#white outline so it’s easier to see him

[ellecdc]

Not So Surprising After All

Remus Lupin x fem!reader following Surprise! We're Making Love [1.3k words]

CW: a sort of epilogue to Surprise! We're Making Love but can be read as a stand alone, no plot at all - just vibes, pure fluff

Remus isn’t sure exactly how this all started for him. 

One minute he was on his (figurative) knees, apologising for turning whatever this was between the two of you into love, and silently begging you not to leave. 

And the next minute…

Remus stepped out of the cottage and breathed in the sea air, blinking against the sun still fairly high in the sky. He could see the faint outline of his parents cottage on the crest of the hill in the distance. A stone and wood dwelling surrounded by a few out buildings, the grass dotted by sheep, and the landscape pockmarked by their gardens enclosed in simple wooden fences; Hope’s floral and Lyall’s vegetable. The image made Remus smile. 

Foregoing shoes, Remus stepped off the stone path in front of his door towards the side of the property; running his hands across the tallest plants and flowers in the gardens that a life lived with the likes of Hope Lupin prepared Remus to help tend to as the grass flattened beneath his feet.

There was a well worn trail carved through the too long grass leading down a small hill; so worn that there were places that grass gave way to earth and stone, but the route was so practised by Remus that - even in his barefoot state - he knew where to step in order to avoid the rocks in the path. 

“You ought to clear the path, Cariad,” his mother had scolded him once, “make the journey easier for the two of you.” 

But the two of you were very familiar with journey’s being anything but easy, though no less worth it. The risk of acupuncture by way of old red sandstone or carboniferous limestone formations that could be found along the Welsh coast was more than worth the end result. 

The end result came into Remus’ view as he watched where the worn path through the grass and heather disappeared between the trees and shrubs.

He could hear the stream trickling and babbling along the rocky Welsh terrain before the clearing permeated his view; for as rocky and rough the terrain on this edge of the property tended to be, relief could be found under a grand willow tree about ten feet from the streams edge that the two of you frequented regularly. 

Two small, clumsily made wooden chairs called the clearing home with a side table settled comfortably between them. Remus had strung some fairy lights through the branches of the willow, as well as down some of the long vines that hung below it.

And on the other side of the willow - hanging almost directly above the stream's edge - a white fabric hammock swayed in the gentle breeze.

It was cosy. It was quaint. It was home. 

“I had a feeling I’d find you down here.” He said as a way to announce his presence; your head popping up from the hammock when you shot Remus a beaming smile which you treacherously covered with the top of your book. 

“Were you looking for me?” You asked as he made his way over to you, pulling the edge of the hammock away so he could see you better.

“I’m always looking for you.” Remus teased before leaning forward for a kiss that you readily accepted before offering him two more of your own.

“I’m never very far.”

Remus hummed in acknowledgement as he folded his lips over his teeth, relishing in the feeling of you on his lips for as long as he could. “I like that about you.”

“That I’m easily accessible?” You giggled. 

“That you’re always close by, you minx.”

You had your damned book covering your mouth again, but Remus could see your smile turn soft by the crinkling around your eyes.

“How are the boys?” You asked then, referring to the floo call Remus just had with Sirius, James, and Peter. The boys would have loved to catch up with you as well - Remus had told you as much - but you were determined to provide them some privacy and left the cottage to Remus.

Looking around at your refuge, he thought perhaps your motives weren’t as selfless as you made them out to be. 

“They’re good. They miss you.” He responded, causing you to snort a laugh.

“I’m sure they’re just dying without me.” 

“They are!” Remus insisted. “Sirius told me that he was trying to brew a polyjuice potion, and Regulus insisted on watching but refused to help him at all. Ended up at St. Mungo’s for three days afterwards, and Regulus laughed so hard he passed out; ended up in the bed beside him for the night.”

“Oh, Reg.” You sighed.

“Sirius said, and I quote, ‘Trouble would never have let that happen to me’.”

You let out a long suffering sigh accompanied by a dramatic eye roll - both of which Remus could tell were entirely for show. “He’s right, I wouldn’t.”

“What happened to you, L/N?” Remus taunted then. “You used to be cool.” 

You scoffed in faux offence before smacking him with your paperback. “I became a Lupin, is what, you cheeky bastard.” 

Remus roughly grabbed either side of your face to press a searing kiss to your lips, humming into it when he felt you break out in a smile. “That’s right. My apologies, Mrs. Lupin.” 

You rolled your eyes, but Remus could tell he’d flustered you when you tried to hide behind your book again.

“They want to come out for the next moon. The boys, that is.” Remus continued. 

“Yeah?” You murmured then, book falling away from your face once again and Remus’ heart stuttered at how happy and hopeful you sounded on Remus’ behalf.

“Yeah; they wanted to make sure that was okay with you first, though. James said he doesn’t want to ‘bother the missus’ if it’s not a good time. Sirius said ‘I don’t care if it bothers her for shit, tell her to stock up on ice cream, I’ll bring the face masks’ and then Pete looked very uncomfortable and seconded James’ earlier sentiments.”

“Of course they can come; that’ll be good, yeah? Like the old days?” 

Remus wondered if you didn't look slightly insecure by that sentiment. “Well, perhaps not like the old days. You’ll be there, yeah?”

You made a face like you were going to decline, but Remus beat you to it. “I should warn you, Sirius said he ‘wouldn’t come if Trouble’s not there because Moony does not behave well for the rest of us anymore’.” 

“Is that so?” You laughed, eyebrows almost to your hairline as you looked at Remus incredulously. 

“‘Fraid so.” Remus agreed quickly. “So…what do you say? Gonna get the pack back together?” 

You pursed your lips in a way that Remus knew was you trying not to smile as you pretended to consider it. “Okay. But Sirius has to sleep in the dog bed.”

Remus let out an uncharacteristic bark of laughter that had become relatively characteristic of him in the years since the two of you graduated Hogwarts and he brought you home to his parents. 

After the chaos that was your childhood, something about your soul wholly unclenched here in the rugged Welsh terrain, and you found that you simply couldn’t imagine yourself living your life anywhere else.

And Remus? Well, Remus couldn’t imagine himself anywhere without you, so he had no problem going back to his roots. In fact, he found that the coastal Welsh countryside had never felt more like home.

[fayes-fics]

Mirror, Mirror

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When Benedict's wife tries on his clothes, things happen...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, cross-dressing, clothing kink, light biting, breast play, a smidge of intercrural sex, very mild exhibitionism, mirror sex, vaginal sex.

Word Count: 2.2k

Authors Note: Request fill for @d-caryophyllus (HERE) about Benedict being aroused by his wife dressing up in his clothing. I hope this fits what you were hoping for, my dear. Thanks as ever to @colettebronte for the beta read. Yes, the title is a nod to Season 3, lol. Err, enjoy! <3

It’s early in the morning on a mundane Thursday when a somewhat daring idea forms in your mind. 

Fresh out of your morning bath, you dismiss your maid quietly when usually she would assist you with dressing for the day. As the double doors click closed discreetly behind her, you glance through the open archway into your bedroom; heavy curtains still drawn there, obscuring the sunlight. In the darkness, you can just decipher the outline of your husband sleeping soundly after a late night of carousing with his brothers.

With a little secret smile, you decide that, yes, now is the perfect time. He is asleep, and you have a few hours to spare until your first social engagement - a ladies' luncheon - so why not use the time to satisfy your curiosity?

You stride to your husband's side of the dressing room, opening his wardrobe doors and running your fingers over the items within—a symphony of wools, silks and cotton, all luxurious to the touch. While he is arguably one of the more flamboyantly dressed men of the Ton, with eye-catching jewel-toned waistcoats and colourful cravats, the basics of his outfit are mostly the same every time: dark trousers and a white shirt. A large part of you is envious of that easier choice. Sometimes, it feels like a veritable minefield being a woman during the social season, the looming threat of an unintended fashion faux pas simply by wearing the wrong colour to the wrong event.

Upon a chair, you spy the outfit he discarded when he came home in the early hours, not yet tidied away by your staff. You decide this shall be your choice, a frisson that they are already worn.

Dropping your bathrobe from your shoulders, you grab the pair of his trousers and pull them on. The finely woven wool feels plush on your skin, and there is an undeniable novelty in having fabric between your thighs. They are, however, almost comically long for you, and you have to bend to roll them up a few times around your ankles. Bemused, you briefly catch sight of your reflection in the full-length dressing room mirror, topless in oversized trousers. 

You snatch his white shirt and pull it on, pausing to tug the ruffled lapels up to your face and inhale deeply, enjoying the flood of scent there. His woodsy citrus cologne, yes, but also that undercurrent that is all him. That tang you cannot help but bury your face into, be it upon his pillow when he is away or his body while you cling to him, moving together in ecstasy. 

You fasten a few buttons, then tuck the shirt into the trousers and loop the braces hanging loose around your hips up onto your shoulders, once again inspecting your reflection in the mirror with a wry smile, twisting this way and that, admiring how different you look dressed in his clothing.

“Wife, what are you doing?” 

You almost jump out of your skin as that velvet tone, slightly roughened by sleep, calls out from across the room. You twist to see Benedict leaning casually upon the archway into the dressing room, shooting you a look that is pure menacing intrigue while looking like sin himself—all riotous bedhead, and, as your eyes slip further down, gloriously naked. It makes you swallow hard.

“I… I was trying on your clothes,” you stumble sheepishly, a blush creeping over your cheeks being caught doing something perhaps rather bizarre. 

“Any reason?” he queries, bemused, that crooked smile claiming his features.

“They just seem so much more practical and comfortable—especially trousers. I would like to wear such things…” you confess, turning back to the mirror to appraise your appearance again, watching him prowl towards you in the reflection. “Are… are you vexed with me, husband? For taking such liberties?” Your words petering out, mildly abashed.

A large, warm hand wraps around your shoulder, yanking you back almost roughly, making you gasp as your shoulder blades collide with his chest.

“The precise opposite,” he rumbles, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror, a sudden burning intensity that makes your lungs feel tight. 

Long fingers spider down his brocade brace, draped down your chest, lingering where the strap rests over your nipple, swiping his thumb in a deliberate tease, his face triumphant as you swoon back into him from just this simple touch. 

“My clothes look much better upon you than me,” he opines duskily, his lips tracing your temple as his fingertips push the brace aside to capture your nipple through the thin cotton shirt, making you inhale sharply. “Perhaps we should attend a party with you dressed like this?”

“That would be a scandal!” 

There is a vault in your stomach at the idea of attending a social event dressed in his clothes, even as you melt under his questing touch.

“Not in the more… bohemian… circles that I know of…” he contends; his breath is a warm gust in your ear as his other hand does the same, fondling both nipples now.

He waits until you meet his gaze in the mirror again, then lowers his lips to your neck and bites gently. His incisors a faint scrape, immediately soothed by a wide, wet lathe of his tongue. A little crest of victory as something sizeable stirs against the cleft of your bottom. 

“If I were dressed as you, then what would you wear, husband?” 

“Whatever you would like, my darling,” he offers between soft, damp kisses, a tingle running up your neck from his lips to the top of your scalp. “I could wear your clothing should you wish it. Or perhaps just your corset and underwear?” He nuzzles into you, taking a deep breath. “Our little secret…”

Something about his tone, the images he concocts, makes your blood run warm, your hand reaching up and diving into his luscious hair, tugging gently upon his roots so again he feels compelled to use his teeth, a groan bubbling up from within as he does. With a flick of his wrists, the braces fall from your shoulders, and he cups your breasts through his thin cotton shirt. It makes you sigh his name, asking for more, arousal coursing thickly through your veins—a yen to be taken right away. 

“The thought arouses you, does it not?” he correctly surmises, trailing his touch down over the shirt, brushing your ribs and belly to the fastening on the trousers, making short work of the buttons.

You nod demurely, biting your lip as you watch his dextrous hands in the mirror, his arms encircling you; it is almost as if he is removing them from himself. The air feels heady as he pushes the loosened fabric from around your frame, and it hits the rug with an audible thump.

Standing before him in just his ruffled white shirt with only a few buttons fastened, you feel his weighted stare in the mirror, lingering on the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs peeking out between the shirt sides.

“I shall prefer you keep this on…” he asserts, popping open a button over your chest so the fabric opens enough for him to slide a hand inside, tweaking your nipple and pulling you back into his frame, rutting his now solid cock against your bottom.

You turn your head to press your lips to his, imploring for more of his touch in a fervent whisper before seeking a kiss. His mouth is hot on yours, rolling his tongue with yours, endless caresses of your breasts as you burn so hot you rub your thighs together in delicious anticipation of more, already more than ready for him, your clit pulsing with each tease of his tongue.

“Here?”

You know what he is asking—if you wish to have sex right where you stand, in front of your dressing mirror, his shirt loose around your body, him naked behind you.

“Yes. Yes please…” you murmur into his mouth, rolling your body against him, telegraphing unmistakable need.

“The window is open,” he points out with a smirk, nodding towards a high window that allows in light to the dressing room but affords you not to be seen; it is open this morning to let in the summer breeze. “What if we are heard?”

“I care not,” you confess, exhaling jaggedly, knowing he likes you in this state, desperate and debauched, uncaring if you may be overheard in your pursuit of pleasure. 

Rubbing yourself upon him akin to a feline in heat, moving so his cock passes teasingly between your thighs now as you writhe. He groans and tells you not to stop, hissing his approval. So you squeeze your legs together tightly, allowing him to rut between them, the pass of his cock glancing maddeningly over your engorged clit.

His touch becomes heavier, hands mapping your body as his hips surge, and you see the red, weeping tip of his cock emerging and disappearing in the mirror, an intoxicating sight. You moan lightly with every pass, a tantalising swipe, not enough to bring you real pleasure, just notching your want higher.

He finally takes pity upon you, angling his hips differently and driving into you; you, moaning at the invasion so deep and encompassing, rocked up onto your tiptoes. Every time he has entered your body, it's always the same: a force that steals your breath and makes your eyes roll. His hands are a firm grip around your waist as he withdraws slowly back, then surges in again, capturing your earlobe in his teeth as he does.

As your eyes meet in the mirror, you idly wonder how many other wives are watching themselves being fucked by a handsome husband like this; a bright weekday morning, birdsong wafting in on the scented breeze, body wrapped only in his shirt. You suspect none are quite so lucky.

You moan his name and arch back against him, wrapping your hands around his neck and watching yourself being taken, relying on him to keep your stance steady as he starts to fuck into you in earnest, large hands sliding up to cup your breasts, engulfing them in his warm palms.

Unable to stop the noises you make, each pass hitting all the spots inside that make your toes curl into the thick pile of the rug beneath your feet, your pussy clenching around his invasion, making him growl and move faster, taking you harsher, an onslaught that is as pleasurable as it is powerful.

His mouth is a breathy litany of praise into your cheekbone, your eyes fluttering closed to focus on the carnal moment - the sweat, the skin, the ragged breaths, the meeting of your bodies so primal and glorious, but he has other ideas.

“Look at yourself,” he purrs dulcetly, your eyes reopening to do as he asks, to watch this unrestrained moment of passion, to see the little marks blooming on your body from where his fingers dig into your flesh as he pounds into you now, a flourish of colour on your neck from his thorough attention.

You plead for more throatily, pushing back as best you can against his thrusts, wanting him to make you scream, uncaring of any audience inside or outside your townhouse, only craving the sweet, blissful release he always provides.

Abruptly, he wrenches open the shirt you wear, one button pinging forward and tinking against the mirror before skittering across the floor, your naked body framed by his crisp white shirt, the ruffled lapels tickling the sides of your breasts, catching sight of his handsome face in the mirror contorted in a passionate tempest.

Then one hand slides down your front, you feeling it rippling in your belly and seeing it in your reflection before you until those fingers slide between your legs and hook over your clit with a force that steals the air from your lungs, a sharp stab of pleasure that makes your knees buckle, him pausing in his motions briefly to brace your weight, keep you upright.

Then it is a blur as he restarts his motion, his fingers dance on your swollen pearl, slipping silkily over his touch as he grunts encouragements. It feels like you are circling for so long, so close to something mind-blowing, but then he flicks harshly with his fingernail and bites your neck, and you are hurtling. Everything is loud and quiet at once, no doubt your voice calling his name as you tumble over the edge, clenching hard around him as your whole body shatters and rebuilds in a blissful puzzle. Dimly, as you float, you feel his entire body tense, and with a roar, he follows you over, a warmth blooming inside you as he reaches completion. 

There are a few moments of panted breaths as you both recover from the intensity before he spins you around and sweeps you into his arms, carrying you back to bed. There, he lays you down gently and proceeds to turn you into a molten, quivering pile, mapping your body with his lips and fingers until you are begging for him again, which he more than obliges. So much so you are almost late for your social engagement.

If there are a few derogatory looks as you swan into the ladies' luncheon with a blissful smile and a burgeoning mark on your neck from your husband's amorous intentions, well, so be it. You wouldn't change it for the world.

And it is also most definitely not the last time you dress up in his clothes…

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[cheriladycl01]

Kinktober 11/10/2024 Oscar Piastri- Somnophilia

Plot: You and Oscar never have linked up sleep schedules so you’re often asleep when he comes home. And he just needs you so desperately…

Warnings: Kinktober, SMUT, Somnophilia, p in v, sex while asleep, 18+ Minors DNI

You and Oscar never had linked up sleep schedules, it was awful. If you had jobs to do at home over a race weekend especially one out of your time zone Oscar would be coming home at 3am, when you were already asleep.

