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mac-tirs · 5 months ago

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the not-insignificant differences between the omen twins

so, i saw this picture posted by @amanaci which inspired me to write this rather lengthy piece on the contrasts between morgott and mohg. i decided that, instead of dumping this whole think-piece on their post, i'd make my own separate post and ramble here.

this difference in their height really tracks for how their fighting styles and personalities are like, i feel. i always found it peculiar how different they are despite being twins; i feel like there's a rather stark resemblance between miquella and malenia in their soft-faced features, pale skin, and long flowing hair, and a close resemblance between the carian siblings with their red hair, but morgott and mohg are rather different from each other, only bearing similarities due to their omen nature. i looked a little bit into that and found that there's pretty good reasons behind why.

firstly, morgott is severely malnourished and unhealthy in comparison to mohg. you can see it in his body and how his skin sags, how his ribs and bones show, and how dry it looks. below is a comparison between his hands and mohg's hands.

morgott's hands are dry, almost rubbed red and raw around the knuckles and fingers. it reminds me a little of psoriasis, or some kind of skin discolouration caused by his poor health. it's likely he isn't eating well, or at the very least, he isn't eating as well as mohg. his twin, on the other hand (ha!), has shiny, veiny skin with a healthy colour and gleam to them. it's like he wants to call to attention how well moisturised he is (which, in this case, compared to morgott, he is).

above is a comparison between the twins' horns. the difference is extremely evident to me; morgott's horns are dry, almost seeming brittle, like sun-dried bone that hasn't seen rain or moisture in years. it reminds me of the horns of a very neglected ram, almost, but despite that, the horn growths seem more controlled, less like the wild growths all over the royal omens of the shunning grounds and more controlled as a sort of jutting crown from mainly one side of his head. meanwhile, mohg's horns are shiny, curling wildly to the point of injury, taking his eye in its path of growth. they grew wildly enough to replace his hair altogether, if he ever had any, and give him an even more imposing silhouette with a literal crown of horns (and a beard to boot). beyond this, his horns look healthy, with clearly defined rings to each growth that shine under the light, much like the rest of him. he's oiled leather to morgott's dry hide.

another somewhat interesting detail of morgott is his tail. i know a lot of people see it as soft, and it certainly looks the part, but what i find interesting are two things: the first being that his fur looks quite matted in some lightings and angles but overall looks soft to the touch, and the second being that his tail's horns look much healthier than his own horns on his head. this is in clear contrast to the rest of his body, which looks dry and unassuming with smatterings of coarse white hair up and down his body, and i believe its a matter of the limits to his own self-care. he utilises his tail as another weapon in his arsenal, so he cares for it that it might serve him well in battle, unlike his head of horns, which only serve as a detriment to him with how they must obscure some of his vision, if not most of it. additionally, he likely could bear to look at his tail and care for it, but for an omen that hates his nature more than the average, he probably doesn't enjoy looking at his own face in the mirror enough to properly care for himself.

which brings me back to the sheer differences between these two. morgott, unhealthy and self-loathing, neglects many visual aspects of himself likely because he sees vanity as a luxury not afforded to someone like him. mohg, healthy and self-obsessed, cares and grooms himself to appear very much so like the lord he claims to be, loving himself to a heretical extreme (in the eyes of the golden order). their statures reflect this too; morgott hunches low to the ground, ready to pounce at any given moment but also due to his own shame and humility, while mohg stands tall and proud, though not as tall as he could possibly be due to his upbringing being one of likely having to hunch low to fit beneath the ceilings of the smaller parts of the shunning grounds.

above is a picture of an omen from stormveil, which bears resemblance to all the omen you see in the game. in terms of clothing, one of the big ways people set the omen twins apart, morgott is completely naked save for the ragged cloak of animal hides he wears, signifying he is not fit to even dress himself in a shirt or trousers as befits a king, much like the omen pictured. he wears even less than that, actually, since he lacks even the slightest adornment save for the rope that clasps his cloak together. on the other hand, mohg is entirely adorned in finery, wearing a beautifully embroidered, fashionable priest's robe with matching vestments, and beneath that (as seen in the first image) some underclothes, a plain black button up and some pants. mohg's entire silhouette changes with the removal of his robe, while morgott's barely makes an impact once you realise he has only taken off the one article of clothing he had.

then, of course, there are their fighting styles. there's this fantastic video on youtube that i recommend watching of the twins fighting every major boss in the game, and you can clearly tell them apart from their fighting styles alone. morgott is fast, his size making him look deceptively slow only for him to dart out and do sick flips and somersaults and pirouettes that rival even the most flexible dancers, and he fights with speed and almost animalistic ferocity, save for when he conjures his weapon incantations. mohg is slow but strong, capable of swinging that large trident around like it weighs nothing while hitting with the force to knock down most enemies in a few hits, and most tarnished in just one, but he fights with a steady gracefulness in his every move, walking slowly and carefully while casting spells that hurt a lot.

even their phase 2 transitions are markedly different, with morgott's being one where he drops to his knees, vomits, and releases his cursed blood(?) all over the battlefield, causing his weapon to become alight with his curse and for him to fight with more in-your-face aggression, and with mohg's being one where he simply ignores your attacks and begins stabbing his spear into the formless mother for power at your expense, gaining a majestic set of wings that put distance between you and him so he can cast more of his spells at safer distances. where morgott is pushed to his limit and forced to confront his nature, mohg has long since embraced it and enjoys the fruits of his bloody labour with the mother of truth's blessing.

speaking of the mother of truth, even their patron orders are at odds with each other. the golden order was built upon the foundation of a very carefully-guarded lie: that marika is the one true god, which she can't be, with the existence of radagon (as per goldmask, perhaps the number 1 fundamentalist we meet in game). the formless mother is known also as the mother of truth, existing in direct opposition of the golden order's lies and craving the honesty of one of the purest expressions of life: blood. these two ideals would war against each other, with one being dedicated to the upholding of a beautiful, corrupt lie and the other being dedicated to the instillation of a dynasty of raw, pure truths. as such, even morgott and mohg's own great runes reflect these contrasts in faith, though, remarkably, these two great runes are ones that fit perfectly over each other, with mohg's slightly elevated (seen below, taken from the fextralife wiki).

so, where does this leave us? i don't know, exactly. i wasn't really writing this with any sort of ultimate conclusion. i just found it really interesting how different they were, and i wanted to talk about all the noticeable, significant differences between them here. thanks for coming to my ted talk.

#elden ring #elden ring rambles #elden ring lore #omenboys #morgott the omen king #margit the fell omen #mohg lord of blood #mohg the omen #i hope this whole thing makes sense

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hawkinsbnbg · 5 months ago

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nightingales

Written for @steddieangstyaugust Day 13: "Please, stay."

tags: mutual pining, mildly dub-con, slight daddy kink (1 word), hurt/comfort, hookups to lovers, idiots in love, post ss2/post starcourt

rated: M | words: 3k | ao3

"Please stay."

That halted Eddie's movements briefly. Only briefly. And then he resumed zipping up his flies and buckling his belt as if nothing had been said.

Eddie's heart trembled in his chest, begging him to obey the voice of his Adonis, but he resisted. Because he had gone into this with his eyes wide open and head cleared of any delusional thoughts.

He knew his place, knew how to get his job done, knew what parts to hide safely away from prying eyes and protruding ears, knew just the way to make every night worth the time.

And knew he wouldn't find real love in one Steve Harrington—the town's sweetheart and golden boy—however lovely their rendezvouses had been so far.

"You're drunk, Harrington," he dared a look over his shoulder, sighing when he found the bane of his existence was already snoring softly.

Unable to help himself, Eddie cursed under his breath and stepped over to the bed once more to tuck Steve under the blanket neatly, safe and sound, and lingered for a bit to admire how young and carefree Steve looked while asleep.

Mouth slacked, eyes closed peacefully, features softened from all the edges, so unlike the bone-deep exhaustion that clouded those pretty hazels with gloomy shadows.

At least, after their little arrangement started, Steve seemed to have benefited from it judging by the lack of his heavy eye bags.

Two months ago, Steve had come asking for something to help him sleep and somehow left with a bag of weed after blowing Eddie's brain out.

It was so surreal that Eddie thought he had hallucinated the whole thing while high off his ass.

Except, Steve kept seeking him out, going from paying for drugs with intense blowjobs to something more, something Eddie could give him without affecting the Munson household's finances.

Since then, Steve would wait for him at the Harrington's residence considering it was easier and safer that way, and Eddie would do his best to pound Steve so good he would conk out by the time they were done.

And yet, more often than not, Steve would already have taken a few swigs from daddy dearest's pricey liquors and would be quite tipsy by the time Eddie arrived.

Not that Eddie hated it. He was obsessed with a tipsy Steve actually. Because tipsy Steve was always sweeter, more open and pliant with everything Eddie gave him, more expressive and vocal in a way that made Eddie weak on the knees.

Then again, tipsy Steve also got quite a loose mouth.

He asked for things Eddie would be dying to give him, he said things that were too good to be true, he sang Eddie's name like prayers, and he always begged Eddie to stay.

None of that helped Eddie's stupid heart to stay at bay at all. Because the moment Steve's pretty mouth pressed on his ear and whispered "Daddy", he was a goner.

Nonetheless, Eddie hadn't survived to this day to not being aware of how dangerous Steve Harrington was.

A rich straight boy who was curious about the world around himself. Who would stamp on Eddie's heart once he got bored and decided to move on. Who would leave Eddie behind to go get a perfect family with a beautiful wife, two kids and a half, and a white-picket-fenced house.

It didn't take Eddie long to make up his mind.

He looked at Steve once more before turning on his heels to leave the room, somehow feeling less hollow and cold after two months of witnessing them together.

So long as Steve needed him, he would be there. And Eddie would make himself sacred when the time came.

———

"Stay the night?"

Eddie glanced up from the task in his hands—wiping Steve down with a warm washcloth—and smiled humorlessly.

"You know I can't, Harrington."

"Why, though?" Steve asked softly, eyes still hazy and bottom lip jutting out petulantly.

"My uncle will worry sick if I stay overnight outside," Eddie offered a half-truth considering Wayne had stopped giving him curfews since he started dealing.

"I'm flattered you wanna keep me in your chamber, princess," he leaned forward to press a kiss on Steve's forehead. "But I gotta go."

For a fleeting moment, Steve seemed sobered up enough to regard him with an unreadable look, like he could see right through Eddie's lie.

But the moment just passed as quickly as it came when Steve let out a teary yawn that shouldn't be as endearing as it was.

"Good night," Eddie whispered as he pulled the blanket up to cover his sleepy boy.

"G'night," Steve smiled, small and sweet, and was off to dreamland within seconds, leaving Eddie sitting by his side and gazing at him longingly.

———

When Steve wasn't drunk, he would be more tense and on guard, which Eddie could completely understand given their circumstances.

What Eddie couldn't understand, though, was that Steve still asked him to stay.

"I, uhm, have nightmares," Steve averted his eyes, he did that a lot lately, like he was afraid Eddie would figure out the secret in them if he looked too long. "It'll help to have someone hold me while I sleep."

It was so sly of him to use that card on Eddie, knowing full well how much of a bleeding heart Eddie was.

Therefore, Eddie knew the decision had been made for him even before he opened his mouth.

"Alright, I'll stay, but only 'til you fall asleep."

It was the right and wrong thing to say.

Eddie realized with great displeasure that he didn't like the way Steve's eyes dimmed right after having brightened up just seconds ago.

When Eddie left that night, he tried to not think about the disappointment on Steve's face when the younger boy woke up to his cold side of the bed in the morning.

(He failed.)

———

Steve didn't ask him to stay anymore.

And Eddie pretended that it didn't crush his heart just a bit when Steve refused to receive the aftercare.

In response, Eddie simply fucked him harder for that so he wouldn't have any strength left to protest by the end of it.

It was worth all the glares and pouts Steve shot his way when he just gave up on the charade after a while and let Eddie take care of him again.

"Stay, please?"

It was said so quietly, and if Eddie wasn't always paying attention to Steve, he wouldn't be able to catch it at all.

Eddie swallowed dryly, wanting nothing more than to return to Steve's side and scoop him in a cuddle until they both drifted off in each other's arms.

But reality was always cruel. And Eddie had learned that the hard way. He couldn't afford to make mistakes now when everything had been going smoothly so far. Especially when his traitorous heart was constantly on the verge of running away from him.

"I can't–"

"Sorry," Steve let out a sigh. "Just... Just forget about it."

When Eddie finished dressing, he turned to look at Steve and was greeted by a sun-kissed back.

He squashed the urge to come closer and run his fingers on it, mapping out the constellations and tracing love lyrics with his lips on those moles and freckles.

Instead, he walked over to the door and saw himself out.

"Have a sweet dream, Stevie."

He lingered a bit, only leaving once he was sure Steve had fallen asleep.

———

They didn't meet quite often anymore. Steve was busy with his summer job and Eddie was well... hung up on the what-ifs.

What if Steve was also a trailer kid? What if Eddie wasn't a drug dealer? What if they both came from normal families that loved and accepted them for who they were? What if then?

Eddie liked to think they would always meet each other at some point in their lives no matter what the circumstances. Eddie liked to think they were star-crossed lovers who couldn't get together because of the period they were living in. Eddie liked to think Steve also loved him back.

And yet, Eddie had seen Steve flirt with endless girls at Scoop Ahoy, making eyes with some guys who looked like college jocks, who could guarantee him a good time once he dropped Eddie like a sack of potatoes.

Eddie had stood on the sideline and watched with burning, acidic jealousy as Steve threw his charm carelessly at everything that could breathe and walk on two legs.

When Steve turned to look at him with that same charming smile, Eddie realized it was time for him to wake up from his dream.

And so he did.

———

"Can you come tonight, Eddie?"

"Sorry, man, I've gotta sell all of this new stuff by the end of tonight 'cause the bills are due next week, ya know?"

"'S okay. Uhm, see you later?"

"See you later."

———

"Are you busy tonight?"

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. I have band practice until midnight. And Wayne will be home by the time I'm done. So..."

"Yeah, I got it."

"Uh-huh."

"Rain check?"

"Rain check."

———

Eddie turned up the volume of his music until it drowned out the ringing of the phone.

———

Eddie bit his nails, watching Steve's beamer park outside the Mayfield's trailer, watching him talking and laughing with that red-haired little girl, watching him finally get back into the car and drive away once the sun set.

He didn't know if he should feel relieved or disappointed when Steve never looked at the Munson Trailer once.

———

Eddie jolted up by the sharp knocks on the trailer's door. A quick glance at the clock told him it was only two am, too early for the police's raid and too late for his customers to linger outside.

There was only one answer to that and he hoped Franklin would be cowed away by a broken beer bottle just like the other night.

Stumbling out of his bed and pulling up his jeans hastily, he blearily thanked his lucky star that Wayne wasn't home yet.

Because for all the patience the older man had, he didn't doubt Wayne would pull the shotgun on Franklin and well, Eddie wouldn't be sorry for the drunken bastard but he didn't want Wayne to get involved in his mess too much.

On his way, Eddie picked up his weapon from under the couch as he passed by it and marched straight to the door.

When he threw it open, scowling and ready to swing at his enemy, he was greeted by not Franklin but Steve Harrington instead.

Eddie faltered, feeling sick with worry and cold dread as he took in the sight of the younger boy.

"Jesus Christ," he dropped the bottle, ignoring the clang! it made on the floor, to hover his hands over Steve's face. "What the fuck had happened to you, Harrington?"

Steve honest-to-god giggled.

"S'not important anymore," he slurred and swayed on his feet, eyes swollen in purple and red, face caked in blood and bruises and scratches. He was a bloody mess.

Eddie pulled him inside as gently as possible, trying to stay level-headed for both Steve and himself because it wouldn't do either of them any good if he panicked now.

Carefully, Eddie guided Steve to the couch, flipping on just the lamp on the side table, knowing from experience that too much light would cause discomfort to someone who had just got beaten to a pulp.

He poured Steve a glass of water, watching him drink it slowly before getting up to retrieve the quick aid kit, clean towel, and wash his hands thoroughly with soap in the bathroom.

Once he was done cleaning the cuts on Steve's face, he applied some antiseptic cream on the injured areas—which didn't look that bad after the blood was gone.

