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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

Text

Between Dreams and Sugar

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: Your screams will haunt his dreams until the day he dies.

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Torture, gore, angst, violence & death, suggestive joke, fluff, happy ending, rescue fic but who rescues who...>:)

A/N: Guys, I have a confession - I don't think I can write Ghost properly lmfao. This is horrifically mid.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

There was so much blood coating your body that you had forgotten where the wounds were and weren’t. It flowed from you like viscus water—a homogeneous mixture of congealed shades of red like rubies except for the simple fact that this was not beautiful; it was not desired or sought after.

On the ground, soaking in indistinguishable pools of crimson, ripples are sent out when your limp foot twitches mutely in its clutch. That was all you could do now. Twitch. Writhe. They didn’t even bother tying you to the chair anymore—just let you slouch half out of it like a school kid who had gotten too drunk the night before.

Hell, you wished you were drunk.

“Sergeant.”

You wished you could feel your fingers. You wished you could move your neck up from its bend position as if it was a wilting flower; hair stuck to your skin. Blood dribbles out of your mouth. Drip…drop…drip…drop.

You’d bitten your tongue open in a vain attempt to stop yourself from screaming, hadn’t you? You…you can’t quite remember.

“Sergeant!” Groaning long and low, the violent chills that wrack your form only serve to make yourself bleed out faster, tension forcing precious life fluid out from burst veins and slashed ankles.

Cuts far span your legs and shoulders. Your back is nothing more than a painting of burns coated with sweat and infection; puss sticking you to the backrest of the chair like yellow-colored adhesive. Your clothes are the opposite idea of modesty. Tattered, torn by blades to create harm. Fuck, could you even breathe properly anymore?

Lungs only create a wheeze—you’re not getting enough oxygen to function.

A dark growl bounces off the walls.

Ghost struggles against his binds, uniform also in a state of disarray with very obviously broken ribs and bruised chest. Splotches of yellow-white mounds signal blunt trauma over the pale skin that’s already laced with old scars.

They’d all but anchored him to his chair—and even then the red marks that blister are a signal of the brutality of the large man as he peels back his skin to try and struggle himself out.

You whine, the loftiness stuck in your brain addictive; to pull back that curtain was as much of a struggle as staying awake. That harsh Manchester accent was something to draw closer to, though, professionalism a key to the lock on your failing consciousness. The reminder of companionship.

“G��” Your vocal cords fizzle, “Ghost…”

“Open your eyes.” Every word was enunciated, deep and guttural.

Parting your lips, more blood drowns your lap in thick globs, and soon your battered throat vibrates with coughs that make you see stars, mild panic the moment you realize that you can’t breathe.

Jerking forward, you gasp, eyes snapping open as your neck bends ahead in desperation. Mucus and other bodily fluids spray over your lap, tinged scarlet, but the blockage in your throat is dispelled as your broken ribs quiver in agony.

Whimpering like a kicked dog, you wonder how long it’ll take for Ghost to realize getting you to focus on him was pointless. If this all continued, you’d be dead within the day.

But you entertain him.

Head slowly balking back as your jaw hangs loose, you rest it on the wooden frame behind you as softly as you’re able with a most likely concussed brain and a fractured skull. Only one eye opens, and even then it’s half-glued to your cheek with dried blood.

Ghost’s balaclava had been ripped off. It felt wrong to see him in the open like this. Exposed. It was quite obvious he disliked it just as much as you did.

Blue eyes blazed at you; blonde hair going this way and that as crimson fell down the swell of his Adam’s Apple from a very broken nose. That gaze was unrelenting, and even with your blurry vision, you knew it would be unwise to look away.

His stubbled jaw sets as a heart can be seen skipping beats in his breast. You were totally out of it, enough so that you missed the way his lungs slightly released when you had pulled yourself back to the present.

The gulping sigh.

“That’s it, Sergeant.” You cough once more, wet and haggard, and your head falls back to your chest before you have to force it back up on shaking muscles. It was getting harder. “Easy does it, then…Thought I lost you.”

“C–can’t,” the useless feet flicker over the ground, sloshing through fluid in unstable jumps as you slur out, “Hurts, Ghost.”

A slow and dark inhalation meets your ears before a sudden grunt of a struggling body; jerking arms as the chair squeals with old nails being torn out.

“I know, Birdie, I know.” His tone is lesser now as he bites back a curse as the blisters on his arms pop, the rope burns turning a vile color as his muscles strain, “But you keep those pretty little eyes on me, yeah?”

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Black Operations were dangerous, yeah, but never had the Lieutenant been so down in the gutter as he was right now. Mainly because of you, no, entirely because of you. He could withstand months of torture—mental and physical—with no problem. He’d done it countless times before.

But never had he been forced to watch someone hurt you instead of him.

They would come in every day, these pitiful excuses for German drug runners, and would make him watch as they ripped open your skin with blunt knives and other tools coated in rust. Questions would be asked—questions that Ghost knew he could not answer even if it was you who would get punished.

Every time you would flinch when the door to this concrete basement opened, it was harder to keep his tongue from wagging. He was watching you die; letting it happen.

Fuck, it made him sick.

Ghost violently reems a shoulder up and down, not caring about the long stripes of now oozing blood on his forearms or the pain that the action brings bone-deep. There was so much scarlet flowing from you. Too much.

What he knows for certain is that he can’t let you die here. He’d never forgive himself for that.

How is she still conscious? The question was utterly genuine as Ghost’s dead eyes narrowed dangerously, sparking with urgency at the uneven risings and fallings from your chest.

“Fucking hell,” the Lieutenant growls, each word punctuated by a desperate attempt to free himself. He had to get you out of this. You were his responsibility; his team.

His…Ghost pants, sweat dripping down his arms.

You didn’t abandon him, how could he do the same to you? When questioned you hadn't given up his true name, hadn’t blabbered to save your own skin so you could avoid a horrible amount of pain. Pain that Ghost knew well.

Pain that was never supposed to be known to you.

Your screams would haunt his nightmares until the day he died.

“Ghost,” blue eyes freeze, snapping away from the sight of the bone around his wrists becoming visible through a thin coverage of remaining flesh. He pauses like a guard dog. Your optic was glinting, flicking with failing consciousness. The movement of your chest sputtered as the man clenched his teeth together. “You’re hurtin’ yourself.”

“‘Bout to do even more damage, yeah?” he gets back to it, working enough blood into the rope to make it slick; dripping. “If it’ll get me out of these bastard things.”

The weak smirk on your face gives his brows a deep furrow, sweat glistening on his forehead.

A part of him hated you. Hated you for the way you had this effect on him. He shouldn’t care if you lived or died—that wasn’t his cross to carry.

But you’d made him soft these last few months. Soft, and weak, and disgustingly concerned for your safety. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t Ghost.

“Gonna b…bleed out, y’know.” Your tongue slips, mind so loose that anything that comes to the front slips out like water from a slip-and-slide. Fingers twitching, your limp body grows so cold that you shiver.

“Negative.” Ghost barks, slipping one hand partially under the restraint and his flesh, acting as a zipper, starts to go with it. He hisses under his breath, body hot and spilling. Mutilating himself. “Shut your damn gob.” Blood splatters to the floor, “I’m gettin’ us out of ‘ere.”

“Tell me a joke.” Blue eyes flicker, blonde lashes slipping over pale cheeks.

You feel another wave of pain shutter through you—one that makes you whimper as quietly as a soft breeze on a summer day.

“Joke?” Ghost hisses, glaring over at you without heat. “The fuck are you on about?” A wobbling eyebrow raise is all he gets.

He grunts feral-like, evocative of a bear that hadn’t gotten his supper. Your lid droops and panic spikes.

“How long can a fish breakdance for?” Ghost slips a hand free, snarling in the back of his mouth as the entirety of his left hand is left ripped open, the fissures itchy and welling. Wasting no time, the limb goes to assist the other, pulling with ripped-off fingernails at the tight knot. A side-eye is sent your way.

Only you weren't moving. Lips snap in a moment of obvious concern, not only by the tone but by the way the man jerks forward in the chair—no matter if one arm and both of his legs were still restrained.

“Love!” The door handle rattles with screeching chains, but Ghost is occupied with raging at you. Ordering you to stay awake with terrifying eyes. It was as though for the first time in a long time there was true fear in his throat. True hatred.

Chucking voices heat veins that he had long since thought were cold, and the Lieutenant composes himself with a sharp pause. He leans back slowly into the chair; jaw so tight his molars almost crack in the back of his mouth like candy. Your face is tilted downward, and Ghost memorizes the make of it, trails his gaze slowly over every slash and cut that mars you. Feet slap off the concrete as multiple people enter the room, but it was like a switch had flipped internally, walls going up.

The mask was still there, even if all that physically remained of it was the black paint in his sockets.

He’d return every mark, from a bruise to an open wound, tenfold. But you needed to wake up first. You…you needed to.

