jediknightdjarin

[jediknightdjarin]

Qimir in THE ACOLYTE, Episode 8

[jediknightdjarin]

Hunter

[jediknightdjarin]

The Noble Daughter

Viktor x fem! reader / wc. 1.5k

synopsis: You are the daughter of a influential noble house. And Viktor is your little secret.

warnings: 18+, smut ofc, getting caught, him whimpering, soft sex 🫶🏼, reader getting eaten out, switch lean sub! vik, fingering

there might be some mistakes… -.-

[note | pls don’t just like, but also reblog & give me feedback. i don’t want to get shadowbanned <3

Every shadow and flicker seemed to embrace the secrecy of your meeting, cocooning you in a world that was just yours and his. Viktor turned at the touch of your hand on his shoulder, his amber eyes widening in surprise before they softened, filled with a mixture of longing and tenderness that made your heart ache.

"You shouldn't be here," he murmured, his voice low and gentle, laced with both worry and desire. But his hand found its way to your waist, as though he couldn't bear the thought of letting you go.

"I had to see you," you whispered back, lifting a hand to his cheek, fingers grazing the roughness of his stubble. He leaned into your touch, and before either of you could say another word, his lips met yours.

The kiss started soft, hesitant, but soon grew with a fierce urgency. Viktor's hands moved to your waist, pulling you close, as if he needed to make up for every second you'd been apart. He broke the kiss only to breathe, his lips brushing over your cheek, your jaw, leaving a trail of heat wherever they touched. You leaned back against his worktable, the cool metal pressing into your back.

With a glance up at you, Viktor lifted the edge of your blue dress, his fingers grazing the bare skin of your thigh. The contact of his hands sent a shiver up your spine. His gaze flickered up, silently asking permission, and at your nod, he continued, his hands guiding you, exploring every curve with a careful reverence.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice gentle, his eyes searching yours, filled with both longing and concern. "I don't want you to feel..."

"Viktor," you murmured, sliding a hand along his jaw, tilting his face so he could see the determination in your eyes. "I’m in desperate need of your touch."

He bit his lip and with a shaky breath, Viktor nodded. His eyes never leaving yours as he positioned himself between your legs, his hands gripping your waist. He entered you slowly as he filled you inch by inch. This is what you were yearning for. His eyes were shut close trying to suppress his sounds, however here and there a whimper would slip through.

Each thrust was met with the wet, quiet sounds of your bodies slapping against each other, amplifying every sensation in the silence of the lab. All you could hear was the wet squelching sounds you’re pussy made as he continued to fill you.

As he moved, Viktor's hands slid under your thigh, lifting one leg to rest against his hip. The new angle sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and you bit down on your lip to keep from crying out, your nails pressing into his shoulders.

Viktor's breath grew heavier, his forehead pressing against yours as he tried to hold back his own sounds. His gaze dropped down between you, watching where you were joined, the sight sending a shiver through him that made him let out a quiet whimper, his grip tightening on your thigh.

He began a slow, steady rhythm, each movement creating soft, wet squelching sound that continued to grow rapidly. The intimacy of it, the restraint you both held, only made the tension coil tighter. Viktor's gaze was intense, filled with both wonder and awe as he watched the way your bodies moved together. "I never thought..." he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. "You're... everything I dreamed of."

You leaned forward, capturing his lips in a breathless kiss, muffling both your gasps as he quickened his pace. The sounds between you grew louder, the wet, rhythmic noises blending with the quiet hum of the lab, filling the space with a symphony meant only for the two of you. Every motion, every shift, was precise, Viktor's movements guided by both his passion and his care for you.

The tension built, coiling tight as Viktor's restraint began to slip. His breaths came in shallow gasps, and his eyes met yours with a look so full of longing, of devotion, that it nearly undid you. You clung to him, burying your face against his shoulder to stifle the moans that threatened to escape, your body moving in time with his, caught up in the quiet, forbidden passion.

With a quiet, trembling sigh, Viktor buried himself fully, his own quiet whimpers echoing softly in your ear as he felt you shudder around him. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining, grounding you as the last waves of pleasure washed over you both.

In the stillness that followed, Viktor pressed gentle kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, his hands still resting at your waist, as though he couldn't bear to let go. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice full of awe and tenderness. "For loving me... for being here."

Moments have passed since you have reached your first organism and you were still on the table. As the quiet settled over the lab, Viktor held you close for a few lingering breaths, his forehead pressed gently against yours. But soon, the intensity in his gaze softened, replaced by a tenderness that left you breathless.

