#which in and of itself is something WILD to be against

[our-hextech-dream]

i haven't seen anyone fully articulate what i personally felt disappointed by wrt viktor's s2 persona and ending so i guess i have to do it myself even tho i'm bad at talking!! can someone who is better at this just read my mind and say it fancier and more coherently?

agency, the loss of

i have seen people already mention the way disability came into play at the end and what a wild choice it was for jayce - born able-bodied and healthy - to be the one to tell viktor - trapped in a body that was actively killing him - that actually your disability is a part of you and made you who you are and you owe everything to it. ... huh? jayce (by which i mean the writers), do you think without his disability, viktor wouldn't have still been a genius? yes, viktor is disabled - that's not even remotely what makes him a compelling character and power player. it is his mind not his body that makes him who he is. the fact that he had to waste almost his whole life fighting against that body to achieve anything is the entire crux of his frustration - imagine what he could have dedicated his mind to if he weren't constantly struggling to find a way just to survive another year, another month, another week, one more day. have you thought about it? because he has. so yeah that whole conversation, trash. bruno mars just the way you are ass one direction that's what makes you beautiful ass argument. viktor was not going crazy over cosmetic surgery, he was trying not to die.

but it strikes me as just one more expression of an overarching theme for s2 viktor - that of the complete and total loss of his agency. (more on a meta level than in the show itself, but also in the show!) i said after act 1 that viktor had died in that explosion and jayce was going to be chasing that corpse until the end, and i was correct. viktor bounced from one mindset to another, never seeming to have any consistent ideology of his own that couldn't be changed as soon as the plot demanded it. at any given point he was just kinda... wandering around, doing some random shit with the powers that worked through him. gone was the viktor who used his own hands and mind to influence the world directly, to bend it to his will. i always always felt this and i stand by it - taking viktor's abilities as an inventor and scientist away and turning him into some arcane mage jesus figure was a mistake and a disservice to his character. arcane said no this boy wasn't smart or determined, his ability to build and invent and seek and learn don't matter and never mattered, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and as soon as the arcane got its goop on him he just became the most specialest magic pixie dream boy to ever live and his own goals, dreams, ideals, morals, talents, skills, and hard work ceased to matter in any meaningful way. he never had to work to master magic to be able to use it to further his goals, because he immediately stopped having goals.

viktor became a non-character. he became whatever ideological and technological threat level the show needed to challenge to heroes and never more. he ceased to have any control or understanding over what was happening to him, rather he just gave up and decided to use his magic indiscriminately for whoever made the most convincing argument, a choice that would have been completely antithetical to his character up to that point if he'd still been alive. 'fuck zaunites, sure i'll turn them into robots so a foreign power can use them to attack and take over piltover and zaun, who cares. it's not like these are the people i've spent 30 years of my life trying to protect and save.' <- something viktor would never ever ever have agreed to! ever! no matter what! they have played us for absolute fools.

ambiguity, the loss of

the thing i wanted the most and was expecting because of the way viktor's original lore was set up was that the series would end with viktor and jayce unreconciled and with mutually exclusive worldviews, both fully believing they were right and the other was misguided but not evil or irredeemable, setting them up for future conflict. this felt like what was being set up when arcane made it a plot point that jayce was being convinced to turn hextech into weapons while viktor started getting unethical and unhinged with the experimentation. they both had good reasons to do what they did - and i'm absolutely not going to insult jayce's intelligence by claiming he was just manipulated into it by anyone, give me a fucking break - but the point was that both of them were doing something the other thought was misguided and dangerous. and they also felt that if they could just make the other person see their completely logical and rational pov, they could fix the divide between them and make up and be best science buddies again.

but then at the end arcane completely gave up on viktor having any belief in his own ideals. it just turned into 'aw actually he was just lonely all along and none of that science stuff or difference in morals or worldviews mattered bc he's got a buddy now and he's completely unequivocally on jayce's side. :)'

it was like. insanely selfish. as in, self-centered, concerned *only* with the self. the viktor i liked, and the one i wanted to flourish and hoped arcane would canonize, was someone who was entirely dedicated to zaun, to righting the wrongs of piltover and helping the people in the way he thought best - no matter what jayce or piltover thought about it. an ambiguous villain, just like all the other really well-written ones in arcane.

accountability, the loss of

viktor killed people. not sky, who was an accident despite his fixation on her; i'm talking at least a hundred or more zaunites during his stint as the machine herald. he ripped their minds out and made them play house with him, then turned them into weapons of war for ambessa's siege, and all of those people - primarily sick, desperate zaunites - died. this was always the entire crux of the conflict between (league) viktor and jayce giopara. viktor was willing to destroy people and use their bodies for his own gain unapologetically because he thought what he was doing was a blessing and the people were better off under his control because they would never feel fear or anger again. agree, disagree, depends on your view of free will and human nature, but the fact is that everyone who came to viktor hoping for a chance to be healed so they could pursue their own dreams and lives had those dreams and lives ripped away from them and they never got justice or even a single scrap of acknowledgement from the narrative.

in arcane, the horror of viktor's actions just... fade away into the background. viktor and jayce waltz off into magicspace together, leaving viktor's dead, ruined victims for piltover and zaun to deal with. he doesn't return their minds or bodies, he doesn't even seem to remember or care about what he had just been doing to other sentient living human beings. he's not sorry, he doesn't feel regret, he got what he wanted (a friend) and fuck everybody else.

because the narrative just shrugs and handwaves and says no no forget all that it doesn't matter it was just the hexcore or whatever, viktor becomes a flat, uninteresting character. he loses the depth that villains like ambessa and silco had, villains who had their victims validated by the story, who faced challenges in their arcs specifically because of the people they had hurt despite thinking they were doing the right or noble or most important thing. and not just the villains! even the heroes had to wrestle with the people they stepped on on the way to their lofty goals. but not viktor. he just floats away scot free, completely blameless, having no affect on the world and the world having no affect on him.

on arcane's status as the new canon lore and the Implications™

reminder that arcane is somehow supposed to tie into the world of runeterra at large, but now viktor and jayce both have been seemingly entirely removed from it. if it only mattered that they knew the people we'd already seen them interact with, okay, i guess. but that isn't the case. they both have a ton of connections to other champions - from regions other than p&z even - that haven't been introduced and don't have any plausible explanation for how they could have met in the past, which means they should have been set up to meet somehow in the future. implying that jinx escaped and has gone traveling the world is the perfect way to incorporate her in-game relationships with people like lux - she could have met her while traveling! but jayce and viktor don't get that plausible continuation of their story and development of further relationships - they just disappear out of existence. (ambessa also has this problem because they killed her, but unlike jayce and viktor she does have a huge amount of unexplored backstory where she could have spoken to (for example) swain and hwei and shyvanna at some point.)

note 1 - jayce and viktor are so old that they don't have any voice lines in game when meeting other champions. but other champions who are either newer or who have had voiceover updates do talk to them, which is how (aside from the old lore) you can infer that they do have relationships with other champions including ones who weren't in arcane.

note 2 - maybe riot actually doesn't care and none of the champions are really supposed to know each other or be involved in each others' lives canonically, they just have random quippy voice lines that imply that. which would fucking suck. having the lore of the game have no impact on the game itself and vice versa would objectively suck. if the characters talk to each other on the rift and say something interesting, i want that to have meaning. i want to be able to extrapolate the state of the world and the relationships between the characters from the things they verbally say with their mouths. i'm not arguing about this. the voicelines should be seen as the most high irrefutable canon that there is for the game because it is the ONLY source of lore in the game itself.

anyways there's my bible i guess. i miss evil laser robot viktor i want him to perform unethical brain surgery on me (fixing my adhd but also turning me into his personal puppet attack dog) and then give a weapon to a child so they can kill their bullies.

[shinigami-social]

This is probably going to be massively controversial, but I just feel like it needs to be said at this point. I desperately need people to read this very carefully and approach this in good faith. General blanket warning for intersexism, transphobia, and intersectional misogyny with both of these I just wonder how many people in the intersex community just like… fundamentally don’t understand the way being intersex impacts your gender. I know that sounds fucking wild because obviously being intersex impacts your gender but like… it feels like a lot of people reach for comparisons to the binary over just, like, the label intersex itself. The thing on my mind in particular is the stark difference in what transfemininity seems to mean inside and outside the intersex community. This isn’t to refer to AMAB and/or CTM intersex transfems, but in particular people who were AFAB and/or CTF.

I want to clarify before I get into the main body of this post that I fully believe people can be AFAB and/or CTF and be transfem. This post isn’t to say that this never happens, no one ever experiences the combination of these two* things, or that people who identify this way are wrong for it. I just want to open up a discussion about why people are identifying this way, I guess. It’s not about invalidating anyone or their experiences, on the contrary, I really want to discuss the varied nature of the intersex experience.

I was AFAB, and I would generally consider myself CTF. I have simple virilizing classic CAH. I experienced many of the events which a lot of people talk about as why they relate to the transfem experience or consider themselves to be transfem. I grew up with a tenuous connection to girl/womanhood at best, I had the locker room harassment, I was widely rumored to be a hermaphrodite and transgender (no one could decide in which direction), I was put into situations specifically to attempt to uncover my “real” sex/gender. Even when I was seen as a girl/woman, I was Wrong about it. When I was seen as a boy/man, it was before I had ever come to terms with that identity for myself, and it was instead something thrust on me against my will for being a girl/woman Wrong. I was, for much of my life, locked out of womanhood in various ways.

I can very easily understand why people with experiences such as these would relate to transfemininity (and on a “relation” basis, yes, I would say I relate), and perhaps even identify with it based on how these sorts of things impacted them in particular. That being said… I have never understood why people think this is somehow not just being intersex. I’m not trying to say it can’t possibly be both, but sometimes it feels like people just refuse to acknowledge that this is a very common experience of the intersection of misogyny and intersexism. There are certainly transmisogynistic elements to it, I think transmisogyny and intersexism are deeply intertwined and always have been, but like… to act like this is solely transmisogyny feels like a denial of the intersex experience. For intersex people who were AFAB, are CTF, and/or likely some other types of intersex people depending on their circumstances, this is entirely par for the course because they are intersex. The things I described are, above all else, intersexist in nature. They happen to people for being intersex. There are aspects reminiscent of transmisogyny and perhaps even motivated by transmisogyny in many cases, but this distinct experience that I see many, many intersex people have experienced, it is to me such a classic experience of growing up intersex.

This is to say nothing of the appropriation of the transfem experience (no, I’m not accusing you or anyone else specifically of doing this, if it doesn’t apply to you, it doesn’t apply to you, but yes some people are objectively doing this). I am not focused on that. It is its own separate issue, but the thing I am trying to communicate here is why people struggle to find themselves in the word intersex when the thing that caused them these traumas is being intersex. The denial of intersexness and intersexism as explanations for the experiences directly caused by being intersex. The need to use terms broadly conceived of within perisex communities to describe perisex experiences of sex and gender to describe experiences inherently outside of the perisex view. To me, it seems like there is a very clear difference between using intersex transfem to describe “I have Klinefelter and also I am a trans woman” and “due to my experiences with PCOS, my relationship with femininity is deeply complicated and I use transfem as a sort of code for reclaiming my womanhood that I feel has been denied to me.” And like. I am not saying that these couldn’t possibly both be transfem experiences! I am not the decider of what makes people transfem, and it’s not really my business at the end of the day, but these are still just like, objectively different concepts being described. This is what I meant at the beginning of the post by the inside-outside usage of the term. It feels like transfem, in intersex spaces, is often used as a shorthand to describe a specific relationship to femininity and womanhood and this relationship is not necessarily “transitioning to femininity.” At the same time, it feels like it is being used this way because in some way, perhaps, the community is lacking in language that adequately communicates “my being intersex locked me out of womanhood, even though womanhood is what I was assigned and expected to conform to” which is, to me, a fundamental difference between most (not all, I’m aware we cannot ever make absolute statements when it comes to intersex experiences) AFAB/CTF and AMAB/CTM transfem experiences.

To me, I feel that intersex does adequately express these sentiments. Or, at least, it can if you let it. Intersex people pretty much inherently experience a complicated relationship to their sex and gender, and I wish we were allowed to talk about this without there being an obligatory comparison of how every intersex experience is always analogous to some equivalent transgender experience. Intersexism is intersexism, and intersex people experience it because we are intersex, and maybe we should fucking talk about that sometimes.

[xviiperr]

Yandere Platonic Enforcer: Part Two!

Summary: The man, still with no name, tries to help you adapt to your new home.

TW: Abuse, (to you) kidnapping, yandere behavior, captive reader, trauma (from being taken from your home & forced somewhere else).

He had done well to settle you in. Given your size, the man had to scrounge around Piltover's dressing stores to find the perfect clothing suited to your likeness. In all honesty, it was a frustrating and almost degrading task. The only way he was able to get through such a time-consuming job was the hope all his efforts would reward him with you calling him "Father."

The man felt out of place in the clothing stores, especially when he was not wearing his uniform. Clad in a white shirt with a button-up brown vest, gently matching pants alongside the vest and well-made dress shoes, the man looked normal. In fact, those who had seen him without his mask before noticed a spark of life behind his gaze. He soon found himself noticed by his fellow enforcers— the man was equally bewildered as he was dismissive.

He found the only use for speaking with his fellow enforcers off-duty was their surprisingly helpful advice in purchasing children's clothing. The answer he began to give became a regular reply to all the bombarding questions: he had adopted a child and the child needed new clothes since they outgrew all of their previous items. The man smartly left out the part where he choked you; he had a fondness for turtlenecks now.

After hours of his day taken away shopping, the man returned home, where he locked you in the bathroom in order for you to adjust to your surroundings. The man had vague experience— a cat he had a long time ago grew to love him after he introduced it slowly to his home by keeping it in the bathroom first. The only difference between you and the cat was the cat remained in the room while you bolted at the first chance you got.

He barely caught you in time, hooking his arm around your torso, trapping your arms. Your legs kicked harshly against his thighs— that would leave a nasty bruise later. He shushed you, forcing your head into his shoulder; the man wasn't surprised when you bit him. It took every fiber of his being to not slam you against the floor and punch you in the face— what kind of Father would he be?

Fathers are kind, fathers are loving, fathers care for their kids unconditionally. All you were doing was establishing some of your own conditions, of which he would fix later to his liking. For now, he needed to calm you down. “Calm down," he directed, voice soft as a feather. A one-off command was as he gave before squeezing you tighter and hushing you even more. He wanted you to be obedient and finish whatever feelings you had.

The man could tell that this affair would take a while. He could feel his arms starting to tire, ever so slightly. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he promised this, even though he heavily considered it a flash ago. To be a good father was to be patient and willing to care for a little scrap that behaved itself like a wild animal. He noticed a brief change in your demeanor— pausing your violent kicks for just a second— then you kicked one last very harshly. A grunt was his reply, it did hurt him more.

Finally, you were ready to listen. Held firmly against his chest, the man reached for the door and closed it, trapping you and him in the bathroom. He set you down, swift to block you from any attempt of reaching for the handle. Any attempts on your part were quickly thwarted. But, something did pique your interest, if only suspicion. What was stowed behind his back? Why did he have to use one arm to keep you back?

You got your answer when he revealed a stack of clothes, new and freshly washed. He set them on the bathroom vanity, glancing at your skeptical gaze. You could see his usual blank expression twitch, the right side of his mouth twirling into a half-smile. You felt fear. What was he going to do now? His hand, the one that set the clothes down, rested on top of the pile. It slowly lifted and hovered towards you.

Ducking out of the way, you avoided him first. He scoffed, frustrated. He reached again, this time, getting down on a knee. Contorting his face into a sad, yet, hopeful expression, the man urged you to trust him based only on his expressions. You weren't sure whether to trust him or not, after all, he did choke you before. He sighed, heavily, and retracted his hand. That made you feel much better, only for a short while— now you worried if he would lunge at you. He didn't.

Strange, you were expecting to be attacked. The man reached up towards the countertop, taking the clothes into his hands and outstretched them towards you, displaying what he had bought. His head tilted towards the side and he offered a small, vague smile. It soon returned to that blank expression you came to recognize as normal. “ These are for you,” he said. “Look at them, please.” He was trying his hardest to not drag you forward and make you look closely.v

When faced with reality, you realized that the outfit you were wearing currently, was fraying. It was thin and very muddy. It did upset you. Maybe you should try some new clothes. “If you,” you see his yellow eyes flicker, flashing downward. “If you try them on, I'll let you out of the bathroom.” You could tell he didn't like the idea at all. But, you could also see he was genuine. You could find a way to escape, good. “You can shower later, if you'd like.” His gaze returned, looking at you quietly.

He knew if he forced you to shower and then expected you to change clothes, all the "trust" he built with you would be shattered. He had to be patient. He is your Father, the one who provides for you. And fathers are kind, nurturing and above all, loving. You just weren't ready to see that yet. That's okay, he reminds himself, you'll learn to love him eventually. You are his kid. And he loves you very much.

[takeyourcyanide]

You’ll Never Take Me Alive, Never! You Better Pray That I Die!

Ao3 link

fandom: soul eater

characters: spirit albarn, franken stein

word count: 657

tags: cuddling & snuggling, madness, hallucinations, fluff and hurt/comfort, comfort, domestic fluff, title from a will wood song, hurt/comfort

summary: Stein is struggling with the madness and Spirit allows him to crawl into bed with him.

*They are implied to be teenagers in this.

notes: I am working on a longer fic yay I love doing things for cptsd yay I have another one ready to post too but it’s a short yay I’ll upload it tomorrow

also the title is from the will wood song mr capgras encounters a secondhand vanity

Stein placed his hands onto Spirit’s side and arm, gently shaking him back and forth, loudly whispering a mantra;

“Spirit. Spirit. Spirit. Wake up, Spirit.”

Prying open bleary eyes and squinting at Stein through the blanketing darkness, Albarn lifted his torso and rested on his elbow. “What,” he groggily grunted, rubbing his grimacing face. “What are you doing in here? What do you want?”

Stein was avoiding making any eye contact at all, merely staring at his blue sheets. He was swaying on his feet and feeling incessantly of his knuckles, the tremble in his voice growing thicker with each word.

“Nightmares,” he spoke concisely and not above murmur.

Albarn lifted a suspecting eyebrow. “Waking nightmares?”

“Waking.”

Spirit threw the covers open, gesturing Stein to come and scooting over to the other side of the bed, to which he promptly crawled into the pocket of warmth the weapon had so kindly created, pulling the comforter all the way up past his nose, curling up and hiding underneath it.

A quiet voice demanding that Stein follow it repeated itself just as it had when he’d trudged anxiously down the hall, as the feeling of the spider-legged eyes running up and down his fingers, his arms, his head, his legs overwhelmed his senses. To Spirit’s fright, he slapped and scratched at his limbs, even flailing agitatedly.

“Hey, don’t do that!” He exclaimed with a concerned countenance, hoisting himself up immediately. He grabbed ahold of Stein’s wild arms and soothed over the reddened skin with uncharacteristically tender thumbs. “Were they crawling on you again?”

He nodded his head slowly, body unmoving, still not bearing to look at his partner. He looked to be somewhat afraid or apprehensive, as if something horrible would happen if their eyes were to meet.

“Hm,” Spirit hummed pensively, averting his gaze for the sake of Stein’s comfort. “I know you’re not much of a hugger.. but.. would it help if I held you- you know, just so you wouldn’t hurt yourself?”

It was barely noticeable, but Franken’s eyes widened by a small margin, darting across the room.

“And… you seem a little scared. Maybe it would make you feel better? Hugs make me feel better, though you’re not me. Have you ever cuddled with anyone before?”

He shook his head “no,” movements still strangely slow.

“Would you like to try? I’m sure you’re curious about it- you’re curious about just about everything, aren’t you?”

He nodded.

“You can think about, uh, the scientific explanation behind, uh, why, uh, humans enjoy this shit, okay? And if you don’t like it, tell me and we’ll stop.”

“Okay.”

“Well, all right.”

Spirit moved to lay down along with Stein once more, inching closer and wrapping his arms around his upper half, bringing one hand to the back of his head. “Here, I’ll make sure they don’t bother you, yeah?” He gently concealed the younger’s face against his chest, quickly pulling the covers over the both of them. Stein kneaded fistfuls of his shirt in his hands, fiddling with the fabric in between his fingers, as he swung a leg over Spirit’s.

Heaving a languid and content sigh, Albarn muttered, “There we go. …Just relax now. I know it’s hard, Stein. I know you’re feeling a little wound up, but just breathe with me for a moment. Just breathe, in and out, okay? I know your head’s probably racing with a bunch of scary thoughts all at once, and I know you’ll probably find this suspicious of me to say, but close your eyes. Relax. Listen to the sound of my voice.. try to ignore theirs if they’re bothering you. You know I’m always here for you, don’t you? You’re my meister. My strong, cockroach of a meister. You could survive anything. You’ll make it through the madness alive, I know you will.”

“……Thank you,” Stein squeezed him just a little tighter, to which Spirit squeezed him in return.

[bigassbowlingballhead]

i shouldn't have to see political signs outside my place of residence that raise my blood pressure.

[andypantsx3]

LOADS OF FUN : TODOROKI x READER

SUMMARY: After moving into your first apartment together, Shouto seems more amorous than ever. You're not sure why—but when he comes home to you doing a load of laundry, more than your clothes are about to get tumbled. TAGS/WARNINGS: nsft (18+ only, minors please dni!), pro hero au, gn + afab reader, established relationship, fluff, emotional sex, table sex, cunnilingus, the shouto domesticity kink agenda goes absolutely crazy in this one lol (2.8k) NOTES: This piece is part of my pretty boy summer Shouto x Reader collab! Please go check out the other incredible fics people have written over the course of the summer; you will absolutely die over how good they are. This fic was also made possible through donations to the Fics for Gaza project. I cannot thank everyone who donated to one of the charities enough, as well as those who organized, reblogged, discussed, and got the word out. Lastly, I am so grateful for your immeasurable patience with me as I take time between fics to manage my workload, I hope I'm not too out of practice here lol. In summary: thank you, thank you, a million times thank you.

The sound of the door opening was hidden in the thump and glug of the washing machine starting its spin cycle.

Halfway across the house, you were oblivious—you had the clean laundry spread out on the kitchen table, hunting through the pile trying to match one of Shouto’s socks to another that seemed to have vanished into that mysterious void which opens somewhere between the laundry basket and the dryer. One of his shirts was half-folded over your shoulder, abandoned in favor of the sock search.

The rest of your things were still mostly tangled together on the table, warm and fresh and cottony, the few shirts you’d already folded sagging off the kitchen chairs.

It still gave you a little thrill—even several weeks after you’d moved in together—to see Shouto’s things twined up with yours—his enormous socks dwarfing yours, your sweaters clinging to the occasional piece of his hero suit that hadn’t seen enough action to need his agency’s industrial cleaners.

It all added to your sense of satisfaction with your afternoon—a frosty weekend day you’d spent cozy indoors, moving slowly and leisurely through some chores. A pot of soup simmered on the stove, and your favorite playlist worked itself through in lazy loops. Shouto was due off his rotation soon, and you hummed contentedly to yourself, entertaining pleased little fantasies of curling up with him for the rest of the weekend.

Which of course is when something moved in the corner of your eye. Your hum sawed up into a strangled screech, and you whipped around, flailing. Shouto’s sock launched itself full force at the intruder before you even registered you’d thrown it. In your shock, your leg caught against the table and you went stumbling—

—right into a pair of warm hands that caught you about the waist.

Your hands were on the man’s shoulders to push him off before you realized you recognized the touch—and that you’d caught sight of a distinct mop of scarlet and white hair as you’d whipped around.

“Shouto! Again?” you scolded reflexively, even as your heartbeat stuttered out of its wild kick into high gear. You tipped your head back to stare your boyfriend in the face, shoulders slumping in relief, letting him take some of your weight.

Shouto peered down at you, that tiny scrunch between his brows that indicated concern. “Are you alright, love?”