During the whole time, Steve remained oddly silent, eyes slightly glazed over like being high or in shock, just watching Eddie do all the work and only letting out a few quiet hisses when the cuts burned.

Eddie had apologized plenty for that, wishing he could share half of the pain Steve was feeling at the moment.

Then he asked Steve about the other possible injuries and concussions, not wanting to overlook anything and receiving a simple "Yes" to both questions.

("Christ, we should bring you to the hospital, Stevie."

"No, no hospital. Please."

"... Have you had anyone besides me checked your injuries, yet?"

"Uh, yeah, the paramedics. They cleared me after a bit. 'Cause there's nothing really bad, though.")

"Can I sleep now?" Steve sniffed, sounding small and lost, making Eddie's heart ache terribly.

"Not yet, Bambi," Eddie smiled softly when those pitiful doe eyes looked at him. "We gotta bathe you first, wash away these dirt and grimes before bringing you to bed."

And he wasn't lying, either. Wherever Steve had been all night had soiled his cute sailor uniform and turned him into a real Cinderella.

"C'mon," Eddie guided him up with a hand around his waist while ducked to shoulder one of his arms. "The quicker we do it, the sooner you can get your beauty sleep."

Fortunately, Steve didn't protest and allowed Eddie to half-carry him all the way into the bathroom.

———

Eddie took in a sharp inhale when he got to see the damage beneath Steve's clothes. It was far more severe than he had anticipated and he wondered if the paramedics would've let Steve go had they seen this.

Sighing inwardly, Eddie used a washcloth and gently scrubbed all the mud and blood off Steve's body, shushing the younger boy softly when he whimpered at the stings and dull aches.

Eddie had half a mind to kiss them better, but he reined in his desire to soothe Steve's pain and concentrated on making the shower as short as possible.

By the time they left the bathroom, Steve was trembling minutely but the fog in his eyes had dissipated and he seemed more conscious than when he appeared on the Munson Trailer's front porch.

After putting on one of Eddie's old Metallica tees and a pair of red flannel pants by himself, Steve ran a hand through his dampened hair and gave Eddie a crooked smile.

"Sorry for bothering you this late."

"I wanted to help," Eddie corrected him quickly.

"Of course, I know you would," Steve swallowed, eyes flickering back and forth from Eddie's eyes to his pale tattooed chest. "But I'm still sorry for having turned up without calling ahead. I was lucky enough I didn't ruin your uncle's sleep."

"He'd do the same for you, you know that right?" Eddie raised an eyebrow, chest tight with possessiveness at the sight of Steve wearing his clothes, standing in his bedroom, and smelling of his shampoo.

"Look," Steve spoke up before Eddie could say anything. "I gotta go now."

"No," Eddie reached for Steve's hand and held on it tightly. "You're not going anywhere."

"Why?"

Eddie clicked his tongue in mild annoyance, wanting to know what made Steve think it was wise to sleep without supervision while having a concussion and cracked ribs.

"I'm not letting you go back to your place alone like this."

Steve snorted and rolled his eyes, a hint of King Steve peeking through the veil. He tried to pull his hand back but gave up once he realized Eddie wouldn't let him go.

He settled with a tired sigh instead.

"I don't want your pity, Munson."

"I'm not pitying you."

"So what is this?" Steve hissed as he raised his captured wrist and shook it lightly for emphasis.

Eddie only tightened his grasp further, paranoid that Steve would slip through his fingers like sand.

"It's not pity," Eddie met those hazel eyes, still burning with that same fire he always loved. He brought Steve's hand to his lips, pressing shaky kisses on those bruised knuckles.

He still wanted to run away. But the idea of leaving Steve caused him such unbearable pain that he just knew would break him down if he ever did it again.

"I care for you, Steve," his voice cracked as he confessed quietly, "I care for you a lot."

Steve breathed in sharply, eyes glassy with unshed tears and lips quivered.

"Then why did you never stay?" He asked softly. "Why did you always leave even when I begged you not to?"

Eddie stepped in closer and used his free hand to hold on to Steve's as well.

"'Cause I was scared, sweetheart," he whispered. "Scared of having my heart broken. 'Cause I knew, always do, that I don't deserve pretty things like you. That I can't give you all the good things that you deserve."

"So I'm begging you now," he blinked away his tears and looked at Steve beseechingly.

"You don't have to–"

"Please, stay," he pleaded. "Please give me another chance to show you how much you matter to me. Please trust me to make it right this time. Please."

Steve became worryingly silent at that. But Eddie still waited patiently, knowing it was a lot to take it all at once. Even Eddie himself was reeling from what he just said.

"You ignored my calls."

"I'm sorry."

"You always left although I begged you not to."

"I'm sorry."

"You lied to me."

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't tell me what I did wrong," Steve mumbled, lips wobbling and nose turned pink.

That cut him deep.

"No, sweetheart, no," Eddie tugged him closer and embraced him gently, heart swelling with fondness when Steve melted in his arms.

"You did nothing wrong, baby, it's all my fault," Eddie sniffled, walking them both to his bed carefully. "I'm so sorry for making you think that way."

As Steve let out a wounded noise and started shaking with small sobs, Eddie cried with him and stroked his back soothingly, knowing he would kill and die for this boy in a heartbeat, knowing that he could never not be in love with Steve Harrington.

When they finally settled on the mattress together, Eddie spooned Steve from behind and pressed kisses everywhere he could reach.

Steve giggled quietly, too exhausted to say anything but still leaning into Eddie's warmth all the same.

Eddie knew they still had a lot to discuss to make their newly found relationship really work, but as he listened to Steve's soft snoring, he was certain they would be fine this time.

As long as they were together.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie angsty august #sionewrites

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sanjisprincesswifey · 11 months ago

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loves embrace ⋆ sanji x reader

summary: all sanji needed was a little bit of love to open up to you

notes: this was a modified request that takes place post whole cake, i suppose, so spoilers! angsty, sad sanji (sadji) x gender neutral reader! lots of comforting! no cw warnings! around 1,300+ words!

every morning sanji had a routine. he’d wake up fifteen minutes before his alarm, making sure to turn it off so as to not wake you. spending this allotted time drowning in your smell; he tangled his long limbs within yours and held you tightly to him.

he’d depart with a few too many kisses, surely bringing you out from your slumber, neatly fixing his side of the bed, and beginning his day with a spring in his step.

today was an anomaly of days, your eyes slowly blinking open, the room swallowed by a dim light. the overcast in the sky seemed to cause you to wake later than you anticipated, the clock on your wall reading 11:37 am.

the sheets beside you, usually folded over as pristinely as sanji could make them, sat in disarray. had it been anyone else, you’d disregard the notion; perhaps he had run too far behind schedule this morning.

but it was unlike sanji, even in a time crunch, to leave a mess in his absence. he was incredibly anal with situations like these, you knew him too well to brush the idea off as forgetfulness as you approach him in the kitchen.

the creaky door that franky keeps forgetting to fix would normally signal your entrance and cue your boyfriend to fawn all over you, but he remains behind the kitchen sink, not budging an inch.

his blonde hair hangs low, hiding his expression from you as he gingerly places the wet plates on the drying rack.

“sanji?” you question, investigating his face once he notices you’re there.

your brows furrow upon further examination; his blue eyes are accompanied by dark under eye bags and his milky skin is dull, the loss of color noticeable, even for his complexion.

“oh, my swan, how’re you? you missed breakfast.” he smiles, but the way his lips loosely hug, you know it’s purely a facade so as to not draw attention from you.

though you had only been dating for a few months, you knew you had to plan out your next moves carefully and approach the situation with caution. sanji would “i’m fine” himself death had he got the chance.

“was dreaming of you, so i didn’t really want to wake up,” you tease, earning a light laugh from him.

from this point on, he’d usually take the opportunity to discuss his night and what his dreams consisted of, but silence then falls over you two.

“did you eat?” you speak up.

he pulls his hands out of the water, drying them off on a nearby dish towel. “wasn’t hungry.”

as soon as he moves around the counter, you step in front of him.

you tsk in response, blocking him from exiting the area with arms crossed over your chest. “well, i’d like for you to eat something. you didn’t eat dinner last night either,” you reply.

sanji stares down at you, a melancholy look in his eye, but he obliges, dropping two slices of bread into the toaster.

“that’s it?” you argue, a mused smile curling his lips.

“i’m really not that hungry today, my darling,” he assures, leaning against the counter.

you know better than to accept that justification, arms reaching out to cage him between the kitchen and your body. “and why is that?” you ask, pressing yourself against his chest, eyes boring right back into his.

he flicks his gaze between your eyes, then your lips, and then your eyes, once again. he knows what you’re doing, but he bites anyway, strong arms hugging you snug against him.

“i’ve been a little sad these past couple of days,” he explains, another forged grin coaxing his features. it was the one of the first signs that he was asking you to dismiss this conversation.

“sanji—“

the toast pops from the toaster, causing the both of you to release your grip as he refocuses his attention on his unwanted meal.

with his back turned to you, you take it upon yourself to latch onto him again. “i can’t help you if you don’t talk to me sanji. i’m here. i want to help,” you whisper, a shaky breath escaping your throat right after. “please, let me help.”

your eyes shut tightly as the only response you receive is silence. sanji was never one to discuss his own feelings freely, it was something he had always deemed a luxury for a reason you hated reminding yourself of.

a shaky whimper reverberates against your body and you take the cue to release your grip, turning him around so that you can see him again.

his hand grips tightly onto his face, though it proves futile as a tear streams down his cheek; then another, and another, and another. his fingers twitch as they reach out for you, desperately seeking your warmth and comfort as his body slumps into yours.

sanji’s frame is much larger than your own, his strength of his weight was much stronger when he didn’t remember to hold back.

but you’re greedy for this vulnerability, soaking in every ounce that he’d offer as you wrap your arms around his neck.

his tears slowly seep into the fabric of your shirt, while he lets out a few more choked cries before confessing. “have i ever told you about my mother?” he finally speaks.

when he pulls away you shake your head, reaching up to wipe away the tears that stain his face. your gentle expression urges, pleads, for him to continue, an act that melts his heart.

“she was so kind,” he explains, a sad smile grazing him. more tears fall before he says anything, but you allow him that grace which gives him the time to finally gather himself. “she’s the reason i wanted to be a cook.”

the burning sadness that bites at your heart leaves you speechless, unable to fathom how he could’ve kept this inside for so long.

“i know she would’ve loved you.”

now, you have to bite back your own tears, the agony that accompanies his words hangs on to each sentence that tears at your heart.

“she passed fourteen years ago today,” he admits, a shaky sigh heaving from his chest.

as you watch his lip quiver, you pull him flush against you again, unsure if it was for his benefit or that he wouldn’t see the heartbreak that washed over your face.

“i’m so sorry,” is all you can mutter before the both of you sink to the floor, sobs now emanating from the both of you. “she would be so proud of you, sanj,” you murmur, a light cry echoing throughout the room.

sanji perches himself against the closed cupboards, his head rests against the wood as he wraps an arm around you.

“i miss her,” he admits, lying his head against yours.

you nod, only able to physically act in fear a verbal response would elicit more of your tears.

he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a worn, folded up picture.

the woman on the paper is stunning; her porcelain features mirror sanji’s, the resemblance being uncanny. “she’s so pretty,” you say.

sanji chuckles, nodding along, “yeah, she was.”

the both of you stare at the image for a couple of minutes, basking in the beauty that sanji’s mother had. you can’t help but admire the curvature of her lips, the shape of nose and eyes, all qualities that your boyfriend possesses.

“you look just like her,” you comment, reaching to grab his hand.

“so i’ve been told,” he breathes, finally able to catch his breath. “thank you, by the way.”

with a puzzled expression, you glance up at him. “for what?”

sanji shrugs, squeezing your hand within his. “listening to me. feels good to talk about her,” he confesses.

the air in the room eases, it hangs lighter over the both of you; rather than an all consuming fog, it sits delicately upon the both of you like a warm blanket on a cold day.

“that’s what i’m here for,” you emphasize, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

ʕ•́ᴥ•̀ʔっ likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated !

#black leg sanji #sanji x reader #one piece #one piece x reader

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007reid · 1 year ago

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request for reader having dated spencer (early seasons) and then she finds out what happened w lila </3

hi hi hi!! sorry this took a while hun :( you were vague with your req so i just wrote whatever i wanted to write and because of that i meant for this to be a drabble but it didn't work out that way... enjoy!

secrets. spencer reid

part 1 | part 2

pairing: spencer reid x jealous fem!reader, 1.8k

summary: spencer will never be able to escape the effortless wrath of derek morgan, not even when it's the weekends and breaking bad is playing and you're pulling on his hair.

warnings: no smut you filthy animals, though i did intend there to be smut im just in a fluffy mood rn :// tiny angst if you squint, spencer's blushin a LOT, morgan's evil, bickering and just cutesy couple stuff. me when.

spencer’s secret was the last thing that you were, and you know this.

you and spencer have been dating for three months now, not including the two months talking stage because spencer is deadly afraid of commitment, and between all that time, you’d say you’ve gotten to know spencer pretty well. you know him well enough to trust that he knows what’s best, anyway. it’s been three months, and spencer hasn’t uttered a word about you to his team, his family, and you understand why.

really. you do.

“they’ll never let me live in down,” spencer had whined, one person imminent on his mind. derek fucking morgan. spencer dreads just thinking about it, the teasing, the inappropriate jokes, the winks and the whistles. it’s dehumanizing. “when someone ask me or mention something about it, i will tell them. until then…”

the unspoken reason was there. spencer’s a talker, definitely a talker, but he doesn’t spend much time talking about himself. he never reveals a bit of himself unless he’s directly asked it, and he feels uncomfortable sharing otherwise. the team’s too used to spencer being physically and emotionally repellent to the female race to really ask about stuff like you anymore, and spender’s not too eager to share neither. not out of the blue. it’s unlike him. this you understand. 100%. locked safely in the noggin.

you never think much about it anyway. it doesn’t bother you. what bothers you, though, is secrets.

you know spencer has loads of those, tucked behind that carefree and open-hearted smile and attitude of his. you examine him carefully, searching his face for ticks—okay, maybe you were just looking really creepily because he’s pretty and you try to commit every feature into memory but you are, searching for ticks that is.

you know he hides things. somethings not worth bringing up again because it’ll only bring up bad memories. some other things, however, definitely worth mentioning again. you just have to find the right target questions. sometimes it feels like you’re dating a stranger, with how little you know about spencer’s life. sometimes it feels like you’re dating the love of your life. it’s all very relative.

you and spencer are cuddled up on the couch, breaking bad playing on the tv. it’s one of the shows spencer doesn’t like pointing out the scientific inaccuracies of because he’s too fond of the main character to really say that he’s wrong, and sometimes you miss his voice chiming in between all the movie’s dialogues, but you think the reason why he’s quiet today is because he’s not in the mood to talk. the last case’s gotten him pretty shaken up, and he’s still healing, head in your neck every night and when he pulls away your skin is damp with tears.

“you okay spence?” you say, moving your hand to tangle your fingers in his hair. he hums softly, and then you both suddenly hear the vibration from under your asses. spencer shifts around, digging his phone out from where it’s lodged in a random cushion of the sofa.

he groans inwardly, showing you the screen, not having to explain. in big letters, the caller says: bau--derek morgan.

“he usually never calls me on weekends,” spencer frowns, watching the phone vibrate. “you think i should answer?”

“he’s a friend,” you say, tucking a stray strand of hair under his ear. “answer him.”

“okay,” spencer says hesitantly, then swipes the green button on his screen. he clears his throat as the call connects. “you’re on speaker,” he warns, looking at you anxiously and then back to his phone again. morgan’s a wildcard, and spencer would have to hide his face everyday for the next three weeks in front of you if morgan happens to drop something embarrassing about him just out of pocket. spencer isn’t ready.

“not like there’s anyone with you to hear,” morgan scoffs, and didn’t let spencer answer before continuing. “the team’s planning on a bar night tomorrow—“

“the team?” spencer questions, suspicious. morgan sighs loudly.

“garcia and i,” he corrects reluctantly, “are planning for a team bonding night tomorrow. what do you say?”