After Australia, Japan and China all being together and him not coming back to the UK and you being incredibly busy not being able to go to him. He was getting home at 3am, yet he wasn’t tired making the mistake of sleeping on his flight home from exhaustion from the race.

You were lying in bed, duvet torn off of you face smushed into the pillow, turned to the side. You had one leg cocked up and the other straight. Oscar walking quietly into the bedroom seeing this sight had him even more awake.

He gently placed his suitcase down not wanting to wake you up.

You were wearing the sleepwear that he found the sexiest and it was like you’d done that on purpose. It wasn’t anything skimpy like silk or lacy. It was a pair of white underwear that rested on your hips showing off your figure deliciously. And then a low cut cropped hoodie.

Everything just looked so … he couldn’t even describe it! But he wanted you so badly. It had been over three weeks since he’d gotten any kind of intimacy with you. You’d both had an unforgettable night before he’d left but since then you’d both been far to busy to relieve yourself.

Now that he was here with you, seeing you looking so soft and fuckable he couldn’t help himself when he felt himself strain against his tightening jeans.

He couldn’t help the way he stood onto next to you, running his hand down the drive of your spine before running down the outline of the underwear from your hip to your bum.

You’d both spoken about doing this before but you’d never actually got round to it, as you normally tried to force yourself to stay up to wait for him to come home or he’d be too exhausted to do anything by the time he was there.

But now was the perfect time, you were laying there all innocent and unassuming. This was his moment.

He took his jeans off, not wanting to make you wake up from him trying to awkwardly shuffle his jeans off when he was weighing down the bed and moving the mattress.

He takes both jeans and boxers off discarding them on the floor before climbing up into the bed behind you. He holds your hips testing the waters by rubbing his hands up and down a bit rougher before gripping either side, moving you so you were more on your stomach. As he straddled you, his hands grazed over your underwear on your lower back, giving it a testing snap, but you only stirred in the way Oscar was used to you stirring, one that he knew you wouldn’t wake from easily.

Through the fabric of your panties he gives a testing rub of your clit, and almost as if you knew he was there in your sleep and you knew what he wanted your hips arched in a way that gave him easier access. He get rubbing until he could feel a wet patch of your slick form through the white panties you were wearing. If only you were wearing grey right now and it was more visible, he’d be a different animal.

Little soft sight and whines came from you in your sleep, until you called him name.

“Oscar” you moaned and he stopped thinking he’d woken you up but all he saw when he looked at your face against the pillow was a small furrow in your brows and your lips slightly parted.

“That’s it baby” he whispers softly.

He goes back to rubbing your clit until you roll a little bit, shaking in your sleep. He pulls away, knowing that an orgasm would most likely wake you up and he wanted to be inside you when that happened.

Pulling the underwear to the side and pulling your hips up a tiny little bit, he slips into your wetness. The sound was ludicrous, but he had to bite his lip to hold back his own moan as he bottomed out in you, your walls already clamping down on the unexpected intrusion.

He keeps a nice grip on your hips starting to thrust in and out, very softly that at one point it felt so good he had to bring his own hand up to cover his mouth as he let out his own grunt. He kept it up there for a while until he started to get needier and rougher to reach his high.

His hands had an incredibly strong grip on your lips and he’d lifted you up further to get a better angle in the relaxed doggy style he currently had you in.

“Argh fuck” he slipped up. And that when your mind started to wake up, you thought it was just an incredible dream you were having about your boyfriend. But as you started to come too, the feeling of something pushing in and out of you became far to realistic.

The feeling washed over you like a ton of bricks and you moaned at the feeling.

“Oscar?” You half moan, half question as you try look round, seeing your boyfriend behind you, thrusting in and out.

“Oh fuck, Osc. Missed you so fucking much. Fuck please baby” you cry as his thrusts get quicker knowing now your awake. He hits one spot that has you clamping tight around him, your hands fisting into the sheet and pillow as you moan out his name once more.

He shortly follows, hips stuttering into you before collapsing next to you, tucking you Into his embrace holding you close to him as he lets a breath out.

“Welcome home” you mutter sleepily as he kisses your head.

“I want to come home like this always” he sighs.

Taglist:

@littlebitchsposts @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @eiraethh @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount

[kaciidubs]

Cameras and Sweatpants

❣ Summary: Photoshoots, the gift that keeps on giving, and you welcomed it with open arms - and mouth. ❣  ❣ Word Count: 1.5k ❣ Warnings: Smut, degradation/name calling [slut], slight public sex ❣  ❣ Female! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns ❣  ❣ Additional Tags: 230526 Chris [pictured], Chan is referred to as Chris and Daddy, Reader is referred to as Baby, Pretty/Dirty Girl, Slut, mention of Jisung, lightly edited, this was written almost a year ago while I was sleep deprived and horny for this specific version of Chris ❣ Stray Kids Masterlist ❣ General Masterlist

“We have 30 minutes,” Chris whispered against the shell of your ear, his hand resting against the small of your back. 

You smirked, pace quickening ever so slightly as you walked past staff members and stylists alike - a glint of mischief shining through your lust fogged eyes. “I’ll be done in 15.”

Attending photoshoots with the boys was a rare occurrence, usually only happening when your oh-so-loving boyfriend figured a ‘little vacation’ was in order - and this was one of those times.

Even if you weren't well versed with Dispatch as a whole, you were more than aware of the speculation of idols’ private lives and, more present, promotional photoshoots and interviews.

Especially promotional photoshoots that had your boyfriend in the most relaxed yet revealing outfit you’d laid your eyes on; from the white, sleeveless shirt showing off well sculpted biceps that never failed to draw attention, to the baby blue sweatpants tied securely around his hips with holes that gave peeks into what you had the pleasure of seeing daily.

All of this, paired with the borderline bedroom eyes he was giving the camera, culminated into you tugging him off the couch the minute the director gave the call for a break to set up for the next room.

The second the changing room’s door shut and the lock clicked into place, you wasted no time in sinking to your knees in front of him - hardwood floors be damned. Your mouth watered at the prominent bulge beginning to tent the blue fabric; running your hand along the outline and earning a stifled grunt in return. 

“Baby, I’d rather not stain these pants,” Chris gritted out, trying to keep his anticipation at bay as you continued palming him, “we still have the second half to shoot.” 

You opened your mouth for a rebuttal, a tease of some sort, but the looming reminder of how much time you had made it close just as fast. 

Heeding his request, your hands slid up to the waistband of his sweats before tugging them past the swell of his ass and down the expanse of his thighs, just enough to expose his boxer-briefs.

“If we were home, this would be so much easier.” Your lips pulled into a playful pout, fingertips dipping past the branded waistband before pulling them down to meet the same fate as his sweats. “I wouldn’t have to worry about this many layers.”

He scoffed, leaning his back against the cool wooden door, “If you were patient you wouldn’t have this problem, now would you?” Cocking his head to the side, he ran his tongue across his bottom lip, “But you’re just so needy for my dick, aren’t you, baby?”

A fresh heat washed over you from his words and you had to physically fight back the whine bubbling in the back of your throat - if he was already talking like this, then you knew you weren't the only needy one here.

Spitting into your hand, you wrapped it around his length and gave a few experimental pumps, relishing in the sharp hiss of air he took above you with each pass of your fist, before leaning forward to lick a line from the base of his dick to the tip.

His lips parted with a breathless, “Fuck…”, his head falling back against the door with a low thud as he watched you with lidded eyes.

You looked up at him, the smallest hints of a smirk on your lips before parting them to take the head into your mouth, lapping languidly at the bitter-sweet precum leaking from the slit. A soft moan hummed from your throat as you sunk further, eagerly welcoming the familiar weight of him on your tongue.

 It was always an effort to take him down your throat, long as he was thick, but you continued pressing on - eyelids fluttering shut as you focused on breathing and fighting your gag reflex.

“S-Shit, baby,” Chris gasped, his hand resting on the top of your head, “can’t- ah, can’t go two hours without having your mouth stuffed, yeah?”

Your left hand gripped his thigh, either as a muted response or moral support when you finally, finally, pressed your nose against the finely trimmed patch of pubes that decorated his pelvis. Swallowing around him, earning a delicious whimper that made your pussy flutter, you tapped his thigh twice with a soft hum.

He tensed, his brain short circuiting while his heart skipped a beat so hard he felt it in his throat, “Really? Y-You don’t- fuck, you really want me to…?”

Another two taps against his thigh, and you looked up at him as best as you could from your knelt position, feeling spit start to overflow past the corners of your lips.

“Fuck- You’re gonna be the death of me, baby.”

His hand shifted to the back of your head, locking you in place as he drew his hips back, a shiver running down his spine until half of his cock remained in your mouth before thrusting forward, sending himself down your throat once again.

You squeezed your eyes shut, one hand holding onto his half while the other balled into a fist on your thigh, helping you focus on keeping your gags at bay with practiced breaths.

Chris kept a few more slow, manageable thrusts before turning up the pace; his cock leaving your mouth a little more each time before sliding its way back into your throat, ragged pants tumbling from his lips as he fucked your mouth.

It was dizzying, the way your muscles constricted around his girth while your plump lips were slicked with bubbling saliva - it wasn’t anywhere close to how your cunt felt, but it was still bringing him to his end just the same. It also didn’t help that soft moans were interspersed between your muted gags; the thought of you getting off on him using your mouth like a fleshlight making his grip tighten and his balls swell.

“T-Taking me so well,” he gritted, breaking out into a small sweat, “so needy for me you can’t even suck me off by yourself - need me to help you, huh? Need me to- fuck- to use this throat of yours like the slut you are.”

Your nails dug into his calf and he chuckled, a short, husky sound that had your pussy clenching around nothing, your panties sticking like a self-imposed punishment.

“My little slut, yeah? All mine?” Sucking in a sharp breath, his hips stuttered, “A-All mine to use - daddy’s pretty, dirty girl.”

Blinking away the tears blurring your vision, you angled your head up just enough to gaze at him through your eyelashes, and the sight you were met with had you rocking your hips in the open air - desperation taking over your rational thoughts in hopes of an odd rotation to get something to grind against your aching cunt.

Pupils blown, the ends of his hair sticking to his forehead,the glow of sweat shining down the curve of his neck, pretty pink lips parted and shimmering from the gloss the makeup artists coated them in, and brows furrowed with a focus you’d seen time and time again - he looked delectable.

“S-Shit- I’m close, baby,” panting, Chris looked down at you with worry flashing in his eyes, “Wh- Mm- Where do you want it?”

Answering his question as best you could, you squeezed his calf once before pressing your tongue to the underside of his dick, running it against a vein that never failed to make his head spin.

The grip on your head tightened as he nodded frantically, “Y-Yeah, yeah, okay - t-take it all, princess, swallow every drop j-just f’me, yeah?” A shiver ran down his spine as his rhythm began to falter, breathless whimpers falling from his lips, “‘M coming- oh fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna come-”

His dick twitched, throbbing against your tongue, and with a handful of thrusts the tip pressed against the soft flesh of the back of your throat before a rush of cum filled your mouth.

Your throat tightened with each swallow you took, gag reflex working double time with the lack of air reaching your lungs until the last of his release settled onto your tongue.

As his hold on you relaxed, you slowly pulled yourself off of his length with a lewd slurp, taking whatever final remnants remained before swallowing - almost choking on the deep breath that immediately followed suit as your lungs gratefully welcomed the unhindered rush of air.

“I’m-” Chris huffed out a breath, fully leaning against the door to save him from falling to his knees, “I’m sorry, baby, are you okay? Did I go too hard?”

“Honestly?” Clearing the rasp from your voice, you laughed lightly, “If I passed out, it would’ve been worth it.”

“Oh my god, you absolute menace!”

Eyes narrowing with mirth, you smirked, “Menace? I thought I was daddy’s little slut?”

The blush tinting his ears and neck deepened, but before he could respond a series of knocks rapped against the door, followed by Jisung’s sheepish voice.

“Uh, if you guys are done in there, can I grab my phone?”

✧. ┊Tagged lovelies: @having-an-internal-crisis-rn, @midnightfrog625, @anyhow-everything, @bangchanbabygirlx, @sweetracha, @nightimescapes, @caitlyn98s, @ch4nn13luv, @ihrtlix, @jeonjungkookenthusiast1997, @maximumkillshot, @y-ur--i, @acker-night, @dreamescapeswriting, @specialstay, @s00buwu, @tinyelfperson, @jj-stay, @katsukis1wife, @inlovewithmusician, @keen-li, @armystay89, @main-character0, @vampcharxter, @ddyskz, @prettymiye0n, @bbgnyx, @ivyisnotokay, @bahng-chrizz, @milknhoneyracha, @hann1bee, @palindrome969, @newhope8, @softkissfelix, @luvyev, @luminouskalopsia, @kpopsstuffs, @luvyev, @starquokka, @wolfs-howling, @laylasbunbunny, @zaethefangirl, @chxnb97, @4-chan-inpadella

✧. ┊If your username is in bold italics that means tumblr won't let me tag you. If you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill out this form!

[softshuji]

Ran knows something is wrong.

There's a certain stillness in the air when you come home today and he- ever the observant one- notices it the minute you demurely shuffle into the house.

He's used to the clatter, the hustle and bustle of bags and shoes, your keys with too many keychains, a loud thump as you throw your coat over the arm of the sofa and drop your handbag and boots to the floor, a weighted and audible 'i'm back!' that he looks forward to every day.

He thinks he's used to your footfall by now, soft on the stairs as you make to the bedroom and toss your clothes to the bed, half on and half off and just as messy because you always have been like that, accessories piled on the dresser for later and headphones tossed onto the laptop on the desk. Here you are now, quiet still though, and heading straight for the en suite to wash your face and Ran pokes his head around the bedroom door to watch you kick off a skirt and trudge to the bathroom.

He follows easily, quietly, a fox stalking a rabbit, picking up your clothes and piling them on the chair before he leans on the bathroom door and watches you wash your face before pressing your palms to your eyes, holding them there as the water drips and slides along your chin with a plink against the white porcelain sink.

'Princess?' he says and breaks the silence, his baggy shirt falling over one shoulder, arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted in concern as you lean against the sink, close enough for you to catch the faint watery puff of redness under your eyes in the mirror now fogging up with your shaky breath. 'You good?'

You avoid him like you always do, because you hate that he sees through you so easily sometimes, that he's smart and clever and you wish he wasn't so when you put up enough walls for him to have to fight them down. So you shrug and turn away towards the cabinet to put your soap back, to rearrange things uselessly just so you can avoid turning back to him again, the outline of you stiff in a loose shirt of his.

You sense him move and a part of you quails because you know he is nothing if not persistent and maybe that's what it is, years and years of having to grow up too quickly, of constantly having to be more than enough for others that has changed and matured him in ways he shouldn't have to be, but that exist anyway. You wonder absent-mindedly sometimes, in the lower moments whether it all comes from Rindou, from Sanzu even. All the lessons learned in how to parent by himself because Rindou needed a father and a brother both and Ran always steps up.

His shadow looms behind you and you stiffen when he runs his hands along your sides, to your shoulders where he presses his palms, a smooth and reassuring pressure along your shoulder blades and back, running to your neck and down again, a tug that has your back hitting his chest and his head resting against yours.

'Bad day?' he says, his breath a whisper against your ear, warmth tickling the faint hairs on the nape of your neck as his hands come around to your stomach where they rest against the hem of your sweatpants.

'Maybe,' you say, non-committal and tense still, refusing to show it, refusing to lean into him because it burns you somewhere inside that he gives himself to you so freely and that you have an issue accepting it anyway, that it's a weakness to let yourself be cared for by him in the way he is so eager to give so often. You fall back on this a lot, the same thoughts, the same reasonings, the same love you wish was easier to accept from someone who wants to give it.

He hums with a press of his lips to your temple. 'Yeah, me too. Total shitshow today.'

'You okay?' you turn to him then, quickly, a bunny ensnared in the trap he has so easily lain, all pretense forgotten and he clicks his tongue at it all.

'See I knew you'd do that.'

'Do what?'

'You do it a lot. Forget about yourself if you think someone else needs you more.'

A chill runs along your spine, tickling the base of your neck. 'Because it's true and I don't like talking about it.'

'It's not.'

'Not what?'

'True,' he says, his hands now skimming over your arms, settling on your hips that he pulls to bump gently against his own, thumbs grazing the soft flesh that slivers between the shirt and the hem of your sweatpants. 'None of it. There's nothing noble in constantly ignoring yourself, not when you need care too.'

Something stirs in your throat, tears unbidden and swallowed, a twitch of your eyebrows that has your ears ringing and you hate him, hate that it must feel easy to him to peel you back like this, as if all the time you've spent carefully curating yourself doesn't mean anything.

'I don't,' you say, stubborn as ever and shaking your head, a forceful willingness to push the hurt and ache down, to quell the tears that he brings so freely. 'I don't need anything, and nothing is wrong.'

He raises an eyebrow at you then, a lift of his chin and a slow shake of his head, purpling strands of silky hair curling over his forehead and it makes him look boyishly handsome, beautiful and open and endearing and honest and you would kiss him till he knew and believed if you could.

'Don't,' he says. 'Don't do that. We don't do that Princess, you know we don't.'

