't worry, you don't have to sleep with me... " The dig gets you just where he wanted wanted it to, it makes you flinch and feel nauseous. "But I will need you to date me. Drop your line backer boy toy and publicly announce you wanted me- maybe hold hands a bit like the cutest little couple, kiss me on the cheek... Whatever you think'd help people to see you actually into me."

"... why!?"

"Because Sully has too much." Randall snaps, one long fingered hand clenching tightly as a deep frown creases his features. "And I'd like nothing more than to take it all. Starting with you."

... Starting with me.... Because I'm easy.

"You're a freak, and insane. I'm not doing this- " Gathering your stuff against your chest, you get up from the table and attempt to get out of the situation, not be alone in this huge empty factory with Randall, but he's faster then you and cuts off your path. You're nose-to-nose.

"... If you don't, I'll tell Sully about everything. I have proof- a contact. One of your old benefactors actually, and trust me... they have some pretty convincing stories about you."

The fact that Randall has heard stories about that time... the things you did... makes you sick. You cant imagine Sully hearing them. You cant... he cant... He wouldn't look at you the same. It would break your heart.

"I... "

"So what'll it be, Y/N? Tear the dumb bear's heart to shreds or let me explain to him what a cheap whore you are. Clocks ticking."

[koreposion]

Alright time to post writing that is cringe and mostly for me to read again later

The cage rattled loudly as Horror slammed against the bars from the inside. An animalistic growl leaving him as he observed his captors. He backed away from the bars so he didn't have to stare into the eyelights of Ink.

"I wish you could rip me apart too." Ink cooed in a way that was sickly sweet and oh so true. Dream watched him to make sure he didn't let Horror out just for the fun of it.

"Please keep your heartfelt messages to yourself." Swap groaned as he worked on making sure the cage stayed shut. If there was one thing he didn't want it was Horror getting out.

"Hm? Why would I?" Ink asked as he leaned up against the cage, in reach of Horror's claws, "It makes him so angry, it's beautiful."

"We actually just need him to stay calm and wait until the others get here." Swap explained as his eyes glanced over at Horror who seemed to be contemplating something, "He's bait basically."

Dream flinched at the harsh word to describe their prisioner but to be far "prisioner" wasn't as kind either. A sigh left him as he spoke, "All I want to do, is talk with Cross and my brother. I don't get why he had to take....Horror."

There was an apologetic look in Dreams eyes as he looked into Horror's eyes. He was only met with a neutral stare.

"Lifeline. They'll be more willing to talk than fight, especially if Horror doesn't get himself out." Swap explains with a smile, trying to reassure Dream.

Ink's eyelights flicker into a number of shapes before he realizes that his pink is wearing off. A more reasonable trail of thought comes to him as he looks at his other teammates.

"If Horror doesn't get out himself, then they'll either send Cross or Nightmare to talk with us. I don't actually think they'd send more than one person." Ink explains as he sits in front of Horror's cage casually, "That would be pretty stupid given that Dust and Killer are more impulsive. The only reason the capture worked is because Horror was slamming the ink off of me."

"Yeah...that trick is pretty handy with impulsive brutes, huh? Who knew your blood could make an effective cage." Swap states with a chuckle, "Make them think they're winning and then get them right where you want them."

Ink looked up at Swap with indifference before taking two viles, Pink and Blue. He was going to be watching Horror for a while and wanted to feel all he could while he can.

"While you revel in your ego I'm going to be watching Horror." He stated as he blinked and his eyelights changed shape, a pink square and a blue x.

"Yeah yeah...Dream please keep an eye on him while I go relax. I know you two have your weird immortal workings but I need...a nap." Swap says with a tired drawl as he waves goodbye and leaves the room.

With worried eyes Dream let's Swap leave and then turns back to Ink. Who's whispering something to Horror and Horror is whispering something back...

They both turn to look at him for a second before Ink mentions something.

"You're just the cutest in the verses of course he likes you." Ink speaks softly.

"I do not get Gods and their obsession for me, maybe a creator just hates my guts." Horror hisses to Ink as he pressed against the bars.

"Or they love you lots, because let's be real-" Ink stares deeply into Horror's eyes, even the void of his empty eye socket, "You love ripping me apart just as much as I like being taken apart."

"... You're imagining things because of your weird fucked viles." Horror tells him with a frown, "You don't even actually feel something for me."

Ink laughs at that, an unnerving grin appears on his face, "I wish I could show you that I do."

Dream watched this whole display with interest, but in the way that this was new. Fundamentally, this was not healthy in any capacity. Even the emotions radiating off of Ink were bad, but in a way that made him feel good. It was sickening... He just wished someone would come to pick up Horror soon.

[stargirlrchive]

my brain is mush, ro! this was beautiful oh my god i devoured it and didn’t want it to end!!!

Just as you go to give it another swipe, your front door opens and Simon stumbles in, huffing from effort as he carries two armfuls of groceries. 

this actually made me laugh soooo bad ? idk he’s so dumb i want to shake him around and then kiss him

He’s quiet for a moment before he steps over the bags of groceries. His boots thunk heavily on the floor as he approaches you. Suddenly, he wraps an arm around your middle. You squeak in surprise when he very carefully and gently pulls you off of the stool and places you back onto your feet.

?? simon …. don’t ! (actually keep going i’m giggling and kicking my feet!)

But you couldn’t deny, the idea of Simon doing a little manual labor around the apartment made your heart flutter in your chest. The way he took care of you and was willing to get his hands dirty just to make sure you were comfortable. The little domestic tasks you could imagine him doing. 

made something else flutter too, HELLO!!! i will eat him !!!!!!!!!!

You couldn’t imagine not enjoying every part of him – even his cum.

You wanted him to shoot in your mouth, let you taste it. You wanted to milk it out of him, give him no choice but to cum down your throat.

(s)creamed, me me me

OKAY PAUSE BECAUSE THERE WAS A LOT OF DIALOG WHEN READER FINALLY TELLS SIMON THEY LOVE HIM AND I DONT WANT TO COPY IT ALL HUT I FICLING YELLED OG MY GOF

He fucking laughs.  // It’s like your worst fears come to light. He’s laughing at you, at your confession. At your feelings. A fresh wave of tears fill your eyes and fall down your cheeks. // He frowns when he sees the utter despair on your face, the heartbreak in your eyes, “No, baby. No, no. I wasn’t laughin’ at you.”

THE PTERODACTYL SCREECH THAT JUST LEFT MY MOUTH

HIS ATM PIN BEING OUR BDAY IM GONNA PUKE HE IS SOOOOO

He hums, a predatory smile spreads across his face, “Am I bein’ mean, love?” You nod your head, tearfully staring up at him. It only makes his smile widen, canines popping out, “‘M sorry. Can’t help myself when you tell me ‘bout how you touch your pretty little pussy and just can’t make yourself cum like you need. Think I can do it for you, hm? Want me to try and make you cum?”

i have just astral projected out of my body! he has a filthy fucking mouth and i’m SCREAMING HES SO FUCKING MEAN I WANNA BITE HIM

You quickly lift your hips, letting him tug them down and off of your feet. You expect him to toss them away but instead he holds them up, thumbing over the slickness in the crotch. You watch him with wide eyes as he analyzes it. Your  breath hitches when he suddenly brings them towards his face and licks a wide stripe of the fabric.

he’s so nasty i can’t breathe i need him i want him i’m clawing at my cage give him to me now !!!!!!!

“‘M a big man, love. Gonna need you nice and stretched for me.”

CREAMED

he is so he is so he is so !!! I FEEL FUCKING DIZZY he’s so mean ??2!!3!33! I NEED HIM

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this needy – this excited to get his cock inside a pussy. 

But it’s you. You’re special. 

He loves you.

NO ONE HMU EVER AGAIN I LIVE HERE NOW

“This cock s’all yours now, yeah? Can have it whenever you need it.”

I CANT BREATHE

crying bad bc of how he’s comforting reader after

:( he’s so !!!!

i genuinely have no words at all to explain how much this made me feel. i loved it soooo much ro!! this was so beautiful and i will think about it forever !

PLEASE, LOVE ME. PT2

simon riley / reader

FIND PART ONE || read the full thing on ao3

tags: childhood friends, friends2lovers, virgin!reader, soft!simon, protective!simon, afab!reader, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, MDNI

cw: reader is over 20, pining, masturbation (reader), loss of virginity, explicit workplace sexual harassment/assault, so much crying, one-sided love, not-really-unrequited love, vomiting, panic attacks, depression, crying, sex related shame, PTSD (reader), codependency but cute, self-deprecating thoughts, slut shaming, wet dream, dry humping, simon fucks up tho, reference to suicide & suicidal ideation, really nasty argument, reader hits simon sorry, apologizes tho!!!, reader struggles to orgasm, drinking, fooling around while drunk (no sex), breast play, fingering, orgasm denial, simon's a tease, p-in-v, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, creampie, mating press, missionary, simon's dirty mouth, dirty talk, wet&messy, big cock, uncut simon bc i said so, reassurance & encouragement, some pain upon penetration, clit spanking, post-coital crying!!!!!!, aftercare, briefly edited so apologies for any lingering mistakes

note: this is part two and contains the gratuitous smut portion ur all looking forward to &lt;3

you've loved him since you were children. after a confession when you were 14 went rejected, you vowed to never let your feelings be known again. but after an incident that left you hurt and fragile, you find it hard to keep that promise.

PART 2: 17.9k total: 35.8k

Things seem to get much better between you. Your anger and resentment towards Simon diminishes significantly and you can finally say you feel comfortable around him again. You wouldn’t say you’ve forgotten everything that happened, you fear that the entire ordeal has left its scar on you. 

But you finally feel ready to truly begin to work on yourself and get to a better place mentally. 

You’re humming to yourself as you dust the surfaces in your living room, cringing in disgust when you see how dusty a particular shelf was. 

Just as you go to give it another swipe, your front door opens and Simon stumbles in, huffing from effort as he carries two armfuls of groceries. 

“Simon!” you cry out, watching with wide eyes from the stepstool you stood on as he ungracefully dropped them on the floor, “Why did you bring them all up here like that?”

“Didn’t wanna make another trip,” he explained lamely, flexing his hands as he looked over all the bags.

“Okay, I guess,” you chuckle softly. 

Simon finally looks up at you, “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning,” you shrug, waving the duster at him, “I haven’t felt like doing it until now so might as well get it done when I feel like it!”

He’s quiet for a moment before he steps over the bags of groceries.His boots thunk heavily on the floor as he approaches you. Suddenly, he wraps an arm around your middle. You squeak in surprise when he very carefully and gently pulls you off of the stool and places you back onto your feet. 

Then he walks away like nothing happened, snatching up a couple groceries up from the floor to take to the kitchen. 

You decide not to comment on his behavior and simply choose to grab a couple of bags and help him out. When you get inside the kitchen, he’s already stuffing things into the refrigerator. You place the bags down and go back to pick some more up, transferring all the bags of groceries near him so he can easily put them away. 

You notice one of the bags has some piping, lightbulbs, wires, and other things you can’t identify. 

“What’s all this?” you ask, holding the bag out to him when he turns to look.

He grunts, closing the fridge, “Gonna fix some shit around here.”

“Why?” you ask, scrunching your nose up as you place the bag on the counter.

“Shithole needs it,” he mumbles, moving to start opening the cabinets, “Since you refuse to let me move you out of this place, I’m gonna make sure it at least functions.”

You hum and nod your head. Simon had attempted to convince you to move out and into an apartment of his own choosing but you flat out refused. He was already paying the rent on this place, you weren’t going to let him spend more money for a different place – because you know Simon would choose somewhere that would cost a lot more than your current flat. 

But you couldn’t deny, the idea of Simon doing a little manual labor around the apartment made your heart flutter in your chest. The way he took care of you and was willing to get his hands dirty just to make sure you were comfortable. The little domestic tasks you could imagine him doing. 

It almost felt like something a husband would do. 

You felt your cheeks flush immediately at the train of thought. How embarrassing and juvenile to think something like that

“I can cook dinner!” you mumble after clearing your throat. 

Simon actually has the audacity to laugh. You frown as he shakes his head, closing the cabinet before turning to you. 

“Absolutely not,” he says.

Your jaw drops, “Why?!”

“Because,” he steps closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before breezing past you, “You’re a terrible cook, love.”

You open your mouth to retort but can only huff. Because he’s right. The last time you tried to make dinner for the two of you, you had confused cayenne with cinnamon and made the most diabolical stew known to man. He vowed to never let you cook anything that required more than boiling water since. 

You pout your way back to the living room, mumbling a petulant, “Fine…” as you went.

You didn’t catch the broad grin on Simon’s face as he watched you sulk away. He was just happy to see your vibrance returning before his very eyes.

True to his word, however, he began to do some random odd jobs around the apartment. He changed that damn leaky faucet in the kitchen first. He would never admit it but it was beginning to drive him completely mad. He swore he could hear it dripping into the metal sink basin in his dreams.

Then he fixed the piping in the bathroom so they would stop all that god-awful clanking that practically woke up the entire complex. But after that, he figured he might as well fix the piping under the sinks as well.

That’s when you saw him. On his back, big body sprawled out as he worked underneath the cabinet, wrench in hand and soft grunts of effort coming from him. His t-shirt rose up just a bit, exposing a small stretch of tummy and his happy trail. Every once in a while, you could see his muscles flex and it made your mouth go completely dry. 

You felt like a Victorian man seeing his first ankle on a woman. Ridiculous. 

Sure, you’d seen Simon shirtless countless times – hell, you walked in on him completely naked once or twice. But there was something particularly…delicious about him like this. Unaware, casual, just doing work. 

It made a swell of heat settle in your abdomen. You squeezed your thighs together as you watched him. His biceps flexed and bulged, making the sleeve of his t-shirt grow taut around his skin. His muscles moved underneath the tattoos inked into his skin. 

You dragged your eyes down his body, past his pecs, past the sliver of tummy. You imagined yourself crawling between those thick thighs and unbuckling his belt, tugging at the button of his jeans. You imagined getting to see his cock chub up inside his boxers before you would pull it out and wrap your lips around the leaking tip. 

Salty, you imagine. You’ve always heard that men’s cum and pre-cum would be salty. Would Simon’s taste as bad as some of your friends had told you back in highschool? You hoped not. You couldn’t imagine not enjoying every part of him – even his cum.

You wanted him to shoot in your mouth, let you taste it. You wanted to milk it out of him, give him no choice but to cum down your throat.

“Are you just going to stand there or do you need something?” his voice startled you out of your thoughts.

Wide eyed, you looked to meet his gaze but you found he wasn’t even looking at you, still staring at the piped overhead.

“Um,” you cleared your throat, floundering for an excuse as to why you were ogling him like a piece of meat, “I didn’t want to interrupt you. I-I was just wanting to make sure the shower was okay to use?”

He grunts, letting out a soft sigh  before pushing himself out from under the sink, closing the cabinet before wiping his brow with the back of his hand, “Yeah, go ahead and shower, love.”

You give him a tight-lipped smile, casting one last glance to see that his t-shirt had fallen back into place. Disappointing. 

You trudge out of the kitchen and into the bathroom. Softly, you close the door and turn on the shower. The pipes don’t clang when the water shoots through them. It brings a smile to your face.

Once you’re stripped and standing under the warm spray, you let your hands wander your body. First, you cup your breasts, watching your nipples harden under your own touch before you slide one hand between your thighs. There’s a slickness between your folds that's distinctly different from the water, it’s slippery and sticky. But it makes your touch against your clit easy. 

You bite your lips to keep quiet, scared to death that Simon could hear you from under the sound of the water. You make quick, tight little circles against your clit. The bud is hard and twitches under your fingers. It makes the breath stutter out of your chest. 

You need more room, you realize, hiking your foot up onto a shelf. It spreads you open just a little more, gives you a little more access for your fingers to play. You sigh, head tipping forward to watch as you circle your own clit. 

But the more you touch yourself, the faster that tingling, warm sensation dissipates. You huff through your clenched teeth, frustrated. 

Usually, you could at least feel the beginning of that peak forming but this time…not even close. So you shamefully close your legs and go about your shower as if nothing happened, taking care to wash the slick from between your thighs especially.

As you lay in bed that night, Simon breathing deeply beside you as he slept, you were lost in thought. 

Surely, you were in the wrong for thinking about Simon like that – for getting wet at the sight of him. And then sleeping soundly next to him as if you weren’t some kind of pervert. Maybe you should just confess and apologize to him. 

No. You quickly admonish that thought, glancing over at his prone form. You couldn’t bear to see him be disgusted by you. He’d already rejected you years ago, finalized it and put the nail in the coffin so you would never be dumb enough to do it again. 

What would he do if he found out about your…attraction to him? He practically lived with you now, after everything happened. He was in your flat more than he was on base now. It was only a matter of time before he caught you with your hands dancing in your pants. 

Your cheeks flushed at the idea. Part of you thought it hot – for him to find you needy like that, desperately playing with your clit as you try to make yourself cum. 

But on the other hand, you could see the wrinkle of disgust in his brow and sneer on his face as he walked away. That outcome was not worth it, you decided. 

With a sigh, you rolled over so your back faced Simon and closed your eyes for the night. 

You both should have known better that the fragile peacefulness between the two of you was just that – fragile, balancing on a delicate precipice that could shatter at any moment. 

The ring of his phone was the break. 

“Answer that for me, love!” he called from the kitchen where he was busy preparing dinner. 

You leaned forward to check the number. It wasn’t in his contacts but Simon never got calls from people unless he knew them. So you slowly slid the button over and accepted the call. 

“Hello?” you mumbled into the phone.

There was a beat of silence before a woman’s voice responded in kind, “Hello?”

“Um…” you swallowed down the apprehension that settled in your chest, casting a glance towards Simon’s back as he stood over the stove, “Who may I ask is calling?”

“I’m looking for Simon,” she said, sounding much more coy than a second ago. She knew his real name and that irked you. People from work always referred to him as Ghost, only those he considered trustworthy or friends were privy to calling him Simon. 

“Um, he’s busy at the moment, can I take a message?” you ask, loud enough for Simon to hear in the kitchen if he was interested in intervening. But he didn’t move. 

“Sure!” she giggled, “Tell him that Victoria really wants to see him again and to call me so we can!”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat, “Y-Yeah, sure. I’ll let him know…”

“Thank you,” she cooed in a sultry tone, “Oh! And tell him I really had a great time last time we were together and that I’m looking forward to a repeat performance.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that,” you assured, hoping you didn’t sound as tense as you felt. 

She giggled before the call disconnected and you were left glaring at his stupid stock phone wallpaper.

“Who was it?” Simon comes to the archway of the kitchen, leaning against the wall. You can’t hear anything cooking anymore so you assume he’s finished dinner.

“Victoria,” you spit the name out like it’s poisonous, “Says she wants to see you again and she had a fantastic time with you last time.”

Simon shifts where he stands, looking down at his feet before looking back up to you, “Alright. I’ll call her back later.”

That sends knives straight through your heart. It aches so badly that you want to bite your own tongue off to make it stop. 

Jealousy, you realize. You’re fucking jealous. Some girl calls and asks for his dick and he just says okay? 

He’s not yours, you tell yourself. He can fuck whoever he wants. 

But that does nothing to quell the inferno raging inside you. 

There’s other feelings brewing inside you; rejection, fear, loss.

You feel bitter that you’re right there and he would still never choose you. He’ll always choose someone else because he doesn’t see you like that. It feels like he’s throwing it in your face, just spitting at you to show you that he doesn’t love you like you love him. He never has and he never will. You’ll never be an option to him because he doesn’t want you.

Then you’re scared he’s going to leave you. He’s going to go to this Victoria chick and leave you all alone so he can get his dick wet again. Just like last time. Maybe he’ll like it so much he wants to stay with her. Maybe he’s going to leave you behind so he can start a new, happy life without having to worry about the dead weight that’s been dragging him down since he was 8. You. His responsibility. His problem. 

You’re so scared that he’s going to be ripped from your grasp. That you’re going to lose him to someone else and it’s going to be you and your pathetic one-sided love for the rest of your life. Fuck, you’ve loved him since you were 4. You’ve loved him for so long that it makes you nauseous to think about. How many people loved one person for this long? 

Please, you wanted to cry to him, please love me. 

Please, just love me back.

“So you’re gonna go then?’ you finally find your voice, bitterness and resentment thick in your tone, “You’re gonna leave me to go to a booty call again?”

He stands up straight at that. Arms cross over his chest, he watches that way you glare at him, heated and teary-eyed. Hurt. 

He knew you still weren’t over the way he left you that time – when you needed him the most. You’d been ignoring the residual hurt that lingered, intent on pretending that everything was fine. He had been doing his best to make up for it but it always felt like one step forward and two steps back with you. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures softly, “I’ll call her back to tell her that it won’t happen.”