With a quiet reverence, he carefully knelt before you, his hands resting on your thighs. He was weary to not hurt himself which would cause him more pain on his limp leg. Viktor’s golden eyes met yours as he slowly lowered himself, his expression filled with something almost worshipful. He pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of your knee, then to your thigh, each touch lingering as though he was committing every inch of you to memory. His lips moved higher, grazing over your skin with soft, open-mouthed kisses that left a warm, tingling trail in their wake.

Your breath hitched as his mouth moved closer towards your pussy, the intensity of the moment making your heart pound.

Viktor's metal fingers traced along your thigh, the coolness of his touch a delicious contrast to the heat he was leaving with his lips. His long, slender fingers followed the curve of your leg, slipping inside your walls with a grace that was gentle. You felt his thumb press softly against your skin, steadying you, while his other hand reached up to rest at your waist, grounding you in the moment.

The coldness of his metal hand sent a shiver through you, heightening every sensation, and he seemed to notice, a slight smile tugging at his lips. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, a hint of mischief in his gaze. "Still alright?" he asked softly, his voice filled with concern, but his tone held a knowing warmth.

You managed a nod, your hand reaching down to thread through his hair, tugging him slightly closer. His lips quirked into a soft smirk before he returned his focus to you, pressing another kiss to your folds. His mouth moved with a slow, deliberate patience. His kisses growing bolder and deeper, as his tongue darted inside you.

Viktor's metal fingers traced light patterns along your skin, each touch careful, his control a testament to his dedication. As he moved higher, his thumb pressed gently along the inside of your thigh, guiding you open for him with a mixture of care and desire. The coolness of his touch, combined with the warmth of his lips, sent tremors through you that you could barely contain.

His mouth hovered near your folds, his breath warm against you, but he paused, looking up with a gaze full of tenderness. "You're... beautiful," he whispered, his voice barely a murmur, as though he was confessing a secret.

Before you could respond, his lips finally met your pussy, a quiet, reverent kiss that left you dizzy. His metal fingers continued their journey, a gentle, precise touch that sent waves of sensation through you, heightening every nerve. He took his time, savoring each reaction, each shiver, his mouth and hands working in tandem as he explored, worshipping every part of you with a devotion that left you breathless.

As his cool fingers reached deeper, finding your sensitive spots. His mouth followed, leaving soft, lingering kisses that melted any remaining restraint. The contrast of his cold touch and the warmth of his mouth created a rhythm that had you gripping the edge of the table, biting down on your lip to keep from crying out.

Viktor's pace quickened, his cool fingers moving with a newfound intensity. Each motion was calculated yet filled with passion, his gaze flickering between his hand and your face, drinking in every reaction, every quiet sound you made. His metal fingers, precise and deft, moved inside you at a pace that left you breathless, teetering on the edge as he guided you closer with each stroke.

He murmured soft, breathy reassurances between the kisses that he laid on your thighs. His voice filled with warmth."You're perfect... absolutely perfect," he whispered, his free hand caressing the curve of your thigh.

Viktor's replaced his slender fngers with his tongue again, alternating between teasing flicks and deep strokes, savoring every taste. His metal fingers splayed across your thigh, holding you firmly, while his other hand trailed down to his own body. He shivered as he began to touch himself in time with his mouth on you, his quiet moans and hitched breaths vibrating against you, only intensifying your pleasure.

He glanced up now and then, his amber eyes darkened with desire, watching the way you responded, drinking in every soft gasp and tremble. The sight of your flushed face and parted lips seemed to drive him further, his movements becoming more hungry as he lost himself in the pleasure he was giving you. His fingers dug into your skin, his grip tightening as he grew more desperate, his own moans blending with yours, low and needy.

The lab was filled with the squelching sounds of your bodies. A mix of his restrained groans, the wet, rhythmic noises of his mouth, and your own stifled whimpers. You felt like you could cum any second as your stomach turned tighter. Viktor seemed to sense it, as his tongue pressing deeper, his pace quickening. His free hand gripped your thigh harder, pulling you even closer to him, as though he wanted to consume every last bit of you.

Just as you felt yourself reaching the edge, Viktor lifted his head slowly, his lips and chin glistening with your juices. His chest rose and fell in deep, unsteady breaths, his flushed cheeks and slightly dazed expression showing just how much he'd enjoyed himself. His fingers traced gentle patterns on your thighs, grounding you as you came back down, while he gazed up at you with a look of pure adoration.

He brought his metal thumb up to wipe away a stray drop from his chin, a slight, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You taste... exquisite," he murmured, his voice low and rough, a mix of pride and lingering hunger shining in his eyes as he leaned up to kiss you, letting you taste the passion you had just shared.