You look away then, escaping from the heat of his stare, all knowing and terrifying and direct, the flash of lilac and lavender that sees through your tough skin, your tough and stubborn exterior. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

He lifts a finger, holds your chin between that and his thumb, smooth circles from left to right and so soft, so reassuring, even now when you're convinced he must be annoyed, must be bothered by the bother of you. 'We don't do that Doll. We don't be mad and then not talk about why and expect the other to magically know, and then get angry at them when they don't. So tell me what's wrong yeah?'

You mumble, a slip of words that crumble at the end, the weight of all his softness, all the learning, all the reassuring gathering with the tears at the back of your throat. 'You're not upset at me? You don't think I'm bothering you?'

You like when he smiles. Just as he's about to. You like it even more when he holds the back of your head and tucks you against his chest like so, your voice muffled by the cotton, by the warmth and constancy of him, his heart beating against your cheek, a steady tap that melts into the rhythmic circles drawn against your back. He leans his head against yours, lips caught on your hair, the vibration of his deep and sultry voice reverberating in your chest.

'Did I ever say I was?'

'No, no you didn't.'

'Then don't you think it's unfair to assume that I am Princess? Make my decisions for me?'

You clamp your lips shut, opting instead to lift your arms around his back, press him into you, curl around him as a cat would, soft muscle and fine bones that make him so real and so tangible under your touch, that you could spend hours marveling over alone. 'Just dumb that's all. I had a shitty day and my coffee press broke and I got wet in the rain and I'm tired.'

'Mhm, go on.'

'And I'm angry and want a bath and I feel bad for complaining when it's not that bad in the grand scheme of things y'know?'

'Mhmm who said though? Who said it's not that bad? It's relative don't you think? Bad shit is bad shit, I wouldn't ever expect you to be happy with it.'

'I...I don't like needing things, you know this.' You turn your cheek, lay it flat against his chest, the tap and boom of his heart thrumming against your ear.

'I like needy Princess, I like being there.'

You hate him, you love him, you wish it were easier to undo all the old lessons beaten into you, especially when you know he's so eager to please, so eager to be needed by you, so eager to give if only you'd accept it. You wonder how it happened. How a man with one family member, who has seen enough death for a lifetime can hold you like this- gently- soft, fingers that move deftly across your skin, a feather touch to your spine, to your chest, to your hips that he lightly squeezes at, pulling the hurt from you with every press of his lips to your hair.

'Sorry.'

'No need Princess, nothing to be sorry for. Now how about that bath?' and he pulls you back, tears soaked into his shirt for him to toss later, the effort of his love shining through when you give him a watery and shaky smile, the edges of your eyes still puffy and red rimmed but calmer now, holding his hands against your cheeks.

It never hurts and he never gets tired and you wish you were able to talk about it more. That you think he has fixed some part of you left dormant, left broken, and even if he hasn't, you can admit his hands feel good, feel nice when he runs them across your skin, and across every painted and embellished scar.

As if he doesn't see the multitudes of jagged edges, as if he loves them anyway. He does.

reblogs appreciated!

I had a terrible day and needed to make myself feel better lol

[karvroom]

TRAINING IN SESSION

teen!Hawks x reader

⟢ summary: A year after the Hero Public Safety Commission took Keigo in to undergo harsh training to become an undercover double agent, you were introduced to the same program. You grew up together, practically inseparable since the moment you met. Now, you’re teenagers.

══════════════════

“Please, one more. I swear I’ll go easy.” Your partner in crime, Hawks, whined. He bumped your arm as you chugged from the cool water bottle. His tone switched to one of playfulness, “Oh, c’mon, are ya chicken?”

Hawks was trying to get you to spar with him again. Even though you’ve gone on for countless rounds and you were exhausted to say the least. You both sat on the ground beside one another, backs pressed against the cushioned wall. You straightened your shoulders, bringing the plastic bottle away from your mouth and screwing the lid back on.

You scanned the plain gray room. Rubber mats covered the entirety of the walls and floor, making it comfortable for a harsh landing. The dimly lit area looked almost black and white in your vision.

“You’re one to talk, bird boy.” You looked him up and down, referring to the crimson wings on his back. He wore a black compression shirt, which showed off how much muscle he had gained since you were little.

You met when you were both seven—Hawks was in the program a year before you were put in. Now, you were seventeen, which meant one year closer to becoming full fledged Pro Heroes.

“You know I hate when you call me that.” The blonde complained, his cheeks turning to a hue of pink as he turned his head away from you.

You giggled, finding it cute when you flustered him. Ever since you were little, you had a crush on him. Maybe it was because you were separated from the rest of society and hadn’t been exposed to anyone your age before except him. So, what? To you, he was the perfect guy.

You sighed, putting your hands on your knees to make it easier for you to stand. You hopped onto your feet, turning to Hawks who still hid his face. You held a hand out for him to grab, “One more round, ‘kay? If I win—”

“If I win I get to take you on a date.” Hawks teasingly smiled, revealing his playful grin.

You had this thing ever since you were little; he promised to take you out on a date once you were both in the real world. You refused his offer every single time. But he knew you. He knew you would go back on your word and he would eventually take you to a restaurant on the beach. Hawks remembered the one time you mentioned how much you loved the beach and he kept that in his memory ever since.

You rolled your eyes, “Fine.”

“Really?” He eagerly asked, earning a shy nod in response. Hawks traced the outline of your body, his eyes widening. His pupils nearly swallowing his golden irises as he admired your beauty. Your luscious locks that you refused to let anyone touch (he was the exception). He loved how they fell in your face while you looked down at him. The way you were so touchy with him, yet refused to flirt when he obviously was. Your lips curled into a smile and that did it for him. He felt his face start to heat up again.

Hawks had taken a liking to you. Though, he knew you “secretly” liked him for much longer and he only recently started seeing you as something more than a friend. He was falling. Hard.

He groaned at how easily you made his heart melt. Slapping his palm into your own, you pulled him up from the ground, turning to walk to the center of the room. You readied into a fighting stance, bending your knees, putting your fists up in the air and straightening your posture.

You cracked your neck as you asked, “Ready?”

“You bet.” Hawks gave you a single nod with a shit eating grin, copying your stance. Surprisingly, you were the first to initiate fire. You ran at him, aiming a punch right for his head. He dodged with ease, dropping to the floor to kick at your legs. You jumped over, effortlessly.

You were both used to each other’s fighting techniques that it was hard to ever declare a winner fair and square.

You managed to land a kick to his side, using just enough force to stumble over his own feet. He grunted, holding a hand over his rib. Once he regained balance, he attacked you, attempting to grab your wrist. You held your hand high in the air, out of his reach. With his arm stretched, he revealed his side to you. You used this opportunity to make use of your other hand. You attacked his torso with tickles, your fingers running over the clothed muscles beneath.

Hawks let out a childish laugh, trying to maintain his composure. He brought his arm down from trying to reach your hand, defending his stomach by placing his arms at his front.

You smiled, seizing the moment. You swung your leg underneath his figure. He jumped just in time, using his wings to fly higher in the air and towards the high ceiling.

“That’s not fair. I thought we agreed on no quirks?” You crossed your arms over your chest as you pouted to the blonde. You looked so much smaller than you really were to him from the ceiling. He wanted to scoop you into his pocket and take you everywhere with him—as corny as that sounds.

“Life isn’t fair, sweetheart.” Hawks called from above, waving his hand in the air. “And your dirty little trick wasn’t very fair either. Hypocrite.”

“Whatever. I would’ve won, anyway!” You shouted to him, cupping your hands over your mouth. He found it funny how dramatic you were.

A few crimson feathers fell from the sky. You observed as they were soft and flexible at first, suddenly turning into a deadly weapon. The sharp edges of the plumes flying at your figure. Hawks was careful not to actually do damage.

You gasped as his feathers shot you back against the wall, pinning you to the cushions by the extra fabric on your clothes. Hawks swooped down from the air, cockily strutting to your trapped body.

“You sure ‘bout that?” He tilted his head to the left, followed by an arrogant smile. Hawks leaned in close to you, his face only inches from yours.

You felt your breathing speed up and your heart rate start to rise. You didn’t want to—you had to remind yourself not to look at his soft, pink lips. If you did, it would be over.

Hawks felt powerful in this situation. His figure towering over your own as his gaze met your own. Strands of his overgrown, blonde hair fell onto his forehead as he was further entranced by your beauty.

Words couldn’t explain how badly he wanted to kiss you. He’d been dreaming of a moment as intimate as this with you for a while now. Usually, he would grab a fist full of your hair, smashing your lips against his own as he melted into your touch. Now, he was at a standstill unsure of what to do. The tension between you felt like static electricity.

He let out a huff, speaking in a cocky tone, “Looks like I just won myself a date.”

[hihhasotherfixations]

Tattoo Blossom - Price x Reader | Part 1

AU where your soulmate’s injuries appear on your skin like a blooming flower tattoo.

Part 1 | Part 2

Thank you @flop101 for helping me come up with the idea for this soulmate au!

CW: None. Reader has no gender specified. Slight talk of injury.

Word Count: 6087

It always started with a sudden pressure.

Sitting at work, you groaned softly as you lifted your hand, pressing it on your left sternum to alleviate the pain.

“Y/N, you alright?” Your coworker asked as they leaned over and you sent them a smile you didn’t really mean.

“Just fine, don’t worry. I’m… just gonna head to the restroom.” With that, you stood up from your chair and hurriedly walked across the office, towards the toilets.

Once inside, you made a beeline for the mirrors, unbuttoning your shirt slightly before pulling the fabric away from your sternum.

Right there, perfectly above the bone, sat a small black and white bud. It was small and tear drop-shaped, just like every flower started out as. It made it impossible to tell what type of flower it was yet.

Sighing softly, you thumbed over the imprint on your skin, a worry line present in the creasing of your brow.

“What did you do this time…” Muttering it softly, your eyes glazed over as you looked at the small tattoo.

Somewhere in the world, your soulmate had gotten hurt again. And while you had a beautiful, black outlined flower bud, he most likely had a gaping wound.

Closing your eyes, you let your shirt fall back into place. You just hoped the flower would bloom soon. After all, the bud becoming a flower signified his healing - his wound becoming a scar. And you’d be glad once it was in full bloom, meaning he was fully healed. And you’d also be able to see what you’d add to the collection.

After all, not every flower was the same kind.

From the myriad of them that littered your body, each one seemed to correspond to a specific sort of injury.

You’d read somewhere once that that’s where flowers got their meanings from. The reason for an injury.

You’d figured out some. How could you not?The petals covered you from chest to toe - thankfully avoiding your face for now - so of course you’d get curious.

They sprouted all over your body, some small, some larger. There was even a row of them on your forearm.

While most flowers were different however, there were those that repeated. And the most frequent were the Tansy’s.

You’d looked it up once. Tansy’s were flowers that signified hostile thoughts and the declaring of war.

Whatever else you held on your body, at least these flowers gave an answer. Whoever your soulmate was, wherever he was, he was at war.

And he’d been so for the past 19 years.

- - - - -

John Price often forgot he had a soulmate.

Only about 20% of the population did and with his busy life, thinking about that little flower on the back of his right ankle was far from the forefront of his mind.

It was easier to forget. Not only to hide his heartache but also to hide his guilt.

After all, what use was a soulmate if all they did was paint your skin against your will. Filling in your body with marks and filling up your mind with worry over what your soulmate did to get wounded so much.

So instead, John chose to forget. To leave the guilt and want out and instead focus on the missions in front of him. None of the boys in the task force knew, not even Nikolai knew. Laswell had only found out several years ago when he’d joined her and her wife for a camping trip.

Purely by accident too.

The three of them had been hiking when John’s boot slipped in a mud puddle, causing his ankle to make a very dangerous move to the side. Cursing and hissing, he’d limped over to a dry patch and taken off his boot, yanking his sock down to inspect his ankle, only to be stared in the face with the flower he’d done so well to forget until then. Right in Laswell’s sight.

The rest of that trip had soured explicitly for the SAS captain, constantly hounded with questions by Laswell’s wife - who seemed rather enthused - while the woman herself berated him every step of the way.

Now however, he was back in England, having just returned from killing Hassan and stopping a missile.

Sitting on a chair, he was struggling with putting on his boot, hissing with every move of his left arm that caused the gunshot by his sternum to scream in pain.

“Y’alright, cap?” Soap’s voice piped up as he leaned back on the couch, looking at the man while Ghost pushed the Scot’s legs off of himself in irritation (it was a dangerous game Johnny was playing.)

“Need some help?” Gaz now asked, standing in the doorway and Price looked up, glaring at the two men. Though he knew it came from a place of concern, it highly wounded his pride.

“And have either of you blokes tie my shoe like I’m some kid?” He scoffed, not gracing them with another look as he focused on the blasted boot again.

“There’s many more reasons to tie someone’s shoe.” Gaz protested, displeased by his captain’s stubbornness.

“Like what?”

“Like when your missus does it for you!” Soap piped up with a wide grin, getting a glare from Gaz for having his point interrupted, though Price just deadpanned.

“So a mother and a missus can tie a shoe and I have neither, how nice.” He rumbled back, slamming his foot down now to try and get his heel down into it, properly annoyed.

“Ah, that’s-“ Before Soap could continue to horribly try and rectify what he brought into the world, Ghost smacked him on the back of his head.

“Shut up, Johnny.”

“What I was trying to say.” Gaz stepped in before it could turn into a fight. “None of us will think any different of you if you ask for help every once in a while. Especially when you’re injured.” The sergeant tried but right then, Price managed to get the boot on, quickly tying it as best as he could with his limited movement.

“Well, I got it. So thanks a lot, lads, but no need.” The man hummed as he got up, grunting a bit as he accidentally strained the muscles of his shoulder. “Let’s get going, I need that drink.”

- - - -

“I’m really not feeling up for this.” You sighed softly, holding your shirt up to your chest.

For the past ten or so minutes, you’d been staring at yourself in the mirror, your eyes grazing over every flower that littered your body.

The large snapdragon in your side, the holly’s in your right thigh and abdomen, the hyssops marking three places on your torso, the anemone in the middle of your chest, the chain of several lily’s below your elbow. Not even to mention the tansy’s that sprouted everywhere. Your legs, your thighs, your shoulders, your arms.

And now the beginning bloom of a new flower above your sternum. All you could think about was how your soulmate had been injured again.

And how you feared the day that the flowers would wilt.

To you, the tattoos on your skin were a blessing and a curse. You didn’t mind them. It showed you had someone out there who was perfect for you - a missing puzzle piece you could slot together with. Not everyone got that privilege.

But who was to say you’d ever meet them? And while every flower that showed up was beautiful, it signalled your soulmate being hurt. And given you were almost entirely sure he was in the army, it meant those injuries were usually bad. You almost didn’t dare to count the amount of gunshot wounds, signified on your body as a singular small flower - so long as it didn’t have an exit point.

“Y/N, come on!” It was your friend pounding her fist on your bedroom door that made you snap out of your reverie. “You’ve been stuck at work for too long. You need a night out.”

Rolling your eyes, you pulled the red shirt you’d been holding over your head. It had sleeves reaching until halfway down your forearm, hiding almost all the flowers on your torso save for a single lily on your left arm. About two third’s of it showed while the rest of the chain was hidden. That was one of the largest patches of flowers and you’d long since given up trying to hide it.

Throwing on some jeans to match, you then swung the door open before Sarah could bash her fist into it again - which was an accurate thought as she stood there with her arm raised, ready to raise hell.

“Oh!” She startled before looking you over and groaning. “Again?” She whined, picking at your sleeve and letting it snap back against your arm.

“Ow, hey.” You chuckled, slapping her hand away before crossing your arms. “I’m not gonna flaunt myself in front of an entire bar. Leave me alone.” Shaking your head in amusement, you walked past her, making her fall into step behind you.

“You’re in your thirties and yet still you’re saving yourself like a nun. For a soldier? Didn’t he just give you a new one yesterday?” She whined and you sent an unimpressed look back over your shoulder, raising a brow.

“Ah yes, because he was given a gunshot wound as well.”

“There!” Sarah pointed at you as if to say ‘aha’. “You immediately know it’s a gunshot wound. Like how bad is that?”

“Just as bad as this miniskirt.” You grinned, poking her hip.

Gasping a little, she jumped away. “My skirt is not bad! I can wear what I want!” She protested and you gave her a smug look.

“Exactly.” After that however, you calmed a bit and grabbed her hand, running your thumb over it. “I don’t think it right to display someone else’s injuries. It’s a private thing, something he probably doesn’t want to talk about.”

“You’re too good for whoever this guy is.”

Laughing at Sarah’s pout, you swung your arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go get that drink then, hm? Get your mind off of me and my depressing ‘love’ life.”

Crossing her arms, she let you drag her away to the door, never letting up on her pout. “Fine.”

With that, the two of you headed out and towards the nearest pub, laughing and joking as you walked - after all, driving was out of the option for what you were planning for the evening.

- - - -

It was a lot busier in the bar than you’d expected.

Some type of football game was on and people had come out en masse to celebrate together, which left the large room stuffed relatively full with people.

Stumbling over to the bar with your best friend, you by some miracle managed to snatch two spots.

Sitting up on the high chairs, you both ordered a drink before settling into comfortable conversation.

“See anyone you fancy?”

Sarah’s sudden question had you spluttering into your glass before you glared at her. “Really?”

