#then take out the rags and spray the curls

[daryltwdixon]

Daryl Dixon x Reader

word count: 3.5k

warnings: smut!! not much plot!! kind of emoshie too tho MDNI

notes: fem!reader, no use of y/n. inspired by a scene from part III of ruins of us, so don't come for me when you see this scene in there too lol

I also barely proofread this sorry

In the quiet of Alexandria, the first real quiet you’ve had in what feels like forever, the two of you sit side by side on the porch steps, sharing a silence that says everything and nothing at all. Daryl’s thumb idly brushes the edge of your hand, a rare gesture, but you notice it. He’s tense, uneasy in the stillness of this place where people laugh and gather like the world outside doesn’t still burn.

You take a breath, finally standing, and hold out your hand. “Come on.”

He stares at your hand for a second, something unreadable flickering in his gaze, then he reaches for it. His grip is strong, his skin rough, and as he lets you lead him inside, he’s silent but attentive, like he’s half waiting for the rug to be pulled from under him.

In the bathroom, you glance back at him, feeling something tight and warm in your chest. He’s watching you with that familiar intensity, one that can only be found in the private moments away from everyone, just you two in your own space. You step closer, your fingers reaching up to the collar of his shirt, carefully peeling away the fabric stained with dust, grime, and sweat. His breathing is almost inaudible, but you feel it, each steady exhale brushing against your skin as he watches you work, layer by layer, his guard slipping with every piece.

When you pull off your own clothes, you don’t shy from his eyes. They’re guarded as always, but there’s something else there too, an almost reverent way he lets his gaze roam over you, taking in every part of you that’s been hidden under layers and dirt. It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time in weeks—maybe months. The sound of the water brings you back, its steady, warm rush filling the room with steam, curling around you like an invitation.

You step in first, shivering as the hot water cascades down your back. Daryl follows, closing the glass door behind him. As he moves under the spray, the water runs down his face, through his hair, carrying with it the weight of miles, fights, sleepless nights. You take the bar of soap and lather a small rag, moving close to him, feeling the heat of his body beneath your fingertips. He closes his eyes, letting you guide him, trusting you in a way he rarely allows himself to trust anyone.

Your hands work over his shoulders, firm yet gentle, tracing the muscles that have carried him through every hard road and long night. There’s a small tremble as your fingers brush over a scar, a reminder of another life. You let your hand linger there, pausing, pressing just a little, showing him in silence that you remember every bit of what brought you both here. Daryl swallows, and you catch the faintest edge of vulnerability in his eyes as they open, catching yours with a gravity that makes the breath catch in your throat.

You move lower, your fingers sliding down his arms, washing away the grime in gentle strokes, lingering, memorizing the feel of him beneath your touch. When you reach his hands, you lace your fingers with his, feeling the strength there, the familiar roughness that’s so uniquely his. You smile, just a hint, and for a moment, a soft, almost shy smile ghosts over his lips.

As you pull the soap away to wash yourself, his hand stops you. He holds your wrist, his touch firm yet delicate. “My turn,” he says quietly, his voice low, a rasp that holds a world of unsaid things.

His hand moves carefully as he takes the soapy cloth and begins to trace slow, steady circles on your shoulders. The warm cloth glides over your skin, and you feel his fingers linger just a little longer than necessary, like he’s savoring this rare chance to touch you after weeks of only thoughts of survival. His hands move down your arms, so gentle it feels like he’s memorizing you all over again, learning every curve, every line. The heat of the water and his touch seem to blur together, wrapping around you, grounding you in the present.

He moves lower, the cloth brushing over your stomach, his fingers firm yet tender. His eyes flicker up to meet yours, holding you there in his gaze, and it feels like the world has shrunk down to just this moment, just the two of you. There’s a weight to his touch, like he’s saying everything he’s never found the words for.

He softly, slowly, turns you around and you think he’s going to begin scrubbing your back, but he reaches for your waist, and the cloth slows, his hand lingering as he continues making small circles. You exhale, your breath coming shallow as he closes the space between you, pulling you against his chest. You feel his fingers press gently, a question, an offer. The feel his heart, steady and strong against your back, calms you as he feels you with the cloth moving up your stomach, moving in slow, deliberate strokes over your breasts, his breath warm against the side of your neck.

You close your eyes, letting the sensation wash over you, the warmth of the water, the gentleness of his hands, the way he’s holding you like you’re something fragile and precious. You lean your head back against him, eyes fluttering shut and letting the water hit your face from the shower head. You feel his grip tighten, his breath hitch as his hand moves lower, gliding down your stomach, his fingers trembling slightly as they reach your hips.

And in that moment, you feel him against you, hard and unyielding against your back. Your breath catches, and you tilt your head up to meet his eyes, his face inches from yours. There’s a fire there, barely contained, a want that matches your own. His fingers dig into your hips as he holds you closer, his mouth brushing over your neck, his lips ghosting over your skin.

As his hands travel lower, your skin prickles with anticipation, every inch of you attuned to his touch. The air between you is thick with unspoken need, weeks of restrained desire spilling over, saturating the space around you with a quiet intensity. You can feel the tension building as he reaches down, his hand moving carefully, deliberately. The soapy cloth brushes over your thighs, lingering, teasing, before he lets it drop to the floor, forgotten, freeing his fingers to explore you without the barrier.

He leans you back against his chest even closer, solid and warm, his other arm wrapping around your waist to hold you close. You close your eyes, losing yourself in the feeling of him, your senses sharpening as his hand slips between your thighs, his fingers sliding down to find you already wet, warm, and aching for his touch. His breath is a low, throaty murmur against your ear as he feels how ready you are, and you can hear the satisfied growl that rumbles in his chest as he presses his fingers against you, gliding over your softness with a deliberate slowness that makes your knees weak.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he murmurs, his voice rough, each word sending a thrill down your spine. His fingers begin to move in slow, steady circles, each stroke purposeful, as though he’s savoring the way your body responds to his touch. The sensation builds with each movement, his hand creating a rhythm that matches the pulse thrumming through you, leaving you clinging to him, one of your hands gripping his neck for support as he works you closer to the edge. The other rests against your chest, slow and tantalizing against your breasts.

You let out a soft moan, tilting your head back to rest on his shoulder, your breaths coming faster as his fingers explore you, slipping deeper, curling just right, making your whole body tremble. He tightens his hold on you, pressing his mouth to your neck, kissing, nipping, his hot breath delicious against your skin. The friction of his fingers sends waves of pleasure radiating through you, and you arch into him, pressing yourself closer, feeling the solid strength of his body holding you steady, silently begging for more.

“Like that?” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and thick with satisfaction as he feels you respond to his touch, your breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps. His fingers press deeper, finding that perfect spot that makes you gasp, a soft cry spilling from your lips as he intensifies his rhythm, each movement drawing you closer, building the tension until it’s almost too much.

He doesn’t let up, his hand steady, fingers curling, his thumb tracing gentle circles that make your body tighten, the pressure coiling in your belly. His other arm holds you firm, keeping you steady as he works you over, his mouth moving to your ear, whispering words you can barely make out, each rough syllable sending a fresh shiver through you. The combination of his voice, his touch, the way he’s holding you like he can’t bear to let go—it all drives you higher, until you’re teetering on the edge, every nerve alive, every inch of you aching to fall.

“So fuckin’ perfect for me,” he murmurs in your ear, “pussy always so needy, so ready for me–it’s been too long, baby,” 

“Daryl…” His name slips from your lips in a desperate, breathless moan, and he growls in response, his fingers moving faster, more insistent, until finally, the tension shatters, and you’re left clinging to him as waves of pleasure roll over you, your body shuddering against his as he holds you close, his hands never leaving you.

As you come down, your breaths still uneven, he presses a kiss to your shoulder, his hand gently stroking over your skin, grounding you, bringing you back from the high. You lean back against him, your head resting against his shoulder, feeling his heart beating steady and strong, a quiet reminder of the connection between you, of the intensity that’s been building for far too long.

You turn in his arms, meeting his gaze, and there’s a gleam in his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you with a satisfaction that leaves your heart racing all over again. He brushes a hand over your cheek, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Leaning forward, his lips find yours, tentative at first, then deeper, more fervent as his hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. You melt into him, losing yourself in the taste of his mouth, the familiar scent of him mixing with the steam that’s blanketing the two of you. His kisses grow hungrier, more insistent, the warmth between you intensifying as his hands reach down further, gripping your ass with roughness that makes you squeal. His grip on you tightens, his hands rough and possessive as they knead your skin, pulling you against him with a desperation that makes your heart race. The low growl that escapes him as his hands continue their palming of your cheeks sends a thrill through you, and without thinking, you wrap a leg around his waist, bringing him flush against you.

You both shudder as his hardness presses perfectly between your legs, a friction that ignites every inch of you. His breath catches, mingling with the steam and your own hitched sighs. You feel him slide against your wet, gushing lips, and you press down further, chasing the friction he offers between your legs.

“Goddamn,” he murmurs, voice low and thick as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips and teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. His grip on you tightens, pulling you against him with a roughness that makes you gasp, your hands clinging to his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin as he holds you close.

“Daryl, wait,” you whisper into his skin, feeling his breath hot and ragged against your neck as you pull away just slightly. The look in his eyes, dark with blown pupils, makes you hesitate, a storm of longing and vulnerability held there as he tries to read your intentions, unsure if you truly mean to pull away from his warmth, his need, his fervor. A flicker of uncertainty crosses his features, a silent question in the tight set of his jaw, and before he can think anything of it, you slip away, dropping slowly down to your knees before him.

From this vantage, he’s breathtaking. Standing tall above you, his damp hair falls around his face, shadowing his gaze, droplets tracing lines down his jaw and dripping onto your skin, adding to the heat already burning between you. His body glistens with drops of water, the slopes of his chest and stomach mesmerizing as the shower’s spray falls around you both. His broad frame blocks the full force of the water, sheltering you in this intimate space.

“What’re ya—” he starts, but his words cut off with a harsh intake of breath as your hand wraps firmly around the base of him, your fingers barely meeting around his girth. The sound he makes—a strangled, low whimper—reverberates through the steam-filled space, and his hands fly forward to brace himself. One hand anchors in your hair, steadying his weight with a gentle hold, while the other presses against your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin as he watches, chest heaving.

“Baby… you don’t have to…” he rasps, his voice thick and trembling as he struggles to speak. But the low groans he lets slip with every slow, deliberate movement of your hand make it clear he doesn’t want you to stop. You meet his gaze, a teasing glint in your eye as you flatten your tongue against him, trailing slow, languid strokes along his length, savoring every shudder, every soft moan that slips from his lips.

When you take him fully into your mouth, cheeks hollowed with a fierce, focused hunger, his control shatters. His hand tightens in your hair, a mix of gentle guidance and barely-contained restraint, his hips instinctively pressing forward as he lets his head fall back into the cascade of the shower, his breath a rough gasp against the tiled walls.

“Shit,” he whispers, voice ragged, almost reverent, as his other hand finds its place on the back of your head, steady and protective, losing himself in the feel of you. You can sense his restraint, how carefully he holds back, letting you set the pace, his muscles taut as if he’s fighting against every instinct telling him to give in.

You move with a steady rhythm, taking your time, mouth and hands working together to bring him closer and closer to the edge. Every gasp, every groan that spills from his lips fuels the fire between you, each sound a delicious reward as he lets himself unravel in your hands. His moans vibrate through you, making you feel every ounce of his need and raw desire as he allows himself to fall apart under your touch.

But then, suddenly, as if remembering himself, his grip in your hair tightens, and he pulls you away, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling as he looks down at you, nearly busting from the sight of you—kneeling, head tilted back, cheeks flushed, lips wet and swollen, parted and ready. From his perspective, you’re utterly captivating, the sexiest thing he’s ever laid eyes on. Your wet hair sticks to your skin, strands of it catching on the dampness of your face, your neck and the rest down and flowing behind you, soaked and clean. The water beads on your skin, tracing delicate trails down your neck, glistening along the curve of your collarbone and catching on the subtle lines of your muscles, and he’s completely mesmerized. 

You catch the intensity in his gaze as he absorbs the sight, his restraint wavering in the face of his raw, undeniable want. He swallows hard, then leans down, his other hand coming to your cheek again, cupping you with a gentleness that feels like a promise, and kisses you deeply, thoroughly, his tongue sweeping inside your mouth to taste himself on you, each movement as consuming as the last.

A soft moan slips from your lips as he kisses you, and he lets out a sound—a low, growling sigh—as he pulls you to stand, holding you close. His hand drops to your waist, fingers sliding down to find your hip and then lower to your thigh, hitching your leg up around him again in one smooth movement. He presses you firmly against the warm tile wall of the shower, his body a solid weight against yours, grounding you in the moment as he leans in close. 

The sensation of him, rock-hard and twitching against you, has you quivering, and you can feel the urgency in his touch as he pushes agonizingly slow into your walls, letting you adjust to his girth for a long moment as you suck in deep breaths, holding him close with your hands over his shoulders. “Jesus,” he mutters against your skin, voice low and thick, his breath coming fast as he slowly begins to grind into you, as he feels you pulsing around his cock, the tightness electric as he begins to move in a tantalizing rhythm. You gasp, clinging to him as his hand slides down your thigh, holding you steady as he presses harder, opening you up for him further. His other hand slides between you, fingers teasing over your slick skin, each slow, deliberate circle overstimulating to already your sensitive clit. His thumb grazes over it, and a tremor runs through you, your hips bucking into his hand, uncertain if you want more or if its too much, but you crave the way he pushes you closer to that brink with each stroke.

He lifts his head, his eyes dark and intense as he holds your gaze. “You feel so damn good,” he growls, his eyes flickering from watching himself buried in you to your lips, and he finally pushes his mouth into you for another deep, searing kiss as his hips dig harder against you, the friction a delicious, toe-curling pressure that makes your body tighten with need. His mouth moves over your jaw, down your neck, teeth grazing your skin with a hunger that sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

Without warning, he adjusts his angle, snapping his hips forward with brutal force, finding that perfect spot that makes your head fall back, your eyes fluttering shut again as you gasp his name, the word spilling from your lips in a breathless moan. His hand on your thigh tightens, keeping you open for him, holding you steady as he moves, each thrust deliberate, intense, sending a fresh wave of pleasure coursing through you. The rhythm he sets is deep and powerful, every stroke designed to make you feel every inch of him.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice a low rasp, and when you open your eyes, his gaze is filled with something dark, possessive. There’s a smirk playing at his lips, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he watches you, every moan, every gasp, feeding that hunger in him. The pleasure builds, a coiling tension in your belly that threatens to spill over, and you bite your lip, trying to hold back the cries that rise up in your throat as his pace quickens, the intensity between you burning hotter. His hands grip you harder, pulling you against him as his mouth finds your neck again, nipping and biting, leaving little marks of possession on your skin. He snaps his hips into you with irrevocable need and your breaths come in short, wanting gasps as he presses into you, his thumb still against your clit, while the other stays locked on your thigh, his bruising hold keeping you from falling. His mouth finds yours again, devouring you as if he can’t get enough.

You try to kiss him back, you really do, but its all you can do to not gasp and moan against his lips, the pressure building too recklessly inside of you. The feeling of power in him as he moves, the strength in his body, the way he holds you as if you’re something he can’t bear to let go of, only makes your skin shiver even more. 

“Daryl…” you moan again, the sound barely a whisper as you feel yourself hovering on the edge, the pressure coiling tight, ready to explode. It’s like it’s the only thing you can think, only thing that coherently comes out of your mouth. His grip on you tightens, his voice low and hoarse in your ear.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, his words sending a fresh wave of heat through you as his pace intensifies, each thrust more relentless, pushing you closer, until finally, you shudder, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you breathless, your moans filling the shower as you unravel.

Moments later, he lets out a strangled groan, his grip on you fierce as he follows, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body tense and shuddering as he holds you close, as if he’s letting himself go completely, surrendering to the pleasure that has overtaken you both.

[robzombies-hotwife]

I think beauty trends are so funny

People for literal centuries: overnight curls with fabric or pins or rollers or braids, etc.