Your heartbeat pounded thunderously in your chest. “I’m—fine. But my god we need to get you a bell. I almost peed.”

Shouto’s mouth shifted minutely into something that might not have registered in anyone else’s face but was most definitely a regretful downturn on his. He looked even more unfairly beautiful than when he’d left you this morning—a little flushed and windswept from the unseasonable cold, that full mouth pink and pretty.

Your mind flicked momentarily off and back on like a circuit breaker, the way it always did when you had to process Shouto.

You’d understood he was once-in-a-generation levels of beautiful before you’d even met him, his face staring up at you from the glossy pages of various tabloids over the years. But in person, even after years of knowing him and several more dating him, Shouto’s appearance still managed to cross all the wires in a person’s brain. His features were an incomprehensible blend of aloof and elegant, sensual and warm—like a cold masterpiece of a marble sculpture had suddenly found himself with a consciousness and human desires and miles of warm skin.

“I did not mean to startle you,” he said, his voice low and warm. He sounded sincerely regretful.

You knew he hadn’t meant to—you’d long suspected his silent tread was habitually ingrained in him from years of hero work. And, in your most private and ungenerous thoughts, you suspected from years of making himself unobtrusive in his father’s home. The thought sat sour in your mouth, like a slice of pickled lemon.

You resisted making an equally sour face, shoving the thought away to make space for the reflexive flush of pleasure seeing Shouto always brought you.

“Welcome home, Sho,” you said instead, smiling up at him. Shouto’s hands moved on your waist, sliding gently beneath the hem of your tee-shirt to rest on the skin there.

He was still in his hero uniform, and as usual you felt a little goofy in comparison, in nothing but a tee and a well-loved pair of fraying sweatpants, which were this afternoon decorated with little flecks of soup from a brush with the pot.

But Shouto’s eyes were warm where they rested on you, and that perfect mouth crept back into a contented set. His long fingers smoothed over your skin as he watched you, thumb brushing your hip. He did not look like he found you at all goofy.

In fact, as his eyes dropped down to your ankles, slowly dragging back up to your face, you rather thought he looked a little appreciative. He even took a rather ungentlemanly step back, still holding you, to better take in the whole picture. His eyes wandered over the swell of your hip, the lines of the shirt against your chest, before darting to his own shirt, still folded over your shoulder.

His fingers flexed tellingly on your waist, and those heterochromatic eyes were both a little bit darker as they flicked back to yours.

His obvious regard made you feel warm. You shifted on your feet, shuffling.

“I was just—doing laundry,” you said for something to say, your mouth feeling kind of dry. Something about him always made you feel sort of shy and light-headed, even after all this time together. “And I made soup. I was thinking we could eat on the couch and watch one of those horrendous old All Might films?”

Shouto’s eyes darted to the stove, then beside you to the pile of your laundry, lingering for a long minute. His long lashes dipped, almost fluttering as his gaze traced over the tangle of your things together. His eyes flicked back to you. He was still for just a moment, watching you assessingly.

And then all of a sudden the world spun in front of your eyes. The hands at your waist lifted you clean off your feet, and you let out a startled “oof!” as you found yourself laid out in the pile of laundry on the table, sheets and sweaters bunching beneath you.

Shouto moved over you, stepping between your spread thighs, right at the edge of the table.

“You have no idea,” he intoned in a deep, delicious tone that went right down your spine, “what it is to come home to you like this.”

You wondered at that, feeling a strange combination of confusion and flattery, when Shouto’s mouth descended onto yours. His mouth was soft and sweet and insistent and absolutely perfect. The table groaned as he laid some of his weight out over you, pinning you into the laundry as he kissed you.

Your fingers clutched at him immediately, curling in his silky-soft hair, cupping his face to yours. One of Shouto’s own hands shifted to your thigh, holding you against him as he pressed himself harder into you.

You heard yourself making little gasps of appreciation as Shouto’s mouth moved down to your neck, laving hot kisses down your throat. You reveled in the feeling of him over you, broad and strong, his shoulders blocking the glow of the overhead light, casting shadows over you.

He’d been a lot like this lately, ever since you’d moved in together. He’d been adequately amorous before, of course, and blessed with a pro hero’s strength and unflagging stamina. But a few weeks after you’d moved in together you’d actually decided you needed to reactivate your gym membership given the amount of incredibly athletic sex you were suddenly having over almost every surface in the house.

One of the only spots yet to be touched was the table though, which Shouto seemed determined to rectify at this very moment.

He pulled back from you, his mouth flush from your kisses, looking a little entranced as he stepped out from between your thighs. You made a little noise at the loss of weight and heat over you, but Shouto caught the fabric of your sweatpants, gently but determinedly tugging them off of you. Your underwear was tossed right over one broad shoulder as Shouto went to his knees, and then his mouth was right back on you.

A wave of wild heat licked up your stomach at the noise of appreciation he made before sealing his mouth over you, strong fingers clutching your thighs to keep them apart.

“Oh my god!” you said, pleasure zinging right up your spine with the first lave of his tongue over you. “Shouto!”

Shouto let out a deep, pleased hum, two long fingers sinking into you embarrassingly easily as he worked your clit with his mouth. Your back arched and you could feel your clothing shift with you, Shouto’s shirt balling up under your shoulder blade, still half-draped over your shoulder.

“Oh, oh!” you heard yourself saying as your fingers twisted in the clothing, shuddering with every lick and suck of Shouto’s perfect, amazing, talented mouth.

He worked you with the expertise of long, dedicated practice—everything about him calculated to drive you insane. One moment he was excruciatingly soft, mouth slack and the touch of his tongue as fleeting and light as the brush of a butterfly’s wing. Then the next he was sucking relentlessly, teasing firmly with the tip of his tongue as his fingers played with you.

Your first climax hit you mortifyingly quickly, and Shouto seemed to know it before you did. His grip tightened on you, holding you down as you bucked against his mouth. Shouto looked more than a little smug as he got to his feet again, unbelting himself and laying back out over you.

He kissed you some more, the taste of yourself always a sort of shock to your system. But Shouto never seemed to mind, and if anything only seemed hungrier for you, mouth pulling at yours like he meant to devour you.

You felt the touch of his hand between your thighs as he lined himself up, then sank into you easily, groaning appreciatively like he’d just sunk into a hot bath. He bit carefully at your neck, one large hand pressing your stomach down to keep you pinned against the edge of the table where he wanted you.

“I always want to come home to you like this,” he intoned into the skin of your neck, his mouth sucking dizzying patterns into your skin. “Always.”

You could barely think past the slide of him inside you, thick and full and blissfully exquisite. He really was the most perfect man on earth, and he always felt like it too.

You barely managed to blink your eyes open to watch him, trying to catch his meaning in his face. Shouto watched you back, those blue and grey pinned on you like he couldn’t bear to look away from you as he moved inside you.

“You—” you panted out, trying to cling to the thoughts threatening to wiggle out of your grip. “What do you—? Of course you’ll always come home to me.”

Shouto bucked into you harder, the slap of his hip against the bottom of your thigh echoing loudly over the burble of soup on the stove. His eyelashes fluttered, mouth softening, and a realization struck you almost dizzy.

Oh, he really liked that.

You suppressed a wave of giddiness, charmed and helplessly pleased that he seemed to like the idea so much. Was that why he’d been so especially ardent this past month? Was it really because you’d moved in together?

Shouto’s arm hooked under one of your legs, drawing it up firmly over his shoulder so he could press even further inside of you. He looked so good like that that you nearly lost the thread of your thoughts, especially when his next thrust felt like that. Your eyes nearly rolled back in your head.

“Ah!” escaped you. “Fuck, Shouto. Like that, please!”

Shouto’s thumb pressed down on your still-sensitive clit and he had to dig the fingers of his other hand into the flesh of your leg to keep you from bucking him right out of you with the way you squirmed. Sweet fucking gods he was unreal.

Shouto fucked you harder, the sound of your skin slapping together obscene in the quiet of the kitchen.

You tried again, struggling to watch his reaction with the way you wanted to throw your head back and babble nonsense instead.

“You’ll always come home to me,” you repeated, gratified when Shouto’s grip on you tightened, a soft sound escaping him. “You want me right here for you?”

“Ah—yes, love,” Shouto panted, staring down at you again. He looked like he knew what you were doing but didn’t care. “Yes,” he hissed.

“Just like this?” you prompted, trying not to slur the edges of your speech when he gave another particularly mind-bending thrust of his hips. His chest rose and fell heavily and he looked a little wild-eyed, gazing down at you.

“Like this, for me,” he said. “In my home, in our home—”

You could hear the table squeal and groan with the force of his next thrust, and then you had to grip the sides of it to steady yourself as he fucked you, looking blissful. Your nails scrabbled at the edges of the table, caught in between a million sensations—the glorious fullness of Shouto inside you, the gentle grind of his thumb against your clit, the way he looked all flushed and beautiful and panting and wanting—

You squeezed your eyes shut, too overcome with the sight of him to look at him anymore, but it was no use. Your entire body trembled as you came, and Shouto let out a low swear at the way you clenched up around him, hunching over you and pressing himself so impossibly hard against you as he came too.

He slumped down against you, weighing you into the soft-smelling cotton of the laundry you were now definitely going to have to rewash. You could feel his chest rise and fall as he panted, his breath tickling the skin under your ear. He left an unbearably soft, sweet kiss just under the lobe, at odds with the near-wild way he’d just been fucking you.

You warmed, petting through his hair with a helpless affection.

“Well now I know what time I should always do our laundry,” you said.

Shouto huffed into your neck, but you could feel a tiny smile curve his mouth.

“It is not just that,” he said, but did not elaborate for some minutes until you elbowed him gently. He peeled himself off of you just enough to look down into your face. “It is the thought of our life together. Our clothes piled together. You in the home we chose and we made…” he said, trailing off.

But you thought you got the sentiment. It was about how easy it was, how uncomplicated. A safe place to come home to, no expectations, just soup and a pile of sweet-smelling laundry and someone happy to see you. It was something far away from what he'd grown up thinking a home was, possibly something he’d thought he’d never have—something you were determined to make him realize now that he always would.

You let your fingers pull through his hair again, smiling up at him. “I am going to have to do our laundry again, though,” you teased. “In case that interests you.”

And despite what he’d just said, Shouto did in fact look a little too interested. You watched his mismatched gaze trail over to the closet that opened onto the washer and dryer. A contemplative look snuck across his handsome face, carefully curling the corner of that plush mouth.

“There is another place we have not yet broken in,” he said slowly, voice dipping low. He looked down at you with an earnest expression completely in contrast to what he was suggesting.

You couldn’t help but laugh, and that was all the permission he needed to pull you up, gathering you up in his arms and layering a fat handful of laundry on top of you. His belt buckle rattled loosely beneath you where he'd barely done it up in his haste, and you laughed harder when he turned off the stove as you passed it.

Though it turned out to be a needed precaution—as neither of you found yourselves free to sit down to dinner for several hours yet.

[imaginedisish]

Wild Horses (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Proofreading took way longer than I thought; sorry this didn't go up on time, y'all. Anyway, the song references came from an idea from an anon, but the fic itself isn't a request. Working through requests now (sorry I haven't been doing more). I really like this fic, and I hope you guys do too. There are a couple of songs in this one, but "Wild Horses" by the Stones is def a Logan song. Enjoy!

Summary: Logan takes you out for a friendly drink...that ends up being more than just friendly.

Warnings: 18+ SEXUALLY EXPLICIT CONTENT MINORS DNI! Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, porn with very little plot, implied!age gap (Logan is older than everyone, tho?), friends to lovers, alcohol consumption, cursing, feelings, f!reader/afab!reader, def some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 4,362 back on my BS

You’re sitting in a chair in the hallway, decompressing from the day—which, to be honest, is impossible in a place like this. Kids playing, running, yelling, T.Vs blaring all across the mansion. It’s always so noisy, always so active. And sometimes, that can be too much. 

A cacophony of voices bursts down the hall. One is bassy, louder, angrier than all the others. You smile softly to yourself. Logan. You can hear his footsteps against the hardwood floors as he makes his way towards the front door. He has his keys in his hand, and his leather jacket on his back. 

You perk up, trying not to seem upset that he’s on his way out. Although it’s probably no use; you wear your heart on your sleeve. You care about Logan, and that care extends beyond friendship. You’ve wanted him for months, but you’re not quite sure if he’ll ever feel the same. You’re friends—close friends—but just friends. 

He looks over to you, his frown suddenly turning to a smile. “I’m going out,” he says, nodding to the door. “Wanna come?”

“S-sure,” you stutter, pushing yourself up from your chair. You look down at your denim shorts and tank top. “I don’t know if I should change tho—” “You look perfect,” Logan says, shaking his head and smiling. Your breath hitches in your throat, and you try your best not to overthink Logan’s words. His hand is at your back, warm and undeniably massive, guiding you with him to the door. 

A cough erupts from behind you. “Where are you going, Logan?” You know exactly whose voice that is. 

You and Logan turn around, and there’s Scott. “Out,” is all Logan says, gruff and short. 

“We aren’t done talking, and you still have to run drills with—”

But Logan is tugging your arm and leading you out the door and towards the garage before Scott can get a word in. 

“Logan!” Scott calls from the front door. But Logan doesn’t stop, his hand now clasping around yours. He raises his fist in the air and unleashes just one of his claws: the middle. You giggle as Logan leads you inside the garage.

He walks you to the passenger door of his truck, opening it for you and closing it once you’re safe inside. It doesn’t hit you until he’s walking around the front that he opened the door for you. 

He slips in the driver’s side door and turns the key in the ignition, the truck springing to life. He pulls out of the garage, down the driveway, and through the gate. 

“So, where are we going?” You ask, turning to face Logan. 

His eyes drift between you and the road, a small smile playing on his lips. “Thought maybe we could get a drink,” he says, eyes on you again. There’s something behind his stare—a softness, maybe. It’s intoxicating and dizzying. It’s so distracting that you have to force yourself to acknowledge what he said.

“Sounds good,” you finally answer, smiling back at him. He nods, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift, dangerously close to your bare thigh. 

The ride to the bar is quick and quiet, but not uncomfortable. You feel safe with Logan, cozy, like you could have spent the entire night just driving around with him. The bar looks like a little cabin—definitely Logan’s kind of place. It’s quaint, and perhaps a tad divey. But you don’t mind. You’re with Logan; that’s all that matters.

He slips out of the car, and you follow suit. He’s at your side when you open the door, smirking, holding out his hand to help you out of the truck. You take it, stepping onto the gravel of the parking lot. You think he’ll let go, that he’ll drop your hand to your side, but he doesn’t. 

Logan leads the way into the honeyed, yellow light of the bar. It spills across the porch as he opens the door, the light consuming you as you walk inside. The bar is warm, filled with couples and friends sharing drinks and listening to music. Some people are dancing over by a set of speakers. You smile, instantly recognizing the song blaring from the speakers. 

I met her in a club down in old Soho Where you drink champagne and it tastes just like Coca-Cola C-O-L-A, Cola

You sing along, mouthing the words to Logan. A grin spreads across his face, his gaze flitting between your eyes and your lips. “You know this song? You like The Kinks?” He asks, his eyes narrowing as he tugs you over to a stool at the bar. 

“Of course! How old do you think I am?” You ask, moving your shoulders to the song as you sit down. 

He smirks, shaking his head. “Younger than me!” He shouts over the music, sitting down next to you, finally letting go of your hand. You wish he didn’t. You wish he held on. 

“Everyone is younger than you!” You shout back, singing the lyrics and swaying your head from side to side. 

Well, I'm not the world's most physical guy But when she squeezed me tight, she nearly broke my spine Oh, my Lola Lo-Lo-Lo-Lo-Lola

Logan is watching you—watching the way your lips make that O in Lola, the way your hips shake in the chair, the way you throw your head back laughing when you mess up a line. He’s entranced by you. You finally notice him watching, and you giggle, hiding your face in your hands. 

Your eyes widen as his hands come up to yours, tearing them away from your face. “No hiding,” he says softly, so only you can hear him. “It was cut—”

“What’ll you two be having?” The bartender interrupts, arms crossed against his chest, towel thrown over his shoulder. 

“I’ll have a Coors, and she’ll have…” Logan turns to look at you, and you nod towards him. He takes the hint immediately, as if he can read your mind. “The same as me.” You smile as the bartender walks away to get your drinks. 

You part your lips, almost ready to ask Logan what he was going to say before the bartender cut him off, but you’re interrupted again as your beers are placed in front of you. 

“Thanks, bub,” Logan says, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill and slapping it on the counter. The bartender grabs the bill and walks off to help the next patron. 

“So…” you trail off, watching as more people drift to the makeshift dance floor. “Have you been here before?” You ask, making conversation. There’s something about being out with Logan that makes you more nervous than usual. He’s never awkward to be around or hard to talk to. But in here? Out together? Alone? This is different. It’s almost like…

A date. 

“Just a few times,” Logan answers, snapping you back to reality. His long fingers wrap around the neck of his bottle, and he takes a swig. You catch the way he licks the little droplets on his upper lip, his tongue darting out all quick and gentle. You can’t help but wonder what his tongue would feel like against your own lips, and in other places too. Now is certainly one of those moments when you’re thankful Logan isn’t a telepath.  

You trace your fingers over the wet, cool bottle and take a swig, too. It’s ice cold, the alcohol burning at the back of your throat ever so slightly. Lola fades out, and Whole Lotta Love starts up. You nod your head, singing along in between quick sips. 

Logan shakes his head. “This one too?” 

“Oh my god, old man,” you remark sardonically. “Do you think I live under a rock?” 

“Didn’t peg you for a Zeppelin girl,” Logan says, tipping his bottle to you. “I’m impressed.” 

“Well, maybe there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you say, meeting his bottle with yours. The clink is almost suppressed by the bass of the music. You bring the beer back to your lips and watch as Logan sips, too.

“Yeah?” He asks, pulling the bottle away. “What else don’t I know?” He leans in, his shoulder brushing yours. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the music pumping through your body, but you find the courage to lean into him. You can smell him—the pine and musk and tobacco on his flannel, his body. 

Your face is inches from his as you turn towards him, your noses practically touching. “I like dancing,” you hum. You down the last dregs of your beer and set it on the counter, grabbing Logan’s arm as Robert Plant’s voice croons throughout the bar. 

Way down inside

He knocks back the last of his beer, placing it on the counter as you tug him to the outskirts of the dance floor. 

Woman, you need, yeah

“I don’t usually dance,” he says, his hands finding your waist despite his words. He squeezes softly.

Love...

“But I’ll dance with you,” he says against the shell of your ear. And then his hips are rocking into yours, swaying with you to the beat. He’s never been this close, never this intimate with you. His lips ghost yours as the guitar and the drums echo against the wood floors and walls of the bar. 

Shake for me girl

I wanna be your backdoor man

You need more, need him closer. Logan pulls you in—chest to chest—his grip on your waist tightening. His hands slide around your back, slipping under your shirt. Your heart beats out of your chest as his fingers trail up and down your back. His lips find your ear again. 

“You’re pretty when you dance,” he whispers. “Pretty all the time.”

You look up at him as the song fades out. You part your lips to say something, but the next song starts up before you can find the words. You recognize the opening riff immediately, the acoustic guitar strumming gently through the speakers. It’s slow and soft. Logan pulls you back into his arms, closer this time. His palms rest against your lower back, and you let your arms wrap around his neck. 

“Don’t tell me you know this one too,” he husks, his lips at your ear again. 

Graceless lady

You know who I am

You know I can't let you

Slide through my hands

You smile into the crook of his neck. “Of course I do,” you answer. “Wild Horses. The Stones.”

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he murmurs, pressing his hips harder against yours. You let your head fall to his shoulder as you lean into his chest. You can feel that ache between your legs spreading like wildfire. Friends don’t talk like this. Friends don’t dance like this. 

Because maybe you two aren’t friends. Maybe you never have been. 

“Logan,” you call, lifting your head. 

He’s just centimeters away, his eyes locked on yours. He tightens his hold on your lower back, your foreheads pressing together. “Wanted you for so long, pretty girl.” 

And then his lips find yours, consuming you, engulfing you like an open flame. He’s warm and soft, better than black treacle and golden honey and maple syrup. It’s slow and languid, his arms wrapping around you tighter, trying to pull you closer. 

Wild horses

Couldn't drag me away

Wild, wild horses

We'll ride them someday

You reluctantly pull away as the song goes on, looking up at Logan—looking for more. 

“We should get out of here,” he says, keeping one hand firmly around your waist as he guides you off the dance floor and towards the door.

He grips you tightly as you head to the truck, practically breaking the passenger door off the hinges as he opens it for you. He closes the door more carefully now that you’re inside. In the blink of an eye, Logan is on the other side, opening the driver’s door and slipping in. He turns the key in the ignition, and quickly makes his way out of the parking lot and onto the road. 

His hand moves across the center console and finds your bare thigh—exactly where you wanted him to be on the way here. His thumb brushes gentle circles into your skin. Something about it is possessive, like he needs to touch you, needs to know that you’re not going anywhere. His foot is practically through the floor as he presses down on the gas, racing back to the mansion. 

A few minutes later, Logan is pulling into the garage, his hand giving your thigh one last squeeze before putting the truck in park. And then you’re both tumbling out of the truck and towards the mansion. 

Logan’s hand finds yours, tugging you along and through the door. The mansion is swallowed in darkness save for the few hall lights scattered here and there. 

He suddenly pins you against the wall, his lips capturing yours. “Could fuck you right here,” he whispers. “But I wanna fuck you properly.” He steals another kiss before letting you go and leading you up the stairs towards his bedroom.

Logan twists the doorknob and guides you inside. Moonlight pushes through his curtains, washing his bed in white light. He turns around to face you, grabbing your waist and pushing you against the door. He’s caging you in, towering over you. 

“Logan,” you whisper, his lips crashing down on yours again. He’s all firm and solid against you. He bites your lower lip, his tongue swiping across to soothe the sting. You can feel his erection straining in his jeans, throbbing. He needs you, and you need him too.

“Want you so fucking bad, pretty girl,” Logan says between kisses. His hands slide down to your ass, squeezing gently before hoisting you up in his arms. You wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you across the room. He settles you in the center of the bed and climbs on top of you. He’s straddling you now, grabbing the bottom of his flannel and pulling it up and over his head. He’s wearing one of those beaters that you love so much underneath—tight against his abs. 

Logan lowers himself down over you, balancing on his forearm while his free hand explores your body. He slips under your tank top, his fingernails tracing every inch of your stomach. Your shirt hikes up as he reaches higher. He finally hits the hem of your bra and looks down at you. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “You sure you want this, sweetheart?” He asks, his fingers dipping tentatively underneath your bra. 

“Y-yes,” you stutter, arching up into his touch. “More than anything.” 

His hand slips around your back in an instant, unclasping your bra before you fall back down to the mattress. He sits up, knees on either side of your waist, straddling you again. 

He grabs the hem of your shirt and practically tears it from your body, your bra falling away with it, leaving your upper half bare before him. His hands find your tits, grabbing, squeezing, palming them. “So fucking beautiful,” he husks, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. He settles back down over you, resting on his forearm as his free hand continues to glide over your breasts, pinching and pawing. 

“Lo,” you whine, rubbing your thighs together, searching for more friction. “N-need…” You trail off, unable to finish a coherent thought.

“I know, princess,” he soothes, swallowing your whines with a kiss. His lips trail to your jaw, your pulse point, and down to your collarbone. He keeps moving down, pressing a kiss between the valley of your breasts and then to your belly button. He spreads your legs with the palms of his hands and settles between them, his fingers tracing the skin just above the waistband of your shorts. 

You sit up on your elbows, staring down at him. He smiles softly, cocking his head as one of his hands unbuttons your shorts and pulls the zipper down. He’s teasing you, leading you on as he thumbs your clit through the denim. A jolt of pleasure shoots up your spine. You can tell by that smirk, that look on his face, that he’s loving this. 