You had to be okay.

Three men encircle the two of you, faces hidden and obviously enjoying a bit of their own product.

“Look at this, Lutz, the man got a hand out of the binding.” Blue eyes travel to stare dead-on into a pair of blown pupils; mind gone.

The second man goes to grip your hair, forcing your head up in inspection. Ghost’s vision immediately travels over, biceps going tense like a dog with its hackles raised and vision going red.

“Don’t worry about that. It’s one hand, what can the Bastard do?”

“Oh,” another laughs, though his body is wound tight, “careful with the woman, Alric—the beast looks like he’s about to snap at you.”

The three share sly looks. Alric, the one with your hair in his grip, shakes your head back and forth, blood flying around in the air as your limp body jerks. Ghost lunges, but he only makes it as far as the chair allows him before he’s shoved back by a hand on his chest.

Moving quicker than an animal, bone snaps, and an agony-laced scream echoes off the walls not a millisecond later.

Ghost had gripped that hand and twisted, making the wrist joint completely flip on itself. Blank blue eyes watch with glints of sadistic glee as the man wails, grabbing onto himself and falling back onto his ass.

The one holding you instantly releases your hair and rushes to his friend.

“Holy fuck!” Everyone divulges into frantic German curses, Ghost making out a command to leave and go see a doctor.

“Cheers. Good luck with that, ya’ Bastard.” Grumbling under his breath, the Lieutenant realized he was probably enjoying this more than he should, but always his attention shifts back to you. How you hang limb, battered face covered by your hair, and loss of blood steadily leaving your hands curling into the palms—

Ghost’s eyes widen slightly as the two still try and calm down their companion. Your hand. It wasn’t curled because of onset rigor mortis. You were holding a blade.

The Brit’s large chest swells with pride; jaw going somewhat slackened as he stares at you. So you were faking it….Fucking hell, Sweetheart.

Slowly, his vision peels to the empty sheath on Lutz’s belt. It wasn’t a big knife—nothing more than a three-inch blade on the end. But you were still conscious enough to hear these goons show up before he had; had used sleight of hand that anyone else in your situation would have just given up on.

It was hard to hold back a low chuckle, but he managed. Fuck, you were something else.

The two unmaimed men shove the third out the door, shouting down the hallway as his sobs and sniffling nose reverberate even as he’s out of sight.

Grunting, the Brit shifts his hips, lips pulling in a snarl at the bouncing electrical wire that goes up his ribs. Many were broken; along with his nose and a dislocated shoulder, but he knows he can deal with it. Getting you out and to the Evac point was his top priority—his wounds weren’t over-the-top life-threatening unless they went too long without treatment.

You on the other hand.

Lids narrow on the way the knife-holding hand shakes with exertion when simply applying pressure. If this was going to happen, it had to happen now.

“That was a nice little show,” Alric growls, standing in the middle of the two in the chairs and keeping a considerable distance farther from Ghost than you. Blue eyes blink blankly, emotions swiftly wiped away. “One-handed? I’m impressed.”

Ghost raises a single blonde eyebrow, “More where that came from.”

Alric smiles.

“Emil—get the gun.” Legs slowly tense, but other than that there’s no outward display of nervousness.

Seconds later a barrel is level with Ghost’s forehead, the chilled metal pressing deep into his blood-coated skin. He doesn’t balk back, he doesn’t even flinch, just watches with a dim flicker in his optics that remains even after he blinks. Like a cat’s slitted pupils.

It would be no use shoving the gun out of this man’s hands—he would fire before the Lieutenant was able to steal the weapon for himself.

“I’m getting sick of this game, Soldier. We’ve been through this day after day.” Alric swipes at his nose, white powder stuck under his nostrils. Ghost can’t stop the small tick of his mouth. “Tell me who you are,” the gun swivels, and the Brit’s heart seizes up. It points at your abdomen. “Or the girl gets a nice new stomach.”

Lips thin into a small line as hidden fury swells.

“Alric…” Emil seems nervous, his feet shifting and hands twitching. The aura Ghost was emitting was like a dark cloud around the room; sheer size and indistinguishable emotions rose to drown out all else when a threat to the beast’s bird was brought into the picture. There had been multiple times throughout the days when the men had been scared to touch you at all for fear of the look that had been leveled their way. Those eyes…fuck it was like a demon was stuck in flesh. In blue so close to gray the color was more like the concrete of a prison cell. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Tell me.” Alric growls as Emil gets closer to you. Ghost stays silent, unblinking as his fingers curl into fists. His knuckles crack from the force. “Tell me!”

Emil bushes your shoulder and you lunge. Bringing the blade into his chest, your form brings the both of you to the floor in a splash of scarlet and twin screams of pain.

The Blonde’s heart seizes at the sound in an aggressive bounce.

Alric whips around, eyes widened and gun loose in his grip. Ghost wastes no time, trusting your judgment, and shoves himself forward. A shot goes off as the Lieutenant rams his shoulder into the man, but the bullet bites into the far wall instead of your back as you dig your knife into Emil’s throat; wrestling for life.

The chair still attached to Ghost was a problem, but his body weight was used to his advantage. Sinew bunched as a growl exits his lips, Alric and him slamming to the floor in a flurry of rabid intentions and the likeness of wolves caught in a trap. Ghost’s eyesight goes red, remembering every cut and beating you went through for him in the reflection of Alric’s eyes. That pathetic drug runner had made you bleed.

His bird doesn’t bleed.

Teeth and nails are tools kept for animals, and now that the gun was too far from grip and you were limp beside the gargling body of Emil, Ghost decided that being a bit insane might do him well at the moment.

He had to get you out of here. And in no world was this man going to get away to live one day more.

“Please, don’t,” Alric begs, clawing at his behemoth build, “I’m not—I wasn’t—!”

Blood-stained teeth snap into the thin flesh of a visible neck as dead blue eyes keep you in sight like a dog does the moon.

—

You don’t recall anything after slashing one man’s neck and even that is a blur of flashing colors; instances of one waxing expression waning into another. Trapped between bouts of failing consciousness and pain that could rival someone getting their bones snapped one by one.

But you know the feeling of moss on your cheek. The shadow that sits above you and the fingers that prod at your back, pressing cooling salves of Silverweed into the burns and cuts. Your eyes weakly flicker, a low moan stuck in your throat.

Every limb is a cinder block.

“Stop your moving.” The command was stiff but quiet, and the pressure on your spine increased. Flinching, the sensation of tight bindings all along your body became apparent to you, slowly but surely.

“That…hell?” You cough, throat bare and dry. Sweat drips down your temple.

Blinking rapidly, you try to focus on the cold wind whipping past your bare skin, the trees in the distance of what appeared to be a glade. The sound of a running stream makes your ears perk.

A canteen was suddenly shoved to your lips and you grunt in surprise, water slicking your closed lips.

“Drink.” You don’t argue, peeling back your lips and letting the liquid drip into your mouth, most falling to the moss under you and getting re-adsorbed into the earth. “...There’s a girl.”

The metal container disappears just as quickly as it showed up, and you lick at the corner of your lips, cheeks burning at the comment.

Ghost kneels above you, bar a shirt, and you narrow your lids to focus on the black and blue splotches completely covering him. He still doesn’t have a mask, and you glance over the blonde stubble; the scars, and the aggressive set of his eyebrows. The blood had been washed away, and you wondered if the stream in the background of this place was still stained with crimson and the telltale black of eye paint.

“Simon,” whispering seemed appropriate, though you don’t know why. Your voice was better now but still, your body refused to listen to your instructions. Every plea to move your arms or legs was denied, sharp needles poking into your flesh that made you shake. “What…?”

Blue eyes blink down at you, something hidden in the depths. A finger curls to flick a stray hair from your face slowly. Skin brushes skin.

“Snagged what I could before I ran off. Wasn’t much.” That harsh voice, the gravel in it. You frown weakly, your lids heavy. “Bandages. Extra shirt. Blanket I used to stop the bleeding.”

He won’t tell you he was begging you to wake up when he’d been stuffing old fabric into your open wounds.

Coughs wrack your frame, whole body jerks that overtake what little peace there was to be found. A hand tilts your head back to the ground, patient as the other grabs your hair, peeling the strands away as a flood of vomit escapes your mouth.

Eyes burning and face hot, you sputter as a thumb runs deep circles over your scalp.

“Easy…” Ghost whispers, tattoos like obsidian in the darkness of the world around the two. Late afternoon and this was the first time you’d woken up since he’d been carrying you. A nail was taken out of his heart.

Seeing your eyes flicker, even filled with the tears as they were, was a blessing he’d thank whatever God that was out there for. “Easy, Sweetheart. Breathe for me.”

“Fuck,” you gasp, shaking more than a leaf. “Fuck it hurts, Simon.”

He shifts you slightly away from the bile, the familiar words burning his lungs.