Viktor then reached towards your soaked pussy to finger you again. The quiet wet sounds filled the air, amplifying the intimacy of the moment, creating a world that felt entirely your own. But then, a faint creak echoed through the room, and both of you froze. The unmistakable sound of the lab door opening snapped Viktor back to reality, and he stilled, his eyes widening as his gaze shot up to yours. You both turned, just in time to see Jayce entering, a stack of papers in hand.

Jayce's eyes met yours first, and then drifted towards Viktor, his fingers still inside you. For a brief, painful moment, silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the distant hum of hextech machinery. Jayce's expression shifted from surprise to awkward shock as the realization dawned on him. His mouth opened, as though he wanted to say something, but words seemed to fail him.

"I... I didn't mean to interrupt," he finally managed, his tone caught between embarrassment and disbelief. Jayce quickly looked away, his cheeks flushing as he backed out of the room, practically stumbling over his own feet.

"I'll... come back later," he stammered, disappearing from sight. The door clicked shut, leaving the lab filled with silence once more. Viktor's face had gone red, his eyes fixed on the floor, clearly mortified. But as he glanced down at you, the edges of his mouth twitched, and a quiet laugh escaped him, breaking the tension.

"Well," Viktor murmured softly, a hint of humor in his voice, "that... was unexpected." He lifted his soaked fingers towards his mouth as his other hand still lingering on your waist, sucking all of your juices as he maintained eye contact. His mouth made a popping sound as he let his fingers go from in between his lips. He then led his once soaked fingers towards the back of your neck, caressing your hair.

"Perhaps we'll continue... later?" he suggested, his voice low, a promise glinting in his eyes as he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. You couldn't help but laugh, nodding as you pulled him into an hug. You hoped that jayce didn’t go out and tell anyone what happened. Because if he did and your parents knew, you would sure be in for a scolding.

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[jediknightdjarin]

˗ˏˋ NEEDY ˎˊ˗ being his needy little thing

⟢ characters : Silco

⟢ warnings : fem!reader, degrading, toy-ification, implied dumbification, implied oral, implied cum swallowing, age gap, implied backshots

"Go on. If you want something from me then beg for it. Voice how much you need my cock in your tight little pussy, fucking you dumb on my desk. Tell me just how good I make you feel when I fuck you dumb and senseless like the cocksleeve you are, my little doll", Silco cooed, hand gripping onto your drool smeared chin.

Your eyes were watery from how deep he forced you to take his shaft, having used his hand to fuck himself into your mouth previously until he came, hot liquid shooting down your throat and making you choke more than you already did before when he hammered into you in a relentless pace, not giving you any mercy, not even when you gagged from how deep he reached.

"Please Silco", you began, sitting more upright and using his thighs for leverage, looking him deep into his eyes.

"Want you- no, need you so bad. Need your dick in me please. Need to come so bad", you voiced your desires but Silco wasn't satisfied yet.

He knew you could do better and he didn't refrain from telling you so, eliciting a frustrated mix of a groan and moan from you.

"Please, please, please Silco. I've been a good girl. I took you so well and even swallowed it all, see!", you replied with a whiny voice, opening your mouth wide for him to show him that no remains of his cum were left in your throat.

"Please, been so good for you. Want nothing more than be your dumb little cocksleeve, please!"

He loved this game.

It's like a cat taunting it's prey, letting it go from time to time just to catch it again, giving it the illusion of being free only to get caged again. In his eyes you were nothing more than a young and naive girl that was half his age, not knowing anything about life and how society works, making you even more manipulatable than you already were. You practically ate out of his hand, believing every word he said like he was a saint, doing anything for him whenever he wanted like the good girl you were.

Oh he loved it, how eager you always were to please him in whatever way he wanted you to, letting him fuck you dumb on his cock almost every day since you came to him, begging him for protection from the man thirsting after your life.

"Stand up and bend over", were all the words it took from Silco for from to finally shut your needy mouth.

Without hesitating even a singular moment you got up from your position on the hardwood floor between his wide spread legs, bending over the massive mahogany desk, your eyes closed shut in anticipation of what was to come. Your heart skipped a beat when you heard the familiar noise of his belt buckle hitting the wooden floor, his hands coming up to roam over the curve of your ass, removing any possible garments you were wearing from your lower half until you finally were fully exposed to him. Two of his fingers came down and spread apart your lips, showing him your glistening hole, already red, swollen and dripping from how turned on you were.