“Please,” you whimper, and Logan obliges, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts and panties, tugging them down your legs and throwing them over his shoulder.

He settles back in between your thighs, his palms splayed on either side. His breath is hot against your cunt. “You gonna keep these pretty legs spread for me?” He huffs, and you nod emphatically. You need him now—you can’t wait any longer.

“Lo,” you whine again. “Please, fuc—”

But you’re cut off as he licks a long stripe through your folds and up to your clit. He does it again, another slow, long stripe. He’s taking you in, consuming you, committing your taste to memory. He smiles against you as one of his hands climbs up your inner thigh. 

“Tastes so fucking good, sweetheart,” he mumbles against you, the bass of his voice rocking through your body. His fingers finally find your folds, your slit, spreading your slick before gently prodding your entrance. “Pretty little pussy,” Logan murmurs, shoving two fingers deep inside you. He takes your clit between his lips, sucking roughly, his teeth grazing the bud. 

You curse under your breath as he laps at you—starving, reckless. His face is buried deep in your cunt, his hair a mess. His fingers pump in and out, deepening with every thrust. His tongue swirls around your clit, drawing hard, fast circles. You’re already getting close. It’s all too much—the feeling of his fingers deep inside you, hitting that sweet spot every time. 

“I-I—” you stutter, throwing your head back as your walls flutter around Logan’s fingers. 

He chuckles against you. “You what, pretty girl?” He pulls your clit into his mouth again, sucking harder this time. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”

“F-fuck,” you stammer. “Y-you. Just need you.”

“Yeah?” Logan answers. You can feel him smirking between laps. “Just me?” And then he’s adding a third finger, plunging deep inside. He’s dragging against your walls, scissoring inside you. 

“Y-yes,” you answer, arching your back as he pumps in and out, down to the knuckles with every thrust. “Only you.” Logan mutters a curse against your cunt as he buries himself deeper inside. “Need you too,” he hums, his tongue flicking your clit, drawing rough circles around the bud. “Such a good girl,” he praises. “Can feel you getting closer, sweetheart.” As if on command, your walls clench around him, taking him in deeper.

“Feels so good,” you choke. He’s pushing you over the edge, and you can’t hold back anymore. “L-Lo I’m gonna—” “That’s it, pretty girl. I’ve got you,” he coos between harsh laps, his pace unrelenting. “Let go for me.” 

And then you’re coming undone around him, your walls contracting and fluttering. Pleasure washes over you in warm waves like liquid fire. You’re trembling underneath him, his head still buried between your legs. His thumb brushes over your hip comfortingly as his pumps slow and his fingers slip out. His tongue drags through your folds a few more times, savoring you, before he pulls away and looks up at you. 

“You okay?” He asks, his tongue swiping out to lick your juices from his lips as he sits up on his knees. 

You nod, reaching out to him. “Need you, now,” you beckon. Logan smiles, grabbing the hem of his beater and tugging it over his head. He unbuckles his belt, letting it fall to the floor as he works at his button and zipper. His fingers hook into the waistbands of his jeans and boxers, yanking them down his legs. 

His cock springs up to his stomach, and you can’t help but let your jaw drop at the sight. Your breath catches in your throat at the size of him. You always thought he’d be big, but he’s massive. 

“Don’t worry, pretty girl,” he husks, settling between your legs as he lowers down over you. He balances on his forearm as his hand wraps around his erection, guiding his cock to your entrance. “Gonna take care of you,” he whispers, his tip sliding through your folds. “Gonna make you feel good.” 

And then he’s filling you up, bottoming out with one thrust. Your chest is flush with his, his cock unmoving inside you. You’ve never felt so full, so whole. “Fuck,” he murmurs, his forehead pressing to yours. He pulls out and plunges back in, down to the hilt again. “So fucking perfect.” 

His hand lets go of his cock but stays between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling softly. He starts to set a rhythmic, gentle pace, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him. But you know he can’t hold himself back for much longer. You can feel the way his cock twitches and throbs against your walls as he drags himself in and out. 

You rock your hips against his. “Logan,” you moan. “M-more.”

His lips find yours—two puzzle pieces coming together. “You sure, sweetheart?” He asks, his thumb adding more pressure to your clit. 

You nod. “Y-yes,” you stutter. “I can t-take it.”

He curses under his breath, pulling out and slamming back in. He pounds into you, his cock hitting that spot deep inside, where you need him most. “Wanted you this whole time, pretty girl,” Logan grunts, thrusting in and out carelessly, punishingly. “Thought about you all the time, thought about fucking you just like this.” 

“Th-thought about you too, Lo,” you whimper. 

His cock twitches inside you. “Love it when you call me that, sweetheart,” he groans, his hips snapping against yours, thumb flicking your clit. “Say it again.” “Lo,” you pant as he fucks into you. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, fingers clinging to his biceps. “Logan,” you moan again, his name the only thing on your mind. 

Your walls flutter around him as he pounds into you with reckless abandon. “That feel good, sweetheart? You like when I take what I want?”

“Fuck, Lo, yes,” you whine. You’re growing closer and closer with each snap of his hips, with every swipe of his thumb against your clit. You know you can’t last much longer, not with his lips on yours, not with his praises floating through the air. 

“Doing so good for me, princess,” he whispers, his voice deep and raspy. “Taking me so well. Can feel you squeezing me.”

You contract around him as he sinks inside you, working you open with every thrust. It’s too much. “L-Lo,” you stammer. “I’m s-so…” You trail off, your eyes fluttering open and closed. 

“I know, princess. I’ve got you,” he hums, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Wanna feel you come on my cock.” His thumb circles your clit, faster, harder, still splitting you open with every pump. “Know you can come again; know you can take it.”

You shatter underneath him as the words leave his lips, falling apart in his arms. “Logan!” You cry out, your orgasm crashing into you, harder this time. His thumb is still on your clit, his cock pumping in and out with no signs of stopping. He isn’t letting up or letting go. Your nails dig into his biceps, searching for support, purchase, something, anything. 

Logan slams into you, chasing his own orgasm as that tension builds inside you again, liquid heat raging through your body. “Lo,” you whine. “It’s s-so much.” The pressure is so intense it almost burns, but it burns deliciously. It’s thick and hazy, dizzying and uncontrollable. 

“Just a little more, pretty girl,” Logan soothes, his pace faltering, growing sloppier with each pump. “Know you have another in you, know you can take it.” 

He flicks your clit, electricity sparking at the base of your spine. You’re so close again, ready to burst. “C-close,” you stammer. 

“Me too, pretty girl,” Logan grunts, cock twitching against your walls. “Wanna fill you up, wanna stay inside.”

You wrap your arms around his back, keeping his chest pressed to yours. “P-please,” you whimper, clenching down around him uncontrollably. His thumb is still stroking your clit, back and forth, drawing rough, tight circles. 

“Come on, princess. Come on my cock again,” he whispers at the shell of your ear. You listen, his name on your lips as you let go underneath him. You’re melting into the sheets, dissolving into nothingness, into air, as your orgasm courses through you. 

Logan lets go too, filling you up, spilling inside you. “So fucking beautiful like this. Always so beautiful,” he praises, his thrusts slowing as he rides out his orgasm. He pulls out, his thumb stroking your clit a few more times, easing you down from your high. 

He presses a soft kiss to your lips, rolling onto his side and tugging you with him. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest. “You have no idea how long I’ve thought about doing that…how long I’ve thought about you,” Logan confesses, his fingers drawing abstract shapes across your lower back. “Wanted you for so long, pretty girl.”

Your chests heave together, breathing in time. You can feel him, still half hard against your thigh. “I thought you saw me as just a friend,” you say, smiling at how quickly things have changed in one night. 

Logan shakes his head, smiling back. “Never saw you as just a friend, princess.” He presses another kiss to your lips, savoring the feeling of you against him. “Should’ve taken you out sooner.” He presses his forehead to yours. “But I would’ve waited…waited forever just for you.”

You can see the adoration in his eyes, the love. And you know he means it. You bury your head into his chest. “I love you, Lo,” you whisper. 

“I love you too, princess. Always have.”

tags: @ilysmdovie12 @prettyseaveins @spiderset @figsnpassionfruits @silversprings-mp3 @movhoney @wittyjasontodd @theasiaabattoir @fanfic-writing-barbie @manipulatour @pedrohoe04

[callahanisms]

all you need is more radaway

save a horse. ride a cowboy. ;)

anyways i really loved the tv show and i love the game. and ghouls are just chef's kiss. or maybe that's because i love monsters. sad that i finished it so quickly. :(

perhaps i can put what i learned in my western class to good use lol

character: cooper howard aka. the ghoul

it's never easy surviving the wasteland. you don't know how you managed to survive for this long. perhaps because you seemed to have been blessed with incredible luck.

and building up endurance, of course.

you felt little to no side effects from the radiation of the food you were eating. which just meant you had a lot of radaway and rad-x stocked up.

to make ends meet, though, you had to start hunting. scavenging and scrapping by wasn't enough. you needed the extra caps.

thus your rivalry with another bounty hunter was born.

"well, well. aren't you far from home, sweetheart?"

you were used to comments about your outfit. a vault suit. yes, you came from one. you had been exiled after your father was revealed to be managing the experiment behind it. the child pays for the sins of the father always.

"you're not the first and you won't be the last." you pull the head off the body as clean as possible.

"now i don't know if you should do that."

"and why not?"

a bullet flies past you and burrows itself into the ground. you finally look up. a cowboy hat. the face of a ghoul. his gun pointing right at you.

but you weren't afraid.

"because he's my target." he pulls out a piece of paper. "and he's mine."

"seems unfair if i did all the work. and you just collect his head and the prize." you pull out the same piece of paper. yours is a little more worn out though. and covered in dried blood.

"that's the way of the wasteland sweetheart."

"if you believe so."

your hands were fast. two bullets lodged into his right left and when he looks up, you're gone.

of course, you learned from the best: western holotapes. you really liked them when you were growing up. claimed to want to be a lone hero.

in some ways, you were. the wasteland was just a new version of the wild west, wasn't it?

"spaghetti? like...the pasta?"

more like spaghetti western. he knew that, of course. but no one in the wasteland knew what a spaghetti western was. they were remnants of a past long gone and one only accessible by holotapes in the vaults.

"that's their name." the person says. "why? you have business with them?"

"perhaps." the ghoul was looking to return a favor.

"don't even try. they're far more formidable than you think."

"we'll see about that."

your rivalry was an exchange of bullets, more often than not. thankfully, you always stocked up on bloodbags and could make a stimpack from your heavy (but useful) travel chemistry kit. you were smart like that.

surprisingly, it became something to look forward. mostly because the ghoul preferred if he tried killing you, so he managed to get you out of a tough situation by killing the other people trying to kill you.

and you returned the favor. there was something satisfying about lodging a bullet into him again.

unfortunately, this left you two stuck on a job once. captured by raiders. you had been knocked out with a drug. and he had collapsed from...something.

"fuck." you mutter, pulling at the ropes binding you. your luck had run out for the day it seems, because your arms were tied to the ghoul's around this godforsaken pole. the metal was also uncomfortably rubbing up against your skin.

"you got a knife or anything sharp?" he looks over at you. it's rare to see him without his cowboy hat. his head was rather smooth.

you chuckle a little.

"something funny?" the ghoul asks.

"nothing. you're just...shaped like an egg."

"very funny."

"let me guess. your answer is no?"

"i don't have a knife up my sleeve, sadly. think they took it."

"shame." the ghoul shimmies something out of his own sleeve. he flicks the blade out and begins sawing at the rope. "watch your fingers."

you keep your fingers tucked in. eventually, the rope on your wrists comes undone and one arm soon after. the rest comes off and you rub your skin. "fuck these guys. always hated raiders."

"well, we both got sold out. we need to find that thing now. or else we'll be dead by sunrise." he tugs on the door of the jail cell and clicks his tongue.

"i don't have sharp objects. but i do have these." you pull out the bobby pin taped on the inside of your sleeve, alongside a mini screwdriver.

the lock wasn't very complicated, so you picked it with ease.

as you both are grabbing your equipment, you hear footsteps up above. light ones and heavier ones. and the sound of a muffled, altered, robotic voice.

the brotherhood of steel was worse than raiders, honestly.

"you go left, i go right. how does that sound?"

"i don't usually like taking orders from my rivals." he reloads his gun. "but for you? sure."

the event left the both of you soaked in the blood of your enemies. on the other hand, you guys left with plenty of loot and an idea of where your target was: dead. at the bottom of a lake.

it was a journey to get there, wherein you learned the details of each other's lives. you didn't think he was paying much attention to your sentences. after all, you came from a vault.

and yet, you saw a hint of sympathy in his eyes.

he seemed less keen on sharing details about his life, aside from his former name. cooper howard.

undeniably, as a fan of westerns, you recognized his names. from the holotapes.

"they had those?" cooper shakes his head, taking sips of water. "no way."

"yes way! it's where i learned to shoot."

"from watching my movies?"

"yes!"

"that is...a pleasant surprise." cooper leans back.

"that also makes you over 200 years old."

"that it does. something wrong with that?"

"no. the wasteland changes people." you maintain your attention to your suit, sewing a tear up. "just...you're looking for something, aren't you? everyone's always looking for something up here."

"are you looking for something?" his voice hardens and he sits up straight.

"i was. and then i found it. and i stopped." you tie the thread to seal the stitch and then tear the thread with your teeth. "i hope you find what you're looking for though."

"well, that's awfully kind of you, sweetheart."

"i have a name, you know."

"what is it?"

"(y/n)."

getting personal in the wasteland was something cooper wasn't adamant about. but the circumstances seems to call for it.

"guess we're even now."

the body of water was daunting. it was murky and dark. you pursed your lips and dumped your bag. "well. guess we have no choice."

cooper looks over at you then quickly turns around when he sees what you're doing: taking off your suit and going down to your underwear. "what are you doing?"

"i'm going to go get that head. that's how we get paid, right? easy three thousand caps. 15 hundred split evenly." you stretch.

"i think you might die."

"i'll be fine. i've done it before." Aquaperson perk.

"i can also swim, you know."

"i'll be fine cooper." you pop a rad-x pill just in case. "be back in a bit."

you dive like a swan, making minimal splash into the water. your form disappears beneath the darkness.

you're gone beneath the water for over an hour. cooper's heart was beating against his rib cage. you should be out by now. it should not be that hard. did something get you? things lurked beneath the murky waters always.

"fuck!"

he drops his equipment and begins stripping down, until he is just in his pants. he would need to dive after you. if you were dead, then so be it. it was fun while it lasted.

suddenly, you emerge. you take in the oxygen of the surface and hold the head up high. "got 'em." you swim over to the shore and walk out of the water.

there was something about how...wet you were that got him feeling hot and bothered.

"something happen down there?"

"couple of mirelurks. no big deal. which reminds me." you set the head on the ground and go back into the water. within minutes, you're pulling out the bodies of the mirelurks you had killed. "dinner."

while cutting the mirelurks open, you observe the way he walks around you. his muscles bulging a little as he cuts a mirelurk open and takes the meat. he was kind of...attractive?

"were you going to come after me?" he stops cutting hearing your question. "in the water, i mean."

"so what if i did?" cooper averts his eyes.

"that's sweet of you. i didn't know you had a soft spot for me."

"i don't."

"sure." you can tell he was lying through his teeth.

dinner was a nice, cozy meal. it was delicious. a nice surprise considering the nature of the wasteland.

cooper notices the way you're looking at him. and he looks at you the same way.

though how does this work exactly?

"do you want to..." you try to find a decent way to say this. fuck is a good term. but it felt a little vulgar in the moment.

cooper already knows what you're asking. "absolutely. if you can handle it." he smirks.

it's so cute when he smirks.

you glance over at your bag, looking at your stash of radaway. you had plenty. plus your stash of rad-x too.

"i absolutely can."

[themidnightcrimson]

all hallow's eve ࿏ wm

summary: in which a bleeding woman shows up to your house asking for more than just help.

words: 8.0k

warnings: blood, dubcon/noncon, fingering, knifeplay, knifefucking, murder, death, horror, gore, top!wanda, fem!reader

this is a dark!fic for 18+ only. minors dni. read with discretion.

There were already chips in the paint of her fingernails which she had painted a thick coat of black only the night before. Wanda liked using her hands—it was a cathartic thing. It only meant she couldn’t keep nail polish on for very long.

In her quiet kitchen, the gentle tink of a spoon again her black porcelain mug could be heard as she gingerly stirred her coffee, watching the cloudy white swirls of creamer fade into the black of her dark roast and turn walnut. She only liked a little bit of creamer. She enjoyed coffee for its depth and dark. Bits of brown splashed around the inner rim of the black mug as she tapped the spoon clean of remnants before gently setting it down in the sink.

Wanda kept a clean house, but her kitchen she kept clean most of all. She was not trained, but she considered herself something of a chef. She enjoyed carnivorous recipes most of all, beefy red ribeyes and delicately roasted chickens. Her kitchen was her wizard lair where she worked to perfect the most complex of dishes, so she kept it meticulously tidy. The clean black marble counters covered lower cabinets filled with pots and pans stacked neatly and drawers shockingly organized with tools and utensils no matter their irregular shape. She made everything fit perfectly because she was a little neurotic about her tools.

Now the kitchen filled with the lusty dark scent of coffee that she sensually inhaled through her nostrils as her ringed fingers clinked against her porcelain mug. The expensive, shiny coffee machine still clicked and steamed from the fresh batch, and it glimmered almost as much as the array of large knives that were set out neatly on the counter beside it. Wanda had also invested in nice lights for her kitchen, because she liked to take pictures of her dishes when she made them. The studioesque lights glared off the silver blades, some freshly sharpened, some awaiting the fate of the honing rod laying discarded next to the line of knives. Sharp knives were also one of the most important tools of a chef.

Wanda maintained the dark minimalist aesthetic of black and white throughout her upscale apartment. Her annual endeavors usually left her with enough cash to get through the year with lavish, hence the nice apartment. Draining a few bank accounts always amounted to more than expected. If she was saving up for something big she would target a nicer area of town.

Through her French windows was the view of the city framed by the bright orange leaves of the autumn tree outside. She had bought a few small baby pumpkins of different colors and shapes and set them along the windowsill. This time of year was always bittersweet. There was always that simmering sensation rising within her that starts near the end of July, when the dead summer heat goes quiet and still with the promise of no new births of nature, only the aging and deadening that future autumn will bring.

Maybe it was the quiet, or maybe it was just her pituitary gland recognizing when it was time for her to awaken, but it always starts at the same time of each year. It was even earlier this year, though. She could feel the first little scritch when the fireworks went off above all the skyscrapers outside her window. It was like the giant booms and bangs shook the thing inside her awake. Now at this point, late in October, it had turned into a ravenous clawing inside her head. She imagined the innards of her skull like a wooden wall caging a wild animal—scarred with desperate scratches to be released. The clawing reminded her of a beast begging to be slaughtered as it is once a year, so that it may enjoy peace and quiet until it starts to conceive itself again like a rebirthing flower.

It gets so hard to manage this late in the season. Usually, she is the most calm and collected person she knows. People compliment her on her otherworldly levelheadedness which they don’t realize is just a lack of emotion. But in September she gets antsy, and in October she is wholly consumed with restlessness and need, constantly zoned out like a lion on the hunt, eyes laser focused for the bright stripes of a zebra amidst the tall African flora, jaw hung wide open, teeth buzzing with anticipation for the first tear of live flesh, ears constantly rounding its skull in search for the sound of food.

Even now, thinking about it as she stared out the window, she let her coffee go cold in her hand. Coming to, she cursed herself and put the mug in the microwave and turned it on. When warmed, she took the mug through her apartment and to her office, settling down in her chair. Her desk was probably the only thing about her apartment that could be considered messy, only because her planning was extensive and elaborate. It had to be for her to have gotten away with it for this many years. Her Octobers were spent stuck at her messy desk which, by the afternoon sun, becomes littered with empty coffee cups.

There were many papers scattered on her desks about many different things. Locations, demographics, news reports, police stations, everything there could be to know about a city. Underneath a stack of papers was another small stack stapled together. “Diagnosis Report.” She had thrown it on her desk carelessly when she took it home from the doctor, miffed that he was only telling her what she’d already known for a long time. “Controlled psychopathy.”

On the other corner of her desk was the most recent news report. “HALLOWEEN KILLER SET TO STRIKE AGAIN.” She’d been waiting for this for years now. She was surprised it didn’t happen sooner.

That was why her planning was deeper this year. Too many patterns in the same city. She needed to branch out, to change it up. She couldn’t complete her mission with cops stationed at every block. They’d even started tracking reports in the outer suburbs. She had to go farther this year.

She rolled out a wide roll of paper over the entire desk: a map of the entire city and its outer areas. Usually, the red circles were drawn on the yellowish vague blocks printed on the map to convey where urban areas were, more concrete and road. This year, her red marker circled farther to the side, almost to the very edge of the paper, where the paper turned green with curly printed lines to signify forested areas.

Wanda ran a shaky hand through her red hair, tugging harshly on the locks. She felt like a mad poet, a tortured artist. It was riskier this year. She wasn’t as familiar with woods as she was with the city.

Letting out a deep sigh, Wanda rolled out of the desk and went over to the little couch against the wall of her office, plopping down with another huff, chewing on all the thoughts in her head that were becoming harder to manage with all the fucking clawing. Lower population out in the woods could mean fewer fish brought home. But it also meant lower income levels than that in the richest parts of the city. Then again, she did pretty good last year and didn’t really need to worry about money this year. If money wasn’t a bias, then it usually would be beauty and females. That was why all the reports were either rich old men or beautiful young women, which made it hard for them to find a pattern. Of course, with women it would take more tactic to get everything she would want out of them besides the main point. The main point would be easy, but the seduction would take more artiste.

Turning her head over her shoulder, she eyed the brand new pair of expensive hiking boots that sat in the corner of the office, the laces recently untightened to let the new leather relax. They were industrial, tactical, ready to climb a mountain. It was the pair of shoes that even the most experienced hikers longed for.

She’d never been hiking a day in her life.

࿏

You’re alone this year.

Sticky green icing melted on your fingers as you picked up the bag of black icing again, piping out little pupils on the Frankenstein cookie you were decorating. Your Halloween playlist played at medium volume through your tiny kitchen as you piped Frankenstein’s black hair on top of his head. Once you had perfected him, even with his messy bangs and uneven mouth, you picked up the sugar cookie and placed it next to other decorated ones which included pumpkins, ghosts, bats, and even graphically disfigured vampires. A delicious aroma in the air emanated from the dish of tomatoes, garlic, onion, and spices roasting in the oven, and on the rack below that, a loaf of bread baking to completion.

“Jeez,” you murmured as you looked at the cookie in front of you that was supposed to be a black cat. One eye was twice the size of the other and its ears were more like Panda ears. You were going for cute, but horrific matched the theme anyways.

It was a cozy Halloween night in your little cabin. Orange pumpkin string lights were hanging from the ceiling, your little space cluttered with your accumulation of Halloween decorations that you just couldn’t stop buying each year. This was another great thing about living so far out in the woods—you could enjoy holidays by yourself without having to worry about catering to bratty little kids asking for candy, or your house getting egged for deciding not to. You had nothing against enjoying the festivities of your favorite holiday, but you were happy you could do it alone without interruption.

Wiping your stained hands free of icing because you had licked so much that you couldn’t take anymore, you slipped on your pumpkin-shaped oven mitts and took the dish out of the oven, feeling warmth on your face as the oil and tomato sizzled in the hot dish. Your kitchen was tiny, but it was cozy, and you could make all your favorite foods in it, so it was perfectly fine to you. And your cabin was small—so small that the kitchen and the living room were basically one room, and you could see the TV in front of the couch from where you stood at the oven. As you very carefully spooned all the tomatoes and garlic and onion out of the dish and into a large red pot that was older than you, you could hear the TV clearly.