He tries his best to remain level-headed and soft, to be reassuring like he knows you need. But your expression doesn’t change. You continue to glare at him with that furious, hurt look in your eyes. 

Suddenly, you stand. 

“I don’t believe you,” you hiss, turning your back to him, storming down the hallway. 

He almost winces when he hears how hard you slam the bedroom door. He thinks about going back there to talk to you but decides against it. You need some space to calm yourself down. 

He eats the dinner he made for both of you alone, putting your half in the fridge for later. He goes about the apartment, locking the door and turning out all the lights. Then he gets to the bedroom door and goes to turn the knob and it doesn’t budge. 

Despite himself, he laughs. He jiggles the knob, jerks the door a little harder like it’ll open with a bit of force. And it might, it’s a flimsy ass door if he’s being honest – he’s forced bigger and heavier doors open before. 

He snaps your name, humor gone from his voice. You don’t answer. 

“Open the damn door,” he snaps, trying the knob again. He gets silence in return so he slams his fist against the surface. The sound is loud enough that it makes his own ears ring, “I said open the door. I’m not playin’ this game with you, sweetheart.”

“Sleep on the couch, Simon!” he hears your wobbly voice call back. Of course you’re in there crying, he thinks.

“I’m not sleepin’ on the fuckin’ couch,” he hisses, leaning his forearm against the door, resting his head against it with a sigh, “Open the door and let’s talk.”

“Don’t wanna talk to you,” you whine, bratty as all hell. He would have laughed if he wasn’t so damn pissed, “Why don’t you go sleep with Victoria since you like her so much.”

You don’t know why you say that last part. You don’t want him to go to her, you don’t want him to go anywhere. The thought of it brings more tears to your eyes. 

Simon is silent on the other side of the door for a long while. You almost think he walked away and succumbed to the couch. You wouldn’t actually let him sleep on that awful thing, of course. You just…you don’t know what the end goal here is, if you’re honest.

“Fine,” he finally spits, “If that’s what you want, I’ll fuck off and find Victoria.”

You hear the floorboards creak under his weight as he walks away. You sit up straight in bed at that, eyes wide as you listen to him stalk through the house. You swear you hear the jingle of his keys and that’s what has you lurching out of bed in a panic.

You almost trip over the sheets as they tangle around your legs but you manage to free yourself and wrench the door open.

“Simon!” you practically shriek, rounding the corner of the hallway to find him standing with his back to you, facing the door.

He’s got his hoodie and mask on, boots firmly on his feet and keys in hand. He stands still, back straight as his shoulders rise and fall with his breathing. But he waits.

“Don’t go,” you find yourself whimpering, “‘M sorry. Come to bed, okay?”

He doesn’t move and that makes your heart pound in your chest. You know he’s pissed, can see it in the way his fists stay clenched at his sides. His fingers twitch and he makes a move for the doorknob and you surge forward, wrapping yourself around his other arm, yanking him away from the door as hard as you can. 

He lets your weight knock him off balance, lets you drag him away from the door. He lets you tug him down the hallway, sniffling and crying as you do. 

“J-Just…” you find yourself frantically tugging his mask off, tossing it away before you rip the hem of his hoodie up. He doesn’t help you or fight you as you try to take it off of him. He just stares blankly at you, like he’s assessing you. You hate it. “G-Get ready for bed, okay? Just…we can go to sleep.”

“Why do you make this so fuckin’ hard for me?” he finally breaks his silence, the question cold and calculating. Like he’s tired. Exhausted, “I keep tryin’ to make it up to you. But every time something goes wrong, you throw everything back in my face and you act like you hate me again. I can’t keep…” he trails off, shaking his head before he sits at the foot of the bed, hands clasped together and head hanging between his shoulders.

“I love you,” you blurt out, a sob breaking out of your lips as you do. Simon doesn’t move. Your hands cover your eyes, as if being blind to his reaction will make the rejection hurt less, “I love you and i-it just keeps messing me up inside. I’m sorry.”

“You love me?” he asks, still no emotion in his voice. 

When you peek at him, he’s in the same position as before, hands clasped, elbows on his knees, head bowed. You have no idea what expression he’s wearing and you’re scared to find out.

“Yes,” you hiccup, sniffling softly, “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” he asks softly, almost solemnly.

“I promised,” you cry, another choked sob escaping you. 

“Promised..?” he doesn’t sound cold anymore, just confused, “The fuck’re you talkin’ about?”

“W-When I was 14,” you whimper, shame filling you as you recall your now-broken promise, “I-I told you I liked you and you said you didn’t feel the same. You told me to never bring it up again and I promised I wouldn’t. B-But…” you sobbed again, stopping yourself from finishing the sentence.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he breathes, bringing his hands to his face, scrubbing them up and down vigorously in a way that looks like it hurts. Then he laughs. 

He fucking laughs. 

It’s like your worst fears come to light. He’s laughing at you, at your confession. At your feelings. A fresh wave of tears fill your eyes and fall down your cheeks. You bite your lips to keep from making your sobs audible anymore. You didn’t want him to laugh at that too. You hang your head, wringing your hands together behind your back anxiously as Simon quiets down. 

“Shit,” he breathes, getting to his feet. He stands before you, cupping your cheeks and forcing you to look at him. He frowns when he sees the utter despair on your face, the heartbreak in your eyes, “No, baby. No, no. I wasn’t laughin’ at you.”

Baby. You catch onto it. He’s never called you that before. 

You dash the spark of hope that it causes. 

He rubs his thumbs under your eyes, wiping the tears away. 

Then, he leans forward and slots his lips against yours. 

It’s like fireworks explode in your chest. Your heart races so fast that you feel lightheaded. You can’t even respond to the kiss in time before he pulls away, your mind is moving too fast for you to process any meaningful thought. But he kissed you. 

Simon kissed you.

“What?” you finally manage to whisper, looking up with wide, shocked eyes, “Why did you..?”

He looks confused for a second, still cupping your cheeks as he looks into your watery eyes, “You really have no idea?” Your brows furrow immediately and you shake your head, “How I feel about you?”

“You feel..?” you dumbly repeat. 

He smiles softly, thumb rubbing softly over your cheekbone, “You really think I don’t feel the same?”

“B-But when…when we were kids I…” you stumble over your words, the truth you’ve believed this entire time seemingly false, “You s-said you didn’t feel the same.”

“Jesus, love,” he huffs softly in disbelief, “You were fourteen. I was seventeen. You were way too fuckin’ young for me, it wouldn’t have been right.”

“B-But then…” you stutter, reaching up to wipe your cheek, “When did you..?”

He shrugs, “Not sure exactly. Suppose sometime after you turned 20 was when I realized I felt somethin’ for you.”

“So you really…” you whisper, snagging your hands into his hoodie to pull him close, “You really…I mean…”

“Love you?” he smiles softly, “Of course I do.”

You lean forward and press your lips to his. He hums, wrapping one strong arm around your middle to pull you even closer. His lips work magically over yours, taking control of the kiss with ease. You easily melt into it, following his lead. It’s not as easy as you thought it would be and you hope Simon doesn’t notice. 

But he does, of course he does. 

He pulls away and smooths the palm of his hand down your cheek before it comes to rest on your jaw. His thumb slides over your bottom lip and he hums.

“You ever kissed before?” he asks, voice calm and level with no teasing to it at all.

Still, heat explodes all over your face. Embarrassment overrides the euphoria of your requited feelings. You try to pull away but Simon’s much stronger and he won’t let go unless he wants to. 

“Hey, don’t run,” he coos softly, turning your face to look back up at him, “I was just askin’.”

“No,” you mumble, still burning with embarrassment, “I-I’ve only ever liked you so…”

“Fuckin’ hell…” he whispers, letting you step back just a bit so he can look over you, “Is that right?”

“You should know that,” you mumble, feeling small under his scrutiny, “You know everything about me.”

“Didn’t think datin’ history was somethin’ you felt like sharin’,” he shrugged off.

“Well, now you know,” you mutter, your gaze glued to the floor.

“That I do,” he hums in agreement, reaching out to brush a hand down the length of your arm. 

A soft, quietness falls over the two of you. You’re not sure what to do and it seems he’s content where he is. He’s watching you, tracking every little shift and fidget you make until he finally seems to take pity on you.

“Let’s get to bed,” he says softly, giving you a soft nudge towards the bed. 

You take the opportunity to dive into bed, yanking the blanket over you as Simon strips himself out of his boots and hoodie. You go to look away as he yanks his belt free with practiced hands but you can’t seem to. He slips the belt out of the loops and drops it on the dresser before unbuttoning his jeans and slipping them off. 

Your mouth waters at the sight of him in a tight pair of navy boxer-briefs slung low on his hips. You can make out the shape of his–

“Enjoyin’ the view?” he mumbles half-heartedly as he turns to root through the dresser to find some sweatpants. 

“Sorry…” you mutter shamefully at being caught. 

He chuckles under his breath, pulling the sweats on before he rounds to his side of the bed and drops onto the mattress, “Nothin’ to be sorry about.”

He leans over you and turns out the tableside lamp. Then he settles into his pillow with a soft sigh.

“Si..?” you whisper.

“Yeah?” you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Are we um…” you clear your throat, “I mean like…are we…together now..?”

You feel him roll over and toss his arms around you. You squeak when he tugs you towards him roughly, securing you against his chest before he kisses the top of your head.

“Do you want to be together?” he asks, muffled by his lips pressed against you. 

“Yes,” you whisper quickly, wrapping yourself around him almost possessively.

He tilts your head up and carefully slots his mouth over yours again. You sigh happily at the feeling. 

You notice that he keeps it a lot slower than he had before, moving his lips carefully against yours. Like he’s trying to make it easier for you to keep up. It makes your cheeks flush again but you sink into the pillow and let him kiss all he wants as you do your best to match his movements. 

His body shifts, torso hovering over you as he rests his weight on his elbows on either side of your head. Your hands rest against his shoulders and simply get lost in the kiss. 

After a moment, he deepens the kiss, sinking into you with his chest pressed against yours. You whimper and wrap your arms around his neck, carding your fingers through his cropped hair. 

One of his hands moves, coming to grip your waist, fingers sliding up the hem of your shirt. It’s like a dream come true. Literally. 

All those nights you spent with your hand between your thighs, thinking of him. Thinking of him touching you like this – with his hand sliding your shirt up a little further every second. You even feel that familiar wetness soaking your panties.

Then why was your heart racing from anxiety instead of excitement? Why did you feel a fearful tremble setting in your thighs, as if your knees would be knocking together if you were standing. Why were you scared?

Before you can stop yourself, you’re shoving your hands against his chest with a weak, “No!”

Simon is off of you in seconds but you can feel his gaze on you in the darkness. You struggle to catch your breath as you lay there, heart pounding in your ears. Your head hurts, you realize with a wince.

“Um…” you find yourself attempting to appease him, “I-I don’t…I’m sorry, I…”

“It’s alright,” he whispers sincerely, settling down into bed with a content hum, “Nothin’ to worry about, love.”

You scoot closer to him and hesitantly place your head on his chest. Simon’s arm wraps around your back and tucks you even more snug against him. You close your eyes and will yourself to relax and sleep as you feel Simon’s comforting hand rubbing your back. 

Neither of you talk about it in the morning. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. You don’t bring it up, even though you want to, and Simon doesn’t try touching you like that again. Part of you wants him to, you’ve been dreaming about his touch for years but once you finally get it, you freak out?

You can’t stop beating yourself up over it. 

But then you think about the anxiety that it had caused. The apprehension. How uncomfortable it felt – how you wanted his hands off of you. 

You sighed, flopping onto your side on the couch where you sat. Your mind was buzzing annoyingly from your thoughts. 

Regardless of your problems, you were happier than ever with him. He was finally yours. Wholly and truly yours. It was bliss. 

“Got a call,” Simon says, snapping you out of your daze, “Gotta leave.”

That makes you sit up, “Leave?”

You finally notice that he’s got his bag packed – the one he only takes when he’s getting deployed. You’re on your feet in seconds, following him to the door. He’s wearing his skull balaclava so all you can see are his eyes – sad, apologetic.

“H-How long?” you ask, unable to ignore the ache in your chest as you watch him.

“Few weeks, probably,” he mutters, placing the bag down so he can tuck his feet into his boots.

He straightens up with a grunt before turning to you. He sighs, gloved hands cupping your cheeks when he sees how sad you look – like a kicked puppy. You wish you could feel his bare hands on you but can’t find it in you to ask. 

“I don’t want you to go,” you find yourself mumbling.

It’s selfish and even a bit cruel of you to voice that desire. Simon’s thumb strokes your cheek in that sweet way he always does and you melt into him. He lets you thump your head against his chest as you suppress your cries, biting your lip so you can keep your tears at bay. 

“I know,” he softly whispers, stroking your back as you cling to him, “I know, but I have to.”

“I know,” you mumble, finally looking up at him. You know your eyes are glassy and you make sure to blink back the tears so they never overflow, “Just be safe and come home, okay?”

He lifts his mask up just enough to expose his lips before he leans down to kiss you. It’s a whole body experience this time. He clutches you against him like his life depends on it, gloved hands fiercely gripping the back of your t-shirt. His lips move smoothly against yours, hand coming up to cup your jaw so he can tilt your head and pull you even deeper into his kiss. He pulls away when he needs to breathe, smiling when he sees the dazed, lovesick expression on your face. He tugs his mask down and lets you go but you stay as close to him as possible. 

“Make sure you stay warm,” he coos, “Gonna start gettin’ real cold in a couple days.”

“I will, Si,” you assure him.

“Left some cash for you to do your shoppin’,” he adds, “I know you’re a shit cook but I left a list of some easy recipes. Don’t burn the flat down.”

You snort and playfully smack his shoulder, “I’ll just buy some cup noodles in that case.”

He rolls his eyes, pinching your side to make you gasp from the ticklish feeling, “Don’t even think about it.”

Your grin falters when his phone makes that obnoxious beeping noise that lets you know it’s something urgent. He sighs, the tranquil happiness between you two broken immediately. He kisses your forehead through his mask and pulls the front door open.

“Keep this locked,” he mutters, stepping past the threshold, “I’ll be home soon.”

He closes the door and you’re left with an emptiness that overcomes you. You’ve always been scared for him when he has to go off on missions – you know that his job is extremely dangerous and he could lose his life at any moment. That thought alone makes a nauseous pit settle in your stomach. You push down the feeling of bile rising in the back of your throat and click the lock on the door with a sigh before you go about your day, trying your best to keep your mind off of him and where he might be in the world. 

True to his word, however, the temperature drops bitterly cold within 2 days after he leaves. There had already been a chill in the air that drove you to turn the heating on just a bit but now it was full blast. But now, it was dipping to freezing and you were anticipating the arrival of snow soon enough as well. 

You wake up one morning, however, and your apartment is bitterly cold. You sit up, confused before climbing out of bed. Your feet are immediately freezing as you step onto the floor. You hiss, wrapping your arms around yourself as you stumble over to the radiator in your room. You touch it and find absolutely no heat emanating from it. 

All the radiators are the same. Absolutely no heat. 

You curse, realizing you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. You curl up on the couch under a heavy throw blanket as you type with bitterly cold fingers into Google, looking for anything that can help you. But it’s to no avail. You can’t understand a thing. 

Your next thought is to call the building manager but you know that’s pointless. The useless man never actually helps with any work for his tenants. 

There’s no way in hell that you can afford to call someone to come and fix the problem. You have money for groceries but if you spent that you wouldn’t have anything to eat. You sigh, resolving yourself to bundling up and trying to stay as warm as you can. 

You pile all the blankets you have into bed and pick out only your thickest, warmest sweaters. 

This is going to be miserable, you think. 

The snow comes just a short week later and it feels even colder. You venture out of your flat to go to the grocery store, picking up ingredients for the dishes Simon wrote down for you and also some cans of soup that you can cook to stay warm. You also throw some boxes of tea and some hot chocolate in with it, figuring why not. Warm drinks will help. 

It’s almost 3 weeks of living like that. It’s miserable and makes your bones ache from how stiff the cold makes you feel. You make sure to eat nice, hot food to keep yourself warm and make frequent cups of warm drinks so you can keep your hands warm for as long as you can. You do your best. 

The worst is showers, though. When you’re standing under the blisteringly hot spray, it’s bliss. But the second you step out and your wet body is hit with the freezing air, you couldn’t have felt more miserable. 

The night Simon walks through the door, he finds you bundled up on the couch sipping a cup of hot chocolate. 

“Simon!” you gasp excitedly, tossing the blankets off to take a running leap at him. 

He huffs contentedly when he catches you in his arms, letting you embrace him for as long as you need. He strips his mask off and brings you in for a delicate kiss.

“Let me wash up,” he mumbles, stalking through the apartment.

“Um, before you do, Si,” you catch him at the entrance to the hallway. He turns to you and looks at you with a brow raised, “The um…heating is broken so…just letting you know when you come out of the shower it’s gonna suck.”

“Ain’t nothin’ I haven’t dealt with before,” he mutters and pauses, “The fuck you mean it’s broken?”

“Heating cut off a few weeks ago…” you shrug, wrapping your arms around yourself as you start to feel the cold creep in again.

“A few weeks ago?” he hisses, running a stressed hand through his hair, “Fuckin’ hell. You didn’t call someone to fix it?”

You pout as he raises his voice, clearly frustrated, “I couldn’t afford it, Si! I had the money you gave me for food but I wasn’t gonna spend that to get the heating fixed. You know the building manager is a piece of shit, not like he was gonna call someone.”

He sighs, crossing his arms over his chest, seemingly thinking something over. Then he turns on his heel and storms into the bathroom, slamming the door.

“I’m sorry, Simon!” you call through the door, “I didn’t know what else to do! Please, don’t be mad.”

The shower turns on and all you can do is look up and sigh in exasperation. The second he’s home and he’s already pissed at you. 

You sulk over to the couch and flop down, tossing your blankets over you as you grab your mug. The hot chocolate is still warm but not as hot as it was. It’ll have to do.

Simon comes out of the shower, gets dressed warmly, and joins you in the living room. He doesn’t even look at you as he makes a move for his bag that he left by the door. You almost think he’s going to scoop the bag up and storm out the door. You sit up, ready to stop him but instead, he stoops down and zips it open. He pulls out his wallet and approaches you. 

“What are you doing?” you mumble, watching him flip the thing open.

It’s old and worn, a simple black leather wallet. He’s had it for as long as you could remember and you’ve put the poor thing through the washer and dryer so many times that you’re shocked it's still intact. 

He pulls out a bank card and promptly hands it to you. Your brain stutters to a stop as you look at it.

“Take it, fuck sake,” he mutters. He sounds annoyed but the way he looks away and his ears turn pink you can tell he’s…shy. 

Simon Riley is fucking shy right now.

You take the bank card out of his hand and look at it, flipping over in your hands, “Why are you giving this to me?”

“So you can use it,” he mumbles, slamming his wallet shut and tossing it onto the table, “That way, in case anything happens you can withdraw from my account for what you need. If an emergency happens and I’m not around, use it.”

“Simon…” you mumble, looking up at him, “Are you sure..?”

“Course I’m sure,” he scoffs, taking a seat beside you before softly rattling off four digits.

“Huh?” you dumbly ask.

“It’s my pin,” he responds, grabbing one of the blankets you have piled on the couch and tossing it on his lap.

“That’s my birthday…” you say softly as you repeat the numbers over and over in your head, “Your bank pin is my birthday?”

He snatches the remote up from the table and turns the TV on without another word. But you can see how pink the tips of his ears are. It makes you beam and before you know it, you’re curling snugly into his side. 

“Love you, Si,” you whisper, earning a kiss to the top of your head in response.

Simon calls the next morning to have someone come by and fix the damn heating. You listen to the man rattle off some information to Simon about what the problem was but it makes virtually no sense to you so you resolve yourself to sitting on the couch and waiting until it’s warm again. 

But even when it’s nice and toasty inside, you still plaster yourself to Simon’s side, snuggling as close to him as you possibly can.

“I want you to meet my team,” Simon says one morning while he’s making some eggs. 

You’re standing by the toaster, waiting for it to pop up but his words make you turn to him, “You mean 141?”

“Who else?” he huffs, flipping one of the eggs. It sizzles loudly in the pan, “They wanted me to go out with them tonight. Thought you could join us.”

“Really?” you realize how incredulous you sound and then try again, “I mean really? That’s okay with you?”

He nods, plating the eggs, “I think it’s time they met you.”

“I-I’d love to,” you say, unable to hide the excitement you feel. 

You catch a slip of a smile on Simon’s face before the toast pops up and distracts you. 

