antoineshere

[antoineshere]

When you ended up in the hospital, you hoped Nikto would abandon you.

Mostly because you didn’t want Nikto to hijack the hospital and enter a manic conspiracy phase. Again.

Yet, this time you felt crazy. You didn’t recognize him at first, wearing a navy blue hood with a blue mask on. The shadows over his eyes were what identified him. He could’ve been a hallucination, but the nurses walked around him. They seemed to know better than to pay attention to him. Afraid to touch him.

“Did you scare them?” You asked. He startled up and you felt a little bad that your first words after waking up was an accusation.

His pupils dilated as he caressed your cheek, tension leaving his body to be replaced with relief and adoration, “Don’t do this to me again.”

“Answer the question,” you insisted. You knew that you couldn’t reform him, but you wanted to at least have him return to society.

“You almost died. Don’t worry about that now,” he kissed your lips softly. At your glare, he relented: “I only yelled at them with threats. They assumed I was a hysterical husband.”

“Because you are hysterical,” you said and it provoked a chuckle from him.

[antoineshere]

۫ ꣑ৎ . he always grumbles about how tight you are every time as if his massive dick isnt the real issue.

size kink. slight force. rough sex. power play.

people often say you are lucky to have your husband, because of his impressive size.

his cock.

its as big as they say, thick and heavy stretching you to your limit as he pushes in, inch by agonizing inch.

you’re soaked, dripping but the tightness makes you both groan, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

“goddamn, you’re too tight,” he mutters, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open.

“every fucking time, its like you’re trying to kill me.” you gasp, half laughing, half moaning your hands braced against his chest as he bottoms out, the stretch burning so good you can barely think.

“maybe you’re just too big, kento,” you tease voice breathy but sharp, knowing itll rile him up.

his eyes narrow and he thrusts hard, deep, making you cry out, your nails digging into his skin.

“too big?” he repeats, a smirk tugging at his lips as he pulls back, then slams into you again, the headboard rattling.

“you’re the one squeezing me like you want me to lose it.” his words are clipped, frustrated.

your pussy flutters, and he groans, his rhythm faltering for a second.

“fuck, do that again, and im not gonna last.”

“kento, cmon,” you whine your hips rocking to meet his thrusts, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room.

“you’re always complaining, but you love it—admit it.” you clench around him, and his breath hitches, his hands sliding to your waist, gripping hard as he fucks you faster, deeper, like hes trying to prove a point.

“love it?” he growls leaning down, his lips brushing your ear, his tie dangling against your chest.

“this tight pussy is gonna be the death of me.” eitherwise the way hes pounding into you, relentless, says hes addicted.

you moan loud and unashamed, and he keeps talking, unable to stop.

“you feel too good, too—fuck—perfect, how am i supposed to focus on anything when you’re like this?”

“kento, please..” you gasp, your voice breaking hands clawing at his shoulders as you feel the stretch, the fullness, the everything.

“dont stop—fuck, you’re so big.” your praise slips out and he groans, deep and guttural, his hips stuttering as he fights to keep control.

“say that again,” he demands voice husky, one hand sliding to your clit, rubbing firm, quick circles that make you see stars.

“tell me how big i am, love, you started this.”

“so big, kentooo...” you moan, voice high and desperate,

“can barely take you—fuck, you’re wrecking me.” the words spill out, and hes done for, his groans turning to curses as he thrusts once, twice, then comes, spilling hot and deep inside you, his body shuddering as he grips your hips like you’re his anchor.

you’re right behind him, your orgasm crashing through you, a sharp, shuddering wave that leaves you gasping, clenching around him as he rides it out, still murmuring, “too tight, too fucking tight.”

© written by kaizer | do not copy plagiarize or translate any.

[antoineshere]

𐔌 𖹭 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒖 𝑮𝒐𝒋𝒐 . ִֶָ๋

ᡴꪫ. smut & oral 𖹭 f. reader 𖹭 part 2 ˖ ࣪ꮽ˳

satoru refuses to let you suck him off.

he'll swim between your legs for hours. until his lower face is all glossy and eyes glazed the pussy-drunk daze while he needily laps on your cunt.

but the second you're even beginning to oggle his tent and lower yourself to your knees? he's yanking you up and splaying you over the nearest piece of furniture he can. can't suck his dick when you're dangling over his desk now can you?

at first you assumed maybe he's just not into that. maybe he doesn't feel comfortable with it. you can respect that —

until you found out the real reason.

"I wanna make you feel good instead, baby." you could barely take his pouting seriously as he hovered over you, bare. he'd lean down to nuzzle your neck with a few kisses to follow. "don't want you to worry 'bout me too much. feel good making you feel good."

which started the long and frankly, trifling operation: suck satoru gojo's dick.

the idea that he felt bad over the idea of you pleasuring him reminded you of the same reason you fell in love with him in the first place. no way in hell are you ending this year without getting your boyfriend's cock down your throat!

this strings a series of, honestly, comedic events. you went with the obvious, waking him up with it. you planned strategically, trained yourself to wake up just an hour before him and awaited for the perfect time to strike.

you only got to pulling the waistband of his boxers down before bright blue eyes stared you down, processed, and yanked you over his face instead.

damnit. maybe during a movie? he's so engrossed in his latest geek obsession that surely he wouldn't notice your head lowering, right? until you were nuzzling his crotch through the blanket and he jerked, squeaked, spilling the bowl of popcorn.

"no no no don't even —" buzz.

infinity!? he put infinity on?

"satoru. gojo." you warn through glaring eyes. it ended with you strung over the sofa arm with two, strong hands holding you down while he's ball's deep. fucking you dumb through the end credits with a mean thumb to your swollen clit.

"yeah baby? yeah? so impatient for me huh?" anything to get your mind off of the previous agenda.

don't even try the shower. his hand buried into your hair, yanked you off and then hoisted you. shoved you into the wet tiles to instead get bullied by his cock. legs helplessly strung around his waist while his ragged pants found your ear.

"pretty girl's just so needy huh? wants my cock so bad? you can have it baby, don' worry."

hell, even after a busy week where he's deflated across your bed and you're grinding on him to get you both there. your slick heat coating his pulsating dick. catching his tip on your clit and spilling your joined moans through the room.

the second you tried your luck he's shuffling for a pillow with a rushed; "he's shy! leave him be!"

it seemed that your little operation was failing miserably. satoru is just too fast for you. too infuriatingly good at making your mind go blank with his tongue, mouth or dick. you'd forget what you even started in the first place. but you're a stubborn woman.

so, what's the next scheme?

͝ ⏝𝅄︶ ͝ ⏝ ⊹ ⏝ ͝ ︶𝅄⏝ ͝

[antoineshere]

“satoru gojo if you don’t shut up i am banning you from sex for an entire year.” ☆

satoru frowns against your neck, where he tries hopelessly to stifle his own moans. he’s spooning you in a tangled mess of limbs and bedsheets, almost pathetic in his attempt to restrain himself. he feels like a hormonal teenager all over again.