People for like 60 years: CURLING IRONS CURLING IRONS CURLING IRONS

People now: actually curling irons fucking suck, burn you, damage your hair, and it takes forever to curl your whole head. The curls don't even last that long! Heatless overnight curls it is!

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Steve Harrington x fem!reader 18+

[3.4K] title from ‘too sweet’ by hozier, just a stressed out steve, a willing girlfriend and a lot of filth. written in two hours and not edited in the slightest i’m sorry do not perceive me.

As sour as Steve had looked when he came home from work, he tasted twice as sweet.

He’d called you on his lunch, voice strained and low and you could picture the stitch between his brows, the downturn of his lips as he grumbled to you down Family Videos landline.

Robin was off sick, Keith was in a foul mood, two kids came in and stole a copy of a porno that was sitting behind the desk and the return pile sat at the height of Steve’s waist.

“Can’t wait to come home,” he had sighed down the line, voice rough and mournful and making your thighs squeeze together just right. “Wanna see you so bad, y’know?”

And you did know.

It seemed to take an age before you heard his car pull into the driveway, brakes squeaking slightly because the rent on the apartment came before any repairs to the BMW now. It’s why you’d poured a whisky for him, neat and no ice, no water, just the way Steve liked it. You considered dinner, home cooked and waiting on the kitchen table but something else took hold in your thoughts.

You could order pizza later.

So Steve came in the door with his shoulders slumped and his keys rattling from his fingertips, his green work vest already discarded and probably balled up in the backseat of his car. That frown was there, the one you’d wanted to soothe away all day for him, creasing at his brows, turning down the corners of his soft and pretty lips.

He thawed when he saw you, barefoot and in an old sweater that was too big for you, legs naked and your skin still warm from the shower you’d taken your time in. Steve held out a hand, groaning in delight when you stepped to him, all soft smiles and softer sweater, allowing him to pull you into his chest. His noises were doing things, rough sighs and low moans that made you think with what was between your legs, his purrs vibrating from his chest to yours as he curled his arms around your lower back.

It was easy to return the affection, pushed onto your tiptoes as you carded your hands into the hair at the nape of his neck, the smell of his cologne that you watched him spray that morning barely clinging to his skin. You nosed at his throat anyway, everything about him smelling like home and when Steve let out a low grunt at your adoration, you used one hand to pull at his jaw, bringing his lips to yours.

It was more than an average kiss ‘hello’. In fact, it made his brows shoot upwards and his breath hitch, the arm still around your waist faltering before he caught up with the pace you had set and tucked you in tighter to his body. He let you lead, eyes fluttering shut as he sighed softer than he had all day, letting you steal the noise and keep it for yourself.

Steve fell pliant for you, pretty lips giving in to yours as you kissed him slow, needy, lazy. Your tongue traced the seam of his mouth, teasing, testing, his breath ragged when he opened for you, trying to catch up. You pulled away then, pleased with the rosy cheeks and blown out pupils that stared back at you.

“Go sit down,” you told him, voice soft, quiet. There was a spell cast, not to be broken, not until Steve did too. “I’ll be through in a second.”

If Steve knew what you were up to, he didn’t say. No questions asked, the boy blinked and stumbled into the doorframe before righting himself, heading for the sofa. You’d long switched the television off, the lamp by the armchair dimmed low, the candles you liked to collect all lit and scattered across the coffee table and the fireplace mantle.

You returned with his whisky, the glass glinting amber in the candle light, your smile too coy. Steve raised his brows as you handed him his drink, his gaze too caught on your bare legs. He reached out for you, warm palm travelling up the back of your thigh, wide enough to curl around it and bring you between his knees.

Exactly where you planned to end up.

“What have I done to deserve this, huh?” He asked, whisky on one hand as he leant his chin on the soft of your stomach, eyes wide and dark as he looked up at you.

You scoffed, soft and light, your hands carding through his hair. You pushed it from his forehead, nails scratching at his scalp, beaming when he closed his eyes like he couldn’t help it, lashes fluttering against the tops of his cheeks. “What? Bring you a drink?”

Steve hummed, distracted. “Was thinkin’ more along the lines of deserving you.”

Love sick, that’s what you felt. An awfully sticky thing that glued itself to your heart at his words. You didn’t know what to say, especially not when he was looking at you like that again, all brown sugar eyes, honeyed and soft. So you bent instead, nose bumping his before you stole another kiss, gentler than before, lingering and as sweet as him.

You let him take one sip of his whisky before you dragged his shirt from his body, hair wild as you pulled it over his head, cheeks flushed and eyes surprised.

“What—?”

You didn’t respond, merely dropping to your knees instead and popping the button on his Levi’s. Steve swore, a dirty, throaty sound that made your stomach flip because you knew that he knew where this was going.

“Baby,” he groaned. “Fuck. You don’t have to do that—”

The sound of his zipped caught in the air, the rest of the evening quiet. The closed curtains and the flicker of the candle light made the small living room feel even tinier, a warm bubble where you could hear every little noise Steve made for you. His hand travelled up your forearm, fingers curling at your elbow and squeezing. Steve looked half gone already, lip parted and shiny from your previous kisses and you knew he’d taste like cedar and smoke now.

“What if I wanna?” You told him, pouring, just a little. Because what man could resist a pretty thing like you on your knees, lips soft and begging? You pushed yourself up, leaning into the space between his hips, your mouth skimming along his jawline, tongue licking into the corner of his mouth all sweet. It was barely a kiss, but it was somehow dirtier. “What if I told you I wanna make you feel better? That I’ve been thinking about your cock in my mouth all day?”

Steve groaned, falling into you, head on your shoulder, teeth biting down on the junction of your neck. “Fuck— baby. Baby, y’cant, you can’t just say shit like that.”

You grinned, amusement hidden from him as Steve continued to mouth at your throat, nose nudging down the collar of your sweater so he could kiss more skin. “I can’t?” You asked.

“Gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind,” he mumbled. He lifted his head then, cheeks pink and eyes looking heavy lidded, pupils black and too big. He looked delirious on you. You watched his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallowed heavily, tongue licking at his lips. “You really been thinking about that?”

You nodded, making your eyes a little too wide, too innocent, bottom lip tucked between your teeth and it was a cheap shot, an easy target— but fuck, it worked every time. Steve’s hand slid to your ass, lifting your sweater out of his way and squeezing a plump cheek, only your underwear to be found underneath.

“So can I?” You whispered, mouth parted, brushing against his. You shared your breath with him, nose pushed to his warm cheek, hands coasting over his thighs as you prepared to tug down those too tight jeans.

Steve sounded too breathy when he answered but he still played your game, too far gone or not. He was watching your mouth when he spoke, transfixed by the pink gloss there, the way he could see your tongue between them. “Can you what, honey?”

You smirked.

Steve knew what you were asking. He just wanted to hear you say it again.

“Can I suck your cock?”

You heard it then, the hitch in his throat, the too harsh exhale. Steve looked at you like you were everything, like you’d hung each star and you were ever wet dream all at once. Lips pressed together to deal in his moan, his filthy words, he nodded, hair falling into dark eyes. And when he trusted his voice, albeit rougher and lower than before, he spoke.

“Yeah, honey, go ‘head.” He lifted his hips when you tapped them, jeans and boxers shoved down just enough for his cock to spring free, already hard and hitting his stomach. “You’re so— you’re so fucking sweet, y’know that?”

You smiled, all coy, faux shyness as you leaned your cheek onto his thigh, denim and coarse hair against your skin. Steve gasped when you wrapped a small hand around him, fingers barely meeting around his girth and you stroked once, twice. “I am?”

You didn’t give him a chance to answer before your tongue followed, a lazy, wide lick from the base of him to his tip, already dark pink and slick for you. Steve’s hips canted up, head thrown back against the cushions and you adored the way you got to watch his jaw tense, neck straining as he calmed himself down.

“God,” he blew out a breath, eyes trained on the ceiling because if he looked down and saw the way you were kissing a line up his cock, he’d fucking lose it. “Yeah, baby. The sweetest, Jesus Christ.”

You took it easy on him then, easing him into it until his shoulders sagged and his head tipped back up, his pretty face more flushed than ever but Steve watched you as you took him into your mouth, his jaw unhinged as you sucked the tip of him, licking over his head.

His hand found the back of your head, holding but not pushing and he groaned something fierce when you scratched at his bare thighs, nails dragging over the muscle there. “Tha’ s’it,” Steve moaned, unabashed, totally gone. “Keep suckin’ me, honey, yeah— please. Can you take more, huh? Take a little more for me, please, baby.”

You didn’t need to be asked, begging or not, but it certainly made it all that sweeter. Steve’s hand was cupping your jaw, thumb stroking over the corner of your mouth as you widened it, tongue licking out over his cock as you took more of it into your mouth, inch by inch until he was touching the back of your throat. It made the boy go a little wild, gasping and panting, curses mixed in with praise that was filthy enough to make your own toes curl.

“Holy shit, jus’ like that, yeah,” Steve was slurring, words meshed together in a quick mumble, his breathes too heavy for him to care. “You feel me in your throat? You’re so fuckin’ good for me, babe, Christ— yeah, yeah, lemme see your tongue, yeah. Stick it out for me, honey, oh shit—”

You did as asked, pulling back with wet eyes and warm cheeks, your lips shiny from your efforts. You kept a hand around Steve’s cock, slowly pumping him as you stuck your tongue out flat. You knew what he wanted, it was why his cheeks were so pink, the tips of his ears too. Something he found too vulgar to ask for, always scared you’d shy away from it.

You never did.

You tapped the head of his cock against your tongue, the wet slapping sounds nothing but pure filth, your own breathy noises too much for him. Steve could barely keep it together, eyes screwing shut as he bucked upwards, swearing and groaning something awful as he watched his cock slide over your tongue. You let him move, hips thrusting as you held him to your mouth, parted lips slipping over his shaft, and warm tongue tracing the throbbing vein down the length of it.

“M’gonna come,” Steve gasped and he was shaking his head, hips pressing back down into the safety of the couch and he sounded overwhelmed, eyes glassy. “Fuck, no, no, no— I—”

“No?” You pouted, understanding. Pulling away, you leaned up again, wet lips sliding over Steve’s and he kissed you feverishly, tongue licking into your mouth to search for your own. He groaned, whining when you squeezed a hand around his cock. “Too much? You don’t wanna come yet, huh?”

Steve shook his head, hair falling into his eyes and his chest was heaving, his hands curling around your sides and he was pulling at your sweater, lifting it from your frame. “No, no— shit, not yet, please.”

You let him strip you, sweater discarded by his own shirt and your bare chest only made him swear a little more, eyes on your tits, your peaked nipples and suddenly he wanted nothing more than his cock between them. He felt drunk, delirious, suddenly too happy to care about how quickly he came.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he told you with a very serious expression. His hands travelled up, palms cupping your breasts, thumbs flicking over each nipple with careful precision. “M’gonna die and it’s gonna be because of you and your mouth and those tits and—” Steve choked on a laugh when you did, lashes fluttering as you took his cock back in your hand. “—and m’gonna be a very, very happy man.”

Grinning, you rolled your eyes at his declaration, as dramatic as they were. He was as hard as steel in your grip, his hips rolling up into your touch and didn’t want to wait much longer, his poor cheeks bright red with the exertion of holding back. So you gave him a kiss, light and sweet, too sweet for the current situation but it made Steve all the more wild. You were murmuring low and soft to him, holding his cock to your tits as you stroked him, words whispered between cute little pecks at his lips, his warm cheeks.

“Steve?”

“Hmm?”

“You wanna come, handsome?”

“Mhmm.” A whine more than a word. “Please.”

“Where do you wanna come?”

A swear, guttural and hoarse. A twitch of his dick at the thought of his options. “Fuck, I— uh, I dunno.”

“Here?” You asked him sweetly, pushing his length between your breasts, rubbing your own nipple so he could watch it harden again. “All over here? Paint me nice ‘n pretty?”

Steve couldn’t form words now, which was exactly what you’d wanted.

Your mouth made its way to his ear, voice dropping lower than before. “My mouth?” You whispered. “D’you wanna come in my mouth, Stevie?”

A jerk of his hips, a whine and a grunt as his cock kicked up once more. He was so fucking close. Steve let his forehead fall to your shoulder, too hot and too helpless and too fucking desperate. He clung to you, hands wrapping around your bare waist and he didn’t know what he wanted more. He could sit back and watch you drop back down to your knees, pushing your pretty tits together as he jerked himself onto them, knowing he could watch the way he dripped down your body.

Or he could get you to open your mouth, pink tongue back out and waiting, you doe eyed and watching him. He always got dirty with that, asking you in the sweetest voice to let him see it all in your mouth, asking you to swallow it like a good girl before showing him your clean tongue after.

If Steve didn’t choose he was going to fucking explode.

So he tugged at your waist, gasping as he wrenched himself from you, falling back into the sofa. He took his aching cock in his own hand, pumping it once before squeezing tightly, willing away the need to come right there and then. He patted his knee, his eyes glassy and hooded as he looked at you.

“C’mere, baby, come sit.”

You did as told, happily, easily, willingly. Your own chest was thundering, excitement itching at your too warm skin because whatever Steve wanted you’d give him. Your thighs were slick, underwear sticking to your folds in the most obscene way because Steve’s sounds were too much to cope with without being touched too. He looked a riot, the prettiest kind. His hair mussed and cheeks flushed, lips pink and slick from your kisses, his eyes a little wild.

He helped you onto his lap, legs spread over his knees and his dick standing hard and to attention between you both. You waited patiently for his instructions, to hear what he wanted from you and Steve let his head fall back onto the cushions once more as he watched you from hooded lids. His jaw was flexing with each stroke he gave himself, hazy gaze roaming over your tits, your stomach and then lower.

And then—

“Lemme see you, baby?”

Your stomach flipped. A sweet voice, a prettily asked question, some filthy words. You smiled at Steve, lips twisting to hide your absolute glee because you knew what wanted, what he wanted to do and you were more than happy to give it to him.

You didn’t say anything as you hooked your fingers into the crotch of your underwear, gasping a little at how wet they actually were. You tugged them aside, white cotton stretched over your skin as you held the material away from yourself. With your spread thighs, you let Steve have the filthiest view, all glistening skin, a swollen clit between wet folds. You didn’t look down, you didn’t have to. You could hear the slick, fast sounds of Steve fucking his own fist, his frantic, hitched breaths.

“That’s it, yeah,” he sounded gone, drunk. “So good—”

Instead you watched him watch you, his eyes set on your pussy, gaze on fire as he enjoyed the show and when you swept your fingers over the centre of your folds, Steve swore, his free hand on your thigh clutching you tighter.

“Dirty girl,” he murmured, his teeth catching his bottom lip. He was close, you knew he was. “Such a pretty pussy, Jesus Christ, can’t believe I was gonna come without gettin’ to see her.”

You hummed, all delight and amusement. You cocked a brow even though Steve was still staring at your spread legs. “I’m dirty?” You cooed. “You’re the one who’s gonna come all over my cu—”

And he did.

Steve came with your name on his tongue, making it sound like the dirtiest, holiest thing you’d ever heard. He was gasping, choked sounds leaving his pretty lips as he fucked his fist, come spilling over his knuckles and onto your folds, leaving you and your underwear even stickier than before. His head fell back onto the sofa as he caught his breath, an impossible thing with his heaving chest but you curled into him almost immediately.

You let go of your stretched out underwear, your own breath hitching when you felt the warm, stickiness cling to your cunt. Steve pulled at you as you moved closer, your hands soothing over his jaw and cheeks, thumbs rubbing over his flushed skin as he kissed you, head lifting lazily, moaning at your touch, your lips, the feel of your bare stomach pressing his half hard cock to his own.

He was sticky with it all, with sweat, his own release, your affection and touch.

It was too much and entirely not enough, not of you.

Steve’s lips clicked as he pulled them away from your own, albeit grudgingly. You tasted sweet, like strawberry lipgloss and him. He was still panting when he spoke, his messy hand held away from you as he took your chin in his other. His thumb pulled at your bottom lip, swollen from all your efforts and he watched the way it popped back into place, making you smile.

