#one of them is so finely ground that it's impossible to put it on anything without aerosolizing it

[solxamber]

"Requests are open-"

The sound of my feet frantically hitting the floor can be heard from a great distance away—

I've been following for a few months & all your posts make me giggle or smile, my coworkers probably think I'm crazy at this point, lmao.

For the request!! I was hoping to see if you could write the Overblot boys' (tho if possible, subbing Trey in for Riddle) reaction to finding out the reader— who is known for being touch-averse— finds him to be a comfort person & noticing that they get really touchy around him as a means for comfort. I had it in mind as being romantic, but pre-feelings realized cuz I live for the yearning & squirmy crush phase stuff, it's so sweet.

All of them are touch-starved, you can't tell me otherwise.

— 🐈‍⬛ ♡

Ahh I'm so glad you like my work omg <3 I'm so glad they made you smile 🫶🫶

I've also kept Riddle and added in Trey, I hope that's fine!

Overblot Gang + Trey Being your Comfort Person

Riddle Rosehearts

When you unexpectedly reach out and grab Riddle’s sleeve during a quiet walk through Heartslabyul’s rose garden, he stiffens like you’ve hit him with a stun spell. His gaze flicks from your hand to your face, his cheeks blooming a crimson that rivals the roses around him.

At first, he assumes it’s accidental, but when your fingers remain firmly gripping his arm as if seeking reassurance, his brain short-circuits.

You’re known for keeping your distance from others, so this gentle touch feels monumental to him. Later, when he learns that you see him as a comfort, his heart aches in a way that’s both exhilarating and terrifying. They trust me like that? he thinks, and suddenly every shared moment feels heavier with meaning.

The next time you casually rest your hand on his shoulder during a meeting, Riddle doesn’t shy away. Instead, he adjusts his posture ever so slightly, allowing your touch to linger. His ears burn as he stumbles over his words, but deep down, he’s elated.

He’s never been someone’s safe haven before, and he’ll do everything in his power to protect that bond, even as his stomach flips at every accidental brush of your hand.

Trey Clover

Trey’s observant nature makes it impossible for him to miss the way you’ve grown more touchy around him. At first, it’s subtle—the occasional tug on his sleeve or a gentle nudge when he’s teasing you—but when you lean against his arm one evening after a long day, his mind comes to a screeching halt.

He keeps his composure, of course, because it’s Trey. But inside? He’s a mess of confusion and delight.

The realization hits him when you unconsciously cling to him during a particularly chaotic Scarabia dinner. Others are bustling around, and you seek him out, your fingers brushing his wrist as if grounding yourself. He hides his smile behind a sip of water, warmth spreading in his chest.

Trey wonders why you feel so at ease with him when you’re so cautious around others. But when you nervously explain one day that he makes you feel safe, his heart swells.

“That’s a lot of trust to put in me,” he teases gently, though he’s secretly over the moon. When you start leaning against his shoulder more often, Trey welcomes it with a soft chuckle, letting his hand brush yours in quiet reassurance.

Leona Kingscholar

The first time you plop yourself beside Leona on one of the lounge’s sprawling couches, sitting far closer than you normally do, he barely raises an eyebrow. But when your shoulder brushes against his, and you don’t immediately move away like everyone else seems to around him, his ear flicks in surprise. Leona’s no stranger to physical contact—mostly unwelcome—but this? This is new.

It doesn’t take long for him to realize you’re touch-averse with everyone else. When you casually rest your head against his arm after a particularly exhausting day, Leona pauses mid-yawn, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks down at you. He doesn’t say anything at first, just observes the way your usually guarded self seems to relax around him.

“You got a habit of using me as your personal pillow, herbivore?” he finally drawls, smirking lazily to hide the strange warmth blooming in his chest.

When you shrug and mutter something about him being comfortable, Leona pretends to scoff, but the slight twitch of his tail gives him away. He’s never been anyone’s comfort before, and while he doesn’t admit it, the thought fills him with a quiet pride.

From then on, he doesn’t push you away. Instead, he adjusts himself so you can lean against him more comfortably, his tail wrapping loosely around your ankle like it has a mind of its own.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul nearly drops the pen he’s holding the first time you rest your hand lightly on his arm. He freezes in his seat at the Mostro Lounge, blinking rapidly as if trying to process what just happened. You’re careful about personal space—he’s noticed that much—so this sudden display of trust leaves him flustered beyond belief.

“Ah, are you feeling alright?” he stammers, his face quickly turning pink.

You wave off his concern, but the touch lingers. Azul spends the rest of the day overanalyzing the moment. What does it mean? Do they… no, surely not.

It happens again the next time you visit the lounge. You sit closer than usual, your knees brushing his under the table as you casually chat.

Azul tries to focus on the conversation, but his brain is fixated on the way you seem so comfortable around him. When he learns that you find him comforting, Azul’s heart skips a beat.

He tries to play it cool, but the truth is, he’s thrilled. You trust him, and that trust feels far more valuable than any deal he’s ever made. The next time you reach out, Azul doesn’t flinch. Instead, he lets your fingers linger on his sleeve, savoring the quiet warmth of your touch.

Jamil Viper

Jamil is used to people keeping their distance, intentionally or otherwise. His sharp gaze and composed demeanor tend to put others on edge. That’s why, the first time you rest a hand on his shoulder during one of his endless tasks for Scarabia, he’s so stunned that he almost drops the tray he’s carrying.

He glances at you, his eyes searching for an explanation, but you look completely at ease. He doesn’t say anything then, not wanting to scare you off, but his heart races. You—someone who shies away from physical contact—trust him enough to reach out like this?

Later, when you lean against him as he writes up another set of schedules, Jamil tentatively shifts to give you more room. “You alright?” he murmurs, his voice quieter than usual.

You hum in response, your cheek brushing his shoulder as you explain, “You just make me feel at ease.”

Jamil stiffens, his breath catching in his throat. No one has ever said that to him before, not with such sincerity. A faint blush dusts his cheeks as he tries to play it cool, though his mind is whirling. For the first time, he feels like someone sees beyond the role he’s forced to play.

From then on, he doesn’t mind when you’re touchy around him. If anything, he finds himself leaning into your presence, your comfort becoming his safe haven as well.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil is accustomed to people admiring him from afar, hesitant to step too close. That’s why your sudden physical closeness catches him off guard. The first time you link arms with him during a walk, his eyes widen slightly, but he quickly composes himself, tilting his head to glance at you.

“Getting bold, aren’t we?” he teases, his tone light, though his heart skips a beat.

You roll your eyes but don’t let go, and Vil notices the way your shoulders relax beside him. It’s subtle, but the realization dawns on him: you trust him enough to seek comfort in his presence. The thought fills him with a warmth he doesn’t often let himself indulge in.

Later, when you rest your head on his shoulder during a quiet moment in the Pomefiore common room, Vil sets down his script, his gaze softening. “You’ve been awfully touchy lately,” he remarks, his voice tinged with curiosity.

You meet his eyes, your expression open and unguarded. “That’s because you’re comforting,” you say simply, and Vil’s breath catches.

For a moment, he’s silent, his mind racing. He knows he can be demanding and difficult, yet here you are, finding solace in him. Gently, he rests a hand over yours, his grip firm yet tender. “Just don’t expect me to always be this lenient,” he says, though the slight tremor in his voice betrays how deeply your words have affected him.

Idia Shroud

Idia nearly has a heart attack the first time you casually lean against his shoulder during a gaming session. He goes completely still, his hair lighting up like a neon sign as his mind races. What do I do? Do I move? Is this a test? Oh, no, what if I’m sweating?!

When you don’t move away, he risks a glance at you. You’re focused on the screen, completely unbothered, and Idia feels like his circuits are going to fry.

It happens again a few days later when you sit closer than usual, your knee brushing against his. Idia freezes, trying to figure out if you’ve noticed. By the third time, when you casually rest your head on his shoulder, he can’t take it anymore.

“Uh, y-you okay?” he stammers, his voice cracking as he sneaks a glance at you.

You smile softly, your tone light. “Yeah. You’re just… comfortable.”

Idia’s brain short-circuits. Comfortable? Me? His insecurities rear their ugly heads, whispering that you’ve made a mistake, that surely someone else would be better. But when you stay by his side, leaning into him like he’s your anchor, those voices quiet.

He hesitates before awkwardly patting your hand, his touch hesitant but earnest. For the first time, he allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you mean it.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is delighted yet utterly confused the first time you rest your hand lightly on his arm during a quiet evening stroll. Physical affection is rare for him—he’s so often regarded with fear or reverence—but you seem unbothered by his stature, your touch grounding and sincere.

The next time, it’s even more unexpected. You loop your arm through his as you walk through the woods near Ramshackle, leaning slightly into him. Malleus’s breath hitches, his heart racing. He doesn’t want to scare you away, so he says nothing, though his tail twitches with restrained excitement.

When you rest your head against his shoulder as he tells you about his day, he finally dares to ask, “Child of man, is there a reason you’ve been so… affectionate as of late?”

You glance up at him, your eyes warm. “You’re comforting,” you say simply, and Malleus feels the ground shift beneath his feet.

For someone who has been lonely for so long, your words are a balm to his soul. He places a hand over yours, his touch gentle yet possessive. “If I bring you comfort, then I consider myself fortunate,” he says softly, though his heart feels like it’s about to burst.

From then on, Malleus treasures every touch you offer, each one a reminder that he is no longer alone.

Masterlist

[moon-fics]

I'm just spitballing here, but what about bob floyd × naval admin reader where she sees him shirtless for the first time and like a friend kickback on the beach and is just absolutely gobsmacked because she knew he was fit but not ripped to heck 😭 and bob is just so nonchalant about it 😂

Please keep spitballing bc I love this. Sorry, it took so long!

After beating all the odds, the mission was a success. You only had a minor heart attack watching Rooster and Maverick get shot down. You definitely didn't need to lock yourself inside a bathroom for a few hours after everyone returned home to ground yourself. Everything that could have taken your friends did not.

Which is why you're celebrating at Penny's house. You're only a few days away from being sent to another base, and yet, you're happy. You get to stand in a beautiful backyard while hot dogs are being grilled. You're surrounded by people you love and get to keep for one more mission.

Now, if only the sun would set so you don't have to sweat through your shirt. It doesn't help that you forgot to wear a swimsuit for her pool. You're stuck watching Rooster, Hangman, and Fanboy mess around in the water.

"Hey," Bob's voice snaps you out of your mind. You glance to your left to see him holding two plates with hot dogs on them. "Penny said you haven't eaten yet." He holds out one of the plates.

You turn your head past Bob to see Penny staring right at you. She gives you a wink and returns to talking to Maverick over the grill. You should have assumed she'd do something like this. Ever since you drunkenly admitted to having a crush on Bob she's made it her mission to get you with him.

"Thank you," You sigh. You take the plate, but you don't eat from it. You're afraid that if you take a bite, the heat from the hot dog will worsen your sweating. You take a second to admire Bob, who is wearing a T-shirt that is drenched in sweat. "You're allowed to take that off." You gesture at his shirt.

He's taking a bite of the hot dog when you speak. His eyes snap to you immediately, and he awkwardly chews to talk. It takes a couple of long seconds before he swallows.

"I didn't really think about it," He admits while flashing a nervous grin. Your eyes trace the lines from his smile automatically. You're trying to ingrain every part of him before you're left to fate, for when you see him again. You don't want to forget a single detail about him. "I didn't put any sunblock on," He chuckles.

"I'm sure you'll be fine," You shrug. You can feel the sun kissing your skin and tanning it, but you don't feel burning yet. Besides, Penny should have sun lotion somewhere in her house if he really needs it. "I mean, you just came back from a mission that Maverick deemed almost impossible. I think a few sun burns will be alright."

"Yeah, I can't argue against that," He nods. "Hold my plate?" He asks, and you take it from him. You watch as he takes off his shirt and rolls it into a ball. It takes a moment for you to look down because his arms are enough to keep you occupied. When you finally change your focus to his chest you clench your jaw to stop it from falling.

You can see every muscle on his torso, and the sweat only defines them more. He's tan from the sun already, which adds to the appeal. Forget Hangman and Rooster. Bob has a body that you could not imagine holding his head up.

"You look like this regularly?" You ask without realizing it. The question slides down from your brain and past your lips before you can stop it. The only thing stopping you from diving into Penny's pool is his laugh.

"Yeah, I mean, everyone else looks the same," He brushes it off.

"Well, yeah, but I just wasn't expecting you to be this fit." You cannot stop talking. It's like your brain is just letting anything out. "That came out wrong. I knew you were strong, I just never imagined you shirtless," You clarify.

"That insinuates you've imagined everyone else shirtless," He points out. He ducks his head down as another laugh comes out. You're thankful he's finding this humorous instead of insulting or creepy. You could handle looking like a fool. "I just don't see a need to show off," He says and takes his plate back from you.

"You're depriving the world," You joke. "I'm serious. If I looked like you, I'd be shirtless regularly."

"I'm glad you think that. Next time I'm shirtless, I'll let you know," He shakes his head while holding back a chuckle.

"Put me on speed dial," You nudge him.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝐈'𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐞 𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐝 || 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 ||

A/n: girl dad Billy 👏, finally writing it out like I said I would.

It starts with silence.

Not the kind that lingers after a fight or fills the void between words—but a stunned, hollow sort of quiet that falls over Billy Hargrove the moment you whisper those three impossible words in your bedroom:

“Billy, I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t curse. He just… stares.

His knuckles are white where they grip the edge of your dresser, and you can see the panic rising behind his eyes, blue like ice thawing too fast. His breathing gets shallow, uneven, and you reach for him gently—only for him to pull back like your touch burns.

“No,” he mutters, voice cracked. “No, no, no, I can’t—fuck.”

“Billy—” You move toward him again, slow this time.

“I’m gonna end up just like him.” The words fall from his lips like they’re poisoned. “I’m gonna mess this kid up. Like Neil did to me. Like—like I wasn’t supposed to survive him, and now you want me to raise a fucking kid?”

Your heart breaks a little. Not for yourself—but for him. For the terrified boy still living inside the man who’s trying so hard not to fall apart.

You step closer, even when he backs up.

“You’re not him.”

He shakes his head, lips trembling. “You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because you already love more fiercely than he ever could. You’re scared—fine. Me too. But I know you, Billy. I know what kind of father you won’t be. And I know what kind of father you could be… if you let yourself believe it.”

He sits on your bed like the weight of the truth finally crushed him. You kneel in front of him, pressing his hand gently against your stomach. It’s still flat, but it’s real. So is this. So are you.

“I’m not doing this without you,” you whisper. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Day's later.Billy finds himself at your home with a fresh bruise on his cheek, bag slung over his shoulder as he stands rigid at the doorway, a bundle of nerves dressed in his usual denim and defiance. Your dad watches him with that quiet, unreadable stare—before sighing and motioning him inside.

“Come in, Billy. She’s in the kitchen. But you and I need to talk first.”

Billy looks like he might bolt—but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods.

Ten minutes later, your mom catches the two of them on the back porch—your dad with a cold beer in one hand, his other on Billy’s shoulder. Not a threat. Not a lecture. A promise:

“You’re part of this family now. We don’t leave each other behind.”

Billy doesn’t say anything, but when he looks over at you through the kitchen window, his eyes are wet.

Week's have passed and now he finds himself building the crib in your room....his room.

Cursing under his breath, a screwdriver tucked behind his ear, a tiny instruction manual half-crumpled beside him. He doesn’t notice you watching from the doorway until you smile.

“You’re putting the side rails on backward.”

He groans, mutters, “Goddamn stupid screws,” but doesn’t stop smiling either.

Later that night, you find him curled against your belly in bed, talking softly—nervously—to the baby. He doesn’t know you’re awake. He says things like, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” and, “You’ve got your mom’s heart—thank fuck for that.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, and he exhales, grounding himself against you.

“You’re gonna be a great dad, Billy.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he presses a kiss just above your navel and breathes:

“Yeah. I think maybe I will be."

Month's have passed and now you were giving birth, the delivery room is in chaos.

Monitors beep in erratic rhythm, nurses move with practiced urgency, and your hand is crushing Billy’s fingers like a vice.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart—so fucking good—”

His voice is raw. Trembling. His forehead pressed against yours as sweat slicks both your skin. You’re panting, sobbing, screaming through the pain, but his touch is there. Constant. Unflinching.

He doesn’t let go. Not once.

“Almost there, one more push!” the doctor says.

You scream again, and Billy’s free hand braces behind your back, holding you steady, whispering, “You’ve got this, I love you, I love you, I love you—”

And then—

A cry.

Not yours. Not his.

A high, raw, brand-new sound that shatters the world and puts it back together all at once.

The room shifts. Slows. The chaos fades into the background as the nurse lifts a small, squirming bundle and says the words that sucker-punch Billy square in the heart:

“Congratulations. You have a daughter.”

Billy freezes.

You’re crying, gasping through exhaustion and joy, but he just stares. His eyes are locked on the tiny thing being cleaned and swaddled, and he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe.

“Billy,” you whisper.

He blinks, like you woke him from a dream. When the nurse comes to place her in his arms, he hesitates.

His hands hover.

“I—” His voice cracks, hoarse and small. “I don’t want to break her.”

The nurse smiles gently. “You won’t.”

He takes her. Slowly. Carefully.

And then he looks down.

This tiny thing, wrapped in soft pink, blinking up at him with unfocused eyes. Her face is red and squished and perfect. His thumb brushes her cheek, and she whimpers, nuzzling toward his chest like she already knows him.

That’s when it happens.

Billy Hargrove breaks.

He sinks into the chair beside your bed, arms curled protectively around her, and sobs.