He toyed with you for a bit, fingers stroking your entrance and gathering your slick only to then find your clit and rub it vigorously, making your legs shake from pleasure. If you already were so responsive to simply having your clit rubbed, how would you react to his dick drilling inside of you and getting your guts rearranged?

But you didn't need to wait long for an answer, for he had already removed his fingers from your cunt and replaced them with his cock, coating his tip in your slick before slamming into your tight pussy all at once until the hilt, hitting your cervix at full force and making you moan out loud.

Normally Silco would tell you to shut up or simply put his hand around your neck to choke the words out of you, but today he wanted nothing more than to hear your whiny and needy voice echo in his office.

Needless to say, everyone on the floor could hear you begging and moaning for Silco.

[jediknightdjarin]

Sleeping With the Enemy

Pairings: Silco x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: You're a councillors daughter secretly working with the Eye of Zaun, fulfilling each other's needs.

Political needs, of course. It's purely business. They would never be stupid enough to start an affair . . . Unless?

Wordcount: ca 3.5k

Warnings: enemies AND lovers, hate-fucking, toxic, Silco being evil, angsty, pinv sex, rough sex, power imbalance, fighting for control, complicated feelings, twisted love, forbidden relationship, dacryphilia ish, cockwarming, blowjob, fingering, edging, overstimulation, choking, cum eating, creampie, petnames (girl, princess, devil, Sil)

AN: yet to be proofread. This might be one of my favourite works, he's insane . . . I need him.

"Let go off me," she snarls, yanking mirthlessly against the strong womans grip. "Release me Sevika, or-"

"Or what?" She cuts the girl off with a sneer, metallic fingers sinching around her bicep. Sevika holds her close enough to force the girl to stare up through her eyebrows if she wants to achieve any semblance of eye contact.

"Or she tells her precious father," the man cuts in, a nonchalant smile to his tone.

"He doesn't know I'm here," the girl snaps, defiantly locking eyes with the industrialist. Clad in shadow, he's a mere silhouette backlit by Zaun's streets. "He doesn't know anything."

Picking up a brand new cigar, he clips the end and flicks a lighter open, toying with the flame. All in due time, he's not rushing to spoil such a favored treat.

"Good," he says and gestures dismissively, signaling his trusty henchman to leave.

Sevika releases the girl with a displeased huff and slams the door behind her. The only thing she likes less than piltovians, is them wandering too far from their fabricated safety and ending up on her doorstep.

She watches the muscular woman leave, staring at the closed door in contemplation as she once again finds herself alone with the eye of Zaun.

Something clatters behind her, a lighter discarded on a desk. "You're late," he mutters, bringing the smoking cigar to his lips.

Anger begins to blaze inside her. That's it? That's all he has to say? "Six enforcers are dead," she snaps, nose scrunching. Disgusted by the mere thought of that demon's violence. "She's a loose canon, Silco. She blew them up for the hell of it."

From the dark, a red orb slips her way. He leans forward, having the rooms gloomy light illuminate his face only to throw the girl a disapproving look, barely deeming it worthy to look her in the eyes. "You forget yourself, girl."

Swallowing, she forces herself to calm down. Aggrivating such a volatile man never proved a good idea, and displaying anger against his daughter proved even worse.

Carefully, she ventures closer. Testing the waters and finding them thick as mud. The very air around him emenates danger, and her body slows down, relucant to put itself in such unpredictable environments. "You broke our deal," she announciates, finding it safer to put the blame on him rather than the blue haired demon he protects so ferociously.

"You disrupted our shipment," he repeats her ridiculous attempt. "It's simple business. Collateral," he shrugs and gestures toward her, vaguely implying the deaths should be on the girls consience. He doesn't say it outright because he doesn't need to, because he doesn't care if it hurts her feelings. Because, he doesn't care about the lost lives of a few topsiders, lives of enforcers even less. In true rebel spirit.

Massively unimpressed, he sizes her up when she places herself on the other side of the desk. Gripping the edge, the wood is tough beneath her fingers as she strains to keep herself in check. Blue and green light his back, lining the countours around his body. It softens him in some ways, as if the light hasn't completely shunned him yet.

Suddenly smirking, Silco's gaze drifts over her. Studying her tense disposition with spiteful glee as he enjoys the irony of a murderous piltovian. "Contemplating violence wont relieve you of this predicament."

"Killing you would."

"Threatening me so early in the morning?" He tsks, taking a deep drag of the cigar to then blow a ring of smoke in her direction. "Perhaps I should have approached your father instead, the councillor would've been easier to handle . . . More willing to please."