“M’gonna finish my whisky,” he mumbled softly, eyes searching yours. He was met with excitement, knowing, a whole lot of adoration and fondness that he felt for you too. “You’re gonna check my pulse—” you laughed, too bright and joyous for the gloomy light of the room. Steve grinned, cheeks aching. “And then we’re gonna go upstairs and I’m gonna return the favour.”

[diejager]

not exactly a specific prompt or anything but - could you write more stepdad!könig and dbf!horangi pls? 👉👈

Cw: DUB-CON/NON-CON, DARKFIC, STEPCEST, AGE GAP public sex?, exhibitionism, fingering, under the table, mention of forced piercing, rough sex, unprotected sex, PinV, mention of anal sex, tell em if I missed any.

You jerked, dropping the fork in your hand and biting your lower lip to stop a moan from slipping through between them. Unfortunately, the sudden click of your fork and you shift in expression worried your mother, making her question you, brows furrowed and lips pursed into a frown. She was worried, you knew she was, but that was the last thing you had on mind, neither her quiet quarry about your health and unpredictable act, nor König’s piercing eyes and the food that was now sprayed on the table.

What truly worried you was Horangi and your own inability to hold your voice back. He looked nonchalant, brow quipped up in faked confusion, knowing that your reaction resulted from him, his wandering hand that slipped under the waistband of your short and into your cunt, pumping in and out fo you with a slow and unbothered pace. You jumped from the unexpected tap against your gummy wall, three fingers curling before they hit your sweet spot, sending an arousing pulse up your spine. You’d be fucked stupid by his fingers alone, thick and long - not as long as your stepfather, but they were better than yours - stretching your hole open to take his cock later that night.

“I’m ah-okay, mom,” you smiled shakily at her, hand gripping tightly around your knife, tremors wracking your body as you swallowed down moan after moan. “Just a stomach ache.”

“Oh dear, do you need to lay down?” She frowned good-naturedly, the skin on her brow wrinkling.

“Yeah,” you internally cheered, you’d be able to get away from this situation until later, when you’d be stuck under Horangi, ”Thanks mom.”

You were gagged, mouth stuffed with a soiled pair of your panties, drooling around your thong, down your lips while you wailed. You were stuffed with cock, legs jerking with every push of Horangi’s cock, walls forcibly pried open to take his thick shaft and his prettily trimmed pubes rubbing your swollen clit. You felt his cock carve the walls of your cunt to fit his girth, thicker in the middle with a petty and angry head and veins crawling up the shaft. It cured lightly, light enough to stand between his legs, but heavy just enough that you could feel it weigh you down, pounding away at your crumbling resolve.

He was panting, a husky and laboured breathing on your neck, his hot breath hitting you as he kissed down your shoulder, teeth scratching your soft and tender flesh, weak under his sharper teeth. He hungered for more; he lusted for eternal pleasure. Suckling the curve of your collar, teeth skimming the swell of your jostling breasts, nippled flared and wet from his manhandling. He dove back in, lips wrapped around your least swollen nub, sucking as if he was trying to milk it of all substance. You cried out when he bit down, sinking his fangs into the fat of your chest before he unlatched himself with a wet pop, leaving the indentations of his mouth on you. Then he did the same to your other tit, mind keen on fucking you, his dick ramming into you roughly while he gave attention to your sore nipples.

“Fuck, imagine these pierced,” he chuckled dreamily, a low, addicted daze in his mind, dreaming of piercing your nipples himself, “Wouldn’t you like that?”

You shook your head frantically, dreading giving them mor to use against you, more leverage to make your body betray and succumb to their whims, especially with how often your stepdad’s at home. You struggled under him as if to prove your point, feet kicking around his narrow waist, the scarred flesh a touch different from the rest of his body, pulling at the restraints keeping your hands tied to your headboard —his belt. You let out a ragged and angered scream, silenced by the gag but your body still shook with the force behind it, teary eyes closed while they rolled back in reluctant pleasure.

Horangi’s chest rumbled, a smile stretched awkwardly by the tiger-like scars on his face. In retaliation, he gave a few hard thrusts, rocking your bed against the wall, his cut head kissing your bruised cervix after brushing against your sweet, gummy wall. It punched the air out of your lungs, leaving you heaving and gasping for air, fully at the mercy of your stepfather’s friend-

“Ja, she would look so pretty,” König’s sudden appearance scared you, his mocking coo and statement reaffirming Horangi’s thought.

Your closed around Horangi, flinching away as much as you could in your restrained state, your fear and trepidation made you tighter and wetter, slick suddenly bursting around Horangi’s leaky cock. You could hear your stepfather move, his purposefully-loud steps booming in your ear, but you couldn’t see him, eyes rolled so far back in an explosive release. You felt the bed shift under him, dipping to a side while he loomed over you both, looking at your swollen nipples as if he was admiring how pretty they’d look if he had you pierced them, a rod straight through your round nub.

“Sehr hübsch, Schatzi,” he hummed, his rough hand sliding down the curve of your navel where he could feel every hard thrust and found your clit, rolling it with a big finger, “Or a piercing here, on your little clit.”

König smiled handsomely, a brazenly hungry stare covering his threatening and dominating composure. His ice blue eyes squinted mirthfully, gleaming with a dark urge, something that demanded control, that wanted submission and subservience from you. He’d fill that rimmed hole of yours after Horangi’s done with your pussy, spreading your ass around his thick and veiny cock that pressed uncomfortably against his briefs.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday

[ervotica]

treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen

warnings: SMUT (18+ only), p in v, overstim, cunnilingus, aftercare ofc, bradley is the hottest man ever xx

kinktober masterlist

You love it when it storms; the distant crackle of thunder on the horizon, the way the wind sweeps everything sideways until all you can hear is the pounding of droplets against the window panes.

You especially love that, oftentimes, it means Bradley gets to come home early.

He’s slipped straight into the bathroom on his journey into the house, past the living room and the kitchen and you. You hear the shower turn on and the whine of the old pipes that most definitely need replacing. You hear exactly when his bare skin hits the hot spray of water, almost picturing the steam rising and clouding up and around him.

You tiptoe to the en-suite as quietly as you can, each item of clothing slowly discarded the closer you get to what you want.

The bedroom comes into view and you see steam curling around the base of the bathroom door; it's ajar.

You can feel his eyes on you as it creaks open, his smirk as he takes in every inch of your naked skin - the curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts, the pudge of your tummy.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs; his thick fingers grasp and squeeze at the fat of your hips before you've even fully stepped into the shower, and he tugs you close, pressing your chest to his.

“I missed you,” you purr, forehead nestled into the juncture of his neck “Glad you’re back early.”

He palms the globes of your ass, rocking the semi he’s already sporting against your naked pussy.

“I missed you more.”

You relax forwards into him and you can feel his smile imprinted into your shoulder, the thick mustache on his top lip scraping against your soft complexion.

You tuck your arms underneath his and hum, the rake of his fingernails up and down on your back enough to have your eyes fluttering closed.

His hands are slow on their descent, pausing and halting to toy with every part of your body he loves; his thumbs slide across the tiger-like stretch marks on your thighs before moving inwards. You shudder, brows knitting and tight where you still lazily rest on his shoulder.

Two fingers slip between your folds, the broadness paired with the rough callouses enough to have you leaning forward into his hold more than you already are. He’s happy enough to take your weight, hooking a forearm beneath your knee and caging you in against the glass wall of the shower.

“There she is,” he coos, teases really, a thick thumb coming up to draw tight circles on your little nub. He delights in the way a soft moan pushes past your lips despite your efforts to keep them concealed – you don’t want to inflate his ego too much, let him know this is all it takes to have you keen beneath him. It’s no use really; his confidence is enough to carry him without any sort of technique, it’s just luck that he has that too.

You tremble as his movements get hard and fast against your poor little cunt and he sinks to his knees. The tip of his nose nudges at your clit, and god, you swear nothing ever prepares you for how good he makes you feel every single time.

“You just relax, angel. Gonna take care of this pretty little pussy for you, okay?” His voice is husky and deep but smooth and sticky like honey. You could listen to him forever.

His tongue is on you before you even have time to breathe; first fast, flicking against your bud like slaps, quick in succession, and then slower as he flattens his tongue out and slurps, makes the most obscene noises as his mustache tickles against your clit. Your thighs shake against the sides of his head, your fingers raked through the wet hair stuck flat to his head, all the while he’s focused, soaking himself with the juices from your drooling hole.

You’re close by this point, chest ragging breaths, feet sliding against the wet shower floor as Bradley pins you up by your hips and doubles down.

That’s all it takes, really, though you’d never admit it. You gasp and that coil that’s been building snaps with such a force you see white.

You let out this long, keening whine, trembling in his forceful grip as your cunt tenses and spasms under his mouth.

“Baby, I’m done,” you gasp, “Please, fuck, that’s enough.”

He only grins from his place between your legs and slips two fingers into your still quivering hole.

“You’re gonna give me another one, sweet girl.”

You can feel yourself sweating despite the onslaught of water pounding on top of the pair of you.

You’re already drawing to your peak again, a heat growing in your cunt where Bradley is skilfully crooking his fingers against that spot that makes you see stars.

“Attagirl, give it to me,” he coos, before going back to slurping at your cunt like a man deranged.

You have no choice but to oblige him, and with a shriek, you cum on his tongue and fingers once more.

He releases you slowly, straightening and wrapping your thighs tight around him as the head of his cock nudges at your entrance. He pulls you down and around him with a groan, his head going straight to the juncture of your neck as he punches his cock up into you.

A scream falls from your kiss bitten lips and your nails tighten and dig into his shoulders; you’re so sensitive, you can feel every brush of his cock on your insides, every vein and ridge, every little movement.

“Two more,” he grunts, teeth scraping at your jaw. “Two more and you’re done, baby.”

He’s relentless in his pursuit of your next orgasm, pace fast as he thrusts up into you time and time again.

It’s not long before you’re on the precipice again, and Bradley feels the telltale sign of your pussy strangling him, pulling him further in, just as you squeak and cum around him. You soak him with it, your legs squeezing his torso tight as you burrow into his skin to try and escape this intense pleasure he’s pushing down onto you. You’re alight with it, every nerve ending on fire as you shake and moan.

He doesn’t stop; you’re far past your threshold and still he continues on, the squelching of your pussy enough to have him hardening even more, more than he ever thought possible.

He knows he’s not going to last much longer so he’s quick to press a thumb to your trembling clit, pushing in tight, fast circles as he pushes you from one orgasm and almost instantly into the next.

“Last one, baby. Give it t’me, okay? You can do it.”

Your clit kisses his pubic bone as he pushes all the way in and grinds against you, fervour lacing his every movement as he desperately forces you towards the edge again.

You’re dead weight at this point, head rolling against his shoulder as he hikes you up and around his waist and sets a furious pace.

“Jesus, sweetheart, I’m gonna cum, fuck!” He grits out, biting at the slope of your shoulder until you can’t hold on any longer and cum with a cry; your whole body tenses and snaps like a bowstring, and you’re clinging to Bradley to hold you up, sagging as he finally chokes out a gasp and fills you. You flood with warmth and he lowers the pair of you to the floor under the hot spray of water. You’re in his lap, eyes closed as you already begin to doze off with the skin on skin contact.

“C’mon, honey. Gotta get out before the water gets cold.”

He towel dries you and carries you, limp, to the bedroom; finds the baggiest t-shirt for you to snuggle up in and a pair of panties for your sore pussy. His sharp grin tells you everything you need to know before the words leave his mouth.

“I’ll come home early every day if I get to fuck you like that.”

[adore-laur]

the girls asking Harry & their mom how they fell in love ?

——

With bath time for the kids done and dusted, you fall onto the couch like a rag doll with your eldest daughter in your arms wearing a fluffy white robe. She's about to get the princess treatment—her favorite thing is when you comb through her curls with apple-scented detangling spray. Harry holds your youngest and rhythmically walks around the living room to make her sleepy. She's in her zip-up pajamas, and she smells like fresh lavender. Her eyes are not yet closed, but Harry knows what tricks to use. Before long, she'll drift off and be transferred to her crib, all clean and fed.

As you yawn, the little arm tucked in your embrace wiggles free. It'll take significantly longer for her to become sleepy, but you're hoping some snuggles and soothing hair brushing under the dim lights will speed up the process.

She points aimlessly toward the fireplace, yet her eyes track above it. The artificial plant? The pillar candle? The row of picture frames?

"What, baby?" you ask, kissing her damp curls while readying the comb and spray.

"Pretty dress," she says, aiming her finger more precisely. You follow it and smile sweetly. On the mantel shelf, there’s a photograph in an elegant gold frame. It has been proudly displayed there for nearly five years as a keepsake from one of the most euphoric days of your life. It's an eight-by-ten photo of you and Harry after your marriage ceremony, sitting in the sleek black limousine that chauffeured you both to the reception venue. Through the open window, the hired photographer captured the moment Harry tried to unclip your lace bridal veil. Your legs, covered by the lush and heavy silhouette of your gown, were thrown over his lap even when there was plenty of space to spread out.

The reason that particular photo is the chosen one for the living room is because of how you and Harry are looking at each other in it. His fingers, one in particular the forever home of a gold wedding band, were tangled in your intricately styled hair, working to unclasp the many pins lost in the strands. But his eyes were feasting on you—captivated, ecstatic, and soaking you in like you were the only thing that existed. His smile was the brightest part of the photo. He was mid-laugh, with his dimples deep, nose scrunched, and cheeks pushed up so that crinkles formed near his eyes. You can hardly remember what he was laughing at. He was giddier than a kid in a candy store, with unrestrained hands and excitement. He never did end up successfully removing your veil. His mother later helped him out, and it's now packed away in a storage box in the back of your closet.

Your expression in the photo is quite similar to his—irrepressible joy mixed with fierce love for your better half. The high resolution captured the residual tears in your eyes, which were caused by the overwhelming emotions from when you greeted family and friends after the ceremony concluded. It was a gorgeous, sunny day. The afternoon sunshine poured into the limousine and accentuated the details of your exquisite gown and Harry's traditional tuxedo. You parsed through countless photos after the honeymoon, and Harry agreed that this one encapsulated the intimate love you shared with each other the best. It always brought you back to that day and that indescribable feeling. It still makes your heart pound. You would marry him a million times over just to cherish every single second again.

When you and Harry started a family together, the mantle shelf was filled with more precious photographs over the years. Now, with two children, anniversary milestones, and vacation memories under your belt, it's a beautiful display of the life you built and experienced with Harry. It's a reminder of what life is all about.

"That's mommy's wedding dress," you say proudly, beginning to comb through her hair. Harry stops his laps around the rug and stares at the picture too.

"You wore it when you met Daddy?" she replies, a cute sense of curiosity quieting her voice.

You laugh and catch Harry's gaze just as a crooked smile breaks loose on his lips. "No, I wore it when I married him."

"Oh. What did you wear when you met Daddy?"

"Gosh, I don't think I even remember," you say, searching your brain for that night at the dive bar. It was a late-night encounter, and you were tipsy.

Harry, still staring at the wedding photo, says, "An open-back dress. Black, long, and form-fitting." He shakes his head, lost in thought. "Effortlessly gorgeous."

"How in the world do you remember that?" you ask, a blush crawling up your neck.

"The disco lights were dancing across your bare back." He shrugs, like the memory is permanently stamped inside his brain. "I'll never forget that sight."

"It was a funeral dress?" your daughter asks, piecing together the visual her father verbally painted.

"Definitely not," Harry says, sending a secret smirk your way.

"Where did you see mommy in the black dress?" She lets you move her head around as you spritz her hair with the detangling spray.

"We were at the same... restaurant," you say slowly, careful not to mention bars around her. Better to keep her innocence alive as long as possible.

"What did you eat?"

"We didn't eat," you reply. "We had strawberry and lemon drinks." You intentionally leave out the infused with alcohol part.

"What did Daddy say?"

You smile, loving her endless questions. "He asked me questions about myself. Made me feel comfortable and special. Unfortunately, our conversation didn't last very long. Mommy was tired and had to go home."

"And Daddy thought he was never going to see her again," Harry added theatrically. "He was really bummed out about it, but by some magical force, he crossed paths with her a month later."