“Evac point is four miles.” It felt like a death sentence to you, your eyes going buggy at the thought. “I’m carrying you there.”

“Bullshit,” you pant, wheezing. “Your arms are destroyed.”

Ghost blinks before scowling, sending a glance to his limbs. They’re both raw and skinned, just like his fingers; red with burst blisters the size of rocks. One hurts far more than the other.

“They’re nothing.”

“Nothing pretty to look at,” blue eyes narrow on you in annoyance, but the dry-humored Brit doesn't miss a beat.

“Seems you’re in good spirits, Sergeant. Fancy walking on your own?” Your lips flick, delirious and high off of whatever pain meds that Ghost had found when he had been carrying you out of the basement of that house.

Try as he might, the feeling of your dead weight was worse than he ever could have imagined. So, outwardly, he stayed numb but knew that every little look from you was as beautiful as a sunrise.

“Want me to try?” Palms begin to shift, a hand pressing deep into the moss that bends and yields to your form.

Ghost snaps forward.

“Fucking Bastard!” He puts weight on the back of your shoulder as you hiccup dull chuckles, “Quit it! Else I’ll leave you here to annoy the damn plants.”

The threat was empty, and your eyes softened as they spread their fatigued gaze over the span of the Brit’s visible skin, glee leaking out. Ghost sighs, shaking his head sharply at you, agitation stuck in his skull as it always was.

So beastly, this man, but his hold on you was about as gentle as you could imagine.

Your attraction to him was anything but one-sided. You knew his emotions as well as your own; it was quite obvious to everyone but him. The long looks, the concerned glances. His touch freely given.

He had given you his name and, to you, that was about as close to a proposal as a ring was. You’d kissed; you’d shared beds and shared skin. You knew when he was being horrible to himself deep in the confines of his head.

“Simon,” you whisper, and a blue gaze stays stubbornly away, glaring at your burns with venom. A tired smile peels your lips. “Simon.”

A huff is all you get, a bush of skin as breath wafts over your bare back. Your hand goes to touch his knee, brushing softly over the torn fabric. The flinch would not be noticeable to anyone but you. Brows pull slightly tighter.

“I had a dream about you, y’know.” Speaking hurt, but the attention that is finally brought your way was worth it. Birds chirp in the distance.

“What’s that?”

“Hm,” you lightly nod, cheek ruffling moss as you take down slow inhalations. Staring into each other’s eyes you for a moment forget the agony under your skin. “You were trapped by a giant fish underwater.”

A Blonde eyebrow raises, slow smirk unable to be hidden. It was impossible not to be entirely taken by you. How you speak, how you breathe. Even like this, you had placed a spell of black magic over him, binding the darkness that made up Simon Riley—Ghost—to your every action and whim.

“That right, Sweetheart? What happened, then?”

Chuckling, Ghost’s hold goes to your neck, massaging the skin so delicately that you lose your train of thought for a moment as shivers erupt, “I had to save you.”

Lips press to your scalp, a bent nose digging despite the shifting cartilage as lion limbs shake with a want to drag you to him. Such a rabid beast that devotes himself to your life.

“You tend to do a lot of the savin’, Love.” It’s muttered into your hair, softly, lowly. Compliments are rare—Ghost prefers actions above all else—but they’re treasured.

You know what he means.

“Yeah, I love you, too, you brute.” Deep chuckles dance in your ear, and you both stay there for a while, simply breathing in each other as the sky bleeds into the earth. So content, your heart had slowed, the salve in your wounds and the bandages compressing the areas with the most problems and forcing them to be numb.

When you had nearly fallen asleep, Ghost had peeled back to look down at you; eyes malleable as they slipped over your battered body.

“Hm,” he hums, reaching to his side and grabbing for the shirt he had stolen. After a few minutes of quiet curses and apologetic kisses, the large piece of fabric was over your top. The Lieutenant had begrudgingly admitted that the scraps of pants you had on now would have to do until you got proper attention.

“Giving the squirrels a show, then, Simon?” The man rolls his eyes deeply at the sarcastic comment, rubbing up and down your legs to keep circulation going as he readies to move you.

“They better keep quiet ‘bout it,” Ghost grumbles, running a hand through his hair, “Else I’ll have to rip a few tails.”

“So violent,” You wince when your shoulder is gripped, neck limp as your upper half was rotated. Gnashing your teeth, the Lieutenant shushes you comfortably, raising your body to rest in the crook of his large arm. Muscles tense and loosen, your cheek now resting on your Lover’s pec. You hear him hiss silently at the pressure on his broken ribs as guilt hits you. “Not the squirrels’ fault.”

“It is if they keep looking at ya. Only I get to see you like that.” Your pain-laced laugh is cut off when you’re lifted, large hands under your knees helping equalize your body.

A strained whine exits your lips, straining to get air as you pant and clench your eyes shut. Ghost wasn’t doing much better—gritting his teeth and tilting his head back.

Feet stumble before righting themselves, lids opening as lashes flutter over bloodless cheeks to stare down at you.

The word seems to stop.

“...Tell me you’re alright.” You heard that for what it was—Tell me to keep going, because if you don’t then I won’t be able to.

Blinking up at him, your nose slots under his chin as you feel him shake with exertion, lips pressing deep into his raging pulse. You swallow down saliva as his grip on you tightens, pressing you closer; giving you his body heat.

“I’m okay, Simon. Not…not lost yet.”

“Good.” He lets his eyes close for a moment, taking you in as he lets his nose be coated in your scent, the flesh under his fingertips. Ghost knows some of your wounds reopen, and, thus, his bare feet start off into the woods. His men would still be at the Evac point waiting for them. Price would have given the order. “...I’ll be needing you ‘round. Might lose my head otherwise, eh?”

“You do seem to have a few loose screws when I’m not near.”

“That was an exaggeration,” Simon grumbles.

You scoff, trying not to puke at his limping steps. The word swirls, but the man carrying you stays ever clear. “No,” you whisper, “No, it wasn’t.”

Scared lips pull up, but the birds respond for him.

Less than ten percent out from the Evac point is when you drop a tidbit of a thought to the man.

“Y’know what I want, Ghost?” The large Brit side-steps a downed tree, sweat dripping down his chin to splatter to your skin.

“What is it?” He pants, sparing you a glance as his eyebrows are constantly furrowed in concentration. Your talking made it easier to push on.

“A fucking cake. A big one.” Blue eyes blink and his feet nearly stumble to a stop before he forces on. A gasp of a chuckle makes your heart skip a beat as voices start up from the next tree line.

“Keep talking to me, Love, and I’ll buy you the whole bloody bakery.” Soldiers burst from the bushes, and Ghost calls out identification as everyone gapes. Guns immediately lower.

Medics rush forward, but still on high alert, the Lieutenant snaps at them, bringing you closer into his hold as he pushes onward.

“Where’s the fucking heli?!” Everyone stops and points. Huffing, Ghost shoves forward.

“The whole bakery?” You slur, giggling and feeling the kiss on your head.

“Every bastard pastry’ll be yours. Count on it.”

—

“Simon, you promised.” Your wheel-chair bound form pouts as the man in question deadpans from behind you, leaning on the handles. His balaclava can only hide so much.

The air is sweet with the scent of desserts and bread.

“Birdie, you can’t eat all ‘O that, you’ll explode like you took a .308 round to the head.” The woman behind the counter pales, pulling at the collar of her shirt with her smile becoming strained.

“Is that a challenge?” You glance over your shoulder, smirking wide.

“No,” Simon blanky states, the skin over his nose bridge and under-eye completely black and blue.

“I think that was a challenge.”

“It wasn’t.”

The customers grind their palms into their eye sockets, some tuning around in line and leaving entirely.

“Simon,” you intertwine your hands and lean to show him, eyes wide and pleading. “Please.” Drawing out the word, you smile with everything you can.

The both of you connect in a battle of wills—you with that infectious innocent and sly nature, and Simon with a tight glare and tired eyes. A blatant will to please you in every aspect and a need to see you happy at all times. This goes on for a full minute before a loud sigh echoes off the walls, shoulders deflating. A hidden kiss is pressed firmly to your head.

You giggle loudly at the authoritative order.

“One of everything.”

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specialagentlokitty · 5 months ago

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Aizawa x reader - newfound secrets

I've been a sucker for that man. Like reader is a pro hero too, probably in the top ten ranks with some sort of magic like quirk(mage?) And reader just randomly opened a portal while he's in class to drop him lunch or forgotten paperwork or his precious sleeping bag. And 1-A is shocked to find out their teacher has a lover, much less a hero who's a complete opposite of him. Either gf/bf/neutral or married is completely fine! - Anon💜

You were wondering about your apartment doing some cleaning now that you had a few free days from work.

You were slowly making your way from room to room, doing what had to be done in each room, and as you got to the kitchen you paused as you looked at the kitchen table.

With a small laugh, you shook your head slightly and picked up the bright yellow sleeping bag that was on the table.