Full-body, gut-wrenching sobs—tears that have been locked away for years. The grief of his childhood, the fear, the self-hatred—all of it pours out of him in silent, shaking waves.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he chokes, tears soaking her hat. “I don’t know how to be anything but angry and scared—”

You reach for him, stroking his hair, your voice a whisper:

“You’re already doing it. You stayed. You love her. That’s more than he ever gave you.”

He presses a trembling kiss to his daughter’s forehead.

“I’m not gonna be like him. I swear to god, baby, I’m not.”

“You’re nothing like him, Billy.”

She lets out a soft coo, her fingers curling around his pinky like she’s sealing the promise.

And for the first time in his life, Billy Hargrove feels peace.

Not because the fear is gone—but because he’s not facing it alone.

He has you.

And now he has her.

[syluses]

you are such a talented writer—literally art through words

i have got to ask: how was/is sylus during your pregnancy? how does he feel seeing your body change to accommodate growing his big babies?

also, does she end up giving him a girl? do they end up having even more? 🤭

ohhh thank you dear thats so sweet to hear!! 🥹💖 pls take this lil drabble as a long answer lol :,) [based off this fic] CW: slight yandere, pregnancy, suggestive, dubious feelings

hehe OKAY so sylus is super attentive to mc we’ve established that!! also i don’t wanna say he falls more in love with you bc that’s quite literally impossible- he’s already down atrocious. but that’s not to say something inside him doesn’t soften and melt into a puddle whenever he sees your belly bump or rubs it reverently with his hand. your pregnancy both reminds him to be strong, to be that one grounding force in your life, the thing both you and your blossoming family can lean on- but at the same time it brings the epiphany that he’s just a man at the end of the day… and if one thing will make him weak, it’s his wifey <3

but to concisely answer your question: sylus is possessive, yes- hawk-like in the way he watches over you, but he’s also very soft. he knows and hates that he can’t be around the base all the time for you (if life was simpler, he’d be glued to your side 24/7), especially when you’re at your most vulnerable, too big to properly move, hormonal and requiring some sort of aid- emotional or physical- around the clock.

luke and kieran help where they can and sylus silently entrusts that they’ll hold the fort down while he’s gone, but even then, papa isn’t the keenest on the idea of the boys lingering around you for long periods of time,… especially when he isn’t there as well. it’s not that he worries they’ll make some sort of move on you or anything (God knows they’d sooner wish death upon themselves than to lay a hand on sylus’s girl), but more so that you’ll grow a little too lenient on them. he’s not an incredibly jealous guy,.. but the streak is certainly there.

sylus thinks there’s something undeniably intimate in it as well: his beautiful wife pregnant with his kin, relying solely and fully on him. it deepens your bond, and your trust in him (and ultimately your affection, he hopes).

oh and seeing your body change and reshape itself to accommodate his kids ABSOLUTELY drives him crazy. you’ll be insecure and whatnot, subconsciously trying to wrap yourself in baggy clothes (his massive wardrobe making that very convenient), walking around the manor with a blanket draped over your shoulders, not meeting his eyes when sylus inevitably can’t keep his hands off for any longer and brings you to bed. but he’ll kiss away those tears you can’t help from falling and croon at your ear, his hands will appreciatively roam over all those new curves you loathe and he’ll be super super gentle when he fucks you... tell you the sweetest things- purring reassurance in that velvety, deep voice of his as his lips meld lovingly with yours.

seeing you a lil plump, extra soft and vulnerable- round with his children- makes it near impossible to keep a level head around you but he does his best. you’re always the priority, even when it feels like he’ll cum in his pants like a teenager when you slot yourself in his arms and bashfully guide his big hands toward your aching, swollen breasts. someone is standing at attention immediately.

ahem. also… this outcome can be imagined in another way, that’s completely fine wit me— but in my head, sylus DOES end up getting the precious baby girl he wanted. is he satisfied? oh one hundred freakin percent. for… how long? eh. maybe anywhere from half a year to twelve months before that baby fever kicks right back in and puts reader on her ASS. poor exhausted woman is furious at him for constantly nudging her towards having a bigger family; but to be fair, sylus won’t actually voice those returning wants until weeks or months down the line, for that exact reason. he doesn’t wanna piss her off too bad haha.

this time around he’ll try to cushion the blow by saying ‘oh but we have two boys and only one girl- we need just one more to tie the numbers up. our little sweetheart will hate us if we don’t give her someone to play dolls with, dont you think?’ or some nonsense like that. im sorry but to me, sylus wants a big family. i dunno i just think that man WANTS DESPERATELY for mc to domesticate his crazy ass!!! a bunch of trifling lil toddlers scampering around his home seems like a great way to do that! i mean, if not, what else would his house be so massive for? honestly, you’d both just be wasting the space otherwise :(

in any case, your mean pouty face can’t fool sylus. you absolutely adore those little ragamuffins he gave you and will give you. there’s no denying that. <3

[finelinevogue]

useless

summary - azriel helps you put your shirt on after you’ve broken your arm

word count - +1k

🦇•🤎•🦇•🤎•🦇•🤎•🦇•🤎•🦇•🤎•🦇•🤎•🦇

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

You huffed in annoyance at Azriel stating the obvious, not because he was stating the obvious but because of what he was talking about.

“It’s not my fault I broke my arm.” You pouted.

You groaned and threw your shirt to the ground, giving up completely with trying to put it on.

Azriel was clearly taunting you as he slipped a shirt over his head, his wings popping out the back.

You gave him the dead-eye look as he crossed his tanned arms across his chest, raising one of his eyebrows as he watched you.

Damn him and his beauty.

“What’s going on here?” Cassian opened your bedroom door to peak in.

“Y/N’s being a brat:” Azriel said quickly, not looking away from you.

“Riight… I’m going to leave whatever weird foreplay thing is going on here…” Cassian said awkwardly, leaving the room slowly and shutting the door behind him.

Azriel didn’t crack a smile, but you unfortunately did.

You quickly wiped the smirk off your face though, knowing Azriel would take advantage of it somehow.

“You wish this was foreplay, but the only action you’re getting tonight is with your own hand.” You muttered to Azriel.

You wandered past him with your shirt and onto the balcony just off to the side of your room, needing some air before you tried again.

If it weren’t for those rebels in the city you wouldn’t have fallen, which means your arm would still be fine. As it happens, though, the rebels were more important to seek out and get rid of than you and your arm. If a broken arm was the result of stopping bad people do bad things, then so be it.

Didn’t stop it from being annoying to deal with.

Simple chores were now a pain to do.

Things like making a cup of tea, or making Azriel dinner, cleaning or writing up reports for Rhysand were near impossible now. It left you very dependent on others - on your mate, Azriel.

“Will you stop being so stubborn.” Azriel said from where he stood, leaning against the door frame to the balcony.

“Stop, Azriel.”

He sighed knowing you were getting frustrated - something he knew because you never used his full name with him.

“I didn’t realise me trying to help you make me a jerk.” He said bravely.

Sometimes they key with you was to keep pushing.

You scrunched up your shirt and threw it onto the floor.

You walked to the stone balcony, holding your broken arm in your other and cupping them protectively across your chest.

The sun had set perfectly and there were a mesmerising number of twinkling stars watching over you in that moment. The sky was as dark as Azriel’s shadows—

Azriel.

You were the jerk, not him. You sighed heavily, dipping your chin and tugging softly on the golden bond to see if you could fix this situation you’d made a mess of.

The comfort quite literally encased you as Azriel’s arms came to prop up against the balcony on each side of your body, propping his chin on the shoulder of your good arm.

His chest moulded against your back and your body instantly deflated, feeling so comforted by Azriel’s presence.

“I’m right here.” Azriel said, pulling the bond gently in gesture.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” He said, kissing your neck carefully in hopes that it would continue to calm you.

“I’ve been so horrible.”

“I don’t think so.” You could feel Azriel shaking his head slightly against your shoulder. “Look at me, come here.”

Azriel stood back, twisting you around to face him with your back against the balcony.

Your arm was still held in your other and Azriel cupped your cheeks delicately - he knew how much you loved the feeling of his skin against yours. He could feel your love pour down the bond as his scarred fingers brushed over your cheeks.

“I feel useless.” You admitted, looking into his soft hazel eyes.

��Okay.” He prompted you to continue.

“Since I broke my arm I can’t do anything and I feel like I’m being a waste of space - especially if I’m taking you away from important things just to help me dress myself.”

“Are you done?”

“No. If I had just…”

Azriel’s thumb shifts from your cheek to press against your lips, stopping you from speaking.

“That was rhetorical.” He removed his thumb as he spoke, “You are not useless. You’re the damn most important thing in my life and I’ll not have you thinking that you’re anything less than that. Y/N, love, you helped stopped a group of bad people from bringing terror to our city. I’d say that’s nothing short of heroic. So enough with the uselessness thoughts. I enjoy waiting on you, making you breakfast in bed, helping you with paperwork. Every moment we’re together is enough for me, whether you’ve got a broken arm or not.”

You smiled properly for the first time in a while.

Whilst your mate tells you you’re perfect every chance he gets, it doesn’t hurt to hear him say it like that.

“What?” Azriel asked, watching the glint in your eyes sparkle as bright as those stars on the backdrop above you.

“Help me put on my top?”

“Or you could just help me take mine off…” He said suggestively.

You gave him a smirk and pushed him back into the room, watching him take off his own shirt and throw it on the floor. You didn’t care for where it landed. All you cared about was your beautiful mate in front of you and showing him how helpful you can actually be.

[birthanon]

🤰🏠3️⃣🪑🩲🫴🖐️

+Our lovely mama is trapped in her basement, theres barely anything usefull

Hello thanks for the great ask! And to everyone else, thank you for all your asks. I have seen them, but there are also like twenty of them, so It will take me a while to work through them. For now, here is this story.

Contains: fpreg, triplet birth, intense birth denial, pushing baby back in, self-birth denial, clothing birth.

Aspen clung to the railing of the rickety wooden staircase carefully navigating down to the unfinished basement of her new home. Her massive triplet belly ballooned out before her, covered in loose blue nightgown, making it impossible to see the steps she was navigating. As she reached the bottom, a contraction struck her, and she leaned up against the wall, shaking her hips as she breathed through it. These practice contractions were getting more and more frequent, but her husband was out of town until tomorrow morning, and she still had baby beds to bring upstairs and put together.

Walking past the few empty boxes and the old chair the last residents had left down there, Aspen found the box that held the last crib, and hoisted it. It was heavy and awkward. Her body ached, especially since she’d already lugged two other cribs up those stairs today. But she persisted, dragging it over the unfinished cement floor and to the wooden stairs.

As for those, she dragged the box up and over each stair individually, sweating with the effort. She was only three steps up before another contraction hit. She panted her way through it, concerned with how close the last two contractions had come. The pressure was definitely increasing, which wasn’t good. She wanted her husband with her for this birth, which definitely needed to be in a hospital, because there was no way she was going through three births without an epidural. 

Well, she decided, she’d get this set up, then she’d rest to slow down her labor until her husband got home.

The contraction ended, and she began the slow, thump, thump, thump of dragging the heavy crib up one stair at a time. She was about half way up, when a rumbling started. A distant roar at first, like a passing plane or a rumbling lawn mower, then suddenly, it was all around her. The house shook. The stairs swayed—and then she was falling.

She barely had time to process that the stair railing must have given way, sending her toppling face first toward the ground. She threw out her arms to catch herself instinctively just as she smashed into the ground belly first.

There was a massive increase in pain-pressure. Her belly seized. She cried out.

Then the rumbling was over. She checked herself. Her hands stung from the impact with the cement, her stomach ached, but she was otherwise fine. Slowly, cautiously, she sat up, groaning a bit as she did. Her heart was pounding, but she was fine. Except, she realized, there was something sticky between her legs.

She reached down under her dress, shocked at the slick feeling between her legs, and her soaked panties. Had the pressure and fear of her fall caused her to pee? Then she pulled her hand away, and noticed the slight reddish tint, and the musky scent. No, this wasn’t pee. Her waters had broken.

Well, time to get to the hospital. She stood up carefully, then groaned as another contraction wrapped around her stomach. It was so much worse without the softening impact of her waters. She groaned, wrapping around herself, feeling for the first time, the instinctive desire to push.

Aspen ignored it off course, it was far too early and she wasn’t at the hospital. She breathed carefully until the pain eased. Then forced herself to straighten, bracing her low hanging stomach with one hand. 

That was when she saw the stairs—or rather the lack there-of. The whole rickety wooden contraption had collapsed, leaving the door to get out of the basement far out of reach. Wel, fuck.

That was fine, she’d just call 911 and have them get her out of there. She reached into her pockets—because of course she wouldn’t be caught in a pocketless dress. But, no phone. Eyes wide, she started scanning the wreckage of the staircase and her immediate surroundings. It took several minutes and another, even more demanding contraction, before she found the phone, several feet from where she’d landed, screen down on the floor.

She leaned down to get it awkwardly, spreading her legs so she could get lower, her large stomach hanging low, brushing the ground as she reached, until finally, she got her hands around it. Cradling it gently, she began slowly straightening, using her free hand to brace her back. She was halfway up, legs spread wide, when the next contraction struck. Strong, vise-like. Bent as she was, with plenty of space between her legs, instinct screamed push! and she obeyed, tucking her head in and pushing with all her strength.

To her horror, that moment caused movement, the stretching of something deep inside. She screamed with a mixture of pain, effort, and fear, and immediately stopped pushing, but the damage was done. 

Cautiously, while she was still down, she reached a hand up, nudging aside her soaked panties and sticking two fingers up inside her. Instead of feeling her cervix, she found the head, wet and hard. She gasped, and instinctively pulled back as her touch jostled the head and shot agony through her stretching cervix. 

She straightened slowly, though she couldn’t quite get her legs all the way together. Everything down low felt strange, stretched, like a cantaloupe was trying to emerge from her butt. Frantically, she turned to her phone, only to find the screen completely shattered. She pushed a couple buttons, but it was completely unresponsive.

She was trapped. She had no way to call for help. And her triplets were coming.

Her heart started pounding harder, but she tried to breathe through the panic even as her vision blended with tears. She staggered over to the old chair and collapsed into it, legs spread. And cried, tears running down her cheek, lacing her tongue with salt.

Just as they were beginning to dry up, another contraction hit. Rhythmic seizing that started at her back and reached across her massive womb, a stabbing pain, like she was being wrapped up in a burning lasso. She moaned through the agony, feeling her cervix stretch, feeling the baby move down. 

The pain lessened, and she kept crying. Hopeless and scared, as more and more contractions came and went. It wasn’t until she pushed and felt burning as her lips stretched that she was snapped out of her fear-induced funk. 

She instantly stopped pushing. As soon as the pain stopped, she reached down, and felt the bulge of her lips. The first head had yet to emerge, but it was right there. And she would not be giving birth alone in an unfinished basement on a rickety old chair. She needed a plan.

She glanced around the basement, evaluating what she had—an old washer and dryer, the chair she was sitting on, the crib unassembled and buried under some stair rubble, and a stack of empty boxes, most of which had been collapsed. There was the door she couldn’t reach, and a single narrow window which told her it was already dark out—how long had she sat there crying? An hour at least she figured.

Climbing out the window was probably a stretch, but perhaps if she could get up there, she could yell for help. Satisfied with the plan, Aspen stood, legs spread wide, baby just behind her lips, and began waddling awkwardly toward the window, dragging the chair behind her. 

As she awkwardly propped one foot on the chair, ready to clamber up, the next contraction caught her. She groaned, curling forward, legs spread, and the head began to stretch her lips, setting her labia ablaze with pain. She shot her hand down, expecting to find the baby practically out, but though the bulge was definitely larger, the babe was still safely ensconced in her vaginal, all save for a tiny, quarter-sized patch of hair, which vanished as her contraction ended.

All for the better, she thought as she gathered herself, clung to the window ledge, and hauled herself up the rest of the way onto the chair. It wobbled under her weight,  and her large torpedo stomach, pressed against the wall from where she stood. But from here, she could reach the window latch.

She undid it, then began to pull on the window to try and get it open. The intense effort caused another contraction. Her body screamed at her to spread her legs, but the chair was small. They were pressed awkwardly together, close enough she could feel the bulge between her legs increase and touch her thighs. The contraction gave way—the window did not. 

It took about fifteen minutes and three more contractions, her baby getting lower and lower, before finally, the window gave way and slid open. Aspen panted, leaning against the wall, congratulating herself for her success. Then she propped herself up on the window sill and stuck her head out, her stomach pressed between the wall. 

No one was in sight. She called for help, over and over. When the next contraction came, she let herself scream with pain. 

But no one came. She persisted, calling and screaming for help, as contractions seized her, and her lips began to burn more and more, demanding she spread her legs and get the baby out. 

Well, if calling for help wouldn’t work, she’d try crawling through the window. She thought she remembered hearing somewhere that humans could get through anywhere their shoulders could get through, and she thought her shoulders would fit.

First, she reached down between her legs, feeling the head through her panties. It was definitely in the process of crowning, despite her legs being pressed together on this chair. That wouldn’t work for climbing through a window. So, taking a deep breath, she braced her hand against her baby, and pushed it tentatively back in.

She’d thought she was already at a ten on the pain scale—this, this was so much worse. She screamed, but kept pushing through her whole body revolted, until her lips were no longer bulging. She’d need her legs together to get through the window.

Then, whole body shaking from the effort, pain, and shock, Aspen thrust her hands through the window,  and began pulling herself up and through it. Her head made it through all right, her shoulders scrapped a bit at the side, but made it. 