"Magic?" Your daughter whispers the childlike word, her eyes wide with interest.

"It sure seemed like it," Harry says, gently sitting beside you so as not to wake the baby. He looks at you, and somehow, his eyes transport you right back to the start of it all. "Took us three tries to finally get things right."

You lean forward to kiss him tenderly. "Look at us now."

He reciprocates the kiss—his is a bit more urgent and sentimental. He then admires his daughters, both on the verge of sleep, and rubs his palm over where his heart is. "Thank you for choosing me, baby," he says to you. There seems to be emotion lodging in his throat, but he clears it away and breathes in deeply. "I'm yours every day. And I love you for infinite reasons, but growing our little family has the number one spot in my heart."

You toss the comb aside and hug him, your daughters cocooned by two souls that somehow found each other more than once. By magic, fate, or simply coincidence, you truly lucked out.

——

[narcoticv3nus]

Halfway to Heaven ✦ John “Soap” MacTavish

Kinktober Day XX: Shower Sex

summary: dirty boyfriend likes soapy titties (pun intended) tags/trigger warnings: 18+, f!reader, p in v, fingering, shower sex, praise, author tries really hard at accents wc: 1.3k

MASTERLIST

The soothing sound of water spraying from the faucet broke the silence, creating a gentle rhythm against the backdrop of stillness. Hot water poured forth, sending steam curling into the air, thickening the atmosphere with warmth. The mirror gradually fogged over, obscuring your reflection as the water cascaded down your back, streaming like a warm embrace. Each droplet danced along your spine, soaking through your hair and saturating your scalp, enveloping you in a cocoon of relaxation and comfort.

You let out a deep sigh, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. Your fingers skim over your face, tracing the lines of your exhaustion before they glide over your scalp. As you tilt your head back, warm water droplets cascade down, tickling your cheeks and mingling with the remnants of your worries, momentarily washing them away.

You heard a knock on the door, your eyes blinking open before a voice came from behind it, “Oi, lass! Mind if ah join yeh? Ah’ve been cravin’ a wee shower; ah just got back from the gym.”

You smiled softly to yourself, letting out an airy chuckle before calling back, allowing him to enter.

As he entered the bathroom, you couldn't help but appreciate his silhouette through the frosted glass door, his shirt off, and his muscles on display. Your heartbeat quickened, and your eyes trailed his movements hungrily. You watched him strip off his gym clothes, letting them pool at his feet.

He opened the shower door and joined you, allowing the heat to envelop him completely. His gaze locked with yours as he reached for the shower gel, squeezing some into a washcloth. The familiar citrus scent filled the air, and he began to lather himself up, working the suds over his stocky frame. Your eyes followed his movements—your desire for him was evident.

"Mind if ah...help yeh wash up?" He asked, his voice low and husky, the Scottish burr rolling off his tongue like a secret promise.

Inside the shower, he stepped closer to you, the water now cascading down around you both. His hand gently took the rag from yours, your fingertips grazing. His gaze held yours for a moment longer before he began to trace the rag softly across your shoulders, slowly working his way down your arms.

He could sense you relaxing under his touch, your breath hitching slightly as he moved closer, his chest brushing against yours.

Feeling your body react to his touch, he couldn't help but let his desires take over. His hands continued to glide across your skin, exploring your curves and contours as he moved the washcloth in slow, deliberate circles.

He leaned forward, his lips brushing against the nape of your neck as he moved the rag down your back. His hand followed suit, kneading your tense muscles, trying to ease away the day's stress. His breaths were hot against your skin, and you shivered in response. As his fingers traced the small of your waist, he pulled you closer to him, pressing his hips against yours.

The heat of your bodies melded together, and he groaned low in his throat as your body reacted to his touch. John let the rag drop to the shower floor, and his hands began to explore you further, skimming across your hips and up to your full breasts. His thumbs brushed against your nipples, teasing them into hardened peaks. Your eyes fluttered closed, your head tilting back to rest on his shoulder, allowing him access to your neck and ears—sensitive spots he knew all too well. His lips trailed along the side of your neck, nipping, and suckling as he went, eliciting a soft moan from you. The sound was music to his ears, and it made his cock twitch with interest.

He whispered into your ear, "Is this okay, love?" You nodded in response, your lips parted, and your eyes closed shut, succumbing to the pleasure you were receiving.

Your heart pounded in your chest like a drum as he continued his exploration of your body, his hands sliding down your sides, over your hips, and finally settling between your thighs. His fingers gently probed your folds, finding you wet and ready for him. He groaned, his cock hardening further against your backside.

"Fuck, you're so wet." The words slipped out as he slid two fingers inside you, curving them slightly to stroke your sweet spot. He reveled in your soft gasps and moans, the way your body clenched around his fingers, and the way your hips began to move involuntarily against his hand.

He increased the pace, wanting to bring you to the edge before he claimed you fully. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow circles that made your body quiver. His hand cupped your jaw, turning your face back and upwards. His lips found yours, capturing them in a passionate kiss as your tongues tangled together.

He broke the kiss, panting heavily, and whispered, "Turn around, lass. Ah, want tae look at yeh." His voice as you turned, he lifted your leg to wrap around his waist as he reached down and adjusted his stiff cock, positioning it at your entrance. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pushed himself into you, savoring the feel of your warmth enveloping him.

Your eyes locked onto his, filled with lust and trust. He began moving slowly initially, allowing you to adjust to his size. The water cascaded down you both, creating a rhythm that matched his thrusts. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. Your breaths mingled as you moved together.

"Ah fuck,” he groaned your name. “yeh feel so good," he murmured, his hands slid down your slippery skin, settling firm on your ass as he picked up the pace, driving himself deeper into you with each powerful stroke. Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving red trails behind, but he welcomed the pain—it only heightened his pleasure. Your bodies collided, the slap of flesh echoing through the steamy shower stall.

With every thrust, you felt yourself getting closer to the brink, but you didn't want this moment to end. He reached forward, his fingers finding your nipples and rolling them gently between his thumb and forefinger, eliciting a soft whimper from your lips.

"Aye, just like that." he encouraged, watching as you bit your lip, trying to hold back the moans threatening to escape. He pressed his hips forward, grinding against your clit, and felt your walls clench around him.

As he saw your pleasure build, he couldn't help but smile. "That's it, love, let go for me." His words were a gentle command, spoken through clenched teeth as he fought to hold back his release. The sight of you in front of him—your breasts bouncing, your eyes half-closed, your lips parted—was almost too much to bear. He slammed into you harder, your bodies slapping together in the rhythm of your lustful dance.

His thumb replaced his fingers on your clit, rubbing circles as his other hand supported your waist. "Oh God, John..." you moaned, your head falling back as your orgasm neared. His name on your lips was the final straw—he felt himself reach the peak, and with a primal growl, he exploded inside you, triggering you to fall over your precipice.

His hips jerked involuntarily, his cock pulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through his body. He held onto you tightly, his muscles tensing as he rode out the storm of ecstasy. Slowly, your movements subsided, your panting breaths filling the quiet space along with the sound of water hitting the shower floor. He kissed your neck, his forehead still pressed to your, and whispered, "Ah fucking love yeh."

You kissed his face, pressing your lips against his damp skin for a moment longer than necessary. “I love you too.”

main masterlist, rules

[deathofacupid]

cool | peter parker

a/n: this concept was so sweet to me, and i had to write something for it. okay, so yeah, this is technically irondad + spiderson... but i wanted to add to it.

repost because this fic flopped with, like, 10 notes. if you look at the og, it says 700ish because of the prev notes of what i reblogged. interact with this fic, it's what keeps me going!

summary: you find that a brown haired boy is always at the restraunt you work at, covered with cuts and bruises. you're curious, so what do you do?

warnings: cursing, minor angst (not really tho, mostly fluff)

pairing: fem!reader x post-nwh!peter parker

word count: 1.5k+ words

you're working late, you don't normally. it doesn't hurt though, having a side hustle outside of college. with shit parents, community college is really all you have as an option, so extra money is welcomed.

it's 20 minutes until closing time, and you're the only one left. you've read enough articles and watched enough true crime to be at least a little paranoid. not expecting anyone else, you spray a table, wiping it down with a rag. might as well get started with cleaning, right?

so when you hear the familiar chime of the door, you've got the right to be suprised. looking up, you're greeted by the sight of a boy. he's got soft brown curls, and (you find, once you meet his gaze) matching dark, hazel eyes.

you wave at him and move behind the register. he looks harmless, but don't most men that have bad intentions? not that you think he's going to do anything.

you're just a woman. it's the way of life, this thought spiral.

"hi, what can i get you?" when he's closer, you can see the cut he's got on his cheek. it's dried blood, but still enough to make your eyebrows shoot up. in fact, he's got a bruise too.

under his left eye, and by the yellow-green, you can tell it's fresh. it's not your business to ask, well, it is... but you're only asking about his order. he runs a hand through his hair, obviously trying to tame it.

there's a leaf at the top, tangled in there. you want to take it out.

he sniffs, eying the menu. you've never seen him here before, and you've been working here for a while. now that you're looking at him, his eye looks swollen - like someone socked him. "a- a cheese-"

you're not sure where the sudden courage comes from, but you cut him off; "do you want an ice pack? or, uh, maybe frozen peas?"

he looks startled for a second, as if he were just now knocked out og this long train of thought. he pauses to touch his eye, "um," you can tell he doesn't want to trouble you, but you're intrigued now.

"seriously, it's no problem." (on the account you have frozen peas, then it would be no problem. if you didn't... a pack of cold, raw meat-?)

"sure, yeah."

"cool. er- stay right there." you go to the freezer room, rummaging around for frozen peas. it takes you a minute, and you're afraid there are none for a moment, but there are. triumphantly, you bring them back out.

he's standing in the same place, although you're not sure why he would've left. "peas!" you sing-song. handing them to him, you smile.

he throws one back, though it's forced and kind of hollow. you're afraid you've made him uncomfortable, or that you're too much. are you too much?

he squints at your nametag, "thanks, uh, gertrude?"

you're confused for a second, "oh, she's dead."

"i- sorry?" he tilts his head, now he's confused too.

"no, i mean, this isn't my nametag. it's old. like, super old. manager's dead wife. this place is too cheap to get new ones, so we, like, basically catfish people."

he nods, "okay. what's is it then?"

"huh?"

"your name."

you mentally smack your forehead, of course that's what he was asking. "y/n."

"cool. i'm peter. peter parker."

"nice to meet you peter peter parker," it's your attempt at a joke, paired with a lopsided grin. it makes peter smile though, so you consider it a win.

peter presses the pack to his eye, a wince turning into a sigh. oddly enough, it sounds sexual to you, and your face is heating up. what's wrong with you? seriously?

"okay, well, um, i assume you still wanna order something?"

"yeah. maybe just a cheeseburger and fries?"

"you got it," it's closing time, but you don't mind. peter is cute, and he seems nice as well. you're more than happy to stay around longer. "on the house," you say when he tries to offer you money, "seems like you had a rough night."

"no, i-"

"no sweat, parker."

you ring up his order, get it ready, and by the time you're done, he's settled at a table. "here you go. enjoy!"

you go back to sweeping, but you want to talk to him more. "you live around here? i haven't seen you here before."

"uh... not exactly. i don't come here often. i, um," he presses his lips together, "had a friend that brought me here. once or twice."

you frown, "oh, i'm sorry."

"what?" peter looks up from his meal.

"i just- well, you used past tense so i assumed you don't... aren't in touch anymore?" maybe small talk was a bad idea.

"oh. yeah. i guess. he's not really... around. he passed a little while back."

it's like your heart physically aches. "that's sad to hear."

"yeah. 's okay though, getting by fine. or- or better."

"mhm. it gets better. lost my sister a few a years back."

"really? i'm sorry." they're empty words, you've probably heard them a lot, he knows that. you know he knows that.

"thanks."

"yeah," it's quiet for a little while longer.

"so, uh," he pauses, taking a sip of his water, "are you still in school?"

"college," you pause, slightly embarrassed, "community, i mean."

"oh. cool. i'm at midtown. it's not, like, super fancy or whatever..."

you cut him off, shrugging, "better than community. and isn't it like so stupid, how they basically tell you that college is a must, and then have you pay all this money? 'oh, you need it for a good future!'" you mock, "aw, really? then make it free!"

you freeze, realizing you've gone on a tangent. "sorry," you say, flushing.

"no, it's okay," he laughs. "it's cool you're... passionate."

"thanks," you put the broom away. "um, i have to go take out the trash. would you mind... not stealing anything?"

"i'll try," he jokes.

"cool. i believe in your ability of self-restraint."

"cool," he says, matching your tone.

"cool."

"cool."

"okay, that got weird after the, like, second time," you make a face.

"no, yeah, i agree."

"cool," you say, staring at each other in dead silence, before bursting into laughter. you hold up the trashbag, "yeah, so, one sec."

you push open the back door, tossing the bag in the dumpster.

he's so nice, you think. look at you, falling for a basically stranger. you walk back in, closing the door behind you. you notice he's done, so you throw out his things, cleaning down the table.

"hey, uh, when do you close?" peter asks.

you check the clock, "mm... 15 minutes ago."

"holy shit, really?"

"yeah. it's cool though. i was closing anyway, and the company didn't hurt. also... it looked like you needed this."

he looks down at his shoes, smiling, "yeah, no, i did. thanks. and sorry."

"like i said, it's cool."

"cool," you stop, "are you in a cult?" you blurt.

"um, sorry?"

"sorry, like, i just, you look... beat up. and i was wondering if you were in a gang... or something." you squint at the dried blood on his knuckles.

"uh... i am not."

"then how'd you get those?"

he looks conflicted, and you've probably crossed a line. "oh my god, i'm so sorry. obviously, it's not my business. i was just... curious."

you wipe down your last table, cursing yourself internally.

"no, it's cool. i'm..."

"seriously, it's not my business. don't tell me, actually. plausible deniability," you joke.

he says something, and it's so quiet, you don't hear it. "what?" you ask.

"i'm spider-man!"

"uh. what?"

"you don't know spider-man?"

"no, of course i know spider-man!"

"well, yeah. that's me. suprise." he says, doing a small show of jazz-hands.

"there's legit no way. i know i catfished you earlier, but that was on accident!"

he tilts his head, as if he's weighing his options. in reponse, you narrow your eyes at him, trying to figure out if it's one big joke. after that, it's so quick, you barely notice. something hits your hip, not harshly, and then you're spinning towards peter.

"holy-!" you look down at your side, trying to figure out what it is. you're tucked into peter, and you realize it's... a web. "no. way."

"yes way."

"why'd you tell me? now i can't plausibly deny anything! also, isn't this supposed to be a secret? isn't that the point of the mask? how do you know i won't sell you out?"

"that was a lot."

"i know. but it was very valid."

"i don't know. i just wanted to. you're nice and sweet and pretty-"

"oh, so pretty privilege?"

"no! no, of course not!"

"well, um," you wrap your arms around his neck, "thank you for trusting me. i won't tell anyone."

"cool."

"cool."

his hands are on your hips, and he's leaning in, but you pull away, smirking.

"no kissing until the second date, i'm afraid."

"we're going on dates?"

"if you don't want me to broadcast to the world, yes."

"well, i would've asked to take you anyways."

you smile at him, enjoying the moment.

"wait, are those cameras?" there's absolute panic in his voice, and you giggle.

"those are fake. it's cardboard to scare people off."

"oh. cool."

"cool."

you end up kissing him anyways.

@whatsupstark@ell0ra-br3kk3r@idli-dosa@susvale@kdbsr-h@littlemsbumblebee @sflame15-blog @twinsunkithies @chocolateshepherddreamclod @one-piece-frvr7

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

Day 4 of TUI-Mas

Warnings: pregnancy, lots of crying and worrying, we're basically just an emotional mess, Eddie tries his best

WC: 1.1k

Divider credit to @saradika

April 1999 

Emotional is a word you’d previously used to describe yourself in the three or four days leading up to your period. Patience thinner than a thread, eyes misting at movies you’ve already watched a thousand times over—that was par for the course. 

And it didn’t hold a candle to pregnancy hormones. 