Blinking innocently, she just smiled at you and you playfully rolled your eyes. “I see someone you might fancy.” At that, she frowned and you nodded your head to something behind her.

Getting the hint, she turned around to see a man looking at her. Right as she crossed eyes though, he quickly looked away and she turned back to face you with a slight blush. “Alright so maybe you know my type.”

“Heads up.” You smirked as you watched him get up, goaded on by his friends and Sarah widened her eyes before quickly fixing her hair.

“I look okay?”

“You look great.” You chuckled, bumping your knee into her before turning to face the wood of the bar top right as Sarah turned around to greet the man.

Though you came here to have some fun together, you knew Sarah was a huge flirt. You also didn’t mind, perfectly content to enjoy a drink with your thoughts and people watching.

So, leaving her to her devices, you just politely tuned out the conversation on your right while smiling to yourself. Maybe this time, the man was a keeper.

-

“Excuse me?”

A good twenty minutes passed before the sudden words made you blink out of your thoughts, looking left to see a man about your age looking at you, a polite look on his face.

“Mind if I scoot in?” He asked kindly and you looked around, realising the entire bartop was filled with people.

“No, of course.” Smiling back at him, you scooted your chair right to make some room for him, which he quickly took as he stepped up and flagged down a bartender.

He had a pleasant look to him; head hidden under a black beanie, a weathered but kind face and muttonchops that fit him strangely well.

Thinking not much of it, you rolled your glass between your hands a bit, turning your brain off as you watched the bartender make… what was it- four drinks for the man?

Your gaze drifted a bit back and forth after that, until suddenly, a crash sounded to your left and a cold sensation splashed onto your arm.

“Oh-!” Yipping that out in surprise, you looked wide eyed to see the man frown down at the small tray he was trying to balance with one hand, one of the drinks fallen over and the contents dripping onto your arm.

“Ah, I’m sorry.” The man sent you an apologetic look as he quickly set the tray back on the bartop, to which you quickly waved him away.

“It just caught my sleeve, it’s okay!” You smiled, looking down at your arm to see the wet stain in the fabric. “I’ll just-“

“Here, let me.” He reached over the bar to his left - strangely enough using his right hand for it - and pressed some tissues to your soaked forearm.

“Ah, thank you.” You hummed, seeing him give you a tiny smile before his attention was taken by the bartender who placed a new glass in front of him which he paid for.

Quickly thanking the bartender, the man then briefly put his hand on your arm. “So sorry again. Have a good evening.” With a polite nod, he pulled away and slid the tray from the bar top into his hand - more careful this time - before he balanced it and made his way deeper into the pub.

Not thinking anything of it, you reached forward to nurse your own glass once more when a heat suddenly spread across your arm.

Frowning, you looked down. Was that drink he spilled hot? No, you distinctly felt it being cold just now.

Reaching down, you pinched your sleeve between your fingers, feeling how damp it was, yet all of a sudden, your heart seemed to stop as your eyes focused on what was going on on your skin behind your fingers.

There, on your arm, blossoming with heat, sat your lily. Your orange lily.

Breathing shallowly, you mindlessly reached back, slapping in the general direction of your best friend, managing to whack her on the back as she was still chatting up the man.

“Y/N, what-“ Her annoyed hiss was cut off when she saw you staring, wide eyed and almost panicked at your arm, where your flower was now nearly a bright orange - the colour almost completely faded in. “I- Oh my god!”

Loudly crying that out, the bar seemed to stop for a second as those around turned in concern, only for your friend to jump up from her stool and drag you down with it to hug you, jumping and laughing excitedly, putting the people back at ease as they continued their conversations.

“Please, keep your voice down!” You panicked but she seemed nonplussed as she pulled back and kept you at an arms length.

“Who is it! Who touched you? Y/N, your soulmate is here!” Her babbling didn’t stop as she pulled you closer and shook you by your shoulders before frantically looking around. “You do know who touched you, right?”

At that, you stopped briefly, your heart hammering as you turned around to look behind yourself, searching the crowd for the strange man with the black beanie and muttonchops.

It took a bit, but you eventually found him, tucked away nearly completely in the corner of the pub where he sat with his comrades, his back turned to where you were seated.

“Which one?” Your friend asked, trying to follow your line of sight and you bit your lip.

“Table of four. With the- with the hat.” You mumbled and she squinted, trying to find who you meant.

“I see no hat.”

“Black beanie.” You clarified and she squinted again, only to start slapping your arm.

“I see him, I see him!” She giggled before taking a closer look, humming in what seemed like approval. “He seems buff. Which makes sense if he’s in the military I guess, but look at those shoulders.”

Turning around, almost incredulous, you slapped her on the arm. “Would you stop ogling him!”

“You’re too much of a prude to do that, so I’m doing it for you.” She shrugged with a mischievous grin and you poked her side.

“Stop it.”

Giggling, she then slowly calmed down, her smile turning warm. Carefully, she moved to stand behind you, beginning to push you forward. “Go talk to him.” Her voice was soft in your ear and you felt your heart speed up.

“B-But-“

“If you don’t do it now, he might be gone.”

Just those words were enough to stop your struggling.

“It’s gonna be okay.” Sarah smiled as she softly whispered that and you breathed out a shaky breath.

“I just…”

“I know.” She hummed comfortingly, turning you around to face her before cupping your face. “He’s your soulmate. That means he is the one for you, Y/N. No matter what, he’ll listen. I’m sure he will.”

“You are?” You asked, your eyes going a little foggy and Sarah smiled fondly, rubbing her thumb over the corner of your eye.

“He’s yours. I know what you’re like and the universe picked him out for you. He’ll listen.”

Nodding softly, you leaned forward and hugged your best friend, composing yourself before pulling back and huffing out a breath, feigning more confidence than you had.

“I can finally say: go get ‘em, tiger.” Sarah spoke from behind with a squeeze to your arm.

At that, a soft and pleasant laugh left you and you playfully punched her shoulder. “All this time and that is the best you can come up with?”

Rolling her eyes with a grin, she then twirled you around and pushed you forward, making you send a playful glare back at her to which she stuck out her tongue.

After that though, you looked forward, seeing him at the far back of the pub and your heart slowly started speeding up, realising that this was finally gonna be the moment.

Slowly, you began walking, weaving through the tables and other patrons of the pub until it was a straight shot to his table.

Walking up to him from behind, you could feel your heartbeat rushing in your ears, your nerves alight and almost painful as they battered in your chest and stomach.

Swallowing softly, you were hugging yourself, unconsciously covering up the now coloured flower as with each step closer, it almost felt like you were getting tunnel vision - purely focused on the back of his beanie-covered head.

It was said that the universe found a way to bring two soulmates into contact, but was this really it? Was this it or were you imagining things. Were you mistaken?

Though he might not have noticed your approach, the men he was sitting at the table with sure did.

One of them - a hulking figure wearing a balaclava - glanced up, locking eyes with you which snapped you out of your tunnel vision. He quickly glanced at your soulmate and back at you, some sort of unspoken signal as, before you knew it, the man with the beanie turned around, facing you.

It looked a little stiff as he did and you caught a glimpse of bandaging under his loose hanging shirt. On the left side, where your flower bud sat too.

His eyes locked with yours and with horror, you realised you had to speak. In his eyes, you’d just stalked up behind him and were now just standing there like a limp chair.

“Uhm, excuse me…” You started softly, feeling your heart thud at the lame start though you could see him smile politely. One that you would give to strangers when humouring them, which is exactly what you were.

“How can I help you, love? Is it the drink?” He spoke and you clenched your hands as you hugged yourself tighter, hearing his voice gravelly and deep yet sounding so soft at the same time.

“Uh, no… it-“ You started as you shook your head. Just then, you were bumped into from behind.

Stumbling a bit, you caught yourself and looked back, realising how full the pub was, how his friends all had their eyes on you, and you suddenly knew this was no place to drop the bomb of being soulmates.

“Could I… talk to you for a moment? Outside?” You asked, uncrossing your left arm and pointing behind yourself at the door, nervousness apparent in every fiber of your being.

It must have been evident to him too, seeing how skittish you were, yet you could still see an awkward frown briefly paint his face, seeming not very thrilled with that idea as you could already see the rejection on the tip of his tongue. “I’m sorry but I came here with these boys and I can’t really-“

“Please, it’s important.” You begged, sinking a bit through your knees in your desperation.

Narrowing his eyes, your soulmate looked back at the men who sat with him at the table, who all seemed either confused or distrusting of you. He then looked back at you and you could see an intelligence shining in him as he took you and the past two minutes in. “And it has to be me?” He asked, pointing at himself to which you fervently nodded.

“I just- I need to say a thing. But it has to be in private- but you can go back here as soon as you want to!” You blabbered and his features softened a bit.

“You’re not selling me on this very well.” He chuckled before scratching the side of his beard. “Look, I’m not looking for any… Y’know.” He awkwardly got out and you felt the blood drain from your face.

“No, no! It’s not like that, I promise!”

Sitting back a bit, he seemed to take you and your frantic response in for a second before sighing and nodding. “Alright.” With that, he pushed himself up from his chair, turning back to his table.

“Don’t take too long, cap. This drink ain’t gonna last much further and I’d like another.” A man with a Scottish accent to his left spoke with a grin.

‘Cap’ as you got from the Scot, rolled his eyes and pointedly shoved his own glass towards the man with the balaclava. “Touch my scotch and I’ll have your head, MacTavish. And buy your own drink for once.” With that, he pointedly turned around and faced you, motioning for you to lead the way. “Go on.”

Licking your teeth nervously, you nodded and turned around, weaving between the plethora of people and walking over towards the exit of the bar, stepping out into the night sky.

Goosebumps raised on your skin as you heard him step out beside you.

“Mind if I smoke?” He asked and you turned back, only managing to shake your head, to which he hummed as he pulled up a cigar and planted it between his lips, proceeding to grab a lighter from his pocket and lighting it. Yet you took note of how he pointedly only used his right arm. “What was it you needed?”

Turning to him, you stared into his eyes while he looked back, curiosity and wariness both evident while his face lit up with the soft glow from his cigar.

“Uhm… you touched me.”

At that, he coughed slightly, taking the smoke out of his mouth as he looked at you. “I’m sorry?”

“I-“ Too scared to say anything else, you just lifted your hand away from your arm, ceasing your self-hug for the first time since he noticed you. Carefully, you held it out to him, using the street light across the way to show the newfound colours.

Looking from your arm up at him, you saw he was looking down at the flowers. The orange lily blooming halfway up your forearm, still partially hidden by your sleeve.

His face was void of any expression, staying blank as he moved his cigar to his left hand before he slowly reached out with his right, grabbing hold of your forearm to inspect it, his thumb ever so lightly brushing over the tattoo before he glanced up at you.

His expression was still unreadable and you panicked despite Sarah’s reassurances. You didn’t want to be one of the sob stories where you found your soulmate but got rejected or not believed. “Y-You’re injured. Here, right?” You mumbled quickly, pulling down the neckline of your shirt a bit to show the slightly blooming bud above your sternum.

At that, the man seemed to snap out of whatever state he was in as realisation seemed to dawn on him.

His eyes widened as he let go of you, to which you panicked even more, raising your shirt over your stomach to reveal the snapdragon in your side - the other biggest patch of flowers you had. “Here, I have more, see?”

“Hey.” Speaking up, he quickly reached forward and pulled your hands away, tugging your shirt back down. “Hey, it’s okay. Just slow down for me, yeah?” He reassured, a calm and firm tone that had you taking the first proper breath of air in ten minutes.

“I’m sorry-“ You huffed out and his eyes crinkled softly as he briefly rubbed the side of your arm before stepping back.

“This is…” Cutting himself off, he seemed to shake any shock away, instead focusing back on your eyes. “Bloody hell.”

He just stared at you for a moment, taking a deep breath before he cleared his throat.

“Let’s start over, shall we?” He mused, sticking out his right hand. “My name’s John Price.”

Smiling a smile of relief, you put your hand in his. “Y/N L/N.” You introduced back and his smile grew a bit under his beard.

“Sorry for spilling my drink on you. And for the cold opening earlier.” He apologised as he let go but you quickly waved his statement away.

“Don’t worry about it! A stranger walks up to you and practically forces you outside with them? I’d freak.” You chuckled, rubbing your arm a bit awkwardly.

“You didn’t force me, don’t worry.” John reassured, only now seeming to remember he had a cigar as he took it from his incapacitated hand.

The movement caught your eye however and you frowned. “Does it hurt?” Your voice was soft as you asked him but he still heard.

Looking from where you were watching, down to his sternum, he hummed a bit. “Like a bitch, but nothing I haven’t been through before. Don’t worry.”

At that, you smiled a little sorrowful smile, whispering softly. “I know.”

Your words - just those two dreadful words - made John’s eyes widen as he glanced down at your arm again, a remorseful and almost pained look overtaking him.

Putting out his cigar, he gingerly moved his hand to your left arm before glancing up at you. “May I?”

You nodded and he took hold of your forearm, his left hand moving for the first time as he ever so carefully slid your sleeve up and past your elbow, revealing the entire string of lilies that stretched from the middle of your forearm, around and to below your elbow.

One lily now partially coloured orange.

“I’m so sorry for this.”

His apology took you by surprise and you looked up at his face, seeing his eyes purely focused on your arm. Slowly, you felt the slightest brush of a touch, followed immediately by a warmth crawling under your skin.

Glancing down, you saw his thumb gently moving back and forth over the partially coloured lily, specifically the part that was still just an outline.

It took a minute for it to react, the heat only growing under your skin the longer he held his thumb there and together, you watched in awe as slowly, the rest of the lily filled with colour, fading into existence on your skin.

Just then, his apology from before filled your mind and you spoke up, still keeping your eyes on where he was holding your arm. Seemingly too reserved to continue to fill the other lilies with colour.

“Why are you sorry?” You asked and he answered almost instantly - too fast.

“I fucked your body up for you.” He spoke, letting go of your arm as he cleared his throat. The harsh reality of his own conviction breaking the trance the coloured flower had put him in. “Because of me, you’re walking around with this.” He spoke, turning your arm a bit to show you yet you countered quick.

“So are you.” You spoke but he let out a wry chuckle at that, shaking his head.

“I chose to do what I do. My scars should be my burden to bear, not yours.” He sighed, an emotion swirling in his eyes that you couldn’t discern. He looked into yours like that for a second longer, almost as if to find something within you before he gave up and cast his eyes down. “I pay the price for my mistakes and I’ve accepted it. But I really wish I didn’t get a soulmate because of it. You don’t deserve this, love.”

“You don’t want a soulmate?” You asked softly, your eyebrows scrunching in worry and John quickly straightened himself.

“That’s not what I said.” He hushed you, holding up his hand. “Hell, I never thought love was in the cards for me until I saw that I was one of the few to get flowers.” Confessing that, he rubbed the back of his head, accidentally displacing his beanie a bit - which he took a second to fix.

“You have a flower?” You whispered softly, a strangely hopeful look in your eyes that made John’s heart beat just a bit faster.

“On my ankle.” He hummed, bringing his right foot just a little bit forward. Entranced, you brought your own forward as well, turning it around to show your bare ankle visible above your loafers. There, right above the heel sat the scar that ran from one end of your ankle to the other.

“I forgot I had that.” You whispered while John looked at the scar, smiling softly as he finally saw what he had mirrored on his body.

“I would show you the flower but I’m wearing quite the stubborn boot.” He chuckled as he turned it back and forth a bit for emphasis and you smiled, glancing up at his eyes again. “How’d you get it?”

At his question, a little blush bloomed on your cheeks that had John begging to see it more, now intrigued. “Ah, well funny thing.” You hummed, scratching at your neck awkwardly. “My friend let me try out his skateboard after I made a joke it didn’t seem so hard. I somehow tripped, broke it and sliced my ankle open on the pieces.”

It took only a second for John to suddenly burst out into laughter, your blush growing exponentially in both embarrassment as well as the realisation of how pleasant the sound was.

“D-Don’t laugh.” You weakly tried, though your own smile was tugging on your lips as he practically doubled over, looking down. “It’s not that funny.” You huffed in amusement though John stood up straight, shaking his head.

“That is the reason they’re bluebells?” He giggled out the last of his laughter and you rubbed your arms.

“What do bluebells mean?” You awkwardly asked and John looked into your eyes, his own still filled with mirth.

“Darling, they symbolise humiliation.”

At that, your face absolutely flamed up with heat and you quickly slapped your hands over it to hide away. “No they do not! Tell me they don’t.” You cried out into your palms, mortified, and John burst out laughing again, much to your chagrin. “It’s not funny, that’s so embarrassing!” You whined, only to stop when you felt a soft touch on your wrist.

Gently, Price grabbed hold of it before he pried your hand away from your face, a smile still on his features. “That reasoning is a lot better than the ones I came up with. Besides, I like bluebells.” He hummed and you breathed out softly, licking your lips.

“Promise you’re not lying?”

“Scouts honour.” He hummed with a soft smile.

Taking a deep breath, you dropped your arm and smiled a careful smile back at him. “At least you knew you had a soulmate because of it, so it’s not all bad.”

“Not all bad.” He hummed, letting go of your wrist while his eyes flitted up and down, properly taking you in.

“Guess we both marked each other up then.” You spoke but at that, John’s warm smile turned wry.