“you know,” he half-whispers, half-moans into your ear. “i don’t think he’d care all that much if he woke up. i think he’s in love with you actually, i’d probably get to watch nanami kento beg on his knees to join us. ohh i like that idea actually, we should wake him—ah!”

you don’t know how else to quieten him down, so you reach behind you to pinch his side. all it does, really, is make him yelp and drive his cock even deeper into you, which makes you moan in turn.

you and satoru hadn’t had sex in so long, what with missions taking up so much time and the threat of societal collapse being somewhat of a libido-inhibitor. so when your joint mission with nanami ran over, and the higher-ups put you in a shared hotel room, satoru took opportunity as it struck. and you didn’t stop him.

now he’s balls deep inside of you as you lay facing the sculpted back of kento nanami. he’s laying with his back to you, breathing evenly in his sleep—each breath he takes pronounces the muscles of his back beneath the thin grey sleeping shirt he’s wearing. it does more to you than it should.

“you’re so fucking wet,” satoru whispers in your ear as his pace quickens. “what—you like this or something? being fucked five feet from nanami like this? hell, i like it. like showing you off. i'm like... sticking it to the man right now, babe.”

“he’s not even awake,” your eyes roll back as his tip brushes mean against your g-spot. satoru teases you with an open mouthed kiss to your neck, and then nips at the same spot.

"you sure, pretty?" he practically coos. "i think he's fighting for his fucking life right now. he was breathing like a monk until i mentioned him joining us."

you narrow your eyes at the sleeping man on the other bed. he's stilled and silent and obnoxiously toned and you swear you're getting wetter by the second and you also swear gojo can feel it because he's grinning against your shoulder like a fucking lunatic. you're about to brush him off, defend your coworker and friend and tell satoru to hurry up and make you cum so you can sleep when you see it: nanami shifts his hips.

it's so small of a movement that you might have imagined it, but you're too busy imagining how hard he must be to have to readjust like that. what must be going through his mind... listening to the two of you fuck like you're trying to get over something. he's either torturing himself with want right now or drafting up a letter to the higher ups in his head. maybe both.

"he's either awake," satoru reaches down and lifts your leg a little to reach sweet new depths inside of you. "or having the nastiest wet dream of his life."

something churns in your stomach, apprehension if you were a better person, and you part your lips to tell satoru to stop being an ass, but what comes out instead is a breathy moan so desperate it makes both men stiffen.

and nanami exhales. loudly. not in the sleeping man sense, this is choked out and heavy with something you don't dare name.

"oh nanamin," satoru sing-songs. "if you're going to cum in your boxers, come here and do it with a better view."

“satoru—” you hiss, mortified, melting at the same time, “stop—”

divine intervention is the only explanation. you must have some serious karma point stacked up and pocketed for a rainy day because, just as your breath hitches again, kento nanami is sitting up and planting his feet on the floor, eyes set dead on the two of you.

his pyjama pants are tight. when you let your gaze fall from his messy hair to the complete and visible outline of his hard cock, you think your heart stops. this is unseemly, and unprofessional, and everything that could be considered inappropriate. and if kento decides to walk out and complain, you and satoru are fucked, special grade status be damned.

“…you’re both ridiculous,” he says flatly, voice sandpapered. "this is wrong. abhorrent. foul."

he sounds exhausted. morally affronted. except his dick is so hard it must hurt and his eyes haven't once left where satoru's cock disappears inside of you. his gaze is heavy on you like a second set of hands. it's ungodly. you feel blasphemous, like maybe if nanami just looks at you a little longer you'd cum from that alone.

satoru thrusts deeper into you, but speaks to nanami. "you're hard."

"and you're loud." nanami exhales slowly, like he's giving himself a full ten-count to resist the urge to murder or run or maybe both. then he stands, finally meets your eyes, and softens his gaze a little. "you want this?"

your body answers for you, hips rolling back and pushing yourself deeper on satoru's cock. your thigh trembles where gojo holds it up and your voice comes out breathless and wrecked. "yes."

satoru groans, of course, and makes a show of squeezing one of your boobs in his hand. nanami doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t need to. his attention is all on you now, laser-focused and reverent like you’re a fucking sacrament. he reaches for your jaw, guiding your face up until your lips part just from the force of his presence.

“good,” he murmurs. “because i’m going to fuck you, both of you, until i can think straight again—and if i have to hear your voice even once during it, satoru, i will be gagging you."

your heart-eyed boyfriend cums inside of you at the implication alone.

and that is how you end up on your hands and knees in a twin hotel room in the dead hours of the night. kento nanami fucks his cum back inside of you for the second time that night, fingers digging so tightly into the fat of your ass that you don't doubt satoru will be teasings the marks left behind for days to come.

you splay your fingers over your boyfriends thighs, which is the only touch he's been granted since cumming inside of you. you stare up at him, he's got lidded eyes and this desperate look on his face as he watches nanami fuck you from behind, each thrust pushing your face just that little bit closer to his painfully hard cock.

though he can't complain, not with nanami's tie rolled up and stuck between his teeth. he tries, though, guttural moans and half-discernible pleads for more can hardly be heard over the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

you don't know why you never thought of satoru as a cuck. oddly, he's the type. still, that pretty look of desperation on his face is enough to have you squeezing around nanami's fat cock.

"settle down, gojo," nanami chides, squeezing your ass as if your boyfriend could feel it. "you're taking me next."

[antoineshere]

college professor ! nanami, who has a small crush on the barista that works at the college cafe. you’re cute, very cheerful and just an absolute sweetheart.

always smiling at him whenever he comes in for his usual black coffee. you started greeting him by name rather than just plain professor. he liked the way his name sounded on your lips.

he started asking about your day, how your classes were going, how long your shift was. casual questions which seemed to make you open up to him little by little.

it was a harmless crush, or at least he thought so. he never pictured himself going any further than just asking about your day.

yet here he was after closing eating you out on the counter. it was completely reckless and just happened so suddenly too. it was hard to resist when the moment presented itself. god was it pure bliss too. he had imagined it so often but this was even better.

actually feeling your thighs clamp down around his head. your cute little whines when he paid extra attention to your clit.

there was no fucking way he would ever go back. now that he had a taste, he had to have you completely. he was such a selfish man.

[antoineshere]

“i can feel your heart aching.”

sukuna states, looking over your curled up form on your bed.

he hears you sniffle, then your voice comes out in a shaky and wobbling tone, “does it matter? it's not like you care.”

he clicks his tongue, “foolish girl.”

what he meant to say was ; no, he did care, and that he will always care. but of course, his pride seemed to come above all else.

“now, are you going to tell me what's bothering you?” he asks, crossing his arms.

when you don't reply, he grunts, settling down on the mattress beside you. his hand grabs your arm, and he forces you to face him.

you whimper, quickly attempting to wipe away the tears at your eyes and he clicks his tongue once more.