“no.” spencer says immediately, looking at you and hope you get his unspoken answer. spencer never goes out on weekends, not unless it’s with you. with his highly demanding schedule at the bau, it’s rare that he has any time off at all, and it’s hard to maintain a healthy relationship that way. any time he gets to spend time with you he’d take.

“come on,” morgan says, enthusiastically. “when was the last time you properly went out, huh?”

“last month, when you and garcia planned another of these team bonding bar nights,” spencer says monotonously. he rolls his eyes. “morgan—“

“don’t be rolling your eyes at me now, genius,” morgan warns. you stifle a laugh, and spencer sends you a wounded look. you forget that they’re basically family, like siblings to knows each other to a tee. “listen, have some fun in your life. who knows, maybe we can find you another lila at the bar.” morgan’s tone is suggestive. and now, that got your full, undivided attention.

and spencer, predictably, looks like a deer caught in the headlights, looking at you in horror was you narrow your eyes at his screen. you prod at his leg, prompting him to answer so morgan can elaborate.

lila?

“i don’t think—“ spencer starts, but got immediately cut off.

“don’t lie and say you didn’t like it, lover boy,” morgan whistles and spencer cringes. “now that we’re talking about lila, actually—“ spencer’s mind is screaming, shut up shut up shut up! as morgan proceeds to feed you more information, completely oblivious to his sins. “do you guys still keep in touch? she looked pretty into you. never knew you had it in you til then, man--”

by now spencer’s beet red head to ears to toe and you can feel the heat radiating off of him, but also off of yourself. you’d say you’re a jealous woman. not too jealous but definitely not not jealous.

“morgan,” spencer starts again, voice a little wobbly and embarrassed and morgan laughs.

“seriously though, do you guys still talk? them eyes never lie,” and morgan sounds so casual, so nonchalant while destroying spencer’s life.

it’s not that spencer doesn’t want you to know about lila. he couldn’t careless if lila waltz into his life right now because he knows they would be nothing more than friends—you’re all he’s ever wanted and he would trade you for nothing. it’s just embarrassing, is all, him being exposed like this, and he feels smaller, feels like he’s actually 5’3 with the glare you’re sending him.

“anyway, that don’t matter,” morgan remains completely ignorant and in his own world and still on speaker. oh morgan. “i want to see you at our bar tomorrow. it’s a yes, right? good. i’ll tell garcia you said yes.”

“morgan!” spencer says quickly. “i have a gir—“

morgan hangs up.

spencer dreads looking at you, so he takes his time getting out the app and then clears all of the background apps on his phone. he doesn’t like seeing you mad and he can basically sense it, the fumes blowing out your ears.

“who’s lila?” you say casually and he looks up. he doesn’t mistake your tone for friendliness, your eyes are narrow and suspicious.

“someone on a case a while ago,” spencer responds honestly. because that’s all there was to lila. it’s not like he’s never had his first kiss before her, so she doesn’t even count as his first kiss (she’s his second) and other than that minute-long moment they shared there was nothing else remarkable. she just happens to the only girl the team knows about who’s spencer been involved with and they are encouraging to help him find another ‘lila.’

it’s all very complicated. and humiliating. he should’ve definitely told you the entire backstory beforehand, because it’s not scandalous or weird or anything. it’s innocent and harmless. but now the problem seems to be blown out of proportion.

“just someone?” you press. spencer hesitates. he hates lying, especially when he’s lying to you. his hesitation gives you all the answer you needed.

“we kissed once,” he says, and gawks at you for approval, for forgiveness. “but that was it. i swear.”

something awful bubbles in your stomach. you know spencer’s not lying, and it’s not worth getting upset with him about because it’s all in the past—it’s not like you go talking about your precious conquests to spencer anyway. but you can’t help the envy and jealousy boiling so hotly it makes you dizzy.

spencer feels obliged to fill you in, to patch up the little bump and to get back the sweet atmosphere that was before morgan called. he knew morgan would somehow manage to ruin his life in some kind of way. he knew it before he even accepted his call.

“she was an actress in this case we were working on and she just, i think, really liked me or something and she was in a pool when i came to see her just to ask some questions and she just pulled me—“

his rant got interrupted by you seizing him to a rough kiss, hands coming up to rest behind the nape of his neck and nails unconsciously digging into his skin. spencer remains mostly unresponsive and soft, surprised and don't know how to respond. you keep prying, teeth digging into the soft of his bottom lip and spencer starts nipping at you back, gentle like he always is.

it frustrates you, how hard it is to be frustrated at spencer. you pull away from him and spencer tilts his head curiously, lip shiny and eyes looking at you like he's never seen you before and he just looks so sweet, so innocent and eager, like a precious pup. you roll your eyes, swatting at his chest, annoyance and jealousy and anger evaporating from you like a cloud.

spencer licks his lips and you collapse back into him again, returning to the position you were before morgan so unmindfully interrupted your weekend. breaking bad continues to play on the tv. long limbs wraps around you and spencer presses a kiss in your hair.

"i'm not going tomorrow," he declares.

"you should," you say nonchalantly. you cuddle up closer to him, turning around until the both of your are facing each other, wiggling your way on top. you begin to trace stars on the exposed skin of his shoulder. "and maybe you should bring someone with you. just to act as a guard for future lila's. maybe you can introduce that person too," you flick your hair behind your back and shrugs at spencer's amused smile. "it's just a thought."

"okay," he says quietly, eyes so soft. "okay. who do you suggest i bring?"

"that's for you to figure out, doctor reid," you say flippantly, turning back to the tv. "now shush."

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hazelfoureyes · 5 months ago

Note

Hi there! I hope you’re doing well!

I was hoping to send a request. Do with it what you will…but I had the scenario in my head of reader going on dates and always wearing a lot of makeup. (Nothing against makeup)

Anyway, she and Alastor are friends, although Alastor always thinks the people reader dates are not worthy of her. After this particular date that was maybe a 2nd or 3rd date, she comes home in tears. While he’s comforting her he begins to tenderly wash her face. Eventually wiping off all the makeup and he simply says “There you are.”

I love the idea of Alastor believing that a woman doesn’t need makeup to be beautiful.

Thank you! ❤️❤️

I only began wearing make up like, last month, so I’m purely using info from watching the Welsh twins. personally I like to think Alastor would respect a person taking the effort to express themselves with make up, and also appreciate people who can feel no pressure to do so. There’s something very attractive about people who do things purely for their own enjoyment. Assuming it’s not like—- watching porn in the bus or killing snakes or stuff like that. Anyway what was I supposed to be doing aga-

Alastor x GN! Reader

「warnings/promises: not an ounce of smut, he may love you in any sense of the word, but he does love you dearly, Alastor knows how to remove make up because he likes to sneak up and scare Charlie when she’s getting ready for bed and has had many a product thrown at this head」

It was normally the mornings when he’d see you after your dates, and you’d spill the tea about the good and the bad. It was fun for him, drama was always best enjoyed from a distance.

There was no distance great enough that could make him miss you as you slunk into the hotel quietly, head down and turned away purposefully. Your arms were straight to your sides and balled into fists, back stiff as a board as you power walked through the lobby. How unlike you in every way.

He waited a beat until he was confident you’d made it to your room before following.

You considered not letting him in, but you knew he would come in if he really wanted to. Why pretend?

There was no point either in hiding your makeup streaked face. He clearly knew something was wrong, why else would he have come to your room.

“It went badly?” He asked somewhat rhetorically, closing the door behind him softly. “You know, I could always eat them. Avoid awkward run-ins downtown.”

A laugh, half hearted and more a glorified exhale than anything else.

Alastor came to your bed and offered you both hands. Setting yours in his, he guided you to the bathroom. Odd, a room you’d definitely not shared before, but you didn’t question it.

There was something deeply soothing about the way he moved around you as he led you around your own space. After lifting you onto the counter, he leaned past you to fiddle with something.

You smiled genuinely as you watched him rub your make up removing cleanser between his large hands. His palms were warm on your cheeks, tears both fresh and dried were mixed with the layers of setting spray, powder, cream, and lotion. Closing your eyes was the natural thing to do, but you couldn’t have kept them open if you had wanted to. Your brain was going fuzzy, clashing with the nauseous pain in your gut.

“As much as I adore the way you jazz up your temple, I’m quite fond of your natural features.” His voice seemed so close to you in the darkness. A hummed response was all you could muster.

The sound of running water, a few cabinets opening and closing, and then the soothing warmth of a hot and sopping face towel sliding down your cheeks.

“Another dud.” Alastor announced, the word ‘dud’ popped with an annoyed static. Even with your eyes shut, they stung with newly summoned tears. “The pain of realizing someone is not for you on a third date is much more tolerable than on the third year.” His large thumbs wiped away errant tears and liquified eyeshadow.

“Not to discount your pain!” You heard the facial cleanser lathering between his palms before he began to cover your face in gentle soap. “Just, well, I’d hate to see you cry too long over nothing and no one.”

A nod from you.

His careful fingers rubbed the suds into your skin gently, sharp nails barely grazing you. “I still don’t see how my idea was discounted so quickly!”

He could see your eyes roll behind your eyelids as you ground out, “Alastor I can’t make people be interviewed by an overlord to take me out.”

“I prefer the word interrogate.”

“I don’t!”

He tsk’d, wiping the soap away with wet hands and a damp cloth. “You sure are making your dating life all about you.” His hands left you and as your cheeks began to cool you opened your eyes.

Alastor was beaming down at you. You stayed still and let his finger follow the length of your nose that you cleverly reshaped with your skills,

his palms ran over the redness of your cheeks you calmed and covered before every outing,

his claws brushed over freckles reassuringly,

his eyes settled on your two tone lips,

and he purred happily at the sight,

“There you are.”

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆Masterlist.ೃ࿔*:･

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@eris-norwega @reath-solia @catticora , @angelicribbons , @xalygatorx

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @moonmark98

, @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog ,

@thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies

@howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @fizzled-phoenix , @star-kujo-platinum

, @a-case-of-attachment, @multifandomfanatic02 @watereddownmilk , @bontensbabygirl @smoky000

@hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain

@harley2223-blog , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby

@dontfuckbutimfab @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12

#Hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor x reader #alastor x gn!reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x gn reader

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asteriass · 3 months ago

Text

Mizi & Till’s shared rebellion

This scene is very interesting to me

It’s not merely a scene showcasing Till & Mizi’s relationship, it’s not simply a heartfelt scene featuring their closeness & how they did hung out. But rather, the scene also features them hiding from aliens - An act of rebellion

I think it’s very intentional… Because if the point was to simply have a sentimental scene about the two as Till passes away, they could’ve chosen any scene. Any scene where the two are hanging out, any scene where they have a geniune moment. Yet the background of the scene is them evading an Alien. Hiding from its watch, obscuring its view of the two‘s “rebellion”, going against the expected in an otherwise “mundane” moment.

A simple moment, the two are bonding. It develops as expected, there’s sincerity, yes. Yet as the two are huddled up close, in the background we can see they are hiding, the scene is not as simple as a normal sincere moment. They are actively going against the expectations of the aliens.

And to me… for this to be the main theme of the flashback showcased to us feels important.

Especially when you consider the deviations in Round 7 as compared to how other Rounds‘ deaths are executed!

In the case of Round 7, it’s the only flashback moment. Unlike Round 1 & 5, that contain various scenes of the past to create a more emotional impact for the deaths, Round 7 only contains this singular scene with Mizi. And even that only happens AFTER Till is shot. Not before, so any sentimental value hits the viewer differently too.

Thus it all ends up putting the focus on that flashback between Mizi and Till EVEN MORE. And when the core of this major sentimental focus is the two’s act of rebellion TOGETHER… it begs the question of what narrative purpose it serves, no?

Because let’s rewind a bit.

Round 7 goes incredibly… “”normally””. There’s no last minute contradiction or twist, even Till’s death lacks impact. Its almost underwhelming because of how simple the execution is. The Round progresses like a typical in-universe “Alien Stage“ round - for the Aliens it develops almost entirely as expected. I think you can kind of see where I’m going with, but to me, narratively, it’s very reminiscent of that flashback with Mizi. Both are simple at first glance… but is that really the point?

For the Aliens its going as expected. It’s going as it’s supposed to go, no tricks, no secrets. And yet in the flashback they are being tricked. Mizi and Till are tricking them, Mizi and Till are going against their expectations in secret. They are secretly rebelling, hiding the truth together.

Till looks beat up & scuffed, he‘s flustered and anxious, yet Mizi holds him close, beckoning him to not make any ”unexpected moves”, to not alert the Alien that everything is not under its control, that they are going behind its back.

A very similar sight to the very end up of the Round I feel… Mizi holds a wounded, anxious Till close. As the Alien’s cheer in the background - for them the round was an exciting success as expected…

And then she says something to him, during which Till’s hand falls to the side.

A coincidence, MAYBE… but also clear parallels. I think, this scene is supposed to parallel the two’s act of rebellion against the expected, like the flashback (the only flashback, and thus one of the most integral scenes in the entire MV)

Perhaps… there is more to it than it seems. Perhaps there’s more going between the two in the moment than the Aliens are privy. Perhaps they are once again defying their expectations. Perhaps once again, they are secretly acting out, keeping a secret. A secret, like… the Round didn’t go as expected. That the fire that was shot didn’t pick up the target correctly in its aim. That the beating pulse went under their radar. That maybe just maybe, though on his wounded, his heart is still beating.

That perhaps, once again, like in the past, their defiance, their rebellion in their own small way, has gone unnoticed from the Aliens’ watchful eye. A shared secret to save their lives

Aka, Till‘s heart is beating (even if faintly) and they are trying to trick the aliens and go under their radar, lest he be shot multiple times like Ivan was

#the delusions are delusioning #alien stage till #alnst till #mizi #alien stage #alnst #vivinos #round 7 #blink gone #alnst mizi #rebellion #analysis #hopium #copium #Trickery #flashback #vivimeng

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milswrites · 9 months ago

Text

The light which persists

~ Azriel X Fem!Reader

Summary: Azriel finds his source of happiness in the most unlikely of places.

Warnings: Smut 18+ Minors Dni (p in v)

It's strange how Azriel could identify the very moment in which his life had just changed forever. All it took was one look, a second-long glance in your direction, and the shadowsinger was certain that his entire world had just shifted. Whether it be by the cauldrons design or his own, Azriel had no doubt that your fate was to be entwined with his.

It was unbeknownst to Azriel, how a flower as lovely as you could bloom in the toxic gardens of the Court of Nightmares. Yet here you were, sitting across from the male in this tedious meeting, a soft smile adorning your lips as Azriel admired you in all your beauty. A rose untouched by the thorns of her less than savoury counterparts.

The radiant aura you permeated acted like a beacon, a glowing light of warmth and comfort. Your bright signal subconsciously drawing Azriel into your safe harbour. He had yet to hear your voice and Azriel was already sure that whatever sweet nectar poured from your lips would coat his mind like honey, pulling him deeper still into the soothing waters of your tangible soul.

Azriel failed to register the dull words which Kier was speaking, his thoughts occupied by you and only you. In fact the shadowsinger found it impossible to tear his eyes from you. Afraid that if he were to do so for even a second, whatever hypnotic spell you had cast upon him would be severed and his world would be rudely shifted back to the mundaneness of its usual orbit.

Instead, his hazel eyes stayed locked on you, Azriel’s searching gaze committing your delicate features to memory. Noting the slight furrow of your brows knitting together and the growing pout of your plush lips as you listened to Kier’s absurd proposition, his chest tingling with satisfaction at the sight of the flames which flickered in your determined eyes. And when you finally spoke, each syllable which fell from your lips had Azriel clinging on for more, entranced by the power which laced every well-spoken word.

Azriel had only received but a taste of your presence and yet he was already addicted. The tantalizingly delicious way your light coursed through his veins was a feeling the male wished never to forget. He would bottle it if he could, squirrel away a piece of your light and take it back with him to Velaris so he could experience the high which had been gifted from you whenever the male wished.

And so, with your gravitational pull too mesmerizing to resist, the shadowsinger became a ghost in the ebony halls of Hewn City's palace. A shadowed phantom haunting the corridors, hoping to receive just a glimpse of your warming light with the goal of replenishing his well. Returning day after day to silently bask in the glory of your presence.

Even his shadows had fallen victim to your siren’s song, enraptured by the comfort your luminesce provided. The smoky tendrils slipping from Azriel’s control in order to seek you out and soak up the warmth of your prevailing light.