Out in the woods, you did not have very good service. The satellite sitting on your roof let you have very few channels, one of them being the local news channel. It was time for the evening news as you heard the familiar theme sound, trying to not let tomato splatter on your Halloween apron that was white donned with black spiderwebbing.

The news channel picked up news from the city, which was a good 30 miles away but the nearest civilization. You halfway listened as they spoke about local events like the highway construction that was branching the city out even farther into the woods, a special on the best places to go trick or treating which was just all the rich neighborhoods, and then they came to the recent crime segment, starting off with one that was the city’s primary worry that night.

“Year after year, our city is faced with crime on this Halloween night that makes celebrating harder each year. For nearly a decade now, the city has experienced killing sprees that happen every October 31st from what locals call the Halloween Killer.”

You opened up your cabinets and waded through the messy piles of pots and pans and tools until you found your old beat-up food processor. The loud clanging muffled the news report that you were listening to with distracted but piqued interest until you found the processor.

“…Police have been unable to find patterns in the killer’s targeted victims or locations, but this famed killer does strike seemingly randomized neighborhoods each year, though they have mostly only targeted areas with higher income levels. Thanks to local funding, police have been able to set up neighborhood watches all throughout the city, even setting up a police line around the border to keep watch of any suspicious activity. Any sightings of criminal or suspicious activity should be reported to your nearest station immediately. For those living outside city limits, please be on high alert, as police think that the killer may start seeking out further areas to evade the local watches. Your local news station sends a huge thanks to our police as they fight to keep our city safe and to track down this Halloween Killer. Please, everyone be safe out there tonight as you enjoy All Hallow’s Eve.” You glanced momentarily to the TV and saw the wide shiny grin of the blonde newscaster that did not match her grim tone as she swiftly moved on to a segment about Halloween party decorations.

At first, the segment about the Halloween Killer started to pass right through your brain, until your brain caught it, and a small seed of paranoia plummeted into the pit of your stomach. You fiddled with your food processor as you thought about the segment.

When you lived in the city, people always talked about the Halloween Killer. At some point, people started to make up their own ideas of what the killer looked like, creating different masks that seemed to change each year. Most of them just settled on a rip-off of Michael Meyers. You always ignored it, until one year the killer struck right near where you lived. That was only a small impetus of why you fled the city searching for a more peaceful life out in nature, but it certainly was a reason thrown in with all the other rising crime rates in the city. It was becoming like Gotham out there, and you wanted no part of it. Hence your cozy cabin life out in the forest.

Still, it made you nervous. You were a young girl all alone. You didn’t have neighbors. If you screamed, it would be to the mercy of squirrels and foxes. And to be fair, though you lived in a forested area and got lucky to live on a plot of land with no other houses, you didn’t live that far from the city. If you climbed the nearby hill all the way to the top, you could see the skyline good enough to track the movement of cars on the city highway. If the killer was trying to escape city limits, all they would have to do was choose East, and they’d be right in your lap.

A shiver ran through you, and you gave a breathy laugh. You’d been watching too many scary movies that Halloween season. It was making you paranoid. This was why each year you chose ParaNorman over Pet Sematary. You were too paranoid of a person.

Though you took your fretfulness with humor, it gnawed away at you. Wiping your hands on the towel on the oven door, you went over to your front door and opened it.

The air was cold that night. Fall had been teasing and tantalizing all month, but it seemed to rush in all at once that Halloween night. That was another thing you liked about living out here—it wasn’t a concrete jungle that trapped in all the heat like the city did. It was cooler out here and less humid. It was just easier to breathe.

You looked up at the dark, shadowy pines that rose so much higher than your squat little house. Their needles rustled in the gentle breeze. It was so dark, nothing like the ever-present source of light in the city. Beyond where your measly front porch light and the flickering glow of jack-o-lanterns on your porch steps touched, it was pitch black. You could hear the whistle of crickets, the belches of frogs all around.

Twigs snapping.

Fear roared up in you at once, but you quickly settled yourself. Twigs snap all the time out here in the forest given that there are twigs littering the whole ground. A pinecone falling, or a bird landing, or a squirrel sitting—it all could snap a twig. You were scaring yourself.

Nonetheless, you pulled yourself inside, closed the door, lock it, turned off the porch light, and closed all your blinds and curtains. Even though you didn’t believe yourself to be at risk, it would be silly to ruin your own night by making yourself scared at the possibility of seeing a face at the window.

You slapped a piece of the bread on the buttered hot pan, deeply enjoying the loud immediate sizzle it made. You followed up with a slice of cheese and another piece of bread, and then flipped the grilled cheese, salivating at the perfect shade of brown the bread turned into.

You ladeled your tomato bisque into a bowl and topped it with some shreds of cheese and one singular basil leaf just to be extra. Bringing your soup and grilled cheese into the living room, you finally settled down on the couch with a sigh, setting your food down on the coffee table before searching for the perfect cutesy Halloween movie to watch. You settled on ParaNorman since you’d been thinking about it.

All traces of the news report had left your mind as you burned your mouth on the soup and did the most immaculate cheese pull with your grilled cheese. You didn’t even think twice when you heard a creaking noise on the front porch.

When you heard it again, you surprised yourself by remaining calm. It was a breezy night. This was an old cabin, and that wooden porch was squeaky. A gush of wind is bound to move the wooden panels enough for it to squeak.

Squeak. It seemed closer now.

You still weren’t worried, but just out of habit, you turned your head and looked back at the front door in the kitchen.

You didn’t really see it at first. Or didn’t recognize what it looked like, at least.

A dark shadow through the sheer curtains over the window of the front door. The perfect shadow for a head and shoulders.

Fear broiled deep in your gut, but you warred with yourself yet again. It was definitely just the way that the moon filtered through all the shapes of the forest trees and landed across the window of your door. That was all it was. You were just being paranoid—the shadow wasn’t even moving.

You’d managed to fully convince yourself and was just about to turn your head back around when there was a knock at the door.

Adrenaline shot through your body so hard that your bowl of tomato soup slipped right out of your immediately sweaty palms, landing with a heartbreaking splash across your shirt.

“Fuck!” you yelled as the hot soup instantly soaked through your shirt and gently burned the skin of your stomach. What was worse about how hot it was, was how sad you were at losing your tomato soup.

The knock came again, much more hurried this time.

“Hello!?” a woman’s voice came from the other side of the door, and the sound of a person’s voice deepened your panic even more. No one had ever been out here except the few friends and family you had invited over a handful of times. No one lived near here. Your dirt road stretched on for three miles before it touched the highway. The dirt road only led to your house, nothing else. It was your own personal driveway. There was no reason for someone to be out here unless beckoned.

And you were all alone. There was no one to glance at with panicked eyes and telepathically ask who the fuck is at the front door. It was just you and your tomato soup-soaked shirt.

“Help!” the voice cried, pounding on the door harder this time, so hard that your windows shook in their panes. “Help me! Please!”

“What the fuck?” you whispered, your breathing picking up as you started to really freak out. Not only was there someone randomly at your door this late at night, but they were apparently in distress? Or at least pretending to be.

“Please! Somebody help me! Please!” the woman screamed outside, and she slammed so hard on the door that it sounded like she was throwing her whole body against it. You could even see the door bulge from the wall, almost like she was trying to break it down.

Rule number one of living out alone in a cabin deep in the forest was to never, ever open your door to strangers. You were way too vulnerable for that. You knew that, and so your instinct was to hide and possibly call the police if she didn’t give up. It could easily be a trick.

Then again, she was screaming for help. She herself was out here potentially alone in the woods, if this was real. What if you later learned that this girl needed help and couldn’t find it from the single house she managed to stumble across?

“Fuck fuck fuck,” you whispered, tugging at your hair as you ducked across the room, hiding behind your little kitchen island. If you made yourself seen, there was no way you could get out of it or even pretend to not be home. “Please open the door!” she screamed with such desperation that her voice croaked, and you heard little sobs follow. “Please just open it! I need help! Please!”

Something about the desperation in her voice panged you deeply in the gut, and for some reason you felt like it wasn’t a trick. Nonetheless, you knew it was bad, whatever it was. She could be running from someone or something and leading them right into your house. The best outcome of this whole thing would be a cruel Halloween prank.

“Please!” she screamed, slamming herself against your front door. You heard a horrible clicking noise that sounded an awful lot like your door coming undone from the hinges.

Internally groaning, you grabbed a knife from your knife drawer and held it as realistically as you could in your hand, slowly going towards the shadow at the front door window.

“Please!” she screamed again.

Gritting your teeth, you gathered all your bravery, expecting anything to happen as you touched the doorknob. With a big breath in, you unlocked it and swung it open.

A scream involuntarily escaped your throat at what stood on the other side of that door.

Seeing a person’s face at your door for the first time in basically months was already a shocking thing, but seeing it covered in blood was even more shocking. The woman stood only an inch or two taller than you, her dark red hair stretching down past her shoulders. She wore a long sleeve white shirt, which you could only tell it was white from the sleeves because the entire front of it was soaked with dark red blood. The blood even caked the thighs of her jeans, and it dripped in long, thick lines down her face, with splatters over her cheeks. The worst part was that the blood glistened against the light that came from inside your home. In fact, it dripped—in horrible black splatters on the old wood of your porch. You could see bloody footprints going up the steps.

For a moment, she looked shocked to see you standing there. Had she started to think no one really was home? The shocked look faded as she glanced over you, her lips seeming to struggle to form words.

“Hi—I need h-help,” she said quieter now, very breathlessly. She was trembling—her eyes looked at you with a crazed, weakened look, like she was about to fall on you at any moment. That was when you realized that she must be bleeding—bleeding a fatal amount.

“Oh my God,” you croaked, not knowing what to do. “What—I—Come in,” you hesitated, and then remembered that whatever cut her up this badly could be following her, so you goaded her. “Come on, come in!”

Quickly, she came inside, leading a trail of bloody prints on your precious wooden flooring as you closed the door and locked it shut. You turned around, pressing your back to the door and staring at her as your heart pounded hard in your chest. You noticed that her eyes were focused on your hand at your side—you looked down and remembered that you were holding a large knife in your hand. “Sorry—” you apologized at first, thinking that she was probably just harmed with the same thing you were holding and wasn’t too happy to see another person wielding it, but remembered to keep your guard up. She could be anyone, and anything could have happened to her. Anything could happen next.

“I need to sit down…” she said, clutching her stomach and bending over. Her eyes, you noticed, were a vivid green against the darkness of the drying blood on her face. “I…” The vivid green disappeared, and you realized she had closed her eyes and was starting to sway.

“Oh God, yes, sit down,” you rushed, absentmindedly dropping your knife on the kitchen counter so that you could help her. Trying your best to avoid touching any blood, you barely held her arm and led her to the couch. She sat down heavily, flickering her eyes to look at you, those green orbs landing at your waist.

“Your shirt…” she whispered croakily.

“Oh,” you blurted as you looked at your own shirt that had an orangeish red splash over the front. “Tomato soup,” you blushed, growing sick at the fact that the red splash on her shirt was, in fact, not tomato soup.

You looked around as this strange woman sat bleeding on your couch, her eyes opening and closing. She was probably losing a lot of blood. What were you supposed to do?

“The police,” you blurted, and her eyes opened wider with a flash. “I’ll call the police!”

You went to your landline phone—there was no cell service up here, so you depended on the weak telephone lines for any kind of communication. You typed in 9-1-1 and pressed the phone to your ear—silence. Confused, you dialed again, only to hear more silence. “What the hell?”

“Water.”

“Huh?” you asked, glancing at the woman on your couch.

“Can I please… have water?”

“Oh, yes,” you said, feeling stupid and rude that you hadn’t even tried to physically help the woman bleeding out on your couch. “I’m sorry—Are-are you okay?” you asked as you went to get a glass of water. It felt like an obviously stupid question to ask, but to be fair, you weren’t entirely sure of her injuries nor her situation except that she was bleeding what appeared to be a lot of blood to you.

“I think so,” she said, coughing to clear her throat as you handed her the glass of water.

You ignored the stains of tomato soup on the other seat of your couch as she sipped the water with a shaky, bloody hand.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a phone on you, do you?” you questioned. It was obvious there was something wrong with your phone, which wasn’t that unusual, and even though there was no cell service the last time you checked, you thought any effort might be worth it to get this girl some help.

She shook her head as she gulped the water down.

Sighing, you glanced toward the curtained window and thought of your car out front. You would need to drive her to help, you realized. You figured you could at least find out what the hell was going on first before you loaded her up in the car.

“What happened to you?”

She finished the glass of water and weakly handed it to you, her eyes flashing up at you. Something about it startled you. Maybe it was the visual connection that jarred you into realization of the situation, or maybe it was because you weren’t used to being around people anymore. Either way, you suddenly felt scared with her eyes on you.

“Someone attacked me,” she hoarsely spoke, wiping her mouth of water only to smear blood around her lips. She gritted her teeth, looking around your house for the first time. You suddenly thought of your knife on the counter.

“Attacked you?” you asked, trying to imagine the situation in your mind. “Do you know who?”

“No, just some guy in a mask,” she exclaimed, sounding like she was starting to calm down and gather her wits. You noticed she wasn’t breathless anymore—in fact her chest rose and fell very slowly and calmly. Maybe she was a good self-soother.

“Where?” you questioned.

“What?” she said, looking up at you with sewn brows.

You hesitated. “I mean, where were you attacked?” You looked towards the window again when she hesitated to answer. “It’s just… you must’ve ran at least like, three miles.”

The redheaded woman only stared at you with her vivid green eyes that you now noticed, with a slight chill in your spine, were oddly empty. Like doll eyes. Like a doll skeleton with human skin stretched over it.

You were starting to feel weird as you tried to explain. “The main road is three miles down that driveway out there.” You vaguely pointed. “Unless you came through the woods. So I was just asking where were you attacked?”

Finally, she blinked. “On the road,” she blurted out. “I was… walking to my friend’s house on the road when this car stopped. And he got out and just… attacked me.” She started to shake again as she looked down at the blood all over her.

But you were still and silent. “Your friend’s house?”

Her eyes met yours, and you could see that chilling emptiness again.

You swayed your weight from one foot to another, trying to think out the entire situation before you spoke. “The nearest house in ten miles is abandoned.”

Her red brows sewed together in confusion, and for a moment you saw, through the blood on her face, that she was pretty. You wouldn’t find it strange for someone to target her.

“I��m confused,” she suddenly sobbed, an illegible cry escaping her throat as she covered her face. “I don’t know what happened.”

A flash of guilt shot through you. This girl is here bleeding out, obviously having just been attacked, and you’re questioning her. Sure, her story didn’t make sense, but you knew if you’d been randomly stabbed in the middle of nowhere, you wouldn’t be making much sense either. It’s possible that she was drugged or kidnapped or all of the above. She certainly didn’t look like she was from around here.

“Hey, hey,” you gently said, starting to reach out a hand to touch her shoulder but deciding against it. She was fully crying now. “It’s gonna be okay. I…” You took a deep breath and tried to be a better savior for this poor woman. “Look, I’ll get you some help, okay? We can take my car and take you to the nearest—”

“He’s following me!”

You stopped in the middle of your sentence. “What?”

“We can’t leave. He was following me as I got away from him…” She slowly turned her face to the window. “He could be out there right now…”

That paranoia boiled within you again. On one hand, you thought it would be better to just risk it to get her the help she needs, but you knew that if someone were lurking out there, it would be just you versus him since this woman was in no condition to defend you.

“The Halloween Killer,” she murmured. “I think it was him.”

Dizziness swirled in your head as your brain shot back to the news report. The Halloween Killer… the police guessed that he would be going out of city limits this year… You imagined the killer taking the nearest highway out of town which happened to be the one you lived by… Seeing a girl on the road… Maknig his first victim of the night… Except that he didn’t kill her. There was no way he would let a witness get away. Especially since she probably saw his face and his vehicle.

“Okay,” you breathed, rushing to the nearest lamp and turning it off. “We’ll wait for a while.” You turned off the kitchen light, the string lights, the range light. “We need to be quiet. If we don’t hear anything in… an hour… we can go.”

You walked back over to her, noticing that she was looking at her stomach.

“Can you wait that long?” you gently asked. “It looks like you bled a lot. Are you still bleeding?”

“I don’t know,” she weakly said. “I can’t tell.”

Biting your tongue, you thought for a moment. If you were going to make her wait an hour, the least you could do was clean her up a little. It was important to clean the wound, and if she was still bleeding, it looked like you needed to put pressure on it as soon as possible before she lost too much blood. You were already surprised she was still conscious with all that blood on her.

“I’ll be right back. Stay right here.”

You left for a moment to get the first aid kit, a rag, and a cup of water, and came back to find her in the same spot, her head leaned back on the couch cushion. Carefully, you sat down next to her with the rag in your hand, dipping it into the water. “We’ll clean you up a little so we know the damage,” you said, laughing at your attempt to sound professional and steady-headed.

“Thank you,” she croaked, turning to face you slowly on the couch. It was completely dark in your cabin now except for the little glare of moonlight that came through the curtains. It felt a little too close, sitting in the dark with her on your tiny couch, and it felt even more close when you started to wipe away the blood on her face with your rag.

“You’re welcome,” you said. “I’m sorry I’m not the best person to come running to for help,” you said with a little laugh.

Her lips curled into a smile, and you felt your heart murmur at how pretty she was. As you wiped away the blood on her face, wondering if she had a head injury to account for her confusion and the blood on her face, you saw that she was actually strikingly beautiful. It made you a little hot, sitting there so close to someone who looked like that.

“Okay…” you said when her face was all clean, now looking at the front of her blood-soaked shirt, hesitating. “Um—”

Without speaking, she rolled up the hem of her shirt to show the flat expanse of her abdomen that was blotted with dark blood. Worried that you would freak out at the sight of stab wound, you very carefully and tensely cleaned away the blood on her stomach, rewetting the rag in the bowl of water which was now murky red.

You always hated how ignorant you could be sometimes.

It wasn’t until you had wiped her entire abdomen clean that it dawned on you.

There were no stab wounds. Not a cut or a scratch.

Nothing felt real suddenly. Confused, you looked up at her.

The deeply malicious look on her face jarred you so suddenly you almost slipped off the couch, stumbling to your feet. Your ankle slammed against the coffee table as you backed away.

Her eyes were staring at you evilly, her lip set in a smirk. You suddenly felt small, tiny, helpless, stupid. So stupid!

“Is this the part where they say trick or treat?” the woman asked now in a gruff voice as she slowly stood up, looking suddenly a lot taller than she did at the door. You also noticed now a bulge in the sleeve of her shirt.

Wanda straightened her arm down at her side, letting the long, bloodied knife slide out of her sleeve, catching the long handle when it touched her palm. She held the knife up expertly, the moonlight glinting off of it.

This was one of her best tricks yet. There’d been times where she had to hide in the closet of the home of a victim, or in the backseat of their car, or she’d even had to follow them several blocks down before striking, but she’d never made herself so intimate with someone she was going to kill before, besides the ones that sparked out of intentional sexual encounters. Wanda had always been more of a grab and slash kind of serial killer, looting their belongings afterwards and moving right on to the next one. But this time, this girl… she was lingering.

You were just so pretty. Pretty girls were Wanda’s weakness, especially when they were vulnerable. And my, how you were vulnerable.

“All alone out in these woods,” Wanda whispered as you both just stood staring at each other, her at your face, you at her knife. “You never thought that one day the big bad wolf would come knocking?”

The fear in your eyes was delectable to her. You’d been so easy to trick. You almost caught her about the friend’s house—she’d been so distracted thinking of all the things she was going to do to you that she slipped up. She blanked.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whispered, raising your hands up like someone who was just caught by the police for vandalism. “I won’t do anything—I—I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’d hope not,” Wanda interrupted you. “If my plans go accordingly, which they will, which they always do, you will be in no state to do anything or speak to anyone. Ever.” Wanda grinned, chuckling at the way your fingers shook in the moonlight.

The Halloween Killer. You cursed yourself. You also cursed your luck. What were the chances the killer would decide to find you that night?

You realized then that the blood on her shirt was not hers. It was whoever else she had just murdered before coming to you. You were just another life to tick off her quota.

You thought of your knife on the counter. The woman stared at you with a cold, dead look, coupled with the look of enjoyment. She was enjoying this.

You hesitated for a moment before deciding that taking your chances was better than having no chance at all. You jumped over to the kitchen, reached over the counter, and had your fingers on the handle when you felt her warm body slam you against the counter, her hand reaching easily over you and slapping the knife away.

“No!” you involuntarily cried out as you watched the knife slide off the counter and drop to the other side of the floor.

“Bad girl,” Wanda grunted, and you felt the woman’s hands grab your hips. She pressed you harder into the counter, her hips flush against your bottom, grabbing a fistful of your hair and slamming your face down on the hard, cold counter.

“Ah!” you cried as your head slammed into the rock-hard surface, dizzying you. She had you completely bent over the counter, pressing herself into you and holding your head down on the counter with blinding pressure.

“I won’t lie that I like the challenge of putting up a fight,” she whispered, resting her fist that held the knife against the small of your back. “But I’d rather you make it easy for both of us.”

“Get away from me!” you screamed, feeling your cheeks go red hot as your animalistic instincts to survive kicked in.

“Shhhh sh sh,” the woman shushed right into your ear, making you jump at how close she was now, her body laid over on top of yours, her lips pressing right into the soft skin of your ear. “Hush, baby,” she cooed, and the sound made the entire side of your face burn hot. “I’m not going to really hurt you. I’m not that much of a sadist.”

Suddenly, you could feel something really cold on the back of your thigh. The tip of her knife pressed softly into the tender flesh of the back of your thigh, dragging slowly upwards. It caught the hem of your skirt, dragging it upwards and exposing you.

You whined and squirmed, to which she pressed herself harder down on you. The edge of the counter was pressing into your tummy so hard you could barely breathe.

“Now, stop moving, you’ll hurt yourself,” she husked against the space behind your ear, and you shivered at the way your body reacted. You were trembling under her, helpless and confused as the tip of her knife pressed harder into your thigh.

You let out a long cry when she let the knife slice your soft skin, engraving a slash right below your butt cheek.

“Oopsie,” she murmured as she breathed heavily into your ear, her fingers dragging your blood around the back of your thigh. “Sorry about that, you’re just the prettiest one I’ve ever had.” You could feel her smirk against your ear. “I hated how I had to branch out this Halloween, but if I get you, it’s all worth it. I can go right on home—stop moving!”

She grabbed your hip tightly, and your body reacted in the worst way possible. You arched for her, exposing your rear end to her hips even more.

“That’s it,” she said with an air of shock that made you hate yourself. “See? I don’t mind you enjoying it—in fact I want you to.”

Her hand suddenly came down hard on your ass, making you squeak and jump. Your body was hot all over, throbbing against the coolness of the counter, your mind a complete mess.

“Let’s see you,” Wanda said, lifting your skirt fully over your ass to expose it in the moonlight. You felt her finger grab the back strap of your panties and tug them down. Your face grew hot in embarrassment as even you could feel how wet you were. This strange murderer had untapped something inside you that was making you spiral against that counter.

“I knew you were perfect,” she whispered as her fingers touched you, making you jump and whine, swimming in your soaking folds. She laughed against your upper back, her hand roaming over your ass and squeezing it before going back to your pussy, slowly pressing a finger in. You could feel both the blood from the cut and the wetness from your core dripping down your thighs.

Wanda grunted, feeling lost in you. In your fear, your body under hers, the control. This was the best kill she had, and she hadn’t even killed you yet.

“Such a tight little thing, I almost want to keep you.” She pulled out her finger, and you hated yourself for feeling empty because of it. Then you felt something foreign and hard against your entrance, panicking as it pushed into you. She harshly grabbed your hair and slammed your head down again, and that was enough to weaken you.

Your insides throbbed and tingled as she pushed the handle of her knife slowly inside you, grunting at the way you stretched around it. It was a nice knife, thick blade. “You’re taking it so well.”