“you're crying.” he states and you huff, rolling your eyes as you sit up, “what do you think?”

“don't jest with me, woman.” he warns, before shuffling closer to you.

his hand cups your cheek, tilting your face up so that you meet his gaze — he tries to ignore how the sight of your glassy eyes and wobbling lip tugs at his heart strings. he was the king of curse's for fuck's sake, he did not have heart strings for you to tug on.

and yet.

“do you plan on telling me what's bothering you?” he asks, and of course, his voice comes out soft, and of course, his heart is fluttering in his chest at the thought of whatever could've made you cry, and of course he cares.

curse you and your beautiful, doe eyes that stare up at him, and curse you and your beautiful, full and plump lips that always feel so soft and fit perfectly against him, and curse you and your stupid, foolish kindness and naivety that had him on a chokehold because you were so different from him.

you must’ve put a hex on him or something, he thinks. how dare he let himself care for you this much?

“woman,” he grunts when he gets no response, “tell me what's on your mind.”

“you favor her.” you finally say.

he raises an eyebrow, confused, “favor who?”

“yumi — or whatever her name is,” you huff, “the new concubine. you favor her.”

he scoffs, “that is what's bothering you?”

you whine, “i told you, you don't care!”

“petal.” he huffs, “i don't favor a measly concubine like her.”

“then why have you been spending so much time with her? you've barely called me to your chambers those past three weeks.” you say, and god, when you look at him with those tearful and big eyes of yours. all he wants to do is get on his knees and worship you, show you just how much he truly favors you.

“i didn't think about it that way,” he finally says instead, shrugging, “i didn't think it would…hurt you.”

“of course it'd hurt me!” you exclaim, “you-you always told me about how i was your favorite, and now that there is a new concubine in the picture, you suddenly favor her?”

“that's not true.” he says with a scowl, “i've always favored you, and you know that.”

“then prove it.” you say sternly, “prove to me that i'm your favorite.”

he scoffs, “goddammit woman, i'll get rid of the whole harem if that's what you want.”

your eyes widen and your mouth falls open, “...really?”

he rolls his eyes, “yes.” he says, then quietly, almost bashfully, he asks : “would that make you happy?”

you look down at your fingers, fiddling with them, “...yes.” you murmur.

“good.” he huffs, “now wipe away those pathetic tears of yours and quit your whining.”

you laugh, wiping down your face with your hands, “oh, ‘kuna.” you coo, “you've gone soft.”

“i have not.” he hisses.

but oh, he has. actually, he's always been soft for you — damn hex you put on him.

“sure.” you giggle.

he huffs, then he slowly pushes you back down on the mattress and he hovers over you, his hands on either side of your body, “let me just show you how much i favor you.”

that night, he spends it worshipping you.

[antoineshere]

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]

Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?

 It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity. 

You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.

The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony. 

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place. 

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it. 

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had  always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it. 

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way. 

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway.  Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes. 

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything. 

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness. 

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention.  The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark. 

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would. 

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter? 

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness. 

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement. 

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him? 

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is. 

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago. 

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet. 

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine. 

It doesn’t. 

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot. 

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it. 

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all. 

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating. 

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you,  arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you. 

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline. 

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure. 

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees. 

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

 “Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug. 

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants.  “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes. 

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before.  “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs. 

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you. 

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.” 

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.  

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering.  “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him. 

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is. 

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.” 

You could slap him. 

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him. 

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts,  “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

 “Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long. 

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before  shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder,  caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure. 

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you. 

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to  “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own. 

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

 “Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment. 

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls.. 

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried. 

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house. 

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

[antoineshere]

IF YOU ARE UNMARRIED, DON'T HAVE KIDS, AND HATE YOUR PARENTS PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD HAVE A FUCKING WILL

this has been a public service announcement from your friendly neighborhood probate lawyer

[antoineshere]

Ghost who breaks things off with his sorceress FWB when she starts to catch feelings. She's vindicative but sworn to do no harm, and in a rage she curses him into a stuffed toy of himself.

True love, as always, will break the curse, and she's satisfied that Ghost will be miserable for a very, very long time.

Enter you.

The skeleton plush you find at the second hand shop is cute. A little dusty, like it had sat for a while, but soft and stuffed full still, and nothing you can't clean up.

It's an impulse buy.

Ghost wants to stew in his anger, but how can he, when a pretty soft thing like you sleeps with him every night?

When you slip between the sheets in your pink pajamas and crush his polyester face to your bare breasts on a bad day?

He thinks there are worse punishments to bear. He just wishes he could fuck you happy, take the nipple shoving into his face between his teeth until you writhe and beg him to touch you, troubles forgotten.

Watching you cry is the worst, when he can't move, and he can see that you're lonely and need someone to lean on.

He wants to wrap his arms around you and shelter you from the storm.

He stops thinking quite so much about how good sex with you would be, and starts thinking about how he'd like to take care of you.

He'll never be loved like this, not the way the sorceress meant when she'd cast the curse, and it's not fair, but he slowly falls for you anyway, spends his days while you're away fantasizing about how he could make you happy, the life you two could have.

Jokes on him, though, and his ex. There's no purer love than that between a girl and her comfort plush.

Your end of the bargain was sealed months ago.

When he finally crosses that last hurdle one night, he's sitting propped between your legs listening to you sniffle over a romcom. He admits at last to himself he's fallen for you, and the curse snaps.

And suddenly there's a full grown man in your lap.

This is going to take some explaining.

We're dreaming big - prologue here

[antoineshere]

nerdjo! who whines while he’s tutoring you. it’s been thirty five minutes and you’ve gotten through two problems, he reminds you. but you won’t stop changing the topic, or poking at his arm, or brushing his hair from off his glasses.

nerdjo! who begs you to stay up til midnight when you have a nine am lecture the next day so you can watch a new episode of his favorite, albeit lame, show with him because he wants to share it with you.

nerdjo! who, instead of bars, takes you to museums. he doesn’t act priss— he still laughs loudly at your jokes, he still slings an arm around your shoulder and tugs you along like you’re alone— but he does go into extensive detail when he sees an artifact he’s studied before or an art piece he looked up because it reminded him of you.

nerdjo! who calms you down when you have a big assignment coming up and insists on helping you with it (free of charge). he buys any supplies you may need, listens to you explain what you want to do with it, and compiles a step by step plan for how to achieve your goal as soon as possible.

nerdjo! who builds you lego flowers. call him lame, call him a child, but they’re forever! he says. he puts all but one together by himself and saves the very last one for you to do together, so the memory will last too.

nerdjo! who begs you to come with him to his optometrist appointment so he can make sure you still think he’s cute with his new frames. he wants to branch out, explore, switch it up— but he’s deathly afraid you’ll find him any less than handsome. he loves to impress you.