You have to dig into your closet that evening, after a shower, to find something nice to wear. You figure an occasion like this calls for something a little nicer than just jeans and a t-shirt like you usually wear. But you can’t find much of anything. 

“What’re you huffin’ about in  here?” Simon asks when he walks in, towel wrapped around his waist. He’s still dripping wet from the shower and you can feel the way your mouth fills with saliva at the sight. 

“I uh…don’t know what to wear…” you respond, turning your back to him just as he slips the towel off. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire, imagining Simon completely naked behind you.

“Wear those nice jeans you got,” he mumbles, grunting as he gets himself dressed, “And that little blue top you got.”

“The cropped one?” you ask incredulously, a brow raised as you turn to him. He’s got some jeans on now and he’s meticulously unfolding a black t-shirt so he can put it on, “I haven’t worn that in a while, how’d you even remember it?”

He shrugs, the muscles in his back rippling with his movement before he tosses the shirt over his head and pulls it down, covering his skin once again, “It’s cute. We’re just goin’ to the pub, love.”

“Okay,” you mumble, reaching into the back of your closet to pull the little shirt out, “If you’re sure this will be okay.”

“I’m sure,” he chuckles softly, grabbing his balaclava off the dresser. But he doesn’t put it on yet. Instead, he sits on the bed and watches you change.

You’re acutely aware of his eyes on you as you strip your shirt off. You keep your back to him, trying to ignore your racing heart. You don’t feel uncomfortable at all, instead you feel…excited. 

Your mind runs wild, imagining him stepping up behind you, kissing your neck and cupping your bare breasts in his big hands. They’re a little rough from his line of work and you wonder what they’d feel like against the sensitive skin of your tits, thumbing your nipples and pinching them a little meanly. 

“C-Can you hand me a bra?” you find yourself asking.

He grunts in acknowledgement and the bed creaks when his weight moves off it. He opens one of the drawers and is behind you in a second. His body heat permeates through his shirt as he presses his chest against your back. 

He slings your bra over your shoulder, holding it with one finger by the strap. You can’t help but tilt your head back to look up at him. He’s towering over you, pretty, brown eyes looking down his nose at you. 

You realize in this position, he could clearly see your breasts but he keeps his eyes on yours. You take the bra from him and he lets you, simply staring into your eyes with that stern silence he has about him.

“T-Thanks…” you find yourself whispering, mouth feeling particularly dry.

He grunts, lips quirked up just a bit before he turns his back and walks back to the bed. You let out a quiet, slow breath, willing your heart rate to go back to normal.

Simon was so exhilarating. Just being around him sets your heart racing and fingers trembling. 

You put your bra on and slip your top over your head, ignoring the sticky feeling in your panties as you do. 

“I don’t know, Si,” you mutter, turning to face him, “I-It’s a little tight on me now.”

The fabric once hugged you nicely but now it was snug. It molded around your breasts, even showing the lines of your bra. The neckline was low, giving a good show of cleavage – it didn’t help that Simon picked one of your more well padded bras. 

Simon looks up, his eyes immediately falling to your breasts. He sucks in a quick breath and looks away, licking his lips.

“Looks fine,” he mutters, standing to pull one of the drawers open again. He searches for a second, brows furrowed until he pulls out the jeans he was talking about. The ‘nice jeans’ as he called them, were just some low rise jeans you’d only worn about 4 times.

You look dumbly at them as he drops them into your hands.

“These?” you scoff, “Simon, I can’t–”

He quiets you with a kiss to your forehead, “Trust me, love.”

He steps out of the room after that, leaving you to your own devices. You’re thankful that you can change your panties without him seeing how saturated and sticky they’ve become because of him. You bury them in the laundry basket and remind yourself that you should do the laundry before he does because you’d be mortified if he found them. 

You don’t even look at yourself in the mirror, afraid you’ll feel too self-conscious if you see what you look like. But you trust Simon’s judgment on what he thinks would look good on you – and you can’t deny that dressing up how he likes feels nice. 

You step into the living room, intent on pulling your shoes on when Simon catches you with an arm around your waist. You gasp as he turns you to face him.

“You look lovely,” he whispers, smoothing his hands up your sides, thumbs slipping under the hem of your shirt to stroke your skin.

You swallow thickly as your heart starts racing in your chest again. He leans down and pecks your lips but pulls back before you have the chance to kiss back. 

“Let’s go,” is all he adds before walking away, leaving you no choice but to follow like the lovesick puppy you are. 

Walking into the bar, your heart pounds painfully in your chest from pure anxiety. Your hand is clasped tightly in Simon’s as he easily moves through the crowd. You suppose his height makes it easy to see over people. 

“You alright?” he asks, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“Haven’t been in a bar since I worked at…” you trail off, giving him a half-hearted shrug.

“If you wanna leave, just say the word,” he mutters, giving your hand a squeeze.

“N-No,” you shake your head, shooting him a wobbly smile,”I wanna meet your team at least.”

He smiles reassuringly and gives your hand a tug to encourage you to follow him. He leads you right to a table situated in a corner, three men laughing and drinking. 

“There he is!” the one with the mohawk cheeks, holding up his pint in celebration.

“Shut up, Soap,” Simon grumbles petulantly as he pulls out a chair for you.

Soap, you note to yourself. You know them by name but you’ve never actually seen the faces to put to them. Soap looks like you imagined, a broad grin and pretty, bright eyes – you imagined them green but they’re blue. 

“And who is this lovely companion of yours, Simon?” an older man with a hat and mutton chops asks with a kind smile, eyes on you.

Simon says your name before he sits down with a grunt beside you.

“Price,” your boyfriend supplies when you look curiously at him.

The man in question holds out a hand which you take and softly shake, “Nice to meet you.”

“Had no idea Lt. had someone waitin’ for him at home,” Soap says, a teasing lilt in his voice. 

So you’ve met Soap, Price, and that leaves; your eyes land on the quiet guy sitting back in his chair, a cool smile on his lips. He meets your gaze and his smile broadens – not teasing like Soap’s but purely kind.

“You can call me Kyle,” he gives you a polite nod.

“Gaz, then?” you question, tilting your head to the side. Kyle looks surprised, eyes flicking to Simon who shifts uncomfortably in his chair, “He’s talked about all of you before. I only know your call signs though.”

“John will do fine if you’d like,” Price says, tipping his beer back to take a chug.

“Simon calls me Johnny,” Soap adds, “You’re welcome to as well. Anyone important to the Lieutenant is important to us.”

Out of the corner of your eye you see Simon roll his eyes. It makes you smile. He leans over, nudging you with his knee, “You want anything to drink? I need one.”

“No thank you, Si,” you reply, intent on having a clear head for the night. You’ve never been much of a drinker anyway. 

When Simon’s gone from the table, you suddenly feel incredibly out of place. Price and Kyle have the decency to not stare you down but Soap seems keen on keeping his baby blue’s right on you and a goofy little smile on his face.

“Um…” you shift uncomfortably as you look back at him.

“We’ve never gotten to meet anyone from Ghost’s private life before,” Soap says, saving you from having to think of what to say, “Just shocked s’all.” 

“You’re gonna start giving the poor thing the creeps with your ugly mug,” Kyle chuckles which also makes Soap laugh.

“Sorry about that,” Soap lifts his glass and cheers to you before tipping it back. 

He grimaces slightly as it goes down before slamming his glass back on the table.

“It’s alright,” you respond, “Si’s not really the open book kind. So I understand.”

“How long have the two of you known each other?” Kyle asks.

You find yourself wondering where the hell Simon even is but answer regardless, “Since we were kids. Um, we lived next door. His mom and mine were friends, I guess.”

Soap nods his head, elbows on the table as he gives you his full attention, “You guess?”

You hum, “I’m 3 years younger than Simon. The way it was told to me by my mom is that…his mom came over and,” you couldn’t fight back the smile as you recalled the story.

“Oh this has got to be good,” Soap nudged Kyle excitedly at your grin.

“Told my mom that Simon didn’t have any friends and that he was a…soft-hearted boy and she wanted him to have some friends,” you giggle, holding a hand in front of your face to hide your laughter, “So she wanted to set up playdates with me even though I was still a baby. My mom didn’t have the heart to tell her no.”

Soap tosses his head back and laughs, “No fuckin’ way.”

“I’m shocked to say it but that actually makes him sound cute,” Kyle adds, unable to hide the laughter in his voice either.

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Price says, but there’s a smile on his face, “Simon’ll knock you out cold on this table.”

“So you and Simon have been together since?” Kyle asks, glass cupped in both hands.

You nod, “Only time we’ve been apart is when he enlisted and had to go off for a few years to train.”

Soap opens his mouth to say something but a large figure finally drops down into the seat next to you. Simon has a glass of bourbon and a glass that he slides over to Soap who catches it with ease.

“Thanks, Lt,” he nods, taking a sip before making that disgusted face again.

“What are you lot talkin’ about?” Simon asks, drumming his fingers against his glass.

“We were discussin’ all your dirty secrets,” Kyle teases with a charming grin.

“Nothin’ too damning I hope,” Simon huffs before he takes a large gulp of his drink. 

The other three men all hide their grins behind their glasses. 

The anxiety you had felt at the beginning of the night is long gone. The task force is full of jokes and laughs and even Simon seems like a different person. 

With you, he’s kind and even soft. He’s by no means gentle or patient. 

But this side of Simon is so jovial and comfortable that it warms your heart to see. He drinks a few glasses and by the end of the night, he’s got a relaxed, lidded look in his eyes that lets you know he’s got a bit of a buzz going on. 

“It was lovely to meet you,” Price says when you all walk out of the bar.

“I really enjoyed meeting all of you as well,” you smile, letting Simon tuck you into his side with an arm wrapped around your waist.

“Get him home safe,” Soap teases, your smile only widening when you hear Simon huff in annoyance. 

You bid goodbye to the three of them and make your way to the car with Simon, plucking his keys out of his hand and forcing him into the passenger seat despite his grumbled protests of how ‘he’s not that drunk’.

When the two of you finally get into your apartment, you let him lock up and turn out the lights while you go to the bedroom and get ready for bed. 

“You looked really nice tonight,” Simon mutters when he finally walks in as you crawl into bed, “I’m glad you liked them.”

“I’m glad they liked me,” you huff, leaning back into the pillows, “They were all really nice guys.”

“Yeah,” Simon hums, tugging his shirt off of his head, taking his mask with it, “They’re good people.”

You nod your head and tuck your knees to your chest while he gets undressed. He slips on a plaid pair of pajama pants and shoves the drawer closed with his hip before yanking the blanket back to make room for his large body. 

You bounce a little on the bed when he drops his weight onto it. He smacks his pillow a couple times before he lays back and sighs. It’s clear he’s still a little buzzed from the way he fights to keep his eyes open.

“Simon?” you ask, turning to face him. 

That makes his eyes open back up before he looks at you, “What?”

“Can I kiss you?” you ask. 

He snorts and it makes you smile. He reaches out and wraps his hand around the back of your head. You let him tug you down, pressing your hands against his firm chest as you kiss him. 

His hand travels down your back as he sighs into your mouth. You pull away briefly to look into his eyes before you kiss him again, this time deepening it as much as you’re able. Simon sighs contentedly, his other hand coming up to caress your arm. 

“I like kissin’ you…” you find yourself whispering against his lips.

He groans at that, the sound going straight to your core. You feel yourself clench around nothing, already starting to leak into your panties. 

“Yeah?” he coos, cupping your cheek, thumbing over your lips, “You can kiss me all you want, love.”

You whimper, surging down to kiss him again. His hands grip your waist, intermittently squeezing you, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. 

Suddenly, you feel the warm, slick slide of his tongue against your lips. You whimper and pull back, brows furrowed.

“Shh, love,” he coos, pulling you close again, “Jus’ relax and let me…”

You huff, struggling to catch your breath as he urges you to meet his lips again. You feel his tongue again and eagerly open your mouth, letting him taste the inside of your mouth. You shyly meet his tongue with yours and feel his grip on your waist tighten as he groans in his throat. 

You’re sure you’ve soaked well through your panties by now. There’s an ache in your clit that you long to reach down and relieve – or better yet, have Simon relieve. 

You bet his fingers would feel so damn good against you. You find yourself whimpering into the kiss at the thought alone. Simon lets out a husky laugh into your mouth before pulling away. 

A string of spit connects your lips before it breaks and vanishes. 

With a surge of confidence, you toss your leg over his waist. He grunts when your weight settles on his hips, on his cock. It’s chubbed up against his thigh from kissing you and he knows you can feel it. 

“What’re you doin’, baby?” he huffs, unable to stop his hands from traveling up the front of your body. 

You grab his wrist and boldly slide it under the hem of your shirt. He bites his lip to keep from moaning when he feels your bare breast fill his palm. You see the way his eyes start to roll back before he looks at you again. It makes you throb in your panties and you can’t resist grinding against him a little before he grabs your waist and stops you.

“Si…” you whimper, pressing your hands against his chest, “‘S wrong?”

“Can’t,” he clears his throat and sinks into the bed, “Can’t do this, love.”

“Why not?” you ask, feeling a pit of disappointment in your gut, “You don’t want to? I just thought…”

You feel your face burn with humiliation as you slide off of his lap. Simon lets you, simply laying there on his back, eyes closed and a knit between his brows, as he evens his breathing out. You fight back tears as you sit there, biting the inside of your lip anxiously. 

“Not…not tonight, sweetheart,” he finally says, reaching over to pet your hair, “Been drinkin’ ‘nd I want to be sober for it, yeah?”

It would have been a solid excuse if it didn’t sound so flimsy coming from his lips. Like he doesn’t even believe it himself. 

“Yeah…” you offer, giving him a wobbly smile before turning out the light. 

You’re too embarrassed to cuddle into him that night. 

“Can I ask you something?” you find yourself muttering as you relax on the couch with him, watching some old movie he picked out, “As long as you promise not to get mad.”

He snorts, taking a sip of his tea, “Won’t get mad.”

“I just want to know…” you clear your throat and sit up straight a little more, going over the question in your head, “Why did you leave that night…leave like that, just to have sex?”

He tenses up immediately, you can feel it. He shifts where he sits, spreading his legs just a little wider so he can sink deeper into the couch, “We already talked about this.”

You wince at his clipped tone, knowing you’re stepping into dangerous territory, “I know but…I want to know the real reason.”

He catches his bottom lip between his teeth and sighs, keeping his eyes trained on the TV, “You think I was lyin’ to you?”

Now he sounds mad. You quickly shake your head, “No, Si. I-I’m not trying to start a fight, I swear. I don’t think you were lying. I just think you…weren’t telling me everything.”

He sighs. You can see the way his jaw ticks when he clenches it, “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, scooting a little closer to him, placing your hands on his chest, smoothing his shirt down a bit, “It was just…out of character for you, Si. I was really upset and you knew that. It wasn’t like you to just…leave. Just to get laid.”

He finally looks at you, just out of the corner of his eye. You meet the look, offering him an encouraging smile to show that you’re not upset or anything. 

“All night,” he finally mutters, “You’d been kickin’ in your sleep. Kept wakin’ me up.”

You nodded, a look of confusion on your face. You had no idea where this was going.

“You started sayin’ my name,'' he continued, “Moanin’ my name. Fuck, it was drivin’ me crazy.”

Your face flushes hot when you hear that. It all suddenly comes rushing back to you – what you’d been dreaming about. 

“You threw your leg over mine and I could–” he cuts himself off, his throat moving with how hard he swallows.

“Could what?” your voice comes out shockingly breathy. 

He catches it, looking at you. You can see the way his pupils widen immediately when he meets your gaze. It’s like he can see right through you, see the fact you’re dripping into your panties again. Just from this conversation alone. 

“I could feel how fuckin’ wet you were,” he brings a shaky hand up and runs it through his hair before he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “Couldn’t fuckin’ deal with it. I had to…let it out somehow.”

“So you knew that I wanted you…like that?” you find yourself asking.

He scoffs and shakes his head, “Didn’t think about it like that. Figured it was just a dream and that’s all it was.”

“Wasn’t just a dream,” you assure, scooting closer to him.

Simon’s breath catches in his throat when you lean over him, resting your hand on the arm rest on his other side, letting it support your weight. You stand on your knees, making you just a little taller than him before you lean down and kiss him. 

He remains completely still, like he’s processing. His hands flounder in the air for a second before he’s carefully pushing you to sit back down. You slump against your heels and look at him, perturbed.

“Why..?”

“I need to make dinner,” he says lamely. 

“Simon…” you admonish, knowing he’s lying. 

He gets up, knees cracking as he does. He winces a little bit before he bends down to pick up the blanket that fell to the floor when he stood. You kept your eyes on him, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. You almost let him go but before you can stop him, you grab his arm. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Simon,” you mutter, “I keep trying to make things go further with you but I just keep making a fool of myself and I–”

“‘S not you,” he assures softly, taking your hand in his, “‘S all me, baby.”

“So why…” you frown, “I want you.”

He shakes his head, “Night you told me how you felt. You sounded scared.” 

You remember, the way his touch had made anxiety fill you. You had wanted him, of course, but for some reason it had just been so damn awful at the same time. You hadn’t really dwelled on why that was. 

“It wasn’t ‘cause of you, Si,” you assured, shifting so your feet were on the floor rather than under you, “I promise. I-I was just nervous, I think. That’s all.”

“I don’t want…” he licks his lips, seemingly thinking over his next words carefully before he says them slowly, “I don’t to hear you sound like that with me again. ‘S why I’ve been avoidin’ it. ‘Cause I don’t want you to get scared again.”

You shake your head, rising to your feet, stepping in front of him. You take his hands in yours and squeeze them, “I don’t want to make a fool of myself with you, Simon.”

He frowns, “You know I would never think poorly of you.”

You smile and shrug, “I know that. I think…that time was just…too soon. After that night at the bar and everything that happened. And then the fact I’m so inexperienced that it’s laughable. I think…I just wasn’t ready for it. I needed to go at my own pace and I have been.”

“I don’t want you to push yourself,” he hums, “I know that night at the bar was terrifying,” he brings a hand up to brush over your cheek, “I understand if you’re not goin’ to be ready for a long time. It’s normal to not be ready after what happened to you.”

You huff, “I’ve been trying to show you that I’ve been ready for a while now, Si. I was anxious at first, yes. But now it’s…like a good kind of nervous.”

“A good kind of nervous?” he mutters, hands moving to your hips to pull you closer. Your breath hitches in your throat and you nod dumbly, “Tell me all about it.”

“L-Like my heart races,” you breathe, “And I feel scared that I’m gonna do something silly and embarrassing but like I want to learn and…and I want to do good for you.”

“Fuck,” Simon groans, dropping his head to rest on your shoulder, “Can’t say shit like that to a man like me, love.”

“Why not?” you whimper, feeling your knees tremble in excitement when you feel his hands start to wander.

“‘Cause…” he whispers, running his hands up your sides, “Makes me think some nasty shit, sweetheart.”

You swallow thickly at the promise in his voice, “Simon…” 

You sound so wrecked already and it makes him moan softly in your ear, “Tell me about it, baby.”

Just like that, you’re spilling your guts to him, “Get so wet for you, Si, all the time. I want you so bad that it hurts.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, finally pulling his head from where he was hiding in your shoulder, tilting your chin up, “Where’s it hurt, baby? Hm? Right in that needy little cunt?”

You whimper immediately, looking up at him with wide, hazy eyes and nod, “T-Tried to touch myself. Thinkin’ about you made it hurt so I couldn’t help myself. Thought about you when I did.”

He hums as you babble to him but his mind latches onto one particular word, “Tried, baby? What do you mean "tried?”

Your cheeks burn hot at the slip up. Would he think you were silly for it?

“C-Can’t do it right,” you confess softly, hoping he doesn’t see how embarrassed you are, “Try so hard but n-nothin’ ever happens.”

Simon moans at that. Loud and unbridled, “What’re you sayin’, baby? That you can’t make yourself cum, s’that it?” You shake your head bashfully, “Fuckin’ hell. That’s adorable.”

“D-Don’t tease me, Si,” you whimper but the seat of your panties is so fucking wet that it’s sticking to you. 

He hums, a predatory smile spreads across his face, “Am I bein’ mean, love?” You nod your head, tearfully staring up at him. It only makes his smile widen, canines popping out, “‘M sorry. Can’t help myself when you tell me ‘bout how you touch your pretty little pussy and just can’t make yourself cum like you need. Think I can do it for you, hm? Want me to try and make you cum?”

You vigorously nod your head, uncaring how fucking needy you look to him. He’s offering to give you what you’ve wanted for years – to give you a real, honest to God orgasm. And you weren’t going to let this chance slip away. 

“Want you on the bed,” he suddenly whispers, “On your back, lose the pants but keep everything else on.”