She kicked off the chair, hearing it clatter to the ground as she pulled herself through on her shaking arms. Her large chest made it through, her night dress falling open and letting her see her sweaty boobs when she looked down—lovely. 

Grunting she dragged herself further forward, then she felt her stomach hit the window sill, and her progress stopped. No. She had to get out. 

She waited for the next contraction, when her whole stomach shrunk with the effort of pushing her baby out, then tried again with all her might. And her plan worked! She moved, just a few inches, before her arms gave out and she had to focus on not pushing while her legs and most of her stomach hung on the other side of the window, and her lips began to burn once again.

It was hard to breathe like this, and her back burned with the weight of her stomach dangling freely, pressed against the wall and the window sill. She focused on regaining her breath as she waited for the next contraction, then pulled herself forward a few more inches until her arms gave out once again. 

God, but the pain of the contraction was so much worse when her massive stomach was being actively compressed by the window. She wasn’t even pushing, but even still, she could feel her lips parting once more. 

The next contraction, she tried to pull herself forward more, but made no progress no matter how she pulled. The next contraction she tried again, same result, except the burning down there was really starting up again. The baby was starting to come out.

This wasn’t going to work, Aspen realized. And began trying to back pedal, forcing herself back inside. But she made no progress that way either. She was stuck.

Time stretched. Contractions raged, twice as agony inducing as before. She cried and screamed, and tried not to push as her baby stretched her open more and more, forced forward by the pressure on her stomach and its siblings. From where she lay, she could see the moon through her tear-filled eyes, and watch it rise. Sirens sounded in the city, one passed right by her street, and she thought, perhaps, she’d been rescued, and then it drove on. Leaving Aspen alone, fully feeling her baby’s nose slowly slide out of her as she hung half-in, half-out of the window. Completely stuck.

Then with a particularly hard contraction, her baby’s head shot forward. Aspen screamed as her baby’s head shot out of her, bagging out her panties, touching her thighs, water splattering below.

If she didn’t get out soon, the baby would fall from her to its death. She couldn’t let that happen. With a renewed burst of energy, adrenaline high, Aspen braced herself against the ground, with her hands, brought her feet up awkwardly against the wall, baby head hanging out of her, and pushed.

And then she was moving, falling back, out of the window. She just managed to catch at the ledge with her hands, drawing her fall to a stop. Her stomach slammed against the wall again, leaving her breathless. 

She hung through one more contraction, then dropped to the ground, legs spread, baby jolting painfully in her pussy. 

Panting and exhausted, she leaned against the wall. She had to make a decision before the next contraction: to birth or not to birth. The baby was practically already out, she could get the rest of it out and then keep trying to escape except—she had nowhere to put the baby and no way to cut the umbilical cord. Once the first baby was out, she would be stuck.

So, bracing herself for the worst pain in her life, she cupped her hand around the baby’s head, and shoved. She screamed. Her vision whitened. Her baby kicked in protest. She fell to her knees, and vomited. But, when she’d recovered herself, the baby was safely back inside.

Using the wall, she dragged her exhausted sore body to her feet once more. If she dragged the washer below the door, then put the chair on top of that, maybe she could reach the door and get out that way.

She shuddered at the thought of trying to move that old, heavy machine with her exhausted, trembling body and a baby actively crowning, but it was the only way.

So she waddled over, braced herself, and shoved. Braced herself and shoved. When a contraction came, she stopped, pressed her hand against her soggy, stretched panties, and pressed against her stretched lips, holding the baby in place. As soon as it was over she resumed pushing of a different sort. 

If she was offered a million dollars, she couldn’t have told anyone how long it took her to move the washing machine across the basement. It felt like days, but by the time she’d succeeded it was still dark outside. 

She fell to her knees, sobbing in relief when she looked up and saw the door just above her. Then on her hands and knees, she started clearing away the wood so she could get the machine in just the right place. It felt so good to not be standing. She was so tired. Five contractions later, still holding the head back despite her body’s protest and the increasingly painful contractions, the stairs were cleared away. Two more contractions and the machine was in the right spot. 

She waddled awkwardly, slowly back across the room to the chair, braced against it for a contraction, then dragged it back across the floor with her. She was halfway through getting the chair on top of the washing machine when the next contraction came. Her muscles were engaged, her hands were full, she couldn’t hold the head back, so it lurched forward again, stretching her wide, after she’d been so close to giving birth for so long. Aspen gasped, spreading her legs instinctively. 

Once the chair was in place, she reached down to touch the bulge in her undies. She intended to push it back in, but remembering the horrific agony of doing it last time, she pulled her shaking hand away. She couldn’t go through that again. She’d just have to manage with the head as it was.

So, with the baby’s head fully crowning in her panties, her lips stretched wide, fire roaring through her body, she began to try and clamber on top of the washing machine. But she couldn’t quite get her legs up far enough. At the next contraction, she gave up, holding her baby’s head in her at a full crown, panting in exhaustion. 

When it was done, she lumbered over, legs spread wide, to the box that held the crib. She didn’t have the strength to lift it up, so she bent down, legs spread, stretched pussy in the air, and dragged the box the few feet to the washing machine. Another contraction—then with the crib box as a footstool, she managed to clamber up onto the washing machine, then onto the chair perched wobbly on top.

She reached up, and her hand could touch the door, but she was still several feet from the door knob. There was no ledge for her to stand on, or pull herself further up.

Perhaps, she could drag the dryer over, but there was no way she’d get it on top of the washer in her condition.

She wasn’t getting out.

In one last desperate attempt, she jumped toward the door handle. Her fingers just brushed the base of it. Then she fell back down. She landed on the chair awkwardly as a contraction hit, and her baby shot through the rest of the way, bagging out of her panties. 

She gasped— climbed slowly off the chair, then sat on it, legs spread, stomach low, filling the space between her legs. As she considered her next move, another contraction came, and she pushed. The shoulders began to spread her—and god she thought she’d been spread before. But she was too tired to scream at the new, burning pain. 

Exhausted, robotic, she pushed aside her panties, and gave another final push, there was a gush, and then her baby was in her hands, crying lustily. Smiling, teary-eyed, Aspen pulled it to her. Her dress was dirty, ripped, and drenched with sweat. The baby’s umbilical cord stretched from its stomach to under her dress, warm and wet against her thigh.

She looked down from the chair, which was still perched atop the washing machine. 

So, she was doing it here. She needed to at least not give birth to the other two while on top of the washing machine. So slowly, awkwardly, holding her baby close to her chest, she clambered down the washing machine. Then she pulled the chair down with her. Sitting had been nice, for her birth. 

It was awkward to shift the baby from one arm to another to get her dress off. She set it across the splintered wooden chair, then sat down and shimmied out of her underwear. Finally, she allowed herself to collapse back, guiding the baby to her leaking breast to drink.

The next contractions came nearly immediately, moving her next baby down. She pushed freely with it, for the first time in her birthing process, and it came fast. Two pushes and she was bulging. Another, and the dreaded, familiar burn began again. 

She leaned further back in her chair, so she could spread her legs wider, off the side of the chair. She needed to focus, needed to push. But she had a baby in her hands, and she didn’t want to hurt it. 

The crib was the solution.

Groaning, she fell to her knees, then placed her baby on the dress covered chair. Her legs were spread still, giving the baby space to crown as she worked to open the crib. Contraction. Push, The baby eased forward. Then it was done, and she was back to wrestling with the crib. She’d already put together two that day, or at this point, yesterday, so she could work efficiently. It was a race. She was pushing, but her body was flagging, the progress was slow, but consistent. She had to move around some, clambering around on her spread knees, fully spread around her baby’s head. Then, the head was out with another gush, right after she’d finished putting together the frame. Grabbing the thin pad, she pulled herself to her feet, lay down the pad, then a contraction was coming and she pushed. Her hands shot down, and she pulled the baby from her, panting with relief. 

The baby cried, and she held it to her, crying as well, with relief. Two down. One to go. 

It was awkward, maneuvering the babies into the bed while they were still attached to her. She had to pull the chair close to the crib so she could sit down as the next contraction came. She moaned and pushed as the sun began to cast light in through her window.

She crowned as the sunlight spread across the floor. Her third baby’s head shot from her as she heard the door open upstairs, and heard her husband call her name. And, as the shoulders spread her open, the door to the basement opened, and her husband appeared, just as the final baby passed from her, crying out its welcome to the world.

[luveline]

hi jade!!!! hope you’re doing well❤️

i’m not sure if you’ve done this before but i just finished reading your aaron fic where reader flinches during an argument with him and i was wondering if i could request that with spencer!? that aaron one had me MELTIN

luv you so much! 🤍🤍

thank you lovely, and thank you for your request! cw implied past domestic or childhood violence

Spencer is taller than he realises, you’d suggest. He doesn’t understand that he can be intimidating because he’s spent years of his life intimidated, and thought harmless. 

“You’re not going,” he says, towering, so, so tall where he stands in front of you. 

Your hands are sweating, but you hold your ground. “Of course I am. I’ve been her consultant for the last three years, Spencer, any mistake she’s made is one she made from my advice.” 

Your frustration colours your words, tightens them, your throat burning as you try to explain it to him. All he’s hearing is the potential danger. His eyes are squinted with it, curls falling into his eyes. He’s too busy arguing with you to brush them away. 

“You can’t walk into an active war zone. Do you even know what that’s like? You’ve never been to these places, you can’t begin to understand the danger you’d be in if you went.” He tries to take your hand. You take a step away from him. “I don’t know why you’re being like this.” 

“Like what?” you ask, immediately doubly pissed off. 

“Refusing to see that what you want to do is impossible. You wouldn’t be any help to her, you’d only be in danger.” 

“I wouldn’t be any help?” 

“You know what I mean!” His voice bounces off the walls.

“I’m not sure I do, Spence,” you say, vitriolic as he again takes a step toward you, his open hand extended. “Why don’t you explain it to me.” 

“Y/N,” he says, stepping forward again. 

You step back, not wanting your back to a wall but not wanting to be closed in either while he’s so angry, you’re so angry, your heart is beating hard between your ears. “Seriously, tell me why I’d be so fucking useless.” 

“Angel–” Spencer’s hand leaps up toward your face. 

You flinch back hard, the back of your head clipping something marginally softer and your back forced under an alcove with a huge thwacking bang, an odd cry of distress pressed to your closed lips as you sink away from him. Spencer doesn’t feel like Spencer for that split second, he’s someone else trying to shut you up, and he’s close enough to do it. 

“Y/N,” he says, riddled with heartbreak, “Y/N, it’s fine. You’re safe. It’s just me.” 

You slide down the wall to the floor. Heart pounding. Blood rushing all over, and then suddenly stopped. 

“It’s just me,” he says again, softer now. “It’s just me.”

But it isn’t just him. There’s always going to be someone else cornering you, there’s always—

A slim-fingered hand cups your jaw. Spencer’s crouching in front of you now with remorse in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to do anything to you.” 

“I know,” you try to say. It comes out as nothing but hot air. You clear your throat. “I know.” 

“It’s just you and me in here.” He rubs your chin with his thumb. “It’s always you and me, right?” 

You breathe out as tears well hot and heavy in your eyes, caught in all your lashes. “You put your hand up and I just thought– I felt like you were gonna hit me and I know you aren’t gonna hit me, I felt like you would.” 

“I was putting my hand up for the cabinet. I was trying to stop you from smacking your head on the cabinet,” he murmurs, his lips hardly parted. “I did. But I shouldn’t have closed you in.” 

He shows you his hand, the one he’d rested so carefully against your jaw and cheek. His knuckles are a sore red and the skin around them mottled —that had been the thwack. You’d knocked your head into his hand and he’d stopped you from getting hurt. He must’ve done it quickly, with no regard for himself. 

Spencer isn’t the kind of boy who’d hit you. 

“Oh, fuck,” you mumble to yourself, dropping your chin to your chest. Tears press hot behind your eyes. It took a few beatings for you to start anticipating them, and a crueller violence after that for it to stay. To flinch at a familiar hand? “I’m sorry.” 

“What are you sorry for?” He couldn’t speak any softer. He’s on his knees in front of you, a picture of gentleness. The annoyance he’d spoken with only minutes before is nowhere to be seen. 

For flinching, and falling apart. “I didn’t mean to…” 

“Yeah, I know. It doesn’t even matter, right? I shouldn’t have gotten so mad, and I,” —he ducks his head to meet your eyes, his voice taking on a loving dulcetness— “know you don’t like yelling, I shouldn’t raise my voice. I’m the sorry one.”

You’re relieved he isn’t mad. You honestly don’t think Spencer would ever lay his hands on you, but it wasn’t thought that made you duck away from him, it was the pure fight or flight of a remembered trauma. The memory of a raised hand and the pain of a blow to your face.

“It’s not about the shouting,” you confess. 

He rubs your arm. “Angel, I know.”

You watch his fingers rub up and down your arm, the gentle tug of your skin with each pass. “Why do you call me that?” you ask quietly. 

“Would you prefer something else?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know how you’d sound saying anything else.” 

“You’re sort of like an angel.” He sounds earnest and shy at once. “You know? You're pretty, and sweet when you aren’t mad at me, and–” He pauses at your soft laugh. “I really didn’t mean to scare you. I’m so sorry.” 

He brings both hands to your cheeks and wipes at the dampness of dissipated tears under your eyes with his thumbs. He holds your face without hurry nor roughness nor want to straighten you out; he doesn’t encourage you to lift your head, he only meets your eyes as you are, letting you decide what you want to do. 

“Thanks, Spencer,” you say. 

He leans in to kiss your cheek, his hair brushing your nose. You hold still, but you aren’t afraid.

[squinch-depraved]

idea: schlatt and you trying some special sex chocolate and accidentally take way more than you mean to and the effects r starting to take place 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

-🐏 anon

oh this is yuMMy. delicious. scrumptious, even. thank u to 🐏 anon for being my first ever ask ily mwah i hope this is good i've never used these chocolates before but i might have to 🫣

coming home from a long day to your boyfriend's empty apartment was not what you were hoping for. you were hoping to come home to him watching something on the tv, rotting on the couch in his usual comfy clothes, playing with his two sweet cats, and just waiting for you to get home. in your mind, he would have sprung up to greet you the second the door opened, gliding through the apartment to place a tender kiss on your lips as he picks you up and twirls you around. but the unnerving silence you actually did come home to rips you from your daydream before he can place you back down on the ground and gush about how much he missed you. the cats finally skitter up to you, meowing and trilling in a way that lets you know they're absolutely starved for attention (he's been gone maybe 20 minutes, probably). cooing at the sweet babies as they butt their heads into your legs, you pet them and settle in for the night.

after having changed into one of his shirts and deciding pants weren't worth the effort, you stumble into the kitchen to grab a snack. lucky you, your perfect boyfriend had left a plain gold box of 12 wrapped chocolates on the counter! no labels, other than a little logo in the corner, but a small note was stuck onto the top of the box, reading: "take ONE - be back soon toots" along with a heart. you sigh contentedly and tear into the box. you hadn't had much time to eat today, and you were sure your boyfriend who loved to spoil you would be fine with you having more than the allotted amount of mysterious chocolates. what's the worst that could happen, they're edibles? at least then you'll have a story to contend with ted's!

the first chocolate melts on your tongue, leaving an almost rosy flavor behind that you can't quite get enough of. you debate if this'll be worth the punishment, but the chocolate was impossibly good, so you decide to go in for one two three more before dancing yourself down the hallway and into your shared bedroom. feeling slightly warm, you lay down in the middle of your bed and put some random video on the tv, dozing off a few minutes later. your job was exhausting, he'll get the hint you're sleeping and come find you when he gets home to a silent apartment. see how he likes it.

but he doesn't come home to a silent apartment. whimpers and moans bounce off the walls, echoing down the hall from your bedroom's open door. his eyes immediately dart to the little gold box on the counter, eyebrows shooting up in an oh, fuck motion when he sees the four wrappers littering the surface. he quickly drops his stuff where it needs to go and pops two chocolates in his mouth himself, figuring he'll need help keeping up with you after how many you've had, before quickly walking to the bedroom. the sight that awaits him leaves him standing in the doorway for a while until he finally decides to wake you up.

you lay there, babbling in your sleep, random phrases about how good something feels and how close you were. mostly incoherent horny gibberish. your (his) shirt has ridden up a bit, panties visible and soaked as you writhe unconsciously, desperately trying to get friction from a pillow, the blanket, something, anything. it makes him smirk, and he watches you for a moment before sitting down and gently stroking your cheek.

"y/n," you hear. "doll, c'mon, i gotta take care of you." you slowly come to, and once you process that he's here, he's back, you jump him. pulling him down to kiss you before attacking his neck with little nibbles until he pulls away, a stern (yet amused) look on his face. "i told you one. ONE. piece of chocolate."

you hide your face in your hands. "what the fuck did you do to me, j?? i thought maybe they were edibles or something, but this doesn't feel like a normal high? i'm sorry, i know i shouldn't have eaten them now but oh my god, what did you DO to me? i feel like a feral, ovulating, cavewoman or some shit!!" you whine, earning a laugh from him.

"they're sex chocolates."

you move your hands and look at him. "sex chocolates," you repeat.

he nods.

"why the fuck wouldn't you say that??" you smack his arm.

he grins and replies, "thought the mystery would be sexy."