You’re dusting the bedroom furniture, the air fragrant with lemon Pledge. You spray the cleaner onto Eddie’s nightstand, carefully wiping down the wooden surface and twisting the rag over the knobs. Perched in a silver frame is Harris’s school photo from September. He’s sporting a huge grin that looks much different than his current smile; for one, his two front baby teeth are long gone now, his permanent teeth not yet pushing through his naked gums. His hair has grown out from the fresh cut he’d gotten just prior to Picture Day, the curls once again wild and untamed. Though you can’t see it in the picture, you know he’s a few inches taller. Compared to the little boy in the still image, he seems so…grown up now.

Your heart lurches when it dawns on you that you’ll never get those months back. Harris is seven years old now, closer to the beginning of second grade than first. And in just thirty short weeks, he’ll no longer be the youngest Munson.

A single water droplet plops onto the glass covering, magnifying one of his big brown eyes. Another lands on the frame, and then another, and you realize that you’re staining it with your own tears.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” you mumble under your breath, using your shirt’s hem to wipe the glass clean. You see this photo every day, but it suddenly has you choked up, nostrils stuffy as you try to stifle your crying. Thank God no one else is home to witness you being a sniveling mess over something so trivial. 

It doesn’t even occur to you that this newfound influx of intense emotions may be due to your pregnancy until a few evenings later when Eddie brings home a VHS copy of The Lion King from Family Video. Your fingers reach for the butter-drenched popcorn, dropping a few kernels in your mouth and crunching down as Scar taunts Mufasa from above. 

Harris sits on the sofa between you and Eddie, his hands clamped over his eyes in anticipation of the inevitable wildebeest stampede, as though eliminating his sense of sight will keep Mufasa alive somehow. 

Ah, childhood innocence, you think, a wistful smile gracing your lips. You watch as he parts his pointer and middle fingers, peeking between the gaps. One day, he’ll be able to watch this scene without hiding. He’ll be catching movies at the Hawk with his friends, and then on dates, and he won’t want to hang out with his parents anymore…

The tears trickle down your cheeks just as Scar loosens his grip on Mufasa’s paws, watching his brother fall to his death. His brother—what if Harris and the new baby grow up to despise each other? What if Harris resents them for taking the attention away from him? What if the baby develops that younger sibling syndrome where they feel they can never measure up?

“Sweetheart? What’s going on?” Eddie’s concerned voice captures your attention. You turn to him with glassy eyes, noting the amused smile twisting his lips. “Animated lions tuggin’ at your heartstrings?”

Anger surges through you as though a switch has been flipped. You’re bearing the weight of emotion on your shoulders, and he’s on the verge of laughter?

“Is this funny to you?” you snap, rage searing each word. Before he can answer, you’re on your feet and marching into the bedroom, fists clenched at your sides. 

Eddie’s right at your heels, one hand grasping at your waist while the other quietly closes the door behind him. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs, brushing the moisture from your cheeks. “I’m sorry I laughed at you. I…we’ve seen this movie before, and you’ve never gotten this upset.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you blurt out, prompting a new round of sobs. “It’s sad, but not this sad, and all I could think about is Harris and the baby hating each other like Mufasa and Scar.”

Your husband tucks his lips into his mouth, poorly stifling another giggle. “You…you started crying because you’re worried about a sibling rivalry that doesn’t even exist?”

You can’t help but laugh along with him when he phrases it like that. “Shut up!” you manage through a foreign combination of laughter and tears. “It could happen! They could grow up, become enemies, and—”

“And organize a wildebeest stampede to overthrow the other as King of the Jungle?” Eddie pulls back when your palm meets his chest in a playful shove. “Okay, okay!” he chuckles, holding up his forefinger. “Just one more question: which one of our kids gets trampled?”

“I hate you.” You pluck a Kleenex from your bedside table and dab underneath your eyes, a burgeoning smile quelling your frustration. “My hormones are out of control, and you’re over here having the time of your life.”

He dramatically throws his arms around you, lips pressing to your temple while he chuckles into the kiss. “My emotional little baby mama,” he teases. “Don’t worry, Sweetheart; I think it’s cute. Terrifying, but cute.”

You nod, lacing your fingers with his as he leads you back into the living room. Harris is still laying back on the sofa, fully invested in Timon and Pumbaa’s on-screen bickering. 

“Har, where’d your bowl of popcorn go?” Yours and Eddie’s bowls sit on the coffee table awaiting your return, but Harris’ is nowhere to be found. 

“Oh, yeah. I ate it all, so I put the bowl back in the sink.”

He says this nonchalantly, eyes never leaving the TV set; regardless, nostalgia washes over you. When you’d first met him, he could barely even reach the sink. Now he’s placing his dishes there on his own without even being asked?

“Don’t worry, Mommy; you don’t need to cry. This is a funny part.” He furrows his brows when your lower lip trembles in response. “You wanna do the breathing?” He inhales and exhales for three seconds each, just as you’d taught him on that fateful Halloween afternoon over two years ago, watching as you do the same. “Better?”

“Mhm. Better.” You kiss his mussed curls, settling back into your original position to watch the movie; of course, not without sobbing when Simba speaks to Mufasa in the stars.

Note to self, Eddie thinks wryly, rent a comedy next week.

--

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [6]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

There should be blood.  

You’d never have thought you could experience such visceral, rib-crushing pain, with so little blood.  

It feels like blood, the hot foam spraying from your mouth as you cough so viciously, forcing as much of it as you can out of your aching lungs. It feels like blood as it pours from your nose, thick with mucus, the delicate skin of your swollen sinuses and closing throat burn like you’ve inhaled blistering steam.  

But it’s only water. Saturating you inside and out, dripping from orifices and off extremities, you shiver violently as if you’d been left in the blizzard – though you don’t feel cold. Your body smoulders with adrenaline, so ravaged by the carnal desperation to survive that your heart still blazes hot and your muscles burn with the acid of exertion.  

Your jittering fingers are weak, barely strong enough to grip the soaked rag from your face and drop it to the plastic floor with a splat.  

Your lungs gnaw for oxygen, too anguished to swallow a breath to sate the need – you only sip at the chemical air as you attempt to roll yourself off the steel table; now that no masculine claws hold you down to it.  

The impact as you land face-down on the linoleum tosses an animalistic squeak from your throat. Purely mechanical; the whine of deteriorated, corroded machinery.  

But you alert the skullhead, all the same. Your hunter turns his head over his thick shoulder, just enough to look down at you, as the other tormentor marches out of the cell and slams the door behind him.  

You’d like to run. You dream of it, as you float in between states of consciousness – you see yourself leaping to your feet, tearing open that door and jetting off down the hall – only to open your eyes again, to blink, and see the speckled vinyl under your nose.  

He simply stares at you. Observes you as if he is intrigued by your suffering.  

You see his boots, hardly able to lift your head enough to see him in his mammoth entirety. The boots take hesitant steps in your direction, heavy and thumping on the floor, you feel the vibrations of his weight across it. Your reaction to his approach is reflex – a shriek, sudden adrenaline giving you the strength to push yourself up just enough to scurry backwards away from him, though still unable to stand.  

“You’ll survive,” he says under his breath, but it sounds more like a promise than an admonishment. You glare up at him. Panting like a trapped rabbit. Vision faded and throbbing.  

“I can’t – I,” your attempts to beg get caught in your swollen throat, wet and desperate, “please, I can’t take – please don’t do it anymore. Not again, please–”  

“There’s not going to be any more water,” he grunts, through teeth, as though irate that you had made him say so.  

A soaked sob escapes you, indeterminable whether out of relief or simply your body shutting down. You attempt to wipe away the wetness on your cheeks with trembling hands. 

“Promise.”

In your utterly fevered mind you cannot not understand the source of your audacity to request such a vow, from a man so plainly without morals, and yet your tongue forms the plea nonetheless. “Please.”  

And after a tense pause, he surprises you. With a beleaguered huff, he answers; “Okay.” 

Your sticky eyes flit across his features, from under your brow, you attempt to thank him with a shaky nod. He crouches slowly in front of you, rests his elbows on his knees. His shadowy eyes seem to catch the light of the glaring overheads, the colour of burnt honey, the first time you’ve been able to see them. Maybe it’s because he’s not scowling. 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he mutters, muffled by the dense knit of his mask. “You’re not done here.”  

Your appreciation is quick to sour. Your lips curl into a vengeful line, but your eyes betray the cracks that spider through your veneer; brow twisting into an expression of misery despite trying to contain it, you cry. Breaking out in stunted sobs. Sucking in squeaking breaths to fuel the next ones.  

He’s adept in keeping you confused, the fucking beast, not allowing a single expectation to form, a single prediction to prove correct. Rewrites his code just as you begin to translate it. You can beg at him, but only so long as he is entertained by it. You can seethe at him, but not so viciously that he is compelled to punish you.  

Does he want you to submit to him? Does he want you to fight him? Despite your attempts you cannot determine. Up until now you’ve been walking the line between both, careful not to tip too far in either direction.  

Now you are running on pure instinct. Your torture has, for now, rinsed away any mask you have tried to maintain. Leaving only the raw, dripping, desperate organs that you consist of. Burgundy and beaten.  

He reaches forward, calloused hands slipping indifferently under your arms and lifting you up with him as he stands, hoisting you like you’re a limp cat. It’s odd feeling his bare skin on yours. So far only gloved fingers have grazed you. It’s warm.  

“Can you stand?” He asks, monotonously and impatiently, ensuring you interpret no kindness in his concern.  

“Think - so,” you shudder, not yet quite able to create cohesive words.  

He lowers you to your feet, you tap the floor with your toes to ensure you can grip it as he removes his hands from you. Your knees wobble like colt legs as your weight returns to them, you’re rendered dizzy by the sudden verticality. And, wholly unintentionally, your arms jut out on reflex to prevent yourself from toppling over, bound hands landing flat on his upper stomach. You feel his muscles tense rigid with the touch, skin burning hot through the fabric of his black half-zip fleece – for a brief, nauseating moment, you find comfort in it. Heartbeat. Breathing. Human.  

His monstrous hand moves disinterestedly to your wrists, and he clutches them tightly – your stare darts to meet his. His eyes are cautious, scrutinising, blond eyelashes flittering as his glare dances around your face, reading words on a page.  

You expect him to scold you, or tell you that won’t work as if you had done it purposefully to endear yourself to him – but he silently peels your hands from him, pushing them towards you so they sit under your chin.  

“Ready to see your husband?”  

Ghost is well acquainted with terror. Both endured and inflicted. And after years, decades, of suffering his own, he has become a savant in that specialty. Injecting the fear of God into those that cross him, only to remind them it’s him they should pray to.  

But it has never made him feel so sick.  

So nauseated.   

A silent pleading in your touch. Accidental and yet so careful. It turned him to stone, the moment the pads of your fingers landed on him, the resting of your wobbly weight in your hand against him. A gentle and ruthless reminder that despite being a foreign, machiavellian, billionaire warlord;  

You’re just a girl.  

Too scared of him to beg, too frightened to fight, too small to try. 

The bitterness of guilt bubbles at the back of his tongue. Acrid enough to make him swallow. A taste he had long forgotten. Your red eyes gaze at him wetly and nervously, smeared black by the makeup that has been liquefied by your torture and your tears. And he feels guilty. 

Christ. Pathetic.  

He’s got one job to do. One objective. Prevent the mass murder of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions. Your husband is an orchestrator of death and agony. You are the leech at his ankle, bleeding him of that evil.  

You’re ready for your only purpose here. To be used as leverage, to coerce and extort a terrorist kingpin. To be shaken, tearful, yet still alluring enough to remind him of the cost of his sin – losing the only thing that lets him pretend he’s more human than creature. You.  

Your reaction to the mention of your husband is unreadable. Nervous and yet hopeful. Scornful and yet tender. But you are speechless, only whimpering as your lungs readjust to the ability to breathe, as your fight-or-flight begins to settle back down into dark dejection. You stay quiet as he once again pulls that black hood over your head, not bothering to tighten its fastening.  

With a commanding grip of your upper arm, he guides you with a push, keeping you in front of him so you don’t trip on your feet. And you need that balance, clearly, squeaking and stumbling over your weak legs as he takes you to the door. You land with your back against him, unintentionally using his rigidity to keep you stable.  

Unlocking the door, he nudges you through it, steers you down the clinical hallway; a continual tunnel of plastic, painted cinderblock walls, droning fluorescents, heavy steel doors. He ferries you to one in particular, marked No Entry, and kicks it open – it leads to a steel staircase, spiralling deep into the subterranean basement of the compound.  

The guttural roars are already audible from deep below. They echo through the cement chute, reverberating like the cries of angered spirits from the walls, chattering the rusting stairs as they creak with the weight of him.  

You let out a yelp, tripping over your feet as you attempt to descend the stairs with him; you tumble knees-first onto the steel and cry out from behind your blinding hood. Firm grip not waning, he prevents you from falling any further. Fuck’s sake.  

“C’mere,” he chuffs, disgruntled, lowering himself to scoop you up. Tosses you over his shoulder. You feel different. When he carted you to the helo, you were unyielding, stiff, hot – every muscle, every breath begrudging your abduction. Now you’re damp and flaccid, cold like a wet cloth. You hang from his shoulder like he might be able to wring you out. It makes his job easier. It makes his stomach churn.  

A minute of raucous cries growing louder, Ghost reaches the door, hauling you like a body bag. Thick, steel, no window. He knocks in code. One-two, one, one-two-three.  

Shut up, shut the fuck up – he hears through the door, some shuffling and and the odd thud.  

The door squeals open. Price stands in its frame – bloody, swearing, red on his neck and veins bulging in his temples.  

“Simon,” he greets through his jaw, “good timing.”  

Ghost nods, adjusting you on his shoulder with a jolt, you respond with a squeak.  

Price sucks his teeth, an air of disapproval, he raises his eyebrows. “Glad you’ve kept her alive for us, eh.”  

Fuck off, captain.  

He feels the urge to defend himself, but he bites his tongue. No sense in attempting to prove he’s not as barbaric as they think he is, while you’re wet, half-naked, and near-dead slung over his shoulder.  

Price steps aside to allow Ghost through – the room is dark, lit only by the down-lighting of the bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Raw concrete walls, cement floor, the odd steel shelving housing old tools and electrical paraphernalia.  

In the centre sits your husband. Victor Zakhaev. 

Duct-taped to his chair, hands bound to the armrests, ankles tethered to the legs. Shirtless, dripping with sweat, skin red and purple and speckled with blood. What a fucking sight to behold. Ghost’s mood is lifted just at the vision of his much deserved agony.  

His eyes swollen nearly shut, thick with the blood that pools under the surface of his skin – he looks up, scowling, glare catching on the ass of the woman carried into the room.  

“What the fuck,” he mutters, teeth bared. 

Ghost carts you towards the seat across from your husband. He drops you down into it, too carefully, makes sure you don’t land too harshly. You whimper nonetheless – panting, shivering, negligée still too sheer from the wetness of your torment.  

“Mia?” Zakhaev grunts, squinting, his tone more bitter than concerned.  

Price, having locked the heavy door, strolls to stand behind you and abruptly tugs the hood from your head. You wince in the sudden brightness, head bolting around as you hastily absorb your surroundings. He watches as your gaze lands on the man across from you, chest hitching as you hold your breath.  

“Victor?” You breathe, a whine, he cannot determine if out of fear or relief. “Слава богу, ты жив.” Thank God, you’re alive.  

“Что ты им сказал?” What have you told them? 

Seething. Accusatory. No concern for your wellbeing. Ghost suddenly feels he overestimated your value as leverage.  

“Ничего, малыш, я им ничего не говорил.” Nothing, baby, I haven’t told them anything.  

You little liar. Are you attempting to spare yourself the wrath of your husband? Are you trying to ensure you remain useful by keeping your husband on your side?  

Cleverer than he thought.  

Do you love him? 

You know that face.  

That lour.  

The stare your husband gives you when he hates you. When you disobey him. When you disappoint him. The hatred that reminds you how replaceable you are. How easy it would be for him to leave you in the snow-blown wilderness and let you die, how little he would care if he did so.  