“That’s quite different, Y/N.” He shook his head and you frowned, making him let out a rueful chuckle. “I’m not the one with a body full of flowers.” His knuckles gently stroked down your forearm before he dropped his hand and let out a sigh. “See, I feared ruining someone’s life because of how I live mine.”

Hearing his words, you don’t know what compelled you to do so, but you shot forward and grabbed his right hand tight with both of yours, holding it up between yourselves. “You ruined nothing for me.”

Blinking a few times, John turned his hand to grip yours back, surprised by how shockingly addicting the warmth your hands gave off was. He almost had to tear his focus back into the conversation as he ran your words through his head again and clicked his tongue. “Nothing? You sure? I doubt you got many relationships with all the flowers I must have given you.”

Smirking a bit, you tilted your head. “And why would I want relationships when I knew I had a soulmate out there?”

Your words were quick and paired with your sudden mischievous expression, the tension between John’s brows vanished as he looked at you.

It almost felt like a veil had been lifted, one that had been holding him down for god knows how long as he realised. Even through everything he did to you, you never doubted him. You’d held out for him and trusted him to come to you. And all that while you didn’t even know him.

Taking in your expression, he allowed himself to loosen up too, his lips quirking up slightly.

“Experience?”

Gasping playfully at that, you took note as well of how he seemed to relax, making you cross your arms in a pretend display and chuckle. “How rude.”

Smiling at you, John held out his hand. “You’re right. Allow me to buy you a drink to make up for it?”

Smiling back, you placed your hand in his. “I’d love that. Plus, I don’t mean to eavesdrop but I’m pretty sure your own drink is still being guarded.”

Huffing out a laugh, John shook his head and nodded. “Guess I’ll swipe that back as well. Allow me?”

Nodding, you let him lead you back into the pub, opening the door for you before he led you to a quieter corner at the bar top.

For the rest of the night, the two of you talked, getting to know each other before exchanging numbers to keep in contact and meet up later.

Later turned into two days later, which turned into another day later as well. And safe to say, by the end of the week, a lot more of your flowers were filled in and coloured.

- - - -

Did I think of every way Price got his scars aka you got the flowers? Yes. Did it come up in the fic? No. Sad boi hours xD

Part 1 | Part 2

[pascalsbby]

CARNAL

Carnal Masterlist / Masterlist

Summary: 1.7K / dbf!joel, mention of eventual dark!joel, f!reader (everything you could ever want, just trust me <3)

Warnings: 18+ mdni, SMUT, age gap (24/50s), female masturbation, joel masturbating, dominate & aggressive joel, cam girl, pet names (kitten, birdie, sweetheart, darlin’), praise kink, he talks you through it, talk of: ass play, fingering, oral (m & f receiving), unprotected p in v, sucking fingers, tit fucking, spit, edging, kinda stalker joel, pure filth.

Holy fuck this is filthy… just porn with a (surprising) plot.

“I never wanted a quiet, sensible sort of love. I wanted to be devoured.” - Beau Taplin

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“Oh kitten. You’re a fuckin’ slut, aren’t ya? I don’t think seein’ how I could ruin your three holes is enough swee’heart, I need more of you.” Both of his massive hands were squelching against his spit-covered cock, pumping up and falling heavily down onto his thick thighs, his knuckles tightening, squeezing out the spit and precum between his fingers as he gripped harder.

His breathing was turning almost whimper-like, your favorite. His deep Texas accent always presented itself when you got him worked up like this, right before he spurted thick white ropes across the computer screen, stomach hitching and cock visibly throbbing. “Oh fuck, oh fuc-k Birdie,” he would let out. Sometimes you were lucky enough to catch his asshole puckering as he emptied himself, if he was positioned just right in his office chair.

“What’s a big, bad man like you doing whimpering for me?” You cooed, smirking at the computer screen. He could see you, all of you, spread eagle for him, cunt glistening with thickening slick, turning whiter every time you brought your fingers in and out of your hole, every once in a while reaching deeper to wet your asshole. He always moaned when you did so. His moans were deep, guttural. What a dirty fucking perv.

But still, you wanted to see him, you imagined his mouth falling slightly open as he squeezed his eyes shut, fucking deeper into his hands, chest heaving.

You could tell by his build he was at least in his late 40’s, pushing away the thought that he was around the same age as your dad. Not married, obviously. No kids, or if so they were already out of the house.

Figures, as he was sat in front of his screen, ass-naked every Thursday night for the past three months. He found your profile on the cam website and has only touched himself to you and the filthy pictures you send him nearly every day, since. He says he likes the way your stomach looks soft, how when you turn around and spread for him your back rolls form ever so slightly, and how the two dimples on your lower back are, “callin’” his name.

“Fuck baby. Shut the fuck up ‘n open your mouth for me,” he demanded.

You did as he said, sticking out your tongue to show him that you wanted his spend to fall down your tongue and land right between your spread legs. You wanted to push it in your whimpering hole and keep it there.

“Oh what a good girl,” he praised, nearly purring.

He watched as the saliva dripped between your breasts, bulging out of the top of your nearly see-through black dress, and he tried to imagine what his cock would look like between them. How warm your throat would feel as he stuck his fingers down it until he collected enough spit to make fucking between your breasts easier. Not that he particularly cared whether you were in pain or not, but he imagined your tiny throat around his thick fingers would feel good. Slapping the head of his cock against your face, seeing it’s outline in your throat as you choked on it.

He cried out in pleasure as a small amount of cum dripped out of his weeping hole, using his other hand not wrapped around his cock to collect it. He wiped it down his shaft, using it to further edge himself. He sulked deeper into the chair he was sitting in, making sure not to lower his head in pleasure too much. He didn’t want you to see him.

You loved moaning for him, whimpering and drawing out his screen name as he talked you through your orgasms- talked himself through his own.

“Let me see ‘em sweetheart. Take off your dress for daddy ‘n let me cum one more time on your pretty tits, yeah?”

His mind wandered, what color would your nipples be, how would they feel swelling under his tongue? What would your pussy smell like? Licking lines between one tight hole and another, weeping and wet- eventually having your arousal run down his chin wetting his patchy and graying beard. Your cum drying on his lips, sticky against his neck. He moaned breathlessly.

“Mmm daddy, you see, I would love to, but our hour is up, and I’ve gotta go. What a shame,” you pouted at him. He had a truly worrying number of orgasms for a middle-aged man, another and he might fall right over. “Send me an extra 80 and I’ll find some time to sneak away to the bathroom tonight. I’ll see how far I can fuck my fingers into my pussy for you, hmm?”

You hit end before he could gather his breath, and a response. Your phone dinged with the money he owed you, plus a little more. Wiping your own spit and slick away from your mouth, you got up to shower. You needed the cold shower to take away the red in your cheeks and the red marks across your body. Self-sustained, of course, but for him. For his pleasure. For the money.

:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° *₊.• ♡ °:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° :. *₊

The gallery evenly hummed under hushed warm lights and a whispering crowd. Your artwork, you, were splattered so carefully across the walls, and your friends and family were looking upon you. You’d already made your away around to thank everyone for coming, for putting on a brave face just to later mimic the thoughts they’d been sharing with you since you picked up a paintbrush. “And how will this sustain you? What kind of job will this get you?” You didn’t have the heart to tell them that currently, a nearly 50 year old man was sustaining you for fucking yourself in front of a camera for him.

Where was Sarah? It was like her to be late, but not this late to something so important.

Your eyes roamed the smallish room, and there was another person you had missed. Sighing from the promise of more conversation and “what’s next” questions, you moved your hair behind your ear and started walking towards him.

Amidst the crowd, your eyes were drawn to the man, unfamiliar. You had only invited family and close friends. Sure, the show was open to the public, but who would have taken time out of their Thursday night to come see some art senior’s capstone show?

He emanated both beauty and fear- timidness on your part. There was an undeniable allure about him, your curiosity piqued. You observed the man closely, trying to place where you had encountered him before, who he could possibly be. His large back was turned to you, but you could see by the gray in his hair that he was too old to be one of your friends’ play things.

He turned away from the piece he was admiring, showcasing his side profile first, and something inside of you clicked. Not knowing if it clicked in place or out, the feeling quickly dissipated into fear. He was ethereal and your chest was heavy. Your palms sweating, you looked around to see if he had the same effect on anyone else, but no one was paying attention.

He was fully turned now, approaching you, but you couldn’t make eye contact. Your spine tinged with a sense of familiarity that sent warning signals to your senses. His eyes bore into you, and suddenly the half-naked self portraits on the walls felt like nothing compared to the depth in which his gaze cut into you. You felt like you needed to run. Your nipples hardened almost painful under your dress.

The air around him reached you before he did. Aged whiskey, honey, musk… a man. The flannel he was wearing draped over his broad shoulders perfectly, looking too thick for a May night. He looked completely out of place. He reached his hand forward and all you could do was stare at it.

What the fuck was wrong with you?

It was massive, his fingers thick and calloused from hard work and time. They looked familiar, even. Surely not… You recognized your pause and looked up at him, taking his hand as he introduced himself.

“Didn’t mean to scare ya, Birdie,” He smirked beneath the facial hair, lips turning upwards on the right side, showing his teeth. He looked down upon you, eyes darkening as skin touched skin. He saw in your eyes as you realized who he was.

“Joel Miller,” his deep southern accent dripping with charm and an underlying edge that made your heart race, “and you?”

No.

“Hey! Oh my god, I’m sorry, Chase called me so I had to step out for a minute,” Sarah entered the liminal space, nearly squealing. “THIS IS INCREDIBLE. I am so proud of you.” She had you immediately in a hug. “Oh, and I see you’ve met my dad.” She said cheerfully. “I thought I’d drag him out here to meet my bestie so it won’t be so awkward when you come and visit me. Cause you’ll be coming to visit me… right?”

You smiled, as warmly as possible as your body was fighting off a panic attack.

Recognition flickered in your mind, triggering fragmented memories of perfectly unsettling encounters. Joel was the one who had whispered, screamed, filthy words to you over the computer screen. His messages laced with cum and an intensity that had left you both captivated and unsettled- but always wanting more. You hadn't invited him to the gallery, and you had certainly never met him in person. The puzzle pieces fell into place, and a chilling revelation washed over you as he continued roaming your body, eye-fucking you, as you half listened to Sarah- he knew exactly who you were. He was here on purpose.

You introduced yourself to him, reaching your hand back out as his engulfed yours, warm and dry. “Sarah has told me so much about you,” he winked, “work has me busy so I don’t visit here too often but I couldn’t miss this,” he gestured.

He pulled your body into his for a hug. What a fucking gentleman, huh. Suddenly the ground wasn’t solid and your body was being held against his stoic frame… and suddenly your thighs were slipping together under your dress, wet and sticky.

“You cleaned up nice baby. Couldn’t look too fucked out for tonight, could ya?” He whispered into your ear, chuckling deeply into your hair as it moved against his warm breath, tickling your neck.

“Joel Miller, as I live and breathe.” His warmth was suddenly gone and the air felt thick, empty. “Now who would have thought our girls would end up being best friends? How come we didn’t put two and two together before?” Your dad patted Joel across the back

Oh, fuck.

Part 2: Prologue

:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° *₊.• ♡ °:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° :. *₊

A/N: Now imagine how it would be if they were physically together… oops! I’m always taking requests <3

[seiwas]

the blade bleeds longer than the wound takes to heal | simon riley

wc: 2.2k

summary: progress is non-linear. simon is learning just that. 

contains: any warnings that apply to cod, blood, mentions of serious injuries, recovery and healing, kind of non-linear, simon-centric with a splash of romance, hurt/comfort

a/n: first time writing simon and he's a tough one!! but i'm really happy with how this turned out! + a very belated birthday gift for @vierisqe! forgive the jumble of american + british english in this one (i've reread this so many times that it's mushed together in my head and i can't tell the difference anymore djhfbjas) i hope i wrote him well!!

Simon picks up a knife in the dead of the night. 

At 2:00 a.m., the wind whistles outside your window, a wayward branch being thrown aimlessly against glass. The branches drag roughly against the delicate surface, scratching and banging in the gust of a predicted storm. 

Simon wakes up, eyes shooting open as his fingers instinctively reach for the small blade slotted underneath your mattress, sandwiched between soft cushion and the wooden panels of your bedframe. He keeps it there—

“For monster hunting. Sneaky fuckers only appear when lights’re out.”

—in case anything happens, he doesn’t say. 

(But you know old habits die hard, and Simon sleeps better with a weapon only layers away from his skin.) 

You’re curled up on his chest, hanging tightly onto his bicep as your breaths lull in the steady beats of slumber. His eyes blend dark blue against the backdrop of the night, and the only light casting itself into your bedroom diffuses from the streetlamp a few flats down. 

“We should keep a night light,” you’ve told him a few times before—if only to avoid small accidents, like tripping over folded carpets or bumping into the sharp edges of your dresser. 

“No ghosts here but me, love.” is all Simon replies.

(You take his cheekiness and keep it close to your chest, sporadic as it is, snorting as you let go of the topic.) 

He sees better in the dark—better than most, he’d like to think. 

His gaze flits to the window, watching intently as the branches move haphazardly; the sound hits the glass like bullet cases clinking against marble flooring. The same white marble bloodied deep red—

An inhale tickles his side, a phantom sharpness despite his ribcage being fully healed. There is no puncture, no gaping wound like that day 8 months ago—only scar tissue formed thickly along the outline of the knife that pierced through him. 

He breathes out, slow and steady, taking one last look at the window, before moving over to the door, checking for shadows and any suspicious movement. Then, his gaze rests on you—your hair splayed across his shoulder as you sleep soundly.

It’s okay. You’re okay. 

Everything is okay. 

.

Some days, he can breathe just fine. 

Spring blossoms through the flowers in your garden, white chrysanthemums that give Simon the worst spring allergies but he insists you keep. Despite the morning sniffles, when pollen seems to dust his dawning breath, he finds breathing easier on these days than most. 

You do your best to snip away at the blossoming buds, preparing to bundle them far away from the burly man they weaken. 

But Simon stands beside you with a watering pot, tilting the spout to drizzle life onto the blooms he knows are your pride and joy. 

He owes it to them, he supposes, for keeping you company months at a time. 

. 

It’s at the fizzling end of summer when Simon returns to you. 

Captain Price had contacted you weeks prior to inform you of the incident—just three things Simon requested be divulged: 

One, that he had incurred a stab wound to be monitored for a few weeks, most likely in military facilities. 

Two, that he’ll be discharged soon after. 

And three, that you stay put and be calm; that you not worry. 

(Your hands shake throughout the entire call, your knees giving way as you fall to the bunched up carpet of your bedroom floor. 

To you, Simon is untouchable. 

To you, Simon is impenetrable. 

He never divulges any more than he has to, but you’ve always known he was good at his job. The silent yet commanding confidence he carries can only be born from years of expertise, his senses sharpened and tuned to the slightest sign of danger. 

Over the years, without fail, Simon has always come back to you in one piece. 

So when he walks into your flat with staggered breaths, smelling of antiseptic and sterile sheets, your heart aches.) 

You give him a look, eyes glassy with your hands clenched on your sides as if avoiding to touch, should he be fragile; he holds that stare for a few seconds too long until he decides to fuck it, pulling you closer to his chest. 

Fuck doctors’ orders that his stitches haven’t fully healed. Fuck doctors’ orders that he should ‘minimise thoracic pressure’. 

Fuck doctors’ orders that he should watch his breathing, keeping it slow and steady only. 

“Quit all ‘o that,” he clears his throat, hiding a wheeze from the impact, “Didn’t get me killed, ‘n it won’t. S’no grave to cry over.” 

You can’t help it though, he knows, your fingers clutching tighter onto the ends of his jacket as you rest your forehead on his collarbone. The pain muddles together in his chest, soaked by the tears seeping through the fabric of his t-shirt. 

There are many things Simon doesn’t tell you, many more that he won’t—

His body holds a litany of injuries, scars built upon scars; some lie on the surface of his skin, others residing deeper than any knife can sink into. 

—last month, he nearly died. 

A miscalculated raid had led him straight into a trap, isolating him from the rest of the 141. He was concussed and sedated, senses dulled by the chemicals injected into his bloodstream. It happened too fast—a blade, inconspicuously small but sharp, piercing through his ribcage; the hits that followed dealt greater damage. 

Price found Simon lying in a pool of his own blood, deep red against the white brinks of death. 

Three broken ribs—two that stabbed through his lungs along with the knife, and one that managed to puncture his heart. Doctors warned that breathing during recovery would be difficult, but he hardly finds it to be the most challenging part. 

The paranoia is worse. 

He’s been more fidgety since, constantly wary; uneasy. Worse compared to usual. 

Every professional he’s spoken to has told him that progress is non-linear—

“So, give yourself some time. Some days can be easy and difficult the next, but the day after that might be—” 

To that he says, fucking ‘ell. 

.

You cut yourself while trimming your chrysanthemums. 

It’s a small nick on your thumb, but that finger always bleeds more than the others do; blood red drips onto a few white petals—a striking contrast.

Simon finds you that way. 

He moves on autopilot, rushing in to grab the first-aid kit you keep in one of your kitchen cabinets. On the surface, he is calm, face set straight and hardly rattled by the accident. This is the only good he sees in the snail-pace of his recovery—his jagged breaths conceal the real reason his hands tremble slightly holding yours.

A small cut shouldn’t need bandaging. A small cut shouldn’t need gauze and waterproof plaster. Simon shouldn’t insist on taking over, especially when the pollen clogs his nose. 