It was therefore no surprise when you noticed the new little followers who trailed after you like lost puppies as you walked through the winding halls of the palace of nightmares. Bringing you a warm satisfaction when you were able to return them to the blushing shadowsinger who always seemed to be hiding nearby.

It wasn’t long before the days where Azriel’s visits to the Court of Nightmares which were once filled with harrowing screams and cries for mercy were now few and far between. Instead, no longer needing to pine after you from a distance, his visits involved friendly walks through the gardens in Hewn. The twisted vines and dull flowers failing to hold a candle to the beauty which was you.

Azriel’s senses were right that day he had first met you, it was destined for both of your fates to be intertwined. Far behind were the days of being strangers, and soon, so were the days of being friends. The shadowsinger’s growing love for you was why it didn’t take long for the cruel city to become one of Azriel’s favourite places to be.

It was the highlight of Azriel’s day, wandering through the winding avenues of Hewn City as he made his way to your home under the cover of his obedient shadows. Following the faint glow which led him through the familiar streets, its presence holding the draining aura of the wretched city’s air at bay until he had safely passed through the threshold of your home.

And just like the day he first met you where you knocked his world off kilter with only one glance, a single look at your beaming face as he entered was all Azriel needed to feel the worries of his arduous day start to slowly ebb away.

A single look being enough to remind the male just how in love with you he had grown to be. Thankful that the prayers whispered from the dark cage of his childhood had finally been answered, because the gods have given him you.

Only you had the power to illuminate his life. Your presence a lighthouse which called him back from the festering darkness of where he once inhabited. Azriel could withstand anyone, any place, even the looming evil of the Court of Nightmares, if only it meant he was weathering them with you.

One look was all it took to muddle his senses and scramble his thoughts. Clearing Azriel’s mind of all the sweet things he had planned of saying to you as his lips came to meet yours instead.

Azriel kissed the same way he fought, rough and calculated. Each skilled brush of his tongue and sinful nip to your swollen lips done with the intention of drawing sounds of pleasure from you. But Azriel didn’t only kiss to please, every swirl of his warm tongue sought to absorb more and more of your comforting light. The two of you locked in a passionate kiss which was only growing wilder as he attempted to sate his never-ending hunger for you.

His scarred hands explored every inch of your body that they could possibly reach as his salacious lips moved to devour the soft skin of your neck, sucking and biting at your sensitive flesh until the purple marks of his labour began to appear in the wake of his reddening lips. Pleased with the desperate manner of which Azriel was attacking your neck you teasingly pulled away from the male, lips pulling into a smile as you goaded him, “What no hello? You’re not going to ask me how my day has been?”

Groaning at the distance you had created between you, Azriel closed the space once more, leaning forwards until his lips tantalizingly brushed against your ear. Using his teeth to gently tug on your lobe until his lips upturned into a cocky smirk, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine as he spoke lowly, “Why should I when we both already know that your day is about to get a whole lot better?”

“Confident in your skills are we?” you teased, not missing the twinkle which flashed in Azriel’s lustful gaze.

“Why don’t I show you?” Azriel asked, hovering his warm lips over your own, your sultry eyes glancing up at him through the shadow of your eyelashes, “And then you can tell me just how good my skills are.”

Azriel fucked well, there was no doubt about it.

Having done the act with him hundreds of times you were familiar with his unforgiving pace and the brutal force behind his thrusts. Azriel fucked like a man starved, seeking to steal every ounce of pleasure from you possible with each wild snap of his hips.

Yet tonight something was different, Azriel still drew the same cries of strangled pleasure from your lips, though his hips worked at a slower pace. The male taking his time to tear you apart, the leisurely pounding of his cock into your heat working to slowly bring you to your completion.

Tonight Azriel wasn't just fucking you, he was making love. His eyes, once blown black with lust, were now filled with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher and each languid thrust of his insatiable hips pulled soft moans and whimpers from your mouth. Your sounds matched by the shadowsinger's strangled groans escaping from his own lips at the newfound softness of the moment.

His stable hands entwined with your own, fingers laced together as he gently moved your hands to rest on either side of your head. Trapping you beneath him as he patiently drew you closer and closer to your high. Azriel was an expert of torture, never failing to stop the arduously slow rhythm of his thrusts no matter how much you cried for him to go faster.

The heat from his loving gaze becoming too difficult to withstand at the steady pace he was keeping and so you snapped your begging hips to meet his, allowing his cock to hit that sweet spot inside your core, urging the male to seek his high quicker.

A low rumbling laugh tore from his mouth, that cocky smirk once more returning to his lips as he continued his torturous pace. "So good for me princess," he crooned, his words stirring the butterflies in your stomach, aiding to pull you closer and closer to the high you were nearing, "You take me so well." The regular pulse of his hips unwavering, the repeated rhythm inching you closer and closer to satisfaction.

"Keep your eyes on me" he warned as the blissful wave of release began to wash over you, a scream of pleasure escaping from your lips as he finally began to speed his thrusts, "Don't stop looking at me my love."

It was Azriel's turn to reach his high, but it wasn't just satisfaction he was chasing, it was the glowing ball of light which stemmed from you that Azriel longed to absorb. Each mighty thrust working towards reaching that light, growling with the effort of reaching his completion.

Once he had found it, and that familiar golden glow had settled in his chest, Azriel's hunger was sated as his high washed over him and he spilled into your aching core. Panting in time with you as he carefully drew his cock from your heat and pulled your aching body into his soothing embrace, whispering sweet words of affirmation into your ringing ears. Aiding in bringing you down from your crushing high.

It was in the wake of his overwhelming pleasure, still inebriated by the intoxicating feel of your warming light, that the words slipped unceremoniously from his lips. "Come with me" he blurted, that unknown emotion from earlier still dancing in his begging eyes.

"What?" you asked breathlessly, unsure what it was that the male was asking for. Sensing their master's wavering nerves, his shadows had made their appearance. Slowly travelling across your heated skin, their soothing caress, acting to cool your burning flesh.

"To Velaris" he explained, the words leaving his mouth with a anxious gulp, "Come with me to Velaris."

Your eyes blow wide at his question. Thoughts becoming clear as the wave of your pleasure retreated. It was love you had seen in Azriel's stare, which you had felt in his passionate thrusts and searing kisses. Love which fueled his shaking nerves at the prospect that your answer would be anything other than yes.

"You deserve so much more than this cursed city" he continued, gentle hand coming to meet your cheek, his grounding touch drawing you from your tempestuous thoughts, “The world deserves to see so much more of you, you’re wasted here. This city, it just kills off everything good, everything pure. You deserve to live, to share your light with likeminded people."

"My light?" you questioned, not quite understanding what it was that Azriel was trying to convey.

Azriel moved the now shaking hand which was settled on your cheek to rest against the center of your chest, taking a few minutes to absorb the steady beat of your heart before continuing to speak.

"I don't know what it is, or why it's there. But I see it, the same light I only ever see on one day of the year, on Starfall. It calls to me, you call to me. . . I don’t know if we are mates, but I just get this feeling, the same one I felt on the day I met you, that this light was made for me. That it’s guiding me towards something. . . towards you.”

You looked down to where his hand was resting but was disappointed to see there was no light shining, yet the intensity of your lovers gaze already told you everything you needed to know.

“Is it there now?” You ask, noting the way Azriel’s hand had stopped trembling at the realisation that you believed him.

“Yes” he smiled softly, and whilst you couldn’t see the light yourself you could have sworn you saw the reflection of a warm glow in his hazel eyes, “it’s always with you, like my shadows.”

As if answering their masters call his shadows had begun to swirl around where his hand was placed, you could only assume they were dancing with the mysterious light that Azriel had likened them to.

“So Velaris huh?” You ask, looking deeply into Azriel’s hopeful eyes, “When do we go?”

And with those four words all of Azriel’s wishes had come true. The male no longer needing to bottle your calming light, sipping at his reserves until he was blessed with your wonderful presence once more. No, this time when he left he would be bringing his star to Velaris with him. To his home.

#acotar #fanfic #acotar imagine #sarah j maas #a court of thorns and roses #azriel x reader #azriel imagine #azriel #azriel oneshot #azriel smut #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar

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sttoru · 11 months ago

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𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ‘𝐍 𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐒: a fictional series featuring cold-hearted assassin toji fushiguro.

𝓲. in the bustling streets of a city shrouded in shadows, fate intertwines the lives of two unlikely souls. when a young woman discovers an injured man lying in an alley, she doesn’t think twice before rescuing him. ignorant of his dangerous identity, she nurses him back to health, kindling a fragile bond between them.

𝓲𝓲. the reader is depicted as a college student, aging around her early twenties. toji is a ruthless assassin, aging around his early thirties. this au is connected to the canon one (lore wise). general warning; age gap.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈: A TWIST OF FATE

you finish your last lecture of the day and head to get dinner before returning to your dormitories. you stumble upon an injured figure on your way home, laying in a dimly lit alley. despite the fear in your heart, you decide to reach out towards the unknown man in need of help.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈: A RISKY GAMBIT

you smuggle the wounded man into your dorm room and nurse him back to health in secret. a fragile bond forms between you and the stranger - whose name you learn is toji - as you spend your first night together.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈𝐈: IN THE SHADOWS OF TRUST

toji and you share more about your lives over breakfast, layers of secrecy begin to peel away, revealing hidden truths and vulnerabilities. your deep conversation strengthens your bond, though when toji reveals his true identity, you begin to doubt your involvement.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈𝐈𝐈: A NARROW ESCAPE

your own little bubble bursts when your friends unexpectedly visit your dorm, threatening to expose toji's hidden presence. you hide with the man in your small closet, making it seem like no one is home. your plan backfires as the tension between the two of you grows, possibly leading to more.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕: EMBRACING VULNERABILITY

the days pass and toji heals faster than you expect. when you realise that your time with him would come to an end sooner or later, you surprisingly feel upset. your complicated feelings - the emotions simmering beneath the surface - ignites a tender connection between the two of you. stupidly enough, you choose to act on those feelings.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈: IN SILENCE

in the morning, after an eventful and emotional night, you discover the sudden abscence in your room. confusion and hurt swirls within you as you grapple with the realisation of toji's sudden departure, leaving behind unanswered questions and a great sense of loss.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐈: TRACING FOOTSTEPS

you refuse to give up on that stranger. even if it brings your life into danger, you go up and beyond to search for him around the area. armed with nothing but fragments of clues and an unwavering resolve, you navigate the shadows of the city and find yourself slowly unraveling the enigma of toji's disappearance.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈: CLASH OF FATES

your pursuit leads you to where you had wanted it to lead: toji. though, your discovery also ends up during the worst possible timing. when toji's chasing after his next target, you're caught in-between the crossfire. your two worlds collide and you're left to make a crucial decision.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐗: ECHOES OF BULLETS, PULSATING HEARTSTRINGS

in the aftermath of the confrontation, you find yourself shaken and vulnerable, grappling with the aftermath of the ordeal you've witnessed. toji's ruthless world that has shattered and changed yours forever.

#sttoru writes.#heartstrings ‘n bullets: masterlist #jjk x reader #toji x reader #pls give it lots of love :3!!!!

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just-a-creep-babe · 24 days ago

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What Makes You Tick - Chapter 3

(Ticci Toby x Reader)

Trying not to let my love for one of my absolute faves ✨Hoodie✨ show thru in this one 😚✌️

Commissions are open!

Check out my ko-fi if you'd like to support me!

Masterlist: x

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Divider by @plum98

It doesn't take long for his pickup to arrive.

You're still straining against his hold, struggling to break free, when a rusty old Jeep with tinted windows pulls up. You fail to see its license plate, and try as you might to glimpse whatever model it might be, you just don't catch it in time.

The most you can do is attempt to commit it to memory—the color, the design, the specific patches of rust lining the body—anything and everything that could help you remember. But as soon as the passenger door opens, your mind suddenly goes blank, and you forget everything you were focusing on.

Another man steps out of the car. He's taller, with broader shoulders and a lean, muscular build that even his baggy hoody doesn't hide.

Your breath is cut short as you notice his face.

A black cloth mask covers every inch of skin, right down to his neck. His yellow hood is pulled up over his head, so that it'd almost give the illusion of a void, if it weren't for the red eyes and frown stitched into the mask.

You can't help but take a step back at the sight of him.

The distance between you and your kidnapper is already sparse, and when you step back, it has you bumping into him. Even from behind, you can feel him watching your reaction to his accomplice. You don't know if you just imagine him pulling you deeper into him. You don't know if you should be comforted by it.

The men don't speak to one another, even when the accomplice stops just a few feet away. He looks at you; taking in the way you shift uncertainly on your feet, the way your kidnapper's hands are holding yours in place, and then, finally, he takes a good hard look at your face.

You flush.

You don't know if it's some kind of test. But your pride doesn't let you look away, even when your fear is begging you to back down.

He tilts his head, his mask unyielding to whatever he might be thinking.

And then he extends a hand and throws something in your direction.

It happens so fast that you don't even see what it is. You have just enough time to flinch and release a muffled yelp against the gag. You brace for an impact, but right before it makes contact, your kidnapper reaches out and catches it inches from your face.

Zip ties.

You realize what it is as your wrists are brought together and bound with something thin and sharp. Too tight. You whimper into the gag, hoping he'll understand that he's hurting you, but he either doesn't get the hint or he doesn't care.

As he's securing your bindings through your haphazard jerking and incoherent protesting, the sound of another door opening and closing catches your attention. You look up to find a third man coming out of the driver's seat.

Out of all of them, something about this man is the most terrifying. He seems taller than you, but shorter than the other two, with a strong, stocky kind of build. The sleeves of his red flannel are rolled up to reveal thick forearms, and you dread imagining how it would've felt with him holding you in a headlock instead of the leaner man behind you.

Even though he's the most intimidating, his mask, in contrast, is the most delicate. Black, almost feminine features are painted on the porcelain white of the mask. The lips are full, the oval eyes are tapered at the outer corners, and the black semi-circles eyebrows are arched high in a permanent look of surprise.

He doesn't say a word as he approaches, either. But he walks with a menacing gait toward you, and unlike his black-masked counterpart, he doesn't stop when he's a few feet away.

You cringe, mentally preparing yourself for whatever he's going to do when he reaches you.

You don't expect him to shove you out of the way, of all things. And without your arms to help your balance, you stumble and fall right on your ass, landing next to a pair of black boots. You look up, and a red-stitched frown looks down at you. From this angle, the man is just as imposing as his white-masked counterpart—if not more. But before you can recoil away, you're distracted by a scuffle between the other two.

You look over—right as the driver grabs the slimmer man by the collar of his hoody, picks him up, and slams him into the back of the building you'd been hiding behind. And even though you don't—you shouldn't—feel bad for your kidnapper, even you can't help but flinch at the rough impact.

"You had one fucking job, Rogers!"

His voice is a gravelly hiss of pure frustration as he picks him up again and smashes him back into the dusty red bricks.

You swear you can hear his skull cracking on impact, and when he does it one more time, it's all too much for you to handle. You lean over and retch the nausea that'd been building in your stomach since the very beginning of this whole ordeal.

Tears prickle at your eyes. You gasp and heave through the gag, wincing at the rawness of your throat with every breath. Thankfully, nothing comes out except mouthful after mouthful of water, like your salivary glands are working overtime to compensate for keeping your lunch down. But at least you don't puke. At least you don't soil the gag with the taste of your own vomit.

Were it any other time, you'd be downright mortified by your bodily reaction. But you don't care what these men think of you, and they don't even seem bothered by it—like they're used to this kind of stuff happening. They barely even pay attention to you as they argue.

"You don't even know where the target is—do you, you fucking tweak?!"

Wham!

Another hard slam into the wall, and the man with the goggles—Rogers—starts to look dizzy. Still, the white-masked man doesn't relent, nor does he loosen his grip on his collar, even as Rogers tries to pry the hands off of himself.

"Answer me!"

Your kidnapper, twitching more than he has this whole night, grunts and jerks his head in your direction.

"She's right—she's right—she's—r-right fucking there!"

The masked man doesn't even look at you as he snarls, "Don't fucking play dumb, you know damn well she's not who we're after!"

A flicker of hope amongst the fear, panic, and confusion flutters in your chest.