You had warned Aizawa time and time again if he kept leaving it on the table he’d forget it one day, and true to your word he had.

Holding it under your arm, you activated your quirk, a purple orb appearing in your hand as you tossed it at the wall, opening a small doorway which you walked through and in less than a second you were in his classroom which was bustling with chatter of the students.

“Hey it’s Druid!” One of them shouted excitedly.

Immediately all of the teenagers turned to you with curiosity, some with excitement.

“Hey guys, where’s your teacher?” You asked.

“He’s behind his desk sleeping!” A stern looking blue haired boy called out.

You beam brightly at him, walking over to the desk and looking behind it, and just like the student said, there was Aizawa fast asleep propped up against the wall.

With a gentle sigh, you walk over and crouch down in front of him.

“I wouldn’t wake him up, he gets pretty annoyed when someone wakes him up…” a girl mumbles.

You wave your hand dismissively.

“It’ll be fine.”

Setting the beanbag down, you reach out, gently tapping on his forehead with the back of your knuckles.

“Hey, wake up for a moment…”

Aizawa lazily opens an eye, looking at your tiredly.

“Why’re you here…?” He mumbles.

“Missing something?” You grin, holding up the beanbag.

“Was wondering where I put that…” he mumbled.

Aizawa took the sleeping bag from you, climbing inside of it and laid down again on the ground.

Reaching out, you zipped the sleeping bag up for him, and pat his forehead a few times which earned you a slight huff from him as he closed his eyes again.

“Thought you had work…”

“That’s next week, I’ve got a few days off this week. Seriously Shouta how you actually manage to function is beyond me. Have you eaten?”

“Yes…”

You raise a brow, standing up to look at his class.

“Has Aizawa had lunch?”

“No!” They called out.

From the ground you could hear him grumbling about them being traitors, and one of the girls raised her hand.

“Yes…?”

“My names Mina! Why did you have Mr Aizawa’s sleeping bag?!” She asks almost a little too excited.

With a small laugh you rubbed the back of your head slightly, ignoring Aizawa’s warning glare he sent you.

“Well, that’s because we’re married, and he left it on the kitchen table.”

Immediately the class burst out in shouts of shock, confusion and disbelief that their grumpy, almost emotionless homeroom teacher had actually managed to find somebody to marry him.

Aizawa gave you a slight glare, but you could still see a small bit of softness behind his tired gaze.

Everybody was shouting out questions to you, wanting to know everything and you laughed a little bit, raising your hands to try quiet them down.

“Hey, hey quiet down. You’ll get your answers, but for now I have to go, but I’ll be back soon and then we can talk, promise!”

They all nod excitedly, and as you walk back to your portal you hear Aizawa mumble something out about bringing him some jelly pouches and coffee which makes you roll your eyes.

You closed the portal as you stepped back into the apartment and quickly work on making a simple and easy lunch for Aizawa, putting on a pot of coffee as well.

While you were there, Aizawa had to deal with the unfortunate consequences of you telling his class you two were married, and he zipped his sleeping bag fully up covering his face knowing his students weren’t stupid enough to try and unzip it.

After about 15 minutes, you open another portal and step through, setting a box of food on Aizawa’s desk, along with a cup of coffee, and dropping a few jelly pouches on his sleeping bag.

He let out a grumble, but unzipped his sleeping bag just enough to grab them and put them inside, it was like watching a squirrel hiding its food in a tree.

Sitting on the floor next to his desk, just slightly behind it so you could still keep an eye on your husband, you turned to his class.

“Okay, questions one at a time.”

Immediately they all raised their hands and you picked them out one by one, answering their questions and learning their names along the way.

While you talked with them, you saw Aizawa out the corner of your eye sit up in his sleeping bag, grabbing the coffee and the food from the desk.

He then shuffled over, resting his back on his desk as he ate still half asleep.

Every so often his head would droop, and you’d have to slightly nudge his knee to wake him up.

When he finished half the food, he set the box in your lap, handing you the chopsticks as he focused on drinking his coffee now, watching your carefully.

“Eat…” he mumbled quietly, just loud enough for you to hear.

With a small smile, you start eating while still talking to his class while he kept a watching eye on you, rummaging through through your pocket, pulling out whatever you had in there.

His class seemed very invested in their teachers love life and carried on spilling out questions, and you knew for a fact Aizawa wasn’t going to be living this down any time soon

#my hero academia #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia x you #my hero academia imagine #mha #mha x reader #mha x y/n #mha x you #mha imagine #Aizawa #aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #aizawa x you #Aizawa imagine

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robo-writing · 27 days ago

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Sometimes I sit here and think about baby Logan, you know the one from the first X-men movie? With the grey hoodie? Yeah that baby Logan. Anyway, I think about Deadpool pulling worst Logan into more time shinaganen shit and of course worst Logan’s gf (who was his gf in his last universe but of course died during the attack, but this one either never met her universe Logan or something) and somehow, she runs into baby first Xmen Logan wearing the grey hoodie and running around clueless as where the hell he is, until he bumps into a surprisingly pretty woman who for some reason is cooing over him and calling him a precious baby,(and did she just pspspspsps at me?? I’m not a fucking cat? No the hair doesn’t look like cat ears?! The hell wrong with you lady?!) and he only gets her name before a older version of him in a gaudy yellow suit shows up to grab her and take her away, grumbling about having to keep track of two overgrown toddlers while a mouthy guy in a red leather suit says some stupid shit before following after the older version of Logan into some strange portal. Of course soon after baby Logan gets found by Xavier and when he ask who the woman named y/n is, Xavier just looks at him confused. (Of course perhaps that Logan will meet y/n a few years down the road, or he never sees her again, a shame really, she was quiet a looker, despite being so weird, he can stand being called a baby or a kitten by her again)

Waking up in a strange building is one thing, but walking out of an elevator to find a woman starting him down is another—especially when she keeps calling him kitty.

“Oh my god, look at you! You’re so young!” Her voice is high-pitched, oohing and ahhing at him like some kind of attraction. Maybe it’d piss him off more if you didn’t look so cute doing it.

“Cute lil kitten aren’t you? And your ears are so fluffy!”

You reach up to touch his hair, and he would grab your hand if someone else didn’t already beat him to it.

A gaudy yellow suit is the first thing he sees, then—what the fuck?

“Doll, I told you not to go wandering off,” the stranger says, and it’s now that his day goes from bizarre to fucking impossible because he’s staring at himself. Older, sure, but his voice, his body, damn near everything—

“Oh peanut! It’s time to go!” Says another man in a bright red jumpsuit, and he can hear the other man groan in response.

“Alright, you heard him.”

“Aw,” you complain, following after the two of them. “Wanted to pet him before we go.”

You wave to the younger man behind you, giving him a wink along with your name. “Come find me when you’re all grown up kitty! I’ll be waiting for you!”

“Wait—!”

His words fall on deaf ears, the trio disappearing soon after in a yellow doorway. His jaw drops, unsure of what just happened was real or if he’s just high as a fucking kite.

After a couple of introductions and many confused glances, he finds out that the three people he met are not students or professors, and that no one in the room had ever seen them before. Years pass along with many, many, life changing events and his odd welcome party becomes a memory of the past.

That is, until he finds out Charles has hired a new school counselor, and she looks just a bit too similar to be a coincidence. Once he gets over the shock he extends his hand, to which you accept.

“Names Logan.” He says, and you give yours in return, the same name you gave him all those years ago. It’s now that you point to his hair with a small smile.

“Do you style your hair or does it always come out like that?”

His eyebrow raises, unsure of the line of questioning. “Not really? Why do you ask?”

You open your mouth, then close it with a shake of your head. “Forget it, you’re gonna think it’s silly.”

“Oh yeah?” Logan replies. “Try me.”

You bite your lip, debating on whether you should speak, eventually choosing to bite the bullet. “Well, it’s just that your hair kinda looks like ears. Y’know, like a cat.”

His chuckle is instant, evolving into a laugh. You’re getting more and more nervous, afraid you said something wrong until his head gives you a good pat on the shoulder.

“Y’know, you’re the second girl to tell me that,” he muses, leaning in close. “But come to think of it, ‘kitty’ has a better ring to it, don’tcha think?”

#robo speaks #ask #robo writes #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #wolverine x reader #if the writing style seems off I literally wrote this in 20 minutes no editing #it’s 3 am 🫠

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frogchiro · 1 year ago

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The Hunter and the two Bunnies

Day 3!! Yay! I won't lie I was super excited for this one so I hope you guys like it too!

Warnings: heavy nsfw, fem!Reader and Graves are bunny hybrids, Simon is a hunter, mentions of murder and gore but not much at all, Simon is a possessive and obsessive man, it's implied that both reader and Graves didn't have much choice to stay with him at first but it's really up to you ^^

Autumn was near, it was clear as day. The leaves started turning all sorts of oranges, reds, yellows and started to fall, the warm summer days turned to cool and bleak weather with a chilling howling wind and cold rain hammering against the wooden roof of Simon's cabin. Despite the bleak and unforgiving weather outside, the inside of the wooden house is a picture of warmth, coziness and pleasure.