Keeping eye contact, she doesn't react, and a glint of cuiosity to sparks in his gaze. "He has nothing to do with this, and you know it," she tries again. "But Jin-"

Silco's smirk falls. "Hold your tongue, girl." Pinching the bridge of his tall nose, he releases a heavy sigh. "Lock the door," he orders, looking at her through his eyebrows.

Menacing, haunting. She could describe him with a hundred different horrific words. Yet, he doesn't scare her. They both know she's right.

Breathing relief, she does as she's told. When asking her to create a boundary between the world and this room, he shows her nothing has changed. Whatever they have remains within the confines of his office and her bedroom. It takes the edge off, and she lets the inhabiting worry slip away.

Upon her return, she softly stalks around the desk until sidled up against the short side. "Shoving clever words down my throat won't shut me up, Sil."

Rubbing his face, he looks at her through his fingers. Heavily disapproving of the nickname. "Dont tempt me," he warns. "I'll find other ways to shut you up."

She swallows, a single pulse throbs in her core. Moving around the desk, she slides a finger along it's edge and places herself infront of him, bathing her in the very same darkness that Silco finds himself in.

A small smirk flicker on his lips. But even though it dissolves, turning back into its usual serious mask, the satisfaction of the expression linger on his features.

"It cant happen again," he warns a third time, he must going soft on her. His hands move, trading the cigar for the the ability to touch her. One hand reaches for her thigh, sliding beneath her skirt. While the other reaches up, grabbing her chin to stare into her eyes. "The shipments are important." Silco applies just enough pressure on her chin to keep it stinging, just enough to understand that he didn't take the loss lightly. While the thumb beneath her skirt brushes lightly over her hipbone.

Inspite their predicaments, their relationship was business from the beginning and the majority still is. He tells her this through the contrasting touches.

She nods.

"Use your words, girl. Tell me you understand. This cant happen again."

But she won't concede, not yet. "No more attacks," she murmurs, placing her hands on his thighs. "No more deaths." The girl sinks to her knees, slowly, and making sure he keeps his gaze glued to hers. Being so close to him, she gets a whiff of his cologne. He smells of musk and wood, Smoke and whiskey. He smells of man.

They know what buttons to press when it comes to one another, and right now, she needs safety for her people in much the same way he needs independence for his. The difference laying within their methods of accomplishment. But looking at them now, it's clear they've got more in common than she's previously thought.

Silco spreads his legs further apart, welcoming her advancements. "I wonder what daddy dearest would say if he saw you now; that pretty princess of his . . . Negotiating on her knees." He slides a hand beneath hers, lacing their fingers together before leaning back in his chair to enjoy the show.

It's a small sign of fondness, one he confidently gives. Showing his inclination toward her means little, for they already know where they have each other. Unwilling to put it into words, they feel them silently.

Truth is, they enjoy the power imbalance, they enjoy the hatred their respective people share. Peculiarly, it unites them, and simultaneously fuel their polarity. They're a strange equation, two variables with a common sum.

Helping each other with free hands, they unbutton his pants. "Im sure he'd be proud of your devotion," he mocks, exhaling that infamous low chuckle.

Spitting into her hand, she reaches into his pants. "He'd share the pride with your people," she smiles and looks up at him innocently, pulling his member out. "–when they find out you're working with a councillor's daughter . . . Fucking her no less." She leans in, teasing his tip with a slow circling lick, gathering the pre-cum on her tongue. With a corner curving upward, his lips part, and there's a silent intake of breath. Brushing his hand along her cheek, he collects stray hair covering her face and gathers it at her neck, twirling it around his fingers. "Go on," he urges.

And so, she finally closes the distance and takes him in her mouth.

With a hiss, he squeezes the hand laced with his. Slender fingertips dig into the back of her hand. "Little devil," he groans, hand burrying deeper into her hair and balling into a fist, coincidentally pulling on her scalp.

Clasping her still spit-wet hand around his shaft, she strokes him, adding on to the bobbing of her head.

"Yes," he moans, reclining his head against the back of the chair. "Carry on, girl."

Im sync with her hand, she works him until he's close to squirming, trying his very best to keep a semblance of composure. Never did she think such a powerful man would tremble beneath her touch or the pressure of her lips. But here he was, his usual neat combed back hair fallen over his forehead, beads of sweat gathering on his temples.

He'd started using his hand to guide her head, helping her find the perfect path toward his climax. Chest heaving and teeth bared, he chuckles breathlessly as the squelching of their actions reach his ears. Pushing her too far, she makes half-choking noises when she takes his entire length down her throat. Causing saliva to spill out of her mouth and roll down his length.