With a jerk of his head in the direction of the bedroom, you take off. You hear him chuckle behind you at your excitement. He makes sure the door is locked before he heads back to the bedroom. 

You’re there just like he asked, pants pooled on the floor, leaving you in nothing but an old t-shirt of his and a pair of the cutest little lilac colored panties he’s seen. You’ve got your knees pinned together, clenching your thighs but laying perfectly still in waiting for him. 

“So fuckin’ good for me,” he praises, grinning when you whimper and tremble at his words, “Oh, sweet thing likes to be praised, huh?”

You nod your head, “Wanna be good for you, Si.”

“That’s sweet, baby,” he coos, reaching to the back of his collar so he can tug his shirt off of his head. 

Your heart hammers away in your chest when he crawls onto the bed, hands on either side of your head. He looks so big like this, on top of you, completely blocking any view you had of your ceiling and instead filling your viewline with just him. He leans down and kisses you, humming contentedly when you eagerly kiss back. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders as he uses one hand to tug your legs open so he can slot himself between them. 

You cry out when he presses himself against your core. He’s wearing nothing but his jeans but you can feel the heat radiating through the thick material. 

“Shit, look at that,” he whispers, leaning back on his heels to admire the nice little wet patch that has stained your panties, “You already this wet, baby?”

“Kissin’ you always makes me this wet, Si,” you sweetly confess and oh, you are just so precious. 

His hands slide up your stomach, moving your t-shirt up and up until it sits crumpled under your chin. Your tits are bare and move with every gasping breath that you take. 

Simon’s hands are just as rough and warm as you’d expect them to be. His thumbs come up and glide over your nipples until they harden into stiff little peaks for him. 

Then his mouth is wrapping around one, swirling his tongue around it before pulling off with a lewd pop. His hand pinches the other nipple, rolling it between his fingers as he listens to you whimper and sigh. 

“Please, Si,” you whine, “I-It hurts, please.”

“It hurts?” he hums, leaving a fleeting kiss against the nipple his tongue was torturing just a moment ago, “Where? Hm?”

His hand travels down your body, cupping your cunt through your panties. You gasp, arching your hips just a bit to grind against his palm. He lets you, before he meanly pins your hips down with his other hand. 

“Where, love?” he smooths the pad of his thumb over the seam of your cunt through your panties. The fabric is saturated with your slick, letting him see every part of you through shape alone. His thumb finds your clit, the little bud poking out through the fabric from how hard and swollen it's become, “Here? ‘S it your pretty clit that hurts, love?”

You nod, eyes rolling back in your head when he presses his thumb against the bud, trapping it under his finger so he can roll mean little circles over it. You’d be mindlessly rutting your hips by now if he didn’t have his other arm slung over your hips to keep you pinned nice and still like he wants. 

It already feels so different than when you touched yourself. Maybe because it’s him or maybe because he’s so experienced. 

That thought makes you equal parts jealous and equal parts turned on. He’d slept with plenty of people but now he was using that expertise to make you feel good. 

“Can you take them off, please?” you whine, pitchy and sweet from arousal. 

“Asked so sweetly for me,” he coos, hitching his thumbs into the band of your panties before giving them a firm tug. 

You quickly lift your hips, letting him tug them down and off of your feet. You expect him to toss them away but instead he holds them up, thumbing over the slickness in the crotch. You watch him with wide eyes as he analyzes it. Your  breath hitches when he suddenly brings them towards his face and licks a wide stripe of the fabric, moaning when he gets a good laste of your syrupy sweet slick.

“Simon!” you gasp – admonish, leaning up to snatch them out of his grasp. 

His eyes open, he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them, to look at you. He licks his lips like a dog licking its chops when it tastes something real delicious. 

He doesn’t even comment on what he just did or the pure embarrassment that is written all over your face. Instead, he grips underneath your knees and yanks you down the bed towards him so your hips are situated in his lap. 

“Jus’ let me touch you, love,” he whispers, “I’ll work a nice little orgasm out of you in no time, yeah?”

You nod your head because you trust him. You know he’s going to be able to give you what you need so badly. You don’t even question it – especially when you feel how good it feels when he uses his thumbs to spread your folds open for him. He groans when he sees the sticky strings of slick that display just how turned on you are. 

Pretty little hole clenching sporadically around nothing, dribbling more creamy arousal that makes his tongue feel like lead in his mouth. A pretty clit that twitches and throbs under his scrutinizing gaze. But you make no move to cover yourself and hide from his gaze. 

He finally touches the bud directly and it’s like electricity strikes through you. You lose control of your body as your back arches and your thighs violently twitch. Your cheeks burn when you hear him chuckle softly at your reaction.

“Sensitive,” he huffs, a crooked little grin on his face as he brushes his thumb over your clit again, garnering the same reaction as before from you, “Fuck, can’t believe you’re this sensitive and can’t make yourself cum.”

“‘S cause it’s you, Si,” you sweetly confess.

And it’s true. Having him touch you like this directly – feeling his callused skin over the most sensitive little part of you is euphoric. It doesn’t feel anything like when you touch yourself at all. It feels magnified, you feel like a live wire and everything feels like too much. But you don’t do anything to impede him because you trust him more than anything – especially like this, with your body. 

He replaced his thumb with his middle finger, prodding at your entrance. You almost think he’s going to press inside you but he doesn’t – instead, he gathers your slick up on his finger and drags it up to your clit. He softly circles the bud, cock kicking against his thigh when you sigh and croon so sweetly for him. 

Your cunt makes sticky noises as he continues doing this, gathering your arousal and lathering your precious bud up with it so he can so softly play with it. His touches aren’t enough to actually work you to the edge, it’s much too slow and soft but it feels good. He waits for you to relax against the bed, lashes fluttering as you whimper and twitch on the bed for him.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss against your trembling thigh, “Relax f’me. Want you nice and soft for me so I can get my fingers in this tight little cunt.”

You gasp at that, partly in excitement and also in apprehension. You’ve never actually put anything inside yourself before – except once, you put your finger in and it burned so you never tried it again. 

“D-Dont…” you find yourself muttering, making him freeze. He thinks you’ve changed your mind, anxiety getting the better of you and he’s fully prepared to propel himself away from you at a moment's notice, “Be gentle, okay?”

His gaze softens when he looks at you, “Won’t hurt you, love. I promise.”

You remain relaxed for him when he carefully prods you with his middle finger. He keeps his thumb pressed against your clit, not rubbing it or anything, just keeping a nice pressure that keeps you sagged against the pillows. 

It doesn’t feel anything like when you tried that one time with yourself. Everything is so much wetter and more pliant. It’s like your walls just suck the digit in, even though it’s so much bigger than your own finger. 

You sigh softly when you finally have something to clench around. Simon gives you a sweet kiss to the spot right underneath your belly button in silent praise. He keeps his lidded, brown eyes on your face, watching every little expression you make with rapt attention. 

He slowly and carefully fucks his middle finger into you, feeling the way you slowly relax around him, soaking his skin with your arousal. He smooths his free hand up the length of your body, abandoning your clit to wrap his palm around your breast. You place your own hand over his, encouraging him to squeeze harder. 

“How’s that feel, love?” he asks, still sliding his finger in and out of you.

“Okay…” you reply, keeping your hand over his on your chest, “But it…um…”

“What?” he urges, “Tell me what you feel.”

“I-It feels nice but…” you trail off and he hums, nodding his head.

“Doesn’t feel good?” he finishes for you. You nod your head and he laughs softly, “I know, baby. Jus’ tryin’ to get you used to the feeling and then I’ll make it feel real good, alright?”

“Okay,” you whisper but he can tell you’re not too convinced that it’s going to feel much better.

You’re worried that the same thing is going to happen – it’ll feel really good and then you’re never going to be able to climb over that wall. You hate to imagine disappointing him, failing to get off. You’d hate for him to put all this work in and you just can’t cum in the end. 

“Hey,” he coos, “Get out of your head, pretty. Don’t worry about a thing, alright?”

You take a deep breath and slowly let it out, allowing yourself to relax against the bed again. Simon waits for you to be nice and pliant around his finger before he starts to fit his ring finger alongside it. He catches sight of the furrow in your brow when he stretches you around two of his fingers. It burns but when Simon brings his thumb back to your clit, tapping against the bud, it vanishes. Your thighs twitch and you whimper, walls clenching in time with the little taps until the burning vanishes completely.

“There we are,” he praises, “Knew you could do it, sweetheart.”

“A-Are you gonna add another?” you find yourself asking.

“Later,” he responds, scissoring the two fingers he has snug inside your cunt, “‘M a big man, love. Gonna need you nice and stretched for me.”

You whimper at that, walls clenching around his fingers as he slowly begins to fuck them in and out of you. Your cheeks burn when you hear the loud, squishing noises your hole makes every time he stuffs them back inside. 

After a moment of just getting you used to being stretched on two of his thick digits, he suddenly crooks them up and hits something inside you that makes your back arch. It causes a tingling feeling that you’ve never experienced to heat your tummy every time he touches it.

“Simon!” you squeal, trying to clench your thighs closed but his broad shoulders keep them open, “Th-That feels-!”

“I know, baby,” he coos cockily, grinding his fingertips against that little spot that makes you so gooey and creamy around his fingers, “Feels real good right there, I know.”

Your back arches and your jaw drops. You can’t do anything but moan and cry out as he fucks against that spot. He’s urged on by your sounds of pure pleasure, eyes flicking between where he’s got your pretty cunt spread open and the euphoric expressions you can’t do anything to hide.

It’s so precious, seeing you so open and loud for him. You don’t do anything to hide your sounds of pleasure nor do you even think of faking any of them for his sake. Every little thing you’re feeling, you express, and you can’t help yourself because it’s all so new and so much.

That hot, tingling feeling in your core only intensifies with every experienced stroke of his fingers. Your eyes are rolling back every time he touches that magnificent spot inside you, abusing it with his fingers until your walls are soft and malleable for him again.

And then he brings his index finger into it. He’s even more slow and careful as he fits it in beside the other two fingers. It doesn’t burn like when he had given you his second finger but it’s a certain stretch that simply feels strange. 

He gets you stuffed open on his three fingers, up to the third knuckle. You’re spread so wide and squeeze his fingers so tight that it makes him moan when he thinks about what it will feel like around his cock. 

If you’re this tight around just his fingers then you’re going to feel positively euphoric around him. 

“Simon…” you coo, reaching down to card your fingers through his hair. 

He grunts in acknowledgement, but is unwilling to part his gaze from the sight of the creamy mess you’ve begun to leave on his fingers. Your pretty clit is twitching and so swollen, glistening from your juices and he suddenly has the inescapable desire to wrap his mouth around it. 

You’re not even looking when he decides to do it. It’s like he can’t stop himself. 

All you feel is something wet and hot wrap around the little bud. You practically wail at the feeling of his tongue sliding against it. Your feet kick aimlessly, hitting his back and shoulders as you flail beneath his body. 

You sob his name, yanking harshly on his hair in a way that hurts but he’s not going to stop you. He knows it’s mean to do this, not even warning you or easing you into the feeling before he’s suckling your clit. His tongue slips in circles around it, flicking it with the tip of his tongue. His ears practically ring from how loud you’re crying out for him. 

His three fingers remain buried inside you but he’s hardly able to move them from how tight you’re squeezing them. All he can do is grind his fingers against your g-spot but it only makes your pretty body more twitchy and makes you squirm even more beneath him. He has to hold you down so you can’t get away. 

He doesn’t want your precious pussy to be ripped away from him, your juices are making his taste buds tingle – you taste so damn good. 

That familiar heat begins to grow in your core – one you’ve experienced many times before by yourself. You cry and wail for him, sobbing his name and gripping his hair. 

“S-Si, don’t stop, please, please, please–” you choke on your own cries, slamming your head into the pillows as your back arches painfully hard. 

He grunts lowly, blonde lashes fluttering as he watches your body’s pure, unfiltered reactions to this pleasure. He knows you’re getting close, can feel you clenching around him and your clit pulsing on his tongue in time with your heartbeat. 

You feel yourself reaching that wall, the one you can never overcome. But it feels different this time, the pleasure isn’t slowing. It’s not fading like it always does when you’ve got your own fingers on your bud. 

It always seems to slip out of your grasp by this point.

This is it, you think. You’re going to cum. You’re finally going to fucking cum. 

Then everything stops.

His tongue is gone from your clit and his fingers are nowhere to be found. Simon’s shoulders rise and fall as he watches your face flicker through a range of emotions before your eyes fill with tears and you look at him – utterly pitiful and hopeless.

“Wh-Why…” you finally whisper, tongue feeling heavy in your mouth. 

Your cunt pulses and throbs around nothing, the heat of your orgasm quickly dissipating, leaving that horribly empty and unsatisfying feeling in its wake. 

“Sorry, baby,” he coos, genuine and soft as he leans up to kiss your face, “That was mean, huh? ‘M sorry. Jus’ want you to have your first orgasm on a cock, love.”

That doesn’t do anything to quell your disappointment but you nod anyway, wiping away some stray tears that trickle from your eyes. 

“Please,” you breathlessly whisper, “Please, Simon. Want your cock, please. I-I was so close. It felt so good,” you start babbling, eyes falling to the hard outline of his cock in his jeans, “I wanna cum so bad, Si. Y-You promised. Please, just give me your cock. Please? Please? Simon!”

Simon’s mouth goes dry as he hears your babbled begging. Fuck, you’re absolutely aching for it. All you can think about is cumming. He never thought he’d get to hear you beg for him like this, so pathetically. You should be embarrassed, begging for cock like this when you’ve only just now gotten your first taste of being stretched open. Yet here you are fuckin’ crying for it.

His cock drools pre down his thigh, he can feel how wet his boxers have become from how much he’s leaking it. He’s aching in his jeans – he can’t pretend he doesn’t want it just as badly as you do.

“Shit, alright!” he snarls, wrapping a hand around your throat to force you to look at him. You gasp at the rough treatment, “Jus’ shut up and I’ll give it to you, yeah?”

You obediently nod your head, still staring up at him with those wide, teary eyes. He tries to act like his hands aren’t fucking trembling when he yanks his belt off. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this needy – this excited to get his cock inside a pussy. 

But it’s you. You’re special. 

He loves you. This isn’t like the one night stands and hookups he’s had in the past. This is different. 

He feels like a fumbling teenager the way he clumsily yanks his belt out of the loops and shoves his jeans down his thighs along with his underwear. His cock, big and heavy, hangs under its own weight – it never slaps up against his stomach. He wasn’t just chatting shit when he said he was a big guy. 

He wrapped his hand around himself, giving it a few, firm tugs. He feels your eyes on him, watching the way he touches himself and it sends heat through him. He scoots closer to you again, pulling back his foreskin to show the fat, leaky head that he meanly taps against your clit. 

You gasp a cute little ‘ah!’ when he does that brings a smile to his face. He can’t say he’s the best lay for a virgin because he’s so big and he’s a brute – it’s in his nature. But he’s trying his best for you. 

“Alright, baby,” he coos, leaning on one forearm above your head, draping his big body over yours. He easily manhandles you into position, caging your knees against your chest and wrapping himself around you, “Just relax for me, hm? Can you do that f’me?”

You nod your head and shakily put your hands on his shoulders, cupping his jaw to bring him down to kiss you. He sighs into your lips, using his free hang to grip the base of his cock, prodding against your hole. You’re so slippery that it slides out of you and slips up your clit. You whimper at the feeling, thighs twitching at the stimulation. 

When he finally starts to press inside, your nails bite into his shoulders. It stings – it hurts. He’s so big, making your poor little cunt burn the deeper he presses himself. The head pops in and your hips jump at the feeling, his cock slipping back out. 

He huffs, dropping his forehead against your shoulder, “Fuck, sit still.”

“S-Sorry!” you whimper, “I’m sorry!”

“Shh,” he sighs, kissing your cheek, “‘S okay, baby. Hurts, huh?”

“A little,” you whimper, trying to downplay it so he won’t stop.

He hums and presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth. He knows that working an orgasm out of you before making you take his cock would be the nice thing to do but he’s selfish. He wants to feel your orgasm around his cock – where you deserve to have it. 

It’s your very first orgasm after all. It needs to be good and he knows he can make it real good once he can get you speared on his cock. 

So he grips himself again, sitting up for just a moment to lewdly spit on your pussy. It hits your clit and trickles down where he catches it with the head of his cock. He leans over your body and starts to push in again. This time he tucks his arms under your shoulders and pins you impossibly against him, leaving you with nowhere to run when he starts to press into you. 

You whimper, feet kicking against his back when he pushes deeper than before – past the head. He knows it hurts, you’re stretched beyond your limit and he waits with bated breath for you to say the word and tell him to stop. 

But you don’t. 

You just grapple your arms around his waist and dig your nails in. His skin is sweaty by now and it makes getting any purchase on him difficult. You let out a watery little whimper that has him freezing. You’re speared on half his cock when he finally looks at you. 

Your eyes are teary and they slowly drip down your cheeks.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks, brushing some away with his thumb.

You immediately shake your head, no hesitation, “No! K-Keep goin’, Si.”

“Don’t cry, pretty,” he shushes, keeping his grip under your shoulders and his hips pinned firmly against yours so you can’t squirm when he starts pressing in again. Your mouth opens in a silent gasp, eyes fluttering from the ache that settles where he’s stretching you wide, “‘S okay, just take a deep breath. ‘M almost in, love, you’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me. Takin’ all of my cock so deep, just like you deserve. Hear me? This cock s’all yours now, yeah? Can have it whenever you need it.”

Your walls spasm around his cock as he talks, making him groan low in his chest. He’s almost there, can feel his balls starting to tap against you the deeper he gets until finally, his hips meet yours and you wail. 

He prods painfully against your cervix and he knows that it’s uncomfortable but he’s not willing to pull back just yet. He needs you to get used to being stretched and stuffed full of every inch of him. He takes care to do slow, gentle grinds, his pelvis catching your clit that eventually makes you relax. 

“That’s it,” he praises, “Just relax and let me make you feel good.”

He finally eases off of you, balancing his weight on his forearms on either side of your head, hovering over you. He slowly pulls his hips back, watching you slump against the bed when he finally stops pressing on your cervix. 

He finally starts fucking you, sliding his cock out just a bit before rolling his hips forward again. It's slow and soft, just testing the waters and getting you used to this new stimulation. 

It feels entirely different from his fingers. His cock is bigger, fills you so much more, touches deeper. 

His cock reaches spots deep inside you that his fingers didn’t even reach. But he’s permanently pressing against that spot his fingers were torturing. It feels so fucking good. 

Simon can see the way your eyes roll back as he carefully fucks you. Your first cock and you’re taking it so damn well. It makes him want to see how much more you can take but he knows he needs to ease you into it, he doesn't want to overwhelm you.

“Si…” you sigh softly, blinking as you struggle not to float off and become drunk with pleasure. 

“I know, pretty,” he coos, kissing your cheek before leaning back on his heels, fastening the thrusts of his hips. 

You can’t keep quiet now, mouth falling open to let out the most precious sounds of pure pleasure. You’re staring at him with wide eyes, like he’s hung the moon and stars in the sky just for you. His cock fucking throbs at the look of wonder that crosses your face. He knows you’re getting close, can feel how tight you’re clamping around him and he can see how much you’re creaming around him – making a mess at the base of his cock and in the thatch of curls there. 

“You gonna cum?” he coos, grinning when you shake your head, “Of course you are. I can fuckin’ feel it, baby. Know you got one for me, go ahead. Cum on my cock real nice, c’mon.”

“C-Can’t,” you whimper. It’s too much. You’re so wet. It’s fucking messy but you feel yourself at that damn wall, hanging on a thread and waiting for euphoria to come but it doesn’t, “Please! Simon! Please, I-I can’t! Please, please, please…”

“Fuck,” his hisses when he hears you begging to cum on his cock, “Come on then, baby. You can do it. Just let it go, let me fuck it outta you.”

You toss your head back into the pillows as a sob is ripped from your chest. As if he can sense how much you’re struggling, he brings his thumb down to press against your clit. Your eyes fucking roll, only the whites of them visible. You clench down around him like a vice and it only takes a couple little swipes of his thumb for you to tumble over the edge. 

It feels unlike anything you could have ever imagined. Pleasure soars through you and your hearing cuts out. It feels like you lose control of your body, unable to do anything but thrash and twitch as he fucks you through it. You’re not sure if you would prefer him to stop or keep going because it’s all so fucking much that it hurts. 

You’re gushing around him, drenching his cock in sticky, creamy cum that drips in thick strings down his balls. Holy fuck.

It feels like hours that you’re speared on his cock, cumming and cumming before it finally leaves you and you collapse against the bed. You’re still twitching, entire body shivering until he finally slows his thrusts to soft little rolls of his hips. He takes his thumb off of your clit and you’re thankful because it was starting to become unpleasant. 