But your white chrysanthemums should not be red. 

He tells himself he’ll get you a pair of those cut-resistant gardening gloves. 

Those petals should not be red. 

.

The knife isn’t the problem, it’s what surrounds it. 

Simon hasn’t been the same since his return, and you’ve begun to notice.

For a big and hefty man, he prefers keeping himself away from as much fuss as he can. Weekend markets with him have always been pleasant; he carries all the produce and you stop at food stalls to feed him bites of whatever catches your eye.

Not this time.

This time, Simon glues himself behind you, your back pressed against his chest as he navigates you both through crowds. He zeroes in on every single person brushing against you, searching for anything sharp. 

When you wait by a food stall, he scans the area; his focus shifts from a family of four settling their toddler on a stroller, then to a man older but not nearly as large as he, bringing in sacks of flour inside a bakery. Off in a corner is a teenager, swallowed by the thick fabric of a hoodie similar to his own; Simon observes him a little longer, drawing suspicions about the movement concealed inside the kid’s pocket. 

(You notice it when you ask whether he prefers peaches or mangoes for the crepe’s filling, only to be met with no reply.) 

Then, a faint trail of smoke wafts out of the boy’s nose—it’s just a vape. 

Simon turns away. 

By brunch, which you always somehow seem to drag him into, you settle into your seat and ask the server for a butter knife. 

(Simon stays silent most times, with the occasional dry retort or witty quip directed at any silly thing he notices, but he’s been completely quiet this entire day. The slightest bit of tension pinches the skin between his brows as his eyes dart from one person to the next—like roaring waves rushing to catch the shore.) 

It happens all too quickly, how he pins the server’s wrist down onto your table when you’re handed the butter knife. 

Everybody in the restaurant pauses to look at you two.

The shock on your face mirrors the server’s. 

Simon lets go immediately, mumbling his apologies as his hands dig inside the pocket of his hoodie. You turn to the server sheepishly, standing up to follow him to the cashier. 

(You know Simon well enough that he hates all the attention, so you quickly settle everything with the manager, explaining as best as you can that it wasn’t intentional. The server is kind enough to let it go, his wrist red but otherwise uninjured from Simon’s grip; you still give him a tip, for the shock and trouble.) 

The whole trip home is tense. Simon can’t look you in the eyes, and even when you both walk into your flat, he heads straight for the kitchen, preparing to clean and wash the vegetables.

He rolls up his sleeves and opens the tap, rinsing carrots and potatoes, along with some of the lettuce you managed to pick up for half off. 

(Something stabs at your heart seeing him curl into himself even more, but Simon will talk when he wants to—never before or after. 

So, you walk towards him instead, wrapping your arms around his waist as you rest your cheek against his back.) 

He stops moving, and the water continues running. 

(You can hear his heartbeat, feel each slow breath he’s taking.)  

Simon doesn’t tell you of the sleepless nights, of the terrors that plague his waking mind more than nightmares do. He doesn’t tell you that he sees you in his spot that very same day, on that same marble floor—your own pool of red against the very same white that your chrysanthemums bloom into. 

“I’m okay,” you whisper against his back, landing kisses on each of his shoulder blades. The fabric of his hoodie is soft and thick, but he feels you through it. 

“You always do a good job of keeping me safe.” 

Your words layer on him like tactical gear, arms tightening around his abdomen akin to the belt that holds his ammo. 

“Let me take care of you now,” you close your eyes, voice a little shaky, pleading, “okay?” 

Simon holds his breath. 

.

Your chrysanthemums sit in a vase by your kitchen sink, water droplets catching onto the petals and leaves. 

Simon sneezes every time he washes his hands, but he’s the one who put it there—

“S’called exposure therapy, love.” 

(And who are you to argue with a man on a mission?) 

—along with the cut-resistant gloves he stores in a drawer near your kitchen tools. 

From the corner of his eye, he watches you drag your chef’s knife to fillet a chicken breast. He keeps his gaze locked on your every movement, fingers twitching as if they itch to reach for you. Pain tingles at the side of his chest, a faded remnant of how it felt when the wound was still fresh. 

You fillet the breast successfully, and he releases a breath.

Simon has keen sight and he uses it to his advantage—sniping, scoping, watching. He notices the sharp edge of the open cupboard door over your head and reflexively lays his palm over it, cushioning the impact when you hastily move to the side.

If you notice, you don’t show him any signs.

Tonight’s menu is honey glazed soy chicken, a recipe you’ve been wanting to test out. He’d offered to help but you insisted that he sit back and relax; and of course, in typical Simon- fashion, he only partially heeds your advice. 

He sits back and relaxes all right, but on the barstool by the kitchen island, ready to spring into action whenever you need him. 

And he sees it all—that near-mishap by the cupboard, how dangerously close your fingers are from your chef’s knife; your cut-resistant gloves are ready-to-use in the drawer next to your garden tools. He still keeps that small blade between your mattress and bedframe. 

Old habits die hard, the aftereffects of near-death moreso, but Simon is a man on a mission, and when he watches you hiss away from the brief ‘pop!’ of oil splattering from your pan, he stays right where he is, convincing himself he can leave you to handle it. 

You’re okay. 

This is progress. 

It’s a start.

a/n: this turned out a lot more serious than i intended, but i enjoyed picking simon to see how he would act in a period of adjustment back to regular life, especially after something potentially traumatic. i find simon an incredibly difficult character to write because he carries so much with him and i could go on about this, but the tldr is: i think he's become desensitised to a lot of things, which is why i don't think he's afraid of wounds or knives no matter how much he's been hurt by them. i don't imagine him being afraid of dying either, because it's what they do—it comes with the job. i do think though, that his close call with death here shifts his fear to the idea of loss, particularly, losing you. and as a protector, he finds himself responsible for that.

thank you notes: to @soumies my gawd!! for helping me with dialogue and proofreading, practically beta reading this entire thing!! you are the heart of this fic 🥺 simon would not be simon in this without you!! love u love u love u!!!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[inklore]

CAMBOY!RAFE WON’T LEAVE MY MIND.

When I tell you he’s going to give you your money’s worth, I mean that. He’s going to have you thinking; sending him more coins won’t hurt, right? If only to hear him let out one of those deep groans that you can see makes his whole chest shudder. 

He’s going to be a tease at first. Start the session out in an old t-shirt and pants—a casual outfit for a normal day. Not for a thousand eyes and comments begging for a show. 

Waiting with bated breath for him to get started. To take off his clothes and show them why they’re here. Why they keep coming back for more. Why they keep throwing their money at this pretty boy who’s smirking at the camera as he teases them. 

As he waits for the sound of money being thrown at him to slip off his shirt, which he gladly obliges with when he gets a number he’s pleased with. The pants taking a little longer. The heel of his palm pushing down on the growing outline of his cock—heavy, hard, and thick against the fabric. 

The comments almost unreadable as they come in a mile a minute when his fingers pull at the belt of his pants, his eyes never leaving the camera as he does it. Looking up over his brows as he pulls himself out of his boxers, pushing the rest of his clothes to the floor. 

“Oh,” he tsks. Clicks his tongue, smirking as he shakes his head. “You want to watch me fuck my fist? You gotta pay up. Nothing's free ‘round here. Ya’ll know that.” 

When he’s finally appeased. Finally, given what he wants, he gives them what they want. Wraps a firm grip around his cock and starts to stroke himself. Avoiding the head with each down stroke. Paying mind to his shaft, dragging it out. 

His pleasure. 

The show. 

His chest becomes flushed the more into it he gets. His lips parted, his tongue snaking out to wet them. Eyes hard and droopy with pleasure. 

The heel of his feet digs into the bed when he cants his hips up to push into his fist. His eyes scan the comments, making him throb even more, the head of his cock leaking as he reads them. 

Your dick is so pretty. 

Such a good boy. 

He’s so thick. 

Please use me. 

Cum for us. 

“You want my come?” His eyes look into the camera. “How bad do you want it?” He hums, lets his hand twist around the head of his cock, a groan slacking his jaw. “You know what to do to get it.” His voice stern, filled with desire. 

A heavy breath let out when the pad of his thumb moves against his tip to spread his precome around it. To add more slick to his cock. To make it easier for his hips to push his throbbing cock into the makeshift hole of his hand. Fucking his fist just the way his fans want. Just the way they paid him to. 

A thousand eyes on him as his head tips back in pleasure. As he pants. As he gets off to the donations coming, to the people begging for him to come for them. 

“Fuuuck, that’s good.” He smiles, groans. His goal for the night reached. Money in his pocket for putting on a good show for people who’d die to touch him. Feel him. Be painted in his seed. Marked by him, and thank him for it. “Mmm.” 

His wrist twists each time his hips cant down. His movements growing quicker, faster. The noises coming from him less controlled, deep, and incoherent. weak. Rafe completely losing control the closer he gets to coming. 

The only thing on his mind the wanting eyes on him. The eyes that look at him like an untouchable god rather than a man. Someone to bow down to, to feed from. Strangers who would let him wrap his fist around their throat and do whatever he asked gladly, happily. 

“You ready? You want it?” He says, breathy, panting, eyes rolling back into his head right before he comes. Streaks of white painting his spasming stomach. His throat raw from the noise he lets out from the intensity of his orgasm. 

His body shuddering when he lets his hand linger on his spent cock, oversensitive and twitching against his palm. A pleased look on his face, “such a shame it’s going to waste.” He looks down at the mess he’s made on himself. Eyes lifting, looking into the camera, “you want a taste?” 

[vintageshanny]

For the First Time

Content: 18+ This is a one-shot about Elvis losing his virginity. I do not claim to be an expert on the details of this. I have heard different rumors, and this is, to me, one possibility of how things might have happened. There is smut in this, but I’m more focused on how he might have been feeling at this time. As always, my tender little heart bleeds with love for him and everything he went through in his life. I would very much appreciate any feedback. ❤️

Thank you @lookingforrainbows for talking me through ideas on this and letting me know it didn’t sound ridiculous. You are a beautiful soul. ❤️ 😘

Fall 1954

Elvis ran his fingers over the outline of the condom package that Scotty had slipped into his pocket at the beginning of the tour. “I know ya got a girl, EP, but put it in your wallet man, just in case. Ya don’t wanna come back with more people than ya left with,” he’d added with a wink. Somehow rubbing his fingers over the rough edges calmed Elvis’ ragged nerves a little bit.

His mind drifted to Dixie and the promises they’d made to each other. To wait. To wait until they were married to consummate their relationship. Sure, they were affectionate with each other, always hugging and kissing, but whenever Elvis tried to sneak his hand up under her skirt or unbutton a couple buttons on her dress, she’d firmly push him away and say, “That’s for our wedding night, silly.” Sometimes when they were kissing, she’d let him grind against her through their clothes, and he’d get so worked up that he needed to make an excuse to go to the bathroom so he could relieve the amount of passion coursing through his entire body.

The promise to wait had seemed so much easier six months ago when they talked about it. Now, it was damn near impossible. He saw the way these girls looked at him after the shows. He was dying to know what it felt like to explore every part of a woman. He thought maybe if he just got this out of his system, the waiting with Dixie wouldn’t be so hard. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he was a man after all, and she didn’t need to know about this. He could experience this on the road and be good for her at home. He just needed to find a way to make sure everyone was happy and taken care of, like he’d always tried to do.

Dropping the condom onto the rumpled bedspread, he rose from the edge of the bed and started pacing the hotel room, the voices floating up from the courtyard below making his heart thud in his chest.

“Maria! You came!” Scotty’s reedy voice rang out.

“That’s the idea,” Bill added, only slightly under his breath.

“You should head right up! Elvis should be waitin’ for ya. He’s been waitin’ a looong time.”

Elvis cringed at Scotty’s words as he looked out the window and saw the two of them clink beer bottles and laugh.

Maria paused and turned to look at them, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. “What’s that supposed ta mean?”

Elvis held his breath, willing Scotty not to divulge too much. He’d never come right out and told the guys he was a virgin, but he saw the way they nudged each other and smirked whenever he was talking to a girl after the show. He slowly exhaled as Scotty responded.

“Aw nothin’, honey, I just hope you two have fun on your date.”

Maria rolled her eyes and headed for the stairs, carefully ascending them in her white kitten heels. She took a deep breath, smoothed out her pale yellow sundress, and tried to brace herself for what was on the other side of that door. She had been with a handful of other men, but this was a bona fide star. He probably invited a different girl up every night. Maybe that’s what the other guys had been joking about. She hoped she would live up to his expectations, especially after her bold proclamation earlier. The conversation replayed in her head as she lifted her hand to knock on the door.

“Hey baby, I could see ya dancin’ from up on that stage. Looks like ya really enjoyed the show.”

“I sure did. Maybe I can return the favor with a show of my own.” A sense of satisfaction had consumed her when he unexpectedly blushed at her advances.

Maria’s mind snapped back to the present as Elvis flung open the door. He was wearing black dress pants with a pink jacket open to the naval. As he rested one hand slightly below his hip, she took note of his long slender fingers, nails chewed down to the nub, and the fuzzy little trail of hair leading down from his belly button. Up close, and in the fluorescent lighting of the hotel, she could see he had a pimple on his chin and another close to his collarbone. The entire scene was absolutely intoxicating.

“Maria, I was startin’ ta think ya were gonna stand me up, baby.” Elvis flashed a crooked little grin and stepped aside to let her in the room. He quickly kicked a stray sock under the bed where he’d hidden the rest of his dirty clothes. After sniffing each pair of socks, he had decided it was best to just stay barefoot after his shower. His toes scrunched up at the feel of the rough carpet under his feet.

“No, of course not,” Maria giggled nervously. “I suppose I just took too long tryin’ ta look nice for ya.”

“Well ya sure do look nice, honey,” Elvis whispered lowly as he closed the door and grabbed her by the waist, feeling the soft flesh of her hips. He leaned in and smushed his lips into hers, his tongue slipping into her mouth when she let out a little gasp.

“Wow, you don’t waste no time gettin’ to the action, hmm?” she laughed a little bit when he finally pulled back for some air, his eyes closed. His hands had moved up a little bit, his thumb gently rubbing at the side of her breast.

“I-I-I thought that’s what ya wanted, baby,” Elvis stammered out, trying to read her expression. “If you’d rather just sit and talk, that’s okay.” He led her over toward the bed, and they both spotted the condom at the same moment. Elvis’ face turned bright red as he snatched it up. “Oh, I-I-I’m sorry baby, I d-d-didn’t mean ta leave that there like that. We really ain’t gotta do nothin’, I-I-I mean-”

Maria just laughed and pushed him gently backward until he was sitting on the bed. “It’s okay, Elvis.” She unbuttoned his jacket the rest of the way and slipped it off his shoulders. “I always make good on my promises.”

Elvis stared in awe as she reached behind herself and unzipped the yellow dress, letting it fall to the ground, revealing a silky pink bra and panties. Elvis gulped nervously as he stared at her body. The material was so thin and sheer, he could see the outline of her nipples and the little mound of hair down below. He stifled a groan as he could feel his cock growing hard, straining against the briefs that he now wished he’d forgone.

“You’re really gonna make me put on a show for ya, huh?” Maria teased as Elvis just sat there studying her. “I thought ya might join in.” She reached back and unclasped her bra, her perky breasts now on full display for him.

“I-I-I’m sorry honey, ya jus’ got me a little speechless here. I’ll join in,” Elvis murmured as he pulled her closer to him. He tentatively leaned in and took one of her nipples in his mouth, caressing it with his warm tongue.

“Mmm, that’s more like it,” she whispered. “You can touch me anywhere, Elvis.” As she grabbed his hand to guide it toward her panties, she realized he was literally shaking with nerves. “Elvis? Are ya okay?” As she looked at him with concern, the meaning of Scotty’s “He’s been waitin’ a long time” suddenly hit her. “Are you, I mean, is this your, um, first time?” she asked softly.

“Wh-wh-what?” Elvis exclaimed, jerking his trembling hand away. “N-n-no baby, I-I-I’ve been with plenty of girls. I-I-I jus’, um, I mean, n-n-none as beautiful as you, that’s all,” he stammered out, trying to distract her with a compliment.

Maria wanted to tell him it was okay, that she was flattered, that he didn’t need to be nervous, but she decided it was best to just drop it and help him relax. She smiled and nodded. “You’re sweet, Elvis. I wanna see if ya taste sweet too.” She dropped down to her knees and unbuttoned his pants.

“Wh-wh-what are ya doin’ honey? Ya ain’t gotta do all that.” Elvis heard the words come out of his mouth, but somehow his body’s desire betrayed him by lifting slightly off the bed so Maria could pull off his pants. His heart raced anxiously as she reached inside of his briefs. He knew from being in the locker rooms back in school that not everyone had a sheath of foreskin covering their dick, and he hoped she wouldn’t mock him the way some of his classmates had.

Maria could feel her panties getting wetter by the second as she wrapped her hand around something thick and warm inside Elvis’ briefs. “We should just get these outta the way,” she murmured, pulling them down his legs and watching as he sprang free from the confinement. Her eyes widened with surprise when she realized he was not…well, not like the other guys she’d been with. There was something extra wrapped around him. She liked the way it felt as she pumped it with her hand.