"i mean, inadvertently, yeah!" you sigh, amused and frustrated all at the same time.

he strokes your hair and kisses your forehead. "i took two to keep up with you," he breathes into your ear.

you hook your legs around him and pull him as close to you as you can. "then let's go! c'mon, c'mon, c'mon," you pant as you grind up against him, groans spilling from his lips. "fuck me! touch me! something, j, please, i'm begging you," you plead, kissing him frantically all over his chest and neck. hands exploring under his sweater and dragging nails down his back, arching your back and moaning without him having to even do anything, he swears he's never been this hard.

the first time you cum, it's from his head between your thighs, tongue lapping at your clit and sopping pussy like a man deprived of water for days. he keeps going until you're crying, begging him for another kind of stimulation besides his thick fingers ramming in and out of you and his chops brushing against your purple-marked thighs. the second time you cum is also from his masterful mouth, and this time he listens when you say you can't take it anymore. he drags himself up to look at you, kisses you in a way that leaves you breathless, and slowly pushes himself into you as you whine and squirm.

round one, he starts gentle, slowly working his way up to a medium pace, where he starts fondling your chest. once he really gets going, though, he's spitting on you, choking you, and rubbing your clit with his thumb all while pounding into you at an incredible pace. "so good for me, toots," he growls, fucking into you almost inhumanely now. all you can manage is a whimper. you cum once more before he pulls out and makes you suck him off til he finishes, grabbing your hair and guiding you up and down, and then really far down before cumming down your throat.

ten minutes of making out later and round two starts with him shoving you down, hands and knees, so he can shove himself into you from behind. something about the recoil of your ass makes his brain short circuit. he brings his hand around to your clit again and it's not long before you're screaming that you're about to cum again, and he smacks your ass so hard you know it's going to leave a mark and says, "fuckin' cum for me, you stupid slut. can't listen to directions but i bet you'll follow that one, huh?" through gritted teeth. you cry out and collapse as your fourth orgasm rips through you. he holds you up long enough for him to somehow speed up before filling you up with his pearlescent seed.

you both lay there for a second before he kisses the back of your head and pulls out, leaving to go get you some water and then help you to the bathroom. you make a mental note to always eat more than one of those chocolates and sigh, finally feeling satisfied.

[reelovesfictionalmen]

A bad dream.

This is kind of a continuation of "just some comfort", same reader, same age, same job, same relationship with Nikto... well the relationship is progressing some.

In your dream there was someone chopping down a tree with an axe annoying the hell out of you. Soon you started to wake, blearily realising the sound was someone knocking on your door. Checking your phone you saw it was 3:27am. Groggily you got out of your bed and with a scowl you unlocked and opened your door to a frantic Nikto but, before you could even get a word out he held your face and checked you over, feeling the back of your head, turning it slightly to check for something. In your daze you realised he was checking you for a head wound. You brought your hand up to tap his collar bone, grabbing his attention and mumbling out a sleepy " 'm fine, Nikto. 'm okay" His shoulders relaxed and his eyes grew less frantic, then you pulled him into your room, closing and locking the door behind you. When you turned to look at him you realised he wasn't wearing a mask or balaclava, just a hoodie pulled as far over his face as it could go and was staring at the ground.

"you're a fool" "she's seen you weak now" "she'll hate us" "what if she sends me away" The voices mixed with his own berated him for coming to your room, for letting you seem him scared, for letting you pull him into your space. Your space, it smells like you, he shouldn't be here, he doesn't belong here. "Nikto, sweetheart. Hey!" you calling for him pulls him out of the darkness in his thoughts. He forces his eyes to meet your sleepy ones, feeling bad just realising he woke you. "we're sorry.. w-we had a bad dream.. you were dead" he mutters unable to keep his voice steady "We.. I was scared.. didn't think and came here. We will go" He goes to pull away and reach for the door but you hug him, wrapping your arms around him laying them flat on his back a muffled "stay" yawned into his chest. Shakily he brings one of his arms around your shoulders, scared this is just another part of his awful dream. But it wasn't a dream, you were real, he could feel your warmth, smell your shampoo, your soft hair brushing against his fingers as he unconsciously reached to stroked your head.

The two of you stayed like that for some time, you weren't sure how long only that you had started to fall back to sleep but standing up. Staggering against him, you pulled back a bit and smiled softly up at his almost blank face. It would be almost impossible to tell he was feeling anything if it was not for how his hands flexed against you and the light dusting of pink on his scarred cheeks. "I need to sleep, come with me?" you asked shyly. You watched his eyes widen then settle before nodding. Sleepily you trodded over to your bed, climbing in, pulling the covers back and patting on the bed beside you with a smile.

He couldn't actually believe he was doing this, agreeing to getting into your bed with you but, he may never get this chance again. The memories of laying next to you could keep him warm for nights to come. When you laid back and patted your shoulder for him to lay his head on he froze about to say no but his body was moving on his own, his head found your shoulder, his face was resting against your breast and he put his arm around you. Pulling the blanket over the both of you, you started to stroke his back with one hand and your other was resting on his arm. It didn't take long for you to fall back to sleep, your soft snores and the thumping of your heart lulling Nikto into a relaxed state. After some time he started to worry about his weight on you so he lifted his head off of your shoulder, laid on his side next to you and pulled you into his arms.

He will do everything he can to keep you with him, he needs you, they need you. They will protect you, they will keep you safe.

I'm not proud of this, it was just something I daydreamed about for like 2 weeks now and had to get it out of my brain. Pls enjoy~

[save-the-villainous-cat]

With all the strength they had left, the hero crawled into the villain’s apartment through the window. After surviving the superhero, this should have been easy but it turned out to be exhausting.

The hero had landed in the bathroom and without wasting another second, they pulled themselves up and searched through the cabinets. Unfortunately, their bloody hands left enough evidence of them breaking in already. They supposed they’d have to face the villain sooner or later, even if that meant the villain was going to throw them out again.

For now, they found something close enough to practical — a razor — and opened the first aid kit the villain usually stored under the cabinet. Before they could take out the blades, the villain opened the door.

“You’re not as quiet as you think.” The hero looked at them and smiled softly. Teeth stained with blood, heavy limbs.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” they said. With no hesitation, the villain helped them up and took the razorblades out of their hands.

“What happened to that pretty face?” they asked. With one hand on the hero’s hip, they reached for a clean towel and turned on the sink. They let the soft fabric drench in warm water and gently cleaned up the hero’s face.

It all happened so fast. The villain didn’t seem to mind that the hero was here in the middle of the night.

And they were close. So close.

Whereas the villain was focused on the hero’s face and getting rid of all that blood, the hero stared into their eyes. Maybe it was this cruel change: brutal violence coming from someone they had adored to gentle tenderness from someone they had loathed.

The villain looked down at them. Their thumb traced the hero’s jawline and the hero looked away, almost ashamed.

“You look like shit,” the villain whispered. “And you woke me up.”

“I’m sorry,” the hero said. They looked at the villain’s clothes — their underwear and a shirt. The hero blushed a little. They took the villain’s hand and reached for the razorblades. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

The hero let go of them with a gaze that lingered a little too long.

“They chipped me,” the hero explained. They cleaned the blade with some rubbing alcohol and took in a deep breath. “Chipped me like a fucking dog.”

They cut into their own forearm, watching as the blood ran down their skin. It burnt even more than the open wounds on the hero’s back. They supposed they just had gotten used to that sort of pain, even if that was impossible.

With the blade, they dug through skin and muscle, clenching their teeth until they found the little tracker. They cursed when they pushed their fingers into the wound to fish it out.

Once they had the bloody device in their hand, they let it fall to the ground and crushed it under their boot.

“I knew trackers are useless at your place. You’ve slipped through my fingers quite a few times that way.”

The villain didn’t say anything. They just stared at the hero who cleaned their arm.

It wasn’t exactly easy to crawl to their nemesis and beg for shelter. The hero was too proud to do that anyway and they had planned to leave after cutting out the microchip.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” the hero said.

“You didn’t bother me.” The villain took a step forward and took the hero’s hands. “Are you alright?”

The hero frowned.

“Of course I am. I’m fine. I’m doing great.”

“You’re sure about that?” The villain let their fingers intertwine and suddenly, the hero felt very tired very quickly. “You’ve been so busy these last few days. I barely got to see you. They sent over some other lame heroes.”

The hero chuckled tiredly.

“I mean, why would they think I am satisfied with all the other rabble?” One of their hands glided down the hero’s forearm where they put pressure on the wound. “You always wanted to be a hero. When did that change?”

“I don’t know,” the hero said but the desperation and the hopelessness were already settling in. It didn’t even buy them time to lie to the villain. One way or another they found out anyway and most of the time, they asked the hero questions they already had the answers to.

The hero couldn’t really take it anymore. The pain was too much, their mind was breaking more and more.

“Oh, so many tears on such a pretty face,” the villain said. They pulled the hero closer and wiped their tears away with the back of their hand. “Don’t you know it’s not your fault?”

“They turned against me,” the hero said. Their voice trembled. “All of them. They chipped me, they put a bounty on my head. They’re trying to kill me because I don’t agree with…with all this shit.”

The villain cupped their face. “With what?”

“With all this stupid collateral damage and these dumb advertisements. Most of the time I feel like a mascot, I’m barely saving any people.”

“Oh, darling.” The villain tilted their head. Their presence was comforting in a way the hero hadn’t had experienced before. Whatever they’d done to each other in the past, the hero didn’t care. They were familiar, they were warm. The hero wasn’t going to let anyone take this moment away from them. “And who exactly beat you up like this? Your boss, I assume?”

“…yeah.” They could play pretend. They could pretend the villain was closer, that they were more than acquaintances. Even if it wasn’t real, even if the villain was using them, the hero needed some affection right now. They’d gladly give the heartbreak to their future self.

“My poor hero,” the villain said softly. “Would you let me stitch you up?”

The hero nodded.

“I’ll protect you,” the villain promised. They pulled them close to hug the hero. The hero didn’t understand why they were so gentle, so kind. Most of the time, they insulted each other like children. But the hero needed this. They really did. “They will pay for this.”

[queers-gambit]

Fine Line

prompt: ( requested ) going after the same silver briefcase, you and Tangerine exchange more than a few blows. pun intended.

pairing: Tangerine x female!assassin!reader

fandom masterlist: Bullet Train

word count: 5.2k+

note: got a little outside my comfort zone with this one, so, hopefully it's not 1000% trash but you've been warned now.

warnings: codename "Peach", basically the request with a FEW tweaks here and there, so, some spoilers, cursing, (shitty) slutty smut [spitting, squirting, mean!Tan, PIV, male receiving oral, degrading behavior, talk of tops and bottoms], Tan is a switch i do not care, is this enemies to lovers? yes. depiction of canon-typical physical violence, blood, injury.

There was a fine line between love and hate.

You love your family, but God Almighty, did you hate their behavior in most public settings. You love homemade cake, but hate the entire baking process, especially the dishes. You love getting your nails done and feeling pampered, but hate sitting still in one place for that amount of time.

And you love getting fucked, but hate dealing with people.

The whole meeting someone, getting to know them, getting to a place of comfort to bring them home. It was a hassle, it was annoying to you; akin to an inconvenience and disruption. You didn't mind Tinder, actually - thinking of it as "Dick on Demand", never really needing the awkward stages of acquaintanceship. You didn't like going out places "to meet people", too busy with your work to truly put forth effort. Plus, your job didn't exactly allow for romantic entanglements to become knots; you had to keep loose and available.

This is what made your job ideal: it was remote, kept you busy, on the move, without the weight of baggage attached to people. Plus, it didn't give time nor room for anyone to become attached to you - something that always made you impossibly uncomfortable. A job such as this made life impossibly lonely, but you operated better this way - without anyone needing you, worrying about you, keeping tabs, being in your business. You liked being on your own, it was just easier. It made sense. There was logic behind it.

Didn't mean you were 100% alone, however. You had "coworkers"... Sorta. You had employers, though you were unsure where exactly they were stationed. You, yourself, resided mostly in London, but operated globally, wherever you were needed - or more like wherever you were sent to. These "coworkers" of yours had similar jobs, and while you hated putting a label on basically anything, in laymen's terms, you were a contract killer. Those you interacted with, typically, were other contract killers - but usually working different jobs.

Rarely were multiples from the same organization sent on the same job, yet it still happened.

On the off chance, you encountered a few individuals that were employed by other organizations; making them rivals instead of coworkers.

You were unsure which this all was yet...

You had been contracted by an invisible, anonymous employer to retrieve a silver briefcase with a train sticker on the handle, your handler encouraging you to get off the bullet train the moment it was in your possession. But there was a problem: you weren't the only one working this case, if the Ladybug twat and Twins was any indication.

When you located the case, you were instantly engaged by the blonde man with thick, black framed glasses; honestly getting the shit kicked out of you.

Currently, you were in possession of the case, but that was sure to change since it had already switched hands multiple times that chaotic night. You had come to a skidding halt, panting heavily, bent over on your knees in a vacant first class train car after escaping (momentarily) from Ladybug. Spitting blood from your mouth, you dialed your handler with shaking fingers; heaving a deep sniffle.

"You still alive?"

"I'll fuckin' choke you myself, Susan, I swear t'God," you groaned, sliding to the ground in exhaustion; wiping the trail of blood from your nose with a grimace.

Susan chuckled, "What's happening, honey girl?"

"Y-You didn't tell me I wasn't the only one workin' this!"

"Well, I heard rumor the Twins might be on the same case, but you usually beat them to the punch, don't you?"

"Yeah, but not this time," you winced.

"I'm sure Tangerine was happy to see you," you could hear her grin.

"Fuck off."

"He's into you, you know."

"The man snapped my tibia, punctured my kidney, and broke my nose - don't think that constitutes as anything romantic."

"Oh, you're into it," she laughed. "And don't act as if he ever walked away, scot free. If I remember correctly, you've shanked him twice?"

"He deserved it," you coughed. "Listen, fuck Tangerine - "

"I know you want to."

"Susan! Fuckin' listen to me!" You snarled. "They're not alone - there's another guy. For fuck's sake, Susan, I just got my arse kicked by a dude with a manbun!"

"Another guy? With a manbun? They're still in style?"

"Oh, my God - does it even mat - YES, they're always in style. Listen, this guy goes by the name Ladybug. Who do we know that uses codenames like that? What org?"

"Hmm," Susan thought aloud.

"What?" You spat blood from your mouth again, licking at the split lip.

"Could be KBS? They use animal codenames on rotation."

"Fuck all," you groaned. "Well, Mr. Ladybug can throw a fuckin' punch. Think he cracked a rib. But you know what? He's handsome. Almost feel bad for knockin' his lights out."

"Where are you?"

You looked around, "Emotionally? Physically?"

"You know what I mean, Peach. Where's the case?"

"With me," you assured, "uh, and I, uh... I'm not 100% where I am, I missed a couple stops fightin' these dumbfucks. Might be four stops from Kyoto? Five?"

"Get off before the end of the line," Susan warned. "At this point, I don't care if you have the case or not."

"Wait... Susan, what's that mean?"

She paused and sighed deeply, "All right, fine, time to get serious. Some intel came in, Peach... And the White Death bought out the train until the end of the line. I actually care about your safety and this just screams danger, so, get off before Kyoto, Peach, my girl. Hear me?"

"I hear you, mamas," you agreed. "I'll get off next... Stop... Oh, you've got t'be joking! Fuck me!"

"Gladly," Tangerine smirked and jokingly reached for his belt with perked brows, standing in the automatic doorway; looking beat to hell, similar to you.

You glared at him and offered your middle finger, his hands dropping as he surveyed the train car.

"Peach?"

"I'll call you back, Susan," you deflected into the phone, quickly hanging up and deflating. "Jesus fuck, look, I'm really not in the mood, Tan. Can we just make this quick? The fuck you want?"

"Do I look like I'm here t'play fuckin' games, Peach?" Tangerine asked, stalking slowly towards where you were slumped in the aisle, mid-train car, while dripping in his own blood.

"Still look like a clown t'me," you quipped. "I'll ask again: the fuck you want, Tangerine?"

"Gonna need that case, sweet peach."

You scoffed. "Seriously? You're after it, too?"

"'Fraid so."

"How many of us are on assignment? For this one fuckin' case?" You snipped, kicking the case a little.

"You look like you've seen the Ladybug fucker, haven't yah, doll?"

"He with you?"

"Fuck no."

"Where's Lemon, then?"

"Few back," He gestured back over his shoulder, pausing when you got to your feet. "C'mon, love, don't do this," He warned, mustache curling as his lip did. There was a deranged look in his eye, something stirring in your gut; seeing the shine of tears never shed, the anger, a high-strung energy filling the space around you.

"I just want off this train, Tan," you begged quietly. "Look, call it whatever you want, but something else is goin' on here - shit ain't right. Be honest, how much more difficult has tonight been? Why have we all been sent after the same briefcase? When it's supposed to just be a fucking grab job?"

Tangerine cocked his head, "Nah, no, we're on delivery."

"What?"

"Yeah, supposed t'deliver this kid and the case t'his father in Kyoto," his brows knit together.

You scolded, "You dumb fuckin' idiot!"

"I beg your pardon, sweetheart?" He leered, stepping another step closer; knotting your stomach.

"You workin' for the White Death?"

"How'd you - "

"Susan got intel, said he bought out the train, Tan. Fuck's really goin' on?"

Tangerine's jaw flexed, sighing through his nose, "Guess cat's out the bag now, innit? Yeah," he sighed, shrugging a bit, "we're doin' this job for him."

"Which means he's gonna kill us at the end of the line - why else ensure there's no other witnesses?" There was a long pause, both staring into each other's eyes without shifting attention. You shrugged and whispered, "You know, we could just jump off the bloody train. Grab Lem, get off the train before Kyoto, just fuckin' go."

"Who gets the case?"

"Where's the kid you've gotta deliver?"

"Dead - murdered, actually."

"Then you're already fucked and your job's done," you shrugged, "so, I keep the case and we all three keep our lives."