You're not who they're after. You're not who they're after, and you haven't seen any of their faces, so they have no reason to take you.

But your short-lived victory is quickly stifled as your kidnapper grunts.

"Th-the target—target changed. He was—he was there—"

"Bullshit."

Another shake, another hard shove into the wall behind him.

"H-he was!" he argues. "I-I fel—I felt him. Even she felt him."

You don't know what he's talking about, but he looks and sounds absolutely insane.

This whole situation is insane.

If it weren't for the black-masked man looming right over you, you'd be tempted to make a break for it. But it's still three versus one, and if you couldn't outrun the first guy, you know damn well you wouldn't be able to outrun three of them.

"And what about the original target?" the driver hisses.

"I—" his head twitches, interrupting him before he can properly start his sentence, "I killed her. She's—she's not—she wasn't—she didn't have what he—what he was after."

"And how the fuck do you know that for sure?"

It's like his incessant urging finally gets on Rogers' last nerve, because with his own snarl, he angrily retorts. "F-fuck you want me to say, Masky!? I know—I-I felt it. Now you wanna-wanna keep grilling me about this shit in broad fuckin—fuckin daylight while the pigs are out for us—or can we—can we get the hell out of here?!"

You don't know how he doesn't look injured after repeatedly getting smashed into the wall like that, or even how he doesn't look the least bit scared of the man—Masky?—who seems pissed off enough to split his skull open—and strong enough to do it, too. But either way, his answer is at least good enough for the Masky guy to release his hold on him.

You've absolutely no idea what's happening, what to make of the whole thing, but you do know that you want out. Far away from these freaks.

Masky turns his attention toward you, and you're suddenly thankful you're not standing. You're not entirely sure you'd be able to keep standing without passing out from the sheer stress pumping through your system. Even now, even sitting on the ground, you feel faint.

But, thankfully, all he does is grunt, and nod toward the car.

"Bring her."

You think he's addressing the other man, the one standing above you, but both walk away and return to the car without dragging you along. Instead, it's the same guy who brought you all the way out here that pulls you up and brings you to the Jeep.

You don't want to just compliantly go along with him. But when he opens the car door, you realize that you really don't have a choice. They're not going to let you get away. And it's not like you could realistically put up much of a fight, either.

So you don't make so much as a muffled whimper when you step into the car.

"Good girl," the brunet murmurs the words under his breath as he secures the seat-belt around your waist. You wonder, briefly, if he can hear the pounding in your chest as his hand brushes over you. The thought has you squirming uncomfortably in place, but he, again, doesn't seem to notice or care.

It feels like he's sealing your fate when he shuts the door with a dull thud.

You squirm in your seat again. The car, you notice, smells faintly of mint, cigarettes, and that deep woodsy scent again. The seats are a coppery-beige material, and all things considered, if you weren't being kidnapped, there'd almost be a strange kind of... comfort about it.

Anything's more comfortable than the blood stains and used needles you were imagining would fill the car.

The door next to you opens, and the brunet gets in. The driver doesn't bother waiting for him to get his seat-belt on before he takes off. And all you can do is try not to look too panicked as he peels out of the street and starts heading down the neighborhood, leaving your apartment further and further behind.

You're barely halfway through the block when the guy next to you starts rummaging around. When he pulls out another strip of fabric, you shrink away from him and shake your head no, furrowing your brows pleadingly.

It doesn't come as a surprise when he doesn't listen again.

The fabric is wrapped around your eyes, and as your sight goes, so do your chances of figuring out where the hell they're taking you.

You don't want to think about how many other times they've done this, or how many other victims have worn this very blindfold. What fate did they meet—and would yours be the same?

You blanch at the thought.

You shouldn't be thinking about this kind of stuff, but with your sense of sight gone, and with little to no sound but the thrum of the car engine, you have no other distraction. You're trapped in your own mind.

It’s ok, you try to reassure yourself, it’s going to be ok. They’re three people; there’s no way they didn’t leave some kind of evidence behind. You texted your friends and family, so people will know to look for you, and the cops are already out searching the area.

Your phone, you suddenly realize. They could track your phone.

But when you try to feel for that familiar shape in the back of your pocket, its absence is the first thing you notice. It must’ve fallen out. Your only reassurance is that you lost it recently, and it might hopefully help the police track you down.

You shift in place again.

Just like before, with the blindfold on, your sense of hearing is heightened. Every time anyone moves, your ears perk up involuntarily, and you try to decipher what they might be doing.

When you hear the guy next to you rummaging for something, it inevitably catches your attention. You hear what sounds like a bottle of water, maybe half-filled, sloshing around as it's tilted this way and that.

You don't think much of it. Not until there's a damp cloth pressing against your nose.

•••

You wake up with a piercing headache.

Visions of a dream, something about a long-legged spider leaving silky white threads throughout an old forest, skitter from memory. Your mouth is dry. It feels like you have the worst hangover of your life.

When you blink groggily, you're met with an unfamiliar room.

The sight is disorienting, and for a brief minute, you almost think you're still dreaming. You blink the remnants of sleep away. And then you furrow your brows and take a better look at your surroundings.

You're in what looks to be a hotel room—and not a very nice one, at that. The walls are an ugly yellowish beige, completely bare safe for a framed picture of a flower-speckled field on the wall in front of you.

You sit up.

It's only then that you realize that your hands are still zip-tied behind your back. And then your most recent memories resurface, and a wave of cold, queasy dizziness washes over you.

Breathe, you have to breathe.

You squeeze your eyes shut and wait—one minute, two minutes, three... and once you start to feel stable enough, you reopen your eyes.

Part of you almost expects to be back in the comfort of your own bedroom. None of this feels real; it's like your mind can't accept what's happened. But whether or not you accept it doesn't change the fact that it's very much so real.

There's a tripod facing the bed.

A mix of vile anger and disgust replaces the fear, if only briefly, as you notice the camera that'd been left to record you. With a jolt, you kick the tripod down. It falls with a clatter, and you mentally swear at yourself for making so much noise.

You need to free yourself before anyone comes.

You rub your wrists together—both in an attempt to return feeling to your hands and to break free. But all it does is irritate your skin until it feels raw. You chew your lip and decide that for now, you'll just have to deal with the discomfort. You're not getting those damn things off anytime soon.

The bed creaks and groans as you shift to stand. Black dots speckle your vision once you're up, and a wave of cold dread licks up your empty stomach as you realize just how weak you feel.

What the hell did they do to you?

Like most hotels, the room is complete with a TV standing on a wooden drawer, two chairs and a table pushed up into a corner, and a small nightstand next to the bed. To the left of the TV, there's a door. And you know enough about hotels to discern that the door likely leads to an adjoining room.

Your hair prickles up uncomfortably.

They're probably in there, you realize. Which means you need to get the hell away before they decide to check in on you.

The only other closed door is the one, you assume, that leads to the corridor. You make your way towards it, turn around, and fumble with numb fingers to twist the handle. But it's not that easy. Of course it's not that easy. The latch doesn't even budge.

How's that possible?

You struggle with it for a good while, until it feels like your wrists are bleeding from the plastic cutting into your skin. When it becomes clear that somehow, they've managed to lock you in here, your eyes dart to the window across the room.

The carpeted floor is soft beneath your feet as you move through the small room. Through the dusty window, you investigate the outside view. You're definitely a few floors up. And at a quick glance, you don't see any plausible exit.

You return to the main door, struggle against it, and when it feels like nothing's working, you slam your shoulder into it.

A flash of pain has you clenching your teeth to avoid crying out. Between the throbbing of your arm and the loud wham! it made, you realize that trying to brute-force your way out of this place isn't the answer right now.

With your options quickly dwindling, you make your way to the bathroom. If you could, at the very least, find something sharp to get out of your bindings, at least you'd have that going for yourself.

Even though your appearance isn't your main priority right now, you still can't help but cringe as your reflection is the first thing you notice.

The dark circles around your eyes are deep and prominent. You have this look of fear about you that you’ve never seen before—like a trapped wild animal. When your gaze falls to your lips—dry and cracked—you remember how incredibly thirsty you are.

Turning around, you use your bound hands to tilt the faucet open. And then you turn, lean over to the fresh, running water, and drink deeply. It’s tap water from a questionable hotel—but water’s never tasted so good before. You feel it moving from your throat, all the way down to your stomach, and some of the fog clouding your mind seems to clear.

After having your fill, you feel better. Definitely not 100%, but definitely better.

Once you manage to struggle out of your pants to take care of your other needs—and then struggle to properly get them back on again—you haphazardly rummage through the bathroom cabinets.

Nothing’s sharp enough to cut the ties off.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. Someone can help get them off once you’re out of this room.

You’re tempted to retry brute-forcing the main door. It’ll be loud and abrasive enough to surely catch someone’s attention, right? You’re not even gagged, you realize. You could scream for help.

But right as you're considering it, a sharp pain slams into your head. You nearly stumble from the sheer intensity of the sudden migraine. You groan, hands instinctively going up to your temples, only for them to get caught behind your back.

You shut your eyes, as if doing so could somehow force the headache away. But all it does is summon those black spots in your vision again. Dizziness sweeps over you. You shakily make your way back to the bed and sit, the room around you spinning.

What’s happening to you?

The headache barely fades, but the shrill ache turns into a dull throbbing after a good few minutes, and you figure that’s about as good as it’s going to get. You’re left sitting on the bed, with the door to the adjoining room right in front of you—waiting for you.

You stand, then hesitate.

You might as well check every option available—shouldn’t you? If the other room is empty and the door's unlocked, it’s, at the very least, worth investigating.

You don’t let yourself consider what might happen if your kidnappers are in there. Not until you stand, just a few inches from the door, and it opens.

You can’t help the sound of surprise that escapes you.

A familiar pair of orange goggles stare at you from behind the open door.

You step back, knees buckling as your calves hit the bed.

He watches you, wordlessly, as you scramble back to the very end of the mattress. When your back hits the wall, he tilts his head to the side and walks in.

And as if that wasn't nerve-wracking enough, when he steps through, the two other men walk in behind him. All three of them surround the bed, as if making it clear you’ve absolutely no exit.

You're so fucked.

#creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #ticci toby #ticci toby x reader #crp

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kishibe-kisser · 1 year ago

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Nanami Kento had never quite considered himself old before. He wasn't old at all, matter of fact. He was only 27 years old and he knew that, but sometimes... sometimes after work, he felt like he was in his 60's. He hated work of any capacity but being a sorcerer? It was so physically taxing and today was taxing.

He arrived home to an empty house, not a peep of you to be heard. Truthfully, he was relieved. Kento hated coming home to you when he felt this physically exhausted, he hated seeing the worry in your eyes and hearing the caring tone in your voice. No, he could care for himself in this state. Make himself feel better before you got home. He couldn't worry you again like this, no matter how bad his muscles ached.

Standing in your shared bedroom, he took his suit jacket off following it with the brown leather harness. Letting out a his with each large movement, he didn't understand why he was so particularly sore that day but it was kicking his ass. Undoing his tie, he tossed it on the ground which was very unlike him but in his head he told himself he'd pick it up after his shower. Slowly he undid the buttons of his shirt, huffing before sitting on the edge of his bed.

Kento let himself fall back, shirt untucked and open, onto the bed. His goggles had slipped off and despite the fact that he didn't want to sleep yet, his eyes fell shut.

You knew he was home because of his shoes by the front door, but you weren't greeted with a kiss or him taking your bags for you at the door or helping you with your jacket. No, you were greeted with silence and that was concerning. Walking through your home, you found him asleep and snoring slightly. His shirt was open, showing his muscular body and his goggles were next to his head, undoubtedly have slid off of his face in his sleep.

"Kento, my love." You whispered softly, stroking his blonde hair from next to him on the bed. You didn't want to wake him, though you knew he'd be upset waking up in the morning probably being more sore than he already was from his sleeping position. He let out a grumble in response, eyes slowly opening to look at the disturber of his well deserved peace.

"I was trying to hide it from you, but I can't." He started, voice low from just waking up. He rolled over onto his stomach and pushed himself off the bed, groaning with each movement. "I can barely stand, I'm so sore and tired." His tone sounded pitiful and you found yourself smiling at him weakly. You wouldn't lecture him on his carelessness for his life or body, not today. He normally wouldn't admit this to you, but today, he couldn't hold out anymore.

"Alright, how about this. We take a shower, you and me. I'll help you wash up, maybe trim that little bit of stubble coming in." You watched him sleepily nod at your words, the thought of you holding him and washing his hair as warm water poured down on you both, that was his heaven. "And after that." You started, stroking his face and allowing your fingers to trace over his features. He nuzzled his face into your hand and kissed your palm softly. You then moved your hands down to his shoulders to carefully push his open shirt off of his shoulders and fully off of him. Your hand lingered on his bare shoulders, rubbing them with a little bit of force to find some of the knots. "If you're feeling up to it, I can give you a massage." He groaned at your words and the feeling of force behind your fingers, effectively melting into your hands even further.

"Let's start with shower, if I don't melt away into your hands then we can discuss a massage." Kento almost smiled before leaning in and pressing a kiss to your lips before pulling away and pressing his forehead to yours. "I could worship the ground you walk on." He added on and you smiled, taking his face into your hands once more. He already did worship the ground you walked on, no man had treated you half as good as he did. This was the least you could do for him.

"Oh my dear, you already do."

A/N: this was inspired by some fanart I saw and will I ever get over Nanami?? No.

This last ep, wrecked me.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #jjk

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loveindefinitely · 11 months ago

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༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

11 — COME BACK TO REMIND ME OF WHO I WAS

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad.

<- previous part | next part ->

“I forgot how ugly he was.”

Price, beside you, raises a slightly bemused brow. Taking the binoculars from your easy grip, he too, examines the target standing on the mansion’s balcony. A cigar sits between Price’s lips, mirroring the less sophisticated Marlboro between the Lieutenant General’s.

The man, one of the few higher-ups you were somewhat close with, is a decorated Shadow Company leader. Known for his strategy and persuasion, he was always a good asset.

Shame he was always this side of too touchy, and a general ass to anyone who had a vagina. Or an inclination for the same sex.

Real pity that he’s the one with the information you need, and the one you can’t kill.

“You’re not wrong, darlin’,” Price murmurs under his breath, exhaling a puff of smoke as he slips the cigar from his mouth, the cherry burning in the dark of night.

Ghost, like usual, is found a few buildings down, sniper at the ready. Soap and Gaz were ordered to stay behind for this mission, much to their chagrin. It was the closest you’d seen Gaz fight with his Captain, and Soap was just being generally pouty.

Both you, and Price, had managed to reason that expertise in explosions and protection wasn’t exactly wanted for a quick get-and-grab.

And, maybe, a small part of you needs a break from the two Sergeants. Your night with Gaz has infected your mind, even now, the day after. And seeing him, with his bright smile and dimples and eyes made your heart skip a beat. Especially with how no one could know of your rendezvous, lest you be kicked out of the deal.

Or worse.

You swallow, once, accepting the binoculars once more when Price hands them back to you with another puff of his cigar. He’s surprisingly courteous about it, not blowing the smoke into your face.

“Lt, we have eyes on the target. Over,” you speak into your radio, eyes like a hawk as you watch the Lieutenant General shake off flakes from his cigarette over the pristine white railing. He’s shorter than most, especially considering his rank, and you can’t help a small, private smile growing on your face at that small fact.

“Been around bloody Johnny too much,” Ghost mutters, and you roll your eyes. “No hostiles spotted, you’re good to go.”

Rising into a crouch, Price gives you a curt nod, before gesturing for you to follow him. You do so with quiet movements, the only sound the barely there crunch of dirt underneath your boots.

Your previous Lieutenant General was always an uncomfortably wealthy man, and you see now what he’s chosen to do with such an abundance of money. He lives in an off-the-grid mansion, deep in the middle of nowhere, only hills and trees around him.

Those families in Las Almas, displaced and killed and ruined – they were entirely more deserving of just a fraction of this wealth. Your tongue feels coated with something sour.

Price smells like cinnamon and spice, even in his gear, and it’s a scent that settles in your belly like a warm stew.

It’s rare, these days, to see daylight. All this recon work done well past midnight, hiding in the shadows and staying low. Not your favourite, but at the same time, it’s kind of… nice, doing this, just you and Price and the moon. No having to tiptoe around what to say around Gaz, or avoiding Soap’s innuendos.