You swallow despite how dry your mouth is, eyes finally focusing on him. His brows are furrowed and his bottom lip is tucked into his mouth. Pretty, brown eyes are locked on you and you suddenly feel shy. 

Had he been watching you the whole time? You hoped you didn’t make any ugly faces or embarrassing noises. 

“Fuck,” he coos, seemingly sensing your shame, “That was a fuckin’ orgasm, love.”

You’re panting, you realize. And you’re tired. You’ve never felt more relaxed in your life. 

All you can think is that you’ve been missing out on that your whole life? Now you’re not sure you’ll be able to even live without it ever again. 

Simon’s hands cup under your knees and pin them to your chest. You gasp as he bends you as he sees fit. You’re limp, so completely drunk on the pleasure you just experienced that you simply let him. 

But you realize he’s even deeper like this – and it doesn’t hurt like it did before. He’s pressing against your back wall and it actually feels good. You feel so sensitive inside, like you can feel every twitch of his cock. 

He’s still languidly dragging his cock in and out of you. It’s a fucking mess between your legs, you’ve cum so fucking much that it’s everywhere. He’s never been covered like this before and it’s fucking hot. 

Your cum sticks between the two of you in little strings that break and reform every time his hips meet and leave yours. Your little clit is puffy and swollen from your orgasm and he wants to press his thumb against it again but he knows the poor little thing is much too sensitive still. 

Your legs flop uselessly as he fucks you, eases you past overstimulation until you’re sweetly cooing for him again. He takes that chance to fuck you properly again, intent on finding his own orgasm deep in your cunt. 

His heavy balls slap against your ass. He wants to cum. He plans to make himself cum like this, just using your pretty pussy. But then he sees your eyes widen again and your lips part almost curiously and his eyes narrow.

“You feel it again, huh, sweetheart?” he goads, shifting his weight on his knees so his hips are pressed even closer to yours. 

“C-Can’t,” you whisper, the same thing you had before. But it’s different now, “W-Won’t be able to, Si.”

“S that a challenge, love?” he teases, a crooked little smile on his face. You sleepily shake your head, “Hmm, I think I can fuck another one out of you. One orgasm won’t be enough, two is a good number for now. Until I train this little cunt to cum for me all night long.”

You whimper, reaching out the claw at his forearms where he pins your knees to your chest. You’re held so uselessly open, cunt completely vulnerable to his fat cock stuffing you full. His pelvis hits your clit in a way that makes the little bud tingle and your cunt clenches pathetically around him with every thrust he gives you. 

Sweet little ‘ah, ah, ah’s’ are punched from your lungs every time he sinks completely inside. He’s gripping your knees harshly, squeezing where he has a grip as his own orgasm starts to creep up on him but he’s going to give you another orgasm. He has to make you cum again, to see you lost in pleasure like that once more. He knows that will push him over the edge, give him what he needs. He wants to cum with you, fill you up while you’re in the throes of pure pleasure that only he has ever given you. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he gasps, fighting the feeling of his own eyes rolling back in favor of watching you. 

He loves the way you wear everything you feel on your face. From the looks of wonder when it feels really good to the little rolls of your eyes when he makes it hurt just a bit. It’s so cute. 

Makes him want to play around with that little part of you – be a little mean to you. 

“Cum,” he growls, fighting his own orgasm down, “Fuckin’ cum right now.”

“I can’t!” you wail, kicking against his hold on your knees, pressing down to spread you open even further. 

His hips slam against yours, loud slaps and slick noises of your gooey cunt filling his ears, “You can. You will. Cum, sweetheart. You better fuckin’ cum.”

But you shake your head. It’s so close, you can feel it. It’s creeping up on you and you want it so bad. You want to feel that pleasure again. But you’re not even sure you’re going to be able to cum again, it feels so much more sensitive than before. It’s too much. 

Simon bares his teeth, letting go of one of your legs to drift between your thighs. Your eyes widen, you think he’s going to rub it again – it’s so sensitive that you’re not sure you’ll be able to take it. 

But instead, he does something else.

You hear it before you feel it, a soft little slap followed by the feeling of being electrocuted. Simon watches you with lidded eyes to see how you react. Just like he expected, you wail and your body gives a mean twitch at the impact. 

So he does it again. 

And again. 

And again.

Not too hard, just enough for it to hurt a little bit. A sting against a terribly sensitive little bud. It’s mean – he’s mean. But he can’t fucking help it. 

He needs you to cum for him again.

“Cum,” he snarls, giving your clit another slap.

As if on command, it sends you over the edge. Your legs kick out and he has to abandon your clit to hold you down, pinning you harshly to the bed as he uses all his weight to fuck down into your spasming little cunt. You’re cumming so hard around him that you stop breathing. He hears the hitch of breath and doesn’t hear the exhale. All you do is lay there, cry for him and cum.

He finds his end just as violently, tossing his head back to moan into the room as cum erupts from his cock. His thrusts grow sloppy as he milks the orgasm out of himself, voice breaking as he whimpers from how fucking good it feels. 

Like no orgasm he’s ever experienced. It’s like he can’t stop cumming, filling you up so much that it oozes out from around his cock. 

You’re trembling underneath him when he finally comes down, tearfully gazing up at him with your mouth agape, struggling to catch your breath.

“N-No more,” you pathetically whimper, legs twitching from the aftershocks, “C-Can’t take anymore, Si.”

“Shh,” he shushes, letting your legs go so you can relax comfortably as he pulls his cock from your pussy.

It’s twitching and clenching sporadically, still coming down from your orgasm. It makes his cum drip out of your cunt, a mess that spreads to the already messy sheets. Your cum and his mix together to make a sticky, gooey mess that makes his mouth water. He wants to eat it up, stuff his tongue into your tight little hole and swallow it all down. 

But he can’t. Maybe next time, he vows.

His cock gives a valiant kick at the thought of getting to do this again. He sits on his heels, gazing at his messy cock as if softens. He feels dazed, almost drunk. 

Then he hears the softest little sniffle from you and his eyes snap up to your face to find your crumpled expression and tears falling down your face. You cover your face with your hands and earnestly begin to cry.

“Hey, it’s alright, love,” he coos, laying beside you to tuck you into his chest.

“I-I don’t know why I’m crying,” you sob, wrapping your arms around his waist as you cry into him. 

“It happens,” he assures, “It was a lot and you’re just a little overwhelmed s’all. Just let it out, baby.”

And you do, weakly sobbing into his chest until it feels like you can’t cry anymore. He holds you through it all, rubbing your back and cooing sweet nothings in your ear until you grow silent. 

“Alright, love?” he asks.

“S-Sorry, Si,” you sniffle, finally pulling out of the spot in his arms you were hiding in, “I-I don’t want you to think I didn’t want it or that it was bad. I just…”

He gives you a soft smile, leaning forward to kiss you. It’s short and sweet, “I don’t think that. Like I said, it happens. Sometimes people just cry after sex, nothin’ to worry about.”

“Are you sure?” you sniffle, wiping your cheeks dry when the tears finally stop.

“Positive,” he sits up, “Let’s get cleaned up, alright? We need to change the damn sheets, fuckin’ hell.”

You giggle as you look down at the sheets where a very visible dark spot is sitting where you once laid. You don’t even have time to be embarrassed before he’s swooping you off of the bed and escorting you to the bathroom.

It’s too small for both of you to fit but you make it work. He wipes you down with a warm cloth before hopping into the shower to rinse and clean himself before he gets out and lets you do the same. While you do that, he changes the bedding completely and replaces it with new sheets and blankets for the two of you to sleep in together. 

When you finally stumble into the bedroom, he wraps his arms around you and urges you onto the bed. You giggle as you flop onto the bed before he crawls in after you and covers the both of you up, wrapping himself around you until you’re tucked securely against him. 

“I take it you liked it?” he finally whispers.

You shyly nod, “I-It was um…fun.”

“Felt real good, huh?” he teases, grinning wolfishly when you whimper.

“Y-Yeah,” you whisper, “It felt really good. I already want to do it again.”

Simon groans, hugging you tightly before shaking his head, “You’re gonna be insatiable. Gonna give my cock a run for its money.”

You giggle, affectionately petting his hair before he looks at you with the softest expression you’ve ever seen. It’s like his eyes are sparkling in the low light of the bedroom. He leans forward and ever so softly kisses your forehead, then your nose, before he reaches your lips. He pecks them softly, pulling back for just a second before he kisses you again. 

“I love you,” he whispers, so soft that you almost miss it. 

And your heart begins to race. You almost struggle to find the words to reciprocate. But when you do, he smiles and tucks you against him again, big arms wrapped around you like a bear hug.

It’s almost surreal. You can’t believe you’re here after everything – with him. 

Like you’ve dreamed your whole life, he loves you just like you love him. 

PART ONE.

do not modify, translate, or repost

[honorary-knight-of-favonius]

Kinktober

Hello everyone! As most of you may know I haven't been all that active recently due to personal projects, school, and work. I apologize for disappearing so suddenly but I'm here to announce I will be participating in KinkTober!!!

This is my list:

Albedo 

Oct 1st- Orgasm Denial, Toys - Sometimes Experiments test your limits

Oct 28- Threesome (With himself), Revenge sex  - Perhaps Limits should be pushed more often. . .they lead to the sweetest kind of revenge

Al Haitham

Oct 2nd- Voyeurism, Bulge (Al Haitham!Sub) - You and your 'old ass' husband decided to something rather risky in public while your husband thanks his wife is receiving his it actual seems he was wrong and his lovely wife fucked him instead.

Ayato

Oct 3rd- Lap Dance, face sitting - The Yakuza boss has only ever fallen for one woman. He would let her get away with anything as long as she was his. With ease he now has the woman in his grasp.

Baizhu

Oct 4th- Body Worshiping, Medical (Baizhu!Dom) - As she meets a doctor that not only helps her medically but sexually she instantly choses that maybe this doctor can heal her heart.

Oct 29- CNC, Lingerie (Baizhu!Switch) - In desperate need for another model after one ditched and left you high and dry you ask your coordinator to provide some much needed assistance in exchange for a want of his.

Childe

Oct 5th- Degradation, Pain kink - Sometime digging your claws into the back of the person pissing you off is the best course of action even if it isn't the most ethical

Cyno

Oct 6- Shower sex, Professor/Tutor - Having to harshly accept something the tan boy would never even think to question somehow lead to him and his girlfriend together in a steamy shower.

Dainsleif

Oct 7th- Polaroids, Solo - He despises the get out of jail free card as he is forced to endure the relentless horniness; yet he desperately needs the release even if the means our humiliating

Oct 27- Chasity Cage, Ruined Orgasms

Diluc

Oct 8th- Car sex, getting caught - Perhaps he should've waited until he got home, maybe if he did he wouldn't have been embarrassed and lost the only contact with the person he was head over heels for but at last he didn't. . .

Oct 26- Sensory Deprivation, Heat play - He needed to apologize he needed to get back in her good graces. He'd do anything to hear her voice, to see her, fuck even feel her. He was going insane but thankfully his insanity paid off.

Dottore

Oct 9- Hate sex, Humilation - After leaving her humilated one to many times she finally gets her revenge.

Enjou

Oct 31- Monster fucking, ice play - Sometimes the monster under the bed needs to be satisfide too.

Eremite

Oct 11 - Gangbang, Freeuse (Eremite!Dom) - As a doctor it is their job to make sure all of their patients are satisfied with their care, regardless of what type of care it is.

Fatui (Pyro Gunslinger)

Oct 12-  Gloryhole, vanilla (Fatui!Dom) - Despite not wanting to go to the gloryhole but the moment she is being fucked by some random stranger who gave her, his number it was clear she was going to enjoy this place a lot more from now on.

Gorou

Oct 13- Virgin, Dry humping (Gorou!Sub) - Neither of them suspected they'd have any fun at a club until they met each other and took the time to have some fun. Giving the opportunity for more fun in the future.

Itto

Oct 14- Breeding, Restraints - Breeding season for Kitsune is the a very bad time for the meathead Oni but at least he had guidance this time around.

Kaeya 

Oct 15- Roleplay, Strength kink  - Some people need to take the hint rather than disturb his boss and his lover.

Kazuha

Oct 16- Bondage, make-up sex -

Nobushi

Oct 17- Praise, Dumfication -

Pantalone

Oct 18- Sex tape, Squirting (Pantalone!Dom) - Being able to sexually express yourself to your partner often times lead to unimaginable kinds of orgasms

Oct 30- Streaming, Hand kink (Pantalone!Sub) - Pantalone is being punished for being a brat by his Mistress on camera allowing his viewers to see him being edged until he breaks and asks forgiveness having his mistress join the livestream as he finally cums.

Pierro

Oct 19- Fingering, Cheating (Pierro!Dom) - Did she really come for the traditions or did she come her for the potential of pleasure from a man she could never get until now?

Scaramouche

Oct 20-  Marking, Somnophila - Payback is truly a bitch sometimes.

Thoma

Oct 21- Rough sex, Choking (Thoma!Dom) - While Thoma is normally a happy-go-lucky person having someone flirt and feel up his soon to be husband drives him mad so mad he takes it out on his husband in a very welcomed sexual way.

Oct 10- Mirror, Edging (Thoma!Sub) - Being possessive and having a kind husband that treats everyone kindly is one of the worst combos but in this sense a combo that they adore.

Tighnari

Oct 22- Aphrodisiacs, Thigh riding - Perhaps he might've pushed himself to his limits this time. . . luckily he has his boyfriend to care for him.

Venti

Oct 23- Moring sex, lazy sex - Sometimes being lazy is the best remedy after having the person you've been missing dearly

Xiao

Oct 24- Demon, Collaring - Claiming an Incubus comes with many perks, at least when you know you've claimed one for yourself.

Zhongli

Oct 25- Teasing, Cockwarming  - All he wanted was to join a social gathering among co-workers but little did he know his partner and boss was keen on making sure his attention was on them, and them alone.

I will also add a taglist for the Kinktober entries as a sort of test phase. I'll be using this to see if having a permeant taglist is something I'd liked to do and I'll see the response you guys give it so this is the Taglist:

@stygianoir @yunadxd

[frostedfaves]

Naive (4)

Masterlist

Pairing: demon!Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Summary: Wanda decides to share more of herself and her intentions with you.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, dark!fic, demon things™️, dom/sub dynamic (may or may not have thrown the word ‘pet’ in there), a bit of traumatic background/villain origin story, smut: finger (claw) fucking, tongue fucking, brief handcuff use, oh and squirting’s implied at one point

A/N: hi yeah okay so I know I was supposed to post some other stuff first but I literally haven’t updated this since end of August and someone asked for demon!Wanda during halloween...anyway I finally was able to make something coherent from my notes on this part and I hope it was worth the wait lmao

**edit: forgot to say a huge thank you to @lovelyladyships. one of her brilliant ideas made it into the smut (it was the finger/claw fucking)**

Previous part

-

It seems as if every single one of your bones came to the agreement that you were too scared to move, your feet glued to the ground despite the possibility of your shaky legs failing you at any moment. You don’t know how else to respond to seeing Wanda’s true form, her overall appearance the same with a few modifications.

Thick, dark horns grow from within her hair, upward and out to either side. A tail fitting a similar description is positioned behind her back, seemingly the length of two people of average height (or more) but resting in a loosely coiled formation to keep it close. Her eyes that are steadily focused on yours without a single blink resemble rubies on fire, and you almost don’t notice the claws on her fingers until she reaches for you.

“Don’t touch me,” you’re able to get out in time for her to stop, your relief only short lived as she pulls you close with her tail seconds later. 

“I know you’re scared; I can hear it in your heartbeat and your breathing,” she tells you with her glowing eyes scanning you. “But you don’t have to fear me, just respect that I’m in charge.”

“I want to go home,” you whimper and she sighs.

“What’s in your home that you can’t have here?” Wanda places her hands on either side of your neck, her thumb nails lightly scratching your jaw. “You don’t like being underground? That’s what my apartment is for. We can visit it to get some air.”

“You want me to live here?!”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Wanda frowns, her grip slightly tightening. “You’re mine now.”

“You can’t decide that for me.”

“I decide everything for you. I wanted you so I have you now.”

Wanda shifts to wrap one hand around your neck, using the grip to force you to walk backwards into another room, and you’re almost not surprised when she shoves you onto a large bed.

“This isn’t something you have to be scared of,” she attempts to assure you, climbing onto the mattress to hover above you. “Being mine is an honor that any other little human would be begging me to have.”

“Then why not take another ‘little human’.”

“Because I want you!” Wanda growls at a very intense volume, her hand squeezing your throat again as she leans closer to your face. “You’ve already proven yourself to be one of a kind, a treasure in my eyes. You’re the first person I’ve felt comfortable enough to show my true identity to beyond scaring a stranger for temporary enjoyment. Perhaps I assumed incorrectly that you could handle this.”

“Wanda…”

You sigh as you take a moment to study her features, able to see the vulnerability she dares to share with you despite feeling intimidated by her actions. You find yourself freeing a hand from between her legs used to cage you in, and a smile creeps onto your face when she leans into your careful touch on her cheek.

“I admit that this is a lot to discover all at once, but I don’t see you very differently because of how you actually look. What scares me most is the way you want to control so much of me so soon. It’s overwhelming.”

“You seemed receptive to it before,” Wanda replies while removing her hand from your throat and instead using it to cover yours on her face.

“Well I love sexual dominance, but I’ve never really had much more than that. I’d like to explore it but I’d also like to be treated with enough respect that you’ll talk to me before you just try changing something so drastically.”

“I guess I just assumed with my advantages and just knowing what I know of your federal government that all humans wanted every decision made for them.” Wanda pulls your hand away from her face for just a moment to kiss your palm. “I want to use my power to keep you safe, and give you everything you desire as long as you behave. I also must confess that as much as I like cats, I just used visiting the adoption center as an excuse to see you again. I was really only expecting to get one cute little pet today.”

“Oh.”

You grow silent as Wanda’s other hand moves to your neck, her claws lightly tracing along the base of it and suddenly meeting your eyes again with a smirk.

“How do you feel about a collar?”

“You want to collar me?” A grin forms on your own lips as you consider the idea.

“You seem interested.”

“I think I am.”

Wanda climbs off the bed without warning, grabbing your ankles to drag your legs over the edge. You take the hint and sit up as she walks over to a wooden box, pressing one of her rings against the lock to open it and remove a golden collar before returning to stand in front of you. The light reflects in the rubies set in the collar and the red lettering etched into the solid gold pendant that reads “Wanda’s kitten”.

“Have you always had that?”

“Yes, but I added the words after meeting you. The title fits you.” She brings the collar around your neck and fastens it quickly, watching as you touch the cold metal that’s surprisingly warm against your skin. “Let me know if that’s too tight; only I can adjust it.”

“Wait, what if I want to take it off while I’m away?”

“You’re only leaving here when I want you to.”

She’s on top of you again before you can register her words, alternating between kissing your lips and neck, and you find yourself thrusting your hips against her as soon as her thigh slips between your legs.

“It’s a shame that you can’t finger me now,” you tease, frowning when she pulls away to give you a confused glance. “What? Your claws are too sharp; you can’t do it.”

Something changes in her eyes as she shifts above you, yanking your pants and underwear completely off and returning to sit between your legs. She uses the longest claw on her middle finger to trace a light circle around your clit, bringing her free arm to hold your squirming form down by the waist before easing a finger inside you.

“Ow, ow!” you cry out and she pauses, giving you a look as she does so. “Okay, you proved your point! Please take it out; it hurts.”

She removes her finger just as carefully and licks it clean before using that same hand to deliver a slap to your pussy, seemingly pleased with the sound you make in response.

“Don’t ever tell me I can’t do something because I will prove you wrong.”

Wanda instructs you to scoot closer to the headboard so she can cuff you to the bars, lying on her stomach between your legs next and wrapping her arms around your thighs once she’s comfortable.

“Now I normally wouldn’t reward you for being bratty and challenging me, but I really do enjoy your perfect moans too much to not try this. Next time you won’t get off so easily.”

You watch as her eyes seem to brighten even more, and just when you consider asking what she’s up to, her tongue extends from her mouth, bigger and longer than you’ve ever seen. The tip of it teases your clit again, causing you to let out a small moan that grows louder as she forces her way inside. Your back arches off the bed as she fucks you roughly with the large muscle, her hands sliding along your torso to push your shirt and sports bra up and find your nipples, rubbing and pulling at them while she thrusts into you as deeply as you can take her.

“W-Wanda I’m getting close,” you call out breathlessly, feeling nearly every part of your body tense in preparation for the strong orgasm she was pushing you toward.