nerdjo! who knows you’re attracted to him. he knows he’s attractive as is, he’s not insecure about his looks. he’s an observant man, he knows what he does that makes you squeamish and he profits on it.

nerdjo! who pushes his glasses up while looking at you with two fingers. who tugs on ties he wears to interviews with one hand while he presses the other to your hip. who yanks his fingers through his hair and holds it in the air for just a second too long so you can see the way his eyes shine.

nerdjo! who, while he may be a nerd, radiates a confidence to him. that confidence shines through in moments like this, with his hands pushing your hips down as you desperately try to raise them.

nerdjo! who knows what he’s doing. his tongue is as precise as he is in between your thighs, lapping up at the sheer slick that covers you. he’s good at facts and memorization, so he’s memorized exactly when to flatten his tongue nice and slow and when to point it all fast like.

nerdjo! who moans when you do, rolling his hips into the bed as he continues dutifully. he’s obsessed. you’re everything, you’re the ground he walks on, you’re the hottest thing alive.

nerdjo! who has done this so many times it’s like religion to him. who is so used to your taste and your smell and the way you feel and it never gets old. and— no matter how many times he has been here, no matter how long he can last, no matter how little he’s being touched…

nerdjo! who cums in his pants more than half the time when he goes down on you. his whines vibrate against your clit, muffled by you dripping cunt.

nerdjo! who blushes a pink red, buries his face into your thigh, raises the pitch in his voice as he goes “couldn’t help it, baby, you’re so pretty… can i still fuck you?”

[antoineshere]

part one here

fans of pornstar!gojo are starting to notice he’s not cycling through co-stars on his cam shows like he used to… not since his neighbor started showing up more regularly.

he’s put you in every position he can think of, pulled every type of orgasm out of you, called you every name (sweet and mean)—all for a live audience. you’ve come to know a few regular donors, you recognize names in his audience as people who have come back again and again to watch satoru show you off.

a few months ago, you hardly spoke to the pornstar in the apartment next to yours, and now you’re leaving things in his apartment to avoid having to run back to your own after he’s ruined your clothes, or given you a reason to brush your teeth…

now, you’re sitting between satorus spread legs, with your own legs spread to match his as you face the little camera he has set up. he’s reaching around your body to dip his hand between your thighs, rubbing at your sensitive clit as his free hand holds your chin and makes you keep your eyes on the camera.

“tell everyone who’s making you feel this good,” he says lowly. “it’s not any of the hundreds of people watching you at home, now is it?”

you shake your head and bite back a moan as satoru dips two of his fingers into you. “…no.”

he nips your ear, catching the love between his teeth and pulling back a little before pressing a kiss to the skin beneath it. “then who?”

“you.”

“good,” satoru practically sings. “maybe next show we’ll give these poor guys a chance to make you feel good, huh? we could get you a toy… let them control it while i fuck your pretty mouth, how’s that sound?”

“please,” you nod your head. satoru has unwound an exhibitionist streak in you, and it fires red at his words. he starts to fuck his fingers into you even faster, curling them up to trigger full body jolts that run through you. “god, don’t stop.”

“don’t stop?” he mocks you, voice low and teasing and so soft it’s sexual. “you wanna cum for everyone?”

a glance to his laptop screen shows you lines and lines of praises from people watching you at your most vulnerable. satoru is showing you off like a trophy and you don’t have the capacity to care when just his fingers feel this good pumping in and out of you.

you can’t keep up with the string of comments with how fast they’re moving, and how blurred your vision gets with unshed tears of pleasure. gojo releases your chin to grope at your tits, and then move that hand down your stomach to rub furious circles against your clit.

he knows exactly what he’s doing, and before you can even register it, your cumming loudly around his fingers. you’d feel bad for his neighbor if it wasn’t you—his name spills from your lips like you’re reciting gospel.

and when you ride it out and finally come down from your orgasm, you’re a panting mess of sweat and tears, but gojo is pressing a kiss to the back of your neck and then gently pushing you down and forward into doggy.

he must see how your eyes widen in the feed of his cam show, because he smiles and rubs the tip of his cock through your folds a few times before pushing into you with a deep stroke and a low groan.

“what?” he squeezes your ass. “they wanna know how fast i can get a second one out of you.”

[antoineshere]

PICTURE YOU — NANAMI KENTO

⊹₊⋆— content: MDNI, afab + fem reader, reader engages in streaming for fun, nanami's a little bit of a perv here ooo, slight nsfw but def not tagged as full blown fluff, strip tease, solo male masturbation. chappell roan's picture you inspired this <3

1.4k words, drabble, oh nanami lovers i see the appeal now; scooch over ...

If someone told Nanami many moons ago that his after-work routine would now consist of him going straight home and skipping his usual stop at his local bakery, instead, opting to sit in his study’s office chair to switch on his computer and sit behind it for however many hours…

Well, he’d just think that person would be flat-out outlandish. 

There were many things the average working-class man could do with his time after work. Maybe catch up with friends and colleagues over some drinks, grab a bite to eat at that one self-serve restaurant a block away from their office, or even rest and wait to do the whole day all over again.

Sure, Nanami could’ve done any of this to while away his free time rather than falling victim to his same habits. But that no longer matters.

Because all the same, Nanami still shrugs off his navy blue blazer and haphazardly hangs it onto the back of his chair as he waits for his computer to start up. He doesn’t mind skipping out on all those things, especially when the rest of his evening would be spent with you.

Sinking into his chair, Nanami clicks on his preferred web browser and lets his fingers intuitively type his most frequented page into the search bar. He’s only two characters into typing the site’s name when the search engine predicts what he wants.

It started as an accident, really. However, he now likes to think of meeting you as a happy accident. But seriously, who intends to purposefully click on a pop-up ad that takes up a huge chunk of space on the online article that you’re reading? 

Certainly not Nanami.

Yet it still happened. Misclicking the ‘X’ button and pressing on the pop-up itself led him down a rabbit hole of clickbait-y articles, betting sites, and everything questionable of its legitimacy under the sun. Just his luck, right? 

But as he was about to exit from his umpteenth tab, the last one caught his eye. 

YOUR NEW FAVOURITE ESCAPE IS JUST ONE CLICK AWAY! WE SAVED YOU A SEAT IN CHAT!

Curiosity got the better of him which is how he got here; watching you stream.

Since then, you and your streams have become a part of his nightly routine.

It was tame at first, watching one of your videos turned into watching two or three. Then, his weekly visits of stumbling in to see you live would slowly escalate to your page being hidden deep in his bookmark folder for him to click on almost habitually every time he came home from work or a night out.

He was content with how he spent his evenings, and tonight was no different.

Nanami can’t remember how many times he has “stumbled” upon your channel, but it must’ve been a substantive amount because when he joins the chat, you’re already settled in your familiar setup— muted colours of green, beige, and pink decor scattered in the cozy corner bedroom where you stream. You’re fiddling with something off-camera and he notices the way you visibly perk up upon reading his screen name pop into your chat.