"Sloppy," he snarls, manicured nails digging into her hand. "-used to sucking cock."

She whines from the rare usage of crude words, making her core purr. His inches twitch in her mouth, sensing how close he is. "Please me," he supresses a groan, calling her name. "Swallow."

It happens quickly. His breathing turns rapid, his hips arching as he spills into her mouth. Tasting of rich salt as she swallows.

Smirking devilishly, he catches his breath. "Thats it . . . Well done." He brushes his thumb along her index finger.

Joy trickles into her heart at the praise, but there is little room as her body is already filled to the brim by need. With heavy eyes and glistening lips, she stands up on her knees. "Kiss me," she whispers.

Unlacing their fingers, he moves to slide a thumb across her lips, gathering some of the milky seed she'd yet to swallow. "Open up, princess." He pulls on her hair to tilt her head back.

Her lips part automatically, a knife slicing through her pride at the irony of the name. Silco slips his thumb into her mouth and wipes it clean on her tongue. He watches with fascination as her lips close around the digit, volunteering to suck it off as he pulls it out. "Kiss me," she repeats.

The fingers still burried in her hair twitches at the sight. Acting on impulse, they bunch her waves, pulling her close enough for their lips to play ghost. He tilts his head to the side, bringing them impossibly closer. "Tell me you understand," he murmurs, watching her reaction as the featherlight touch tickles her lips.

Her expectations for the night and the soft shell of intimacy around them shatters, but she'll never give him the satisfaction. The kiss was a wish from her own selfish needs, but giving him what he wants without the safety she require for her people is not. "No."

With a harrowing glance, he releases her. "I have work to do, you know where the door is," Silco says, nodding toward the exit. He then runs his hand through his hair, combing it back into place.

So quickly is the mood ruined and the rush of lust diminishes, settling her nerves. Instead it is the annoyance and the anger she arrived with that begins to rebuild.

The girl scoffs. "Petty, man-child," she mumbles, keeping her voice beneath her breath. But she wants something from him too, anything. She's derserves it, it just the matter of taking it.

Then, something just clicks in her mind and an irruption takes control of her body. Narrowing her eyes in quick to non-existent contemplation, she grabs his collar and pulls him in for a kiss. It only lasts for a second before she pushes herself away and stands up, not planning to stick around to deal with the consequences.

But before she gets a chance to move too far, a hand grabs her forearm and yanks her back. "You stubborn girl," he whispers in her ear, an arm slung around her torso as Silco holds her against his chest. She feels her panties being pulled to the side, and the head of his member lining up with her core. "Bleeding your integrity dry for those imperious, self-important cretins." He teases her entrance, sliding the tip up and down her folds.

"I am one of them, or do you forget?" She snaps.

Without warning, he lowers her onto his inches, fitting them inside her like they've been molded. The girl gasps at the feeling and Silco's fingers curl, releasing a groan as his fingers rouch the fabric at her ribs. "Even now?" He adjusts the girl in his lap. "Would they deign to descend from their thrones as you? Stooping to my level, manipulating on a whim to fullfill your needs." He pulls her closer, nudging her profile with his. All the while he's got his still hard member pushed up inside her, soft walls of flesh welcoming him eagerly. "Would they still accept you when found-out, or will they throw you to the wolves as the rumours spread? When they find out Zaun's villainous crime lord is fucking Piltover's princess," he laces the words with venom, hands slipping upward. One stops at her breast to squeeze while the other clasps around her throat. "When they whisper of the ways he uses her. How he puts her on her back, makes her kneel . . . How he bends her over," he murmurs, sending shivers down her spine.

She grows dizzy, a mix of worry and pleasure clouding her senses. His words hit home, drawing her lips into a thin line. "They are still my people," she breathes, voice close to breaking, sunding more like she's trying to convince herself.

"They will be your downfall." He puts pressure on her throat. "We've made sure of that, you and I."

"No . . . Silco, that's not true."

The hand holding her breast slips beneath her skirt. "We've made our beds-" slender fingers find her clit. "And we will sleep with the consequences."

Head lulling back against his shoulder, back arching, pleasure spikes as he stimulates her thrice fold. Circling her clit while throbbing inside her, and acting catalyst is the experienced hand around her throat. It limits the bloodflow and multiplies her pleasure. "Fuck," she whimpers, hips squirming, flesh randomly spasming around him.

Silco groans at the sensation, gaining his own pleasure from the whole ordeal. But that is not his goal. "Be still," he warns.