Tan sighed through his nose, offering, "You drive a temptin' bargain, love. Always enjoy our li'l run-ins," his hand extended to rest on your waist, freezing time. "But I can't walk away without that case. Lemon's down, he's been drugged, so, trust me, I'm all for just jumpin' ship, but I need the case, darlin'."

"So do I, I have somewhere else to deliver it."

"Then we have ourselves a Mexican Standoff, then, yeah?"

"No, that'd require a third."

"Kinky, but I prefer t'keep things between us, wouldn't you?" He purred against your lips, not quite kissing you as his hand tightened over bruised skin.

"Tan, don't do this," you breathed in the space between you.

"For whatever it's worth, I do usually feel bad after kickin' your arse - though, I'd much rather prefer t'kiss it."

"We can arrange that later," you smiled prettily, surging forward to kiss him fully. It was sweaty, cruel, bloody, and rough - everything you knew Tangerine to be. Yet right when he seemed entranced enough, both his hands caging your hips to his, you bit his lip in time to bring your knee up into his groin.

It sparked your fight, both exchanging blows without hesitation. You could feel your adrenaline propelling you, but it was quickly dwindling as Tangerine seemed renewed and invigorated by your fight. You, however, fought dirty; you had to - you had no other choice. He was physically bigger, stronger, but you were faster, and dare you say it, smarter. You didn't need integrity when defending yourself, easily using Tan's strength against him to add to the collect of bruises, cuts, and blood smears. But he still managed to manhandle you, sending you careening into empty seats and giving you whiplash.

You managed to swing on his back, preventing him from reaching his gun; legs coiling around his arms and flexing your abs to yank backwards. You grunted when you hit an empty bench, his head bouncing between your breasts; holding him hostage for a brief moment before you felt his hands grip your thighs in an innocently provocative way.

The moan from your lungs was unintentional, Tan flipping you both so you were on your stomach; him hovering over your back with a grunt. But there was a familiar feeling pressed into your bottom, head lifting slightly to struggle under Tangerine's grip; his reaction being exactly what you wanted as he pressed further into you.

"Just - fucking stay still!" He barked, trying to pin your hands behind you.

"Oh, you'd like that, huh?" You snapped, still struggling. "Some submissive li'l bitch?"

"Oh, darlin', I love me a top," he growled in your ear, grinding his swelling cock further into your ample arse cheeks, "but only good girls are so lucky. But don't worry," he chuckled, "I usually have cuffs on me for the bad girls, hey?"

"Fuck off, Tan, get off," you grunted, wriggling; grinding your hips up into him to try and dislodge him. He breathed deeper, and your mind played tricks on you because you swore you felt him grind back.

"I quite like this position, though, love."

"Thought you liked a top?"

"Doesn't mean I can't enjoy my own moments, huh? And you seem like you're far too used t'gettin' your way."

"So, which is it, then? You wanna fuck me or get fucked by me?"

"That an earnest question?"

You paused, "If it means I get the case, fuck yeah."

"That's not what it means, doll, but if what Susan says is true..." He nuzzled your neck briefly, lips ghosting your ear, mustache tickling your skin as he finished, "Might not get another chance."

You know he loosened his grip to let your arms snap back under you; groaning in relief. After panting for a moment, you lifted your head again, feeling his cheek brush yours and pausing to relish in the oddly intimate position. "We can always get the fuck off this train? Find a hotel in a nearby city?" You offered. "Can get me all night if you play your cards right."

"Know I can't, sweet peach," he whispered.

"Then why waste more time?" You mused, hissing when his mouth instantly fell to your neck in an open kiss that scraped his teeth into your soft flesh. "Hey - no! No ti-ime," your word hitched when he licked the sensitive skin in-sync with a roll of his hips, thrusting his hardening cock into the crease of your cheeks; making your spine shudder when his teeth scraped again.

"We got a li'l time," he promised. "Enough for a taste? You as sweet as your name, baby? Huh?"

"Tan, oh, my God," you breathed in disbelief when he reared back and manhandled you so he could unlatch the buckle of your belt and start shucking the material from your hips. "What if someone - "

"Shut up," he snapped, freeing your thighs. "Got me too fuckin' worked up t'worry 'bout someone walkin' in, yeah? Both know what's waitin' for us, don't we?"

"The White Death," you felt him yank your pants to your ankles and then shove your shoes off, pants following to the floor. "Fuck's sake!" You yelped when he roughly fingered your slit over your newly exposed panties, hearing his belt buckle jingle.

"Oi, no - "

"Fuck off," you snapped when you turned over suddenly, forcing him to pull back and glare, "I wanna watch - might as well give me a show, right? Since you're 'bouta get us all killed?"

He scoffed, "You're gettin' off the train, darlin', you're not meetin' the White Death tonight."

"Damn straight," you hooked your panties with your thumbs, lifting your hips, yanking the garment down as Tangerine continued to unlatch his belt, peel down his zipper, then pull both his boxers and trousers down in one motion.

"This isn't gonna be soft and sweet, love," he warned, standing over you on the train seat; pumping his cock to full mast while never lifting his eyes from you. "I've wanted you longer than I'll ever admit, I've got some ideas."

Your eyes rolled and fingers skated down your dampening cunt, "You're on a time schedule, maybe shut the fuck up and just fuck me already?"

He scoffed, lowering himself over you and making you gulp in anticipation; hands gravitating to his blackened waist. "You sure got a fuckin' mouth on you, don't'cha? That's all right, doll, I got somethin' for yah." His hand rose to pop a few buttons on your blouse, exposing your bra, asking, "You got a safe word?"

"Tangerine."

"Hmm? What?"

"No, that's my safe word."

"You fuckin' shithead," he hissed over your mouth, lips parting in a silent gasp when his hot cock dropped over your cunt in a tantalizing tease. "Be serious for once, yeah?"

You shrugged, "How's about 'pineapple', or is that one of your buddies names?"

"Pineapple it is," he grumbled, descending to your lips in a searing kiss that stole your breath and made your nails curl into his flesh. But a whimper emitted when he pulled back suddenly, standing over you, and moving towards your head. "Open," he demanded, holding his cockhead at your lips. "Don't give me shit about time, you need t'learn. Open your mouth."

You obediently opened your lips and Tan wasted no time in thrusting himself into your mouth; not too deep, not too rough, but enough to make you inhale sharply and readjust your position. Your one hand pumped what couldn't fit in your mouth, the other holding his thigh for balance; choking from the awkward position, but it made Tan smirk.

"That's it, see? Not so hard," he mocked. "Just gotta keep your mouth busy." You whimpered, cradling his balls; giving a playful squeeze that made him moan lightly. "Fuck, you look so pretty like this," he reached for your cheek and jaw, gently moving his hips - making you pause yourself to let him move. "Oh, fuck, that's - fuck," he seethed, "just let me do whatever I want t'you, won't you? Take a li'l more, good, good, just breathe," he guided, mouth opening in shock when he watched more of himself disappear in your mouth. "Oh, Jesus - you're such a dirty fuckin' girl, look at yah - so eager, willing," he nearly choked when he hit the back of your throat. "Shit - baby, don't," he paused to grunt, hunching over slightly and holding himself up on the back cushion of the train's seating. "Don't hurt yourself," he whimpered, your jaw opening just a fraction more, throat constricting when his cockhead slid against your uvula.

"Oh, my God," he praised, testing the waters and trying to thrust - but your gagging and choking made him pull back. "Okay, okay, too much, sorry, love. Oh, shit," he gasped when you didn't let him pull out all the way, still sucking him as if you were getting paid for it. "Yeah? 'S like that? Oh, you Godsend angel. Gonna be good fa' me? Huh? Keep quiet?" He asked gruffly, making you swallow around him; earning a hiss. "You're fuckin' dangerous, aren't you?" He scoffed, "Too bad I won't get t'take my time, innit? Fuck."

You hummed as he retracted his hips fully. His eyes caught yours as he spread your saliva around his swollen member, hearing you mumble, "Can still get off with me."

He sighed, "Isn't that easy, doll," as he lowered himself back onto the bench over you. "There's more at stake - "

"I know," you nodded, guiding his forehead to yours as you pet his cheeks; the cut he earned smearing against your skin. "Just an offer, ain't it? Just thought if yah did come, could actually have yah in my mouth - like I want." You both paused, you telling him in a whisper, "Can choke me with your cock - hmm?"

He groaned, nuzzling your nose once before kissing you swiftly, deeply. His tongue swept against yours, tasting himself briefly; rubbing his warm cock into your inner thigh as he swallowed your moans of budding pleasure. So caught up in the way he made you feel, you squeaked when his hand suddenly rose and clasped around your throat, eyes popping open as your own hands dropped to his waist in shock.

"Choke me with your dick, Tan," you reminded.

"This works, though, still shuts you up."

"You're so fuckin' bold for this," you accused, gasping when his hand tightened.

"Then maybe shut the fuck up, girl, Goddamn," he seethed, biting your bottom lip, reopening the split, tightening his hand another degree. "You're gonna be a good fuckin' girl, aren't you? Huh? Think you can manage that? Know you got a problem with authority, doll, but you're gonna do as you're told, aren't yah?"

You glared but didn't answer.

"Yeah, that's real good," he mused when you had no words. "Now open your fuckin' mouth again."

When you did, he dribbled a line of spit onto your tongue, squeezing his hand around your throat and jaw when he wanted you to swallow. His smirk was something sinister and devious, peaking down to then paw your blouse the rest of the way open and tug your bra down until your breasts were exposed.

"Fuckin' knew you had great tits," he grit while gripping, twisting, tweaking your breast meat and nipple; not letting go of your throat to ensure your silence. "Not good for much else, huh? Are you?" He sneered, "Only sent on a grab job, weren't you? But look at you now, so fuckin' ready for me, so needy, excited, all distracted, desperate for my cock - aren't you? Answer me right fuckin' now," he growled.

"Yes," you croaked, gyrating your hips up into his; feeling his bare cock drag over your cunt and salivating.

"Good," he spoke to himself, shoving your hips back down as one hand rose to hold his cheek to keep yourself grounded. He chuckled to himself, "Just pathetic, innit? The way you crave me? Dumb fuckin' girl, can't even focus on a simple mission, can she? Huh? Can you?"

"No," you whimpered, "need more. Please, please."

"Shut up, I got you," he rolled his eyes, "but you don't really deserve it, do you?"

"I do, I swear - "

"Told you to shut the fuck up, though, yeah? Can't even do a simple task, got your head all stupid, do I? 'S good t'know, if we survive this."

You glared, seeing his grin widen before he was descending onto you again. You licked through the seam of his lips, being granted access; exploring the other's mouth in feverish motions that made your head spin and cunt contract. He still toyed with your tit, then abandoning the ministration to scale down your bodies to where you needed him most while your hand slid into his hair to grip his bloody scalp. You were so close to begging, yet you'd never give a man the satisfaction... Yet if Tangerine requested you to beg, beg you shall.

"That's my girl," he praised when he pet swiftly up your slit; gathering your slick in a single motion to spread around your clit. "Yeah, there's my girl, look at yah," he laughed over your mouth, "already so fuckin' dumb and I ain't even touch yah yet."

You whined a little, his hand readjusting his grip.

"Oh, fuckin' fine, you greedy bitch," he rolled his eyes, sinking a single digit into your heat; earning a high-pitched moan of relief. Tangerine laughed again, "Yeah? So desperate that just me fuckin' finger gets you like that?"

You tapped his wrist when he held a little too tight, him instantly loosening his grip around your throat. He rewarded you with a few pumps of his finger before adding a second, grinning when you had enough airflow to moan loud and clear.

"You make such pretty noises," he praised, "stupid, but pretty noises. Lemme hear you - that's all I wanna hear, not your fuckin' words, princess. Huh? Can you do that for me?"

You nodded, ready to cry from the anticipation he built in your body. With your bottom lip between your teeth, you let yourself clench around his digits, moaning when he massaged that spongy good spot of your inner walls.

"Wait - Tan - wait, wait," you begged and released his waist to reach for his wrist while he grinned.

"Aht," he let go of your neck to lay across your hips to keep hold, "stay there, be a good girl. Lemme see you - c'mon, love, get there for me," he pumped harder, faster, a small sweat coating your skin. The sounds were obscure and messy, sloppy and frantic, wet and pornographic; his breathing deep and huffy while yours was high-pitched. "So fuckin' pretty like this, under me like this. There's a good girl, yeah, chase that feelin', 's all right, don't run from me."

"Tan-Tangerine, shit, please," you babbled, unsure of yourself. "I-I don't - I don't - oh, fuck!"

"Let it happen," he encouraged, leering over you; only briefly aware of his cock leaking precum on your thigh. "Let that feeling take you, there's a good girl, you're right there - good fuckin' girl," Tan broke his mean streak to praise you briefly, feeling the familiar flutter. "Open, hey, hey, eyes on me, princess," he waited until your half-lidded eyes met his, watching him nod, "open your mouth." You were so blissed out, you didn't think, just doing so and accepting more of his spit. He grinned at you when your eyes rolled back, encouraging, "Go for it, pretty girl, fuckin' soak me, don't hold back - c'mon, wanna fuckin' feel you, need t'fuckin' feel you cum - ohh-hoo, yes, yes, yes," he chanted when you squealed, squirmed, and released a stream of squirt that splattered over you both.

But that wasn't all.

Tangerine was mesmerized, never relenting his efforts and before you had time to recover, he was forcing another wave of cum from your core. His thick body held yours in place, desperately squirming to try and get away from the overwhelming feeling; but he had you and wouldn't let go. "One more, one more, one more," Tan panted, hovering over you as his bulging bicep kept hammering into you without relent. He kissed you messily, "One more, baby, c'mon, I know you got it in you."

"I can't," you sobbed, trying to squirm away under him.

"You can, doll, you're right there, I fuckin' feel you - such a good girl, c'mon," he encouraged, offering a few messy kisses to your lips while you wantonly moaned without control. "One more, just for me, c'mon, baby, you can do it - just fa' me - there she is, yes, oh, fuck, yes, yes, yes," he laughed when you, for a third time, came in his hand and over his crotch.

"FUCK!" You yelped when he used the messy slick of your orgasm to line himself up and plunge directly into you. "Oh, shit - just - a minute, baby, hang on - fuck," you panted, holding his hips tightly with your legs spread. Slowly, you let them fall around his own as you relaxed.

"Got you, baby, 'M right here, take yah time," he whispered, flattening his tongue up your neck as he adjusted himself between your legs.

Half a minute later, you gave him permission to move - and it was the beginning of the end. You were sensitive, tight, gripping Tangerine to a new degree he hadn't felt before; his head spinning and mind short circuiting. You were nearly constrictive, webs of your stickiness coating him as he moved stiffly for the first few thrusts. As you loosened up under him, he gained momentum; your hands directing his face back to yours as you clung desperately to his hulking form.

He kissed you like it was the last thing he'd do (and maybe it was), holding your hips so he could drill into you easier; lifting one hand to pet your throat before gripping it, like before. The other then drifted to hike your leg up his hip, the new angle making him shudder lightly. "I'm there, love," he grunted, looking concentrated and borderline in pain, "right fuckin' there - ah shit, you feel so fuckin' good."

"Yes, yes, don't stop, Tan, please," you moaned, locating your clit to apply pressure and rub in harsh little circles.

"Ah, my greedy girl," he chuckled, "three wasn't enough?"

"Wanna cum with you," you whimpered, gasping into his mouth as you were overly sensitive and careened off your cliff. Your orgasm triggered Tangerine's, who plunged completely into you and held still while his balls contracted; mouths left gaping open against the other. In complete bliss, you shared a laugh of disbelief with sweaty foreheads pressed together - both forgetting reality for a bit.

At the moment Tan opened him mouth to confess something to you, Lemon decided to stumble in through the automatic door, yelling, "Bruv! Oi! Where you at!?"

"GET OUT!" Tangerine roared, barely visible over the top of the benches.

"The fuck you doin', mate?"

You latched your legs around Tan, keeping his cock planted snuggly inside you; rocking upward to hold onto his neck and spy his brother over the back of the seating. "Hi, Lem!" You chirped.

"Peach? Oh, fuck me!" He laughed. "Or - fuck you, ammirite?"

"Give us a minute, honey, would you, please?"

"Only a minute?" He laughed again. "'Cause that's all you need, right, Tan?"

"Fuck off, Lemon," Tangerine snapped. "We got the case, we're gettin' the fuck off at the next stop - just - fuck off a minute."

Lemon shrugged, "You make the plans, mate."

"Be out inna bit, love, thank you," you smiled prettily at Lemon, who finally nodded, held his hands up in defense and backed out of the train car. "Well," you mused when Tangerine leaned back into the seat but kept a firm grip on your hips, "that was only mildly embarrassing."

"He's seen me in worse positions," Tan shrugged, blinking when he realized how that sounded, exactly. "Not like that - no, just, I mean, as my bruva, you know, he's seen - you know what?" He sighed. "Don't fuckin' matter."

"So," you smirked, grinding your hips over his public hair, "you're taking my advice? Gettin' off the train?"

"I knew you were greedy, but this naughty, too?" He groaned, slapping his hands to your hips and guiding your motions. "Just filled you, love, and you want more?"

"That an issue?" You smirked, feeling him swell in you again.

"Not a bit," he smirked.

"Answer me," you demanded. "You seriously gettin' off?"

"Why the fuck not? The kid's dead and whatever's in the case should cover however pissed off this makes the bosses, right? Though..." He trailed off when one of your hands reached around to give a gentle tug on his balls.

"Keep goin'," you whispered with a growing smirk, hips swirling.

"Though," he cleared his throat, "don't think we've ever not finished a job before."