Elvis squinched his eyes shut, too afraid he’d see a look of disgust before she jumped up and ran off. Instead, he felt something warm and wet wrap around his hard dick. He opened his eyes to see Maria taking him deep in her mouth, and the moan he let out made him kick himself for not closing the window tight. The whole hotel must know what’s going on in here. Her tongue traced its way around his shaft before taking special care of his sensitive tip. Elvis thought he might explode right on the spot as she sucked on him.

“You do taste good y’know,” Maria said with a little wink as she pulled off him and stood up again. She slid her dampened panties down and stepped out of them, so they were both totally naked. “Do you wanna check if I’m ready for ya?” Elvis nodded and this time let her guide his hand between her legs.

“Baby, it’s so wet down there,” he murmured as Maria started moaning. He found her entrance and slipped a finger inside of her, moving it in a way that felt natural. She felt so soft and silky, he thought he could just play with her pussy for hours. But Maria wanted more than a finger.

“You should slide right in then,” she whispered as she moved his hand and laid down on the bed next to him. He grabbed the condom again and opened it, rolling it onto himself, hoping Maria couldn’t tell he’d never done this before. Maria smiled at the awkward way he put on the condom, and noticed that she could feel him trembling again. “I want it so bad, Elvis,” she reassured him, pulling him on top of her.

“Me too, baby, me too.” Elvis reached down and guided his dick toward her slick opening. Once he’d gently pushed in a couple inches, he thrusted in the rest of the way, her wet pussy consuming his entire length. “Oh, goddamn,” he moaned out, unprepared for the feeling of something so tight and wet wrapped around him, clenching at him. He tried to take it slow, tried to make it last, but the pleasure was overpowering. He thrust a few times before his orgasm completely took over, leaving him panting on top of Maria, his sweaty hair dripping down onto her forehead.

“Oh wow, baby, you are amazing.” Elvis slowly pulled out and rolled to his side. He carefully peeled off the condom and tossed it into the trash can by the bed. “I-I-I’m sorry, I usually l-l-last longer, I jus’, uh, got so excited,” he tried to explain, his face turning red from the lies and the exertion.

Maria just smiled and patted his chest. “That’s okay, I thought your excitement was very sweet.” She hesitated, then added, “Do ya think you could, um, help me get there though? Your fingers felt magical inside me,” she admitted with a blush.

“Really?” Elvis perked up at the compliment. “I mean, of course baby.” He reached over between her legs and started playing with her pussy again, taking mental note of what seemed to work the best. She moaned deeply when he put a finger inside her, but he noticed that her toes curled up and she could barely even function when he rubbed at her little button. I wonder what both at once would do. He kneeled next to her and put two fingers from one hand inside of her while his thumb on the other hand worked that little nub.

“Oh, God!” she cried out in ecstasy, her legs shaking, her arousal leaking out onto his fingers. “Oh Elvis, I c-c-can’t take it,” she moaned, begging him to stop. Elvis removed his fingers and smiled, very pleased with his ability as he leaned down to kiss her soft lips.

“Was that magical enough?” he whispered in her ear.

“Pure magic.” Maria pulled him in for another passionate kiss.

“C-c-can I ask ya somethin’, honey?” Elvis gently stroked Maria’s arm with his fingertips. “After talkin’ to ya, ya seem like such a nice sweet girl. Wh-wh-why did ya do this with me?”

Maria tried to sort out the thoughts in her head, wondering how much she should share. “You seem like a nice sweet guy. Why did you do it?” she finally asked.

“W-w-well, that’s different, I mean, I…I wanted ta feel good I guess,” Elvis stumbled over his explanation, unable to really articulate what he was feeling at that exact moment.

“So did I,” Maria responded. “Elvis, I’ve been through some really bad experiences. I suppose at heart I’m just lonely and this is a way to feel close to someone, to feel connected and cared for, even if just for a little while. Ya know what I mean?”

Elvis swallowed a lump in his throat. It was like she had put his exact thoughts into words. “I know exactly what ya mean, honey. Does it work? Ta make ya feel close ta someone, I mean?”

Maria let out a little sigh. “Sometimes. Sometimes not so much. But we all just try the best we can, I suppose.”

Elvis nodded as Maria stood up to get dressed. “I should get home. My mama will worry and wonder where I’ve been.”

“What will you tell her?” Elvis asked as he pulled his clothes back on.

“That I was having a deep conversation with a friend,” Maria laughed. “Y’know, not really a lie, but not the whole truth. Not everyone needs ta know everything.”

“Will I, uh, will I see ya again at another show?”

Maria smiled and hugged him tight. “Maybe. But maybe we were just the connection the other needed in this moment.”

Maria paused at the door and looked back. “Elvis?”

“Yeah, honey?” Elvis’ mind was a muddle of confused emotions right now.

“You are very sweet and very special. Never let anyone make ya feel like that ain’t enough.” That crooked little smile would be burned into her mind forever.

Twenty minutes later, Elvis descended the steps to the courtyard, wondering what the guys were up to. Scotty and Bill were playing cards when they saw him approaching and started a round of applause. “There he is!” Scotty yelled out. “I told ya that condom would come in handy.”

“Aw quit it,” Elvis snapped, but he couldn’t deny feeling a tiny surge of pride at being considered “one of the guys” for the first time in his life. He couldn’t see it now, but over the years ahead, he’d sacrifice so much for the desire to fit in, to connect with people, to wish they could understand him. What he’d give for just one person to really understand what he was going through. To understand his heart.

Tag List (let me know if you want to be added or removed): @whositmcwhatsit @missmaywemeetagain @lookingforrainbows @thatbanditqueen @be-my-ally @ellie-24 @from-memphis-with-love @arrolyn1114 @atleastpleasetelephone

[twice-in-a-blue-moon]

The Dateables Reacting to You in Sexy Christmas Lingerie

Dateables x GN! reader :)

AN: Whoop whoop, just as promised I present to you the dateables!

Warnings: There's no smut, these are just suggestive.

Minors DNI!

Diavolo

When you told Diavolo that you had an early Christmas present to give him, he was expecting a beautifully wrapped box of traditional reds and greens.

So to say he was quite surprised to see you wrapped up in your own sheer, red lingerie would be an understatement. 

But wow do you look stunning, literally cannot take his eyes off you. 

The pure white, silk sheets help define your outline, making it easier for him to gaze upon every curve that’s accentuated perfectly by the garment.

He steadily walks to the bed where you’re sitting and gently pushes you to lay on your back, pinning you there as he hovers over you.

“Is this the present you spoke of? It’s wonderful, you’re wonderful. Let me return a gift of my own, and pleasure you the way you deserve. Tonight I’m going to make you feel like royalty.”

Barbatos

Barbatos had been busy making his rounds all day, and currently he was on his way to the royal kitchens to prepare some tea for the young prince.

You had luckily timed your surprise just right, as you had lifted yourself onto one of the cold countertops and positioned yourself just minutes before he arrived.

The expression on his face had stayed relatively neutral upon seeing you, though intrigue and a hint of lust simultaneously flashed through his eyes. 

He took the time to appreciate the way the fabric clung to your body in all the right places, the tasteful gaze you had plastered on your ever growing red face.

Suddenly he had decided he was in no hurry to get back to Diavolo, as he would much rather be taking care of you in whatever manner of your choosing.

He deliberately made his movements slow as he walked to stand in front of you.

“My dear, you simply look ravishing. Would you mind if I took my time and did just that?” 

Simeon

Simeon was sitting at his desk, scribbling away at one of his drafts when you entered his room silently. 

He didn’t notice you at first, so you cleared your throat to get his attention and called his name softly.

A smile etched itself on his face before he turned to look at you, just happy you were here, but when he set his pen aside and gazed upon the lace that adorned your body, the smile fell and a light blush dusted his cheeks.

Swaying your hips, you walked up to him watching him gulp as you did.

He reached a hand out to touch you but hesitated, he didn’t want to overstep any boundaries and make you uncomfortable, so you grabbed his wrist and pulled it gently towards you.

Taking the hint, he placed a gloved hand on your exposed skin, letting it roam the expanse of your body along with his eyes that had become significantly darker. 

“You’re quite naughty to tease an angel like this, to fuel so much lust into my veins. Go ahead, tempt me. Show me how devilish you can be.” 

Solomon

Solomon arrived back to his room as he had stayed late at RAD to finish up one of his experiments.

Upon opening the door, the sorcerer was greeted with low lighting- thanks to a few stray candles, and you who sat on his plush red couch wearing your own little red number, and it was quite revealing, he may add. 

He certainly wasn’t expecting this, but it wasn’t an unwelcome surprise.

HIs signature smirk had made its appearance as his eyes took their time examining everything that was visible, his mind making up for the gaps in what wasn’t. 

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest as he made his way to you, his hands reaching beyond either side of your head gripping the back of the couch, a knee slipping in between your legs.

“Well, don’t you look adorable? But I think you’d look even better without anything on as you breathlessly tell me you’re mine over and over again. So why don’t we get started right now?”

[anantaru]

kuni + blowjob!! he deserves it <3

cw. blowie, fem! reader

maybe you're being way too needy tonight, or maybe, you just wanted scaramouche to feel a bit more relaxed in his own skin, a sweet, innocent task where he was the one getting pleasured instead, where it's about him and your pretty mouth sealed around his dripping cock.

you adore all the reactions you manage to pull out of him by simply doing the things you knew he was a mess for. and despite it might not looking like it, he was always bigger than you have in mind, you gurgle faintly when you're choking down at least of half of his bulge, proceeding for an inch, your tongue eagerly probing over his veins.

he grinds into your warm mouth, a faint amount of sweat speckling on his forehead as he moans shamelessly when he sees how his cum drips down your lips and neck, spit and his milky whites exuding over his entire shaft. it's more pleasurable this way, wet and he can slip it in and out easier.

scaramouche feels like he was on fire and your mouth was just so fucking warm, and it didn't help on bit on how your fingers were sneakily trailing down his defined stomach, over the faint outlines of his toned muscles as you dare to look up at him when you hollow your cheeks, innocently watching him from under your doused lashes— this lascivious sight will stuck with him for eternity, mostly when you're apart and he has to fuck his hand all feverish and hot, imagining it being a puffy, soaked cunt he's rutting into instead.

"you're crazy." he says, "..so fucking crazy." then, as if wounded, he cries into the back of his flaring throat when you pull him out almost entirely, sucking on his tip and gulping down his salty cum— it's the most delicious to you and you swear it's a little sweet at times. it feels like you could forever do this, honestly, it's way too addictive to remain it on one single time.

you lick across his sore tip and add your hand to apply pressure on his girth, fucking him with your hand while tonguing his slit, it's only really starting now, you think to yourself, but he doesn't need to know that now— sweet kuni will realize once he's becoming all sensitive and overstimulated, humping your mouth shallowly and tameless.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 19

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: in the words of Miley, we won't stop.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stare at the mirror, at the woman you don’t know. The faucet runs as you’re tempted to splash the water over your face and wash away the stranger. As another diner enters, you twist off the tap and shake off the trance. You grab a strip of paper towel and dry your hands, tossing it before you exit.

The interior of the restaurant is just as pleasant as the outside. The back wall has flowers and vines painted across it as all the others stand it bright pure white. The tables are thick wood and edged with matching benches and chairs. You’d almost rather be inside than out.

As you come outside, the sun glares in your outline. You approach the archway that opens onto the patio and stop short as another figure meets you there. The new arrival is only a tall silhouette as the daylight stands at their back.

“Pardon, ladies fir–” The nicety is swallowed down halfway and your name bubbles up in its place. You don’t recall Mr. Laufeyson even saying your name; it was always ‘maid’ or nothing else. “Ah, there you are.”

Silence. The light limning his figure shifts and he comes clearer. His sights narrow as he considers you and he runs a hand down his lapel. His lips part slightly as if he means to say something but his teeth snap shut at second thought. He flutters his fingers, speechless and you wilt. You know you look silly, like a little girl wearing her mother’s pearls.

“Uh, Mr. Laufeyson,” you address him awkwardly and glance around. You can feel him staring as you clutch the seams of the dress and rock on the balls of your feet, “we… we’re just over there.”

You point through the archway then follow the gesture. You step through as he follows, his soles softly touching the boards of the patio. You pull your fingers from around the fabric and ball your hands to fist.

As you near the table, he gets closer. You can feel him looming as a growl grits from his throat; ‘what is he…’ He doesn’t finish the question and instead clears his throat.

“Allow me,” he goes to step forward as your eyes meet Frigga’s glittering green irises and Thor cranes to follow her gaze. He stands as you close in, waving away Laufeyson’s reach as he grips the back of your chair.

“Lady,” Thor bows his head gallantly, “we were worried you got lost, rather you’ve found my brother.”

“I might have this seat,” Loki insists before you can sit, “why don’t you sit with my mother?”

“She’s fine as she is,” Frigga insists, “all her things are there.”

Your barely touched cranberry juice weeps in the tall glass and the shopping bags clutter under that side of the table. You peek at Mr. Laufeyson but only get a glimpse of his throat as it tightens. You quickly put your head down and sidle around to sit in the chair. Thor pushes it in under you.

“Well, sit, we’ve been waiting,” Thor insists as he draws his hand away to clap his brother’s shoulder. You only catch a sliver of Laufeyson shrugging him off before stomping around to the empty seat. “We’re starving.”

“And what is he doing here?” Laufeyson asks his mother as he ignores his brother.

“Loki,” she reaches to touch his sleeve, “please, you two are too old for this.”

“For what? You didn’t tell me he was coming. It’s only decent–”

“Brother, please,” Thor leans forward as he clasps his large hands together, “I’ve come to make amends. I’m not too sure what I’ve done, but whatever happened at father’s, I never meant to drive you out.”

Laufeyson lashes Thor with a venomous look. His jaw ticks and his cheek twitches. He's about to boil over, as if the apology is an insult in itself. He takes a breath and lets it out, unlocking his jaw.

“I apologise for keeping you all waiting,” Laufeyson evades a direct response, his eyes flitting over to you, “I lost track of time.”

Your eyes cling to his as the tension drains from his brow and he tilts his head slightly. Again, he seems as if he means to say something, and unlike himself, he restrains his thoughts. He looks down at the waiting menu and you do the same. You imagine there will be a lecture for overextending his mother’s generosity.

As you peruse the selection, a tense silence invades the table. You all focus on the listings, a necessary distraction. As you keep your eyes on the menu, hiding from the other diners, you feel a tickle along the side of your leg.

Thor’s hand rests on his thigh, knuckles pressing against yours as he sits wide on the seat. You try to ignore the touch, assuming it's unintentional and focus on the menu. He slowly shifts and turns his hand, brushing his fingertips along your skirt. You squirm and bend your leg over the other to elude him.

You settle on a simple dish; caprese on a croissant. You sit up and reach for your drink, Thor’s hand lingering on the edge of your chair. What is he doing?

Your ears are alight and you feel the sweet about to break through on your forehead. You sip and your eyes meet another pair. Laufeyson has a finger pressed to the menu but he’s unbothered by its contents. He’s watching you.

You bite your cheek and put your glass down. There’s a sheen of gloss left on the rim. You take the folded cloth napkin and dab your around mouth, paranoid of a smear. You ring the fabric as you lower it to your lap and glance over at Thor’s tapping fingers, crawling closer yet again.

The table jolts suddenly. Frigga gasps and Thor grunts. He sits up and rescinds his hand, his attention flashing across to his brother. The two glare at each other.

“Apologies,” Laufeyson makes a show of rubbing his thigh, “I had a cramp. Did I get your toe?”

“Eh, it’s fine,” Thor grumbles, his thumb circling against the side of his knuckle.

“You two,” Frigga tuts, “please, you’re making a scene.”

“It was an accident,” Laufeyson insists, “I was in a car for far too long and now my muscles are all knotted.”

“I keep telling you, you need a proper regiment,” Thor intones, a taunt in his tone, “at our age, we need to stay active.”

“I’m active,” the black-haired brother rolls his eyes, “don’t presume you know anything about me or my life.”

“Hm, your house may be big but roving the halls like a ghost isn’t exercise,” the blond chortles.

Laufeyson huffs and shakes his head. He returns his attention to the menu as you stare at the table. You don’t quite understand. You don’t have siblings so you don’t know where this kind of animosity would come from. While your dad isn’t entirely loving, you know why he is the way he is. 

But these two, they have everything anyone could ever want and they only seem bitter. They have a family, they have wealth and all that comes with it. All that and they expect even more.

“You know, Loki, it would do you well to get out more,” Frigga suggests, “it’s a lovely house but so… grim, these days. Perhaps you might consider an update. That might help–”

“I get out,” Laufeyson insists, “please, have I only been invited to be lectured?”

“Well, darling,” Frigga squeezes his elbow, “we didn’t see you for a whole year after the divorce. We worry–”

“Don’t,” he commands, “I’m fine. The divorce is well past done. I’m over it, so why can’t you move on?”

“Ah, but it is hard to get over a lady like Sif–”

“Shut up!” Laufeyson snaps at his brother, “don’t–”

“Loki,” Frigga girds, “please.”

“No, I do not want his opinion on my wife. On my marriage. Can we stop beating this dead horse, already?”

You make yourself as small as you can. You shouldn’t be there. You’re hearing things you have now business knowing. You look around and the image of running out of the restaurant glints through your mind. It’s tempting even if it would be a bit insane. 

“So let’s talk about something else,” Laufeyson sighs, “how was your day, mother? You two seem to have been quite successful.”

“I’d say,” Thor agrees as you feel him look at you.