The collossall amounts of pleasure blinds her, it grabs hold of her senses and refuses to let go. Her nerves burn and fingers curl. Its all too much, yet not enough. Tears of gather in her eyes, slowly spilling over to roll down her face. "A-almost . . ."

Silco adjusts his grip around her throat so uses his thumb to tilt her face toward him, then watches how the tears streak her makeup, leaving watered down mascara in their wake. He places his lips on her skin, kissing the tears away while enjoying their salty taste. He studies her rosy cheeks and knitted expression, memorising the small whimpers she breathes.

The girl can no longer keep still and her back prepares to arch, limbs preparing to surge with blinding hot pleasure. "Im-- mhh, I-" She mewls, and the knot releases.

. . .

Until it isn't. She feels Silco retract his hands, causing oxygen flood her brain and irritation to anchor her mind. The knot in her stumach re-ties, loosely adjusting until the pressure completely dies down. "I see callousness runs in the family," she complains, almost in pain from the sudden lack of stimulation.

Silco circles an arm around her waist. "It's essential to survive," he says and stands up, still swollen member slipping out of her. Supporting the girl as her knees wobble, she's unable to stand on her own due to the afflictions he's caused her. Turning her around, he helps her onto the desk. Chest to chest, he braces against the wood, one hand on either side of her, effectively boxing her in.

She lays a finger beneath his chin, and he looks up at her through his eyebrows. Exhaling, he moves between her thighs. Silco reaches out to her, loosely cupping her face as his thumb smears the streaked mascara. "There is no white knight," he says, pushing reality on her, weather she's willing to listen or not.

She nods. "I know." Tainted by the impure air of Zaun, branded by the touch of it's Eye. If she ever is to be saved, it must be by her own hand. Her smile is faint as her eyes fall from his.

He grabs her face and squeezes her cheeks. "Look at me," he tells her with a gravely tone. Their eyes lock. Dissappering between them, his other hand lines himself up with her core.

Taking a gamble, she grabs his tie and pulls him in, properly locking lips for the first time. Because he doesn't pull away, and neither does she. Her bottom lips begins to tremble, surprised he ever let it go this far. Their initial moment passes, evolving into seconds until they realise neither is breathing and they tear apart for much needed air, not straying far. Their lips hover, ghosting as previously. "You steal whats not your's to take."

She nudged his nose with her own. "Does survival not apply here? I never took you for a hypocrite."

His top lip twitches, and she feels him bare his teeth in a silent snarl as his fingers apply pressure to her cheeks. "How clever," he murmurs, and pushes inside her once again, catching her off guard.

They share a reflexive gasp, and as he starts to move, every thrust exchanges breaths between them. The girl's lips curve, heavily enjoying the tiny sliver of emotional intimacy he's finally giving her.

Her legs circle around his hips as he grabs her waist one handed, adding further levrage as his fingers dent her flesh. Silco starts a heavy pace and their lips reconnect, mirroring their bodies, it reflects their feelings. The kiss growing needy and rough.

"Get on your back for me," he mocks and releases her face. "Prove them right."

She bites his lip, tugging on it as she lies back against the desk and pulls him with her.

Hand suddenly free, he hooks it beneath her knee and pulls it up against his side to gai better access. Slowing down the pace, he manages to take her deeper, harder. She groans, head lulling to the side as her climax begins to build. "Dont stop." Not again.

"Look at me," he breathes, warning in his tone as he's inclined to watch her topple over the edge. Her brows knit together, but her gaze finds his. The knot closing as his thrusts begin to grow erratic.

Pleasure burns her fingers and quickens her pulse. "Close, c-" she begins, but he cuts her off with another kiss, tongue slipping between their lips to explore her mouth.

And just like that, she bursts. Traveling through her from top to toe. Silco following short thereafter. "It's alright . . . Good, girl," he whispers.

Once they've caught up with their breaths, Silco straightens out, and rearranges his clothes before helping her to her feet.

-

"I understand," she says, halting by the door.

He looks up from his seat but is quick to stand, slowly stalking toward her. Stopping just short of her smaller frame, he reaches behind her back to grab the door handle. "I don't control her. She is my daughter like you are your father's," he says and meets her eyes. "But I will speak to Jinx." Leaning down, he kisses her cheek, catching her off guard. Affection is newly discovered territory between them, but from him to give it so freely after battling it out is a very big surprise. But as quick as ot started, it's over. His soft expression morphing into his usual stern disposition. "Dont be late again girl," he says and opens the door.

-

Somehow, they've become entangled. Silently sharing affection their respective people would deem unfit. Silco wont hurt her, if he can help it. But such is nature. They'll stand on opposite sides, prioritising their own families, cities. But not without a thought of the other, wishing it could be different. It probably never will be, for such is faith and such is time. If only it could rewind.