"This is different," you promised.

He gulped harshly, encouraging your motions; stretching up to squeeze both breasts and making you falter slightly into him. "All three of us are gonna get off, yeah?" He whispered, bringing you in closer as your hips began to rise and fall with steady tempo. "Got somewhere fa us t'go?"

"I'll get it arranged," you promised swiftly, arms coiling around his neck to hold yourself in position as you increased your speed. "But we're giving my employer the case."

"Fine with me," he nodded, "just wanna stay alive at this point." You chuckled with him, raising up to keep riding him; his eyes glancing over your shoulder and stiffening. "Uh, love? H-Hang on, hang on," his arms encased you suddenly, making you stop all ministrations.

"W-What's wrong? You okay?"

"Where's the fucking case?"

Your waist twisted to snap your torso around, peering over at the empty benches you had once sat in front of. Your blood was left behind... But the silver briefcase with a train sticker on the handle was missing.

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"

Six train cars up, Ladybug shuddered and told Maria, "Christ, they were at it like rabbits. And, hey, like, is it cool to be mean during sex now? 'Cause he was kinda mean, but she seemed into it, so... That's cool, I guess?"

"Some people like that," Maria eased.

"Do you?"

"You don't want that answer. Do you have the case?"

"For now," he sighed. "How much you wanna bet they haven't noticed, yet? Bet they're still goin' at it..."

"You sound jealous."

"They're both very attractive people... Hm, you know, maybe I am a little jealous."

"Of which one?"

"Not entirely sure yet."

requesting rules and masterlist

Bullet Train masterlist

[liahaslosthermind]

~ 𝐀 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 ~

Mentions of Rhysand x OC (Adelaide), Eventual Azriel x OC Part 1 of Betrayal Summary: She would have chosen him over her mate every time, so why couldn’t he do the same for her?

Warnings: Hurt/No Comfort, Death, Cheating, Betrayal

It hurt.

It hurt so much.

Not physically, she couldn't feel her body anymore, but emotionally.

Encircled in a pool of her own blood, watching the man she had devoted her life to collapse to his knees in front of his mate's body, leaving his lover alone to watch.

Feyre would be okay, Adelaide knew that much, and deep down so did Rhysand. But as the feeling of impending doom fell upon her, she knew she wouldn't be so lucky.

He didn’t seem to care much for her at that moment though.

It was inevitable that Rhysand would one day have to choose between the girl he had loved for most of his existence or the mate he had just gotten to know, but Adelaide didn’t think it would be so soon, or that Rhys would pick Feyre. They were chosen by The Mother to share a special type of bond, she knew that. She also knew she envied Feyre, she was stronger, had much more of a back bone, and mated to the love of her life.

When he had first mentioned meeting his mate, Adelaide had practically brushed it off. She was so sure she had no reason to worry, over 300 years together couldn't be thrown away by the sudden appearance of a young, human girl.

The moment Feyre's shoe hit Rhysand on the back of the head, though, that's when she began to sweat.

Had Adelaide been able to, had blood not started to pool in her mouth, she would have laughed.

While they had known there was no mating bonds between them, Rhysand and Adelaide had vowed to never think twice about their mates. When Adelaide met her mate many years ago, Rhysand hadn't given her the opportunity or chance of choosing between the two. Not even a week after the bond had snapped, her mate was found dead in his bed.

She still knew she would have picked Rhys every time, but apparently the feeling wasn’t mutual. 

So there she was, a puddle of her own blood forming around her, watching her long time partner nurture his shaken up, but still perfectly healthy, mate he had told Adelaide not to worry about. 

“Are you alright? What can I do?” He asked Feyre as he caressed her arm, checking her over once, and then checking again.

“I’m fine. I just need a moment.” Feyre responded. Rhys was so concerned about her even though she would be walking away with a mere flesh wound and a few sleepless nights at most. Adelaide tried to call out but only the sound she produced was from choking on her own blood. Rhysand didn’t turn around, instead holding his mate closer.

But finally, after an eternity alone on the cold floor, she felt someone grab her hand.

Azriel had crawled over to his best friend the moment he saw she had hit the ground. The faebane in his system from a few nasty slashes making it impossible to do much more than that.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. After years of a strong friendship the two could communicate through their eyes alone. He looked concerned and pale. She couldn't tell how hurt he was, her eyes hardly letting her see his blurry face.

He sat up as well as he could, bringing her close to him, and holding her cheek as he tried to sooth her.

Or maybe he was trying to sooth himself. He was the damned Shadowsinger, the Spy Master, he had always been annoyingly perceptive. No matter how hard he denied it, he knew she wasn't walking away from this.

Tears streaming down his face as he held in his sobs. Such a strange sight to most, he never let anyone see him cry, except the girl that laid dying in his lap.

“It’s okay Az. I will be okay.” She cooed, the taste of iron in her mouth making her nauseous. He could almost laugh, even in her last moments, she put Azriel first.

“You know that's not true.” He said as he glanced up to look at Rhysand, pure hatred in his eyes for what his brother was doing at the moment, and for what he was not doing.

Just as he went to call Rhysand's name-

“Don’t. He is happy. It was bound to happen.”

“Not like this, he wasn’t supposed to pick her. He promised he wouldn’t. I’m sorry.” Azriel couldn't tell whether it was anger or anticipatory grief that was making him shake in this moment.

Adelaide remembered that. After a fight with Rhysand about him being too busy training Feyre to spend time with her, and after running to Azriel in tears, he yelled at Rhysand for his actions, made him promise to stay away from Feyre. The conversation was not unlike another the two had had before regarding Feyre's sister, Elain, and Azriel's intentions. Azriel made him promise to put Adelaide first, always. And Rhys had agreed, but apparently that promise had an expiration date.

“I know, but it's not your fault Az, don’t believe it is.”

“He should be here with you right now. Not me. If I fought him harder on this maybe he would have changed his-”

“Let him live his life with regret that he wasn’t with me in the end. Cause now that I know who he would truly pick, there is no one else I'd rather have next to me than you, Azriel.”

That silenced him.

He watched as she started to slip away, felt helpless as all he could do was hug her tighter.

With one whispered ‘thank you’ she drifted off, embracing whatever death had planned for her.

Her last thought was that she hoped he knew she wasn't just thanking him for that moment, but 400 years of companionship, of heartfelt conversations, of stupid fights, of full fledged loyalty, of love.

A cry broke out as Azriel looked at her now limp body. Concerned, Rhysand took his attention off Feyre, to his brother and what was causing his wails, fearing the worst, that he was hurt.

Dread filled Rhysand, he couldn't handle dealing with another wounded member of his family. But the image of a crying Azriel, a rare sight indeed, holding Adelaide's lifeless body, stole all the air from his lungs. 

Azriel looked at his High Lord and through his tears spoke with so much pain and hatred in his voice, Rhysand believed that physical torture would have been easier to endure. 

“You didn’t even look back. You didn’t even check on her.” Azriel cried out, holding his best friend even closer as Rhysand made his way over on shaky feet. 

Az yelled a broken ‘No’ when his High Lord got too close. He didn’t get this, he didn’t get to hold her after she had spent her last moments watching him hold another woman. So he didn’t. Azriel, still holding onto her body, disappeared into the shadows before his brother could try anything.

As Rhysand fell to his knees in all consuming grief for who he lost and guilt for not being there, he felt even more shame at the way his body reacted to the warm touch Feyre provided, and at the breath he let out when he was reminded his mate was still alright.

[monstersandgenderqueers]

Little Gifts (Part Eight)

Unable to deal with just how strong your feelings for him are, you make some bad decisions when it comes to Loki.

Pairing: Loki x audhd!reader

Word count: 3004

A/N: In my head this was way cuter and less of an angsty mess. I also didn't edit as thoroughly as I normally do (which is already bare minimum) so I apologize if something is off or out of place. I'll fix things when I can.💚

Divider credit @/saradika

Previous | Masterlist

Ever since that downright embarrassing restaurant incident, you've been trying to avoid Loki. The event had been too intimate for your liking. Or rather, you liked how intimate it was too much. Loki proved just how well he knows you, and even worse, you felt completely safe crashing and burning right in front of him.

The new burst of feelings after that night had been so terribly euphoric that it was frightening, so you devised a scheme to try to stay away from him.

Though, 'trying' is a bit of a stretch. It would be near impossible to avoid someone you technically live with, especially with somewhat-scheduled meals and mandatory activities. It would only draw attention to your 'avoid Loki at all costs' plan if you walked out of training or skipped most of your meals.

Instead, you opt for burying yourself in endless tasks that take you as far away from him as possible. None of them are useful—or necessary—and you feel like you're wasting your and everyone else's time. It was hard to focus on anything that you normally did. Even walking felt dangerous when you lost track of your feet a few too many times, having to catch yourself before plummeting ungracefully to the ground.

Everyone notices, because of course they do. Even people you consider to be mere acquaintances notice, stopping you in the halls to ask if you're okay.

Of course I'm not!

You dismiss them every time, forcing yourself to smile in an almost convincing way, hoping that you scrunch your cheeks just enough to make it look like your smile reaches your eyes, mimicking others' expressions. It seems to fool enough of them, because after a couple of weeks, people stop asking if you were okay.

The real downside to avoiding Loki, though, is avoiding Loki. You didn't realize how much you've come to rely on him for emotional support and regulation and pretty much every other good thing. You didn't get it until you couldn't plop yourself down in front of him and start rambling about any and all thoughts that had crossed your mind since the last time you saw him. Your crush is way more serious than you thought, but putting effort into processing exactly what you feel is the mental equivalent of trying to put cubes in triangular holes.

There was one thing, specifically, that he did that you greatly appreciated and sorely missed. His uncanny ability to know exactly what you need to hear and feel. He didn't tell you your anxieties were false or lies, like others did and how you had trained yourself to respond. Though he'd occasionally tell you how flawed your reasoning is, he wouldn't just outright dismiss your feelings in the moment.

"I feel like everyone's judging my outfit."

Normally, people will respond with, "No one is judging you," which is false, or, "you look fine," which is not what you asked. Both only serve to make you feel worse, like they don't care much that your worries often defy sound reasoning. But, Loki can make you laugh, a sound that still surprises you every time as it bursts free without warning.

"Perhaps. If they voice their disgust, I'll toss them in the stockade."

"We don't have those anymore, Loki."

"And? I have a few in storage, darling. We can procure rotten vegetables, as well, if it'd please you."

You miss it. Him. It sucks knowing that you're only doing this because you were too vulnerable that night, too dependent and childish and—

Stop stop stop! 

He can't know how much you need him, he just can't. You can't let it happen. Open communication might work for the rest of the population, but telling other people what they mean to you, or how you feel in general, always ends in tragedy.

Not that it matters much, anyway. You figure, with Loki's recent moods, it might not be a good time to tell him anything at all.

Since around the time you started avoiding him, he switches between being curt and sour, and then completely distant. It's almost like he's regressed back to where he was when he first moved in. He was prickly that first day, reacting to every little thing as if it was hand-selected to bother him. But after that first night, it's like he woke up and realized he'd been completely defeated, because that's how he appeared. It doesn't seem that far off of an assumption, given he was basically transferred from one prison to another. It made sense to you that he'd crumble inwards. Still, it was scary how Loki was almost a ghost for those first few days. It worried you back then.

Now, he'll do as instructed. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Recently, Loki even taught you how to throw a couple types of Asgardian throwing knives during your mandatory training sessions, though he made it seem like such a chore.

"Why is it all squiggly? This seems ornamental to me, Loki. Am I really supposed to just throw it? I don't want to scuff it up, though—"

"Just throw it. Hold it the way I showed you. No, no—do it right or simply cease."

The only expression he has these days is scrunched brows. No, not the worried kind or the sad furrowed brows, or the ones that make him look very handsome or pretty, but the angry one. At least, that's what you think it is. It definitely isn't the worried or the sad, and you struggle to piece it together with all the context you're given, which is very little. It can only be anger, right? What other feelings could there possibly be?

Besides, it looks close enough to the expression most of everyone in the compound has at some point during the day. Tension. It spreads like it's contagious whenever something big is going down.

Except, nothing big is going down, at least not something that you notice. It wasn't like you were paying much attention, either.

So, you figure you'll stay away from him for a while longer. Just to be safe.

He needs his space, right? Well, that's what you would want if you were angry.

After two weeks, you reach a point where you realize you might either explode or implode. Without any of your usual methods of self-regulation, which by now had simply become Loki, it seems like you somehow might manage to do both at once, if it were possible.

To avoid further embarrassment, since you're positive at least one other person noticed what happened at that party aside from Loki, you lock yourself in your room for the day.

It feels awful. Your body has gotten used to activity, and now it aches fiercely, protesting your idleness by making everything hurt to the point where you couldn't move, anyway. Your mind fares no better, your thoughts jumping from topic to topic so quickly that you can't even finish a thought before the next one butts in. You can't focus on books, or music, or shows. Not even the basic comfort of caring for your plants can save you, since you start watering your biggest one and you feel too lethargic to lift it back into place once the soil was sodden, leaving the giant leaf monster in the middle of the room.

Ugh. UGH! Who cares! Who cares! They'll all die anyway, right? Just a waste! Of everything! I shouldn't bother anymore, shouldn't even try because what's the point!?

Now, you know that your thoughts can't actually increase in volume, since they have no real volume at all, but even thinking such things hurts your ears. It's an immense struggle to rein it back in, to remind yourself of everything you should do should there be a meltdown.

Just go to bed.

Go. To. Bed.

So that's exactly what you do. Unable to feel anything touching your skin without bursting into tears, you strip yourself and most of your bedding, keeping only what you need to sleep. Just the sheets, a very thin blanket, a singular pillow plucked from the mountain of cushions you own, and of course, the prized stuffie.

You fall asleep as soon as you get comfortable. Your brain is simply too fried to even worry anymore.

Unfortunately, you wake up sweaty and gross and far more tired than when you fell asleep. You're too warm and too cold and the sheets that you got specifically for their smoothness were just too itchy.

Feeling something fuzzy against your nose when you roll over, you open your eyes to see the little black horse plushie, its solitary eye reflecting what little light there is.

That's weird. I didn't put you there.

You sit up and hold it, looking around your bed and then around your room like doing so might just tell you what happened.

Subconsciously, you rub your face in its mane, trying to regain your bearings. Then, you realize it smells a bit off. Not off in a bad way, just not what it's supposed to smell like. It's very nice actually, very familiar and addictive. It takes a moment for your sleep-addled brain to figure it out.

Loki. Why do you smell like Loki?

You twist the horse in your hands, remembering that Loki only had it for a few hours at most before giving it back all those weeks ago.

Did I accidentally wash it with my blankets? Did I use someone else's detergent?

You try to rationalize why it smells like Loki, and why the longer you hold it, the more your nerves calm down without completely shutting down.

There's no use in rationalizing anything about Loki. In spite of Loki's clear intelligence and wit, he's anything but rational. He's weird and confounding.

So, as much as you try to believe this is an error you made, a mistake that is completely plausible and yet you can't remember a situation where it could have actually happened, you're left with one answer.

Loki did something to the plushie, similar to the magic he used that night at the restaurant. Whether he came into your room to place it beside you or he just snapped his fingers and it was there, it didn't really matter.

Because, it seems, as much as you try to pretend that you don't feel anything for him, and as much as you ignore him out of shame, he just knows.

It's terrifying.

As it turns out, the general weirdness you've been feeling from almost everyone is actually something big, and not just something that was leeching off of you like a cloud of miasma.

The full Avengers team—and now Loki, you guess—have completely prepared for a mission without you even knowing. You didn't find out until you passed by one of the conference rooms and saw all of them sitting there for what looked like their last briefing. You tried putting in your keycode into the door, but it didn't open. You weren't cleared for the mission.

A few hours after the meeting, you corner Tony near one of the lab rooms.

You cross your arms, unable to mask just how ridiculously hurt you feel, "What gives?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know what I'm talking about. The mission."

He sighs and rubs his face before replying, "Look, kid—"

"I know I'm not on everyone else's level, okay? I thought I was doing well on missions. I'm not part of the 'super club', but I thought I had the clearance to know things. And Loki? Why is he going? He's not even allowed to exercise without supervision, so how does he suddenly have clearance above mine?"

"It's his mission, okay?"

You deflate a bit. "...What?"

"Listen," he holds up a finger, "and don't interrupt. We all elected to not give you clearance." You open your mouth to yell a what?! but he keeps going, "You've been acting weird for a while now. We've all noticed, and have agreed it isn't safe."

"That's not fa—"

"This isn't about your capabilities or your limitations. You're not yourself, and it's too risky."

The white-hot anger has ebbed away into something that feels a bit more suffocating. You should be used to being left out of things, but it still manages to make you feel like you're drowning in hurt. "But isn't there something I'm allowed to do? Can I at least know what's going on?"

He looks away from you, like he doesn't want to see how red your eyes are getting. "Ah—that's a bit more complicated."

"What—"

"If you want answers, you'll have to ask Loki. He's the one who suggested it."

"It? By that do you mean leaving me out of the mission or keeping me completely ignorant?"

"Well, both, now that I think about it, but that's between you two. I'm not a qualified couples therapist."

You ignore that last bit. "I thought we had an understanding. I thought you'd stick up for me."

"And I do. You're an incredible asset, it's just… Well, he brought up excellent points."

"Like?"

"Like how your behavior is abnormal. Your focus is shot. You're struggling to follow simple directions. I know that that's normal for you, on some level, but it has gotten way out of hand."

Ashamedly, you have to admit that he's right. More than what he's already mentioned, you're also being immature. While admitting that hurts, given that everyone has called you childish at least once, you know when you can do better. The shame makes your cheeks flush hot and your palms get sweaty way too quickly.