“Cum for me, kitten” you hear a whisper that seems to come from your own thoughts in Wanda’s tone, and you feel yourself beginning to relax just as you reach your peak. You stop moaning and just scream as the feeling hits you, tensing up again through each wave and shuddering as Wanda slowly removes her tongue that’s now covered in your cum. She curls it to keep from making a mess until she’s able to slide some of it into your mouth, and you take the hint to clean as much as you can until she pulls away, taking what’s left to taste herself.

“I didn’t expect you to be a screamer,” she laughs, and you catch sight of her tongue back to ‘normal’ before she kisses you again.

“I don’t think I have before.”

-

You’re resting in Wanda’s arms a few hours later, feeling yourself drifting off at the feeling of her tail carefully rubbing your back, but you fight it as a thought comes to you suddenly.

“Wanda?”

“Yes, kitten?” She drops her head to meet your gaze and you continue nervously.

“You said that if I knew your family, I’d understand why there were no pictures of them there. Why don’t you like them? Are they demons too?” 

“No, they weren’t.” Her expression hardens and you almost consider dropping it until she continues with a sigh, averting her gaze. “I wasn’t technically born as a demon, just turned into one.”

“What?! How did that happen?”

“My mother cheated on my father as soon as she could have sex again after birthing me. He didn’t know for a long time but her friends did, and she blamed it on postpartum depression so they wouldn’t hate her.” She lets out a chuckle completely lacking in amusement. “I would’ve hated her even more for using that excuse.”

Wanda’s eyes land on you again.

“Be a good girl and grab a bottle of vodka from the bar. I’ll need it if I’m going to tell you any more.”

You hurry off the bed and into the other room as instructed, rounding the bar counter to grab one of many vodka bottles before returning to your place in her arms. She takes a long gulp and you think she’s handing it to you but she simply shakes her head, insisting it’s too strong for you.

“The man she cheated with was in some cult that was dedicated to learning demonic rituals for their own gain, which she ended up joining and ultimately being the first person bold enough and greedy enough to try one. Her side piece gathered all the materials for her the day before, assuming she was going to perform it on my father, so imagine his surprise when he comes over and sees her six-year-old daughter asleep in the middle of all the candles.”

“Did he help her do that to you?!” you ask while sitting up a bit, but Wanda pushes you back down with a shake of her head.

“He was going to tell the police so she killed him before she got started, then got my father’s help hiding his body later by drafting some story of finding him in the basement performing a ritual on me and him confessing to stalking me before she killed him in a fit of rage. Sounds like shit straight out of a movie, right?”

“That’s awful,” you respond with a sigh, lacing your fingers with hers from the hand that wasn’t holding alcohol. “So does that mean you’re possessed?”

“No. I was given power from another demon that looked kinda like this all the time. She saw humans as disposable business partners but refused to live among them; only appeared when she was summoned and only accepted deals that included a large gain for her as well.”

“Do you still talk to her?”

“No. I gained independence from her as soon as I found out why I was being stolen in the middle of the night to do unexplainable things, all so my mother could be endlessly wealthy and famous from a few shitty songs.”

“How did you get your independence?”

“By fighting for it.”

“Oh.” You waited a moment for Wanda to continue, not very surprised when she doesn’t go into further detail. “So where are your parents now?”

“Alright, kitten.” Wanda places the half empty vodka bottle on the nightstand and tightens her grip on you. “I think it’s time for you to nap. Rest now for me.”

You want to sit up and object but your eyelids close without a bit of resistance, your body relaxing under her touch and her quiet singing lulling you into slumber.

[laurelnose]

GOD. See the problem is both of these games are almost trivially simple to mod from a technical standpoint but then you immediately run face first into step 2 which is “write like alexis kennedy” 😩

LITERALLYYYYY like I wanted so badly to hosta bunch of parties with real “woke up this morning and chose violence” seating charts ft Magus Wordy Bastard himself. I’m being TEASED, the games keep dangling the most magnificent apostate before me and then not letting me talk to him. This exchange from Arthur and Corso fucking killed me:

Corso and Arthur have, it seems, been corresponding clumsily in half-learnt Ericapaean. Arthur has made more progress: he explains, very quietly, that he has had help from Julian Coseley. ‘Is he actually alive?’ Corso asks sceptically. ‘Alive? What's alive?’ responds Arthur. ‘Is the Empire alive?’

WYM YOU GUYS ARE GETTING TO HANG OUT WITH COSELEY AND I’M NOT. SHUT UP FOREVER ARTHUR.

as the one (1) Julian/Christopher truther on AO3, in a kinder History I also specifically get to 1) get his take on the reembodiment of Teresa and 2) force him to sit next to Strathcoyne and listen to the passive aggression. so Fraser, talked to Chris lately? no? damn is it cold in this dining room or is it just me

i have been scratching and clawing at the post office door over the Nowhere thing since BoH came out. I fell in love with Coseley when he tried to kill me back when all we knew was that he was an Obliviate and a Worm of Worms and thus against the hegemony of the Hours, and then BoH went and was like Oh btw. He used to be a Long of the Sun-in-Rags :) and he’s involved with Snow now :)))

#still on team 'the cultist is pretty competent' over here though #there are not so many long that I think any of them could be idiots #weird as hell: yes. basically a requirement. #but I have ran enough larp to know that running a cult would be a hell of a lot of work

[going to write this out just bc I’ve been thinking about it; don’t mind me if you’ve already connected these dots yourself. there are only three Hours that Coseley is associated with by name: tangentially with the Elegiast as an Obliviate, and directly with both the Sun-in-Rags and the Nowhere-Hour Snow. The Librarian mentions that Coseley’s Hour has promised him a “beautiful ending;” this is a phrase exclusively associated with the Sun-in-Rags, suggesting that’s who Coseley’s original patron Hour was. The reconstitution of the Sun-in-Splendour from the Sun-in-Rags and his siblings and the ensuing eternal rule of the Gods-from-Light is the primary aim of Birds of a Feather, the direct political enemies of Worms. Meaning that at some point, Coseley publicly turned from the Sun-in-Rags to the Elegiast, the keeper of the memory of the Hours cast to Nowhere, allying himself with worms over birds, while secretly also receiving the patronage of Snow, the Nowhere-Hour whose technique is to cage the Sun. There will be no Second Dawn. This is like!! the most direct possible betrayal of an Hour possible!!!! But how and why did he change his mind? Julian doesn’t really seem subtle enough to have played such a long game that he was always a Worm and just looking for an Hour to ascend to immortality under. But it does seem like it happened slowly, or that he tried to keep it under wraps, since Hersault is described as growing “suspicious”. What was the final straw? What altered Julian’s conclusions about this?! I HAVE QUESTIONS.]

yeah, it’s been funny to watch but I do think the fandom swung a bit too hard against the Cultist. It feels a little bit like ... belated snobbery? Book of Hours had us realize that there was an entire network of established occultists, even more so than the ones the Cultist briefly brushes up against. Occultists with reputations, resources, and institutions. (Exile should have made this pretty obvious with the Blackwood encounter at the Invisible Serapeum, but I get the impression that a lot of people bounced off of Exile and the general aura of mob violence is obscuratory anyways.) Compared to those who get to access the resources safeguarded by the Watchman’s Tree, the Cultist is a fool stumbling around in the dark reinventing the wheel for no reason. But of course you can’t make it to Longhood, let alone Namehood, being a total idiot.

Some people also seem to think the Librarian’s experience indicates that even though they haven’t been granted access to the higher institutes of the Know, the Cultist could have obtained real friends and allies in the occult world if they weren’t so wrapped up in their own self-centered loop of despair and fascination. I do think the Cultist is highly self-centered and suffering from some amount of paranoia slash megalomania, but... ehh, considering they start from nothing, they actually do all right for themselves in terms of networking in most legacies—the Dancer is particularly well-connected, being personally sponsored by both Sulochana and Agdistis. Plus, occultists aren’t really known for being welcoming: there are a finite number of positions in the occult world, and the gatekeeping is fierce. (I’m looking at you, Julian “No more Names” Coseley, beloved.) The Cultist, lacking support and experience, can’t trust most of the people they meet. We can’t all be former Hooded Princes in sexy scholarly exile or whatever the fuck Arun is doing. Even Christopher, who has one of the most “nobody” backstories in the Histories, is where he is in no small part due to Fraser. Meanwhile the Librarian gets to be cozy with the Detective Illuminates and the Ligeians alike because they occupy a position that is both uniquely neutral and tremendously powerful. (The position of Librarian is sufficient to protect a child of the Crime of the Sky!) Seems to me that the difference is less that the Cultist is an inherently socially dysfunctional person and more that the Librarian can afford not to treat people like objects. People aren’t trying to murder the Librarian!

i saw an essay when Book of Hours came out that said the Librarian was different from the Cultist because the Cultist has no friends and is just holed up somewhere pursuing higher mysteries while using people as ritual parts, while the Librarian is a member of the community at Brancrug. (It was hilarious how fast BoH swung the fandom consensus on the Cultist from “they’re pretty competent” to “oh the Cultist is a fucking idiot,” lmfao.) anyways uhh they’re right but since House of Light came out I have realized that I like playing BoH exactly the same way I play CS, which is to say I hole up in my big weird house for days on end shuffling my card decks and forgetting other people exist, only to be unpleasantly surprised when the season changes and someone shows up at my door. community what community. The Deep Mysteries need to be shelved.

[very mild, largely mechanical House of Light spoilers to follow]

salons are pretty fun once you’ve got enough resources to not feel squeezed about them though. They take a lot of prep and you have to time your invitations correctly so that your visitors arrive while you’re still flush with soul, but I do enjoy the conversation with the guests. and it does feel nice to be able to write to visitors, even if I’m not doing it very often. like the Librarian really is connected to the outside world and not just hopelessly unmoored from other people at Hush House, at the mercy of whoever randomly bothers to make the trek out to Brancrug. I’m still spending most of my money on Unusual Help and haven’t been able to budget much for dishes but I’m almost done unlocking the House and will soon be able to buy much more food. I like that lessons are now functionally infinite and I don’t have to worry about trying to get the timing right for Numa lessons anymore. I’ve not done a lot of incident follow-up (Spencer is coming next Numa and he will be my first) but I think I shall have to prioritize doing more of them. And I shall have to find out if my Numa incident can be followed up on too, once it concludes.

[“how have you been playing for a week and still haven’t concluded any incidents” I am BEING ANTISOCIAL, as previously established.]

i am so sad that Numa visitors don’t leave calling cards. I understand why but the only thing I really wanted from the visitors update was the ability to make Julian Coseley show up whenever I want. 😭 Can you host a salon during Numa if you are careful with your invitation timing?? I will have to check if the Numa guests have food preference aspects.

two final things. 1) please let me buy eggs oh my god. eggs require three soul cards (collect vegetable sack. feed chicken. collect egg from chicken) which considering that the going rate for a soul card at the Sweet Bones is 12p and that you can’t multitask with beasts e.g. feeding Tuppence while collecting from Terrence, makes eggs one of THEE most complicated and expensive ingredients to obtain. It’s more straightforward to collect from the gulls but considering the pull rate is 33% eggs, that’s still basically three soul cards per egg, this time with aspect constraints! I will pay fucking spintriae for eggs, just let me use currencyyyyy. 2) the fucking shelving system is still giving me fits, I think it’s been improved somewhat for the books (I didn’t play the Daymare update so IDK if it was that or HoL) but where the hell am I supposed to put ANYTHING else. When I order all the ingredients I need for cooking, where do they go, the fucking bridge? Gross! Immersion-breaking! I need more pantry space.

(I unfortunately have limited patience for the shelf thing. The most concrete manifestation of my COVID trauma is I can’t STAND irregularly shaped shelves anymore. Circulation dropped by >70% during lockdown and took years to recover. Public library collections are sized with the expectation that a certain percentage of the collection will live with patrons; we were not and still aren’t equipped to house our entire collection in-house. I spent a year of my life jury-rigging shelves to get things to fit. The bane of my existence became shelves so specifically designed for a certain type of media that they couldn’t be extended or repurposed for other things. Having to constantly shuffle books around between ~aesthetic~ little nooks isn’t cute or cozy, it’s just bad fucking library design. When the shelving mechanic on BoH works it’s a thing of beauty but there are simply NOT ENOUGH SHELVES. I just want to fit my reasonably-sized collection on one screen. Also the scrolls should stack on top of each other. Catch my Librarian spending their stipend on ripping out the entire Westcott Room and redoing it for space efficiency)

[inkykeiji]

break my heart in two, but when it heals it beats for you

character: zenin naoya

genre: smut + angst

notes: aaaaah this is my lil submission for the sewer’s soulmate syndrome collab (and my first collab ever waaah!!!) it’s a curseless soulmate AU with the tiniest hint of the zenin’s being a prominent crime family. please please heed the warnings!! | title credit: back to you by selena gomez

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, incest (reader and naoya are half siblings), mentioned death of a family member (mother), naoya being his misogynistic self, excessive use of the word ‘Daddy’ to refer to their biological father, one (1) instance of physical abuse, size kink/size difference, mentioned relationship between a university student (reader) and their TA, infidelity, one (1) mention of Daddy being yakuza, age difference, spanking done by reader’s biological father, toxic relationships, minimal prep, rough sex, a hint of degradation

words: 9.5k

synopsis:

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the very moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

It’s a few days after his twenty-ninth birthday, the night you appear—unannounced, uninvited, and an absolute fucking mess—falling into his father’s arms the moment he opens the door, fingers curling in the material of his cashmere button up and tugging as powerful sobs rip through your entire body, violent tremors following.

It’s fucking disgusting, the way his father reacts. Naoya watches the entire thing unfold from the shadows of the living room, nose wrinkled in distaste, features twisted in aversion and saturated in abhorrence.

Because his father lets you cling to him like a child—a grown woman, gripping a seventy-one year old man like a sniveling little girl—as he manages to scoop you up into his arms, collapsing onto his favourite armchair with you in his lap, hushing you gently as he rocks you back and forth, large hands stroking your shuddering back as you nuzzle your puffy, snot-stained face into his chest, wailing out Daddy!

It’s the first time Naoya’s ever seen his father behave in such a way, revolt churning his stomach as he observes the quite frankly unfamiliar man in front of him. It makes him fucking sick to watch, acidic bile rising in his throat until it stings the back of his tongue, face souring as he swallows it back down.

And you can’t even manage to force words through your stuttering breathing and hiccupped little sobs, unable to explain the situation at all without being overwhelmed by another fresh wave of tears, crashing over your body as you fall back into the sanctuary of his father’s arms, face buried in his neck, now soiled with spit and salt water.

“Naoya,” his father calls, voice curt and stern and demanding, snapping Naoya’s gaze to his own in an instant. “A glass of water, please?”

Naoya scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck do I look like to you? The help?”

And Naoya’s no stranger to the level gaze his father fixes him with, has seen that same look etched into his father’s face more times than he can count, eyebrows pinched and mouth pressed in a firm, fine line, chest rising as he inhales slowly, calmly, deeply, then exhales through flared nostrils.

“You look like a good big brother who’s on his way to get his baby sister some water,”

Ah, right, that’s who you are—the bastard, Daddy’s little mistake, an ugly, irreversible stain on their family’s prestigious name.

“That bitch is not my sister,” he grumbles as he stomps from the room and towards the kitchen to fetch you a drink, huffing under his breath about being treated like a fucking woman, yet obeying his father’s orders nonetheless.

It turns out, Naoya learns, that your mother has passed away, leaving his poor bastard of a baby sister all alone in the world, with nowhere to go—and you’ve come here to ask for shelter and food, just until you get on your feet.

It’s fucking pathetic, as far as Naoya’s concerned, shaking his head in condescending disbelief with a cruel snort. It’s almost difficult to believe that you, undoubtedly the family disgrace; you, with your dirty blood and the dishonour you haul around everywhere with you, have the balls to come crawling to his father begging for support. You’re an adult, for Christ’s sake, and you should act like one, should be out scouring the earth for some equally pathetic man to serve like you ought to, like you would have, if you knew your place. Maybe then, Naoya would have a shred of respect for you.

Maybe.  

“How selfish. Daddy already pays for your tuition, why should he provide you with housing, too? Are you really that incompetent? Can’t do a thing for yourself, huh?”

Your head whips around to face him, almost as if you’re startled by his presence, by his voice addressing you directly, a sharp gasp falling from your lips the moment your eyes meet.

It’s the first time you’ve actually looked at him since you’ve arrived, the first time your gaze has connected with his, eyes bloodshot and gleaming as crystal tears stream down your cheeks, excess water clinging to spidery lashes, clumped together in spikes.

God, you’re beautiful.

It kicks him right in the motherfucking chest, hard enough that he stumbles back a few feet into the stone fireplace, a hand gripping the mantle for stability while his body caves in on itself. A spear of agony sears through his body, slicing clean through all of his vital organs as you choke out an apology punctuated with an honorific, head shaking in jerky little motions as your tongue struggles to form words to explain yourself.

And he’s never felt anything like it in his entire life, skin feeling as though it’s been set ablaze from the inside, thick black smoke filling is lungs as he wheezes on an inhale, strangled by it.

“Naoya,” his father snaps, eyes wide and scorching. “Leave.”

Each step away from the living room feels heavier than the last, as if his blood’s been replaced by lead, by rapidly drying concrete, rendering him incapable of lifting his feet from the floor, dragging them against the tile until it’s fucking painful, calves and thighs tingling as if the blood flow’s been entirely obstructed, muscles quivering and exhausted.

“It’s okay,” he can hear his father’s faint voice soothing you, each of your sniffles feeling like a sharp little thorn straight to his heart, each of your tiny I’m sorry’s carving out a vacant, phantom wound in his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you,”

“Pathetic,” Naoya spits to the empty hallway, though the word wavers, catching a little in his throat, letters scraping the gummy walls as he forces them from his mouth, leaving scalding little blisters in its wake.

It’s then that Naoya decides he hates you; standing motionless in the dark  hallway, feet inexplicably bolted to the floor and chest burning with some unknown emotion, a fire that blazes and rages, flares and thrashes, with each of your hitched little apologies, his teeth clenched together so tightly he’s surprised they don’t crack.

But it’s only after your sobs have calmed, father having reduced them to soft sniffles and half-hiccups through tender words and sweet affirmations, only after Naoya knows that you’ll be staying here for the night—that you’ll be safe—that he regains control over his limbs, that he rips his cement-filled feet from the floor and trudges towards his bedroom, scalding inferno dulled to simmering coals and faint flickering cinders.

He doesn’t think about it—isn’t going to think about it, refuses to waste his time or energy on such absurdity, refuses to allow his father’s preposterous decisions and ridiculous sentiments soak up space in his consciousness.

And he absolutely refuses to think about is the way your sudden presence punched a sharp gasp from his chest, the way he suddenly feels incomplete, like something’s missing, now that you aren’t within arms-reach, the way that he lost control over his entire body for the first time in his fucking life, in that hallway, just a few moments ago.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

His father—your father—falls in love with you almost immediately; having only met you briefly a few times before this, despite sending your mother multiple cheques every month for over twenty years.

It’s truly deplorable, positively sickening to watch the way his eyes light up when you come skipping into the living room after your afternoon university classes, dropping a fat, almost obscene kiss to Daddy’s cheek before plopping down on his lap as you chatter on about your day—about what you learned in lecture today, about the essay you got back (top of your class, of course), about your cute TA with the white hair and crystal eyes who always seems to conjure a bashful expression the moment you mention his name.

Naoya watches the entire thing unfold day after day, a deep sneer etched into his face, jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache, light eyes glaring daggers in your direction.

Something akin to jealousy, a creature with glowing emerald eyes and gnashing teeth and razor claws that slash and tear at the pit of his belly, roars and rattles the ribs that keep it caged within his chest, gnawing on the bones every time his—your—father makes you giggle, your eyes sparkling with adoration as you gaze at him; every time lithe fingers brush hair back from your face or a large palm settles on the crown of you head, petting you gently; every time you nuzzle into his neck, curling up comfortably—perfectly—in Daddy’s big, strong arms that keep you protected from all of the bad, from all of the evils of this world, from him, the big brother that loathes you.

It’s unsettling, almost sad in a sense, seeing his father fall from grace, observing the way you decay his persona so quickly, eating away at it like corrosive acid, rotting him from the inside out; the way he morphs from one of the most powerful and feared Yakuza bosses into soft, sticky, sweet putty in your hands the moment you appear; the way your presence shatters his tough, hard exterior and renders him gentle and tender—gentler and tenderer than he’s ever behaved with Naoya or any of his older brothers.

He can’t fucking stand to watch it, despises every single thing about it, positively detests the inexplicable, uncontrollable sensations that thrash and thunder inside of him, an unusual mixture of envy and melancholy, of wrath and desire, combined to create something toxic, something hazardous, something uncontainable that erodes his senses and mind, leaking into his bloodstream and poisoning his thoughts.