If only it wasn’t for Ghost, too, watching over the two of you.

God, how you hated that man. His snarky comments, the roll of his eyes, his mask he refused to take off. And the way he almost looked down at you, questioned your authority, not unlike all the men you’d known. Worked alongside. Hated, too, in much the same vein.

You wonder, distantly, if he’ll ever come around. If there was at all a possibility of a civil interaction between you both, one that didn’t end in death threats or glares or passing out.

“Somethin’s on your mind.”

Head snapping up, you meet Price’s knowing blue eyes. Calculating, always aware, always ready for the worst case scenario.

“Not really, Cap,” you easily shake off in a whisper, continuing to follow him, until your backs are pressed against the beige, concrete wall. Your assault rifle is pulled to your chest, safety off.

The bandage on your cheek had been replaced just this afternoon, a soothing balm and fresh wrappings alleviating the growing itch that had been forming on your face. What was another scar, even? This one, at least, had somewhat of a neutral memory attached.

Ghost’s chest, his arms, a single threat turned into a promise.

You blink.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed if you underestimate our smarts,” Price says, low, under his breath. His words have you halting.

“Sir –”

“I know you’re used to bein’ the smartest kid in the regiment,” he continues, not unkindly, “But you’d do yourself well to remember that my boys are here for a reason, too. We know more than you give us credit for.”

His voice is deep, gruff, even in the low whisper he’s reduced to.

A shiver erupts down your spine as you feel out where to start climbing the wall, trying not to look at the man next to you. His words – they hit a part of you that you don’t want to acknowledge.

“Never said you guys weren’t smart, Captain.”

“Actions speak louder than words, Colonel.”

You have nothing to say to that – an irony, all things considered. Instead, you jerk your head towards the bricks that’ll allow you both to scale the side of the mansion. With your gloves on, the two of you make it to the third floor, shuffling through an open window.

It’s pitch black, except for a lone light turned on in your target’s study, just down the hall.

The air is stale, stifling, potent with old filing and decade-old cologne. It has your throat feeling clogged, your eyes slightly glassy as you move towards the light, gun at the ready.

This is, you realise, the first time you’re working beside the Captain.

You’d worked in tandem, obviously, but never so closely knit like this. With him at your six, his body like a furnace when beside your own, it’s an entirely new dynamic. So different to that of his subordinates – more steady, controlled.

Ghost is silent over the radio, a small mercy, as you two find your way into the study, backs to the wall as you quickly clear the room. You never knew when a surprise could be awaiting you.

“Check the drawers, I’ll look through the shelves,” Price whispers, a direct command delivered in a raspy breath.

You nod, immediately transferring your gun to your back as you rush through the desk’s contents.

The room is dusty, obviously having seen little use in recent years, and the drawers are filled to the brim with knick knacks. Old paper clips, photos, receipts – everything, except for what you need.

“Got anything?” You find yourself asking, a harsh whisper in the still quiet of the room.

Price shakes his head, a stern movement, still searching through the shelves with a stealthy yet quickened pace. You focus back on the drawers, going through each one with efficient and expert ease. Some old gum packets, paper clips. Fuck.

Your heart pounds in your chest, your throat feels thick with dread.

The contract you were looking for – it could be the beginning of the end. You needed this like you needed air, right now, and if you didn’t find it –

“Darlin’,” Price calls, smooth but demanding. You instantly look up, drawn to the man like a moth to a flame. “We’re goin’ to find it. Stop thinkin’.”

It’s, obviously, easier said than done.

You appreciate his sentiment – the way he’s trying to guide you – but that sinking feeling of despair has you gripped in its tenuous claws; unrelenting and powerful and cruel. It feels as though everything is riding on this; like your very existence will disappear as soon as you find out the document has.

A hand on your shoulder startles you out of your thoughts.

It’s Price.

“You need to get your head in, Colonel,” he orders, his voice no longer patient or kind. This is the voice of a Captain. “I am not about to waste my time here if you can’t do your job.”

It’s exactly what you need, right now, and he knows it. You know it.

You take a breath.

And you nod.

He claps your shoulder, a firm glint in his eyes as he jerks his head towards the rest of the room. You’re running on a timer – your mini spiral an unnecessary hurdle. All you have to do is block off that side of your brain, and get the bloody job done.

Although Ghost is still silent as ever, you can feel his looming presence even without being at all in his line of sight.

It’s debilitating.

With more meticulous movements and keener eyes, you look through the drawers. Less desperate, more knowing, because if there’s any doubt that you won’t find it –

“Target is leaving the balcony – I’m ‘bout to lose sight on ‘im,” Ghost’s quick voice starts through your radio. The slight tone of worry has every inch of you on edge. Your wide eyes flicker to Price’s – whose jaw sets.

“Copy, Lieutenant,” Price murmurs, voice low.

The gun strapped to your back feels heavier than before, now, and your hand drifts to the pistol attached to your thigh. The same one that’s come in handy time and time again.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Footsteps – down the hall. Heading towards –

A hand on the scuff of your neck. A door being pulled open – pitch black.

Your heart thunders in your chest, Price’s hand pressed against your sternum, his chest against yours. The air is tight, and you’re cornered in a…

Closet.

Price pulled you into a closet – and now, you’re stuck with his thigh between yours and his arm outstretched above your head. You feel entirely weak before him, the Captain of the 141.

If it was at all in question, anymore, you would’ve considered that this would be the perfect time to kill you. To be rid of Grave’s right-hand woman, and to cut off any loose ends.

Instead, all you can feel is his warm breath against your forehead.

The footsteps pause, but the creak of the study’s door has your spine rigid all over again. Price presses in closer to you – and you don’t make a single movement. Don’t speak a single word, in case its very syllables are your undoing.

You can’t see, not in this speckled darkness, but price’s very existence feels so strong against your own that you can’t help but shudder a breath.

“Sir – You can’t possibly be serious. Use your damn brain.”

Your ex-Lieutenant General hisses into what you assume is his phone. And by his grating voice dripping with stress? There’s only one man on this Earth that he could be talking to.

Phillip Graves.

You can’t make out what your Commander says in response – not through the small, tinny voice of the phone, but you can pretty much guess his sentiment.

“Most of our men are gone! We can’t take down that bloody Task Force –” He hisses, his voice palpably furious. Without realising it, you find yourself curling in further to Price – his own head ducking down to shield you subconsciously.

The creak of the study’s floorboards, echoing under the weight of the man’s boots, makes your heart pound.

You feel not unlike a small child, hiding from their parents while the sound of yelling and smashing glasses echoes around the room. The long since buried memory of your father – before he left, before he broke your mother’s heart – of dark hair and angry, pulsing veins. The same veins you inherited.

The ones of which you wish you could carve out of your skin, just to watch the fury bleed out.

“Why the fuck is she so important? Good pussy or not –” Your heart, a thud, thud, thud, “ – She’s just a girl. She’s not worth it.”

Price’s hand tightens his hand, unconsciously clasping your throat like it’s a new necklace of yours. It’s oddly comforting, even if it threatens to block your airflow. His chin nearly rests atop your head, so close, but all you get is the waft of cigars and ink.

Graves must respond with something – something that the man just a few feet away from you does not appreciate.

“At this rate, the worst case scenario is that she finds out,” the man starts to pace, the rhythm of his footfalls matching the heaving rises of your chest, “And then what? Get your fucking head in, Commander.”

Your mind’s flooded with possibilities, what could possibly constitute the worst case scenario, when the next sentence shatters you entirely.

“She’s smart, Commander, and she’s gonna want to figure out the truth of dear old mum’s death soon. Don’t be idiotic.”

Silence.

Your ears ring – your throat closes, and your common sense crumbles at your feet.

The next few moments happen in easy, recognisable steps.

One. You shove Price off of you – not in a way that’d cause him pain, but forceful enough that he can’t push back in time to stop you.

Two. You swing the closet door open, the light flooding your view, along with the large frame of the Lieutenant General.

Three. You slide your trusty pistol from your hollister, flick off the safety, and aim with a shaky grip.

And you shoot.

The bullet slices clean and true through the man’s forehead, blood instantly dripping between his eyes as he falls forward, body slumping, until the phone clatters to the carpet alongside him.

Price yells something. You can’t hear it past the ringing in your ears, the muffled sound that drifts between reality and thought.

Dropping to your knees, you clasp the phone in your grip, blood staining the face of it. You bring it to your ear, hand no longer shaking. Steady as a surgeon.

Graves says something, sounding desperate.

“When I kill you, Commander,” you rasp, and you think you can hear Ghost’s irritating voice through your radio, “I’ll do it the same way I plan to finish Shepherd.”

“You’re gonna regret –” Graves hisses, but all you do is pull the phone from your ear, and press the circular red button.

The line cuts.

A hand falls to your shoulder, shaking you, and it’s only then that the ringing stops, and all of your other senses fall back into place.

The hand moves to the hair at the base of your skull, Price fisting it and pulling your head back to face him. He looks… angry, but it’s softened, somehow, by the understanding in his blue eyes.

“You had one order, Darlin’,” he borderline growls, and your skin prickles, “Tell me what that was.”

A petulant child is what you are. How he’s treating you.

You answer anyway.

“Not to,” you swallow, throat dry, “Not to kill him. Captain, you have to –” His grip on your hair tightens, and your words stop short.

He shakes his head, eyes narrowing. “If you’re gonna let your feelings get in the way of our mission…”

Even though he doesn’t finish his sentence, you understand the meaning of it. You’re acting reckless, growing impatient – risking yourself and others over petty disputes.

Everything feels so difficult, right now, impossible to comprehend. Like your mind’s on auto-pilot, your body, too.

Price releases his grip from your hair, and you find your gaze moving to the body laid in front of you.

And…

A piece of paper – folded – has fallen just beside his jacket’s pocket. You lean forward, clasping it between your hands without a second thought, and open it up with careful movements.

With every word you read, your mouth falls open wider – until you find yourself standing on unsteady feet, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

It’s.

“It’s not the contract,” you breathe, realising Price is just watching, waiting, looking out for you. You finally look up from the sheet.

“It’s something better.”

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rhys-writes-some-shit · 11 months ago

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The Dilemma of a Rubber Duck

Alastor x Reader (Queer-Platonic) ft. Bestie Lucifer

(TW: Mentions of depression, mentions of suicide attempts)

You knew Alastor didn’t like Lucifer. You weren’t 100% sure why, only that the King of Hell really got on Alastor’s nerves. Ever since Lucifer had moved into the hotel in the aftermath of the battle with the angels, Alastor had spent hours ranting and raving to you about him. They were constantly trying to one-up each other. It was comical, really.

Except that you were stuck in the middle of it.

Unlike Alastor, you and Lucifer had hit it off right away, getting along like two peas in a pod. There was a certain camaraderie that came with being clinically depressed and still having to force a smile, which both you and Lucifer were experts at. Many late nights had been spent exchanging stories and finding humor in things other people might not otherwise find humorous.

(“I tried to kill myself twice, and then end up getting hit by a car! That’s how I end up in Hell? What did I do all that work for?” That was the first time that story had been met with laughter, and that was when you knew Lucifer was a good guy.)

You were constantly thinking about how Alastor would react to knowing you enjoyed hanging out with Lucifer, or vice versa. It worried you to no end, so you tried to keep your friendship with Lucifer under wraps, for Alastor’s sake. He needed someone to back him up, and you wanted to be that person. You wanted Alastor to know he could trust you.

One evening, you and Lucifer were talking in the parlor, drinking tea. Alastor was out for a fancy Overlord meeting, so you were able to relax a bit.

“I’m so glad we have Niffty around,” you were saying. “Sometimes I just can’t find the energy to do my laundry, but I know that if I leave it on the floor, she’ll take care of it right away.” You thought for a moment. “It’s not like I’m forcing her to do it. Or taking advantage of her. Right?”

“Nah, I thought cleaning was her job,” Lucifer reassured. “My loophole with that is all my outfits are the same. Also magic. Magic is very helpful.”

“Man, I’m jealous!” You gave a lighthearted groan. “I wish I could have magic like that.”

“Who’s saying you can’t?” Lucifer shrugged, sipping at his tea.

You snorted. “Have you seen me? Do I look like Overlord material to you?”

“I didn’t think Mr. Crimson Asshole was an Overlord, so looks aren’t everything.” Lucifer hesitated. “Oh, shit, I shouldn’t have said it like that. You two are like, dating, right?”

You made a ‘fifty-fifty’ gesture with your hand. “Eh… Not really? It’s like… a mutual relationship. Neither of us are the ‘dating’ type, so we just kind of… vibe. But it’s fine, I get it. You should hear the things he says about you.”

“Oh?” Lucifer leaned forward, curious. You mimed zipping your lips, grinning playfully. “Alrighty then, keep your secrets.”

The feeling of guilt you’d been getting used to returned, but you smiled past it. If there was anything Alastor taught you, it was that you could hide everyone behind a smile. And it worked, for the most part. The only person who’d ever been able to see though it was Alastor himself. Similarly, you were the only person able to see through his ever-present smile.

Setting his cup down, Lucifer waited for a lull in the conversation. “Before I forget, I have something for you.” With a wave of his hand, a little yellow rubber duck appeared in his palm. Its features and markings made it resemble you.

Eyes wide, you carefully took the duck from his hands like it were an actual duckling.

“This one doesn’t breathe fire or anything, but…” Lucifer paused, like he was struggling for words. “I haven't had a real friend in… a really long time. S-so I wanted to thank you. For that.”

You were at a loss for words. The only other person to get you gifts since you’d died had been Alastor. That feeling of guilt hit you like a train, but it was masked with a bright, grateful smile.

“Lucifer, I… I’m honored. Thank you.” You struggled to tear your eyes away from the duck. “Can I hug you?”

Instead of replying, Lucifer pulled you out of your chair, hugging you close. You matched it, hoping your appreciation for his existence was properly conveyed.

“Ahem.”

You and Lucifer pushed each other apart like a teenage couple caught making out. Alastor was standing in the entrance to the parlor, teeth bared. His grin was sharp, borderline violent, and his eyes were narrowed.

“Al,” you tried, but no other words followed.

Then Alastor sighed, and the murderous look in his eyes disappeared. You were still holding the duck Lucifer had given you. Looking down, you realized you were shaking, and felt a little faint.

You stumbled back, right into Alastor’s arms. Head spinning, you allowed him to set you down on the chair. Alastor kept a hand on your arm, watching your every movement with surgical focus. He knew, you realized. He knew how guilty you felt, how much anxiety it was causing you. How long he’d known, you had no idea, but you could feel it in the way he wouldn’t let you go. You didn’t want him to let you go.

“Are you okay?” Lucifer looked frantic, obviously worried. “Do you need water? Something to eat? Medicine? I’m sure there’s some around here somewhere, if you just give me a minute—”

“I’m fine,” you interrupted, trying to muster a smile. You failed. How Alastor held his grin all day, every day, was a mystery to you. “Well, okay, maybe not fine.”

“They could use water,” Alastor provided, only a slight edge in his voice. Nodding, Lucifer ran off to get a glass of water, leaving you and Alastor alone in the parlor.

Alastor was silent for a moment. You could tell he was trying to figure out what to say. “I apologize for not noticing your anxiety sooner.” A little joy fluttered in your chest. Alastor enjoyed watching everyone’s suffering—everyone except for you.

“It’s not your fault,” you told him. “I should’ve been more upfront. I just…” You were still a little shaky. Alastor’s hand moved so it rested over your hand. The rubber duck was still in your other hand, and you turned it over with your fingers, fidgeting with it. “I didn’t want you to leave me.”

“Now that is nonsense if I ever heard any!” Alastor laughed. “What a ridiculous sentiment, my dear. It would take more than that to take me from you, I assure you.”

“But I know how much you hate him.” You looked towards the direction Lucifer had gone. “You hate that he’s here. You hate that he’s meddling. And this is just another reason to hate him.”

Alastor was contemplating his words again when Lucifer came back. He gently handed you the glass of water, causing you to have to put your duck down. Alastor was right to ask for it—the water helped. The air was tense as Lucifer and Alastor glared at one another while also keeping an eye on you.