Ignoring Loki wasn't mature. Avoiding your pressing responsibilities within the compound so you could continue to avoid Loki wasn't mature. Badgering Tony for answers and acting like he's against you is not mature.

Damn. You'll have to apologize. To everyone, it seems, since your behavior has likely affected them all on some level.

You'd like to start with the person who probably needs to hear it the most, but any plans on doing that are cut abruptly.

"We're setting off in less than fifteen minutes. It's too late to brief you, even if I could get you cleared."

Fuck!

Leaving Tony alone and bewildered, you dash as quickly as you can without slipping on the smooth and polished floors back to the living quarters.

Please be there, please be there.

He isn't. Of course he isn't.

You try looking up his location, but you're not granted access.

The door to his room is open, though, and you notice that a black duffel bag is on his bed. It seems like he just finished packing, and he'll likely come back. You could just wait, of course, and talk to him directly before he leaves. But, the thought of actually saying what you feel and admitting that you could have handled all of this much better makes your heart squeeze uncomfortably. You'd need time to think of what to say, and your words would likely scramble up on the way out, fusing five different ways of saying the same thing into one monstrous mess.

I need to fix this. Please let me fix this.

You hurry back to your room and grab a pen to write a scrawled apology. An, "I'm sorry Loki, let's talk after you get back," should suffice. Your pen runs out of ink, though, just as you're halfway through the first word. The next three pens are the same, completely and utterly useless at their singular task.

Seriously!?

Unable to find anything suitable to write a note with, you're left with your go-to method of just giving him something.

He gets it by now, right? He gets that your strange methods of communication actually mean something…right?

Well, it can't just be a random thing that you put in his bag for him to find. It has to at least make sense.

A book?

No. Unless the title is, 'I'm so very sorry for how I acted and I hope you still like me and want me as your friend or maybe something different would be awesome too," it's unlikely it would work.

You open your closet and pull out your shoebox of keychains—yet another one of your odd collections that migrated with you to the compound, along with your plushies.

One of the keychains is a bright green, plush snake. It fits in the palm of your hand, with a little pink ribbon sticking out of its mouth. You think you got it at a zoo, but you can't quite recall. The writing on the tiny tag had worn off ages ago, but you're pretty sure you bought it during your snake phase as a child. Though you're not as fixated on them as you used to be, that phase taught you something special. It taught you to question why certain creatures are labeled as evil and scary when they're just creatures. They're different, and many are dangerous for sure, but so are non-scary creatures like dogs or cats.

When you told Loki that, he looked at you in a way that would have melted you if it were possible.

So, he'll get it, right?

Just to be sure, you grab another keychain. An anatomical heart, also with origins you forgot. You hook them together.

It should make sense. Right?

Relieved that his duffel is still on his bed, you unzip it just a bit to place your gift inside.

You try looking for him once more, unwilling to just wait for him in his bedroom like some creep, but you're unable to find him before you hear the whoosh of the quinjet.

His bag is gone when you pass by for the final time.

There's hope that you haven't completely destroyed your relationship with him, but doubt drowns it out and nauseatingly swirls around inside your belly. With nothing to do but wait, you sit down by the glass windows in the common area, staring at the pristine emerald lawn.

I'm sorry, Loki.

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[itsabouttimex2]

Y’know how reader is stuck as a monkey in the Yan monkiefam posts, what if reader somehow sneaks off the mountain and stumbles upon macaque. Macaque gets a specific vibe from the mysterious monkey, so he takes it as his own. Monkey reader is trying to communicate to macaque on how to transform back, but either due to lack of understanding or macaque not wanting reader to turn back, reader is still a monkey much to their dismay. Meanwhile Monkiefam is panicking and looking everywhere for reader. This could be seen as a part 3 to the Yan monkiefam posts with an added platonic Yan macaque.

How would you write this scenario? Sorry if it’s long, I started rambling a bit lol. I really like your writing and was hoping you would write something similar to this, I love platonic Yan and you stuff really caters to me. Thank you🩷🩷

Monkiefam: Part Three

Sable Savior

(Part Zero) (Part One) (Part Two) (Part Three)

(💜💜Post one-hundred, huh? Feels good to have gotten here! My ask box has been wiped, and is open again! Character x character requests are now allowed! 💜💜)

Monkeys don’t make for good pets. They’re cute, sure. They’re funny and interesting creatures that are worthy of study. But it’s impossible to raise them properly.

And it’s impossible to obtain one ethically.

Either the mothers are shot to death in the wild and the babies are ripped from their still bodies, or they’re kept in horrid conditions and forcibly bred again and again, having their babies torn from them after only a few days or weeks.

All for a cute pet that will be dumped in a few years. Monkeys don’t stay cute, after all. They grow out of the clothes you put them in, grow out of the training you put them through, grow from cute “living dolls” and into wild, fanged animals all their own.

Once they’ve shed their youthful looks and compliant behaviors, the fate of every ‘pet’ monkey is the same- death.

Whether shot or euthanized or dumped far from home and left to starve, monkeys kept in captivity almost always have unhappy endings.

You could be easily mistaken for one of those unfortunate creatures, stuck in a simian form and curled up near the roots of a looming tree.

Even after two full weeks, the transformation you had accidentally locked yourself into remained strong, showing no signs of faltering.

What at first seemed like a potential method of escape had quickly because the thickest chain in your shackle.

Not only was your newfound ‘family’ thrilled to have you as a cuddly little monkey, they seemed even more intent on coddling you.

MK especially adored having a ‘little sibling’ who couldn’t escape his grip. Day in and day out, every minute spent by your side, tending to your needs as a form of stress relief. Whether it was wrestling you into the bathtub or carving up fruit to spoon-feed you, the hero had quickly become a constant smothering presence. He was a fine caretaker, but you would much prefer that he used those skills on anyone else but yourself.

Just barely had he talked himself out of dressing you up, reasoning that you might find fabric uncomfortable over your fluffy white fur.

Not that he allowed you to remove the silk ribbons that his mentor had tied. Those were staying, and MK made sure of it. Every single time you had managed to squirm one free from your body, he just snatched it off the ground and tied it back on.

And, speaking of his mentor-

For all the doting you faced at the hands of MK, Sun Wukong was twice as bad.

Having been the caretaker for thousands of monkeys through the passing of centuries, it seemed that the Great Sage had a knack for pampering the furry darlings- and that translated quite easily to a human being who had accidentally trapped themselves in the form of a cub.

Already you had spent hours upon hours upon his lap, feeling Wukong’s deft fingers comb through your fur in search of debris to remove. Given that you weren’t allowed outside, he rarely found anything more than dust. Still, his intention was more to bond than it was to clean.

For him, the best part was when you'd get so bored that you'd start stroking his fur in turn, picking through it just to pass the time. Even though your heart wasn't really in the action, he was absolutely thrilled to have you acting like a real monkey in some small manner.

The Great Sage was so thrilled, in fact, that he'd barely allow you even a minute alone. And though some of this was justified by your inability to properly function in this new form, it went far beyond the realm of understandable when the king started taking you to bed with him- all under the guise of 'keeping you safe'. You'd rest all through the night tucked into his arms, listening to a powerful beating within the Monkey King’s muscular chest.

Against MK, you were lulled to sleep by a slow throb, finding some gentleness in the steady and low thrum.

Against Wukong, you were cascaded by the furious white-hot pounding of a heart blessed by power almost beyond comprehension.

You’d be lying if you said neither was at least a little comforting to hear as you drifted to a deep, dreamless sleep.

But here and now, there wasn’t an ounce of warmth to be found.

You had finally managed to slip from the clutches of your ‘family’, mustering just enough motor control to clamber up the couch and jump to a window left cracked, slipping under the peering pane and crawling to ‘freedom’.

On unfamiliar and furry legs you had fled, away from a gilded cage and into the beckoning wilderness. Maybe a part of you now longed for the forests, driving you to escape and run free. Perhaps some newfound simian instinct craved a life free from unchanging scenery and sturdy walls.

So away you went, chirping and chittering and calling out to the rising moon as the night grew darker and darker.

And as you raced into those darkening woods, throwing caution to the wind, you also drew further and further away from any semblance of safety.

It hadn’t taken you even twenty minutes to find trouble on the supposedly idyllic mountain.

And now you were here, stuck in a simian form and curled up near the roots of a looming tree.

Not alone, of course.

A troop of monkeys surrounds your quivering form, hissing and snarling at such a strange outsider. The count is easily fifteen to twenty, each one bearing sharp fangs and hunched down in aggressive stances.

You hunker away, pressed to the cold bark with eyes pointed downwards. You don’t dare move or make a sound.

It’s not enough to save you.

The largest member of the pack snarls for just a second, rearing back with his teeth bared. Before you can even flinch, the simian lurches towards you with a splitting howl, powerful jaws snagging the skin of your neck.

The scent of blood fills the air.

As it shrieks through a mouthful of your flesh, the monkey violently slings you back and forth. It beats at your face and neck, hammering your diminutive form with all the strength it can muster. When you dare to try and strike back it throws you to the ground, beating ruthlessly down on your stomach.

It hollers.

The rest of the pack jump into the fray, beating and biting and tearing at fur. Where one shoves, another pulls. Any spot left untouched by one is promptly assaulted by another. Not an inch of you is spared the violent assault, nor is mercy given in regards to your youthful form.

And right as darkness swells in the corners of your vision, the troop freezes.

A barbed lash of black strikes the alpha across the face, leaving a deep and stinging cut where it lands. He howls and shrieks and falls back, shooting off into the jungle and disappearing from sight. From only the trail of blood left in his wake, his troop follows, fearful but still loyal.

“Someone’s had a rough go of it,” says a voice that would be insufferably smug if it hadn’t just saved you from probable death.

Two cold hands wrap around your prone form, prying you from the ground.

The white of your fur has almost entirely disappeared behind a mixture of wet soil and stinking blood, filthy and pungent. The ribbon around your neck has been torn free and left on the ground, lying in tatters.

“You‘re still a little too young to be without your mother, fuzzball. She’s the one who’s supposed to teach you ‘the ways of the wild’, yeah? Where’d she get off to?”

Macaque cradles you close in one of his arms, lightly stroking the underside of your chin with a sharp nail. His touch is surprisingly gentle, far more than you’d expect for a demon. His voice takes a turn for the soft.

“Nah, that’s not it. If you’re this close to another pack without her, then she’s… not around anymore. You probably weren’t raised by her at all, actually.”

His thumb presses against your ragged silk ribbon, toying with the red fabric.

“Must’ve been dumped by some mortal who got sick of taking care of you, huh? Bastards.”

You chitter desperately for his help, hoping that this one might understand even a word you say. But he only gives you a pitying smile, untying the ribbon from your tail and letting it flutter slowly to the ground.

“You never even learned to speak, furball? They must’ve taken you young. Humans always do. Keep you for a few years and dress you up like babies, then throw you out once you’re not cute enough for them anymore.”

Your vocalizations grow more desperate and wild, becoming outright hysterical.

“I know, I know. Hungry, right? Never learned to forage for yourself, or pick for bugs. C’mon, let’s find something to eat- bet I can scrounge us up some peaches, at least. After all…”

Macaque pulls free his tattered scarf, then holds one end of it against your stomach. You can’t so much as chitter before he wraps you head to toe, swaddling your fluffy form tightly. It’s warm, at least, if a bit restrictive.

“Shouldn’t we outcasts stick together?”

And off he goes into the night, far from home and far from safety.

It’s not quite freedom, but you’ll take it.

[ikeupied]

I had been staring at the same paragraph for fifteen minutes, but nothing was sinking in. I was lost.

With a heavy sigh, I closed the book. I’d deal with it later. Right now, I needed to get dressed—rehearsal was in less than an hour, and the studio where we would practice today was further away than the other one.

I opened my closet and started looking for something to wear. Nothing felt right. Today was just one of those days. Frustrated, I pulled out almost all my clothes, turning my room into a disaster. But at least I found something decent.

As I put everything back, I came across a shirt that caught my eye. It was riki's.

"Why do I still have so much of his stuff?" I muttered, sitting on the floor with it in my hands.

I shut my eyes for a moment. Why—after everything that happened—did I still miss him? My head started to ache. I didn’t want to think about him, but it was impossible when I saw him all the time.

My phone buzzed, snapping me out of it. A message from Taesan:

don’t be late, ynie.

I reacted with a thumbs-up and got up, leaving Riki’s shirt in the laundry basket on my way to the bathroom.

I wasn’t entirely sure where the new studio was, but thankfully, Taesan had sent me his live location.

Standing at the entrance, I reread Taesan’s instructions:

5th floor, room 2. There’s a big sign.

I headed for the stairs, only for my heart to drop. A sign blocked the way: "STAIRS UNDER REPAIR. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. PLEASE USE THE ELEVATOR."

Elevators had always been my biggest fear. Since I was little, I’d done anything to avoid them—even leaving places if it meant I didn’t have to get on one.

But today, I had no choice.

With my head down, I walked toward the elevator. To my surprise, someone was already standing in front of it.

I looked up.

Riki.

Definitely not my lucky day.

He had his headphones on and hadn’t noticed me. Not until the elevator doors slid open. He stepped inside, and just as he reached for the button, his eyes met mine.

I quickly followed him in, avoiding eye contact. He pulled off his headphones and pressed the button.

I kept my gaze fixed on the panel, mentally counting the seconds until I could get out.

Then, it happened.

A dull thud, like something getting stuck in the gears. A sharp jolt knocked me off balance. The lights flickered.

And then—nothing.

My chest tightened.

Panicked, I pressed random buttons, hoping one would respond. None did. My throat closed up, my skin burned, and a familiar emptiness settled in my stomach.

"Hey."

Riki’s voice cut through the silence. It wasn’t irritated or sarcastic. It was… soft.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.

"We’ll get out of here, okay?"

I buried my face in my hands, trying to breathe, but the air in the elevator felt thick. Riki sighed—not in frustration, but in quiet resignation.

"Here, do this." He took a step closer.

Through my haze of panic, I saw him extend his hand. Palm open. Like he used to do when he had to convince me everything was fine.

I didn’t want to take it, but my fingers were shaking, and the ground felt unsteady beneath me.

Riki tilted his head, "you’re still terrible at this."

And then, without waiting for permission, he took my hand.

I hadn’t realized how badly I was trembling until his fingers wrapped around mine.

"Breathe," he murmured.

And, against all logic, I did.

The elevator was still stuck. The emergency button still didn’t work. But somehow, the panic that had paralyzed me seconds ago was fading.

Not completely. But enough.

Riki didn’t let go right away. He didn’t make any smug comments about how quickly I’d given in, even though I knew he wanted to. He just stayed still, as if any sudden movement might set me off again.

"Better?" he asked after a few seconds, his voice unusually neutral.

I swallowed hard and nodded.

"Good." His hand slipped away, leaving behind a faint warmth.

The elevator creaked, and whatever relief I’d felt vanished instantly.

Without thinking, I grabbed his arm.

Riki glanced down at my hand, then at me. His lips twitched like he was about to say something, but at the last second, he changed his mind.

For a moment, the only sound was my breathing and the faint hum of something electric in the walls.

"They’ll get us out soon," he said suddenly.

"And how do you know that?" I didn't mean it in a bad way, but it came out harsher than I expected.

He shrugged. "I don’t. But it sounds better than saying we might be stuck here for hours."

I wanted to argue, but the thought of spending hours trapped in an elevator with him completely shut my brain down.

Riki leaned against the wall and pulled out his phone.

"there's no signal." he murmured, and then slid down to sit on the floor, completely unbothered. "Sit."

"No."

"You’re gonna get tired."

"I’m fine."

"Sure you are." He smirked, like he was daring me.

I shut my eyes in frustration. Then, slowly, I sat down—keeping a safe distance between us.

"You’re still shaking," he said quietly.

I pressed my lips together and tucked my hands under my legs. He watched me for a moment.

Then, a small jolt. The lights flickered, and a mechanical whir signaled the elevator was working again.

I held my breath.

"See? Told you we’d get out soon," Riki said, standing up effortlessly.

I shot him a glare.

"If you say ‘I told you so’ right now, I swear—"

"But I deserve it."

I rolled my eyes and reached for the wall to push myself up. Before I could, Riki grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet. It was instinctive, automatic. Like we were still close.

But we weren’t.

I let go quickly, fixing my gaze on the doors just as they slid open.

The hallway was empty. Finally, I could breathe again.

When we reached the rehearsal room, all eyes turned to us.

Taesan frowned and rushed over.

"Are you okay? I was worried, I texted you but-" His eyes flicked to my hands. "Why are you shaking?"

"The elevator got stuck," I mumbled, trying to steady my breath.

Taesan’s eyes widened.

"What?" He turned to Riki, scowling. "And you didn’t do anything?"

"What was I supposed to do? Break the doors open and carry her out?"

"You could’ve at least calmed her down."

"I did," Riki said simply, shrugging.

Taesan looked at me for confirmation. I nodded.

"I’m fine. Really."

The others, who had been watching in confusion, suddenly looked way too interested.

"Wait," Sunghoon interrupted. "You two got stuck together… and didn’t kill each other?"

Riki and I turned to glare at him at the same time.

"I was too busy dying to focus on killing him," I muttered.

Then, I felt it—a heavy gaze on my back.

I turned and locked eyes with Gowon. Arms crossed, eyes darker than ever. A chill ran through me.

Riki must’ve noticed because he quickly spoke up.

"Well, we’re here now. Can we start rehearsal?"