You squirmed helplessly on the counter, starting to sweat as the woman pushed the knife handle deeper inside you. You could feel it pushing against your cervix, and your legs trembled.

“It’s okay to feel good, you dirty little thing,” Wanda whispered, both a praise and a degradation that made you whimper. You were wordless, mindless, under this killer’s hands and body, and the last part of you that remained subconscious wondered what would’ve happened if you never opened the door.

She pulled the handle almost all the way out before slamming it inside you again. You feared feeling the blade, but you didn’t. She pumped the handle inside you over and over again, soft at first before that clawing inside of her head got the better of her.

“Good girl,” she breathed against the back of your neck, biting into it as she slammed her knife inside you. “That’s it. Stay still.”

You heard a zipper unzip, and the sound of denim shifting, before you felt the warmth of her core pressing into your left cheek. Grabbing the back of your neck with one hand, the other ramming the handle of her knife into your pussy repeatedly, Wanda grinded her clit against your ass, shoving you against the counter over and over again. She was so helpless, so overwhelmed with both intensifying hunger and relief that she just needed to get off. Her cum smeared over the hill of your ass as she rutted herself against it, listening to the wonderful squeaks and whines you made.

“Fuck,” Wanda whispered as she got close, watching the cum-soaked handle of her knife fuck harder into you as she got closer. “Mmmm,” she grunted animalistically as she felt the edge near her.

You clawed helplessly at the counter, your walls spasming around the ribbed handle until finally you couldn’t take it anymore, your hot face pressing hard into the cold, sweaty counter as you came around the handle of her knife. She rutted harder into you as you heard her vague sounds of orgasm, the tip of her knife accidentally making shallow stabs in your inner thighs as she lost control of how she angled the knife.

“Oh fuck,” Wanda breathed as she slowed down, and you were lost under her, your brain far gone and body farther, trembling, thighs bloodied. Wanda hadn’t even noticed that she ripped so hard into the back of your neck that it was bleeding.

Controlled psychopathy. Load of shit.

Pulling out of you, Wanda pulled away and turned your limp body over, looking at your reddened, tear-streaked face. You were such a pretty little thing. A diamond hidden out in the forest. It was a shame she’d stumbled across you that night. If it had been any other night, she would’ve kept you—courted you, even. She could tell you’d make such a good girlfriend to her.

“Well,” Wanda whispered, gently stroking your sweat-soaked hair out of your face. “That was great. I really enjoyed that,” she said softly, almost like a person with real emotions, and for a moment she had almost felt like one.

Controlled psychopathy.

“But I’m afraid I’m going to enjoy this even more.”

The last thing you saw was the flash of her blade as it came down on you.

[cyberrose2001]

I hate TF One sentinel so much.

I fucking hate him.

I hate him so much I wanna see this mech a whimpering teary mess underneath me after overloading more than he can take.

I want him overstimulated and trembling. venting hard as he is forced to cum again. Tied down and obedient to no one else but me. Him on his knees begging for release.

I hate him so much I wanna see him pathetic and whipped for pussy or spike. Hell make him whipped for both. Go wild.

TF:One Sentinel Prime x Human Reader

okay so i had a couple ideas but this is the one i went with. essentially sentinel using you to make his dick look bigger so he can stroke his ego, but keeps it a secret. to which you find pathetic and of great value (aka to keep living it up rich giant alien robot style)

also go easy on me!! slowly learning how to write for the universe (as alot of people probably are)

Warnings: TF:ONE SPOILERS, Cybertronian/Human, Dom/Sub Elements, Humiliation/Degradation, Bondage, Face Sitting/Cunnilingus, Cream Pies, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation

Word Count: 1707

18+ ONLY MINORS DNI

For a species that's so highly advanced compared to your own, you'd think there would be far more disunities. After all, this planet wasn't made for you. But despite this Olympic-sized hurdle, most of the Cybertronians seemed curious about you. A little human, freshly birthed compared to the universe's timeline itself, bought to Cybertron by their ventures.

It's taken a lot to get used to. But the primal urge associated with human nature seems omnipresent, as you have learned.

Sentinel Prime. The lord and master of Cybertron had his curiosity peaked. He initially took you in as a novelty, a mere collector's item to show off as a display of acceptingness between Cybertronians and Humans—a symbiotic relationship between two species.

At least, that's what he tells them. Yet another lie for him to cover up for the masses.

"You're such a fucking sellout, Sentinel."

A liar he may be, but his trembling form and the whines of your name speak truthfully. And with all the queries of your purpose on this planet, one thing is sure.

Sentinel Prime can't get enough of human nature.

And you're determined to squeeze every last drop of that precious information.

In the lavish and very private penthouse of his tower overlooking Iacon City, Sentinel Prime kneels before you on the berth. Though at eye level, the balance of power remains clear. Ropes of golden silk tie his arms behind his back, connecting to the ones adorning his thighs, keeping them embarrassingly wide open. He can't count how often he's been in this position before, but he learns something new about your little fleshy body each time.

"Yeah, I know." Sentinel wriggles against the ropes despite having no intention of escaping from them, "B-But I have an image to upkeep, you know that."

"Oh, an image! I see," Gripping the kibble on his chin, you pull him closer, to which he flinches, "Because the only image I see is you popping a boner over a little fleshy like me. Now, wouldn't that cause a stir, hm?"

Sentinel grits his dentae, his faceplates heating up at the proximity. He says nothing, knowing that he could dig himself a deeper hole. But he's already too deep, so much so that he could be tried in court for inappropriate relations with organic species. Or worse, he could have the title of 'Prime' stripped away from him.

But he can't deny it. He's so turned on by your soft skin pressing against him that it almost makes him sob, spike standing erect right in front of you. Deliciously throbbing and angry, ripe for your taking.

"On your back, I mean it." You push against his chassis, and he flops backward, grunting as the winds knocked out of him. Your little form climbs atop him, but you don't stop at his spike. You keep climbing until you're standing on his chassis.

"Wh- What are you doing?" Sentinel questions, his voice strained. He watches as you straddle his face and push your cunt against his intake, a pleasant surprise to Sentinel.

"I'm gonna put that lying tongue of yours to good use," You moan, wiggling your hips against his glossa, "Ever tasted human pussy before? Because it's about time you did."

Sentinel grunts as you grind your hips against his face. Though tiny, you're still enough to take his breath away. The sweet, earthly, deliciously human scent fills his olfactory sensors, and he dives in with the first lap at your folds. It's new to him, soft and plush against his glossa. He doesn't even need a second taste to confirm that he's already addicted.

A soft gasp leaves you as Sentinel essentially makes out with your pussy, moving from opened-mouthed kisses to flicks at your clit. You sit down further on him, causing his glossa to push into you forcefully. The ridges massage along your walls and make you see stars, filling you perfectly, making it hard to believe you had no trouble taking his spike. But you won't tell him that. It's far too much fun to humiliate him and make him putty between your thighs instead.

"Is that the best you can do, Sentinel?"

The Prime whines into your flesh as his glossa works double time, "Pfflease..." He takes a breath before he laps at your clit again, rubbing and grinding with the help of your hips.

"What was that? I can't hear you." Your dominant side gets the better of you, and you deviously shift your hips up, hovering just shy above his saturated dermas, "Say it again."

"Please- I can't- I need you to fuck me-" Sentinel whimpers, wincing as his spike painfully throbs. It's all getting too much for poor Sentinel, "I need your valve-" He cranes his neck in a poor attempt to lick at you once again but whines when you pull away from him entirely.

"I can't believe you, Sentinel. You can hardly wait five minutes? How disappointing." You lean closer, "But I won't say no. I hope your spike can perform better than that tongue of yours."

You slide back down his frame, smiling at Sentinel's soft, frustrative growls. You straddle him again, his spike standing tall between your thighs. It only reaches past your navel, and a thought occurs as you gaze upon the pretty biolights.

He must have the smallest one on Cybertron; no wonder his ego's so big.

And no wonder he prefers to fuck a human and keep it a secret.

"You're so hard for me, Sentinel, aren't you?"

"Y-Yes. Only you." Sentinel heaves his chest, still worked up from eating you out. He watches tentatively as you line yourself up, the weeping tip of his spike just pressing against the threshold. He arches his back against the restraints as his spike is engulfed in your heat, biting back a sob of relief.

"Good," You press your hips down agonisingly slow, hands pressed against his abdomen for support, "Keep still, or I won't let you finish."

You sink the rest of the way, planting your ass on his pelvis. The unrelenting fullness causes a shaky breath to whistle past your lips, but you suppress a moan. Sentinel whines, already trembling against the ropes. He tries to roll his hips up into you, but a taut squeeze of your walls halts him in his tracks.

"Do you not listen? I said stay still." You growl through your teeth. Rolling your hips forward, you create a rhythm that has Sentinel crying out. He has no control, not with his servos tied behind him, nothing to grab onto as you start to bounce ruthlessly on his throbbing spike. His helm lulls back in pleasure and hopelessness as he's forced inside you again and again.

"Ah- Ah!! Y-Y/n! I'm gonna-" Sentinel mewls, clenching his optics shut, his chest heaving once again on the cusp of an embarrassingly early overload.

You keep bouncing despite your breathing becoming laboured, fueled by the desire to see Sentinel come undone and beg for your mercy, "Yeah? You gonna cum, Sentinel? Show me how much- guh- how much you love human pussy?"

"Y-Yes! Oh, Primus yes-" Sentinel gasps, arching his back struts as you slam down on his spike, "I love it- ohhn- I love your organic valve so much-"

A raw, sinful cry wracks his frame, shuddering as he pumps his transfluids into you. The warm, suspiciously glowing fluid leaks and spurts out, causing a shiver down your spine.

"My oh my, Sentinel, that was fast." You moan softly, slowly circling your hips, "Not only are you pathetic, but you're pathetic and don't last long in bed."

Sentinel whines wearily at the extra stimulation, "Sorry- nghh- I just can't help it- AHhn!-"

You don't let him finish his sentence. Instead, you lift your hips and slam your hips back down, sending transfluids all over his pelvis. You work yourself up to a back-breaking rhythm, determined to keep your promise to make him beg for mercy. You watch in fascination as Sentinel starts to thrash against the restraints, and how he bares his dentae at you, how that disgustingly handsome face belonging to a mech at your mercy begins to contort in overwhelming pleasure.

"F-Fuck, Sentinel-" Double entendre. You keep going, fingers digging into his hip plating to prevent being thrown off. The wet, sloppy noises of metal meeting flesh spark a deep heat within the pits of your stomach.

He keeps thrashing against you as he cries and howls your name, his hips pressing into the berth to try and escape the overstimulation. He tries to form words, but all that leaves him is an incoherent babble of pleads and whines for you to stop. He overloads again, crying and tugging at the restraints, another gush of warmth spilling into you.

"C'mon, Sentinel-" You moan, your thighs trembling from the workout of holding the mech down. Your cunt aches at the prolonged stretch, but you're determined once again to draw one last overload from him. You reach down and start to circle your clit, hoping to breach your orgasm, "G-Gimme one more, and I'll stop."

"P-Primus below-" Sentinel clenches his optics shut as your pussy strangles his spike, his hips stuttering. The tightness of your walls lurches him forward as he shoots another load into you.

"Fuck yes!" You give him a show of your own and arch your back, finally reaching your orgasm. You cry out and clench down, causing more trans fluid to spill out from you. A soft, exhausted whine leaves you once you're left in the afterglow.

What a mess. Layers of sticky trans fluid coat your thighs and Sentinels' pelvis, the dull throbbing of an overworked spike still seated inside you. It's a horrific sight to walk in on if anyone were to, but maybe they should, if only to expose Sentinel for the filthy fleshy fucker he is.

Looking up, you're met with a shamelessly erotic mess of the Prime. His faceplates painted blue, his glossa lulling out of his intake, the heavy heaving of his chest plates—the face of a liar couldn't be more irresistible.

You chuckle to yourself, whipping out a small data pad and snapping a picture.

"How's that for an image, Sentinel?"

[monstersflashlight]

Commission for anon

A/N: This is a part 2 of this other commission.

On the edge

Minotaur (Ambrose) x fem!reader || dom/sub, edging, exhibitionism, dirty talk, humiliation (light), degradation, size kink, phone sex, sex toys

“My co-worker really liked your pic,” he said nonchalantly as you prepared a sandwich.

He was sitting in front of you on the kitchen island, and you bet he could hear your heart going crazy inside your chest at his words. You knew he was teasing you the same way you were teasing him. You were more than aware of what pic he meant. The pic you sent him from your work mirror with your shirt up and your tits out, the one you specifically took for him. To tease him. To drive him wild.

“Wa-what?” You stuttered, your brain stopping for a second at his words.

He was eating as he spoke. “You decided to be a little slut and send me dirty pics in the middle of the day, so when the pic arrived I was showing him something on my phone and he saw it.” Your whole body was vibrating with anticipation, there was an edge to his voice and you couldn’t place the meaning. But he kept talking. “He complimented your tits, which I agreed on because they looked magnificent with those pretty piercings I did,” he kept munching on his snack like your pussy wasn’t getting drenched across the island, your hands trembling as the idea of somebody seeing your dirty pic made you hornier than expected. “And then I come home to you dressing like that…” He looks you up and down over the counter.

You almost kept silent, but your inner brat couldn’t stop itself. “Like what?”

“Don’t play coy now, sunshine. Do you think I haven’t noticed you wearing all those short shirts around me lately? Are you expecting me to fuck you every chance I get?” His smirk was teasing and your pussy was already so wet you couldn’t stop yourself from rubbing your tights together trying to get some friction. “Maybe I should… Maybe I should make you my cock-slave and fuck you whenever and wherever I wanted.” You choked on a breath, a tiny whimper escaping your mouth as you grabbed the counter with all your strength. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that, such a little brat who gets tongue tied every time she’s horny enough…”

He walked to you, his hoofs making an ominous sound as he stepped into your personal space. His big hands found your face and he pressed your cheeks made your lips pucker. He leaned down for a peck, and you followed him, trying to deepen the kiss. He just chuckled as you groaned low and needy.

“Always so greedy…” He patted your head, making you preen under the touch. “I’m leaving, now. See you later.” And then he turned around and left you staring at his ass.

“Wha- what?!” You half screamed, running after him to the door.

He turned around as he was putting on a jacket, his sweatpants looking indecent against the bulge in his pants. “I have a tattoo appointment, will be back for dinner. Be good,” he reminded you as he left.

It took you less than five minutes to stop being good. You didn’t want to be good. He made you all needy and desperate with his dirty talk and then left you hanging. That was very rude of him, he deserved to be teased, he deserved to be shown what he was missing because he went to work instead of fucking you against the kitchen counter.

So you laid on the sofa and took a couple more dirty pics to send to him. The pose was basic, but you made sure your dripping pussy was framed prettily as your finger rubbed over your clit. It looked obscene against your screen and you had to hit send before you blushed so hard all your brain blood went to your cheeks. You weren’t exactly shy about being naughty, but sometimes you still had a bit of doubt about sending him dirty pics, but he always appreciated them, so you kept doing it.

Not even two seconds after the pic was sent, his name flashed against your screen with an incoming call. You picked up, biting your lip, trying to stop the giggle from escaping. “What are you doing, sunshine?” You could hear voices in the background, he was probably entering the shop, not far away from your house.

“No-nothing. Just sending my boyfriend some pics, can’t I do that?” You tried to sound innocent, but you knew your tone was only bratty. And his responding grunt confirmed it.

“Oh, yes, sunshine, of course you can do that.” His voice was sugar sweet and a shiver ran down your spine. You knew what that tone meant. It meant you were in trouble, and you couldn’t contain your anticipation, your whole body shivering. “Now, now… If you are so eager to be a slut, I want you to go to our room and grab that pretty dildo I bought you, the one with the remote control.” You knew which one he meant, the one he could control from his phone, the one that made you cum so hard you sprayed the wall across the bed as you showered him in your juices.

“And what if I don’t want to?” You asked instantly.

He chuckled, amused by your bratty-ness. “Then you’d be adding punishments to your future.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Ambrose,” you teased, the smirk on your face so big you could hear it in your tone.

“Come on, sunshine, go take that vibrator and I’ll play with your pussy as I tattoo my client. Wouldn’t you like that? Knowing I’m hard as I put ink in somebody’s skin? Knowing you are at home panting and getting wetter and wetter for my cock?” His words were indecent.

“O-okay,” you finally accepted, getting up and walking into the room slowly. You took out the vibrator and laid down on the bed, legs open as you played with your pussy with the toy. You pushed it inside slowly, enjoying the burn of the plastic.

You could hear some fabric moving across the phone and his next words did catch you off guard: “Open the pic I just sent you, sunshine, I want you to know what you do to me with your slutty attitude and your dirty pics.” Your heart skipped a beat as you fumbled with your phone to open the chat.

Right there in your phone was a pic of him sitting down on the floor, in front of a big mirror, and his dick was clear as day inside his sweatpants, framed by his big hand. Before you could even answer with words, a low groan left your mouth.

The air left your lungs. “Fuck,” was the only word that you could muster. He looked like sex on a stick, well… more like he had a huge stick you wanted to lick.

“Is the vibrator inside of you already?” You hummed an affirmative, trying to focus on his voice and not the feeling of fullness inside your pussy. You whimpered softly.

“Are you okay, sunshine?” He asked bemusedly. “Let me hear you. Whimper like a little slut in heat for me.” You tried to remain quiet, to close your mouth as much as possible, but when he turned the vibrations up, you couldn’t hold yourself back. “Just like that… Such pretty sounds coming out your slutty mouth.” He turned on the vibrator inside your pussy, making you cry out again. “Maybe I should put on the speaker so everyone can hear how much of a slut you are for me, would you like that? Would you like them to hear you… again?” You panted. “Of course you’d like that, such a nasty little thing you are…” You cried out his name. “It's what you want, right? For everyone to know how absolutely desperate you are for my minotaur dick?"

He played with the intensity for a bit, turning it up and down until you were sweaty and panting. You could hear him breathing hard just by hearing you, and the fact that he was turned on by that only made things hotter for you.

“My client is outside, so you are going to be a good girl and stuff your panties in your mouth to be quiet as I tattoo them. You’ll be on speaker so you better behave. It’s a tiny thing, so it will be over soon.” You did as you were told, reaching to grab your soaked panties and stuffing them in your mouth. “You better hold yourself back from coming, sunshine, that orgasm is for me to claim, is that clear?” You whimpered around the fabric, the taste of your own juices driving you wild.

“Ngh,” was your only response as he turned the vibrations up a level.

And then he became merciless. You tried to remain calm and focused on the sound of the machine across the phone. But the low vibrations inside your pussy and all the scenarios building up in your brain were driving you insane. You couldn’t hold back the whimpers and a couple of groans.

It didn’t last long, just as he said, maybe around twenty minutes, but by the time he cleared his throat and you heard the client leaving, you were about to collapse. Your whole body was tense with the force of holding back the slow-build orgasm inside of you.

Then his voice made you focus a bit. “I’m done, sunshine. You did so well, my client only heard you moan a couple times, but they liked it. I could see it in their eyes. They liked how naughty you were being, how slutty you sounded…” You groaned again and he laughed. “Just like that, such a good slutty human for me.” He turned down the vibrations and you whimpered, begging for more. "In a second. First, send me a pic of your pussy stretching around that pretty vibrator. This time I might keep it to myself.” Or he might show it to others was left in the air and it only made you hotter.

You did as you were told and positioned your phone in the right angle to show him everything. All ideas of embarrassment were left behind a long time ago, when he first started edging you and you weren’t so desperate your eyes were teary. (You made sure your teary eyes were out of the picture, not wanting him to see how badly you needed to come.)

You could hear him cursing across the phone when the pic arrived. He said something to somebody you couldn’t hear, but next phrase left you shivering: “I’m coming home. You better not come before I get there, good luck sunshine,” he said as he turned the vibrator to full intensity. You screamed his name, and you heard his hoofs against the pavement as he ran.

Normally it was a good fifteen minutes of walk from the tattoo parlor to your house, and you didn’t know if you could hold back that much. You were almost tempted to stop the vibrator, to pull it out, but deep down you knew you wouldn’t do that. You wanted him to find you like that, you wanted to be good for him.

Luckily for you, he was as eager as you were, because soon after, you heard the front door opening as you screamed his name again. Your brain was unfocused. You could barely understand what was happening anymore, all your body was focused on a single point: your filled pussy.

The bedroom door opened, finally, as you were teary eyed and panting around the gag. Ambrose only smiled at you, taking his phone out of his pocket. “Say cheese, sunshine.” You looked at him just in time for him to take a pic of your desperate self squirming on the mattress, your pussy still stretched around the vibrator as he turned the intensity up a notch.

He approached the bed, taking off the panties and kissing your messy cheek as you whimpered. He laughed as you begged him to let you come. “Please, please, please…”

And then Ambrose pulled out the vibrator.

“Oh, sunshine…” His tone was so condescending you would have snapped at him if you weren’t completely on edge. “You look so pathetic right now, such a greedy little hole all hungry. Do you want to come? Is that so?” You whimpered something you hoped he knew was an affirmative. “How unlucky of you… Your punishment has just started.”

“Wha-what?” Your brain wasn’t comprehending anything he was saying. All your neurons were focused in the urging heat in your lower region. You were so close you could almost taste the orgasm. “But you…” You tried to argue, but he cut you.

“You are not coming tonight,” he pushed the vibrator against your clit and you cried out, chanting his name as your eyes blacked out and your body thrashed against the bed. But he already said it, he wasn’t going to let you come.

Fuck.

Reminder that you can commission me here (info here) or suscribe to my "Monster fucker" tier on Patreon to get a commission (info here).

[st4rfckerz]

Farmboy | Farmhand!Anakin Skywalker x Farmers!daughter

word count: 4.1k

warnings: MDNI 18+, oral (male receiving), face fucking (if you squint), unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, slow(ish) buildup, not proofread

summary: Anakin is your family's farmhand and after inviting him to dinner, you can't keep your hands to yourself

Your family owned a farm out West, not far from the outskirts of town. It was quiet, as farms often are. The land was hilly, rolling out as far as you could see. The sun was shining, and the blue sky was bright with few clouds in it. The sound of horses and the wind rustling through the trees was all you heard. The air was crisp, and there was a slight tang of wildflowers.

Anakin was one of the farmhands that your family had hired a few months ago, a man who was quiet but skilled. As one of their hired hands, he was responsible for helping with the maintenance of the farm's livestock and machinery. His primary role was to ensure everything ran smoothly, which meant keeping the animals fed and watered while fixing broken machinery when needed.

It was midday when you approached him in the garden shed with a worried expression on your face. "Ani, I need your help. The sheep pen collapsed, and I can't find any tools nearby." Panic was evident in your voice, hinting at the potential consequences of leaving the sheep unattended for too long. Anakin followed you back to the dimly lit barn and you found the sheep wandering around their stalls, bleeting softly.

"I see," he muttered looking at the pen, he glanced over where the sheep were grazing. "I hope nothing else broke." he says under his breath, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of damage. He walked forward, whistling for the sheep that were scattered, and they came to him. He began leading them towards their pen, some were very fussy about it and didn’t want to go, yet he remained calm and gentle.

"Don't worry, I'll fix it," Anakin assured you, stepping over the fence and rummaging through the debris left by the fallen wood.

"You need me to help with anything?" you stand near him awkwardly, not sure what to do.

“Nope. I got it under control,” He said calmly, continuing to lead the sheep. You admired his patience and his ability to stay so level headed. "You can just sit there and look pretty while I get this done." Anakin shoots you a slick smile that makes your insides turn a little.

"I won't be bothering you?" you ask as you sit down on a bale of hay.

"You won't be bothering me at all sweetheart," He says, his eyes traveled over your body and he smirked at you. "You can be my moral support." He leans against the aged wall of the barn. His stance was relaxed, very casual as he was being nonchalant, but with you he was a little different. Something about you made him like this.