“When you are happy, I am happy,” Alastor said out of the blue. Both you and Lucifer looked to him for clarification. “If talking with Lucifer makes you happy…” Alastor swallowed, gritting his teeth, glowering deeply at Lucifer, “then, by that logic, it makes me happy.”

“Hey, same here.” Lucifer put his arms up symbolically. “I’m not gonna leave my friend just because I hate their boyfriend– er, whatever you are, that is.”

“Partner,” you and Alastor said in unison.

“Right. That.”

The air was still tense, but it made you feel better knowing that Alastor and Lucifer wouldn’t be fighting over you, at the very least.

“Okay,” you said suddenly, having finished your water. “I’m going to bed. Thanks again for the duck, Lucifer.”

You barely heard Alastor growl at Lucifer upon realizing that he’d given you a gift, but it just caused you to smile fondly. Alastor was quick to step in beside you, taking your arm to escort you up to your room.

“You’re welcome!” Lucifer called back. “But don’t think that just because you and Alastor are partners that I’ll make one for him too!” You had to stifle a laugh. Lucifer was too sweet for his own good, no matter how awkward it made him seem.

You turned so Lucifer could see your grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

#hazbin hotel #alastor #alastor the radio demon #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor x reader queerplatonic #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer x reader platonic #lucifer and alastor #i wrote this instead of doing my homework #aroace reader #aroace alastor #lucifer is trying his hardest #rhys-writes

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strlingsav · 2 years ago

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Jealousy

– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

— Simon gets jealous.

Explicit sexual content under the cut. Read at your own risk.

The room smelled of Price's cigar smoke and spilled beer; the consequences of poker night. Price, Gaz, Soap, yourself and Ghost were perched around the table, placing bets before the next round. It was a great way to blow off post-mission steam, and steal money from your teammates. You hadn't been so lucky thus far, Price was particularly skilled.

Your gaze lifted to study your opponents, holding your cards close to your chest. Price kept his cigar in his mouth, thick, white smoke trailing from his lips. Gaz had his brows furrowed, concentration on his features. Ghost sat beside you, hunched over the back of the chair. He too was surveying the room, cold eyes raking over the faces of his teammates. Soap was almost giddy, he was terrible at hiding how good his hand was.

You weren't particularly interested in cards, but you played anyway to pass time. It was entertaining from your end of the table, watching the chaos unfold as your teammates indulged one-too many beers. You preferred to stay sober- you weren't very experienced with the game, unlike Price and Ghost. You needed every bit of your sober disposition to play.

Your eyes drifted to Ghost, who had been burning holes in the side of your head. You blinked innocently at him, fluttering your lashes. A vicious tactic, you knew that, but the way his eyes raked over your face was worth it- you knew it would get to his head. But as you studied his face, his brow quirked up, and you saw the fabric of his mask shift over his mouth; he was smiling. You quickly broke the tension before anyone caught on to the silent exchange, redness engulfing your cheeks.

It came to the showdown, and as the men laid their cards out on the table, there was silence. Grunts of disapproval and low murmurs of frustration broke the air as they scanned their cards, comparing hands to each others. You looked out, over your cards, your eyes meeting Soap's gaze. He still held his cards, waiting for you to move.

"Go on then," He urged, hiding a smirk.

"Don't look so smug," You teased. "I'm about to ruin your night."

Soap let out a chuckle. "You could ne'er ruin my night."

You raised your brows. "Even if I take all your money?"

"I could list a couple ways you could make it up to me," He grinned.

Gaz groaned, far too familiar with Soap's antics. You nearly rolled your eyes, his comments were just a way to get in your head.

"You couldn't pay me to listen to that," You screwed up your nose.

"I could just show ya," He leaned forward. "I'm free later this evenin' if you're up for it."

You laughed. "You need to get laid, Sergeant, you're like a dog in heat." You shook your head.

"You offerin'?" He was grinning ear to ear.

"Enough," Ghost's voice interrupted the tension, almost soiling the playful mood. "Lay 'em out."

Your head snapped to look at him, now wearing an unreadable expression behind the mask. His eyes were stoic, body rigid, more so than usual. He had little to no patience, but he usually didn't mind Soap's ribbing, it was cheap entertainment.

You furrowed your brows in response, and he turned his attention to the Scot across from you, avoiding your gaze.

Soap laid out his cards, splaying them out before him. A straight. He sat back, hands behind his head, a grin on his face. You, in return, set your cards out, showcasing your winning hand; four of a kind.

Soap's face fell, mouth opening in shock as he stared at your cards on the table.

"Steamin' Jesus," He sighed. "You oughta be cheatin'."

"Don't be a sore loser," You smiled, leaning forward to collect the pot.

Soap was about to respond, when Price cleared his throat.

"Better luck next time," He said, hand clasping down on Soap's shoulder. "'M off to bed."

Soap still sat in disbelief as the Captain stood from the table. He took his beer with him, puffing his cigar as he left the room. Gaz and Soap finished the last of their drinks, and you pocketed your profit- Soap watched you with a glare. The rest of you decided to call it a night, cleaning up the remains of the cards and chips.

Ghost stood to his feet, finishing the last of his bourbon. You followed, creeping behind him when the others retreated to bed.

"Will you be joining me in my room tonight, Lieutenant?" You asked, a sultry tone to your voice.

He recognized it immediately, wanting desperately to follow, but he had already fabricated hallucinations behind his eyes of the Sergeant, and you- his girl. Soap hovering over you, privy to the soft whines from your lips, curves of your body, defiling your pussy- it made him sick. Only he had access to those intimate moments, or so he thought.

His chest bubbled with unspoken anger. He fought within himself, trying to rationalize, fight for you, but he inevitably gave in to the jealousy that clawed at his throat. It was the path of least resistance, to believe the worst from those closest to him. It was a familiar embrace.

He didn't say a word, his body tense as you slid your palms around his waist, easing into the gaps between his tactical vest.

"Someone could see," He said gruffly.

A lie- a white lie to give himself space. He knew no one would be coming back, not with the copious amounts of liquor indulged and the late hours passing by quickly.

You pulled away, a bit thrown by his rejection. It landed in the pit of your stomach, reached up into your chest and stole your breath. His tense disposition alerted you to the fact that something wasn't right, not since he'd snapped at the Sergeant.

"Alright," You sighed. "I'm going to bed," You fumbled with your hands, anxiety settling into the pit of your gut.

He set his drink down. "Be there in a bit."

Ghost was never usually so quiet when the two of you were alone, and certainly didn't deny your touch.

You nodded, choking down your questions so not to worsen his mood. Ghost excelled at hiding his feelings, on the rare occasion he found something that angered him. He wasn't fond of talking, of telling you when you pissed him off, so you kept your prodding to yourself until necessary.

With one last look over his back, you let him be, returning to your bunk.

You stripped out of your clothes, changing into your shorts and T-shirt after brushing your teeth. You waited with trembling hands, your anxiety increasing with each passing moment. You didn't know what to expect, who to expect. Ghost, or Simon. You didn't want to go to sleep with Simon angry, and his sour mood was gnawing at you. You wanted to fix it.

You settled into bed, blankets tucked under your arms. You tried to focus on your book, mindlessly running over the pages without absorbing a single thing. You were too preoccupied with Simon. You let out a sigh, listening for the sound of boots. Listening for him.

The door finally opened, and Ghost stepped inside. The air was thick with silent expectations, a waiting game. Who would break first, make the first move to say something- anything. More often than not, it was you.

You didn't mind being the mediator, you were excellent at communicating. It was ninety percent of your job. You only wished Simon would meet you halfway, but that wasn't the kind of man he was, and you'd learned to navigate it well enough. It was tiring, though.

You knew it wasn't that he didn't want to talk to you- he just didn't know how. How to express why he was angry. You were sure that before you, Simon fixed his anger by shooting things. Taking out his frustration on missions, on targets. He never needed to learn to communicate, he'd never had even a semblance of a relationship with anyone aside from his last girlfriend, when he was in his early twenties. He'd never been close enough to anyone to justify it.

You sat up, the book falling to the side as you readjusted in the bed.

Ghost began undoing the chest plate and other equipment strapped to his body. He was still quiet, and you watched with a frown.

"Simon?" You said quietly, gauging his reaction.

He looked over at you.

"What's bothering you?" Your voice was meek, uncharacteristically so, but you hated to see him that way and didn't want to push him even further.

He sighed, a heavy breath that sounded like it'd been trapped for days. He continued undressing, prepared to escape, to run from the conversation. But he knew you'd get it out of him.

"Simon," You said again. "Talk to me."

You tilted your head as he rearranged his things on the dresser.

"Nothin' to talk about, get some sleep," His voice was gruff, quiet, defeated.

"Talk to me," You repeated, your voice a bit weaker now.

"I said 's nothin'. Be fine in the mornin'."

"But you're not fine now. Just tell me."

You were getting worried now, stomach flipping. He paused, back flexing beneath his T-shirt as he straightened out. He turned on his heel to face you. He kept his mask on- another barrier between you, a reminder that even though you'd already clawed so deep through the layers of stone he built, there were still pieces of him you might never truly have.

"You wanna know?" He asked.

You nodded. "Course I do."

He shook his head. His shoulders tensed. You could tell he was holding back, not wanting to dive into the conversation headfirst. He was avoiding the question, his arms at his sides.

Finally, he spoke. Monotone, bleak- unencumbered by tact or empathy. It was a simple question. He wasn't one for dancing around a subject, he wanted answers, if he was going to talk at all.

"You been fuckin' the Sergeant?"

His eyes were unforgiving, an endless abyss of darkness ready to swallow you whole and eat you alive. You felt the pressure of his gaze, an invisible force pushing you into submission. You weren't one of his targets, but you certainly felt like it.

You blinked a few times, his words shocking you to your core. It deeply unsettled you. A bitter taste on the back of your tongue as you digested his words. It was entirely out of the blue- an unfounded accusation.

In all the time you'd been together, not once had he ever shown any concern over the men you worked with. You thought he trusted you. It stung, hearing him ask you such a question, you were disappointed he saw you capable of that. Of hurting him- adding to the array of scars on his body and mind.

"W-what?" You shook your head.

"Answer me," He said, hands extending to grip the metal footboard.

"I- Why would you even ask me that? No, I haven't been fucking Soap," You exclaimed, pulling the blankets back to stand up off the bed.

"Seems he fancies you quite a bit."

"Simon," You breathed in, arms crossing over your chest. "I haven't slept with Soap."

He was still stoic as ever, eyes clinging to yours as he debated the candour behind your words. You could practically see the thoughts behind his mask, knew he was clenching his jaw, nostrils flaring as he sucked in deep breaths to keep his temper under control. He couldn't always hide from you behind his balaclava, you'd seen his anger before, in true form.

"That so?" He moved closer, his shoulders swaying as he stepped toward you.

"Yes," You breathed, hopeful he'd believe you.

He was silent, only the sound of his breathing filled the air.

"You bein' honest with me?"

His skepticism was palpable and it broke your heart, even more than the question.

You'd given the relationship your all, everything you had. Given Simon your all. Every single piece of yourself was out in the open, ready for the taking, he just had to ask. You'd bend over backwards to please him, do anything to keep him. The accusation made you sick to your stomach, wondering where you went wrong, why you'd made him feel that way.

"Yes, I've never been unfaithful to you."

Your eyes met his, unwavering. You had nothing to hide- never had. Not from him. You ached to show him just how devoted you were. But your rational thought process was no longer applicable- Simon had tasted betrayal before, over and over. He was all too familiar with the feeling of a knife in his back, the aching pain that bombarded his entire body. The sting of humiliation, of leaving his peace of mind in the hands of another and having it torn to pieces. You knew he needed more, needed the reassurance, and he didn't need to ask.

"Ask Soap yourself- I don't care." Your pulse pounded in your ears. "Whatever you need to do to believe me."

He shifted his chin upwards, a weight lifting off his shoulders. Relief washing away the ache. He had a difficult time trusting, believing that you wouldn't hurt him- but you never lied. Always said what you meant, and you never burned him with false promises.

He went against every instinct in his body, every nerve screaming at him to run, flee, push you away. But even he knew that was his conditioning, his instincts weren't created in a world that had you- it was far different then.

"'S fine," He said quietly. "Don't need to."

You let out a sigh, still trembling with confusion and nausea. His chest rose and fell quickly.

"I ain't impressed with the way he talked to you," He said, moving closer.

"He only said it to get under my skin. Besides that, he thinks I'm seeing someone back home. I thought you knew that."

"I do-" He sighed. "S'pose I jumped the gun. Just- imaginin' you, with him," He stopped himself, knuckles white around the iron.

You nodded, still standing with your arms crossed. He would never apologize- would never say, 'I'm sorry', but his actions spoke far louder than his words.

He sat down on the bed, his hands reaching out for your thighs. You let him touch you, though you still felt a bit of resentment for his false accusations. You had to let go, had to remind yourself he only knew what he knew, what'd been done to him before.

He pulled you onto his lap, hands sliding around your waist as he tugged you closer.

"Y'still want me?" He asked, eyes flashing from your waist to your eyes.

"I always do," You said softly.

He nodded, a quiet moment of reconciliation, understanding. You knew that to outsiders it would look strange- the silent reunion between you. Apologies and forgiveness that were never really spoken.

"Take my mask off," He said, the timbre of his voice rousing the ache for him that lay dormant, sleeping until woken up by his touch.

You obliged, lifting the cotton fabric from his face, pulling it off to see the disheveled brunet hair beneath. Your eyes fell to his full lips, then you took your time savouring the way his crooked nose flattered his face. His lashes kissed his cheekbones with every slow blink, dark eyes narrowing as he tried to read your thoughts.

He leaned forward, pausing for a moment to glance at your eyes, before he pulled you closer, barely touching your lips with his own.

He sighed deeply into your mouth, a relief to hold you, know you were his, tangible evidence that he was lovable, that someone would crawl through the barren trenches of his mind to know him. He was unbelievably grateful; skeptical, too, but he chose to leave his faith with you for safe keeping. He'd let down most of his walls, for you, a long time ago, and thus far you'd done nothing but nurture him, love him. You'd proven him right.

You lifted your hands to slide around the back of his head, fingertips gliding into his ruffled hair. You couldn't get enough of the taste of him; tobacco, bourbon. You would tattoo it on your tongue if possible.

He pulled away, taking in your face; your features that drew him in, set his gut on fire. He'd kill for your lips, set cities ablaze just to look into your eyes one last time. The obsession worried him, it terrified him, but he was already addicted, too far gone now to do anything but surrender. He was more than okay with that.

"Could rip the smug grin off his fuckin' face," He said, fingertips digging into your hips.

"I think that would get you discharged," You teased.

"I'd kill for you, sweetheart. Gettin' discharged ain't a problem."

By his tone, you knew he was serious. As disgusting as it made you feel, you enjoyed it. You must've been sick in the head, but you relished in it. The level of determination he had- it warmed you to your core knowing he was just as committed.

"Prison time, then?"

"For you, not a second thought."

He didn't waste any time tugging you back in for seconds, this time, guiding his tongue in your mouth, swiftly gliding against yours. You moaned softly, an unintentional reaction to the warmth shooting up your spine. He knew you loved the feeling of his tongue, the way he was heavy-handed when he kissed you- unforgiving as he took what he wanted.

"Take this off," He breathed, fingertips inching your shirt up.

You lifted your arms to cooperate. The cool air hitting your body, competing with the heat in your womb, lavished your body with goosebumps. His calloused hands cupped your breasts, eyes locked on your chest as he massaged gently, coaxing the sweet sounds of pleasure from your lips. His white-hot touch erased any other thoughts, your sole focus was his hands on your body.

You could feel the arousal seeping from your core, head tilting back to allow him full access to your body. His hand moved to press against your back, a flat palm that offered support and comfort. He took advantage, pressing his lips to your skin. First your neck, his tongue running over your jugular, pounding in your throat. He absorbed it with his lips, teeth softly biting into the malleable flesh.

He ducked his head to show attention to your breasts, wrapping his lips around the silky tissue, sucking gently. A flat tongue ran over your nipple, and a jolt of electricity shot through your spine. You were still clinging to his shoulders, back arching into him.

You breathed heavily, so delirious with lust, desire, any touch from him was like lighting a fuse. He beckoned you to stand, his fingers dipping into the waistband of your shorts. He waited for you, for your permission. You licked your lips, hands on his as you helped him slide the fabric over your thighs, landing on the floor.