Everyone nodded, and we got into position, waiting for Leehan to play the music.

definitely not my lucky day (wc ; 5215)

SYNOPSIS: Y/n and Riki were inseparable. The kind of friendship everyone envied, the kind that felt unbreakable. But somewhere along the way, something shattered. Now, every word they exchange is a fight, every glance a silent war. Neither of them wants to admit how much it hurts. Neither of them wants to be the first to let go of the anger. But how long can you hate someone who once meant everything to you? Because the line between love and hate has never been thinner.

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note: this is 100% inspired by myself lol

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© all rights reserved to ikeupied, please don't copy.

[devoutprincess]

Again and again

❀ cw : 18+, unprotected PinV, porn with plot, troubled carmy and reader, angst, past abusive relationship(s), hurt (very) slight comfort, rough sex, light masochism, friends to uh…… ✿

(not proofread)

──── ──── ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ──── ────

My first slightly plot heavy fic! I’ve grown quite attached to reader and carmy in this one, they are so precious to me. Do keep in mind that this is my first time writing complex characters and hopefully everything plays out as smoothly as i intended to. Enjoy!

-Z

──── ──── ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ──── ────

The rain patters loudly on the windows but the room remains silent as everyone waits for you to finish. You chew on your lips, hesitant on ending the story, which would require you to lay yourself bare in a room full of strangers, exposing much more than your previous shares. With only one person here you could consider a friend, the only person you share a camaraderie with.

Some look at you with disinterest, their eyes frequently trail off to a leak in the corner of the roof, preferring to zone out instead. Some look at you with sympathy and a sense of understanding. You could see their brows furrow and the occasional misty eyes. Maybe you remind them of someone or a distant memory; an unfortunate event that brought them here in the first place.

You know what you are here for, it’s to be in a space where people understand you the most. A ‘Judgement Free Experience’, like the pamphlet you found weeks ago claimed. You’ve done this plenty of times before, surely this session would end like any other; uneventful. Yet comforting in its predictability.

“Once i start going down that path, it’s near impossible to finish. I’m still the same person that will bend over backwards for the slightest bit of attention….in hopes that y’know..affection comes along with it.” You pause, “But at least i got a taste of it and at least I can always go looking for it again and again…and again. Even if it ends up leaving me mangled.” You finish with a small and bitter laugh. Your eyes swiftly scan everyone’s faces and it ends on his. He responds with a tight smile that reaches his pretty eyes.

“Thank you for sharing with us, dear.” your chairperson voiced with practiced sincerity.

You nod and sat back down next to Carmy, both of your knees brushing in the close proximity.

“Good job.” He leans over to whisper.

“Hm- thanks.”

A couple of weeks ago, you walked through these doors, presenting as beautiful and pristine on the outside. Entirely out of place amidst the messier dressed attendees with forlorn looking faces. The energy in the room felt foreign to you, but not unpleasant.

It has always been a priority for you to look put together, wherever you go. A simple act to prevent peering eyes from wanting to take a peek inside of you, which was almost, always in shambles. Your eyes skirted all over the place, scanning for familiarity, for something to ground you; a command, a problem to fix, anything. A habit that’s been implemented from years of learned behavior.

It’s your mind that’s fucked, and your mind is all that you have to save you from spiraling further into a dark hole.

You took an empty seat and your leg started to involuntarily bounce, lost in thought. But a simple nudge to your knee, jerked you back into earth.

“Oh shit, sorry about that.” A man next to you quickly pulled his knee away from yours. “Bad habit, i kinda..always sit all over the place.” He chuckled while pushing his curls away from his face.

He looked sleep deprived, but pretty. He had striking blue eyes that were adorned with purple bags that stood out against the rest of his handsome face and your heart stuttered for a second.

“No-no it’s fine, i don’t mind.” You respond with a smile.

“Yeah?” He asked with a sorry excuse of a smile.

“Mmhm.” You assured him and that’s how you found yourself sitting through most of the meeting. The small contact effectively grounded you while you snook glances at him from time to time.

You understood completely that any temptation of sexual congress within healing, mental health specifically, was a distraction. But you are never known to fight against it.

He introduced himself as Carmen Berzatto, but everyone calls him Carmy. He’s a chef and that’s the only thing that he’s good at being, or so he claimed. He is a troubled person but you like troubled, especially the pretty ones; bad habit.

The attendees change all the time, different faces and different ghost-like individuals fill the room interchangeably. Not that you bothered to get to know any of them, Carmy was the first and only one and he has always been a constant for you.

He occasionally misses a few meetings, but he never fails to return with the same look in his face and that was what your friendship was build upon.

In a world where everything is ever-evolving. You tend to cling to those you recognize as equally damaged, if not more.

To be frank, you haven’t found the meetings to be helpful at all, you just— enjoyed being here, where you can openly talk about your own destructive behaviors. However not necessarily having to take any action against them. You do want to get better. Yet you’ve been this way for so long, it’s become a part of you. To shed it would be equivalent to cutting off a rotting limb and you are certain that Carmy feels it in similar ways. His demons just manifests differently.

“Rain’s stopped.” He said, cutting through the comfortable silence, coupled with drips of water from the aftermath of rain.

“Oh yeah.” Your fingers reach for his that’s curled around a lit cigarette that the both of you are sharing. You close your eyes and took a long, leisurely drag, blissfully unaware of his eyes burning a hole into the side of your head.

It’s late and the both of you are leaning against a red brick wall, outside of the building. An activity that you never fail to do together after a meeting.

You’ve never arranged to meet him outside of this and neither has he. It feels as though there is a wall beyond whatever this is that the both of you have. The people he talks about that play an integral part in his development, almost seem fictitious. Only background characters with no actual importance than to play a part in his life. You only know one side of him, one that is broken and beyond repair. What is he like— actually and how does he fit into a world outside of this?

“It was different today. Your story.”

You hum and kept your gaze ahead while offering the cigarette back, “Felt like it was about time y’know?”

“Yeah i get it. It took me forever to even go up there. It wasn’t even about Mikey, it was hard to just…talk.” You hear a crackle of the cigarette burning.

“Then what were you doing before that?” You finally looked his way and smiled, tone teasing.

He mirrors your smile and chuckled, “I actually don’t fucking know, i just sat around and waited for god knows what. I guess….i guess i just like being there. Being around those people, people like you.” Bingo. After a beat, he offered the cigarette back to you. “It’s nice..when nobody expects shit from you other than being, y’know…”

“Shit.” You finish for him with laugh.

“Yeah! Then you’ll fit right in!”

It’s strangely off putting seeing him this lively and charming. You just realized that you’ve never seen him laugh like this before, all open and sweet. Yet his eyes still hide so much behind it.

Your joined laughs naturally die down and you meet his eyes intensely as you took a drag. Lipstick further staining the cigarette from how hard you wrapped your lips around it and you didn’t miss how quickly his eyes flick down and back up again.

‘Fucking take it! Take it you useless bitch!’

The words echo as flashes of rough and aggressive fucks with faceless men play out in your head. Carmy has a part in them too, but those fantasies are less graphic. You know he is incapable of being horrific, you are certain of it. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, intentionally at least.

After a final inhale of smoke, you finally feel ready enough to pop the question “Can we go back to your place?” You should’ve talked about this with him before, your lack of restraint. It was a miracle that you lasted this long.

The question took him off guard, you see it from the way his expression shift. He ponders for a while and you swear you could visualize a crack in the wall, steadily spreading. But it comes to a halt as he pressed his lips together and looked away. The feeling is palpable when disappointment start to seep into your bones.

“Yeah, okay.” He let out quietly. Eyes gazing into the distance like he was afraid of the repercussions the simple line would bring.

Then you see the crack start to grow bigger.

“Okay.”

Again, the both of you find yourselves in a position that always comes naturally, sitting on the L with only your knees touching. Only this time— you were finally moving, forward or backwards, you’re not really sure. Successfully getting out of one loop, only to be dragged into another. Doomed to go through it again.

The whole situation is overwhelming but you know the feeling all to well as adrenaline rushes through your bloodstream. A small part of your brain still attempts to act as a voice of reason, screaming at you not to take a step into his apartment, a choice that you’ve had multiple times before with previous bodies.

“Come in.” Carmy says. “Sorry it’s a mess.” He continues quietly as he flicked the light switch on, all considerate and shy like this was supposed to mean something more to the both of you.

You offer him a smile and walk inside, slowly. Hyper aware of every rustle of clothing and every intake of breath.

“I don’t mind.” As you look around his poorly decorated apartment, it’s sad how there’s no touch of him anywhere. It was just a space to sleep in, not necessarily live in.

Before you could voice anything else, you see him take careful strides towards you and was quick to pull you into a kiss, his tattooed hands go to cup your jaw. Delicate, like you were something to be treated with utmost care. Though the kisses swiftly turns animalistic as you bit his lip, tasting iron. He groans but doesn’t pull away, he only kisses you harder, taking on the challenge.

You gasp into his mouth as his hands went under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively go to wrap around his waist. You feel a strange sense of accomplishment as you tangled your fingers through his curls, when all you could’ve done in the past was yearn.

The kisses continue as he carries you into his room, unrelenting and all consuming. He doesn’t even take the time to see where he’s going, trusting himself to move by memory instead.

He expertly pushed the door to his room with his foot and walk you to his bed, finally letting go and laying you on it. A whine escapes you as your lips separated, desperate to have his body pressed against yours again. Grounding and real.

You lean on your elbows and look up at him. Watching and burning the scene into memory, as light floods into the dark room; spotlighting his figure from behind, in between your spread legs. For a small moment in time, he is— divine.

Though your daze is broken by a click, the room is now filled with a dim-yellow lighting.

The scene then plays in slow motion. You watch as he slowly pulls his shirt off, exposing his toned stomach, his midriff, to his gold chain, perfectly laid on top of his chest. You revel at the sight of his curls, the way they fall into his eyes as his head went through the neck hole. His fingers then proceeds to unbutton his jeans, anticipation builds as your eyes follow them.

Your cunt pulsed the moment he pulled the elastic band of his boxers to free himself.

He’s as big as you thought he’d be. Big enough to hurt you if he wanted to.

“You okay?” He suddenly asked with a hand on your still clothed knee.

You look up to meet his eyes, slightly in shock to find him looking so tender. Everything he’s done so far has been unexpected. No one has ever undressed in front of you before; not before tearing your clothes off first. No one has ever asked if you were okay with it before. No one has ever left themselves vulnerable in front of you before. No one has ever given you any semblance of choice before.

“Yeah. Of course i am.”

There it is again, that sorry excuse of a smile and you do your best to mirror it.

Carmy takes his time to undress you and your body didn’t know how to respond to this gentle treatment, it was silly, you thought to yourself.

“You’re so beautiful.” He sweetly voiced as he pulls your panties down. You finally feel a semblance of familiarity when he pushed you into the bed and towers over you. A very small part of you hopes that there is a beast quietly lingering under all this, waiting for the right moment to strike.

You reach out to touch his stomach, tracing up to pull him down by his chain, something akin to a collar.

“Be rough with me…don’t hold back.” You whispered.

The words cut like scissors on a rope bearing. This is what you wanted, no going back. Every bit of hesitation is lost and the light in his eyes goes along with it.

He responds with an urgent kiss, an awkward clash of lip covered teeth and sore noses. You find yourself pulling at his curls once again, driving him further into your mouth.

One of his hands slides down your body to land heated core and he moans at the wet contact.

“Fuck.” He groans.

All you can manage as Carmy roughly pushes two fingers inside of you, is to let out a high pitched whine. He is once again, unrelenting, as he finger fucks you. You spread your thighs wider and your hands grasp his sheets.

“Oh Carm-“

His gaze switches from your cunt to your pinched face, lost in pleasure. Your body instinctively curls away at the feeling of an impending orgasm and your legs threaten to close.

“Be.good.” He commands out of nowhere, while holding one of your thighs down.

“I’m gonna cum.” You admit. But you quickly regret it as he abruptly pulls his fingers out and wraps his soaked hand around his hard cock, covering himself in your arousal.

“No…”

“Like i said.Be.good.” Carmy moans out, lining himself up and dragging the head of his cock along the seam of your cunt, pausing on your clit. You grind up against him in frustration.

“Put it in. Carmy ple-.” You whiny complaint is then cut off by the rough plunge of his dick, sinking to the root.

Your thighs shake against his hips. Carmy bends down to moan into your ear. Then he pulls back all the way and presses forward again. Your breath hitched at the feeling, he’s so deep, too deep.

“Does it hurt good enough for you?”

You nod, lips painfully bitten and brows furrowing, desperate for more than just his dick to ground you.

Wordlessly, you take one his hands and guide them to wrap around your neck. Doubt flashes across his face for a second, he’s still afraid, holding back. But with another affirming nod from you, he relaxes and fulfills your need. He chokes you lightly, testing the waters and you whimper.

Beneath him, you let out sharp exhales with every thrust of his hips.

“Harder.” you plead. So he fucks you harder, hard enough to bruise your insides, you hope. Carmy is eager to please, eager to be good and perfect for you. To fuck you just the way you like it. To be enough for you.

You scream as he slightly lifts your hips off the bed, with the push of his thighs behind yours. The angle is new and his pace is brutal. You scratch down his back and beg him again.

“Hit me. Make it hurt. Fuck me harder. Please Carm.” You ramble as tears line your eyes.

You lock eyes for what feels like an eternity. His eyes widen, mirroring your own pain. He understands you the most— so he relents.

He doesn’t stop fucking you as his hand lifts. He doesn’t stop fucking you as you scrunch your eyes closed, bracing for impact. He doesn’t stop fucking you as the palm of his hand meet your cheek.

“Ah!” You cried. It hurt, it hurt so fucking much. Your walls clench around him, caught between drawing him deeper and pushing him out.

A flash of panic twists his features, “Fuck. i’m sorry- sweetheart, i’m sorry.” He lets go of your throat and placed his palms on your cheeks instead. Paying extra attention to the tender side.

You open your eyes and see tears start to well up in his pretty eyes. The sight caught you off guard and it painfully tugs on your heart strings.

“Carm-“ You gasp, voice shaky as his thrusts slow and comes to a halt.

“I don’t think i can do this.” He confesses, there is sincerity in his voice. “I’m sorry, i’m so sorry.” He rambles on, head leaning down to rest his forehead against yours.

“No- don’t apologize. Please. It’s okay.” Your arms roam to wrap around his body. Loving.

“It’s okay.” You assure him again as you soothingly run a hand up and down his back.

After a moment of quiet bliss passes, he proceeds to roll his hips again, gently this time, unhuried.

“Let me take care of you.” He whispers into the space between the two of you. You nod and watch him sit back up to lean on his arm, while the other curls around your thigh.

His thrusts pick up in speed and he groans at the feeling of slick pouring out of you as you clench around him.

“Carmy…”

“Yeah?”

“Carmy…Carmy..Carmy..Feels good..” You moan out lazily and you look down to catch a glimpse of his cum soaked dick sliding into you, balls deep with every stroke.

The words drive him to pull out of you, teasing you with just the widest part of his head. Before fucking down into you again.

Between one thrust and the next, your noises grow breathier and whinier. Carmy must feel the faint tremors under your skin and the way your pussy tightens around him.

“You gonna cum?”

You are only capable of responding with a weak nod, the ability to form coherent sentences is blissfully lost in the blur of pleasure.

Carmy pauses to lift your legs and spread them apart, gripping your ankles tightly as he enters you. You cry out as you feel him in your guts in this position.

“Fuck, Carmy!” You threw your head back at a particularly deep thrust.

“So— tight. Ah- shit i’m gonna cum.” He pants.

“Cum inside me. Please.” You beg.

His brows furrow as he leans down until you were chest to chest, your legs are held up by his shoulders now, framing his face. You didn’t think it was possible to feel him even deeper inside you. Carmy’s face is so close and his eyes bore into yours so intensely, that you almost saw something more than desire and lust in his eyes.

You feel your legs tense up as your cunt tightens around his thick cock, your orgasm hitting you so hard you felt your ears ring.

Carmy grunts as his hips stutters before finishing inside you.

The both of you feel entirely spent. Steadily holding on to each other even as the sweat on your bodies cool, leaving goosebumps on your naked skin.

He pulls out of your shaking body slowly, watching as come slips out of your tender cunt.

“You okay?” Again. He asks you tirelessly.

“Yeah.” You pause to steady your breathing. “Of course i am.”

It’s sweet and intimate, how easily you fit as he tugs you back into his chest with his palm on your stomach.

“Sleep.” He whispers with a kiss on the back of your neck.

With hesitant fingers, you touch his wrist and close your eyes. Allowing yourself the luxury of thinking that, maybe, just maybe, this might end differently for you. An ending where the wall finally crumbles.

Not where the wall manages to mend itself of it’s cracks.

Not like this current reality you are living in.

A reality where you wake up to an empty bed and an empty bedside table, no messily written goodbye note, no key card, no nothing.

You rack your brain to make sense of the whole situation and you failed, horribly. Because it doesn’t make sense. Everything he did last night, contradicts this. He wouldn’t leave you with nothing. Right? You don’t even have his phone number.

Then again, who are you to demand anything from him?

So all you can do right now, is wait for him to walk through those doors and sit next to you again, to feel his knee brush up against yours again.

It’s okay if he fails to show up again today. Because there’s always a chance that he might, one day.

You’re sure of it.

──── ──── ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ──── ────

Ouch. I’m sorry, i hope it hurt good.

I don’t know if any of you hated how repetitive some parts of it was. It was 100% intentional, i just don’t know if i did a good job with it. So i hope this wasn’t too unpleasant to read!

Let me know what you think, i would love to hear from you guys. Thank you so much for taking the time to read.

With love, Z