“Kento!” You give the camera a little wave, and his heart swells at the familiarity and warmth in your voice. He thinks he sees the look of relief settle in your eyes and he thinks he sees you relax into your bedding a little more after his arrival. “It’s good to see you back again! How was your day?” 

The comments in your chat start to flood in at your unexpected show of attention toward the one lucky viewer named Kento. Many commented on how it wasn’t “fair” or how lucky he was to get such an interaction, while the rest either spammed emojis tacked with your pseudonym or wrote in languages Nanami couldn’t understand.

But what they didn’t understand was that this was just one of the perks of being your top donor of the month. Well… months, plural.

Not wanting to keep you waiting, Nanami typed his response, It was fine.

Much to the delight of your online audience, you lean in close to your screen and silently read his comment to yourself. A puff of laughter escapes you at his curt answer and you draw your legs into a criss-cross position on your bedding to get more comfortable.

The thing about what you do during these live sessions is that you’re not any “ordinary” streamer…

The palms of your hands brush up and down against your bare thighs before they slide up the material of your sleep shorts and toward your breasts and squeeze. “Awh, really?” you question, your lips twisted into a cute pout and had Nanami’s own hands not drifted down to his lap on instinct to palm at the growing erection in his pants, he would have screenshotted the sight.

To put it simply, you were a camgirl. A fucking great one at that.

Your hands still are cupping your breasts through the fabric of your thin army-green tank top and it's evident that you aren’t wearing a bra with the way your nipples are practically poking through the material. “Just fine? Is there any way I can help you make it better?” 

There’s nothing Nanami wants more than that— even now, as he freed his cock from his tightening pants to give himself a few, slow torturous strokes. He didn’t want you to feel obligated like you owed him just because he gave you a hefty sum of tokens here and there to bump up your revenue.

He does that all because he wants to, because you’ve given new meaning to his day and give him something to look forward to. Chatting with you and hearing about the tiny tidbits of your life that you choose to share on the internet genuinely interested and had him coming back to you each time you went live. You just so happened to also be incredibly attractive on top of that.

All this to say, Nanami thinks you two have a better connection and share more in common than the other one-dimensional, greedy and porn-obsessed viewers who engage with your content, drunk off your strong sexual appeal.

His thumb rubs small, tight circles against his tip as he blatantly stares at how you continue to tease yourself and your viewers with soft foreplay. Pre-dribbles out from his slit, only for it to be spread against the length of his dick.

These deliberate actions continue on for a couple more seconds until Nanami realizes he hasn’t responded to you yet. Shaken out of his stupor, he carefully types with one hand, Its fine. Wanted to come and see how ur doing, thats all.

Excuse his lack of hanging apostrophes, typing with his non-dominant hand was harder than he thought.

Though, as soon as he hits enter, his comment is immediately lost in a sea of horny, downright depraved comments asking, no, begging for you to show ass bb, under you pov??, and his least favourite free dildo show today?

Cheapskates. 

Nanami watches you frown slightly and pull your hands away from your tits— much to many’s disappointment. What were you about to do?

“Hold on a sec,” you murmur, more to yourself than the people watching you. Your hands fly to your keyboard and you type away, writing God-knows-what.

He’s waiting for a message from you to appear in the chatroom, hoping that you’d tell these goons off for once, or maybe write to your moderation team to slow down the comments. But what he wasn’t expecting was the sound of a chime coming from his computer.

On the right-hand corner of the website’s screen, tired, brown eyes land on his default icon and glimpse one blaring red notification pinned to it— indicating that someone wrote to him.

A slight pinch of annoyance tinges Nanami’s brows. It’s probably a spam bot for all he knows, or some creep from your chat room trying to get to him because of you. In most cases, he’d ignore such things and go back to focusing on you. But something was nagging at him, prodding him to take a look and see what this notification was all about. 

His computer mouse hovers over the icon of his direct messages. He’ll be quick. You wouldn’t sporadically end your stream in a few minutes, especially not while he was gone. Hopefully. 

Nanami chances one last glance at you sitting all nice and pretty on his screen, before his page refreshes and brings him to his DMs. Whatever tiredness once was in his body is immediately shot out once he reads your username and views your sweet profile picture waiting in his inbox.

You personally messaged him. You searched for his handle, his user, amongst the thousands of users in your following and sought him out and all you wrote to him was,

wanna ditch them and go private? :3 <3

WRITERS BLOCK: ♾️ ME: 1. WE'RE SO BACK, GUYS!!!

[antoineshere]

kita whose voice never fails to soothe you, so on restless nights he’ll tuck you into bed and sit by your side, smooth a hand over your forehead and cheek as he speaks lowly about the farm.

“diggin’ another field in the east right now. the ducks r'gonna need a new shelter, might try somethin’ new to collect the eggs..."

he watches your eyes lose focus as you hum, lashes fluttering closed. his gentle smile creeps into his voice as it continues steadily.

"thinkin' about planting fruit 'round the house. persimmons are hardy 'n we can dry 'em for the winter. i know ya enjoy that sorta thing…”

after a twitch runs through your body and your chest moves in a steady rhythm, he shifts topics—like he always does.

"i hope yer happy here, with me 'n our life. 's quiet but i know that's good for ya, for us."

he carefully touches your hand peeking through the covers, runs fingertips against your palm. you twitch as if trying to grab him, to hold him. kita's chest buzzes.

"granny says a diamond is best. it's traditional," he whispers, tracing the finger he imagines wearing the stone. "but samu's into gems 'n he thinks a different stone would suit you—at least for a proposal."

gold irises trace your face. you're calm, asleep.

he exhales, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. the hand over yours clutches tighter than he intended. you stir, and his heart jumps.

"hnnn, shinsuke?" your voice is a sleep-coated murmur.

"'m right here," he assures, lips now moving against your temple.

you nod lazily, eyes closing as you slip away again.

"good," you mumble as you let yourself fall back into your dreams. dreams of rice fields swarmed with ducks, ripe persimmons, another peaceful day with kita beside you.

and cool metal on your ring finger—heavy. grounding.