Anakin couldn't help but notice how good you looked in their simple dress, its hemline brushing against your thighs, revealing just enough skin to drive him wild. The sunset cast a warm, golden light over your body, creating a delicate glowy outline around your figure. It was almost like the sun was wrapping itself around you.

"You know you could stay for supper if you'd like," you suggest, breaking the silence of the barn. "I'm sure my folks won't mind." He watched as you leaned back on the bale of hay, and he couldn't help but notice your dress riding up a little. It was a small thing to notice, but he saw it.

Your dress wasn't that short, by any means, but the way it rode up on your legs was enough to make Anakin notice you. His gaze drifted down to your legs, and back up to your face.

"Oh I don't know, I don't wanna intrude or anything-" You smiled and cut him off, stopping him in his tracks.

"Please Ani? Just this once?" You walked over to him, and with that sweet tone in your voice, you were playing him like a fiddle. It was clear that your invitation was genuine, you wanted him to stay so you could keep his company. He smiled at you and looked away from your eyes for a moment. When he looked back at you, he was slightly speechless. The words were caught in his throat, and he couldn't speak, he wasn't used to someone that could make him flustered.

"Well, alright I s'pose I could join you." Anakin smiles. "What's mama bear fixin' up tonight?"

he smirked at you, his expression was playful, but you could tell he was serious. You laughed lightly at the silly nickname he often uses for you mother.

“She’s making beef stew, with biscuits. All from scratch, too.” you explain. "And there's fresh apple pie for dessert." His smile showed he was interested, and he couldn't help but admire your beauty. You looked like a little doll, with sweet doe eyes that could disarm any man.

"Then I'll be there." His voice had a masculine yet flirty quality to it, and it sent shivers down your spine. It was like music to your ears.

"Good, I'll see you later farmboy." You tease, knocking his hip with your own as you walked past him. You felt his eyes devouring you whole, looking at your sweet face and the sway of your hips.

As he continues to fix the pen, he can't help but think about the upcoming dinner. He's never had dinner with you and your family before, so he wondered how it would go. He didn't know if he'd be welcome, but you said they wouldn't mind, and you're pretty much like a little princess in their eyes so it shouldn't go wrong at all.

The evening rolled around, you were sitting at the table waiting for him, ready for the dinner to begin. Your family was already seated around the table, discussing various things. They all seemed pretty jovial, and you could hear the occasional laughter, as well as bits of conversation.

You looked around and expected to see Anakin walking through the door at any second, yet he was a bit late which was out of character for him.

Just as you thought he might've bailed last minute, Anakin's voice draws your attention towards the door, where he was finally walking in. His expression had a hint of embarrassment, since he was later than he thought he'd be. He had a shy yet sheepish look on his face, as if he expected you or your family to reprimand him.

"Sorry," he said quietly, looking at you, "I'm a bit late."

"Ani! I was afraid you flaked out on us." you joke as you abruptly got up from your seat to greet him. When Anakin saw you get up and come closer to him, he was initially confused as to why. But then you envelope him in a tight hug, catching him completely off guard. He didn't know how to respond, as he was taken aback by your show of affection.

"No, I'd never do a thing like that." he responds.

He hugged you back, his hands squeezing you tightly as you felt his body pressing against yours. He was caught by surprise, and he didn't expect you to show any affection. His body stiffened up as you hugged him, as he remained still.

However, he felt a wave of warmth rush through him and it caused him to relax into the hug. He wrapped his arms around you, feeling a new feeling of closeness between you both.

"Come eat, there's plenty of food." You let go of the embrace, but you still keep your hands on him, dragging him to the seat right next to you. He didn't hesitate to follow you, nor did he show any opposition. You both sit down, with you being right next to Anakin. You pull yourself slightly close to him, close enough that he could feel it.

Anakin's eyes look up at your father, his expression showing a bit of anxiety. Your father smiles warmly at him, and welcomes him to the table. Anakin smiles back in response, looking down at the table a bit. Your father proceeds to sit down, as does the rest of your family. The dinner proceeds like normal, everyone engaging in conversation with one another.

"So Anakin, how's everything been?" your father asks, his aged, gravelly voice booming throughout the room.

"I've been quite fine sir, same old news." Anakin says, smiling a bit as he takes a bite from his biscuit.

"Anakin fixed the sheep pen today." The conversation shifts as you interject, causing Anakin's attention to look up. Your words get everyone's attention, as they all look at Anakin, who is sitting to the side.

"Oh, did he?" your father says, looking at him. Anakin's ears pick up, and he looks over towards you. Your father continues, "I'm sure the sheep are happy." He blushes slightly, nodding his head humbly as he looks at your dad.

Your mother pipes up with her own question, pointing the discussion in another direction.

"So Anakin, what do you do in your free time?"

Anakin answers, keeping his tone relaxed and level.

"Nothin' too special really," he says, taking a few moments to respond, "Just hang around, or fix things. Y'know how it is." He's cordial, polite, and has a soft attitude.

He treats you with respect, yet his attention keeps flicking back towards you again and again, as if he was drawn to your charms. You felt as if you were a magnet to him, as he always looked over at you after he said anything.

As you lean forward to grab the salt, your fingers brush against Anakin's thigh under the table, a subtle gesture that sends a thrill through both of you. He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He knows exactly what you're doing. You quickly return to your seat, trying to hide your flushed cheeks under the low light.

"The food is really good mom." you smile sweetly at her. While you speak, your fingers graze along Anakin's growing bulge under the table, a subtle hint of your growing attraction.

Anakin's eyes meet yours for a brief moment, he swallows hard, trying to maintain his composure as he continues the conversation. The tension between you two is palpable, yet unnoticed by the rest of the family.

Dinner comes to an end, and your mother presents a homemade apple pie for dessert. The family cheers in appreciation, and you can't help but smile at the delicious aroma wafting through the room. The scent of apple pie creates a cozy atmosphere that wraps around you like a warm blanket. Anakin compliments your mother on the meal, his eyes never straying far from yours.

As everyone digs into the apple pie, you feel Anakin's hand gently slide in between your thighs under the table. You try your hardest to suppress the smile creeping onto your face, the connection between you two growing stronger with each passing moment. The dessert is sweet, but it's nothing compared to the warmth you feel inside.

When you finish eating your piece of pie, you stand up and gather your plate and utensils, turning to head towards the kitchen sink. Anakin follows closely behind. You work side by side, the clinking of dishes echoing through the kitchen.

Anakin's hands are large and rough from farm work, but they move gracefully as he washes the dishes. He looks at you, his expression calm but also full of appreciation.

"It was nice having dinner with your family." he tells you, "thanks for inviting me over."

You give him a smile and use a nearby towel to wipe your hands. "It was no problem, they enjoyed your company." He smiles back, his jaw firm but his eyes showing that he was genuinely pleased.

Just as your family enters the kitchen with their now empty plates,  you lean in close to Anakin, your voice barely above a whisper. "Meet me in the barn in five minutes." you say, your eyes filled with anticipation. Anakin's gaze locks onto yours for a moment before he nods, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Your father approaches, engaging Anakin in conversation about the farm and the upcoming town festival. You turn to your mother, your cheeks flushed but your voice steady. "I'll be right back, I just need to check on the chicken coop."

Your mother doesn't seem to suspect anything unusual since this was usually the time you'd check on the chickens anyway. "Take your time, dear. We'll be in here for a bit longer." She waves you off, her smile warm and understanding.

You wait for everyone to settle down before slipping out of the house, making sure to lock the door behind you. The moonlit night casts a pearlescent glow over the yard, illuminating the path leading to the barn. You hurry inside, your heart racing with exhilaration.

Anakin watches you leave, his eyes never leaving yours as you exit the house. He knows what's coming next, and he can't help but feel a whirlwind of trepidation. The anticipation killing him, but he forces himself to continue the conversation with your father, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him.

Finally, your father finishes his glass of sweet tea and stands up, nodding goodbye to Anakin after he explains that he should be heading home.

The sound of crickets and distant frogs filled the air as Anakin walks towards the barn, his boots rustling against the grass beneath him. He approaches the old barn slowly, his heart racing faster than a stallion at the starting gate. He takes a deep breath before opening the door, the creak of the hinges echoing through the night. He called out your name softly, his voice tinged with anticipation. The barn is dimly lit, with the moonlight filtering in through the cracks in the wooden walls.

As he stepped inside, he felt a sense of relief wash over him. You were there, your eyes locked onto his.

"Hi." you say softly, your voice tinged with a hint of mischief. The barn feels smaller now, the air thick with tension. Your eyes lock onto each other, and the crickets chirping outside seem to grow louder. Anakin takes a step towards you, his confidence wavering only slightly.

"Hey," his tone is softer than normally, you could tell just from his voice he was nervous. His eyes are locked on you, scanning every inch of your body. "Your folks know you're in here?" he asks.

You shake your head, biting your lip to suppress your smile. "I told them I'm checking on the chickens." His eyebrow raises, a hint of amusement playing on his face.

Anakin clicks his tongue while shaking his head teasingly. "You shouldn't be lyin' to your parents sweetheart." He looks at you with a certain sparkle in his eyes, as if you made him feel special with a simple remark.

"Technically, I glanced over there when i was walking over here." you state matter-of-factly. Anakin steps closer to you, his fingers brushing the little strands of hair out of your face. His eyes never leaving yours. His touch is gentle, yet electric, making your heart race even faster. You step closer to him and you can't help but feel the pull between you two. The barn feels comforting and inviting, a secret haven away from the world.

"You look real pretty tonight." Anakin compliments sincerely, his hand still resting on your cheek. His thumb brushes against your jawline, sending shivers down your spine. You nuzzle your cheek against Anakin's big palm. "Thanks," you whisper, your voice barely audible in the silence of the barn.

Anakin's thumb traces a line along your lower lip, teasingly brushing against the corner of your mouth. His hand moves to your waist, his fingertips grazing the hem of your dress, sending electric currents through your body. Anakin leans in, pressing his lips against yours in a gentle peck. He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching for your reaction. Seeing your approval, he leans in again, this time with more intensity. His kiss is soft yet passionate, filled with a sense of longing.

The kiss intensifies, your lips pressing harder against each other, tongues dancing in a rhythm only you two understand. Anakin's hands slide into your hair, pulling you closer, his breath hitching in your mouth. You break the kiss, trailing your lips against the rough stubble along his jaw. He groans softly, his hand tightening on your hair.

"Been thinkin' about you all day," Anakin panted between breaths. He grips your waist to pull you impossibly closer as you continue to explore his neck with your lips. "You and that damn dress." His hands moved up to cup your breasts, massaging them roughly through the thin fabric of your dress.

You giggle softly, your teeth grazing lightly against his neck. "You're that worked up over a dress, Ani?" Anakin whines quietly in response, his hips desperately bucking in your direction. You pull back slightly, your eyes locked on Anakin's. His eyes widened in surprise as you suddenly dropped to your knees, your hands reaching for his belt buckle. He groaned, his hips rocking forward, his cock straining against his pants.

Your hands reach for the hem of his pants, slowly pulling them down, revealing his muscular thighs. You reach down further, your fingers brushing against the waistband of his underwear. With a quick tug, they fall to the ground revealing his thick cock, hard and ready just for you.

"You're killing me kid." He managed to croak out as you slowly wrap your hand around the base of his shaft, stroking it gently. You lean forward and kiss his angry red tip. It twitches in anticipation, leaking a small amount of precum onto your lip. Your tongue darts out, tentatively exploring the head of his cock, savoring the salty taste. You moan softly, your hands reaching down to cup his balls, massaging them gently.

Anakin's hands grip your hair tightly, his moans turning into groans of pleasure as you continue to tease him. "F-fuckin' hell," he growls, his hips rocking back and forth, pushing his cock further into your mouth. You stroke the part of him that doesn't fit into your mouth, your fingers gliding up and down his length. You can feel him twitching, his body trembling under your touch.

His cock pulses in your hand and his breaths come in ragged gasps. You gag slightly, your eyes watering, but you don't pull away. Instead, you take as much of him as you possibly can.

" 'M close- hold on, I'm- ah!" His cock twitches violently in your mouth, shooting a hot stream of cum down your throat. You swallow it unhesitatingly, eager to please him. Gazing up at Anakin, your eyes is fixed on his. He's panting heavily, his hands shaking slightly. His eyes are filled with admiration and desire. You can feel the heat of his gaze, and it makes you blush slightly.

"Come 'ere," he says, his voice hoarse. He pulls you to your feet, his lips crashing into yours. His tongue dances with yours, tasting himself on your tongue. His hands wandering over your body, cupping your ass and pulling you closer. As you kiss Anakin, you can feel him growing hard again, his cock pressing against your thigh. He slowly walks forward, guiding you towards the small tractor in the back of the barn. His lips never leave yours, his hands roaming over your body, exploring every inch. He moans into the kiss, slapping his big hand against the fat of your ass. "Turn around for me baby." he commands.

Anakin bends you over the tractor, and flips your dress up, exposing your pink cotton panties to him. He strokes the growing wet spot gently, his fingers grazing your bare skin.

"Jesus, she's practically dripping for me." he whispers, his voice filled with lust. His hands move to your panties, tugging them to the side, revealing your swollen, hot flesh. He licks his lips, his eyes locked onto your slobbering cunt. His cock pulses, ready to be inside you.

Anakin lines up his cock with your entrance, gently pushing in. You gasp, your body adjusting to his girth. He holds onto your hips, guiding himself inside you. He thrusts deeper, his cock filling you completely. You moan softly, your body quickly getting used to his size. "Thaaat's it, angel." he praises, his voice low and alluring. "Let me in."

His hips move slowly at first, his cock sliding in and out of you with ease. Your body responds, your cunt clenching around him, pulling him deeper. Anakin's breaths come in ragged gasps as he starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, each thrust sending you further onto the tractor.

You cry out as he sweetly rolls his abdomen, his cock hitting your sweet spot with each movement. The tractor creaks under your weight, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the barn.

"Takin' me so good baby." he growls, you can feel his cock stretching you, filling you completely.

"M-more Ani," you beg, your voice hoarse. "Need more-"

"Yeah? You want more?" he rasps, his hands gripping the back of your neck tightly. Anakin pulls you up by your neck and your back is now pressed against his chest. He thrusts harder, his cock hitting your G-spot with every movement. You yelp in surprise, your nails digging into the arm he has wrapped around your shoulders to keep your body flush against his. "There you go, you can take it, I know you can."

"Needy little girl," he teases, his voice thick with desire. "Just couldn't keep your hands off me at dinner, shit, could've bent you over that damn table and fucked you raw in front of your folks if I wanted to."

You moan, your head thrown back, your body moving with his. Your walls flutter around him when you hear his vulgar words.

He chuckles, his hands gripping your neck tighter. "You'd like that wouldn't you? Oh, you're dirty." He turns your head roughly, his lips crashing into yours, kissing you messily.

His tongue duels with yours, his hands gripping your neck tighter, holding you in place. You moan into the kiss, your body trembling. "Ani- cumming, c-cumming!" You can't form any coherent words, your breath coming in gasps as you neared your climax.

"Let go sweetheart, I got you," Anakin's breath tickles the shell of your ear as he speaks. You cry out as your orgasm quickly wracks over your body, your cunt contracting tightly around his cock. "That's my girl, c'mon." His breath comes in ragged gasps, and sweat trickles down his forehead, his chest heaving. It takes a few more powerful thrusts for him to fully unload inside you, his cum filling you up completely.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, and carefully withdraws from you, his cock glistening with your wetness. He hastily pulls up his pants and adjusts himself.

"You did so good for me." he whispers, his voice filled with awe. He carefully fixes your dress, smoothing out the wrinkles. "You look even prettier now," he says, his eyes filled with admiration.

He reaches up, fixing your hair, his fingers grazing your face. "You best get back to the house," he says, his voice filled with concern. "You know I'll be here tomorrow."

You nod, your cheeks flushed, your heart still racing from your encounter with him. "Mhm," you hum quietly. He smirks, his eyes filled with mischief.

You smile, a blush spreading across your cheeks when he leans in and brings his lips to yours one last time.

Anakin leads you towards the barn door, his hand still wrapped around yours. "I'll see you tomorrow sweetheart." he coos, his voice filled with promise.

You nod, your cheeks still flushed, your heart racing. "See you, farmboy." you say, your voice shaky. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, and you step out of the barn, your body still buzzing from the encounter. As you walk away, you can feel his eyes on you, watching you every step of the way. You glance back, catching him standing by his truck, his hands on his hips, watching you walk away.

You enter the house, trying to compose yourself. Your parents were still awake, sitting in the living room, sipping on their drinks. They didn't notice anything amiss about you, thankfully. You made your way upstairs to your room, still feeling the evidence of your encounter between your legs.

You feel a thrill of excitement, knowing that Anakin will be waiting for you at that old barn, ready to have you whenever he wants.

[strawbeerossi]

You Think, Genius?

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid

Description: Being friends with Spencer Reid is an adventure within itself. Movie nights are no exception.

Content/Warnings: Friends type humor, tension, mention of food/food fight, best friends to lovers trope, heavy kissing, very sweet smut (wild because I hardly write that, I feel like lmao).

Word Count: 2.7k

Anon Request: spencer reid x sarcastic funny reader? not mean but like kinda like Chandler from friends humour? with earlish seasons reid (season 3/4)ish cute smut. ADDING TO THE SARCASTIC!READER SHE AND SPENCE HAVE A BESTFRIENDS TO LOVERS ARC 🫶🫶

Navigation || Criminal Minds Masterlist || Request

RIP Matthew Perry, thank you for playing the king of sarcasm and being my inspiration for this. 🩷

“Serial killers and childhood neglect have actually been linked together for years. Some of the most notorious serial killers were abused in some shape or fashion at home. Which makes sense whenever you take into account how easy it is to psychologically break a person and cause them to shut down, children being more receptive than most adults.” Spencer rambled on about some study he had been reading about.

Everyone was mostly tuned out besides you, your left hand holding the travel size cereal box up in clear view, your eyes wide. “That explains why I can’t stop eating this cereal! My mom made my life a living hell and now, all I think about is cereal. Oh god.” You said in a sarcastic tone, causing Derek to chuckle from his desk.

“She’s a cereal killer.” He joked while you both were giggling, making Spencer look between you and Derek, a confused expression on his face.

“She’s not a serial killer. I don’t think she’d be working here if she was one.”

The laughter continued on at your coworker’s obliviousness. “No, Spence,” JJ shook her head as she approached your chair, gently taking the little box before holding it up. “The joke is that she’s eating cereal. Cereal killer.” The blonde explained as you were turning back to Spencer.

“Oh, it’s no joke. I’ve got six bodies in my apartment right now. Just waiting to get home to do away with them.” You continued on, a little snort leaving your lips as you were getting your cereal back.

As you were pushing a handful in your mouth, you watched as Spencer looked at you with his head tilted to the side. “You haven’t killed anyone. I know that for a fact. You’re too nice.” He said while he was tapping his pen against his desk, JJ let out a huff and waved him off before she was walking away from your desk to get to her office.

“Isn’t there such a thing as killing people with kindness? That is my big move. I will be nice to them and boom,” You punched the palm of your hand to appear menacing. “I go in for the kill.”

Spencer was shaking his head with a soft giggle at the mere idea of it, your sarcasm slowly seeping through the cracks in an obvious way where he could see it.

“Right. How foolish of me to not understand it.” He joked softly while looking back down to the page he’d been doodling on. Your humor was new to Spencer, something he wasn’t really used to. You were a very sarcastic person, hardly ever having a conversation without injecting the encounter with your wit and sarcasm. He was still pretty clueless with it, however he felt he was getting better. Especially now that you had him saying his own sarcastic phrases at random times. It was weird for the rest of the team seeing the way you’d slowly brought Spencer out of that little bubble he was used to.

He was always the one who didn’t understand jokes or take sarcasm, appearing confused a good chunk of his career from the jokes and lighthearted banter. Being friends with you was a good way to learn how to understand though, which was why he was so lucky that you were his best friend.

“I was thinking of watching a movie. Do you wanna join me?” You asked, packing up your things as you looked over at Spencer as he raised an eyebrow.

“Tonight?” He asked, making you shake your head.

“No. Next week.” You answered with a deadpan expression while he crinkled his nose.

“You’re.. Being sarcastic..” He began while you rolled your eyes fondly with a smile.

“You think, genius? Come on, are you gonna come over or not?” You asked while putting your bag over your shoulder.

“I don’t see why not. Can we watch that new show that’s airing tonight?” He asked curiously, already following you out of the bullpen. He knew you’d give him a ride rather than sending him to go on the metro and meet you there later.

“Sure. I’ve been interested in it anyway. The new sci-fi one, right?” You asked as you made it to the parking garage with him as you were both in search of your car.

“Yes! It actually looks very interesting because from what I’ve read, they don’t make up their own rules as they go. They are using actual scientific data and evidence.” He gushed while you were clapping your hands together.

“Like learning in school! Oh how I loved school!” You were laughing as he had taken notice of the sarcasm and nudged your arm.

“Seriously. It’s going to be great! You may not think it now but you’ll enjoy it while learning about the real world when it comes to tech and space exploration.”

“We’ll have to see about that Dr. Reid.”

The ride back to your apartment was peaceful, the sounds of some radio station filling the quiet atmosphere of the car as you passed by numerous street signs. The comfortable silence was something you liked, never needing to strike up a conversation to enjoy Spencer’s company. Even if he was just reading while you were on your phone.

Back at your apartment, you’d just gotten the channel you needed pulled up, having about ten minutes until the show was supposed to air. Spencer made sure to tape it back at his own apartment, wanting to go back and watch alone to fully appreciate the show for more than its entertainment quality.

“Do you want me to run to the kitchen and get snacks?”

“You don’t have to run, Reid. You can walk.”

“Ha ha. So funny. Snacks or not?”

You were waving him off with a little laugh, offering a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Please go get some snacks. I think I have a big bag of that buttered popcorn you’re obsessed with.”

Spencer practically skipped to the kitchen upon hearing the news, retrieving one of your mixing bowls from one of your cupboards. After filling it up generously with the snack of choice, he was stopped by the fridge to grab two water bottles. With the two cold beverages under his arm, he was hurrying to the living room.

“I think we are all set.” He beamed with pride while placing the bowl on the table.

“Perfect. You’re right on time. It should start after these commercials.” You informed him while leaning forward to get a handful of popcorn from the bowl. While pushing a piece of popcorn into your mouth, you were only raising an eyebrow when you felt a pair of eyes on you. “What?” You asked, head turning to face Spencer as he quickly put his hands up in self defense.

“Nothing! I just wanted to see if it was good, that's all.”

“Right. I hate to tell you this, it tastes like buttered garbage. I don’t think you should subject yourself to eating it.” You joked, picking up a piece before flicking it in his direction, his eyes widening as he felt the snack hit his cheek.

“That could’ve taken out my eye!”

“Too bad it didn’t. We could get you an eyepatch.”

That was when Spencer took it a step further, getting a small handful of popcorn before throwing it in your direction. He was too busy laughing at your expression that mirrored his shock from earlier, pieces of popcorn in your hair and some on the couch.

“Is it a war that you want?”

“Me? You started it! Call it returned fire.”

That kickstarted a popcorn fight that didn’t seem to let up. Spencer was reaching into the now empty bowl before letting his eyes widen. He had no more ammo yet you had two handfuls. He was done for.

“You can apologize and we can end this.” You warned, your body now propped up on your knees as you had eventually turned to face him on the couch. “Just one ‘I’m sorry’ can end this bloodshed.”

“Never.”

“Suit yourself, Reid.” You were winding back one hand whenever Spencer was moving quickly to grip your wrist. There was some screaming, some laughing, and eventually you were being wrestled down onto the couch.

“Drop it!” Spencer laughed, both of your wrists being pinned down. “You do that and this will be all over.”