With the roaring fire in the hearth, the leftover uneaten honey-glazed ham, fresh bread and fruits and of course the two warm, glistening bodies of two lovely bunnies currently warming Simon's weary muscles.

"Ahh...Yeah, that's right...Use your hips more-Perfect, fuuuck...", came the low, growly voice from the scarred, blond man sitting in his well-loved, warm armchair as your pretty, soft body continued to move above him, your whines and moans like music to his ears, your soft tits pressed tightly to his sweaty, hairy chest and all Ghost could do was let out a groan as he felt his swollen tip hit your cervix, potent cum leaking out and he could feel his balls tighten at the delicious fantasy of his sperm being right in your most intimate place, doing its job and breeding you with his baby.

"S-Simon please-it-it's too deep! Ah-! Si I feel it in my belly..." came your whined response as you gently ran your hand over your lower belly and pressed, both you and Simon moaning out at the intense, pleasurable feeling of him right there inside you and you couldn't help but tighten up, your cunt squeezing the large male like a vice making him let out a loud moan and thrust his hips up more roughly.

The wonderful, pleasurable scene was lazily watched by Philip, another bunny Ghost managed to catch last winter. The blonde male hybrid was laying on his back on one of the numerous fluffy furs in front of the fireplace, surrounded by more pelts and pillows arranged in the form of a nest. Philip continued to watch the display with a warm smile, happy that his mates both can feel all the pleasure in the world in this little cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere, the three of you can calmly and safely mate and be happy, not to mention the possibility of making your small family a little bigger by next spring. The blonde couldn't help but wince at your high pitched whine as Simon let out a matching loud growl, he probably was right up against your cervix bruising it and making you sore for the next few days, and Philip had to lift hips own hips slightly, the achy feeling settling in his hips and he let out a quiet whine as he felt Ghost's cum leaking out of his hole and wetting his thighs but he quickly used his fingers and stuffed the precious semen back inside him, nothing could go to waste...

After finally cumming deep inside you with a triumphant roar, his balls squeezing and twitching along with his dick lodged deep inside, he held you close to his hot, bulky body and caressed your back and ass, gently palming at your floppy (H/c) ears and fluffy tail before finally gently lifting you up and putting you down into the prepared nest, Philip gratefully accepting you back into his strong arms and immediately getting to nuzzling and licking at your tear-stained cheeks, muttering something sweet making you giggle tiredly and nuzzle into the scruffy stubble on your mate's cheek.

Simon sat back in his armchair with a cigar and a glass of whiskey and just watched you in a comfortable silence, not even bothering to put any clothes back on, only throwing a warm, silvery wolf pelt over his shoulders. He was a proud man, not afraid to show his body to his loved ones, especially you and Phil, it made him happy to be able to shed everything and just let loose, not to mention that sooner than later both of you will recover and want to go for another round and any layer of clothing would be torn off anyway with your small, but sharp claws.

It's a good thing that Simon won't have to go out anywhere for the next two or so days; your supplies and pantry is overflowing with herbs, spices, dried meats, forest fruit and vegetables and anything else you'd ever want. It's also a good thing that he dealt with that pesky little visitor who wandered a little too close for him liking to his territory. Was the guy a lost tourist who wanted to just get back on the trail? Or was he a filthy little thief who wanted to steal his bunnies away...? Well it's doesn't matter now anyway, at least not to Ghost.

The guy's head was basically shot off with the military grade rifle Simon still kept from his military days and now he was probably dragged away by the neighbouring pack of wolves deeper into the dark forest. It will be just Simon's dirty little secret, after all it's no use for him trouble your pretty little bunny heads with something like that.

The rain continues to patter against the cabin, and everything fell silent once again.

#kin speaks #kin's kinktober #cod x reader #cod mw x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #philip graves x reader #graves x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley cod #philip graves #hybrid au

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pnutbutter-n-j-elyy · 3 months ago

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𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝙺𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚈𝚘𝚞 | Chan|Minho

Chan x Gn!Reader, established relationship , (mother used in context of parental structure norms) Minho x Gn!Reader, established relationship

Anon Request: Thanks for the wonderful request sunshine, enjoy <3.

Warnings: Mildly Suggestive, Slight Cursing *Minho*

Word Count: 3.6k

~X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X ~

𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯

Agree or not, I see Chan as being the member most likely to take things slow. He tends to look down on himself a lot, finds himself underserving of love, and puts others before himself constantly. But I feel like he has enough emotional maturity to realize this; and realize that having a sense of inherient inferiority can be a hinderance in any romantic pursual or commitment. So if he truly loved someone, he would take things slow- extremely slow. While he is the member who feeds most into the playful side of romance, being flirtatious and having the tendency to indulge in delusions I feel like in a serious situation of romance he would be afraid of navigating those waters due to the majority of his life being spent focusing on his career. So him being his perfectionist self would probably internally feel extremely romantic and lovey-dovey but his rational side would look at the execution love as something that could be handled more logically; and would take practical steps in trying his best to make the relationship last. So in terms of something like kissing- while I feel like he would have the urge to do it early on he'd let his doubts control and wait. But when he finally has the courage to act on that impulse when he feels the relationship is firmly founded he would kick himself for not indulging sooner because my God is he in love with the feel of his s/o's lips on his.

It was a cool evening, and you and Chan were taking a leisurely stroll along the riverbank. It was one of those rare times that Chan had time on his hands. But it was common that when he did have this precious time it would be spent solely with you.

The sun had just set, casting a beautiful array of colors across the sky, and the city lights were beginning to reflect off the water. The oranges yellows and pinks were a masterpiece, and your mind wandered slightly to Hyunjin, thinking he would enjoy the natural masterpiece displayed in above you.

As Chris held the role of the father of the group, you had easily become the supposed "mother" role of the of the group in the sense that Chan disciplined, you nurtured - even Minho quickly falling into the habit of referring to you in the likeness that you heard from Jeongin and Felix. You liked gifting them things as if they really were your children and made a mental note to ask your boyfriend if there was any supplies he figured Hyunjin would appreciate at the moment.

You walked hand in hand, enjoying the serene atmosphere and each other's company in a silence that was in no way awkward. And when you guys did talk, the conversation came easily, filled with laughter and shared stories, in a flow that mirrored that of a couple who had been together decades rather than just over eleven weeks.

Six weeks had felt like an eternity to you. But in a good way.

You and Chan decided to take things slow. And so far...it had been going extremely slow. Going into the relationship you had known the nature of Christopher's job. You knew he was busy and for the first few weeks of you being official it hadn't felt all that different from your friendship other than you went to more places alone, without the guys tagging along.

By the fourth week things had started to progress. You understood that Chan was scared. He admitted that to you upfront. He was assured of his attraction to you. Of his love even- although he didn't pressure you to respond to that immediately- but he had been so career focused the majority of his life that he was afraid to put work before you. He was tentative of what you guys were becoming, while fully being excited and anticipatory for it.

And you understood. You promised him you understood.

To anyone else they'd be surprised that you guys hadn't done anything more than hold hands and hug. With the occasional cuddle- usually when you were his company on the late nights at the studio. Any normal person would look at you and just assume you were very close friends.

But you knew the reasoning behind the way your relationship worked and knew the depths of his affection so you weren't worried. You weren't in a rush; you were content to take things as slowly as possible as long as it made Chris feel comfortable and loved.

As you walked, you couldn't help but steal glances at Chan, taking in his profile illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights. The light haloed him and brought out an unreal beauty you wished he could see at his lowest moments of insecurity. He was handsome. Beautiful. He looked peaceful, and yet there seemed to be a hint of something deeper in his eyes, as if he was lost in thought. You squeezed his hand gently, bringing him back to the present. He smiled at you, and your heart fluttered.

"Is everything okay?" You asked softly.

"Let's sit for a bit," Chan suggested, leading you to a nearby bench that overlooked the river. You both sat down, still holding hands, and took in the beautiful view. The sound of the water lapping against the shore was calming, and for a moment, you both sat in comfortable silence. Your mind was for the most part still, but you were always worried for Chris. And you hoped he was okay.

Chan turned to you, his eyes reflecting the shimmering lights. "You know, I've really enjoyed tonight," he said softly. "Being with you like this… it means a lot to me. These past three months have been indescribable really." He brought his other hand to the one he was holding and traced yours softly while looking at them.

You felt your cheeks warm at his words. "I've enjoyed it too," you replied, your voice equally soft. "It's been perfect."

"Do you mean it?" He mumbles. "I feel like I'm a coward. And undeserving of you. I feel like I've never been happier yet...I feel like...like you're not getting anything out of this relationship. I feel like I'm...not...like maybe you're...I..." He struggled to look for the right words.