[antoineshere]

simon was able to leave the base early. you didn't know. — hurt / comfort . tw depression

20:38. 2 days before the date of his expected arrival.

ghost had been on a long deployment. it was one where he had to limit contact with you as much as he possibly can. during the time period, he had only managed to call you twice, where the first one was him letting you know that he had safely arrived at base. there was nothing else after that — no calls, text messages, nor voicemails sent to your phone. nothing else... until nearly a week ago when he shared the date for when he would be coming back home.

this wasn’t the first time ghost had gone on deployment where contact is restricted. it was a common occurrence, and the both of you doubt that this one would be the last of its kind. despite the hardships, the loneliness, and the uncertainty of it all, the two of you persist. having to endure the difficult days alone is nothing if it means being able to hold each other at the end.

as ghost stands in front of the apartment door, he feels a slight tug at his chest, and a pit starts forming in his stomach. he couldn’t give a name to what he was feeling. was it apprehension?

he did forget to tell you that he would be coming back early. once he got the permissions needed to leave the base, he was swift in gathering his items to shove in his duffle bag. when the thought came, his phone’s battery had already died, and he was just a few steps away from boarding the plane. he could only hope that you wouldn’t mind his quick arrival too much.

ghost turns on the overhead light of the dark foyer. it was action that did nothing but deepen the pit that threatened to turn his blood cold. as he drops his bag to the floor with a grunt, his gaze wander to the shoes that sit on the racks. you should be here, and yet the whole damn apartment is pitch black.

he pushes down the growl from within his throat. with his heavy boots still on, he trudges to the living room. a part of him wishes that you would be around the corner to scold him for getting dirt all over the place. instead, he was greeted by the mess of blankets and pillows on the sofa.

you’re not here.

he makes his way to the kitchen, his movements precise and deliberate. he flips the switch and finds himself staring at the dirty dishes that pile in the sink. by now, his brows have already furrowed, and he fights the urge to clench his jaw.

you’re not here either.

he passes by the bathroom door, but no light can be seen through the gaps. his mask starts to feel a little too tight, as if it’s restricting him from breathing in the oxygen in the air. he makes quick work of taking the bloody thing off his head and his sweat goes to smear across his forehead.

there is one last place he hadn’t checked.

the door to the bedroom slowly creaks open. the room is softly illuminated by the glow of the moon that seeps through the window curtains. his eyes move to focus on the lump that lay on the bed, and his breath shudders.

simon calls out your name. his hoarse voice cut through the excruciating silence that dares to suffocate him in each passing second. it was a sound so raw, so vulnerable, he might as well set his heart out with both of his hands.

he watches as the bundle shrinks in on itself, burrowing further into the mattress. the action, although minuscule, brings him slight relief. with calculated steps, he walks across the clutter on the floor, where he would soon reach the bed. the soft breaths he heard gave a sense of tranquility, but the deep sigh that followed not long after carried a weight to it that can only be described as exhaustion.

glimpses of the past flash through his mind — glimpses of the routine you both have settled into. he is reminded of the times you would wait for him in the living room so that when the door opens, you can run towards his hulking frame with your kind smile. the house would be clear of any mess, and you would feed him your meals made with all the love and care you have for him. laughter would echo in the room as he cuts off a piece you have unknowingly burnt.

“i swear i can cook better than this!” you'd exclaim, and he would shake his head, refusing to pull a stupid grin at the predicament despite the chuckles he disguised through gruff coughs. he wasn't being smooth at all.

“sure you can, lovie,” simon would reply, and the face you give him out of annoyance would make his eyes soften just the tiniest bit. “never doubted y’r skills, and will never do.”

was there something he wasn't aware of? him? someone who was supposed to be attentive to all of your needs? he has to stop his arms from tensing, the muscles pulsing with the burning urge to release the anger he has for himself, the disappointment. he should’ve been there for you, and he doesn’t know how, but he should’ve.

when his eyes go back to focus on your form, all was silent yet again. there was no more of the reprimanding, no more of the questioning. in the end, you remain unmoving within the sheets of the bed. he wants to touch you, to feel the fight inside of you.

“didn’t know you’d be home early.”

a weak voice mumbles out from under the covers. for a moment, simon could only stand beside the bed, refusing to move a muscle. it’s unusual for him to hesitate at any situation, especially when he works such a dangerous job that a single pause could either mean life or death. when it comes to you, he discovers that he falters at the smallest uncertainty. hurting you is the last thing he would ever want to do.

simon lowers himself on the edge of the mattress as you clutch the blanket wrapping you with clenched fists. you’re so close yet so far. he allows himself to rest, to take in the sight of you in front of him. with a careful hand, he reaches out for your warmth, longing to feel your touch. when you start to stir in the sheets, he pulls away and tries his best to ignore the ache coming back in his chest.

you push yourself up to sit on the bed with your gaze away from his. there was a growing tension in the air, one that’s keeping the two of you from uttering a word. for once, he couldn’t tell what you were thinking, even more so what you were feeling. if there’s one thing that he knows, it’s that the look in your eyes is making his stomach want to give in.

“i’ll clean the place,” you whispered from underneath your breath. it was barely audible, but simon was able to catch each and every word.

“just…” you pause, and he tilts his head up to get a better look at you. “just let me sleep for a few more minutes.”

your heavy eyelids flutter as it battles with fatigue. another sigh escape your lips. before you could slide back down to hide under the covers, simon wraps his strong arms around your body and — in one swift motion — pulls you onto his lap.

if you hadn’t been all worn out, you would’ve gasped at the sudden change in your position. you don’t even remember what you did today that could make you so tired. did you even do anything at all during the past month? and yet you’re here, unable to leave the bed.

you push at simon’s chest as a weak attempt to protest. he brings you closer to him, and you want to shake your head for how gentle he has been. you don’t deserve this, you think. you couldn't even give him a proper welcome home with the usual dinner meals and a clean house. he does so much and all you had to do was the bare minimum. you wish you could hide yourself so he wouldn’t have to see you in such a state. if he can’t see you, he wouldn’t be able to comfort you. he wouldn’t be able to hold you with his soothing touch.

“‘s okay. no need t’ worry ‘bout tha’, sweet’art.”

the deep rumbling in his chest sends a shiver down your spine. the close proximity doesn’t help, with how his words practically vibrated through your entire being. you want to tell him that no. it’s not okay. everything’s not okay. but then he coos at you, as though he’s lulling the persistent noise in your head to go take its slumber.

your eyes start to feel warm. soon, it stings. the next thing you know, there’s tears falling down your cheeks in wet streaks. a hand goes up to caress your hair, and you could only choke out sobs in response. you shut your eyes close and desperately cling onto simon’s clothes for any semblance of stability.

“im sorry, sorry, ‘m sorry—” you stammer with shuddered breaths. you try sucking in a large amount of air, but it leaves you coughing for dear life instead. simon’s free hand goes to rub at your back, and you could vaguely hear him telling you “none o’ tha’, lovie. none o’ tha’.” his lips meet your forehead and he murmurs against your skin with a “breathe f’me, sweet’art. c’mon.”

you wheeze and you hiccup and god, its so hard. keeping your consciousness is a strenuous task when the air won’t even enter your lungs. it nearly makes you panic, but simon… oh simon. he’s so good to you. he doesn’t let you go, no matter how much you squirm and whimper in obvious distress.

it wasn’t easy trying to breathe, but you do it anyway. through the struggle, you quiver with trembling gasps, and you fight the urge to choke on your own tears. simon, in spite of his rough fingers, strokes the hair away from your face in a way so soft, it’s as if he’s handling delicate porcelain. it was a touch that whispered his utter devotion, his promises of protecting you.

the desire to push him away becomes a faint memory. it was one you’d cease to remember as you lay limp in simon’s embrace, completely exhausted. you can feel the throbbing pulse in your heart slowing down, and for once, it doesn’t feel as heavy.

simon lightly brushes a hand below your arm, trailing against the skin until it reaches your fingers. he intertwined them with his, a grasp that’s tight yet tender all the same, a hold that tells you he’s never letting you go. he rests your head on top of his chest and hugs you closer to him, lowering the two of you so that you’re both laying in bed. it’s warm, comfortable, and you almost doze off to the gentle rise and fall of his body.