You had at first found it almost amusing, that your militant abductors thought they could use you to extort him. As if he cared about you enough to bother spilling a single secret in exchange for your life.  

But, you now know what awaits you if it doesn’t go the way they want it to. Your usefulness will expire. Your time will be up.  

And now, aching, exhausted, withering, your beaten mind only yearns for comfort. Something familiar. The care of a man that isn’t itching to murder you. You just want him to love you.  

Despite how long, how ardently you scorned him and the life he forced you into – now, you miss it. You long for it. Your heart leaps back mere hours ago, when he kissed you, when he held you, when he whispered his Cyrillic pet names in your ear. Mere hours ago, you hated it. Looks like you got what you wished for.  

“Xерня.”  Bullshit.  

You feel the jagged rock rising in your throat, and you release it with a sob, eyes swelling with tears as you longingly glare at him.  

His wounds upset you. Bruises and slices and welts. You wish you could just float back to the estate with him, put ice on his injuries, apologise for ever wishing that you could inflict those wounds on him yourself. You had everything and you forsook it.  

“Я этого не делал, обещаю. Я тебя люблю.” I didn’t, I promise. I love you.  

The man whose voice you recognised, the one you had named The Captain, steps around your chair, stands in front of you with a roll of duct tape in hand – a shrill tear as he pulls off a piece. You tilt your head to glare up at him, and he takes you in his hand. Sticks the strap over your mouth, silencing you. 

He moves aside, your eyes once again land on your husband. Even more hateful than before. You hope he can see in your eyes how devotedly you love him. It mightn’t even be true, but you cling to it, with nothing else left.  

Your hunter re-enters your line of sight, sauntering behind Victor, leaning against the concrete wall, returning to the shadows. He crosses his arms, spectating it as if it were sport. He meets your eye from under the darkness of his mask. Fucking animal.  

The Captain grumbles from elsewhere in the room, amongst the clinks and clatters of whatever tool of suffering he prepares. “Had no idea your wife was so pretty, Victor.”  

Victor scoffs, as though amused, still harshly disdainful. “Как ты думаешь, почему я женился на ней?” Why do you think I married her? 

Captain chortles. “Mh. Not sure why she married you, though, eh?”  

“Take a guess,” your husband snarls, switching tongues. You know the answer, don’t you? His wallet. His empty promises.  

“Can’t be for your looks,” the Captain jeers. The familiar clicks of a spinning barrel ring out from where he stands. “I expect you lovebirds are familiar with русская рулетка.” Russian roulette.  

Your heart drops like steel.  

Your tongue forms your pleas behind your lips, as if you could speak them, instead you just moan and quiver in your chair, hoping they’ll listen. 

You jerk your head to see the Captain approach you. Behind you, he puts a warm and gentle hand on your shoulder, and you feel the sharply cold point of the revolver’s mouth against your opposite temple. You can only whimper, too terrified to tug yourself away, deathly afraid the gun will go off with the slightest movement.  

Please don’t kill me, you silently beg, entreating eyes land on your hunter. He observes disinterestedly. Please don’t let him kill me.  

“Alright, Victor,” the Captain drones, nudging the pistol at your forehead. “Tell us about London.”  

“Пошел на хуй.” Go fuck yourself. Victor spits, the apprehension in his voice belying the venom in his throat.  

“We know you’ve got WMDs in production. You know you’re only delaying the inevitable, right?”  

“You’re full of shit,” your husband growls. “You think I’m stupid? You have nothing.”  

“You’d be surprised.”  

Click.  

You scream – jolting unconsciously as you feel the gun crack against your temple – chamber empty. One down. Five to go.  

Your husband jumps, glowering at you, then the Captain, shuffling in his chair and out of breath.  

“Иди на хуй! Fuck you. Fuck you,” he roars, neck straining with his intensity. “You’re too fucking noble, Captain. You’re going to murder a woman in cold blood? No, you don’t have it in you, Ты жалкий хуй.” You pathetic fuck. 

“London. When.”  

“You’re stupider than I thought if you believe this will work.”  

Click.  

Your throat burns with the intensity of your crying, shrieking in horror as you survive yet another pull of the trigger – the click as loud as the eruption of a bullet. 

“You’ll really let your wife die for your lost fuckin’ cause, Victor?” The Captain admonishes him, grip of your shoulder firm and bizarrely comforting – your sanity begins to drift away from you, you watch as it fades.  

Victor releases a huff of scornful laughter. “Lost cause? You are desperate, Captain. Desperate enough to bring my wife into this.”  

“She’s one of many options,” the Captain threatens, “not a last resort.”  

“You’re a fool. It might be your first time killing a woman, it’s not mine.”  

Click.  

Your screams turn to whimpers, heart and lungs depleted of all strength, eyes itching with the flood of tears that flow from their swollen glands.  

“Do it. Go on. You fucking asshole.” Your husband goads him, shaking with fury, he averts your gaze even still  

Click.  

“Two left!” The Captain roars, “the odds really are in Mrs. Zakhaev’s favour, eh? Now we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance, don’t we.”  

“Fuck you. I’m not telling you anything. Not for that whore.”  

You sob, head tumbling from your shoulders in defeat and exhaustion – you'll die here. Two chambers left, one containing certain death. Your fucking husband will let it get down to the last round just to prove his obstinance. He’d let a bullet blast through your head just to prove a point.  

“It’s two simple things, Victor. Only two things you need to spill. When your fucking cabal of Soviet pricks is hitting London, and what with. Is that really worth her life, mate?”  

The Captain slips his hand under your jaw, lifting your head to realign it with his pistol. Victor glares at you. Finally meets your gaze. His eyes are small and black, beady like a shark, furious that you’ve put him in this position.  

“I’m not as pathetic as you, Captain,” he shouts, knuckles white, he shakes the steel chair like he might break it.  

Click.  

This time, you shriek, so certain that would be the end – no, another blank shot, another roll of the barrel. Which leaves the last chamber.  

Now it’s an execution. Now, you cry, and writhe, and tug, and kick, and scream – wordlessly begging, anything to plead with your husband to just tell them! It can’t be that horrific. It can’t be worth more than your life. He can’t love you that little.  

“Doesn’t seem like your wife is ready to die for you. Listen to her.” The Captain snarls, his thumb on your jaw, the revolver cold on your forehead. “It’d be such a waste. An awful shame to lose such a beauty. Wouldn’t it?”  

Victor’s skin is burning red, thumping with rage, he glares at you so viciously it terrifies you that he might tear free from his restraints and kill you himself. Something you always feared might happen eventually.  

He snorts loudly, hurling a lump of thick saliva onto the cement floor with a loud spit.  

“Go on, Captain, fucking shoot her,” he roars. “I’m not weak, like you. She’s just a fucking whore. I picked her up from the streets. And I married her for her cunt – and there are plenty of nice cunts out there. You think I give a shit what you do to her? You’ve probably already fucked her, I bet. Did she ask you to put your cock in her? It’s all she’s fucking good for, and she’s not even that good at it. I'm sure she bent over the second you broke into my house, you son of a bitch. Tell me, was she good for you? She’s not very good at listening to me, so maybe not. She’s good at sucking cock, though – did she offer that to you? It’s the only thing she knows how to do. I bet that’s why you haven’t fucking killed her already. You’d be doing me a favour. She spends my money like it’s fucking hers. You’d be saving me money if you put her down like the worn-out bitch she–” 

Bang. 

Wailing in horror, you’re certain that was your demise, that you had just drawn your last breath – briefly wondering if your spirit had already drifted from your filthy body, a death so instant that you were spared the agony of a bullet tearing through your skull.  

But you open your eyes, trembling, sobbing, dizzied by the sudden silence; to see your husband’s head hanging off his shoulders. A fountain of maroon blood. The splash and dribble of it pouring thick from the red crater in the centre of his forehead. It lands on his knees, drips from his fingers, puddles on the concrete floor around his feet.  

Behind him, your hunter.  

Gun raised. Still smoking.  

“Fuck’s sake, Ghost,” the Captain chides loudly, releasing his grip on your head, dropping the gun from your temple.  

You release a heaving breath, almost fainting with the relief, your vision begins to fade.  

“Had to shut him up,” your hunter grunts. Seems nonchalant about his sudden murder. Irritated that he had to waste the bullet.  

“Why? We were just getting him talking.”  

The hunter sniffs, rolling his head on his shoulders, cracking his spine.  

“Just had to.” 

[swifty-fox]

“it’s just me now. you don’t have to be brave anymore.” BUCK PATCHING BUCKY UP AT THE STALAG AFTER HE ARRIVES WITH A BUSTED EYE SOCKET

ooo lets go

cw: hurt comfort, semi graphic depictions of a head injury

Gale smiles for John. Skin pricking cold on wire fencing, body still sore from his own crash, dirty and hungry and very very far from home. He smiles for John because John is alive and John is here and he's so goddamn beautiful it sets the insides of Gale squishy and vulnerable.

If only they had known, if only the guards had known what they could leverage against him. If they threatened to hurt John Gale would have given them everything.

He smiles for John, because they're all smiling and cheering and whooping and bowing the fence with the force of their impending reunification. Because Benny beside him mutters quietly under his breath, "Jesus, look at his face," in quiet horror.

Head wounds bleed a lot. They all knew this, had seen it plenty.

It still looked bad.

The boys watch John Egan stand for processing, pacing the fenceline like dogs waiting for their leader. Their missing Major doesn't sway or falter, but the moment he's through those gates and extracted from the delighted clutch of their boys Gale sees it, the slightest misstep as John approaches him.

Gale regards him, takes in the dark curls pressed to a helmet of gore around his face, the dried creek of blood from his nose. The messy pulsing devastation of his eye socket, the blue of his iris turned brilliant cobalt by the blood in the whites. He soaks it all in and John's looking him over right back and then the taller man is making a quiet noise in the back of his throat and Gale's arms are opening and they're crashing into each other like two stars across the night sky.

"You look like Hell, Bucky," Gale says.

"Been better," John laughs into his shoulder.

--

The showers are blessedly empty and Gale gets John set up on a stool against the wall and takes a moment to double-check the door. Brady and DeMarco were standing guard outside, passing Brady's pipe back nd forth while making sure nobody would disturb their Majors, but Gale didn't want them hearing anything either.

He has his shower kit made up of a barely functional razor, a couple rags, and most preciously; a chunk of soap.

Together they drag the stool beside the barebones sinks, Gale deciding that it would be more trouble than it was worth to try to get John under the spray of a showerhead. He can feel john's strength flagging, leaning his large body back against Gale's thigh as he helps him strip out of his jacket and overshirt.

"What happened to the sheepskin, Bucky?" Gale asks quietly as he folds the clothing, placing it away from where it might get wet.

John shrugs, heavy-limbed and wincing, "Kidd was looking cold."

"Awful nice of you," Gale says, voice barely above a whisper as he returns to John's side, getting the water as warm as it will go before using one rag to slowly sponge at John's caked hair. He can feel a swollen lump somewhere behind the larger man's ear but there's too many layers of grime in the way. It streams down John's face and shoulders in thick streaks of brown and red and some in-between rust.

John is mostly silent, every now and again making a soft wounded noise when Gale gets too close to what slowly is revealed to be a tremendous gash in his hair, maybe an inch long but wide and deep enough that Gale can make out the layers of pink and blessedly healthy tissue. With a murmured apology, he pries apart the edges of the injury just slightly to flush out any stuck debris. John cries out softly, fingers vicing on his thigh but bears it.

"Gonna need the doc to stitch that up," Gale says when he's happy the wound is clean, cups his hand over the hurt spot and rubs his thumb against John's ear until by inches and increments he relaxes. His fists stay clenched however, as Gale pivots around to begin cleaning his face. And his eyes are vacant, staring somewhere over Gale's shoulder stubbornly.

Gale doesn't mind, he's still reeling from the shock of John being here, from the shock at the state of him. Of the relief and grief and anger dancing a threeway battle across his ribcage. He cups John's chin in a tender mirror of the other man's own habitual caresses and dabs the blood and sweat from his hairline, swipes it from his cheeks and around his mouth and under his beautiful distant eyes that flicker with something like emotion for a moment before being viciously cut off at the knees.

"Bucky," Gale sighs, begins dabbing at the obviously broken bone around John's eye.

The skin feels hot and spongy under his touch, swollen but with too much give and it sends nausea teasing across Gale's throat. John's jaw clenches tight, Gale can feel the tick of his muscles under his thumb and he puts the rag down to brush through his now blessedly clean hair.

"Hon."

John flinches, squeezing his eyes shut even though it must hurt, and shaking his head sharply just once.

"You don't have to tell me anything, John. But it's just me now. You don't have to be brave anymore."

It's not immediate, happening more in increments than the sudden burst of emotion one might expect from John Egan.

First his broad shoulders draw up to his endearly large ears, fall back down heavily. Bottom lip trembling, face screwing up tighter and body slowly bowing in half in a slow movement like landing gear folding up. A ragged breath, exhaling on a whine and then a second one on a dry sob. Gale puts a hand on the back of John's neck and draws him close, rocks his man's body slowly as John sobs his relief into a bloody smear of emotion on Gale's neck.

[no1heyyyyyyyy]

Sevika's tastes

Sevika is an old lady and she just wants to be left alone. She likes to look good but when it comes to clothes, Miss thing just doesn’t care that much. She always has practicality in mind. So, no dresses, nothing flowy, has to have natural fabrics so that her skin can breathe, and she requires that things are comfortable. Her shoes are always made for hardware with a strong sole and often reinforced. In the modern world, I see her working in metal working (specifically welding), so she has to have clothes that are multipurpose. Though, if she was forced to wear anything really nice, it would be a simple well-cut blazer and a button down with jeans or slacks that conform to her legs nicely. She prefers earthy colors, nothing too flashy. I think she’d really appreciate a nice dark green, or perhaps brown. I also feel that she would enjoy a nice flannel regularly.

With food, I’m afraid her palette is as unrefined as her clothing choices. She genuinely does not care what she eats, though she really likes chicken- loves hot wings, spicy food is her love. But, her comfort food will always be the food native to what part of India her family is from. I don’t think she’s the best cook, but she has a few family recipes that she knows so well (aloo gobi, chai, samosa, tikka masala, saag paneer). And, I think that on nights where she’s feeling really sad or lonely she always craves those foods. She’d love to cook with or for her partner, it’d be the best way to get to know her honestly. Because it allows for her to show vulnerability through actions and without words. She loves to take care of people and I think in modern times she’d mother her friends just a bit, always making sure they’re eating well, drinking their water, and sleeping right (if not she’ll give them some chai). She doesn’t eat beef or dark meats in general, and she isn’t the biggest fan of seafood or turkey. So, she sticks with her chicken and her paneer. She’ll eat tofu but it needs to be in curry or something similar.

This woman would love 80s hair metal, music is something that I genuinely believe she’d love so much. She’d play drums as a teenager, dead set on becoming the drummer of the next Metallica. She’d also love the old school heavy metal bands, Iron Maiden, Metallica, Black Sabbath, Pantera. She’d love them all. I think she’d like some old school 90s rap too, but none of the new-age mumble rap that’s going on. She wouldn’t really like Taylor Swift’s music, just because it didn’t vibe with her, but she respected Taylor’s ability to get a bag. She has had a huge crush on Adele ever since she heard the album 25 when it came out. She liked some of her music, but thought Adele was drop dead gorgeous and all mature and soulful and shit, hit her in the feels and made her whipped for this woman she didn’t even know.

For movies she loves shitty 80s slasher horror, nothing that makes her think. She’d sit back in her old recliner in her pajamas and house slippers whilst watching Slumber Party Massacre for the third time, and then put on Golden Girls because she feels that Dorothy Zbornak is her spirit animal. She likes a good sitcom too and a ridiculous drama (she loves Desperate Housewives), she likes the camp, the over the top acting and dumb plots, it makes her laugh and feel care free in a way she hasn’t been in a long time. She just wants to curl up with her pets (she would have many) and watch teen-based tv shows that revolve around crime or secrets (Pretty Little Liars, Riverdale, Vampire Diaries, even Buffy etc.). She likes how bad they are, but she gets so invested it’s ridiculous.