Because his gaze stays glued to you the moment you enter a room, like he’s bewitched by you, cursed by you the way his father has become, unable to rip his eyes from your form until you exit.

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

And the worst part, the worst part is that he hasn’t a clue why. He doesn’t know why he feels the way he does, why you evoke such strong emotions—emotions he’s never felt before, emotions he doesn’t have a name for—or why, suddenly, everything feels wrong, off, whenever you’re not around.

It’s fucking annoying. Those tiny, raised bumps on the inside of his wrist—shaped in the form of a zodiac constellation, a mark everyone is born with, a mark that supposedly hints at your soulmate—burn and tingle as he meditates on these notions, blunt nails scratching viciously at his skin.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

Daddy grants you permission to stay at the estate for as long as you’d like, because of course he does, a victim to the spell you’ve cast. He even gives you your own room, helps you pick out furniture and takes you shopping for new clothes. You promise to do your share around the house—pinky swear—and, to Naoya’s immense dissatisfaction, you don’t disappoint.

No. Instead, you excel.

Those pretty little words weren’t empty promises—you begin cooking all of the meals, taking on the task to do the dishes entirely by yourself, tending to the house and the garden outside, even going as far to aid the help in their daily cleaning routines, until Daddy tells you it isn’t necessary.

And you manage to capture almost everyone’s hearts through your deeds and duties, through your kind and compassionate nature, through your being attentive and, for the most part, obedient—but most important of all, being family oriented.

You do the laundry when it needs to be done. You keep the house spotless and the kitchen sparkling. You learn everyone’s favourite dishes and then dedicate hours upon hours to perfecting them.

Naoya observes you throughout it all, sharp eyes following your movements, watching as you expertly tend to everyone’s needs, almost as if you know what they’ll require before they do.

You’d be perfect wife material, if you weren’t his sister—he catches the thought as it drifts through his mind—a sentiment that’s almost involuntary, unthinking in nature— and strangles it with his bare hands, stomps on it until it’s nothing but dust.

Because what’s more infuriating than anything else is that you are a good woman, a perfect woman, a woman who—for the most part—understands her place and duty in the household; or, at least, you did, before Daddy began spoiling you rotten.

It earns you the nickname princess from your favourite nii-san, hissed through gritted teeth with narrowed eyes and scrunched up noses, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with artificial icing sugar—a nickname Daddy irritatingly and affectionately adopts, extracting all of the patronization Naoya had imbued it with and stuffing it full of love.

You aren’t invincible, though, no matter how precious you are, how sweet your voice becomes when you bat your eyelashes and fix a pout on your lips, how much Daddy is barely able to deny you.

Because Daddy’s incessant spoiling does eventually bite him in the ass, just like Naoya knew it would.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

“But Daddy,” you whine, wearing your prettiest pout and cutest puppy-dog eyes, lethal weapons that are nearly foolproof, your most cherished expressions that grant you almost everything you want. “It’ll just be for a little, I promise! Just a drink or two!”

“I said no—”

“But everyone’s going! Even my professors will be there; I’m expected to show up!” Voice rising in pitch, your arms cross over your chest as eyebrows knit deeply and a lip juts out further, looking about two seconds away from stomping your foot.

Naoya would be amused, really, to see a grown woman acting like a petulant fucking child over some inconsequential party being thrown by the department, if he didn’t feel like his heart was ripping itself to pieces with your teary expression and soft half-sniffles, with the knowledge that, if you attend, you’ll be with him.

“You have an exam tomorrow,” Daddy reminds you in a sigh, dipping his head to scrutinize you over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are they not all required to write the same exam as well?”

“Well, they are, but—”

“But they didn’t spend their study break out gallivanting with their TA, did they?”

Your eyes widen for a second, shocked by the words leaving your father’s mouth, but the expression is gone in an instant, morphed into incredulousness, eyes rolling as your tongue tuts in disbelief.

“Please, we were studying,”

The chuckle that escapes your father’s lips is anything but warm; it’s cruel and condescending, a sharp slap to the face, your bottom lip beginning to tremble as he snaps his book shut, the sound echoing throughout the living room.

“You must think me a real fool,” he’s almost snickering as he throws his glasses on the coffee table, grunting a little as he stands from his armchair and raises himself to his full height, towering over you. “Do you think Daddy’s stupid?”

“What? No, of course not—”  

“Then why are you lying to him?”

“I-I’m not—”

“And you’re doing it again?”

Head shaking in jerky, quivering movements, your lips open and close, emitting nothing more but little squeaks of breath as you try to backtrack, managing to stammer out an apology.

“It’s a little late for that,” your father’s saying sternly, a large hand curling around your bicep as he yanks you towards him, beginning to haul you down the hall. “Good girls do not lie to their fathers,”

Naoya sits tense and coiled in his father’s armchair, a symphony of your cries mingled with harsh slaps of Daddy’s calloused palm against your smooth skin carrying throughout the house, and he swallows thickly, past the lump that’s lodged itself in the column of his throat, past the bitter acid rising in his chest, past the irregular thumping of his heart against his ribs.

Because he doesn’t know why your wails and squeals of Daddy! M’sorry! Daddy! make his cock throb and his chest ache—ache with longing, with want and desire, with jealousy—doesn’t know why he finds himself fucking his fist to those memories that same night, mind fixated on the quick glance he had caught through the sliver of the open door when he couldn’t stand it anymore, when he had to sneak down the hallway just to make sure everything was alright, images of you thrown over father’s knees, bare ass spanked raw materializing in his head.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe he refuses to admit it. Maybe he just pretends he doesn’t, because he wishes he didn’t.

Still, you always get off fucking easy, as far as Naoya’s concerned. He’s never witnessed his father allow any woman to talk back to him with such horrid disrespect, to whine and plead and roll their eyes without a backhand so heavy, so hard it knocks them to the floor.

And yet, you receive a few measly spanks to your ass—a punishment that’s more embarrassing than anything else, terribly unfit for a grown woman—and get sent to your room for the rest of the night.  

“She truly is Daddy’s Little Girl,” his mother had snarled after one particular punishment, features curled up in an unattractive sneer.

Naoya can’t help but begrudgingly agree.

      ✰          ✰          ✰

“Oh, lighten up,” one of his brothers nudges his foot with the toe of his slipper before collapsing next to him one abnormally cold evening in early October, interrupting Naoya’s nightly routine of glaring at you, cuddled up into Daddy’s side as you watch a show. “Just because you aren’t Daddy’s favourite anymore doesn’t mean you have to skulk around looking like you just ate a whole lemon,”

“What’re you on about,” Naoya seethes through clenched teeth, glancing at his older brother through the corner of his eye.

“You know,” he responds airily with a knowing smirk, nodding his head in your direction. “She’s taken your place, huh? Or is that not what’s upsetting you?”

And that hurts—it hurts, because he used to be Daddy’s favourite, Daddy’s youngest—the baby—Daddy’s spoiled brat. He’s used to being the center of Daddy’s attention, used to being the object of his praise, used to being the golden child, the prized child, the destined son nurtured and conditioned to take over the Family Business once his father retires.

Light eyes roll back in his skull as he tsks in disapproval, shaking his head and clearing his throat to rid the tremble from his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“Mm, I think I know more than you believe,”

The words are spoken in a murmur, only loud enough for the two of them to hear, but Naoya’s gaze snaps back to his face immediately as he calls your name, gently pulling you from the hushed conversation you were having with Daddy, full of giggles and murmurs, nonchalantly asking, “When’s your birthday?”

No.

No, Naoya wants to hiss at his pathetic excuse of a brother, large hands curling into quivering fists, nails biting into the fleshy heels of his palms as teeth grit, forcefully swallowing back down the two letter refutation.

No-no-no-no-no, he doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t need to know, throat constricting as you inhale to speak, chirpily responding.

Blood turns to thick ice in his veins when he hears your birth date, when he realizes those raised little bumps he was born with on the inside of his wrist match your zodiac sign. Heavy dread, black and poisonous and akin to thick disappointment, sinks in his chest, latching onto the floor of his stomach and spreading quickly, sticky as it engulfs all of his surrounding organs, coating them in acidic pollution.

He’s up and out of his seat before his brother has even finished asking you his next question, stumbling out of the room on unsteady legs, nearly tripping over his own ankles in his haste to get away from you, to escape.

He doesn’t want to know what the bumps on your inner wrist are, tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, that this is all bullshit anyway, century-old myths created by the dreamers and the sentimentalists. It isn’t like the prospect hadn’t already crossed his mind—drifting through a sick orgasmic haze after fucking his fist to the memory of you—the potential that you may be his ‘soulmate’, a cruel trick played on him by the gods. Except…

Except it isn’t real. It isn’t real. There’s no science backing it up, nothing to concretely prove that the zodiac constellation embedded in his skin has anything to do with his ‘soulmate’—or anyone else’s. It’s just a legend, an old wives tale made up for the romantics and nothing else.

In his alacrity to resist it, he turns fucking ruthless in his verbal assault, but nothing seems to deter you; it barely seems to phase you at all, carrying on your tasks or your cute little babbling as if he hadn’t just insulted you.

Because you’re incessant, almost desperate to gain his approval, continuing to treat him like a god—doing more for him than you do for anyone else, including Daddy—regardless of how many how many expletives and offensive sentiments he hurls at you.

And eventually, he goes a little too far.

    ✰          ✰          ✰ 

The night before Halloween is dark and dreary, thick grey clouds stuffed with rain that continuously drizzles over the estate, brutal winds whipping the tiny droplets against the windowpanes, tiny specks and splatters of water decorating the glass, rearranging themselves every time the wind throws another smattering of rain towards them.

You skip into the living room, full of bashful giggles and muted squeals as Daddy fawns over you, awestricken as he murmurs about how beautiful his princess looks.

His princess.  

Naoya’s not quite sure what you’re supposed to be, nor does he care, tearing his gaze from your scantily clad form before his brain can even register what the costume is, before blood can rush to his cock, before he can witness the shy little smile on your lips and the pretty way your eyes glitter as you twirl for Daddy.

No, the only thing Naoya cares about is the fact that the dress of your costume is way too short to be considered decent, fluffy petticoat barely covering your ass, fanning out to reveal the edges of dainty pink lace clinging to the supple flesh of your ass as you twist and turn.

And he hasn’t a clue what you’re chattering on about, isn’t listening, can’t hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears as he stands from his seat and stomps towards you, strong, callous voice cutting off your excited babbling as he glowers expectantly at his father.

“Jesus Christ, Daddy, you aren’t actually going to let her go out in that, are you?”

“Why?” you ask before your father can respond, genuinely confused, head tilting cutely. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” he repeats incredulously, thick eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times, eyebrows raising and huffing out a sarcastic laugh in disbelief. “Are you joking?”

Your head shakes slowly, a frown beginning to materialize on your lips as your eyebrows knit.

“It’s entirely inappropriate,” he scoffs, enunciating his words slowly, like you’re stupid.

You stare up at him cautiously, bottom lip jutting out in a pout so deep your chin puckers. “But nii-san, it’s Halloween—”

“Oh? And what are you going as, a slut?”

A little strangled gasp of Naoya-nii! hitches in your throat, your entire expression crumpling at his disapproval, hands running over the costume in an almost protective manner, smoothing it down.

“N-No, I’m—”

“I don’t care,” he hisses. “There’s no way you’re leaving the house in that—go change. Now.”

The direct order surprises you, shock saturating your features before resentment begins to bleed through. Blinking hard, you force the tears from your eyes, expression hardening and shoulders rolling back, spine straightening.

“No.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing? I said no,”

That sharp, self-assured smile drops from his face in an instant, face screwing up from such defiance, such disrespect. “Excuse me?”

Shivers skitter up your spine, tiny spikes of ice chasing them, but you refuse to back down, even though your voice is beginning to quiver.

“Y-You’re not Daddy! You don’t get to tell me what to do, I don’t care if you’re older!”

And just like that, the sharp smile is back, stretched abnormally wide across his lips—like it had been cut, carved, into his handsome face—uncanny and inhuman as his eyes glint with malevolence, words flowing from his mouth slowly, calmly, almost serenely, as he prowls towards you.

“You’re right—I’m not Daddy, because I would never let a woman speak to me the way he allows you to speak to him, you ungrateful little brat,”

A large hand, decorated with chunky, glittering gold rings, cuts through the air, striking you across the cheek with such force you stumble backwards from the impact, nearly tripping over your own feet only to have Daddy wrap a strong arm around your waist, catching you with ease and pulling you to his chest.

And it’s intense, so intense it kicks the breath right from your chest, barreling up your throat where you choke on it as it tangles with a sharp yelp. Hands fly to clutch your cheek immediately, throbbing thorns of pain shooting through the side of your face.

Daddy’s yelling, but it all sounds muddled, muffled, like your deep underwater and he’s shouting from above the surface, despite the fact that you’re clinging to him, pressed up so tightly against his side you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his body.

Naoya-nii isn’t saying anything, hand dropped limply to his side, pretty gold adorning his fingers coated in gleaming crimson. He isn’t even looking at Daddy—no, his gorgeous light eyes are focused on you, on the sticky scarlet leaking from the wounds his rings left when they collided with your cheek and the glistening tears shielding your eyes.

And for once, he has nothing to say, no sarcastic remarks or cynical little comments, voice evaporating in his throat as his chest burns, scathed with regret, remorse, repentance—all unwarranted, undeserved, unnecessary. Because—because you earned that slap for being so fucking disrespectful; you needed it, were practically begging him to put you back in your place, back where you belong: below him, behind him, and never beside him.

Because no matter how cute you are, how sweet and precious and good, none of it permits you to speak to him in such a manner, to act as though you’re equal.

So why has this inexplicable agony taken root at his core? Why does he feel like his heart is mutilating itself, tearing itself to shreds, with each of your pitiful little whimpers? Why does he feel the overwhelming urge to make it better, to make your pretty tears and precious sobs stop?

Inevitable anger surges through his veins—furious at you, for eliciting such bothersome emotions; furious at himself, for being so weak, so vulnerable, and allowing such pathetic sentiments to take over, to rob him of his control, of his autonomy.

And despite everything, all of his rage and loathing and confusion, his hand buzzes from it, from the sensation of touching your soft skin for the very first time, even in such a brutal and malicious manner, and instantly, he craves more.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

You don’t speak to him after that. You stop making his favourite meals, stop asking him about his day and then uninvitedly reciting your own in that cute, excited chatter that is so distinctly you, stop doing all of those extra little chores—washing his clothes and changing his sheets and scrubbing his bathroom until it sparkles. You put an end to everything.

And he fucking misses it.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

It’s painful to admit, but he can’t ignore it, notices your lack of presence almost immediately, that gaping void spreading, growing, as it roars in protest, claiming more and more of his body every day, like some sort of inky disease that only your presence seems to calm, to cure.

It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks, because he can’t stop it, regardless of how hard he tries, an impossible ailment he can’t void himself of. It fucking sucks, because you’re eating him up, consuming his very soul, devouring him from the inside out without even sparing him a goddamn glance—and you don’t even know it.

And it’s getting exhausting, putting up this front all the time, fighting against the intense feelings you swirl around in his chest, in his cock, without a hope, without a chance in hell. Fighting for nothing, because he knows he’ll never win. Fighting for nothing, because he isn’t sure he wants to anymore.

They’re unruly, voracious and rabid, tearing up his chest, his lungs and his heart and his throat, with sharp piercing claws and becoming increasingly difficult to overlook, to disregard.

Still, he’s too stubborn, too proud, to give in, to give up, even though the thing living inside him grows stronger every day, even though he knows that one day, it will overpower him.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

It’s windy—the estate quiet as the wind howls softly through the dense pines outside and ruffles them—the night it finally does, the night it takes over entirely, bursting through the barriers he keeps rebuilding and repairing around his soul and his sanity, writhing inside him when he hears soft sobs, muffled by the wood of your bedroom door, just past three in the morning.

It possesses him, like some sort of eternal spirit sinking deep into his bones and sewing itself into his soul, revoking his control over his body as a sudden, intense need to comfort you, to find out what’s wrong and make it all better, courses through his veins, entirely unaware of his actions as he pushes past the door and into your room.

“Naoya-nii?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him, the first time you’ve even looked at him, since he struck you.

And he aches to apologize, I’m sorry’s and I shouldn’t have done that’s blistering his throat as they linger, just behind the back of his tongue.

But his pride outweighs them by a hair, despite how much his chest stings with the need to make things better, to make things right, for a reason unbeknownst to him. It’s just a sense—vague in meaning but strong in feeling—that longs for reconciliation, that’s desperate to rid your pretty face from the permanent scowl his presence etches into it.

That’s the first time he creeps into your room, the first time he loses his autonomy to the thing inside of him as he takes you into his arms and comforts you, the first time he allows you to cum from grinding on his cock.

Except it becomes a habit, an addiction, a nightly routine, cravings becoming stronger and stronger with each passing night. And for a brief span of time, it’s enough to appease the creature, the short nights spent with you in his arms, body trembling against his as you whimper out his name and his honorific, tangling on your tongue.

Because it feels right. It feels righter than anything in his life ever has, uncharacteristically gentle hands guiding your hips as they rock against his, soaked cunt gliding over the flannel of his pajama pants with ease as you huff out the prettiest little mewls into his neck.

It feels right only when he’s here with you, alone with you. Suddenly, it’s like everything makes sense again, like the world is in colour again, like the planet balanced again. He can no longer deny this feeling, this ache deep at the very pit of his soul that throbs and stings and burns mercilessly without your presence. You’re the only thing that can heal it, that can quell it, that can complete it.

So he gives in. It’s just for the nights, he promises himself, vows never to allow such sentiments to trickle into the daytime, to save it for when the sun sinks beneath the horizon, pledges never to permit these nightly escapades to advance from anything more than dry humping, nothing further than your cum on his fingers and your thighs stained with sticky cream.

But eventually, that isn’t enough, either.

And he was stupid to think it would be.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

The harsh slap of Testoni loafers against stone echoes out among the immaculately landscaped front yard, bouncing off thin tree trunks and being absorbed by tall, thick shrubs. Silver light, cast by the haloed moon hanging high in the clear navy sky, illuminates the garden, the foliage faded and washed out, painted by the moonbeams. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle trickle of water mingles with Naoya’s harsh breaths, cellphone gripped tightly in one fist as he paces back and forth like a rabid dog, small rocks popping under his feet.

It’s late. It’s too late—you were supposed to be home hours ago. Naoya’s tried calling—seven times, now, his phone buzzing in his palm to warn him of a low battery—but you haven’t picked up once. But that isn’t new, nor is it unusual; you rarely answer his calls while you’re out with Satoru.

So, really, this shouldn’t be cause for alarm. It shouldn’t.

Except he knows the man you’re out with, knows what you’re doing with him, and he can’t get it out of his fucking head, assaulted with fabricated images of you trapped under a large man with ivory hair and crystal eyes, back arching in ecstasy, his name leaving your lips in the prettiest gasps, in the way Naoya’s name leaves your lips during his habitual sneaking into your room in the middle of the night.

He’s terrified it’s going to drive him insane, eyes pricking and throat burning as his nose twitches with the threat of tears, eyelids shut so tightly his whole face scrunches up, tense and crumpled every time a new wave of contrived memories of you cumming all over that asshole’s cock crash over his mind.

Copper stings his tongue as sharp front teeth nibble at the raw cuticles surrounding his nailbed, face puckering at the taste and ripping his thumb, glistening with saliva, from his mouth.

This is pathetic, goddamn it! It shouldn’t even matter who you’re with and what you’re doing with them, shouldn’t be any of Naoya’s concern at all whether you’re safe or not, shouldn’t fucking hurt nearly as much as it does, a heavy ache that weighs on his chest more and more and more as each second ticks by, ribs caving in and splintering under the force, snapping into sharp spikes that puncture his lungs and make it painful to breathe.

“This is such a waste of fucking time, I don’t even—” he’s muttering to himself when you step out of Satoru’s car, his internal monologue beginning to leak from his head out his lips, your presence immediately cutting it off as his head snaps up, light eyes paler than normal, practically glowing in the moonlight.

A startled little whimper pries its way past your lips when you see him, stomping towards you with a heaving chest and a growl ripping from his throat.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he’s seething as a large hand seizes your arm, wrapping around your bicep and yanking, bring your face closer to his. “Huh? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

Frenzied eyes search your face, wild and erratic in their movements, sharply zeroing in on the tiny galaxies of swirling lilac and cobalt peppered with little pinpricks of scarlet that’ve been sucked into the flesh of your neck.

He chokes on something—a gasp or a snarl or a sob, maybe a mixture of all three, you aren’t entirely sure—pearly teeth gnashing together. “You’re a little slut,” he spits the word out like venom, harsh and biting as it whizzes past your cheek, slicing into your skin.