"Love," You murmured pulling your hand away from his and guiding his face to yours. You brought his eyes right to yours.

There was a brief pause as you both looked at each other, the air between you filled with an unspoken understanding.

"I'm happy. Truly. Don't doubt that."

Chan's gaze dropped to your lips for a moment before he quickly looked away, almost shyly. He chewed on his cheek for a minute. He had a slight hunger in his eyes. It was a side of him you hadn't seen before, and it made your heart ache with affection.

"Can I… can I kiss you?" Chan asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His usual confidence was replaced with a hint of vulnerability, and it made the moment even more precious. As if he was scared that you'd say no.

Does this man know who he is? How many people would kill to be sitting in front of him as he stared at their lips asking if they could capture them in his own?

Your heart skipped a beat, and you nodded, unable to find your voice. Chan's face lit up with a small smile and he swallowed, his adams apple moving up and down slowly. He leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to back out if you wanted. But you didn't. You wanted this just as much as he did, you eyes closing in anticipation.

As his lips met yours, you felt a spark of electricity shoot through your body. What Chris meant to be a quick peck quickly turned into something much deeper. The kiss was gentle at first, but as the seconds passed, it became more passionate. Chan's hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. He had told himself just a peck. Take things slow. But the world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in that moment; and filling Chris with a fulfillment and satiation that he hadn't know he needed.

You could feel the love and adoration pouring from Chan as he kissed you. It was as if he was trying to convey all his feelings through that single kiss. As if there was some chemical in your lips that seemed to cause a reaction in your body. As if he desperately needed this. The intensity of it took your breath away, and you found yourself leaning into him, wanting more. Just as he did.

Chan's other hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you even closer. The kiss deepened, and you felt his tongue gently brush against your lips, seeking permission hesitantly. You parted your lips with an urgent willingness, allowing him in, and the kiss became even more intense. It was a dance of passion and tenderness, a perfect blend of everything you felt for each other.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. Chan rested his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed as he caught his breath. "Wow," he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "That was… amazing."

You nodded, unable to find the words to describe how you felt. Instead, you leaned in and gave him another quick peck, savoring the way his lips felt against yours. Chan chuckled softly, his eyes opening to look at you with pure adoration.

You watched his throat work. "I've wanted to do that for a while," he admitted, his voice still a bit breathless. "I was scared. I'm glad I finally did it. Although...I'm kinda pissed." He said with a chuckle. "If I wasn't so scared then I could have been doing that for much longer...damn you past Chris." He teasingly cursed.

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. "I'm glad we waited," you said softly. "In a sense I feel like it made our first kiss even more special to me. I know you love me enough to have patience to make sure that this becomes forever." You said holding your hands up. "So again, don't ever doubt us."

Chan pulled you into a hug, holding you close as you both sat there, basking in the aftermath of the kiss. The world around you seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of you and the tension in the air. It was a moment you would cherish forever, a memory that would always bring a smile to your face when you thought of it. And if this is what it felt like to take things slow; then as long as you were with Chris you'd be content with waiting forever.

~X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X x X ~

𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘰

The way I see Minho's love is like a perfectly aged whiskey. At first glance, it might seem subtle and reserved, with a smooth and understated presence. It’s not flashy or overtly romantic, but its depth and warmth become apparent the more it ages, and the more you indulge in it. Just like a fine whiskey that reveals complex flavors and a rich character over time, Minho's love is something that gradually unfolds, showing its true depth in moments of quiet intimacy and unspoken understanding. It’s not about grand gestures or constant declarations; it’s about the steady, comforting assurance of his presence, the way he makes his s/o feel cherished in the smallest, most meaningful ways. Whiskey is something that is basic and foundational. Something simple that can be paired with many different things and different pairing bring out different levels of flavor; just how the context of the situations will bring out different levels of his character. Whiskey is something familiar- and something that becomes known deeply just with familiarity- just like Minho. The longer him and his s/o are together, the more his s/o appreciates the nuanced, understated beauty of his love, which, much like the whiskey, grows richer and more profound with time. But whiskey can also be something that brings waves of warmth and intoxication - especially to someone who is new to drinking. And with intoxication comes impulse. If he's the whiskey, his s/o is the compound that brings his inebriation; and in those warm, euphoric flashes he'll be passionate and impulsive- and when he kisses his s/o it's something just as in the moment as drunken mistakes- except he wouldn't akin it to a mistake.

The evening had been planned for a romantic date out, but an unexpected delivery expectance threw a wrench into your plans.

Minho had to dash back to his house to pick up a package that had arrived at the last minute and needed to be signed. It had slipped his parent's mind that it would be coming that day, and they had travelled out of town for the week, and asked Minho to grant them this favor.

It was a minor inconvenience, Minho was slightly irritable about having to move reservations around, but you decided to be optimistic, since you could finally meet his number one pride and joy.

You were rather excited to meet Minho's cats for the first time. You had heard so much from him about them, and while you knew he had wished to introduce you to them when you had become official (the crazy thing is he wanted to introduce you to his cats before his parents) the opportunity hadn't come in the past few weeks you had been a couple due to the nature of his work, and your commute to your own job.

You had become official only a week before Minho left on a PR tour, going to numerous fashion shows, interviews and collaborating with international artists. This was the first official date you guys were going on, although you meshed so well that your relationship was progressing even when you were temporarily long distance.

As you settled into Lee Know’s cozy living room, the cats immediately took an interest in you. Dori was sniffing at you suspiciously. You sat and let each of them come to you, trying your best not to make sudden movements and frighten them.

You weren't expecting any of them to take an immediate liking to you. But Soonie jumped up to where you were sitting and started kneading your thigh. You couldn’t help but giggle as you petted Soonie- Doongie joining next and Dori rubbing up against your foot; feeling completely at ease in the warm, cat-filled environment. Lee Know's house was filled with the comforting smell of home— the one smell that was particular to every house- a smell you couldn't describe, a hint of catnip and fur, bleach, and some lingering air freshener.

You nibbled on a snack you had brought along, savoring the moment of relaxation before Minho returned. As you were enjoying your snack, your boyfriend finally walked through the door, his arms full of packages. He looked a bit irritated, but relieved to be back.

"Sorry for the delay," he said, setting the packages down. "I hope the cats haven’t been too much trouble."

You laughed, shaking your head. "They’ve been great. Actually, they’ve been keeping me very entertained." Minho’s eyes widened slightly then softened as he looked at you, his attention momentarily captured by the sight of you surrounded by his furry friends. He took a deep breath, clearly relieved to be seeing you so comfortable.

It awakened a desire that needed to be dealt within him.

With a playful glint in his eye, he walked over to you, still holding one of the packages. He placed it on a nearby table and then leaned in close, a mischievous smile spreading across his face.

His muscles were flexing in a plain black dress shirt that due to a laundering mistake shrunk slightly, but you like it. His toned arms were noticeable with the fabric taught over them.

"Mind if I join, kitten?" he said, his voice low and teasing; the new pet name rolling off his tongue as if it was something he had called you before. His lips tilted up in a seductive smirk. Before you could respond, Minho leaned in and, without warning, licked your cheek.

His tongue was warm and slightly damp, and he pulled back with shit faced grin.

"Ew, Minho!" you exclaimed, wiping your cheek with a laugh. Your eyes wide in shock. He still caged you to the couch, subtly leaning closer, his muscles straining slightly to keep his body hovering just inches above your own. "What was that for?"

The cheshire like grin on his face widened as he playfully shrugged. "You’re saying 'ew' as if this tongue isn’t ever going to touch your own, kitten." You blinked, a mix of surprise and amusement on your face. A little shocked at his sudden confidence. The sound of your new nickname doing something to your stomach.

His boldness and playful attitude were part of what made him so endearing. But you had only seen it in small doses. He leaned in even closer if possible, his gaze intense and affectionate; hungry.

"Seriously though," he said softly, the teasing tone leaving his voice. "I’ve been thinking about kissing you all day." Without waiting for a response, he leaned in again, his lips meeting yours in a soft yet intense kiss. It was gentle at first, filled with warmth and tenderness. You felt your heart flutter as you responded, wrapping your arms around his neck. The second your fingertips made contact with the hair at the nape of his neck, the kiss quickly grew deeper and more heated, with Minho's hands finding their way to your waist, pulling you closer, nearly straddling you as his tongue found his way to yours.

His cats, curious and a bit envious of the attention you were getting from their favorite person started to crawl over you as Minho straddled you on the couch. Soonie even tried to nudge between you and Lee Know, swatting playfully at him as if to remind him that you they were his favorites not you.

Although times were changing.

Minho’s kisses were filled with a tense heat yet laced in a playful energy, each pull back for breath accompanied by a soft chuckle or a gentle murmur or moan. His kisses were sloppy and fervent. The nature of them giving away the impulsiveness behind to action.