For personal scents she’d like more woody, alluring scents that are also kind of sweet. Think Amber by Rag n’ Bone (it smells so good), she doesn’t spray much, just a spritz, it wafts around her just slightly, just enough for women to fall at her feet. Her individual smell wouldn't be overpowering but it would definitely be clear. It’s grounding and soothing. Her sweat stinks though, every time she comes back from the gym, she goes straight to the showers because her own dogs don’t want to come near her b.o.

In general, Sevika is an old woman who couldn’t give less of a shit. She wants to be left alone with her life and her people and chill. Which is why, I feel like she isn’t that opinionated on much unless it’s boundaries or causes she cares about. She just doesn’t have the energy to be bothered with trivial things like which movie to choose for the night, or which restaurant to go to. She is tired and all she wants to do is eat good food with her partner and her pets in a little cottage in the middle of nowhere. She doesn’t like neighbors and she doesn’t like people in her business. She doesn’t need a perfect life, just one that’s hers.

for whatever reason the letters are being weird, it is killing me. Please ignore it.

[that-gay-guy-from-hell]

I've Got You: Dante x G/N Reader

SUMMARY:

Dante and you are on a job where something happens; something that scares Dante. 

BEGINNING NOTES: Protective Dante x Quarter-devil G/N Reader Unestablished relationship 🩹🩹🩹 The reader works at the DMC as a demon hunter Quarter devil = A situation like Nero, second gen. hybrid. You can heal like Nero does--much slower than the twins.  The reader uses Gilgamesh Another semi-short story: Not fully proofread, will check later just wanted to post this now lol

==

     A slowly slipping sun on the horizon gave the current gory situation a sickly divine glow. The cause of such bloodshed? Dante and you--both hard at work. While you worked, your face in particular had curled up into a devilish wide wicked grin; the madness of which only being further accented the furious insatiable appetite for violence that had consumed each one of your moves The reason for this uncharacteristic ferocious attitude was simple, you were drop-dead tired. This exhaustion was intense enough that it had swung all the way around back to you feeling rejuvenated and invigorated. A large spray of crimson carnage shot upward toward you, decorating your face and chest, as you used Gilgamesh’s boots to curb-stomp a Proto Angelo.

     All the while, your red devil partner was cracking random jokes and making quippy remarks, as per usual; however, he couldn’t help but focus on your oddly sadistic behavior. Which, to his surprise--and slight horror--he found extremely arousing. 

     The way the sunset illuminated all the blood that sprayed up from each of your kills, how your body bent and contorted in just the right way, that unfamiliar dark smirk; all of it combined into a perfectly seductive bloody waltz. After ripping the throat out of a Hell Jeducca, you wiped some of the accumulated blood from your face. That’s when you noticed Dante’s stare, turning your smile from violent to loving as you waved happily; which evidently was too much of a distraction for the red devil. In a split second, a Fury that he’d been fighting managed to slice the side of Dante’s neck open and a large red spray came from the gouged-out flesh. 

     Dante let out a hissing grunt through gritted teeth and took a deep calming breath, turning to the large demon. As the pair circled one another waiting for the other to strike, both Dante and the demon were caught off guard by you shoving Gilgamesh’s gauntlets right through the Fury’s spine and out it’s stomach. 

     Dante’s heart skipped a beat as he stared; a part of him was fearfully concerned about your rash action but another part of him was amused by it--in more ways than one.

     With an irritated grunt, you shook the corpse from your forearm, dropping it to the ground. Your breathing was ragged and you were standing staring down at the demon’s corpse; reeling at the fact that your stupid impulsive action worked. 

     After a short pause, you sighed in relief at a brief moment of peace and stretched your arms up, cracking your shoulders. As you stared at Dante, you felt an odd nervousness take over your body. He looked hot normally but with the way his hair was disheveled and stuck to his brow from the demon blood that coated the majority of him, it made him look both terrifying and tempting. He smiled at you through his heavy breaths, winking at you, and had his hands resting on his hips. It was then that you noticed his neck wound. 

     Taking care not to trip, you made your way over to the ragged man. Gingerly, you placed a hand over the torn flesh as a sad look crept into your eyes, Dante's eyes trained on you the entire time. 

     A small frown tugged at your face, “You alright?” 

     The youngest son of Sparda smiled and set his hand over yours; or rather, over the demonic gauntlet you had on, “Eh,” he shrugged, “I’ll live. What about you? You feelin’ alright?”

     A surprised huff left your lips as you titled your head with a raised brow, confused as to why he was asking you.

     With a faint hint of concern, Dante began to mindlessly thumb over your arm, “Your fighting style is a little more uh… brutal than normal, you can take a break. I can take care of the rest--we’re almost done anyways.”

     You smiled softly as you began to slowly thumb over his neck, speaking in a smooth gentle voice, “I’m fine, Dante. Don’t worry about me.”

     “It’s my job to worry about you,” he smiled warmly, “You’re my partner after all.”

     With a bright closed-eye laugh, you gently punched his chest with your free hand. However, when you opened your eyes, you slowly stopped laughing. His eyes were trained fully on yours and they were half-lidded, filled with an oddly caring feeling. Bit by bit, the two of you leaned closer and placed your noses right beside one another--

     A sudden intense pain shot through your middle as you pulled back from him, pushing him away. It seems Dante felt it too as he reacted the same way; however, when he looked down, he realized he was just barely nicked by the tip of the blade. 

     You had taken the brunt of the blow.

     With shaking hands, you looked down at your middle and saw the sword that had pierced you before it was harshly yanked back out of you, leaving a gaping hole in its wake--allowing you to see much more of your insides than anyone probably ever should.

     “Dante..?” You looked up at him with an almost confused stare before stumbling forwards.

     “It’s okay,” he caught you as you fell and your hand had vice gripped around his arm, digging your gauntlets into his coat and bicep as he laid you onto the ground, “I’ve got you- I’ve got you.” 

     His eyes met with yours as you let go of him. As he stared into your eyes, an intense wave of emotions overcame Dante--it was a toxic combination of fear and anger, a pairing that only leads to one result. 

     In an instant, Dante he was in his Sin Devil Trigger. The first thing he did was shred a Gladius--the one that had speared you--into tiny insurmountable pieces. Then his attention was on the rest of the newly formed horde. To say that Dante is feral when in his Sin Trigger would be ludicrously underselling it. He’s only supposed to even consider using it when in a completely sound and stable mindset--the furthest thing from what his mind is like right now. All that was in his head was he wanted to protect you-- he needed to protect you, from anything and everything that might hurt you. It didn’t take long for him to have the demons killed off which then he should’ve returned to your side, allowing him to calm down and de-Trigger, but something else caught his eye. 

     The two of you hadn’t been alone when you started this mission; no, in fact, you had two other hunters that had gone through the opposite side and finally had reconvened with you both in the middle of the nest. 

     Vergil and Nero.

     The father-son duo stood dumbfounded for a moment. Although Vergil was far from afraid of his brother’s devil forms, this was one of the very finite times that Vergil had seen Dante use it outside of their time in Hell. Whereas Nero could count on one hand how many times he’d seen his uncle like this; rendering him completely clueless of the amount of danger he, and Vergil, were truly in.

     Nero smiled with a shake of his head, walking towards the rumbling red devil, “What? You two get your asses kicked that bad?”

     Instantaneously, Dante was in front of Nero. Before the young hunter could even process what happened, Dante shot up in the air and dropped straight down. A large bright explosion emanated from the devil’s actions, which then decorated the area with bright sparsely placed hellfire. With a snarl, the red devil stood back up and expected the “threat” to be gone; however, it wasn’t--at least not in the way he expected. A faint smell of demonic magic in the air as Dante surveyed what happened. 

     He turned to the side and saw, a now Sin Devil Triggered, Vergil, holding Nero tightly to his chest. The two of them locked eyes and both flared out their wings, letting out a low growl the entire time; sizing each other up. Vergil, however, was quickly preoccupied by a pissed-off Nero complaining about how Vergil is squishing him “--to death”.  

     Dante noticed Vergil’s distraction and took a step toward them.

     Seeing what was going on, you decided to intervene; even if it made you want to gouge out your own throat in pain, “Dante..?”

     The red devil’s attention was immediately upon you and he was by your side, frantic at your still injured state.

     Gently and carefully you placed a hand on his cheek, thumbing over the plate that created the underside of his eye and his cheek; doing your best not to cut or burn yourself, “They’re not going to hurt you or me; everything’s alright.”

     Dante made a small chirping purr as he leaned into your touch before picking you up, careful as to not agitate your wounds. It was unclear just how far he had taken you but it was far enough away that the weather had changed completely becoming cold and rainy. There was no cityscape or demons in sight, just forest for miles around. 

     Perhaps if Dante hadn’t been in such an intimidating form, you may have considered this to be a date. Being out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but forest as far as the eye could see; it was breathtaking.

     Dante set you down, gently bunting his head against you before standing up. He was scanning the area, listening and looking for anything moving or anything that might even so much as think about harming you. 

     “Dante?” You reached up for his hand, grabbing one of his claws.

     The red devil turned to you in a panicked manner, thinking that something was wrong. 

     “Sit with me?” Your voice was soft, trying to calm him down, “Please?”

     Although hesitant, Dante did as you asked with a small grumbled huff and sat beside you. 

     With a small grunt, you stood up and saw that he was going to as well, “Stay.” He growled in slight agitation, so you quickly tacked on a “please” to your request.

     Very carefully, you sat sideways between his legs, doing your best to keep yourself from getting stabbed by his thigh spikes. Bit by bit, you leaned your head against him and a loud purr began to emanate from deep within Dante’s chest as he wrapped his arm around your lower back. You had the other hand in yours, using both your hands to hold it and play with it slightly. In your time working with Dante, you’d only seen this form once and it had been due to a similar situation where you’d been hurt. 

     “You know, you might look scary when you’re like this but,” you looked up at him, meeting his gaze, “you really aren’t much different than you are normally,” You adjusted your head a bit and let out a small laugh at him putting his wings around the both of you, “Okay, maybe just a little more protective.”

     A small rumble came from deep inside his chest, laughing at your words. Even though he knew that you were going to be fine, that you would heal just like everyone else, Dante couldn’t help but worry about you. 

     “I love you; you know that Dante?” you smiled at the sound of his purring grow tenfold louder, “I thought so,” with a laugh you placed a small kiss on his middle, “When you are back to human we can finish that kiss, okay?”

     He chuffed at you, eager to be able to kiss you. 

     With how hot it was within his grasp and the noise from both the rain and his purring, you couldn’t help but fall asleep. As you slept, Dante had managed to slide back down into his regular Trigger and then to human once more. A small content smile tugged at his lips, although your shirt was totaled, you were just fine. Without disturbing you too much he took off his jacket, wrapped it around you, and pulled you closer to his chest--setting you properly on his lap. 

     Dante closed his eyes as he held you tightly and, with a voice as soft as silk, he whispered against the top of your head, “I love you too, darling,” he placed a soft kiss atop your head, “So very much.”

==

Sorry for the typos (and apparently unsaved/half-done paragraph?? Not sure what happened but I tried to fill in what I thought was supposed to be there *Google Docs didn't save it for some reason smh*), they should be fixed now lmao

==

Want to see more like this? Want to read my work quicker and several stories that are not on Tumblr? Check this out on my AO3 (Linked here)

MASTER LIST FOR TUMBLR

[yourbestpalpercy]

Operator walked through the quiet, white hallways of the Kamabo Co. Labs. Unfamiliar faces stared at it with…almost angry looks. Distrustful looks. No one trusted or liked it and…unfortunately, it didn’t even understand why. …Operator took a breath. It needed to find Everest…no matter what.

“Is- Is there a 7 around here? I need a number 7 to come here?? …Please????” He said in a louder tone of voice than usual. Operator didn’t like shouting that much. Before, Operator didn’t like it because it just felt weird. Now that Operator knew who he once was, it made Operator wonder if he was acting just like the old commander.

Operator caught a look at a deep blue axolotl with mint green frills. Operator had never once seen them before. The axolotl– what was her name? She seemed familiar to Operator almost but…not quite. Whatever. Point is, Operator watched as she ran off and disappeared. “Axolotl?” Operator tilted their head, confused, “Where are you going?” Operator shook their head a moment later.

“7! Uhm, Number 10,007?? Do you prefer that name!? Please come here!” Operator stood up on its tiptoes and used its hand to make its yell come out louder. ‘Maybe I should be more commanding? Tartar probably did that to make people come to him, yeah? Oh…but I don’t want to be mean about it…’ Operator messed with its fingers and gave polite yelling another go. It really didn’t want to be commanding…

“I need an Applicant 10,007 to PLEASE come here!?”

Still nothing. Operator became worried. The sanitized all around him studied his actions closely…coldly. It felt like they were waiting for Operator to mess up. They wanted to see Operator act just like their old commander. They want him to be just like Commander Tartar. They all waited for a command. Operator wiped a quick tear from his eye, staring at all of them. Operator stared at his hands before taking a deep breath.

Just as Operator went to yell out a command, they heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. 2 people, from the sounds of it. The axolotl came back with a sanitized octoling in tow that looked…more tired than anything. Operator stood there, watching the axolotl now. “Hi uhm…sorry, very, very sorry to bother you,” Operator started, approaching the octoling that the axolotl had in her hands, “But are you 7?” They pushed their fingertips together with a nervous look on their smile.

“Mmmmhh…” the octoling groaned, “Whaddya want…?” They rubbed their eyes.

“I need to talk to Everest, please? The little, ‘new human’? With the white hair and amber eyes? Do you know where she is?”

7 shook her head. “Haven’t seen her since–” She was interrupted by a yawn– “the…rainmake…r test… Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Oh! Sorry, I hadn’t realized I woke you up, I am…v-very sorry…” Operator put its hands together, “Yes. Yes. You- you may head back to sleep. A-Again, very, very sorry…” Operator turned on its heel quickly and started wandering down the hallways once again. The surrounding sanitized just seemed disappointed and hostile minus a few octolings here and there. Everest’s room had to be somewhere in these labs, right? Somewhere…

As Operator walked, he soon found a room with a large splotch of sanitized ink on the handle. Eek-!! How disgusting-! Hazardous–! Operator scrambled to get a rag out of his pocket and spray it with a spray bottle from his chest’s storage compartment. Once the handle was fully clean, Operator let out a relieved sigh. “Fixed, much better…” Operator would’ve moved on from the room if he hadn’t heard the slightest groan echo from inside the room.

‘Everest…?’

Operator slowly pushed open the door and…stared from the doorway at Everest resting inside an old bed that Operator recognized near instantly as their own once upon a time. Everest rested with her entire body underneath the covers. “…Everest?”

There was a groan from the bed, “Leave me alone, Operator…I know it’s you…” Everest curled up tighter in the bed’s soft sheets. Operator now started to approach the bed, shutting the door to make the room dark once again. It didn’t turn on the light.

“Please, show your face, Everest. I want to talk to you,” Operator slowly sat down at the edge of the bed. He had a saddened look on his face. The covers tensed up.

“Do you really think I’m going to listen to you? You’re not him. An imposter. Just like him.” There was the slightest hint of tears in her sad voice. Operator just wanted to hug Everest and never let go.

“Everest, please. I just want to talk…” They reached their hand forward to pat her back.

The sheet shuffled again and curled tighter; Operator drew its hand away quickly, “What don’t you understand about ‘Leave me alone’?” Everest let out a rough hiss.

“…Everything I suppose. I don’t understand a lot actually. I barely understand a hug even still. I just…I want to help you.”

“Help with what?” Everest revealed her head, sitting up as she spat at Operator, “Making me feel better o’er the death and disgusting replacement of my dad!?” Everest jabbed Operator’s shoulder, “You’re not my dad and you’ll NEVER be! Stop trying, you dam lasshole!” Everest shouted, slamming her hands on the bed.

Operator stayed silent, just staring at Everest’s angry face. She was bright red and it was obvious that she was holding back more tears. “Everest…”

She drug her arm across her eyes, sniffling, “SHUT UP! Stop talking!! I’m tired of listening to you! You’re. Not. My. Dad!” Everest threw the blanket over her head again, curling up once again.