“don’t ya worry ‘bout anythin’ right now,” simon hums, and your eyelids droop to the sound of his gruff voice. his grounding presence puts you at ease and finally, you can sleep with only the weight of simon’s palm on your back. with him, you are reminded that life still has its good bits. because even if simon may never consider himself as someone who is good, he is a good man to you.

[antoineshere]

from pregnancy freak to postpartum freak — satoru finds himself in a tough spot while your body is recovering from giving birth to his child. he tries to be patient but motherhood looks so beautiful on you… and unfortunately, after you’re ready to have him again, there seems to be another little issue — one that likes to cry and disrupt the moment satoru has been longing for

MDNI, established relationship, f!reader (she/her), pregnancy and postpartum, you have a beautiful baby daughter, mentions of breastfeeding and satoru being really really weird about it, mentions of male masturbation, somno if you squint really hard (just to be safe), pet names (baby, beautiful, sweetheart), nothing too explicit going on here tbf, but there’s a sweet little hint of a potential breeding sesh at the end, not proofread, wc: 1.8k+

your husband (gojo satoru) and you have always had a marvelous sex life, one that would naturally induce a sense of envy in anyone who came to know of it, accidentally or not — the walls were thin, but sometimes it was the mouth of your husband that was too big.

but in all honesty, there has never been a day in which you didn’t desire each other carnally, even after so many years.

you thought, maybe, this might change after he knocked you up with a baby — you had read a handful of articles on the topic and how some men become more distant during that sensitive timeframe — but as it turns out, you could not have been more wrong. either those magazines sucked or your husband was some sort of mutation. maybe, it was both.

your pregnancy could be, in fact, easily considered the peak of your sex life — that round belly of yours really did a number on him, as well as on you. well, with you it was the hormonal changes your body was going through that made you so borderline sexually insatiable, and the mood to bounce on him would strike you more often than ever. at some point, your sex drive went off the roof — you’d ask him to fuck you multiple times a day and satoru couldn’t be more fortunate — he’d drop everything and oblige in an instant, like that was all he had been waiting for, which was not so far from the truth. it was safe to say that you enabled the freak in him, and he was grateful.

“thank god… i don’t know how else i could survive those 9 months with you glowing like this, becoming more and more beautiful with each passing day”, he’d say to you every time you pressed and rubbed your ass against his cock in the middle of the night, not so innocently waking him up because you had a craving.

you had a lot of sex, but he was always careful with your aches and pains, no quirky positions until the baby was born — your physique didn’t allow it as the pregnancy progressed anyway. but the passion was always there, undeniably so, growing along with you.

but things changed after you went into labor and your daughter was born. the perfect little angel, his and his baby’s baby. satoru has never been happier.

to be honest, he didn’t think about sex at all in the beginning. he was on cloud nine, overjoyed. every second of his day was spent exploring this new light in his life and taking care of the both of you.

after you got discharged from the hospital, he took it upon himself to look after the house and deal with the chores — he handled the cooking, he washed the dishes, cleaned, did the laundry and everything else that needed to be done — while you were healing and navigating through motherhood. he helped you nurse your daughter, there wasn’t a single night where he didn’t wake up along with you whenever the baby needed feeding or randomly started crying.

but soon enough, after he adapted to this new pace, his sex drive started showing signs of its return. it came back strong — in fact, stronger than ever, and once again it was none other than you to blame for it.

…because, being a mother looked so good on you.

you have been his wife for years. but now, you are the mother of his child, and that is a title that somehow makes you his even more than ever. it is so permanent. because, even if you leave him one day — which you never would since he would simply never allow it — being the mother of his child will always tie you to him, he will always have a place in your life. that’s it, you just made it impossible for yourself to run away from him. like it or not, you will be his eternally and irrevocably.

he liked watching you be a mother and couldn’t help but get bricked up each time you held your daughter close to your chest, revealing your breast and holding it to her mouth in order to feed her.

was this normal? to get this hard? now of all times? — he didn’t know, and honestly, he didn’t bother finding out. because, when was he ever normal about you to begin with?

all he wanted to do in those moments was pin you down and fuck himself into you. you could see it in his eyes and in his bulge that he was trying to readjust.

“don’t try anything funny in front of the baby”

“i would never — i am simply watching and engraving this scene into my mind, for later”

‘for later’ obviously meant when he was jerking off.

the doctor said “no sexual intercourse for six weeks”

your body needed time to heal after giving birth, and that was only natural. and it was okay.

but it didn’t mean it wasn’t arduous for him. he had to watch you day and night without being able to touch you in ways he wanted to.

and now it’s been two months. two whole months without him laying a finger on you. his urges were back with full force, but yours? not really.

sure, you cuddled plenty while the baby was sleeping, which made it even harder for him. but you never got sexually intimate after you gave birth. he was well aware that you needed more time, that your body was still not ready, that you were exhausted physically and mentally because, once again, you were going through all these changes — because of him.

he understood that. but still, he missed you so much.

he’d jerk off whenever he got the chance, more than once a day, in fact. religiously so in the shower, it was a must — or else he would find it more difficult to manage himself around you.

sometimes he’d watch you breastfeed the baby and secretly sneak into the bathroom midway through it to rub one out, because if he didn’t — he’d bust right then and there. but can you blame him? you looked so maternal, so ungodly and unapologetically beautiful. the way you hissed whenever the baby sucked too hard on your nipple made him wish it was him dragging those sounds out of you…

fuck. he was becoming a freak again.

there were nights when he would wake up, as hard as a rock, and watch you sleep while fisting himself in the spot next to you in bed. he would be careful not to wake you when pushing the cleavage of your gown down, just enough to take your breasts out. he’d peck you softly on the nipples and that would inevitably and always lead to him uncontrollably unloading himself inside his palm. sometimes he would make a mess of the bedsheets, other times — of your nightgown.