The cats seemed to add a touch of chaos to the moment, their paws occasionally brushing against your legs or curling up beside you. You couldn’t help but laugh as one of the cats tried to join in on the action, its tiny paws batting at Lee Know’s arm.

Despite the interruptions, the kisses remained connected and tender; your tongues moving in a sultry and erotic rhythm, and full of emotion, each touch and caress conveying the depth of Minho’s feelings for you.

Conveying just how much desire was hidden in under his calm demeanor.

Eventually, you both pulled back, breathless and smiling, looking slightly deranged and messy.

Your boyfriend's eyes were fogged with affection and desire and a hint of mischief. Rather than discussing what had just happened, his thumb trailed across your mouth to gently and he changed the directory of any conversation that you could have brought up.

"I guess I’m not the only one who’s crazy about you," he said, glancing at the cats who were now lounging contentedly around you, giving up on their owner. Doongie and Dori looked down their noses as Minho while resting their paws on you; as if they were trying to communicate a sense of betrayal in a petty fashion. You laughed, running your fingers through the fur of the cat who had claimed your lap once Minho had hopped off of it to adjust himself.

"I guess not. But I think I’m okay with that."

Minho smiled leaning in to steal another quick kiss before reaching to grab his car keys.

"Good, because I plan on making you realize just how crazy I am about you everyday from now on. Im sure my babies will do the same." The cats continued to snuggle around you, their purring creating a soothing background to the warmth Minho's presence. It was a perfect, chaotic moment of affection—a first kiss that was uniquely Minho, playful, tender, unexpected and filled with the joyful presence of his feline friends.

"We need to get going, I have a schedule for us, and we're running a bit behind." He said. "I wonder why."

You got up and adjusted yourself, giving a few last pets to the cats, Dori and Doongie releasing soft mews in unison.

You were about to walk out the door when Minho stopped you again.

"You got something on your face, kitten." He said, swiping his thumb once across your cheek, wiping away some saliva with a wink.

Tags <3

@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha @iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric @panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee @shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin @whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun @ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael @skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads @jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld @kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9 @minsungsthirdwheel

#skz stay #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz reactions #christopher bang #skz minho #lee minho #skz bangchan #skz requests #stray kids fanfic #stray kids #skz #stray kids x y/n #skz x gn reader

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goleb · 10 months ago

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My son :D

#DHMIS #DHMIS Yellow Guy #Yellow Guy #Don't Hug Me I'm Scared #Dont Hug Me Im Scared #Dennis Gribbleston #The Arts Parable #Dad's precious little angel boy 🥺

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bunny584 · 7 months ago

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For I Have Sinned

“Let no one say when he is tempted, ‘I am being tempted by God’ For God cannot be tempted by evil.” James 1:13.

But Father Geto can be.

Newly appointed Chaplain of the Noble Court, Suguru is a reformed sinner. Sanctity, discipline and celibacy are commandments of his choosing. A devout servant of the Lord. Armored with the Breastplate of Righteousness, the Shield of Faith.

This should be sufficient enough to withstand temptation.

Right?

Pairing: Geto x Female reader

C/W: Religious themes, dark romance, eventual filth. 18+. MDNI.

A/N: Holy hell. Anon, you sick, twisted genius. You, the puppeteer. Me, the puppet who writes. This one — this story might be the one. Frothing at the mouth to know what you guys think. Going on AO3 for sure. I haven’t decided if I will keep this long fic series here, but since it was an anon ask its only right to honor them with the first chapter.

Art credit: @ potchi_jpg on X

Music: Garden Kisses x Giveon (this was on a manic repeat for at least an hour. It wrote the chapter. I implore you to listen and levitate like I did).

CHAPTER I. Hello, Duchess.

Andesite. Dacite. Schist.

Gorgeous.

Suguru takes a mental note of the rock formations whizzing by just before he spears the Aegean Sea. Tailwind force trailing his feet in an elegant whirl.

Eh, mediocre landing. He’s out of practice.

It’s true. Seminary did not allow for too much idle time in between biblical studies. Devil’s playground, and such.

And it’s not in his nature to half-ass any life endeavor, whatever it may be.

Suguru deftly levels out in the welcoming waves. Loose-limbed and fluid. Choosing to hover below her surface for a few moments longer. The tail end of his thick, singular French braid undulating behind him.

His body flows in tandem with the current. Swimming deep enough to scatter a pool of Fagri. He instinctively captures one in his large hand — not quite as out-of-touch as he thought.

‘Make it to shore! If Poseidon calls, don’t answer Him, son!’

The gentle fisherman called out each time Suguru dove off their vessel. Still two or three, sometimes up to five miles from the coast, he’d plunge into the waters. Regardless of her mood, Suguru craved to be surrounded by her embrace.

To be baptized by her tide.

Showered with her salt of the earth.

A dampened smile blooms across Suguru’s terse lips. Oxygen bubbles float about, from the muffled chuckle escaping him.

His father’s voice rings between his ears. A little less clearly, nowadays.

He always dove deeper than his fellow seafarers. Without the restraints of gear or protective equipment. Unnaturally comfortable in an element more labile than human nature.

Suguru’s father mused about his Stormborn boy’s true lineage.

‘Everyday, I prayed for you. Begged for you. And the God of the Ocean delivered a precious gift. Don’t return to His storms too soon.’

Fond memories, a little yellowed now. Callouses from those days have faded.

Suguru is a different man. Born again. In a new country. With a new home, a new purpose.

Even still, it’s comforting to know the world is 70% water, 30% land. And the Great Majority has always welcomed him with open arms.

No matter the iteration of his life, he’ll always find a home at Sea.

“Father Geto!”

What?

Suguru begins his ascent. He is still by the cliff edge. Not nearly far enough for the Sirens to beckon.

“Chaplain! Are you out there?”

Not even the saltwater penetrates his ears like this melody.

An ethereal crescendo. With all the grace and beauty of a summer swan. Light enough to lull stoic men to a peaceful, permanent, slumber.

More alluring. More disorienting than the songs at sea he’s heard and resisted. Potent enough to drown a warship.

Who is calling for him?

Suguru chases the lethal sound. Careful pauses at each depth-level. To avoid returning to Poseidon’s storms too soon, as his father would say.

“Father Geto!”

Ahh, a voice he recognizes. His alter boy, Noel, at the peak.

Helios is kind, today. Because the Sun kisses Suguru as he breaks the surface. If the Ocean is his home, the Sun is certainly his lover.

“What is it, Noel?” He calls in between strides to the volcanic edge.

“You have a visitor!” A tremble to Noel’s tone. Suguru cant help the low chuckle that leaves him.

Adolescents are always so anxious. Nervous about the most inconsequential, meaningless things. He was once the same.

Who could be visiting? His schedule is supposed to be cleared today.

Suguru laments leaving his clothing at the peak of the cliffside. Tossing a glance over his left shoulder - memories of his past life tattooed in various symbols. His back, covered in a sprawling trident.

A permanent stain from the life he lived before this. It’s unbecoming of a priest to be seen this way.

Latching onto the unforgiving rocky edges, Suguru scales the steep terrain in long steps and short holds. Serrated earth digs into his damp palms with each grasp.

He savors the pain. It’s familiar. An indication that he’s spent some time in the only other place he finds unfettered peace.

“Noel, my schedule was cleared. Who could be—“

“Pardon my intrusion, Father Geto.” You seep into Suguru’s sentence, effectively answering his question.

Music.

Suguru nearly falls backward off the ledge he just set foot on.

Rumors about your beauty pollenated the compound for weeks. Anxiously anticipating your arrival. Hushed voices between maidens. Whispers within the walls of parlors. Bellowing gossip between court officials.

All the words, all the speculations roll around Suguru’s skull. Louder than glass shattering in an empty room.

They were wrong.

Liars.

Not even a tenth of the truth can be found in the frivolous ‘she’s a beauty’, ‘what a pretty face’ and comments of the like taking root in the compound.

No, no.

You were sculpted by every single Deity Suguru has ever studied.

Because the One he has chosen to worship couldn’t have possibly crafted you alone.

The good Lord is simply without the means.

Suguru will have to repent for that blasphemous thought later.

…but God granted him eyesight, no?

Eyes that can see underwater with the same clarity as a cloudless day. He trusts his eyes more than any part of his body.

And they aren’t deceiving him.

Flushed and turned away, Suguru takes a moment to soak you in, while patting himself dry. Maybe taking a little extra time to step into his khaki slacks and white button up.

His wind pipe threatens to spasm with each sip of you he takes.

Exquisite woman.

You could convert a non believer in an instant.

The gentle slope of your nose, those warmed soft, high cheeks deserve to be cherished in a museum.

That dress.

The tailor must’ve sewn it to your body in real time. Rolling hills and dips of your feminine curves. So quick to surrender to the ride your frame is taking him on.