“…I’m not trying to be your new dad, Everest. That’s what you’re misunderstanding. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you…Snowflake?” Operator’s memory was all fuzzy but it suggested that Tartar would use snowy nicknames to tease Everest.

She responded coldly though. “Don’t you dare start with the snow-related nicknames…” Everest grumbled.

“Sorry,” Operator looked away, rubbing his arm with a sorrowful expression on his face, “I just-…thought it would help.”

“It would help if you were my real dad,” Everest huffed, trying to hide her obvious tears from Operator. Her breathing hitched in her throat repeatedly as hard as she tried to make it stop. Operator felt that tug in their chest once again. That tug that made them want to pull Everest into their arms and not let her go until she understood that they wanted to help.

“…I know I’ll never be Tartar to you,” It finally said. Its voice was somber. “I am still that telephone to others though. I’ve noticed how CQ talks with a shaky voice when giving me orders to clean areas and tests. Pinn, 8, is ever distant towards me. The train goers pretend to not notice me. Some of the…applicants? Tartar’s soldiers? *Ahem*, some of them down here still tense up when they see me. No one trusts me. They all expect me to go back to his old ways.” It was all true. Whether it would make Everest feel better or not, Operator had no idea. It hoped it would help at least a little.

“Are you really trying to make me trust you more because other people still see you as the commander?” Everest sat up under the blanket, her arms holding her knees close to her body. She wiped another few tears from her eye, “Ha…! That’s cheap.”

Operator let out a laugh following Everest’s sad one, “It's obvious that I’m not that good at comforting people, isn’t it?”

“Haha…” Everest’s laughs were still sad, “You were never good at it. Do you want to know what Tartar said to Mr. Grizz when he got him back down from space? After he failed to bring mammals back to Earth? ‘Well, you’re still not alone! There’s still Judd and Lil Judd!’. Mr. Grizz nearly dismantled Tartar on the spot.”

Operator let out a slight giggle. Now that was unbelievable! “Mr. Grizz? The large, large bear? I almost don’t want to believe you. He still lets me snuggle him. Bury my face in his fuzzy, fuzzy, brown fur.” Operator sometimes sneezed when he snuggled Mr. Grizz too hard but the bear never seemed to mind much and, if Operator was lucky, he’d let him fall asleep on his back, or his stomach, or- or his chest! Operator would’ve drifted into a happy little day if Everest didn’t speak up once again.

“…He knew about Tartar’s reset too?” Everest finally removed the blanket from her face, huffing; her eyes carried a heavy sense of betrayal, “Why did nobody tell me? Did people really think that the daughter of the commander himself wouldn’t care about his disappearance, death and replacement?”

Operator frowned, “Guess not. Someone should’ve told you though. It wasn’t fair to you, to let you find out the hard way,” Operator slipped his hat off, looking over every detail, “I-…am so sorry for the 2 weeks that everyone made you go through…all that worry. All that secret keeping…” Operator put their feet on the bed and wrapped their arms around themself. A hole formed in their stomach.

“…Tartar’s disappearance was a mystery to myself as well. I had no idea that he ever ‘disappeared’. I-I knew that he was dead but- I really, truly believed that us looking the same was just a mere coincidence. Nothing more. …I only learned earlier when you were yelling at me, the truth. I noticed 8’s face. How her eyes widened and then quickly shifted about to look at things in the statue. Everyone hid the truth from me too; expecting me to never discover the truth about myself. They figured I would stay oblivious to my origins forever. That no one would tell me that,” Operator crossed its arms tighter and its lever spun to imitate Pearl’s voice, its supposed creator’s girlfriend, “‘Oh, by the way, you used to be an evil, absolutely maniacal commander hellbent on killing EVERYONE with a mega death laser because you wanted to bring back humanity!’” Operator’s face darkened into a real scowl; it clenched its fists, its voice changing to Marina’s voice, “‘Oh yeah, and let’s not forget the blender. You killed thousands of sea creatures using it, promising them you’d bring them to a utopia called The Promised Land,’” Operator loudly huffed, feeling truly angry for the first time in a…ever. It had never felt truly angry before. Its lever spun one last time, mimicking both of their voices, “‘Thank Cod you’ll never find out though because that would certainly suck!’” Operator put its fists to its eyes and groaned loudly.

“I hate it when people hide things from me. The last time someone hid something from me, it was about the disappearance of my Uncle Treeline from the mountain cult. I found out with my own eyes that he had been killed, sacrificed to The Leviathan and cut up for stew by the village, more specifically, his own brother…my defective father,” Everest didn’t look at Operator, she only stared at the bed.

“Is your real father the reason why you clung onto Tartar so much?”

“Nooo, I clung on because he would hurt me! OF COURSE THAT’S WHY!” Everest screamed, “He was the ONLY one that treated me like the human I was! He was proud of me! Really proud! Nothing like my dad or my mom! I was alive to him! I wasn’t a prop for power to him! I was a real, breathing, living person to him! He- He promised that I never had to go back to the mountain. He cared about me…!” Everest sniffled, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“I-...I miss him so much…I want my real dad back, Operator…” Operator couldn’t fight the tug anymore. He gently scooped Everest into his chest, letting her cry large, warm, runny tears into his chest. Operator should’ve snapped to clean it but something in him refused to let it happen. Operator fought against his strange programming to hold Everest close to him and comfort her.

“...” Operator’s lever spun, pitching their voice this way and that until they finally spoke up.

“I’m proud of you, Everest,” Tartar’s voice came from Operator’s mouth, “You might not have been successful with the NILS Statue but never, ever forget that I am always, always proud of you. I’ve been proud since we first…met,” Operator struggled momentarily to try to dredge up the correct memory.

The way Everest untensed was in a negative way, “...Stop being fake, Operator. You can’t just switch your voice to Tartar’s and expect everything to be fine. Just talk normally.”

Operator’s lever pitched again, regaining its voice, “Well…what would you like from me? What would help you right now…?” Operator started to stand up as Everest kept her face shoved into Operator’s chest.

“…Can you watch me do a test…?” Everest murmured, “Maybe all of Line M? I just…wanna see someone be proud…” Everest mumbled.

Operator smiled, “I can do that. Let’s go get the train!” Operator grabbed Everest’s hand quickly. As Everest stumbled out of bed, following Operator, he noticed something was missing from Everest. “You’re…missing something, Everest…” Operator made a small, grabbing motion. It was on the tip of his tongue, Operator was sure.

“I’m missing my golf club, Operator. My main weapon. …The weapon Tartar customized for me.”

“Oh… Where’s your golf club?”

“…” Everest paused with a solemn expression on her face. She rubbed her shoulder. Her lip quivered ever so slightly as if holding back tears. “At the ocean floor. It fell down…really far down…” The smallest tear pushed its way from Everest’s eye. Operator stopped Everest outside of Tartar’s room. Raising a finger, Operator carefully pushed the tear away. He gently raised Everest’s head to look at his genuine smile.

“Then let’s find it together, Everest. I know how much that golf club meant to you. Tartar made it just for you.”

“It’s gone. Forever, Operator. No point in trying to find it.”

Operator gently wrapped his arms around Everest and pulled her close, “...Nothing’s gone forever, Everest. Let’s go find it…” Operator sighed softly. They were glad…Everest was feeling at least a little better now. Operator turned away and started to guide Everest through the halls of the labs.

[catierambles]

Feral Instincts Ch.30

Pairing: The Rogue’s Gallery (Geralt, Syverson, Mike, August Walker, Walter Marshall) x Stephanie Daniels (OFC)

WC 1074

Warnings: mentions of blood and injury

They pulled up to the house in a quiet neighborhood, Sy parking half on the curb as Geralt's bike slid to a stop, August’s SUV parked out front right where the tracker said it would be. Getting out, they ran up the walk, hearing a crash from inside. August didn't pause, kicking the door in and they rushed inside.

"Steph!" August called out and there was another crash from deeper in the house. Running towards the sound, they stopped, seeing the wolves locked in combat. Jordan's was a dark blonde color and massive, but his fur was streaked with blood from bites and tears along his back, flank, and muzzle. He was tackled by Stephanie's, her wolf smaller than his, but her bite was strong as she sank her teeth into his shoulder and brought him down. He rolled, knocked her off and they came at each other again, paws swiping and teeth snapping. She went low as he went high, catching him around the throat and slamming him to the floor on his back. He shifted back, the fur retreating, and he pushed against her, fought to free himself, trying to dislodge her teeth from around his throat. She suddenly wrenched and blood sprayed, bone snapping.

"Steph." Sy said and she whipped around to look at them, the piece of gore falling from her mouth to land wetly on the floor. Her eyes were wild, enraged, and her lips pulled back from blood stained fangs in a growl.

"Easy." Walter said, his voice low. "Easy sweetheart. It's us." She couldn't seem to hear them, advancing on them slowly, her body low to the floor as her hackles raised, her ears pinning back. They could see blood on her fur, and it wasn't all Jordan's. "You're injured, love." He took a step towards her, but backed up as she snarled at him.

"Steph," Sy said, "Come back to us, darlin'."

"Listen to us, Princess." August said.

"Stephanie." Geralt said, "Don't let us lose you to this." She suddenly stopped, shaking her head, and her body relaxed before she let out a low whine, limping over to them.

"Baby." Sy said as she nearly collapsed at their feet, shifting back. Ragged gashes and deep punctures littered her back and shoulders and they knelt, Sy's hands hovering over her.

"Sy…" She said, her voice a pained whine, and August came back with a blanket, laying it over her and wrapping her in it before gathering her in his arms, picking her up. "Are Mike and Albert okay?"

"We can talk about that later, sweetheart." Sy said, brushing blood streaked hair away from her face. "Let's get you outta here first."

"Cleanup crew is on its way." Geralt said, putting his phone back in his pocket, "I'll wait for them. Take her home."

"No!" She reached for him, grabbing his jacket. "Don't leave me, please. None of you, please. I need all of you, I need to know you're okay."

"I'll call Leon when we get in the truck." August said, "Council is just going to have to fucking deal that Lewis is a corpse."

She was quiet on the drive back, curled up in the blanket on August's lap, her fingers twisting in his shirt as he carried her into the cabin, Walter having driven his truck back to the cabin so August could tend to Stephanie.

"You need to get this blood off of you." He said and she nodded. He carried her into the bathroom, sitting her down on the toilet as he started the shower, pulling his clothes off and unwrapping her from the blanket when the water reached a suitable temp. The hot water irrigating her injuries made tears come to her eyes and he held her against his chest as she sobbed, the water swirling deep red then pink then clear around the drain. He washed the blood out of her hair with gentle movements, making sure to rinse it thoroughly and he didn't fail to notice the fresh silver wounds around her wrists.

When she was clean, he shut off the shower, toweling her off gently before wrapping her in it and one around his hips. He waited as she brushed her teeth quickly, getting the blood out of her mouth, before picking her up again and bringing her down to the living room where Walter and the others had made something of a nest, moving the couch and recliners aside and piling blankets and pillows on the floor.

"I killed him." She said as they laid there, and the smallness to her voice broke their hearts, Geralt’s arm tightening around her waist as he held her back against his chest. "He hurt Mike, Albert, and Sy, so I killed him."

"You did."

"I didn't--I didn't stop to think, I just did it because he hurt them." She said, "Am I--am I a monster?"

"No, sweetheart." Walter said, their hearts breaking a little bit more, "You're an Alpha. He hurt your Mates, he hurt your pack, but it should have been us. Not you."

"I'm sorry I didn't wait for you."

"It's not that." August said, "We know death. Sy with the Army, Walter with the police, Geralt with being a Tracker, and me with…well, what I did with the Agency and for the Council. We know death, we've taken lives. We’re not angry it wasn’t us, baby, we just didn't want you to know it too. We wanted to protect you from that."

"I didn't care what happened to me." She said, "I didn't care if I died too. I needed him to pay for what he had done to them."

"You protected them." Geralt said, "You left with Lewis to protect Mike and Albert, and you made sure he would never hurt them or anyone else ever again."

"Council is going to be pissy." She said, "They wanted him alive."

"They'll get over it." August said, “Steph, I have to know. How did you know to take my truck?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did you know the Council gave it to me and it has a tracker in it?” He asked and she tilted her face up to look at him.

“I didn’t.” She said, “I just grabbed the first keys I saw. It has a tracker in it?” There was a beat of silence before they gave soft laughs, August pressing his lips to her forehead.

[kinetic-elaboration]

October 6: D/J, Tea

Cozytober 5: hot chocolate or tea

Daria/Jane, ~780 words, 35 minutes

*

The rain starts coming down, needle-thin and cold, as they turn onto Howard, has grown to almost a downpour by the time they reach Jane's door. A distant but ominous roll of thunder sounds, just as they step inside, like some sort of sign that they've crossed the threshold at just the right moment. Daria's hair is dripping and her glasses are rain-streaked and her jacket feels water-logged and heavy. She unzips it first and peels her way out of it, then dries her lenses on her shirt. When she looks up, Jane is staring at her with her lips slightly parted, like maybe she's lost some train of thought.

Her own hair is wavy and wet and beads of water are falling onto her shoulders, down to the floor.

Daria opens her mouth to say something, question something, ends up sneezing instead.

Jane smiles. She reaches out and rubs her hands up and down Daria's arms, over the goosebumps that are forming there. And after a few moments, lets her palms slide all the way down and take Daria's hands in hers and squeeze. "You want to take a shower?" she asks. "To warm up?"

"I'm not that cold."

"You look a little blue."

"I'm always this color. You just haven't noticed before."

"Come on. You can use the bathroom near Wind's room." Jane wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "The one with the good water pressure."

Daria sighs. Taking a shower at the Lanes' when her own house is just a couple streets over, when she's perfectly capable of drying a little and then making a break for it, seems somehow too indulgent, too much like some favor she's cashing in. Like now that she and Jane are being so tentative with each other, she has to be extra careful where she steps and what she says and what she does. But Jane insists, especially after Daria sneezes again. So she finds herself in the second bathroom with a clean towel and clothes from Jane's dresser, all insistently shoved into her arms.

This time it's like Jane's purposefully not looking at her.

Alone, when she looks in the mirror, she realizes how much the rain went right through her jacket, that her clothes are clinging to her, just as much as Jane's were.

The shower is warm and beneath the spray of it, she feels herself becoming a little more human again.

Jane's not in her room when Daria returns there, more pink this time than blue, and her hair still ragged and wet and the very ends of it still beading up with water that seeps into Jane's shirt. Outside, the storm rages even louder than before. She imagines herself camping out here the rest of the night, unable to get home, sleeping next to Jane in her bed.

The bed that creaks a little under her weight, as she perches on the edge of it and waits.

When Jane returns, it's with two oversized mugs, wafting steam. She has to push open the door with her shoulder, enter backwards, but once she's in she kicks the door shut behind her, and then it's just the two of them and her cozy and familiar room, her half-finished projects, the heavy sound of rain. She's changed her clothes too, to a soft pair of sweatpants and t-shirt that's probably Penny's: CraftFest '94 in big letters on the back.

Jane hands over one of the mugs, pulls up a chair for herself next to the bed. "You look more human now," she says.

"How much more?"

"Maybe sixty, seventy percent there."

The corner of Daria's mouth curls. The mug, too hot to hold except by the handle, smells deep of some earthy underground scent.

"I found it in the back of one of the cupboards," Jane says, as she watches Daria breathe in experimentally of the steam. "Green tea doesn't go bad, does it?"

Daria shrugs. "I guess we'll find out."

But it tastes okay. Almost burns her tongue, suffuses her with warmth from the middle out as she takes a few tentative sips.

When she looks up, she sees that Jane is watching her again, that same look from the doorway: just as steady, appraising but in a, perhaps, admiring way. This time she doesn't look away when she's caught.

"Do you regret anything?" she asks.

"Most things. But, um." Not kissing you, or kissing back, or whatever that was. "Not that."

Jane grins. "Me neither," she says, and hides that smile that just won't fade behind another sip. She reaches out her free hand lets it rest on Daria's knee. Daria covers it with her own, and feels another wave of warmth pass through her.