“No way.” You laughed, panting as you were being pinned down, some of Spencer’s long hair tickling the skin of your cheeks. You had both been in that position for a few more minutes before things calmed down, leaving you and the man above you to stare at one another and wait to reach a stalemate.

There was a growing tension, your faces only inches apart as he had you trapped between his body and the couch. Those beautiful eyes were looking down at you, almost as if Spencer was using the close proximity to take in every feature on your face. It was enough to make your face flush, cheeks hot from his gaze fixed on you and only you. The sound of the opening credits for the show you were supposed to be watching was playing in the background yet you could only look at each other.

There wasn’t a beat missed as he leaned down, lips against yours in a soft, yet cautious kiss. He felt like he had to play it safe, although the way you were feverishly returning the kiss told him all that he needed to know.

There was a fiery passion as your lips slotted together, almost as if they were made for one another. Your hands were moving to tangle in his hair, legs now wrapped around his waist as you both gave in to your urges that were always bubbling under the surface for however long you’d known the loveable genius.

It felt right, in a way. The way your were wrapped in one another’s embrace while having a moment of passion that you never expected to happen. However you had to admit, this was better than you ever thought.

Spencer was pulling out of the kiss, face flushed as he stared down at you with a shy smile. “It felt right. I’m sorry.” He whispered, only being pleased with the way you responded by pulling him down to connect your lips again, wanting to savor another moment as if he were going to disappear in thin air if you let him get too far.

The kiss had escalated soon enough, both of your clothes in a pile on the floor as you were tangled up on the couch, nothing but underwear separating you from each other. “Are you sure that you want this?” Spencer soon asked, his forehead against yours. Your friendship was always special to him, so naturally, he was worried about preserving those positive memories and the relationship as a whole.

“Definitely sure. I’ve thought about this for years.” For once, you were genuine. There was no hint of sarcasm dripping from your tone. That’s how he knew this was serious. “I’ve always loved you. I know you know that because I tell you all the time but it’s.. It's different than loving your best friend.”

Your confession had Spencer’s cheeks bright red, head nodding slowly to show he was paying attention. “Y-yeah. I love you more than a friend too.” He said slowly while he was bringing his hands down your hips, his fingertips tracing over your hot skin as he was hooking his fingers in the waistband of your panties.

Your hips lifted to assist him tugging your underwear down, your own cheeks hot from being exposed in one of your most intimate areas. It wasn’t like you hadn’t had sex before and you had confidence when you did but this seemed different.

“I need.. Hold on.” Spencer began while pushing himself up a bit, your watching with a raised eyebrow as you propped yourself up on your elbows. He went for his slacks, getting his wallet.

“Are you gonna pay me for this?”

“What?! No! I-I just..” He began, shuffling through the wallet before he was pulling a condom from one of the wallet folds.

“You have a condom? You were planning for this?”

“No! I have.. I asked Derek for one. Obviously not for tonight but I had to be prepared!” He said quickly while tossing his wallet on the table.

You didn’t tease him any farther, instead your eyes gazing over his body as he was shimmying out of his boxers while standing. Just kissing you had his cock semi-hard, his hand wrapping around his shaft to give a few pumps in order to complete the process although it wasn’t too hard with the anticipation of what was to come tonight.

After sliding on the contraception, he was heading over to get settled between your legs. His eyes were glancing over your glistening pussy, your arousal shining in the dim light of the living room. “Wow.” He whispered, hand moving between your thighs as his thumb pressed against your throbbing clit. The pressure alone was enough to make your mouth go slack.

“Fuck.” You breathed while feeling the pad of his thumb start to rub your clit, your arousal coating it with each swipe. He was taking his time with teasing you, at least.

When he was finished with massaging the bundle of nerves and he couldn’t hold back any more, he was grabbing his cock before lining his tip along with your entrance, thick tip breaching your slick cunt as he was slowly pushing into you when you were both ready enough.

There was a pleasurable burn as he was stretching out your inner walls, your hands tightly gripping onto his shoulders as you pulled his body down onto yours just to feel his skin against yours. It was oddly more intimate than you could’ve expected, even with him staying perfectly still with his cock nestled deep inside of you.

There was a soft gasp leaving your lips when he gave a slow thrust, just testing the waters for now as he didn’t wanna go too crazy before you were ready. He didn’t plan on going super hard anyway, that wasn’t who he was. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Keep going.” You urged.

Once you proved comfortable enough due to your persistence, Spencer’s thrusts began to pick up a steady pace and rhythm. Your moans were enough encouragement for him to feel confident enough in the act, not shying away from you as much as anyone would’ve expected.

They rhythmic sound of his skin slapping against yours coupled with your gasps, shaky breaths and moans were filling the living room, the long forgotten show still filling the background noise. Spencer had since embraced you, one arm wrapped under your frame as the other kept himself pushed up over you. He just wanted to feel you close, to hold you as he made love to you.

It was beautiful to him, the way you were holding him and keeping him close in return. It was like you were the only people in the world, no responsibilities other than being close to one another. The warmth of your flushed skin against his was all he needed to be happy.

It was a dream, essentially. A dream so vibrant that Spencer didn’t want it to end, even if he knew that realistically he couldn’t be in a dreamland forever.

As he was torn from his thoughts at the feeling of your hands on his cheeks, he was offering you a smile as you were locking eyes with one another. “I love you.” He said softly, repeating what you’d both confessed earlier while leaning down to press his lips against yours.

It was after the fact whenever you were finally speaking again, body sitting up from the spot you were in on the couch as Spencer had retreated to the kitchen to dispose of the used condom. “Do you wanna come take a shower with me? No funny business.” You put your hands up in defense.

“No. It’s too personal for me to see you naked.” For the first time, Spencer was the one to be sarcastic with you, making you both burst into laughter.

“I’ve taught you well. Come on.”

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱 ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Your husband has been deeply troubled as of late. In an attempt to guide him from his distress, he brings a concern of his to light that only serves to tip you into your own fears.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Nonsexual nudity, AFAB implied w/ usage of "breasts," the title "wife" is used. Angst and some fluff. Small hints of morally gray reader. She's simply in love with her demented husband.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 5.6k words. Just something short and sweet; I had to write a comfort fic for our favorite, pretty war criminal after the season finale. But I may have just made it worse actually. Not proofread.

It is all teetering into chaos. Suspended along the edge of a great precipice. The depths of which you cannot spy the bottom of. The worry, the agitation looms heavily over the castle. Over the entirety of King's Landing. Buzzing and constant like the bothersome scattering of flies. And where there are flies, death is near. You see the dread in their eyes. The fearful whispers that are passed between the bowed heads of the servants as they work; the horrified, faithless gossip casted about by the socialites and bureaucrats as they traversed the halls in secretive conversations that are much louder than they believe. 

The tensions have only been mounted with the news that the Blacks have come into the resources of new dragonriders, the scales are looking as though they are tipping in their favor. It has all strained and on edge. With the order of the city's gates having been closed by Aemond's decree, the smallfolk have been up in arms against the order. Cries of outrage chanting and rising up from the masses in pleas against their Prince Regent. Protests that warn of starvation, proclaiming that he is cruel and uncaring. Not even the assured decimation of Sharp's Point by the scorching breath of Vhagar's fire has done anything to calm the storm brewing. 

The tides are still swelling. Churning and tossing to soon lift from above and collapse down upon all of your heads. The toll of it weighs heavy on all of you like the promise of damnation. Hope is dimming. The support it once offered giving underneath itself, curling in on its own body like a beheaded serpent. But it is the man who bears it all who is in the throes of violently crumbling underneath the burden of this war. 

You see it tearing at him. Pushing down on the once prideful set of his shoulders, pressing down upon the crown of his head so that it no longer sits perfectly high in unwavering confidence. The light of the zealous fire that once blazed within his eye has dimmed. Starved and suffocated; reduced to smoldering flickers light that mean to lash out in his near crazed attempts at preserving what little footing his still has in this war. 

It is almost as though he is dying right before your eyes. The final wild struggle of an animal caught between a set of fangs, claws and teeth lashing in the hopes to wound its bigger opponent. You have never seen him in such a state. The vulnerability that bleeds through the thin cracks in his armor worry you; unlike any sort of raw emotion that he has ever displayed before. It is fear. And it is almost unsettling to see on the face of your fearless husband. 

He is breaking directly before you, and now the only optimism you have of keeping him whole comes from the pressure of your own hands. 

His own mother has turned him away. You see it in the way she stares at him. Observing him as though he is a stranger, a monster wearing the flesh of her child - as though her name is not marked on this war just the same. It makes your skin prickle. Body flushing from heat and contempt as she silently disowns the very man who raises her banner, and fights in the name of his house. No one else will offer him solace as he labors underneath the crushing weight of the kingdom. Not his mother, not his sister, not the advisors in the king's counsel. It pains you to see him breaking. To see him scrambling to orient himself and find a way to victory with hardly an ally to assist him. 

So utterly lost. 

That is how you find when you slip into his apartments in the night. The candleflames flicker about the dim space in drops of amber, serving as your only guide to traverse the room in search of him. His bed and his writing desk are vacant of his presence. The latter cluttered and askew with parchment and documents, quills, vials of ink, and seal stamps strewn about its face. But it is the empty goblet of wine is what concerns you the most. He does partake in spirits quite casually, at supper and often when he evaluates the latest strategies before turning in for bed. You have yet to ever see him lose himself to the influence of the drink. Only indulging as a means to relax himself; a subtle rosy hue to dust his cheeks, but not enough to become untoward or dull-witted by its effects. 

But the circumstances now are so much different. You can only hope that he has not turned to it in the attempt to drink himself into a stupor or allowed himself to become sloppy from the sway of the spirit. 

"Aemond?" It is both a question and a call as your vision darts about the space, flickering back over to his bed to see if you might spot the impression of a body tucked underneath the drape of its blankets but they are flat and perfectly lain along the mattress. "My love, are you here?" 

It remains deathly silent. The only bit of noise belonging to the low whisper of the flames softly darting about their wicks in the draft that drags along the room; the delicate billow of the breeze drifting through the columns of the open windows, gliding into to the room from the guide of the wind that calls outside. Most of it sneaking in through the open threshold that conducts to the balcony. 

A low breath puffs from your chest. Hardly a sigh, but it dares you to feel relief as you step towards the entry way to near the stone platform the projects from the side of the castle. You notice the stars first. The bright, cosmic glimmer of them as they hang from their place within the silky black cradle of the darkened heavens. The faint lights of the city below nearly blending with the night sky, though the oily sheen of the lantern fires can hardly compete with the star dust above. 

In your observations, it does not take you long to spy the form of the prince, standing along the banister as he stares down at the city, bare hands gripping onto the rough barrier. You can see how tightly he clutches onto it from the tension in his fingers, stretched and taut along it so tightly that you fear the stone may crumble and break beneath his palms. Relief floods you at the sight of him, though it is quickly dulled and banished by the worry that replaces it. Snuffed by the rigid way he holds himself, as though he is only moments from snapping and giving in on the pressures of his own mind and collapsing upon the stone floor beneath his feet. 

He becomes hard on himself in times like these. No matter how indifferent he tries to project himself, the opinions and thoughts of others often swarm over him like a cloud of angered hornets, and it can be a trouble for him to shake. It is never easy to guide him out of his thoughts. You know that he is aware of your presence, but he has been caught too tightly within the chaos trapped within his mind to respond. The deluge of emotions that he often refuses to outwardly show too great. And knowing him, he has willingly turned himself in to the anger and the bitter spite that wars within him, finding solace in its familiarity. He is too stubborn for his own good, but that will never be enough to keep you from trying draw him out of it. 

Your feet seem to cross the stretch of the floor that separates you, silently carrying you to him with the soft patter of their soles along the chilled stone. He does not give you any indication that he is aware of your approach. Not the tilt of his head or a single murmured word in greeting, but he does not startle when your hands lift to sweep up his back. The leather of his doublet is tepid with the slight cold in the air and the warmth radiating from his body, smooth and buttery underneath your palms as they sweep around his torso to press him against you in an embrace. You let your cheek to rest along the flat of his shoulder, the silky strands of his hair tickling your skin; your lungs pulling in the subtle spice and musk of his scent. 

"You should come to your bed; it is getting late." You suggest, allowing your fingertips to toy with the metal clasps on the front of his garment, tracing the engravings in their shape. You nearly expect to get no response from him. For him to continue to wallow and torture himself alone in his silence. But then you feel it almost more than you hear it, thrumming along your hands from the depths of his chest as his voice rises out in a hum. The only verification that he has acknowledged your words. 

It is better than silence. A response from Aemond is better than naught in these circumstances. It gives you some hope that you may be able to usher him from the fog of his oppressions. 

"Come," you urge softly. "You have fretted yourself enough." 

"Have I?" It comes from him in that serene tone of his but the bite at the edge of it is more than apparent. You know that it is not aimed at you. Not directly, at least. In his mind, and on the battlefield, he has been backed into a corner, and like an animal it causes him to lash out and bare his teeth, even at things that are familiar. "That seems to be everyone's judgement as of late. I suppose I should listen then, hmm? Roll over and brandish my belly for Rhaenyra's dragonriders to feast upon. Would that satisfy you then?" 

"It would not, and you know that." Your voice comes out much firmer than intended, though you do not feel guilt over it. For someone so logical, Aemond is often swept over by his emotions and the voice of reason is easily drowned out. "Look at me, please." 

He makes no attempt shift from his stance, continuing to stare out along the horizon. Watching the city in its slumber, and you have to wonder if he is imagining it in a state of ruin. Preparing for the worst already. Bracing for the destruction that has yet to come. Picturing the roofs and spires lit aflame in a blaze so great that it would turn the night into day, smoke twisting up to the heavens to brush against the stars. 

You loosen your grip around him, giving yourself enough separation just to stand along his shoulder so that you are able to look upon his face. He refuses to meet you vision with his own. The pale glint of his eye now dark underneath the cover of the night as he peers ahead. But already you are able to spot so many different emotions reflecting within it. A confused storm: anger, bewilderment, sorrow, loss. You know that he must feel as though he is drowning. Caught and strung along by his responsibilities. Pulled between the pressures of his duties and the rejection casted by his mother. So many conflicting obligations with no way to properly juggle them. You know that you have no true way of guiding him through the blood and fire of this war. Of the strategies that it requires. But you can hope to be some kind of support. A beacon breaking through the thick wall of an oncoming tempest. 

You lift a hand up to his face, sweeping your fingers past the shape of his jaw to cradle his cheek, feeling the texture of the scar underneath your palm. You are gentle in your direction when you guide him to look at you, and despite his earlier remark, he allows you shift his head to you willingly. Leaning into the weight of your hand as his eye darts to meet yours. The confusion and torment burn inside the pale hue of it, glinting far brighter than the traces of light reflecting along the angles carved into his jeweled eye.  

You are nearly surprised that he has not removed the sapphire yet. You know that it often ails him. When the precious stone absorbs the chill around it, or the dull edges catch along the sensitive flesh of its cradle. Rattling about his socket and causing the tender tissue within to ache and swell with irritation. Another punishment for himself it seems. Intent to burry down inside his own suffering. 

"You must stop this insistence on driving yourself towards your own destruction. You will find no answers by forcing yourself awake at night, ruminating over the criticisms of your mother. Of the council."

Something venomous passes through his expression, but it is quickly traded out by what looks to be exhaustion and a diluted sense of irritation. A subtle furrow pinched between his brows; lips lightly pursed.  "What would you have me to? Laze about all day on my bed. Stuffing my gullet with wine as my brother would while our enemies close in around us?" 

"No." You reply promptly, allowing your hand to drop from its place, running your thumb along his cheek in a final caress as it falls to your side. You do not miss the way that his head nearly bends to follow its wake. "I would have you rest. An eased mind is a sharp one. " 

"Rest." He echos in a murmur, allowing the word to roll off his tongue as though it is a foreign one. "Rest is not something that I am afforded. Each moment of "rest" is another second allotted for our enemies to draw closer."  

You understand his reasoning. His anxieties are not unfounded. But that does not make them any less frustrating. His intellect, the determination that fuels him and wit of his tongue have always been some of his most endearing qualities to you. It drew you towards him like a siren song. But all of those traits are currently making you feel as though you could bludgeon your head against a thick wall. You fear that he will collapse underneath their breadth.

"They will draw near regardless of your slumber or not. " That stubborn expression on his face remains undeterred. Still fully unconvinced it seems. Or perhaps he seems to be resisting against your wishes because he is merely in search of some sort of victory, no matter how measly in spirit it is. And as much as you would like to indulge your husband in his efforts in feeling vindicated, this is not a battle you can allow him to win. Not for his sake. "If you will not do it for yourself then do it for me. Comfort your wife. That is too apart of your duties is it not?" 

You notice his nostrils flare, his chest rising suddenly as he draws in a deep breath. Likely to ground his own irritation. His eye shimmers lowly in the dim cast of the candlelight projecting from the confines of his room, spilling out past the threshold to dance along the dark blue of the sapphire. Like sunlight scattered about the shifting face of an ocean. He is angry. That much is and has been apparent. Left astray to dangle and thrash along the fraying support of a rope. You only wished that he would allow you to catch him instead of treating you like the ones who have tied him to the line. 

But you notice something waver in him then. The breaking of a dam. The thawing of ice. The vulnerability displayed could destroy you if you allowed it. To cause you to fall apart underneath the sheer sense of raw loss and uncertainty. He is so troubled. So lost. Forced to display a facade of unwavering poise and resolve no matter the dangers that prevail ahead. Constantly trailing after the role that he was not allowed to fulfil despite being better suited and now left to stand alone as the support of his own house falters. Superior enough to be wielded as a trump piece in combat, in council, but not benefitting enough to bear the title of king in the eyes of the advisory and his family. An injustice you can hardly stomach yourself. 

"Come," you urge once again. You voice much lighter than before, softened by the distress in his gaze. There is still a hesitance in him. The reluctance to relinquish what little control he still has over himself, but that control seems to snap when your hand closes over his, fingers threading to join them. It only takes a slight tug for him to follow. The fight in him absolving to trail after you, allowing you to guide him back into his chambers and away from the open, chilled air of the night. 

The atmosphere within the safety of the apartment walls is much warmer. Almost balmy along you skin, perfumed with the scent of wax and ink. Another reminder of the documents and worries that he tirelessly toils over. The bloodshed and the possibility of dragonfire. But you push it all to the recesses of your mind. Burying it all deep in favor of escorting him to the side of his bed. It is only then that you allow your hand to remove from his, and you mourn the loss of his warmth against your palm. 

"Remove your clothes," you order gently. You notice just the faintest hint of amusement nudging at the corner of his mouth. The possibility of a smile, though it does not fully come. You can still see the traces of his mirth. Of lust as well. Even while he does not properly convey it, you allow your delight to grace upon your expression. Your lips lifting upward as you shake your head to admonish him delicately. "Not tonight." 

He makes no complaints as he begins to unfix the clasps of his doublet. Unhooking the fine metal rungs with lithe fingers to shed the garments, uncaring as it lands along the floor. He is just as nonchalant about the rest. Shedding and discarding his undershirt and his breeches just as quickly after tugging of his boots. Baring his nude form to you. It is a state that you have seen him many times before, but still, you are unable to keep yourself from tracing the agile shape of his body. Admiring the swell of strength in his arms, the defined cut of muscle along his torso, the flaccid condition of his cock hanging between his thighs. 

The spike of heat that rushes throughout your being is tempting, but currently unwelcome. On any other night you would have basked in it. Pursued after the warmth and hedonism, but this is not one of those nights. When you manage to will yourself to meet his eye, you are forced to notice the smirk that lifts at the curled edges of his mouth. Satisfied and preening underneath your salacious attentions. 

"Not tonight, ābrazȳrys?" His inquiry is teasing and arrogant. And finally, for the first time since you have sought him out you see the man that lies beyond the pain and distress. The man that strides about the kingdom with his head lifted high. A head deserving the weight of a crown. 

"Not tonight, my love. " You answer, both a playful jab and a truth as you pluck at the neckline of your shift to allow it to join his clothes along the chilled stone beneath your feet. He only offers a velveteen hum in response as his eye sweeps over you. Just as gluttonous as yours had been as you move to climb astride the bedding, making sure to toss the blankets aside before shuffling to rest the flat of your back along the cushion of his pillows and the embellished headboard behind them. You sit, unfaltering underneath his focus. If anything, the crude nature of his observations only emboldens you. Even past the reasonings of lust. He views you as though you were crafted just for him. Sewn together by the gods and animated by stardust and earth to be worshipped and praised by his sight and hand. 

You like to believe that he was born for the same purpose. A god amongst men built by fire, wind and blood. Designed to be revered by your voice and mouth. He is beautiful beyond compare. Fierce in his loyalty and cunning. Unrelenting in his determination and ferocity. Like a deity of war. 

He does not wait for a cue as he follows after you, climbing along the bed and into your waiting arms to lie himself within the cradle of your hips, draping the length of his body along yours as he settles his head against the cushion of your stomach. He allows himself to go pliant against you. Indulging in your warmth just as you do with him. The heat radiating from him making you turn lax. The both of you melding to each other. You observe him at his place tucked into you. Admiring the pale fan of his lashes resting against the sharp contour of his cheekbones, the proud rise of his nose. He is gorgeous like this. As though he had been sculpted from a fine marble. The statue of a great god - a king - come to life. 

You glide you fingers through the silken, silvered strands of his hair. Combing your nails along his scalp and you are all but rewarded by the way that he seems to melt even more, the tension leaving his body. Going slack and supple; his nose daring to nuzzle along at your breasts as he attempts to burrow himself closer like he wants to bathe in your warmth. That stubborn furrow is still hitched between his brows. Immediately letting you know that his troubles have yet to be fully evicted from him. His mind is no doubt just as frenzied as before even though his body relents to the comfort of his bed and the weight of you. 

"You truly do stress yourself too much," you murmur. Your fingertips skirt downward, tracing along the nape of his neck, sweeping your thumbs along the sensitive skin at the edge of his scalp. A shudder trembles softly down his spine. "It does not suit such a pretty face." 

His lips twitches again, though that furrow comes back with a vengeance. His brows cinching close in the guise of annoyance, and if it were not the fleeting appearance of that brief smile then you would have truly believed him to be angry. "I have no ear for listening to your jests, lady wife. " 

"Not a jest," you promise playfully. "I wouldn't dare. " 

Another low, rumbling hum rises up from his chest in the semblance of a response. His chin tilts back just the slightest, baring his throat to you. Offering it to you as you move your hands downward to cradle the sides of his face, fingertips gliding along the edge of his jaw. The contented noise he makes nearly reminds you of the purrs that leave Vhagar as she lounges along the forest floor. The pleased growl of a dragon. A tranquil silence drifts along the room, as though it is brought in by the tepid breeze that glides in through the threshold of the balcony. It is calm. Peaceful for once. It feels as though it has been years since an hour without fear or dread has haunted you. And finally, it is simply you and your husband. Free to relax and just simply exist. To lounge within the warmth of each other as though you were lying under the sun. Untouched by war and bloodshed. 

You continue to massage your fingers along the shape of his skull, combing them through his hair and lightly scratching your nails along the sensitive skin almost absentmindedly as you allow your own head to rest against the board of the bed. The lull of sleep is already calling. Inviting and comforting in its beckon as the influence of it threatens to take ahold of you, but a part of you resists. Insistent on enjoying the dulcet pleasure of this moment. Intent to stretch it out for as long as possible before it slips away from you and the both of you must return to your duties. To the horrors of the world. It is here that you are safe. He is safe. 

"We should make contingencies in the event of my death." 

The quiet sound of his voice, the words abruptly registering in your mind feel as though they gut you once they are fully understood. Just the prospect of it has your heart skipping, fluttering wildly within your chest and your hands are forced to pause; smooth tresses caught between your fingers. Your eyes snap open as you head bows to look down upon him from his place against your torso. He is already watching you, the sapphire gleaming sharply in the firelight but the pale hue of his eye is soft despite the sobriety of his words. You see clearly without asking that this is not some sort of twisted attempt at morbid, tactless humor. He is well and truly serious. A dull wave of nausea wells up in the pit of your stomach as you watch him. 