“shit— if simply touching your skin does this to me, then i don’t want to think what will happen to me the second i slide it in”, he’d curse under his nose while washing off in the bathroom. “fuck. i miss you, baby”, he’d brush a hand over his face. “look what you made of me…”, and he would get hard all over again, just because for a split second he thought of being inside you.

luckily, you soon started dropping subtle hints of desiring him — initiating longer morning kisses, biting your lower lip and giving him the look whenever he walked out of the shower, saying his name in that same sweet voice with an undertone of fake innocence you would use in the past every time you wanted him to do things to you, rubbing his chest as you cuddled in bed or on the couch, sometimes your hand would slide a bit lower down his abdomen… but, that was it.

satoru never saw past the pearly gates, because his sweet angel of a baby would always start crying in the most inappropriate of times, as if on purpose.

“you go — i don’t want to face my daughter with a boner”, he’d whine, and you’d chuckle.

he loved his daughter more than anything, but he was genuinely bummed out and he had to do something about it.

one afternoon, after you fed the baby and left her in the care of your husband to go and take a shower, satoru put his daughter in the crib and leaned over with a serious expression of a parent about to lecture their misbehaving kid.

“listen, little miss, because we have a problem”

the baby chuckles in response.

“…and apparently, you know it”, satoru snorts. “but listen here, i know you love mama and you want her all to yourself. but what about papa?”, he pouts. “papa loves her too and wants her all to himself, at least once a day, but you’re not giving him a chance here. it’s not like i am asking for an entire day, just stay put for 15 minutes — 15 minutes is all i am asking for. deal?”

his daughter lets out another sweet chuckle.

“i’ll take that as a yes”, he caresses her cheek before leaving the room with the baby monitor in hand to join you in the shower.

finally. it was happening.

he stripped out of his clothes and walked into the bathroom, placing the baby monitor on the sink countertop before stepping into the shower cabin, letting the hot stream wash down his body as he reached for you.

“hello, beautiful”

“oh—“, you jolt. “you’re here? but what about the ba—"

“shh—“, he puts a finger on your lips, his free hand snaking around your waist to pull you close. “don’t worry, she’s fine. if something happens, we’ll know it from the baby monitor — so just relax”

you smile against his fingertip and softly peck it before sucking it in between your lips. his cock, already hard and squished between your naked bodies, throbs with a powerful twitch. a low growl rolls out of his mouth.

“god… i’ve missed you so much”, his hips involuntarily push against you, a desperate attempt to seek more friction by humping himself on your stomach. with how starved he was for you, he could probably finish just from this. but he wanted to take it slow and savor every second.

“it’s been so long, isn’t it?”

he nods. “i thought i was going to die”

you laugh. “you’re exaggerating”

“i am not… i never thought our tiny little angel could be such a huge devilish cockblock”

“you shouldn’t speak like that about our kid”, you snort.

“but it’s true. she’s a sly one, and obviously she’s obsessed with you”, he pouts.

“i wonder who she took it from…”

“she’s going to cause me a lot of trouble, isn’t she? but maybe, if we gave her a friend, she wouldn’t feel as lonely. maybe then, we’d get to have more alone time — like this. what do you think?”

“she’s too young for a pet, satoru. you know that”

he laughs. “i didn’t mean a pet, sweetheart. but we can get that too at some point”

[antoineshere]

Satoru always finds stains all over his bedsheets and pillowcases while doing laundry. Pinks and browns and reds— all lip products. Stains of smudged up shape of lips, left on most of his beddings.

He looks at them and reminisces about; how he shoved your face in the pillow while giving you backshots, or when you had to cover your face with his pillow so his roommate wouldn't be able to hear your moans, or when you'd drool and thrash around and hide your face in the sheets when he'd eat you out.

One second he's looking blank at the marks and the next second he's shoving the sheets in his face and giggling into them like a school girl.

Yeah, he really likes doing laundry.

[antoineshere]

heavy angst not a lot of comfort!! + wc: 0.7k

masterlist

choso hasn’t breathed right in months.

he tries sometimes. draws in a deep breath, holds it, waits for his ribs to expand the way they used to when you were curled up beside him, murmuring something soft in your sleep.

but every inhale is shallow, every exhale unfinished. he can’t get enough air in his lungs without you.

he thinks about the phone call often. shoko’s trembling voice on the other end. the way his blood turned to ice when she said they found a body.

they never let him see it. too much damage, they said. better to remember you as you were. so he had nothing to hold, nothing to bury. just a handful of ashes and the suffocating knowledge that you were gone.

he never got rid of your things. your shoes are still by the door. your toothbrush still sits next to his. your clothes still take up too much space in the closet. your blanket—your favorite, the one you used to throw over him when you thought he looked cold—still rests on the couch, untouched. he picked it up once, buried his face in it to see if it still smelled like you. it didn’t. it just smelled like dust.

and now—

now you’re standing in front of him.

but it can’t be you.

his body locks up, frozen in place, because this can’t be real. it’s another cruel trick of his exhausted mind, another dream that will end the moment he dares to reach for you.

he should know. he’s had so many of those dreams, where you’re warm in his arms again, where he gets to say all the things he never did. sometimes, you forget your keys at home and come back for them. sometimes, you whisper his name from the other side of the bed, voice so soft he almost believes it. sometimes, you just look at him, silent and hollow-eyed, before fading into nothing. he wakes up gasping every time, drenched in sweat, grief choking him like a curse he can’t break.

this is just another dream. another hallucination.

but you take a step forward, and he sees the way you move—slow, hesitant, your hands shaking. there’s an old cut on your cheek, bruises along your jaw, faint lines on your wrists like you were bound. your clothes are torn, dirt and dried blood staining the fabric. your lips are cracked, your eyes hollowed by exhaustion.

you look like you fought your way back to him.

“…choso.” your voice is hoarse. he barely hears you, but it devastates him.

he doesn’t realize he’s moving until his legs give out beneath him. his knees hit the floor hard, but he barely feels it. his breath stutters out in a sharp, broken sound, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying.

you walk forward, kneeling in front of him, hands ghosting over his shoulders, his face, his hair. “i’m here,” you whisper. “i—i tried—“ your voice cracks, and something snaps.

“where the fuck were you?”

it rips out of him, raw and jagged. his hands clutch at your arms, desperate, terrified, fingers digging in like he’s afraid you’ll slip through them again.

“do you have any idea—“ his voice breaks, and his grip moves to cup your face like he needs proof. “i scattered your ashes. i mourned you. i—i—“ his breath falters, his forehead pressing against yours, a sob rattling through his chest. “i thought i lost you.”

your hands slide up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “i know,” you whisper. “i know, i—“

a short inhale, your fingers curling against his skin. “i thought i was gonna die there.”

choso swallows hard, his throat thick with grief and relief and something darker, something furious. his fingers hover, barely grazing your bruises, as he presses his palm to your ribs to physically confirm you’re real.

who did this to you?

the question burns in his mind, but he can’t bring himself to ask you that yet. not when you’re here, not when he’s barely holding himself together.

he pulls you in, arms locking so tightly around you that you gasp. but you don’t pull away. you clutch at his back, holding him just as desperately, needing this just as much.

his breaths are uneven, shaky, but for the first time in months, he actually breathes.