“Oh, it was wonderful. Eliana took care of us, isn’t her hair lovely?” Frigga preens, “and she’s such a sweet girl, isn’t she? Everything looks so lovely on her. Dear, didn’t you have a good day?”

You gulp and peek up. You pick your nail and nod, “yes. Thank you. It was… very nice of you to include me.”

“Ah, she is so polite,” Thor booms as his hand once more goes to the back of your chair. “How do you put up with him, sweetheart?”

You frown and shake your head, “huh?”

“My brother? How can you do it?”

“She is rather adept at her work,” Laufeyson sneers, “I am the least of her tasks.”

“I wasn’t asking you, was I?” His brother retorts.

“I… I do my job,” you press your palms flat to each other.

“I’d call him hard work, indeed,” Thor guffaws.

“Thor,” Frigga hisses, “be nice.”

“I am,” Thor says defensively, “I kid. Gods, it isn’t my fault he cannot take a joke–”

He grips the chair as he lets his thumb stroke the back of your collar. You sit forward slightly, wiggling to the edge of the chair. You bring your hands to hug your glass. Laufeyson fidgets with the cutlery wrapped in a napkin.

“Jokes are usually funny,” Laufeyson utters and shifts in his seat, “where is the damn waiter?”

👠

No words are exchanged as you approach the car. Mr. Laufeyson is particularly dour as he opens the door for his mother, then you. He sweeps around to claim the driver’s seat and turns the engine so it whirs softly. He steers out into the lull of traffic, twisting his hand on the leather wrapped wheel.

“That was a lovely lunch,” Frigga breaks the frigid sheet of silence, “wasn’t it?”

“Food was good,” Laufeyson agrees.

She exhales as you shrink down, hoping to blend in with the shopping bags.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I thought you two could make up. After what happened–”

“Mother,” Laufeyson breathes and his eyes glance in the mirror, “we’ll talk about this later.”

“And what about your father?” She prompts.

“I said, later.”

“Mm, yes, sorry, darling,” she apologises again, “why don’t you leave me off at the house and take her home? It’s been a long day.”

“It’s only four-thirty,” he replies.

“Yes, well, we did a lot of running around. I’m certain the darling could use some time. She has her father to worry about.”

“It’s alright, I don’t–”

“No, no, you’re right, mother, it has been a very long day already,” Laufeyson interjects.

You clamp your mouth shut. You’re a marionette being pulled between their strings. It’s not about what you want. You’re not heard. They take you out and put you away like a toy.

“Dear,” Frigga chimes, “thank you so much for today. I had a lovely time.”

You don’t realise at first she means you, not until Laufeyson says your name. Again. Maid. Call me maid, that’s all I am.

“Oh, no, thank you, Frigga,” you say, “it was really nice of you to bring me. I…it’s really too much.”

“Not enough, dear, not enough. I hope the next time I’m in town, we might have another day out,” she trills.

“If you like,” you concede.

The rear view mirror stares back at you. Laufeyson’s snakish gaze makes you squirm as he idles at a light. Have you said the wrong thing? A honk comes from behind him as the light turns green and he quickly presses on the gas.

You sink back into silence, this one airier. You watch out the window as the car rolls through the streets and you take it all in. You’ve lived in this city your whole life and you haven’t seen half of it.

He arrives at his gates and opens the gate with the switch clipped behind the rear view mirror. He drives through and the doors unlock loudly. Frigga gets out and he does the same as he helps her sort through the bags on the other side of the back seat.

You’re startled as Laufeyson bends to peer through, saying your name a third time. You flinch and look at him as he holds a cluster of bags.

“I’ll be only a moment to get mother settled,” he explains, “feel free to move to the front.”

He closes the door and leaves you to mull his unprompted explanations. You could stay as you are but that feels weird. He would be like a chauffeur or taxi driver. That’s awkward and you’re already torturously strange.

You let yourself out of the car and slide into the front seat. Frigga’s perfume clings to the suede as you pull the seat belt down. You watch the leaves of a lush tree rustle as you wait. As the driver’s side opens, you let out a squeak.

Laufeyson swings inside and pulls the door shut. He adjusts himself as he fits his long legs under the wheel and grasps the wheel with one hand. You turn your head straight and stare off at the house’s facade.

“Thank you for driving me, Mr. Laufeyson,” you murmur.

“Mm, it is no issue,” he assures as he slowly shifts into gear, the car lazily following the arc of the driveway back to the gate.

You flick your thumb nervously against your index. Your foot wiggles and your knee jitters. You can’t sit still.

“I hadn’t a chance to mention…” he begins, pausing to consider his words, “you…” he leans forward to look both ways before continuing onto the avenue, “you look very… nice.”

“Oh,” you still yourself and focus on the dash, “thank you, Mr. Laufeyson. You’re mother’s a very kind woman.”

“She is,” he says, “I… I knew she would know best.”

“Um, if it’s too much, erm, you can take the clothes back–”

“Nonsense, keep them. They are for your work,” he rebuffs coolly.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

He doesn’t reply. Only sighs. You carry on without speaking. You wouldn’t want to distract him from driving. You're still waiting for that lecture. You steel yourself for the words; ungrateful, selfish, lazy...

The car grows suffocating. He pulls into your neighbourhood and slows before your house. You swiftly hit the button on the seat belt, ready to run inside. 

“I could help with your bags,” he offers.

“N-no, Mr. Laufeyson, that’s… okay,” you say a bit too quickly. You wouldn’t want him to see more than he already has. Besides, your father was never fond of visitors. “Thanks.”

“Right, yes,” he accepts, “regular hours tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“Hm,” he hums but does not comment. He sounds almost disappointed.

“Have a good night,” you say as you climb out of the car.

“You too,” he mutters so quietly you’re not even sure he truly spoke.

You open the back door and gather up the remaining bags. It’s awkward as you slide them out with a loud crinkle. It feels unearned.

“You know,” he turns, his hand on the headrest of the passenger’s seat, “I did tell you a dozen times about the clothes.” He looks you up and down, “much better.”

He unhooks his arm from the seat and turns back to face the windshield. You nod, struck dumb and mute, and elbow the door shut. You turn and head down the overgrown walk and climb the creaky steps of your father’s porch. You pause at the top and glance back as the car remains unmoved.

Through the tint, you can see Mr. Laufeyson’s shadow. It looks almost as if he has his head on the steering wheel, gripping it as he hunches forward. The light must be playing tricks on you. You turn and continue on to the front door.

You hesitate to enter as the dingy siding feels you with guilt. Here you are with a handful of shopping and a belly full of gourmet food. Don’t forget where you come from, it’s where you’ll always be. Fancy clothes or not.

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 1 EPISODE 12 || LALLYBROCH ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

Broch Tuarach means “the north-facing tower.”

From the side of the mountain above, the broch that gave the small estate its name was no more than another mound of rocks, much like those that lay at the foot of the hills we had been traveling through. We came down through a narrow, rocky gap between two crags, leading the horse between boulders. Then the going was easier, the land sloping more gently down through the fields and scattered cottages, until at last we struck a small winding road that led to the house. It was larger than I had expected; a handsome three-story manor of harled white stone, windows outlined in the natural grey stone, a high slate roof with multiple chimneys, and several smaller whitewashed buildings clustered about it, like chicks about a hen. The old stone broch, situated on a small rise to the rear of the house, rose sixty feet above the ground, cone-topped like a witch’s hat, girdled with three rows of tiny arrow-slits. As we drew near, there was a sudden terrible racket from the direction of the outbuildings, and Donas shied and reared. No horseman, I promptly fell off, landing ignominiously in the dusty road. With an eye for the relative importance of things, Jamie leapt for the plunging horse’s bridle, leaving me to fend for myself. The dogs were almost upon me, baying and growling, by the time I found my feet. To my panicked eyes, there seemed to be at least a dozen of them, all with teeth bared and wicked. There was a shout from Jamie. “Bran! Luke! Sheas!” The dogs skidded to a halt within a few feet of me, confused. They milled, growling uncertainly, until he spoke again. “Sheas, mo maise! Stand, ye wee heathen!” They did, and the largest dog’s tail began gradually to wag, once, and then twice, questioningly. “Claire. Come take the horse. He’ll not let them close, and it’s me they want. Walk slowly; they’ll no harm ye.” He spoke casually, not to alarm either horse or dogs further. I was not so sanguine, but edged carefully toward him. Donas jerked his head and rolled his eyes as I took the bridle, but I was in no mood to put up with tantrums, and I yanked the rein firmly down and grabbed the headstall.

The thick velvet lips writhed back from his teeth, but I jerked harder. I put my face close to the big glaring golden eye and glared back. “Don’t try it!” I warned, “or you’ll end up as dogsmeat, and I won’t lift a hand to save you!” Jamie meanwhile was slowly walking toward the dogs, one hand held out fistlike toward them. What had seemed a large pack was only four dogs: a small brownish rat-terrier, two ruffed and spotted shepherds, and a huge black and tan monster that could have stood in for the Hound of the Baskervilles with no questions asked. This slavering creature stretched out a neck thicker than my waist and sniffed gently at the proffered knuckles. A tail like a ship’s cable beat back and forth with increasing fervor. Then it flung back its enormous head, baying with joy, and leaped on its master, knocking him flat in the road.

“‘In which Odysseus returns from the Trojan War and is recognized by his faithful hound,’ ”

I remarked to Donas, who snorted briefly, giving his opinion either of Homer, or of the undignified display of emotion going on in the roadway. Jamie, laughing, was ruffling the fur and pulling the ears of the dogs, who were all trying to lick his face at once. Finally he beat them back sufficiently to rise, keeping his feet with difficulty against their ecstatic demonstrations. “Well, someone’s glad to see me, at any rate,” he said, grinning, as he patted the beast’s head. “That’s Luke—” he pointed to the terrier, “and Elphin and Mars. Brothers, they are, and bonny sheep-dogs. And this,” he laid an affectionate hand on the enormous black head, which slobbered in appreciation, “is Bran.” “I’ll take your word for it,” I said, cautiously extending a knuckle to be sniffed. “What is he?” “A staghound.” He scratched the pricked ears, quoting“Thus Fingal chose his hounds:Eye like sloe, ear like leaf,Chest like horse, hough like sickleAnd the tail joint far from the head.” “If those are the qualifications, then you’re right,” I said, inspecting Bran. “If his tail joint were any further from his head, you could ride him.” “I used to, when I was small—not Bran, I don’t mean, but his grandfather, Nairn.” He gave the hound a final pat and straightened, gazing toward the house. He took the restive Donas’s bridle and turned him downhill. “In which Odysseus returns to his home, disguised as a beggar,…” he quoted in Greek, having picked up my earlier remark. “And now,” he said, straightening his collar with some grimness, “I suppose it’s time to go and deal with Penelope and her suitors.” When we reached the double doors, the dogs panting at our heels, Jamie hesitated.

“Should we knock?” I asked, a bit nervous. He looked at me in astonishment. “It’s my home,” he said, and pushed the door open.

26THE LAIRD’S RETURN ~ OUTLANDER

[yandere-sins]

OMG that yandere spot was sooo good, people hardly write him yandere it suckss </3 could you do some more with him? i dont have any big ideas on hand, maybe just him having you prone with his spots, cuddling you? idk, but hes so cute lol

Aww, he really is such a cutie! Thank for requesting him ^-^

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Your hands sunk into the black spots, the portal sucking them in greedily the moment your body hit the ground.

Was it the ground? Maybe it was the ceiling or the wall, but it was hard to tell, with the sterile white color interrupted only by countless black spots being all you could see. Somewhere to your lower left, you saw the fingers of your right hand emerge, and although you could feel the outlines of the spot with your left, you had no clue where it had gone. The disconnect to all your limbs had become easier to understand for your brain after having been in this situation so many times. But it never completely disappeared, always leaving you anxious. All you could do was remind yourself not to be hasty and to keep a cool head. You didn't want one of your limbs to accidentally be severed by panic or rash decisions.

"Gotcha!" Spot chuckled, letting himself fall forward-upwards-downwards—whatever direction, directly on top of you. You ground your teeth in frustration about the failed escape, turning your head away as he hovered his in front of you.

"Worth a try," he admitted, pouring salt into the wound of your failure. "Too bad you can't outrun me."

"I could, and I did, Psycho!" you spat right back into his featureless face, and though not visible, you heard the grin in his voice when he spoke next, your feistiness a point of excitement to him rather than anger.

"And then still stepped right into my spot like an amateur. Really, have you not learned anything in all this time?"

As if to solidify his claim, you glanced down at the feeling of your leg being sucked into yet another portal, all the way up to your knee. You gasped when it appeared right over your head, wiggling as your body tried to deal with the disconnect until your shoe loosened from your foot.

Quickly closing your eyes, you braced for the hit, ducking your head when you heard a dull thud. By the time you dared to open one eye, the shoe was already silently resting some feet away, and Spot cleared his throat, apologetically admitting, "Sorry, that was on me."

Somehow, the break from his villain act made you breathe out all the tension and adrenaline you had harbored in your body from the escape, leaving nothing but exhaustion behind. Sure, you had failed again. Jumped into a random portal that Spot had opened before suddenly finding yourself flying through the air in some unfamiliar universe. Luckily, he noticed you escaping his "spot-verse" and teleported you to safety. Still, after a long chase around skyscrapers and shops, you made the fatal mistake of not looking down while walking, stepping right back into his portal.

It was unfortunate, but at least you tried.

"Can't you just... I don't know... come to terms with this?" he asked, gesturing one hand around you two as if to mean this space he created. You blew some hair out of your face so he could see you rolling your eyes before replying curtly, "No."

"Come on, it's not half as bad as you make it out to be."

Rolling over to lay at your side, defeated by your defiance, Spot rested his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. A habit he liked to live out a lot these days. "You're warm," he mused, this time sounding like a content smile was playing on his lips. Thanks to his spots, it was easy for him to wrap his arms around you through the floor, and he nuzzled his face into your immobilized body, even when you heaved a deep breath of annoyance.

"I was about to declare war on Spiderman today. Before you popped out of the sky, that is."

"Who cares. You've already declared it a thousand times."

Spot perked up, lifting one white sausage finger into the air and wagging it. "No, no, no. For real, this time. I was going to make it official."

With a sigh, he laid back down again, mushing the spot on his face as far as possible into you. One day, he'd just consume you whole, you feared. One day, he'd lose control, and the nagging feeling of his portals sucking at your skin would turn everything into a black hole, decimating you. The thought brought goosebumps to your skin and a frown to your face. Your days were numbered if this continued, and the urgency of escape nagged at the back of your mind again.

"What if you fail again? What will you do then?" you asked, entertaining his illusions the only thing you had to fight the anxiety and boredom in this isolated space. Even if they were hypotheses and Spot was still a loser despite his new powers, listening to him was like watching a bad soap opera—just barely entertaining. You doubted he noticed the weight in your words, the comparison you drew between him and you.

"Come back to you?" he replied, sounding like a question even though it was more like a fact. It was as if he asked for permission, knew he wouldn't get it, and still decided to state his thoughts. "At least I got you waiting for me, but I know I won't fail."

It wasn't the answer you wanted to hear. No one would were they in your position, but it reminded you of the complexity of his feelings, the way he seemed to genuinely like you even if all of this wasn't healthy.

"What if I'm not here?"

"Then I'll go out and find you."

"I see."

Resting his chin on your chest, Spot looked up at you. Adoringly, in love you imagined. "Do you doubt me?" he asked and you questioned yourself for a few seconds before shaking your head. "No, but does it really matter that we stay here of all places then? You can just come and find me if it's so easy for you, no?"

"What's wrong with this place? It's cozy!"

"It really isn't!" you complained, moaning about him thinking white walls, white floors, black dots, and white ceilings were anything but mentally driving you nuts. "I hate how white everything is! It's awful!"

Spot gave an offended huff before getting away from you, sitting by your side as he looked around. "Is it that bad?" he mumbled before his head dropped, his gaze unmistakably falling on himself. "Do you hate me, too?"

There was a soft whine in his voice, pleading with you not to agree. But how could you? You did positively hate that guy who kidnapped you off the street and held you like a glorified pet, professing his love while keeping you locked up in a different universe away from your own, stealing food for you instead of taking you on dates like someone normal would. Everything was just wrong about this guy, and you didn't just mean his inhuman looks!

"Well, duh," you mumbled, exasperated. There was a long moment of silence before he sighed.

"So that's how you see me..." Spot mumbled, and you hoped the discussion for the day would be over now. But to your surprise, his hands suddenly crashed down at the sides of your head, darkness shredding through the white ground and climbing up his arms. You instinctively wanted to move away, but his portals kept your body in a tight hold, even as the black spread over the previously white everything around you.

"Well then," he asked, no signs of sadness in his voice anymore. You directed your gaze forward, your body signaling you to get the fuck away from the creature that appeared before you now, but you couldn't do anything. Soon enough, all of his white skin was shrouded in black, the space you two resided in twisting and turning in threads of black, your body dunked into darkness with only Spot standing out against the change.

"How about I show you something amazing to ogle? Something that will convince you that I can defeat that pesty spider?"

A terrifying grimace ripped through his body, the whole space vibrating with power you had never witnessed before. You were too choked up to speak, too scared to move even a muscle. You could only watch Spot's face split into a monstrous, sinister grin as the black around you began devouring you.

"Do you love me now, Darling?"