He watched from a short distance, eyes raking over the tempting curves of your body, the incredibly silky glow of your skin. He too, licked his lips, his hands a bit rougher now as he pulled you back onto his lap. You gasped, falling against him, your thighs spread over his.

"You all mine?" He asked, head nuzzled against your temple, his gruff voice in your ear.

"Yes," You whispered. "Always."

"That's my girl."

His hand traced your thigh to your pussy, a gentle touch as he reached your clit. His gaze was locked on your expression, your lips parting, eyes shutting tightly. Your pussy was throbbing and needy, nearly burning with desire. You gasped. He peered down at your body, lips dragging against your neck.

His fingertips applied more pressure, relieving the dull ache, and he circled your clit. Your hips mindlessly drove forward, grinding yourself against his touch. He responded in earnest, moving his fingers quicker, harder.

Your head fell back as you basked in the pleasure coiling itself like a snake inside your womb. He had mastered your body, unraveling you in seconds like he did with his rifles. He had a knack for memorization, muscle memory, and your body responded the same way every single time.

He found pleasure in watching you squirm, pant and gasp, begging for his fingers. Faster, harder. He devoured your pleas, already one step ahead, feeling the way your hips moved, your waist twisted. When your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him into your chest, trying to merge yourself with him, he slid a finger inside you. He groaned approval against your jaw, savouring the slick warmth of your pussy, a shiver running through his spine as he remembered how you feel around his cock.

"Y'like that?" He asked, even though he already knew the answer.

You nodded frantically, eyes shut as you focused on the building tension in your gut. The way it enveloped you, tugging at every nerve in your body.

"I know you do, sweetheart, know just what you like."

"Fuck- yes, Simon," You moaned.

It was never enough, not until he filled you completely. But he couldn't resist the satisfaction of your pussy clenching around his finger, especially when he added a second, listening to the vulgar sounds of your wetness squelching around him.

He marvelled at the sight of your climax; head falling back, a whimper ascending into a moan, your forehead prickling with sweat. It was impossible to tear his eyes from you, to deny himself the vision of you coming undone on his hand. Your ribs shifting with every breath, hugging your breasts as you leaned back. He lifted his other hand to run over the ridges.

You shivered, relaxing into his body as the last of your orgasm died out, breathing against his chest. He enjoyed the silence, watching you recover. He didn't allow you much time, shifting to lie you down on the covers.

He lifted his shirt over his head, his temperature rising as a result of his efforts. He crawled between your thighs, biceps wrapping around your thighs to pull you closer.

You didn't have much say, and you didn't mind. You were pliable with him, a willing participant to his pleasure. He did what he wanted, and you agreed in every possible way.

His calloused palms engulfed the flesh of your outer thighs, an iron grip you could never- would never want to escape from. His chest was pressed firmly to the bed, head turned to lavish your inner thighs with delicate kisses.

He quickly surrendered to his desire, not feeling particularly strong-willed, and bit into your flesh, licking your wounds. The silken moisture of his tongue against your thighs had your hips shifting impatiently, and he relieved your suffering, relocating to your clit.

You sighed softly, hips bucking up into his mouth as a jolt ran through you, still sensitive. He devoured your movements, hands clamping down to restrain you while he licked over your clit.

"Y'taste so good, sweetheart," His muffled voice against you made you squirm.

Your fingers slid through his hair, tugging softly at every caress of his tongue, every time he'd wrap his lips over your clit and suck. Your muscles contracted, abdomen tightening as you fought the overstimulation. You wanted to give in, to give him everything he wanted from you.

But as his eyes met yours, your lips parting to accommodate your heavy breathing, you couldn't wait any longer. Couldn't handle your pussy fluttering with nothing to fill it.

"Please," You whispered, his eyes softening.

Watching his jaw move, his head turn side to side as he gorged himself on your juices, your voice broke with a whimper, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

"I need you," You said, lifting to your elbows. "Need to feel you inside me."

He sat up slowly, kneeling between your thighs. His lips were glistening with your arousal, chest wet from your cum seeping down toward the bed. You reached out to feel him, to run your fingers down his chest and torso. He shut his eyes briefly, nostrils flaring as he regained his breath and enjoyed your soft hands over his body.

Your eyes scanned his abdomen, drawn to the scars that littered it. It magnified your desire, your lust, the battle scars were an implication of survival, war. It was primal, the reminder that he was a man's man, ready to take all of you in one fell swoop.

"Say it again," He breathed, his hands still grasping your thighs.

"I need you inside me, Simon," You said, unabashed, free of any inhibitions.

"Yeah?" There was an inflection of mockery in his tone, but you ate up every bit of it. "Need my cock, don't you?"

"Yes, baby- I need you, need your cock." You were delirious with lust, whining and begging beneath him.

"That's what I like to hear," He nearly grinned. "Only I can fuck you how you need, ain't that right, sweetheart?"

You felt your pussy flutter again, mindlessly nodding as his hands rubbed up and down your legs.

"Please," You pulled your bottom lip into your mouth, teeth biting down to distract from the jittery feeling inside you.

"Fuck," He cursed, leaning over you. "You make my cock hard, love."

You took his face in your hands, pulling him down to meet your lips. You devoured him, devoured the taste of yourself on his lips and tongue. Mostly bitter, a hint of sweetness, and the still remaining flavour of him. It was intoxicating.

He quickly undid his belt, aggressively yanking the buckle from the leather, pulling his briefs down to expose his cock. He ran his hand up and down his length, before pressing the engorged tip to your clit. He teased you with it, applying enough pressure to make your hips twitch. Slowly pushing down, his jaw dropped as your pussy swallowed him, squeezing him into the velvety walls.

A nasally gasp came from the back of his throat, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed his groans.

"This cunt was made just for me."

His lips beside your ear, you could feel the vibration in his voice. The rasp of his tone lavished your skin with goosebumps.

"Only you," You choked down your whimpers, turning your head to meet his gaze.

The first roll of his hips covered his cock in your arousal, the slick juices allowing him to glide deep inside. The depth knocked the wind from your lungs, and your hands clung to his back, nails digging into his muscles.

His pelvis rubbing against your clit, and he lowered himself to press his weight against your body. You welcomed the intrusion, moving a hand to the back of his head, cradling it as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

His lips attached to your throat, feeling the moans and pleas as they passed your larynx. He swallowed them whole, pushing himself deeper, pulling back and repeating to hear the gasps and whimpers from your lips.

"God," You breathed, squeezing down with your muscles as you lurched forward, clinging to his head and shoulders. "So good, Simon. You fuck me so well."

"Bloody hell sweetheart," He grunted with effort. "Tha's 'cause this cunt is mine- all fuckin' mine."

"Shit, Simon," You gasped.

He groaned with approval, continuing his thrusts inside you, his cock grinding into you, massaging your walls.

"Touch yourself," He said, watching you drop your fingers to your clit immediately.

He moaned softly when he felt your pussy clench, and you arched your back for better access as you circled your swollen clit. He shifted upwards, allowing you space while driving his cock inside you.

Your eyes rolled back, choked gasps escaping as you focused on your orgasm, the way his body looked as he thrusted inside you. All muscles, flexing, glistening with sweat.

"I'm so close," You whimpered.

It was engulfing your entire body, the pleasure made your toes curl as you squeezed your thighs at his waist, rocking with his movements. You panted against his shoulder, biting softly at the taught muscle, which earned a groan.

"That's it," He whispered, encouraging you closer to your climax. "Cum on my cock sweetheart," He grunted in your ear.

You felt the fluttering of pleasure erupt from your clit, your head falling back to the pillow while you chest lifted to meet his. You pussy squeezed his cock, contracting, as your nerves were lit up with euphoria.

"Fuck," He gasped, his cock tensing as your pussy hugged him tightly.

He watched with bated breath, still as he could be while rolling his hips against yours, not wanting to disturb the sight before him. He consumed your moans, lips against yours in a sloppy kiss, teeth clashing as he bore down, thrusting even harder inside you.

You cried out, choking on your moans. He found satisfaction in breaking you down, watching you come undone on his cock, knowing no other man would ever see you the way he did, do what he did to you.

"'M gonna cum in this cunt," He panted.

"Cum in me, please," You were near tears, pussy beginning to feel raw from the amount of friction you'd experienced already. "Give me your cum."

"Take it, sweetheart- every fuckin' drop," He grunted as his pace slowed, hips jerking sporadically against yours as he began to release inside you.

He watched your pussy drain him, your cum around the base of his cock, white, creamy- it made him shiver.

He enjoyed the warmth of your pussy for a few moments, before pulling out with a cringe. He was overstimulated, but watching his cum begin to seep out of you mesmerized him. A true mark of his possession- the fleeting idea that it would take, and you'd be all his, carrying his child.

He knew it was a ruse, a dream spurred by testosterone and dopamine, but the thought clung to his mind for a while after- shamefully so. He never imagined himself as a father, never had the desire to bring anything similar to himself or his bloodline into the world. But as he looked over your spent form, your hands reaching for him, his bringing you into his chest, he wondered if it would be so terrible to have something that was also half of you.

You looked up at him with tired eyes, pieces of hair clinging to the sweat on your brow, lips red and puffy with irritation. You smiled softly, leaning up to kiss him, a delicate offering. He accepted with no hesitation, like it was second nature. And maybe it was. You'd more than earned his trust; maybe he could learn to ignore his instincts and give you all of him. You deserved it, he decided.

#cod mw2 #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod mwii #mwii #strlingsavwrites

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i8ickygrl · 1 year ago

Text

（⭒ ˘˘）ᵎ🖋️➞﹕size kink 🪷

featuring: character insert- imagine whoever you want! warnings: size kink, no protection, cumming inside, hickeys(?? idk lol), pet names (princess, baby, babe, pretty girl), lemme know if i missed anything proofread(?): kinda authors note: aaahhh first fic! this was supposed to be a drabble about reiner about but then i got carried away and couldn't choose who to make this for. leave a like or a reblog if you can. also, please leave requests! thank you for reading, lovey <3

“you’re so fucking pretty.” he runs his hand through your hair and gently pulls you away from the kiss. his lips and chin are shining softly from your lipgloss. you let out a small giggle in your blissed out state and wipe away the gloss on his lips.

oblivious to you helping him, his hand, still placed in your hair, gently pulls your head to the side. he starts at your ear, licking a small stripe over it before kissing the lobe. his deep pants and moans never going unnoticed. his free hand softly pats your thigh, a signal you didn’t have to think twice about. you place both you hands on his shoulders and fix yourself to straddle his lap.

your hands take time to explore his broad shoulders. you reveled in the contrast of your size as your small hands traced over the perfect dips of the muscles in his arms. you carefully snake your fingers underneath his white tank top, then taking the opportunity to feel his upper back. you suck part of your bottom lip between your teeth, the feeling of his chiseled form under your finger tips beyond erotic.

his lips have made it to your neck now, pecking and licking over the skin as if he’s actually kissing you. his hand, preciously on your thigh, effortlessly wraps around you waist. you moan sweetly at the feeling of his body overtaking yours. you snake a hand behind his neck and into his hair, gently stroking your thumb over him.

you push his head impossibly closer to the skin of your neck while throwing your head back in pleasure. unlike your boyfriend, you hadn’t noticed the arch in your back and the slight grind in your hips, the thin fabric of his boxers doing little to hide the way his dick jumps.

“so needy for me, huh baby?” his voice alone sent shivers down your spine. his strong arm began guiding your waist to a smooth and sensual grind against him. you bring your head back down, level with his ear, and continue to grind against him. the kisses on your neck become more desperate now and his groans aren’t as quiet as before.

“babe…” the sultry moan is all he needs to understand exactly what you needed. he lifted his head from your neck, admiring the hickey he left there. he firmly grips your waist with one hand and cradles your head with the other before laying you on the pillows behind you. he adjusted his body above you, now on his knees with you laying in-between him, your legs on either side of his waist.

growing impatient, you lift your legs from around him and make quick work of sliding your cotton shorts off. with your legs in front of his face now, he takes hold of your ankles with one hand and moves your legs to the side so your face was now in view. he softly kisses at the skin on your ankle while his other hand smooths over you stomach and squeezes your breast, all while keeping eye contact.

you throw your head back and sigh in pleasure, placing your hand on top of the one that was on your breast. when your head falls back down, your eyes take notice to the veins in his arm as his finger moves over your nipple. your eyes slowly move upward, making their way to his shoulder, watching the way his bicep flexes as he moves. you clench desperately around nothing and whimper, “s-stop teasing.”

he chuckles darkly before letting go of your ankles and positioning them around his waist again. you place your hands on his knees and watch intently and his hands make their way to his boxers. the imprint alone making your pussy impossibly wetter. he gives himself a view tugs before pulling his boxers below his length. you watch as it slaps against his stomach and he lets out a quiet hiss, his hand goes to stroke the length again but you whine out a ‘wait’ and take it into your hand. he watches as your hand struggles to wrap around him, gently stroking up and down while flicking your wrist.

“gotta…prep you, baby.” he struggles to maintain his composure watching you pleasure him.

he places his thumb over the fabric of your underwear, about to circle around your clit, before you protest with another whine. “’s gonna take too long. i can’t wait anymore.” you take you hands off of his length and bring them to his wrist, looking up him in through your lashes and pouting.

you watch him think for a second before he sighs in defeat.

“fine.” he agrees, not being able to say no to you. he moves his body so he’s properly positioned in missionary and your legs bend and open wider to make room for him. watching him move your underwear to the side and position his length to enter you, you know the stretch is gonna hurt. but it’ll be sooo worth it.

one hand on his dick and the other on your waist, he rubs himself over your pussy to gather all your wetness. when he feels there’s enough, he finally pushes his tip right against your entrance allowing it to inch slightly into you. before he can fully sink in he takes your hand and pins it next to your head, giving you something to hold onto. he leans forward slightly so your foreheads are almost touching and begins easing his length inside of you.

you both let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as he slowly bottoms out inside of you. your face scrunches up from the sting and you suck in a breath, tightly gripping his hand. distracting yourself, you ogle at the way your clit pressed right up against his short patch of pubic hair leading up to his happy trail. with his cock pressing deliciously against the walls of your pussy, you grind against him to get the friction you desperately craved.

“ready for me, princess?” he questions, already knowing the answer. you shake your head yes in response and he gives you a small peck before beginning to grind into you.

you wiggle you hand out of his grip and quickly move you hands to his broad shoulders, pulling him closer to you. his hand wrap around your waist and you arch off the bed in response. he tucks his head in the dip of your neck as his hips stuttered, finding the smooth pace he set hard maintain with how tightly you were squeezing him. he lifted his head over yours to see your eyes lolling shut as you writhed in pleasure. his name sounded like honey rolling off of your tongue in between moans and whines, your lips swollen from how long you’d been kissing before.

“fuck it.” he mumbled before grabbing your waist and pulling your hips to meet his thrusts. you screamed out in ecstasy as his dick rubbed right against your g-spot. he hissed as your nails dragged down his back, secretly loving the burn. the sound of your ass meeting his hips grew louder and quicker, competing with the sound of your moans.

“so big… ’s so big!” you rambled. he looked so fucking good right now. his eyebrows were knit together in concentration as bead of sweat began to form of his forehead. the feeling of his body fully towering over yours made you feel numb. you could feel the pit of your stomach twist, your orgasm threatening to come at any second.

“gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he could feel you pussy clenching him, trying to milk him for everything he could give. the only response you could give was a small nod, too occupied with feeling his arms flex underneath you hands and the filthy sound of your pussy gushing over his length.

“do it, baby. cum all over this dick.” your eyes closed as he continued to coax you to your climax.

“show me how good i’m making you feel.”

“make a mess for me, baby.”

your legs shook violently as he gave a few more quick and deep thrusts before you finally came around him. he was right behind you, throwing his head back and moaning your name and he filled your pussy.

after a few moments for both of you to catch your breath, he looked between you both and slowly pulled himself out. he admired the ring of your slick around the base of his dick, before gently pushing on your lower stomach and watching his cum spill out of you and cursing under his breath.

“you’re so nasty” you giggle as you lay your arm over your eyes.

“you know you love it.” he says simply, bending down to kiss one of your breasts.

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