Suguru could fall to his knees and praise the Gods right here and now for their attention to detail.

“Duchess? I’m embarrassed. Forgive my attire, I wasn’t expecting visitors today.”

Still damp but fully clothed, Suguru walks forward with a steady hand outstretched. Intentionally skipping eye contact with Noel, who would’ve interpreted the glance as anger. The boy is practically vibrating in his periphery.

Concerned about possibly making a mistake, sure. But if Suguru were still a betting man, he’d bet your presence is driving Noel’s rattled nerves.

“I’m the one who should be asking for forgiveness!” Unveiling your face to him with a gorgeous smile, you offer a delicate hand that drowns in his.

Well.

To call it just a gorgeous smile makes him no better than the rumor mill and its grave underestimation.

The air around him is sliced to a fraction of what it was. Suddenly gossamer thin and inadequate.

You are breathtaking.

“Please.” A deceptively even tone and casual wave of his hand. You wouldn’t know that words taste like sandpaper.

“How can I serve you, Duchess?”

“You do not have to address me as such, Father. I’m not wed, yet!”

Bunny lines along your nose deepen when you laugh. Heat scorches Suguru’s ears and you both are presently under shade.

Do. Not. Covet.

“It’s all the same.” With a restrained smile, Suguru peels his eyes away from yours.

Resting them on his rectory in the distance. He gestures his hands forward. Noel scrambles ahead of you two, undoubtedly to go tidy the chapel (that is already spotless).

“You’re quite the swimmer.”

You could assassinate him, you know.

With that voice of yours. The way it stuns his senses. Far more dangerous now that it isn’t dampened by unrelenting waves.

Suguru is a strong swimmer. He knows it. Noel knows it. The whole court knows it. Great Whites know it.

So why is his spine unraveling at its seams when you say it?

Why is his heart knocking against his sternum like it’s on the run from something?

From someone, rather.

“Mmm.” Suguru hums through closed lips.

Unable to acknowledge the compliment with decorum. He opts for diversion instead.

“Duchess, if I may. What prompted your visit to the chapel? How can I serve you?”

The two of you take lazy strides along the cobblestone path. You ogle at a white rose bush that Suguru is particularly fond of.

“I was touring the compound and noticed the garden surrounding the Church.”

A distracted response, while nestling your nose in a pretty bloom. Sun rays fanning your face as if to showcase that you’re God’s favorite. A biblical example of how flowers should be enjoyed.

Is it just the roses? Or are you this beautiful no matter the plant?

“Ahh. Come, then.”

You’re being indulgent, Suguru.

Maybe so. But the Chapel Grounds are his domain. The greenery lives and breathes under his fingertips. He adamantly refused a groundskeeper for the garden. Taking pride in nurturing its needy existence.

Second only to his eyes, Suguru trusts his hands fully. They’re intelligent. Fast. Expansive.

Definitive. Firm when the situation calls for it, yet gentle. Quick to learn.

Attentive.

He’s never gotten a shortage of compliments on his hands—

“Wisteria!” You torpedo through Suguru’s rapidly disintegrating spiral. And he couldn’t be more grateful.

Regaining a shred of control, he leads you under the oak archway. Draped in curtains of Wisteria. The billowing lilac petals sway romantically in the sea breeze.

Your lips hang open in a pretty, shocked ‘Oh.’ Eyes wide, gazing up at him in wonder. Adoration woven into those beautiful features slams hot and heavy into his lower abdomen. Remnant embers warming below his belt line.

Suguru coughs to reset his over-sensitive senses. A futile gesture because you knock him right back down to his knees.

“Oh, Father…..please?” A soft plea rolls through the slit in your lips. Pulling his eyes down to your pout.

Fuck.

The rock formation Suguru took note of earlier suddenly materializes in his throat. You coated his honorific in a new tone. Breathy and desperate. As if he is the only person who could satisfy your needs.

His skin is half a degree away from melting clear off his skeleton under those big, warm eyes of yours.

“Specify your request, Duchess.”

Both hands jam into his pockets so he can dig his nails into his thighs unnoticed. The searing pain tethering him to this dimension.

A deep rose blooms over your cheeks. Realizing you hadn’t actually asked him a question before begging.

So, prettily.

“May I please tend to your garden? It’s…I’m far from home and gardening brings me so much joy. Please, Father Geto—“

“Yes.”

His agreement comes well before Suguru is ready. Or, thought it through.

Should a noble woman be seen doing tasks as menial as gardening?

Should you be seen without your fiancée on his grounds?

What will you look like?

Kneeling over a bed of sunflowers?

Kneading the soil with your delicate, small hands—

“How can I thank you?” Your lips curl into an intoxicating smile. And Suguru no longer has the capacity to be in your presence.

“No need, stay as long as you like. I have to take my leave.”

Suguru offers a curt wave and terse smile before spinning on his heel. Leaving you, a work of art, beneath the masterpiece that is his arc of wisteria.

He barrels down the Chapel corridors at light speed. The pews, confessional, meeting rooms whirl by his periphery in a drunken haze.

Cold water. Cold water.

The wooden bathroom door creaks and wails beneath his harsh touch. Suguru fumbles with the two-level lock.

He nearly strips down naked. The fire incinerating him from within is unbearable. If there were scissors within grasp he would’ve cut his braid completely off. Because even the familiar sway of his waist length mane along his back is too much.

You are too much.

Suguru’s fingers unravel his braid and reposition his locks into a tight bun. Off the damp skin along his neck.

‘Father….please?’

Your voice echoes from Suguru’s incapacitated brain down to his drooling cock. Icy water splashes against face.

Suguru’s length has been weeping since you first revealed your face to him. Twitching and thrashing with every single word that came out of that pretty, sinful mouth. He’s never been so grateful that today he chose to swim with compression gear, rather than his usual bared skin.

Are you doing this on purpose?

Wide eyed and demure. But with a voice more beautiful than any siren that has tried to lure him to his watery grave.

Is this a test?

Suguru’s fingers desperately grasp the golden cross around his neck. Digging the symbol into his palm.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…” He starts. Ignited, smoldering violet eyes staring back at him are unrecognizable.

They are not of God.

They are dark.

Lust filled.

“Now. And…and at the hour of our death.” Words slip through his gritted teeth. His other hand grips the sink edge.

‘May I please tend to your Garden?’

“God. Please.” Suguru is the one pleading. To anyone above.

For self-control. For reprieve from the shape of your lips when you beg. His cock bucks against his inner thigh. Demanding attention to the ache between his legs.

Are you Eve?

Have you come to destroy his Eden?

Your delectable mounds barely hidden beneath that fucking dress as the Apple?

“Holy…Holy Mary, Mother of God…pray for us sinners.” His vice grip around the cross tightens. Babbling words he hopes can provide him with some restraint, some clarity.

They don’t.

Because his other hand now hovers over the pulsating bulge in his slacks. His manhood starved. Especially having been deprived of touch. Of warmth for longer than Suguru remembers.

“Holy…Mary…fuck.” Blasphemy rolling off his tongue.

Scorching heat radiating from his hovering palm pierces his clothing. Encasing his cock like a warmed blanket. Enticing him like the soft sex of a woman. Every single muscle is under wire tension. Forcing space between his need and his hand.

His hands. Don’t forsake him now. He trusts his hands.

“Father Geto? Are you alright?” Noel’s call from the other side of the door startles Suguru still.

“I’m—“ Suguru clears his dry throat “I’m alright, Noel. What do you need?”

“I saw you run in here and—“

“I’m okay.” Suguru replies, more softly this time. The boy is almost too tender-hearted for his own good.

He doesn’t miss the small sigh of relief.

“I left your updated schedule on your desk.”

“And what would I do without you?”

Suguru can almost hear Noel smiling across the barrier. Gleefully padding away. Completely unaware that his presence was the saving grace from disgracing himself.

Another splash of cold water on his face and multiple deep breaths later, Suguru finally gains enough composure to emerge.

Curious about the updates to his schedule, he strides to his office. A leather folder awaits with his itinerary.

Saturday: 0800 - 1000- Youth lecture

Saturday: 1800 - 2000 - Evening mass

Sunday: 0700 - 0900 - Morning mass

Sunday: 1300 - 1400 - Pre-Marital Counseling [CONFIDENTIAL]

“High court, then.” Suguru muses to himself. Pulling out the envelope with a matching demarcation. Meant for his eyes only. Should the seal be broken en route to the recipient the offender could be sentenced to death for treason.

And at this moment, Suguru finds that fate less painful than the spear currently piercing his lungs.

His eyes burn into the names written at the bottom of the page.

The Duke Ahriman & The Duchess-to-Be.

Chapter II

E/N: Hello from [redacted]. I am literally losing my shite. I’m already in love with the plot before it has even fully materialized. And prince-of-the-sea-Suguru? This headcannon has me in a chokehold I fear. Thank you for reading 💋

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