“That’s it, that’s all—that’s all you’re fucking good for,” his grip tightens with each word that flows from his mouth. “At least you’ve picked a rich man to sell your pussy to, at least you aren’t a total idiot, just like your mother, huh?”

“What is your problem?” little hands claw at the fingers latched around you, finally breaking free from him, ripping your limb from his grasp with such vigor you nearly fall on your ass, teetering backwards on unsteady feet. “You know, just because you can’t own up and face your feelings, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Isn’t my fault.”

“This?” he spits, face screwing up in scorn. “There is no this,”

“Oh my God,” eyes rolling, you shake your head, exhaling a dubious laugh. “Shut up. There’s no one here—you can be real with me, I’m not gonna tell anyone,” you snark, arms crossing over your chest as you level your gaze with him.

He glares back at you, sharp jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching with the grinding of his molars, large hands balled into tight, trembling fists on either side of his body.

“You know there’s something here, between us, within us, even if you refuse to admit it,” you continue after a beat of silence, voice softening.

His whole form is beginning to quiver and he jerkily shakes his head, exhaling harshly. You think he may be crying, but in the faint moonlight it’s hard to be sure.

Holding your wrist up, you swallow thickly, glancing at those little bumps embedded in your skin, watching the tiny shadows that form when your arm twists. “I have your sign,” your voice is quiet as you look back at him, flashing the inside of your wrist to him. “And I know you have mine,”

A cynical smirk spreads across his lips, but it looks more like a grimace, like a flimsy mask desperately attempting to cover something else, tongue tutting in disbelief. “Yeah, and there’s millions of people in this world with any given sign. It’s all bullshit—it could be anyone,”

“It could be anyone,” you agree, nodding. “But it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! I know you feel it too! Christ, why are you so—so adamant on denying this, even when it’s just the two of us? What’s the point?”

“You’re my fucking sister, that’s the point. This is inappropriate, it’s wrong,”

“If it’s so wrong, then why do you sneak into my bedroom every night? Why do you let me cum on your fingers? Why do you fuck my thighs?” your footsteps speed up, jogging a little to catch up to him. “Huh? Huh? No answer? Or do you know the answer, and you’re too afraid to say it?”

“I don’t know!” he explodes, whirling around on you and trapping you against the brick, palms laid flat against the wall. “Alright? I don’t fucking know why I do those things. They make me feel sick afterwards, but I…”

But I can’t stop.

But I need you.

But I love you.

Chests heave with harsh exhales that mingle and echo in the garden, your eyes studying his face intently, in a way that makes him feel naked, exposed, makes him want to turn and hide from you.

“I’m not asking—” you start, words catching in your throat and blinking hard to clear rapidly welling tears from your eyes. Your voice is softer, more fragile and weak, when you speak again. “You don’t have to marry me, for Christ’s sake. I just—I just want you to—I need to know you feel it too,”

“Why?” he hisses, acidic envy bubbling in his chest, beginning to erode his resolve, walls crumbling to rubble. “What is there to know? You already have him,”

“But I’d rather have you,” the words materialize on your tongue before you even know what you’re saying, earnest eyes boring into his.

“God, don’t—” eyelids shut tightly, lithe fingers tangling in blonde hair and tugging. “Don’t say shit like that,”

He can feel them, those three little words thrashing in his chest, desperate to claw up his throat and spill from his lips, but he grits his teeth and swallows them back down, letters lodging and forming a painful lump.

And you notice. You notice, because you’ve studied him extensively, have learned to read him—his mannerisms, expressions, behaviours—well.

And you’ve just found his weakness.

“Do you want to know what I think of when he fucks me?” you ask, eyes searching his face in an almost frenzied manner, breath accelerating as you quickly push the words from your lips, worried if you don’t speak fast enough, if you don’t vocalize these sentiments now, you’ll lose him again. “It’s you. It’s always you. I’ve tried—I’ve tried to think of someone else, of anyone else, but you just…you just won’t leave my brain! It’s like a—a sickness, or something. Like a chronic illness, and it’s only getting worse,”

A strangled growl rattles in his chest as he tears himself away from you, fists violently rubbing at his eyes.

He knows. He knows, because he’s tried the same thing, attempted to desperately forget you, to disintegrate the weird feelings you endlessly evoke in his chest by losing himself in women night after night, often multiple women at once, drowning himself in their moans and gasps and soft bodies to no avail.

“There’s no cure,”

He doesn’t even mean to say it, words slipping from his lips unconsciously as he gets tangled in his thoughts, flipping through the countless memories of faceless women of all shapes and sizes, faceless woman that somehow always mange to morph into you.

“No,” you respond, shaking your head. “There isn’t. But at least I’m trying!”

He spins around, gleaming eyes flashing, brimming with bewilderment, features falling in surprise for just a moment before they harden again, varnished in offense.

“What’re you talking about,” he seethes, eyebrows furrowing deeply as his eyes narrow into sharp slits, scrutinizing, analyzing, dissecting.

“I-I’d rather have you, yes, and he’ll—no one will ever compare, will ever even come close to how much I—” you cut yourself off, swallowing the thought, then clearing your throat and beginning again. “At least I’m trying to find someone, though. At least I’m trying to find just a shred of what I feel for you, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, alone and miserable,”

“Oh,” he laughs humorlessly, a callous little sound that viciously tears from his chest, that scrapes his throat and comes out strangled, full of incredulity. “You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve tried endlessly to forget you? To cleanse you from my mind? To move the fuck on from something that had never begun in the first place? You’ve imprinted yourself in the tissues of my fucking brain in a matter of months. It’s tiring. It’s hopeless,”

His voice breaks on the last word, some of the merciless heat fading from his features as he glares at you, eyes almost pleading for you to understand.

Because you’re the only one that can.

You’ve been in this together the entire time, right from the start, from the moment you walked through that front door.

And he’s been resisting it, fighting against it, against himself, all while the current only becomes stronger, only continues to grow in strength and size, and he’s motherfucking exhausted at this point, sick of battling some invisible force he was convinced didn’t even exist, sick of waging a war he will forever be destined to lose.

You’ve broken that wall, shattered it to dust, destroyed all of his weapons of defense and robbed him of his sovereignty, and now it’s all pouring form his mouth, an endless, uncontrollable stream of confessions, of thoughts and desires, of agony and misery.

“But it doesn’t even fucking matter, because I love you. I love you and I fucking hate you for it. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve tried not to, I’ve tried every single trick in the fucking book to stop it, to get over you, to forget you—and none of it has ever fucking worked, not even for a second. I don’t want you; I—I don’t want to be, but I’m in love with you,”

It looks as though your breathing has ceased, chest halting in its rapid movements, body gone still, static, stagnant. Your silence is deafening, has his ears ringing and his heart pounding, thrashing against his ribs as it aimlessly attempts to crawl through the cage, to present itself to you, bloody and beating and all yours. It’s all yours—take it, kill it, end its suffering.

“And there’s nothing—”

Surging forward, your lips crash into his, body following as it smacks against his own, effectively cutting him off. Naoya freezes, eyes wide and breathing stopped, entire body turned to ice, rigid and tense, but you are not deterred, arms winding around his neck as fingers thread through the gold and ink at the base of his skull.

“I love you, too,” you mumble into the kiss, refusing to break contact for even a second, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you so much,”

The confession—an admission he already knew, deep down in his very bones, an admission he can no longer ignore, now that you’ve said it—snaps him out of his trance, and something switches, something breaks. Because then he’s kissing you back, tongue forcing its way through your lips to assault your own as calloused hands find purchase on your hips, squeezing your flesh hard enough that you yelp.

He chuckles against your lips, and then he’s pushing forward, forcing you to walk backwards, too fast for you to keep up, his legs longer than yours, body bigger than yours, stronger than yours.

Even with all of his shoving, you still aren’t moving quick enough for him, clumsy and stumbling over your own feet, whimpering hushed apologies into his mouth, a response to the growls that rumble in his chest each time you trip, your pitiful little sorry!’s consistently being cut off by his tongue.

Large hands hoist you up without breaking the kiss, mouth still attempting to devour you whole, to suck up your very soul, and your legs automatically wrap around his waist, latching onto him.

Either of your bedrooms are too far, and he can’t take it, he can’t wait—not with the way your fingers are tangling in his shirt and tugging, the way needy little whines are hitching in your throat, the way you’re squirming in his grasp, trying to grind against his half-hard cock.

You’re fucking desperate, but so is he, thigh whacking off the edge of the wooden coffee table as he blindly staggers towards the kitchen, tongue hungrily dragging against yours while he does so.

The cold marble stings your skin as he deposits you onto the nearest countertop, hips wedged between your thighs keeping them spread.

Little fingers immediately go for his belt, nonsensical whimpers sounding in the back of your throat as you fumble and struggle, hooking your fingers through his beltloops and pulling.

“Eager girl,” he chastises, a little breathless as nimble fingers find the soaked lace at the apex of your thighs, pushing it to the side. “Nii-san has to prep you first,”

“No,” you whine, pitched high and much too loud. “M’wet enough. Want you, want you now, nii-san, please, just give it to me, been waiting so long, please,”

The words are slurred together as they tumble from your lips, infused with a potent lust that casts a dense haze over your mind, rendering you capable of only focusing on what you need.

Light eyes dart up, holding yours through fanned lashes for a moment, as if they’re searching for any hesitancy, before his lips form the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.

“Yeah?” he huffs out, finally breaking your stare to watch his hands undo his belt, continuing to speak as he shoves his jeans down his thighs and frees his cock. “You think you can take it?”

“Yes, nii-san,” you nearly mewl, gazing at him with blown, glazed eyes and a cute pout. “Please, give it to me, I-I want it, please,”

His gaze finally flicks up, that sincere smile stretched wider across his face, a playful glint in his eye, voice void of any of its usual derision. “You want what? Hmm, baby? Come on, nii-san wants to hear you say it,”

A low whimper leaves your throat and you shift on the countertop, as if trying to wiggle closer to him. “Your cock, nii-san, want your cock, please-please-please, gimme-gimme-gimme,”

It sounds as though you’re close to tears, voice cracking and thick with desire, Naoya’s cock twitching in his palm in response to the sound, and, God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that, absolutely adores it when you beg, thinks you sound so pretty when you’re pleading for him.

“You’re a greedy little girl, you know that?” he pants while he pushes in, a muffled yelp prying past your lips. “Shh, hush now, nii-san will give you what you need,”

The stretch is incredible, cute little cunt throbbing around his thick cock as it struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling as though he’s going to tear you into two, leaving stinging micro-fissures in the delicate flesh.

Yet despite the burn, the ache that settles deep in your core, that feels like he’s splitting you in half, a satisfied moan leaves your lips, head falling forward and resting against his broad shoulder, fingers curling in the cotton that adorns his torso and pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Because, finally, you feel whole, more whole than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, satisfying an inexplicable desire buried at the crux of your very soul, something you didn’t even realize you were missing until you finally had it.

“S’not enough,” you mumble into him, nuzzling your face against him like a cat. “Need more, nii-san, need more,”

“You really are a selfish little fucking brat,” he grunts as fingers flex on your hips, tips digging into the pliant flesh and gripping, singeing his name into your skin in rapidly blossoming indigo and ultramarine.

“Nii-san was going to try and be nice,” the words, strained and husky, spill from plush lips as his hips begin to thrust, slow and hard, winding back as they draw the force to ram forward, slamming a cry from your chest as his cockhead pounds against your cervix. “But you’re too impatient for that, aren’t you?”

It’s a fucking lie; his self-control had been hanging by a thread, barely restraining the primal need to wildly buck into you, but you just snapped it, just tore the last of his treasured discipline to fucking shreds with nothing more than a few words.

The pace is ruthless, your head bouncing off the cabinets with each powerful snap of his hips, an endless stream of cries pouring from your lips, one hand curling around the edge of the counter as the other grips his shoulder, nails burying themselves in the hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. Sharp bones carve a spot just for him, made for him, between your legs, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

“You’re mine, you hear me?” he pants out, eyes so bright they’re practically glowing. “Mine.”

“Yours!” you gasp out, head nodding in sloppy little movements against his shoulder as you fall forward, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing. “Yours, yours, yours,”

Everything feels hazy, almost dreamlike in a sense, vision blurring over with a thick shield of tears that you can’t quite explain, his name and the honorific becoming muddled on your tongue, fusing into one as you wail it out, clinging to him in a way that’s almost possessive.

“Nii-san’s here,” he promises you, voice hoarse. “Nii-san’s yours, too,”

“Mine,” the arms thrown around his neck tighten, fingers tangling in soft gold and wrinkled cotton. “Mine, mine, mine—”

“Mine,” he echoes, hips never faltering even as you wind your body around his, large hands keeping your hips still as he fucks into you. “And only mine—”  

“Forever and ever and ever—”

“You belong to me, were made for me, put on this earth for me,”

Words of confirmation are escaping from your lips, you’re absolutely sure of it, can feel them vibrating up your throat as you speak them—but it’s so much, too much, all of the feelings swirling around in your chest, sending spikes of pleasure and thorns of pain shooting through your veins as they clash together. A sudden wooziness settles over you, brain fogging over as he becomes the only thing you can think of, the only thing you want to think of, nonsensical babbling still slipping from between parted lips in hitched puffs of breath.

“So full,” you nearly sob, one of Naoya’s hands tangling in the hair at the back of your skull and yanking, pulling your face from the sanctuary of his neck and exposing your expressions to his scrutinizing eyes, devouring the beautiful tears streaking your cheeks, the contorting of your features as pleasure washes over them. “M’so full, nii-san, it’s so much,”

“Yeah? Better than he could ever stuff you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re wailing out, affirmations falling from your lips with each brutal piston of his hips. “More, need more,”

Because it’s like an addiction, an innate need for more of him, for all of him, ravenous and unquenchable, that’s always existed within you, that his cock stretching you out, filling you up, has only just awakened.

His aura is positively intoxicating, overwhelming your senses and becoming all you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell, taste, touch. His taste lingers on your tongue, faint notes of minty pine and sharp nicotine dancing with your tastebuds; his touch brands itself into you, bruises and bitemarks carving his name into soft skin; his scent assaults you, envelops you, overpowers everything else as it wraps you in a shackled embrace of expensive aftershave and cedar wood.

A growl tears from his chest, so rough that it vibrates throughout his entire body, and his pace quickens, cock plunging into you and an incredible speed, dragging against that one spot that has you nearly screaming, that has your eyes rolling back and your little hole fluttering around him as a blistering fire sparks to life in the pit of your belly.

You can feel it, furling in on itself with each vicious rut of his hips, each relentless bang of his cockhead against your cervix, a concentrated ball of scathing heat pulsing, quaking in your stomach as it curls tighter and tighter and tighter with each plunge forward—until it bursts, a fiery explosion that buzzes through your veins as your cunt clenches, gushing on his cock as he praises you—yeah, that’s it, make a mess on nii-san—entire body coiling from the sheer strength.

“Tell me,” he keens almost desperately, voice pulling you from the clutches of post-orgasm unconsciousness, hips stuttering for a moment before he regains his finesse. “Tell me how badly you need it,”

And you don’t need to be told what, pleads pouring from your mouth in an instant, before your brain can even comprehend what you’re saying, an instinctual reaction to his command. “Need your cum, nii-san, need you to full me up, fill my tummy with it, stuff me full of it, need it so bad, nii-san, please gimme your cum, please, please,”

The words are all jumbled together, thick with tears and wet with saliva and imbued with delirium, quivering and breaking as your body trembles from overstimulation.

“Fuck,” he chokes on the curse, hips stilling, pressed flush against your ass as his cock throbs, filling you with spurt after spurt of thick cum, a broken whine catching in his throat as endless words spill from yours, peppered with the sweetest moans—yes, nii-san, thank you, nii-san, fill me up, fill my body with it, my brain with it, I need it, I need it.

And he does, pumps you full of so much that it begins leaking out from your abused little hole—still stuffed with him—and down his cock.

And it’s then—after he has filled you up, with your precious little cunt still pulsing around his length, whimpering out his honorific as you hold onto him, voice raw and wrecked and cracking with residual tears—then that Naoya’s sure you were meant for him, made for him, perfectly tailored to him; he knows you were, his very own gift from the gods.  

[identityvore]

Cozy Confinement

Even if you're locked away, cold manages to seep in. Thankfully your cellmate knows how to help you. Based off of Alva's debut essence.

Characters: Jack, gender neutral reader

Contents: Digestion/reformation mention, soft vore, prison themes, insect features

Blizzards were the worst. You didn’t care if the enclosed walls kept the worst of the howling winds out, the prison was still dreadfully frigid. Maybe you deserved to be here, but you barely cared about justice and morality right now. You just wanted to find just a bit more warmth in your dingy cage.

You pull the thick blanket closer around yourself. The Warden may be a stony bastard who thinks he’s a god, but at least he provides decent bedding to let his prisoners survive the cold nights. It was times like these where you envied your cellmate. Somehow he always managed to keep his long, armored body warm. He’d often curl around you, but it had been a long day, and you’d probably claw him if he came too close.

“Finally regretting your crimes, luv?” He asked. Damn it…it was hard to shut Jack up sometimes, especially with how bored he got late at night. You certainly didn’t need this now. You covered your head with one of the pillows.

“I told you they deserved it,” you muttered. “Now let me sleep, dammit.” Right after you said that, you heard the clicking of multiple centipede legs tapping along the floor. You didn’t look back, not wanting to see the hundred-legged pervert’s red-smeared grin.

The bed creaked just slightly as Jack climbed up on it. He laid his soft underbelly on top of you, squishing you down a bit more. This was admittedly a good night for cuddling, even with a bug like him, but he seemed intent on getting on your nerves. And it was about to get worse.

“I know a way to keep you warm~” he said, licking his lips. You gave an irritated snarl. This wasn’t the first time Jack had done this, but last time he’d digested you. And waking up in one of the Warden’s slimy, special cocoons before being sent back to your cell wasn’t pleasant at all.

“Fuck off. I didn’t ask to be your second dinner.” you hissed. Jack chuckled, holding your chin and running his claws through your hair. It was always hard to keep Jack from getting what he wanted, whether it be an extra pillow, a book that another inmate was hogging, or a bit more dessert…and right now, you were dessert.

“Oh hush, I promise not to digest you this time!” he said. “Trust me, dear, you’ll be very cozy in my belly. Held nice and snug, cradled by my body. You won’t even hear those blustery winds beyond the sounds of my guts happily squishing around you!” Well, he did have a point.

You gave a sigh of resignation. Jack’s body was already wrapping around you, keeping you from slipping away. It’s not like you could actually escape the cell though, let alone the prison. Your wings were too cold to make any attempt at flying away. “Fine, you win. But if I become fat on your lanky ass again, I’m not afraid of being sent to solitary.”

“I knew you’d come around,” he said, kissing your forehead. “Now hold still, luv, I wouldn’t want to harm those pretty wings of yours.” You nodded and sighed, watching your cellmate open his mouth wide. Jack’s long tongue lapped along your face and neck, coating them in slightly sticky saliva. You had to endure him tasting your sweet, slightly salty flesh, and peppering you with nibbles. It was hard to stay still with all the damn nibbling tickling you!

Jack soon took your head into his mouth. He would have liked to remove your striped, blue uniform, but you would have only started thrashing from the chill. At least he could still swallow you easily, though he’d miss out on your lovely taste. The centipede swallowed a bit faster once he was past your chest, eager to fill his belly and keep you from getting more agitated.

You couldn’t help wriggling at the heat of Jack’s breath, and the drool dripping down your face. At the very least he was being gentle while swallowing you, and not drawing it out too long. Not to mention the shocking contrast of the warmth inside him compared to the outside. You were squished fairly easily down his gullet, listening to his happy purring. At least you were both getting something out of this.

You slid right through his human stomach, being passed into his narrow centipede belly. It was slimy as hell, impossible to see anything, and there was hardly room to move. But Jack hadn’t been lying about the warmth. It blocked out any memory of the icy chill, and the walls squishing around you were softer than your bed could ever hope to be. His groaning, gurgling gut was eager to accept you, completely drowning out any noise from the blizzard.

“You’re such a delicious little dragonfly, poppet,” Jack cooed, muffling a belch. “You feel so nice in there…but don’t you fret. I’ll spit you out when it’s time to shower.” He rubbed his soft underbelly, feeling along your bulge. Jack carefully coiled up, kissing where your head was as he pulled the blankets over his form.

You let a small smile come onto your face. You have to admit, he can be a sweet centipede when he wants to be, even if he’s a murderer like you. Nuzzling into the soft flesh, you start to drift off within the embrace of Jack’s cozy stomach. In a place like this, it’s probably the best bed you could ask for.