"What has brought this about?" You ask sharply. There is a raised edge in your tone. Defensive and unsettled, but your vulnerability is also apparent. Easily heard with the way that your breath snags in your throat. 

"It is only an honest concern. " He answers, but it is clipped. A bear explanation and it gives way that he is dodging the question. Offering scrap to appease you. "One that I should have prepared for long ago, when this war was little more than a whisper on a gossips lip." 

"I won't hear of it." 

"You are my wife," he insists. But with each utterance it only drives a slash of phantom pains into the depth of your heart. You swear that you can hardly manage to pull in a single lungful of air. "That does not shield you but make you a target. And we cannot expect to win this battle with Vhagar alone. If I were to be slain, they may very well come for you. A trophy of this conflict-"  

"Aemond, that is enough." It comes out as a warning. Or perhaps a plea. It is so difficult to know. It is impossible to tell when you feel as though you are breaking in half even while he rests safely inside your embrace, confronting you with the single thing that you have always feared. The single terror that gnaws and bites and lashes at your heart and spirit every time that he sits astride Vhagar and lifts into the air for battle. The horror that he may never come back. It had eaten at you when he had snuck off to Rook's Rest without your knowledge, only to return hours later smelling pungent of dragonfire and the acrid sting of smoke. 

His lip's part, a rebuttal no doubt on the tip of his tongue, but it is quickly snuffed out by the desperate plea of your voice. A final beg of mercy.  

"You are my love, Aemond. Without you I cannot live." You nearly hate the sound of the raw emotion that pitches from your chest, but you are unable to control it. The intensity of it far too great. Welling up within you until it seems as though you may drown in your own trepidations. That your lungs will be squeezed in its grip until you suffocate on your own anguish. Your fingers thread around his hair, seeking out the warmth that lies underneath as though your mind requires confirmation that he is still here with you. Safe in your bed. "You are not allowed to die. Promise me, Aemond. Promise that you will return to me."

His eye skirts along your face, as though committing your features to memory. You can tell exactly where his vision lands from the weight of the concentration in his gaze as he studies the structure of your lips, the sweep of your cheekbones, the shade of your eyes. It is awful how much it feels as he is staring at you as though it will be his last. 

"Please," you whisper once more. 

A plethora of emotions flicker along his countenance. Time seems to be frozen when he lifts himself from your grasp. Your hands leave him reluctantly, clutching onto the sheets alongside you to stave off the urge to reach for him. But you are stopped when he rises to nudge his head to your own to meet your eyes. It gives you no other options but to meet his eye. To face the intensity and adoration that burns within it. The flecks of violet and azure seeming to blaze with his fervency. 

"I promise, ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys, I will return to you. Be it a thousand years in this life or the next, no man nor god will keep us apart." 

A sob could have torn itself from your throat had you not a better grip on yourself. Though you do not have enough control to manage in articulating a response. You can only nod, lifting your hands once again to grip at the junction of his neck and shoulders. Needing to feel the warmth of his flesh underneath your palms. His lips are soft as they press against yours. Simultaneously gentle and hungry as they coax yours into a kiss. It is languid. Unhurried but no less passionate. 

It is like a balm on the tearing placed upon your soul. Soothing and mild. You sigh into his mouth, drawing each other's air inside of your lungs in between the starved presses of your mouths. Holding scraps of the other within the pocket of your chests. But just as quickly as it had begun, he pulls away from you. Though he hardly gives you time to voice your complaints or to mourn as he guides you both to settle along the bedding. Mapping out your face with the fleeting brush of his lips, scattering them along your face until you both lay side by side to gaze upon each other. 

You cannot bear to look away from him now. The mere idea of it sounds akin to death. You are not sure how long you remain in that state. Simply beholding each other. Counting the breaths that he takes, how they puff across your face in warm brushes along your nose and cheeks. The candlelight has lightened his hair with glows of burning amber, as though molten gold has been spilled upon the pale strands; highlighting the contours of his body. Like a deity of light. Of fire.  

There is a peace in his expression now. And you are not certain if that concerns or alleviates you. The corners of his mouth have perked into a content smile, his eye unblinking in his admiration as though he is at peace. Sweeping over the shape of your breasts and rise of your hips down to the length of your legs. But it is untouched by lust. It is simply observing. Peaceful in his exploration of a body that he has touched many times already. As much as you would like to remain that way, fixed beneath the worship of his stare, you are unable to keep yourself from nudging yourself closer. Too weak to hold yourself back from returning him back into your arms where he is safe. Untouched by the war he wages. Protected from the consequence of dragonfire and sword. 

You rest you nose along the crown of his head, drawing in the scent of spice and wind that clings to his hair in the hopes of calming yourself. Of ripping yourself from the influence of your own worries and escaping the control of sleep that threatens to possess your body despite your terror. You want to focus only on the weight of him. The heat of his skin. The steady rise and fall of his breath. The press of his face tucked beneath your chin. 

"Sleep, ābrazȳrys." His voice thrums against your chest. It seems that even when he is not watching you, you are unable to escape his perceptiveness. That you cannot hide from the from him. He knows you too well; he feels the tension in your muscles, in your silence. Still, despite the urge to fight his tender order and to resist the weight of sleep, it is growing difficult. The urge to slumber is heavy on your eyelids, nudging them to close. And the comfort of his scent in your lungs only goads you closer. "I will be here when you wake." 

It sounds like another promise. And the assurance rings heavy in your ears, giving your mind the permission that it seems to have needed in order to welcome the blanket of rest. But all the while, as you descend into your slumber, you can only give yourself the solace that he is still here. As of now he is safe. Guarded from blood and death under the shield of the night. Drawn into an embrace while you both sleep as pair of lovers. 

[gurugirl]

Boss!harry | series preview

This is a Patreon-only series!

Summary: Harry's your boss and you're trying really hard not to develop feelings for him.

Warning: This is an angsty series y'all!

His warm hand smoothed over your hip and curled around your side as he scooted in closer.

You weren't sure what to expect when he'd wake up. You thought maybe he'd be right back to business, take you back to your car so you could go home and get yourself ready for the day. You hadn't expected that he'd be kissing up the column of your neck to your jaw with hot puffs of breath falling from his mouth and spreading over your skin slowly like melting wax.

You also hadn't expected your body's immediate reaction to him. The liquid heat pooling between your naked thighs and the way your nipples tightened underneath the cotton of his t-shirt. When he slid his hand underneath the fabric and up your tummy to your breast you rattled a moan that sounded like desperation. The way he squeezed around your sensitive tits was something you had no idea you needed. He practically worshiped your nipples and the soft plush skin of your breasts the night before.

The blankets tangled around your ankle as you rolled to your side to face him and he pulled you in by your thigh, pressing your naked core against his morning wood.

Fuck.

It was one thing to have a wild night with your excruciatingly handsome boss, but it was another to do it again upon waking before you were meant to be at work and pretending like nothing had happened.

Pretending. You could pretend. You'd have to because he made it clear the night before that this wasn't a thing. That this was just sex and you'd need to keep it quiet. That it wasn't going to happen again. It couldn't.

Which meant the way he touched you was just sex, just something for that moment. The way the remnants of his palm prints burned into your skin left behind something that would turn hollow and bitter the moment you left his front door made your stomach curl into itself.

You swallowed down the loss before it had even arrived. A one-night stand with your boss was a bad idea and this was why. Harry would be fine after (he could have anyone he wanted) and you'd be left reeling and abandoned. Again. Because this is what men did. You were only good for as long as they saw fit. And after this, Harry wouldn't want or need anything more from you. Why would he?

"Y/n…" he breathed your name against your lips, "Already shaking and I've barely touched you, baby. God I just wanna eat you alive."

He would eat you alive too. Chew you up and spit you right back out. But you wouldn't stop him from doing it. You couldn't stop it because if that's all it could be you'd take the last bits of what he'd offer and be on your way.

It was a sleepy morning, hazy, blurry, soft… Harry's hands and his tongue worked down your body until he'd found your pussy and he slowly, lazily ate you out until you were coming and crying.

And that time, when he fucked into you, it was slow and steady. Slippery wet. Your bare breasts were pressed into his chest as he licked into your mouth and the embers grew and sparked until they caught and your body was at the edge of surrender.

"Fuck your pussy feels just right," he groaned as he dragged himself through your walls, coating himself in your arousal, your scent.

You whimpered and stuffed your fingers into his hair as he ground his pelvis into your clit. The perfect angle, the perfect cock. Too bad he wasn't the perfect man. You couldn't have him. For obvious reasons.

Your throaty moans were swallowed by his mouth, his length smashing into your guts with a wet slapping sound as you both moved together as one. Sex and sweat and heat and the imprint of desire.

He was soft; his words, his cadence, his hands… but the thick and heavy organ moving into your tummy was anything but soft; stiff, masculine, and rigid, it stretched your insides wide open. He needed the room and your body accommodated every inch of him. Gushy.

When he spoke against your ear, the hitch in his voice was almost whiny, like he was the one who was going to feel the loss. Like he was going to be left hollow and you were the one eating him alive, "Baby… shit. Right there?" He nudged into you and stilled himself so you could feel what he meant. Right there. Yes. Right there. Tight and spongy, the pulse emanating from your cunt was wrapped around him, a rhythmic beating that tremored down through his cock and into the veins and nerve endings. Connected.

You stuffed down the dribble of emotion that swelled in your throat and threatened to break from your waterline.

It's just sex. You're a sexual being who needed a good release. It's just sex. You don't need him. It's. Just. Sex.

But it certainly didn't just feel like sex when his soft green irises found your gaze and he held it as he languidly rocked into you. He dotted kisses along your face and then he'd watch you for a moment and it was going to have you mixed up because it was so intimate. So tender of him.

Maybe if he'd flip you around and fuck you from behind and give you a nice spanking it'd feel like just sex. He'd done that the night before (among other positions). Had you drooling into his mattress as he plowed into you from behind, a couple of good swats on your ass as he said filthy things to you. That felt like just sex. Good sex, but still.

So the soft and slow morning fuck with gentle kisses and an easy, damp tongue over your parted lips, his eyes connected to yours as he moaned and slid his thumb at your temple – that was not just sex and you didn't want it.

Well, you did want it. You really did because you wanted to find someone that would do all those things. But you wanted that for good. Not just for the night.

"Are you okay, Y/n?" Harry sponged a kiss to the edge of your mouth.

"Yeah. I'm okay," you were breathless and on the edge of tears. A ridiculous girl.

"Does it hurt from last night? Was it too much?"

Swallowing you blinked your eyes and he was still softly caressing your face with his thumb like only a lover would do.

"It… a little. I feel fine now. You're so gentle so it's okay."

"That's why I'm being careful. Thought you might need it softer this morning. Are you sure you're okay?"

Too attentive. Too thoughtful. Too present. How were you going to separate your romantic nature from your carnal one? How did all the other women do it? You were sure he was like this with every girl he brought to his bed.

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[withahappyrefrain]

Just a Game

You and Peter like to play a game. It requires no trivia or plastic pieces. Just two people and feigned innocence.

Warnings: CNC (which has been discussed explicitly) unprotected sex, language, minor breeding kink at the very end

You and Peter like to play a game. 

It's not a board game, though you two enjoy those from time to time. Not a video game, though Peter has expressed interest. 

This game doesn't require any trivia knowledge or plastic pieces. No one has to keep track of points. There isn't a timer. 

All this game requires is a surface and your two bodies. 

Sometimes it was a couch, when you two were in the middle of watching a movie. Other times it could be your kitchen counter, dinner be damned. Rarely, it would be the back of a car, which was your favorite. Peter’s favorite-against a wall- depended on when and where. 

Today the surface was your shared bed. 

It started innocently, like it always does. Peter found you curled up in bed, reading. He hadn’t considered playing today. But then he saw you, wearing only one of his hoodies and those pastel yellow panties that drove him wild. 

It didn’t help that Peter could smell you. Though the cover of your book didn't look out of the ordinary, your arousal revealed the true nature of your reading choice. 

“What’cha reading ladybug?” He asked, curling up to you. 

You put on an innocent smile, keeping the book to your chest, “Oh nothing. Just one of those silly romance books.” 

Peter raised his eyebrows, “Silly? Let me see.” 

Before you could squeak out an objection, Peter snatched the book away, his eyes scanning the page you were on. 

“He pushed her dress up to her hips, revealing her wet core. He dove in, lapping up her arousal like a starved man, his mouth quickly attaching itself to her clit.”

Sometimes you got so caught up in playing your role. Peter had said much dirtier things to you and yet there you were, head in your hands and a warm flush coursing through your body. 

Peter placed the book on your nightstand before bringing your hands away from your face. 

“Oh baby. You’re too sweet to be reading something like that. Why don’t we cuddle instead?”

With his brown puppy dog eyes and sweet smile, he actually sounded genuine. For a moment, you thought he wasn’t inviting you to play. Not when he had his head in your lap, practically purring as your fingernails gently scratched his scalp. 

But then his long, nimble fingers made their way under the blanket, grazing against your bare skin, drawing shapes along your thighs as he made his way up your body.

“Peter.” His name was said in a sweet, sing-song voice, “Thought you wanted to cuddle.”

He sat up, pulling you closer, “I do bug.” Peter's other hand was now underneath your shirt, creeping up to your chest.. 

“Peter,” you could barely breathe, too enthralled with how good his fingers felt kneading your breasts, “This isn’t cuddling.” 

“I know,” He sighed, as if he felt some guilt about what he was doing, “But doesn’t it feel good bug?”

You could only nod, breath hitching up when one of his large hands began to toy with the elastic waistband of your panties. 

The foreplay was fun, but it wasn't the main focus of the game. 

That didn't come until you were underneath him, completely bare and withering as his hard cock slid between your soaked folds. It was a battle, fighting the urge to jerk your hips up, potentially catching him. 

“Peter, w-we shouldn't,” your voice was shaky as you tried to come across as worried rather than in a pleasure laced haze.

“I know. We shouldn’t.” He's panting. Peter's lips ghosted over your bare skin, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses. 

In this game, your birth control and five year relationship didn't exist. 

No. In this game you were wide-eyed and innocent. In this game, both your heads were clouded with lust, longing threatening to overtake common sense. 

“Maybe,” His voice is soft, addictive. “Maybe I-we-just the tip?” 

You throw your head back when the head of his cock makes contact with your clit. Desire racked through your body, fingers creating crescent shaped marks along his back as you searched for something, anything to ground you amidst the pleasure haze that was clouding your judgment. 

Part of you wanted to break character so he would fuck you sooner. 

But where was the fun in that?

“But we-fuck- we don’t have a condom?” A box of condoms was currently stashed away in your nightstand. You had been on birth control for years. There was no concern.

Again, not in this game. 

With your wide, doe-like eyes, sweet voice, and withering body, Peter was truly surprised he hadn’t come already. 

But where was the fun in that? That didn’t allow him to play, to take off the friendly neighborhood hero mask and act out his deepest desires. 

His head dropped down to your chest, his thin pink lips quickly latching on to one of your breasts. Your back arched in pleasure, hands grabbing Peter’s soft chestnut locks upon feeling the scrape of his teeth. His hips continue to thrust forward, reminding you of what was within reach. 

“I know, forgot to bring some. It would just-just be the tip,” He sounds like he just ran a marathon. You’re so warm and wet. Everytime the plush head of his cock nudges against your clit, he can feel your walls clenching, trying to catch him, enticing him in. 

“Peter,” the way you moan his name is sweeter than any song he’s heard, “We-no. Peter, don’t.”

He’s already grabbed the backs of your thighs, hitching them up to your chest. Now he has the picture view of his cock sliding through your slicked folds. You have the prettiest cunt Peter’s ever seen and God, does he want to use it.

Your hips twitch as he nudges his cock towards your all too welcoming entrance, entranced by how your walls eagerly suck him in. Eyes roll to the back of your head upon feeling the head of his cock begin to stretch you, nearly forgetting your role in all this. 

“W-wait!” You try to prop yourself up, try to jerk your hips away. 

But Peter is stronger. It drives you crazy, his strength. His hands grasp your shoulders, pushing you back down onto the mattress. 

“It’s okay bug. Just the tip, remember?” The ambered irises are blown out with lust. Combined with the downright wicked smirk adorning his handsome face, he looks more devilish than heroic. 

It thrills you. No one else sees this side of him, only you. Only you does he feel comfortable enough to indulge in these desires. 

For a few moments, it's only the tip, sliding in and out of your tight walls. 

Sometimes he’ll dive right in, other times he'll drag it out, as if Peter is truly at war with his morals when it comes to your sweet cunt. 

“Just….just the tip,” he whispers, as though he’s trying to convince himself, trying to convince you. 

The outcome is clear, but you still nod your head. “Just the tip,” you agree. 

“So…fucking tight,” He watches where you two connect in awe, lips parted, “So warm. God…feel fuckin’ incredible.” 

The praise leaves goosebumps on your skin, almost distracting enough to not notice that Peter has been slowly pushing his cock in more and more with each passing moment. Your body betrays you, hips jerking upwards in a desperate, near pathetic attempt to get more of his cock. 

Sometimes the game is hard to keep up with. There have been times where you both forfeit, craving each other far too much to continue. 

If Peter noticed you breaking character, he didn’t acknowledge it. He’s too mesmerized by the way your cunt eagerly welcomes him. 

“Fuck, baby, m’sorry, it’s-you feel s’good.” His speech is slurred, drunk off your body. Before you can react, he thrusts forward, filling you to the brim. 

Finally. 

“Pete-no! We can’t!” You plead, despite your body enthusiastically welcoming the intrusion, “You said-ah! You said the-the tip!”

His cock twitches at your words, at the feigned concern in your voice. His lips ghost over your face, hips increasing the speed of their thrusts. 

“I know, I know,” it’s almost convincing, that he truly feels bad for this, for giving in to lust. As if neither of you wanted it. 

He picks up his pace, shushing your fake protests. His cock feels incredible, so full. No matter how much prep beforehand, the sheer size of Peter is still an adjustment. 

“You'll- you’ll pull out, right?” You gasp, eyes meeting his. 

“‘Course bug,” He chuckles. 

He won't. But it's the false promises that keep you going.

“As-ah- as long as you pull out, it's okay, right?” You're committed to the role of the naive girlfriend, Peter will give you that. The concern in your eyes is incredibly convincing. 

Sometimes he's so caught up in the euphoria of you that he forgets to play along. All he has to do is look you in the eyes to remember his role. 

“Yeah, it's okay. God, feels incredible. Your pussy.” He hitched your legs further up until they were nearly resting on his shoulders. The change in angle allowed him to thrust deeper, reaching the spot that made you see stars. 

Bliss quickly overcame you, causing you to focus less on the game and more on the coil that was currently winding up in the pit of your stomach, threatening to snap at any moment. 

“God, you're clenching me. Can barely pull out.” His pressed his lips against yours, capturing them in a messy kiss. 

You shake your head, “Y-you should. Peter!”

But Peter continues, relishing in how tight you're gripping him. It's addictive. 

“Everytime I try to pull out, your little cunt sucks me back in. Think she wants me to stay.” His words elicit a downright desperate whimper from you. 

“How’s this? I'll stay ‘till ya cum.” His composure was incredible, his voice so soft you almost believed him. 

Almost. 

Weakly, you nodded as Peter’s perfidious promise promptly pershing into the periphery of your mind. Who could express you to focus, when his nimble fingers were toying with your clit? 

Your pleas to stop fade away, occasionally a feeble no falling from your lips. His massive hands were all over you, kneading at your soft skin, sure to leave bruises. 

It's one of the best things to Peter, waking up and admiring the work he did on your body from the night before. 

But for now, he could enjoy another favorite-you. It was cute, nearly adorable how your legs shook, your hips jerking upwards, desperate to get more despite already being full of him. The pathetic whimpers that fell from your lips, unable to form anything coherent. With each thrust, your breasts bounced against your chest. 

It was picturesque. Peter wished he could grab his camera to immortalize this moment, but that would break the illusion. 

So instead, his fingers skim your soft skin, tracing over your plush curves, downward until he reaches his desired location. 

After all, he promised he'd pull out once you cum. So why not help? 

His fingers on your clit felt like lightning, sending a crack of electricity up your spine. It's euphoric, you can't even bother to play along, hands gripping the strands of his hair tightly as the bedroom is quickly filled with your moans. 

When you finally get pushed over the pleasurable edge, it’s loud. There are no whines or pleads for Peter to pull out. Only raucous moans that fill the bedroom, combining with the erotic sound of his skin slapping against yours. 

“Shit, feel s’good. S’fuckin tight,” He pants, “Babe-baby. You feel s’good. Don’t know if I can pull out.”

His words jolt you out of the lavender haze, reminding you of the part you were still playing. 

“N-No. You can’t!” 

Peter nods his head, though he’s not agree with you, “M’sorry,feel s’good.”

You try to sit up, to put up a fight. But just as you do, you’re pushed back down, your hands above your head, enclasped with Peter’s. His body covers you like a warm weighted blanket, the kind where it’s so soft and deceptively confining, you can’t get up even if you wanted to. The spicy scent of cinnamon that always lingers on his body floods your nostrils, his mouth swallowing your pleas to stop as his hips erratically slam into yours. 

It was blissful. You were enraptured by Peter, by his body, roleplay be damned. Your legs wrapped themselves around his lithe waist, pulling him closer. 

Peter reaching his own high triggers yours again, walls clamping tightly down on his cock as he floods you with his warm. 

“Baby, m’s’sorry, feels too good,” it's then you register he's still rutting his hips against yours. 

Well this is a new move. Usually the game ended at this point. 

The chance to prolong, to try something new was thrilling. 

So you shook your head. “Peter!” Your moan contained more desire than it did distress, “N-no, you need-oh- pull out!” 

But Peter just grunts. It's so animalistic, your thighs clench at the sound. His refractory period was much shorter than anyone else you had been with, no doubt thanks to a radioactive spider bite. 

Now sensitivity is surging through your body, pain and pleasure mixing together. He's hitting the spot that makes you see stars, the spot you didn't think existed until you met Peter. 

It's getting harder to stay in character. But as long as Peter is trying, so will you. 

“Y-you promised you'd pull out!” 

“I know,” he groans in your ear, “Shouldn't have such a fucking tight cunt then. Don't know how ya expect me to pull out.” 

His teeth sink down into your throat, earning a sharp gasp. 

“God, your cunt,” the scruff of his beard scratches against your skin, “Think you want me to cum in ya again.” 

You shook your head, “No! Please!” Fingers claw at his strong back to no avail. He continues with his harsh thrusts, paying no attention to how your mixed arousal was leaking onto the sheets. 

“No- stop!” But that wasn't your safe word. 

He could tell you were already close, your moans increasing in pitch, how your walls were clinging to his cock. 

You just needed a little help getting there. 

“Gonna cum in ya again. It might just take this time. Is that what you want? For me to fuck a baby in ya?” 

The illusion of your feigned innocence shatters, his words igniting a flame in you that can't be fanned out. 

You're now wailing, nodding enthusiastically at Peter's words. Fingers which were once clawing at him now grip his shoulders. Instead of jerking away, your hips move upwards. 

“Y-yes! Want it to take s’bad! Please fill me up!” 

Your voice was nearly unrecognizable; whiny and desperate. It only spurs him on, his cock thrusting into you at a near bruising pace. 

Peter's next high is with your’s, hips stuttering as he fills you once more. He knows he could go again, but everyone needs a break, an intermission before the next act. 

The next few moments, you two are speechless. The only audible sounds are that of heavy breathing and the overhead ceiling fan.

“Well, that was fun,” you chuckled, running your fingers absentmindedly through his hair. 

Peter finally made eye contact with you. His eyes are dark, almost black with lust. The grin on his face is downright wolfish. 

“Oh sweetheart, I'm far from done with you.” 

You were in for a long night.