-

[jediknightdjarin]

forwards, beckon, rebound. / machine herald!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is fem bodied, angst, size difference, fingering, choking, dry humping, praise, russian terms of endearment, somewhat toxic relationship, mild augmentation kink, way too many emotions, mix of arcane + league lore / spoilers. word count: 16.2k

read on ao3

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Viktor enjoys making you feel helpless. 

Technically, it isn't enjoyment so much as it is a responsibility; you'll repeatedly show up at his secluded lab in the Undercity, and as he does with everyone who comes to his doorstep worn and destitute, he'll take it upon himself to give you what you need. You are like the rest of his endeavors — meticulously examined, ambitiously furthered. But unlike his various grandiose experiments and his pursuits for evolution, it isn't just his mind you occupy. 

There is some dusty, disregarded hole in his once-perfect mechanical heart, and if the hypothesis he's formed but doesn't want to acknowledge is correct, you are the most probable cause. Or perhaps, you'd be the cure. 

Carefully, with his usual amount of precision, Viktor pulls his leather glove from his hand. He allows his fingers to flex: scarred skin improved by intricately-crafted metal joints. He's positioned above you, large and imposing while he keeps you pinned beneath him. The firm, steel surface of his giant worktable feels cool against your bare back. The room itself is dim, worktable lit by an overhead lamp that burns when you happen to look directly at it. Thankfully, Viktor's armored form above you, encased in dark shadow, blocks out most of the light. 

The Hextech third arm on his back grasps your wrists unwaveringly, and keeps them in place above your head, utilizing an exorbitant display of strength. You can't move a muscle, not even if you tried. Lingering heat sears into your skin, radiating from the metal — from where the laser he's perfected could easily sever your wrists from the bone. 

What's more, you can hardly think. Your head is spinning; your heart pounds from between your ribs, fiercely yet uselessly. You can only stare at the glowing, emotionless eyes of Viktor's mask, and wait for him to decide what he plans to do with you. Gentle. With the way you're looking at him, you need him to be gentle, this time. 

He presses his palm to the center of your chest, where he can feel the erratic beat of your heart. Slowly, he begins to drag his hand down. It's a knowing, practiced motion — not as soft as it ought to be, considering his cold, purple-veined hand and calloused fingers. As his touch is brought down to your stomach, your waist, you shiver, and your body relaxes. Finally, fully. 

It doesn't take long for you to arch into his touches, just as he predicted, just as you always do. Your flesh loves to sing for him. 

This dance has been performed by the both of you numerous times beforehand. Viktor questions if you'll ever grow tired of it. Of the pirouetting, of revolving constantly around unspoken, trembling complications, just to return, to let your mind and your heart reel all over again. 

What he feels for you — what he has evaluated from you, because machines do not feel — is something unexplainable, foreign, futile. He knows this, this dynamic you've fostered; it hardly makes sense. You are allies with no common goals. You were friends, some disregarded years ago. Every other night, you stumble into his lab to interrupt his work, and he lets you. 

No, he indulges you. 

"You are quivering," Viktor hums, voice muffled and deepened by the mask's filter. A usual, matter-of-fact statement, but the edges of his tone sharpen in the wake of a held-back, dark chuckle. "You want me to touch you. Say it." 

The powerful, vastly-superior Machine Herald already has you right where he wants you. 

Slightly riddled with static, the way his thick accent curls around the words only serves to make you shudder more. Your breathing is choppy, your chest rapidly rising and falling. 

Not from fear, if Viktor had to guess. His scans of your heart rate would come across much differently if that was the case. This is from arousal. Clear, easily definable arousal. Just from his thick voice, his soft touch, and the imagery provided by his large body above yours. 

The sight of you is addictive. Addiction isn't a sensation built into his mechanical repertoire, but it's the best word he can think of to describe this. You are small when you're underneath him. So malleable, so fragile. So human. How abnormal. The compulsive surge that runs through his veins should not, according to all of his tests and conclusive research, be occurring. 

Viktor supposes this type of behavior would be more fitting of the past version of him. Presently, he doesn't have room to let time go to waste. His vision is all that matters. The old him, though, the Viktor you once knew would've given you whatever you desired without a second thought, even though he hardly deserved it. 

He was weak, once. For you, perhaps a part of him still is. 

You are intelligent, you always have been. He has cast away much of his past in pursuit of chasing a better, more important future, but still, he remembers each and every moment he shared with you quite vividly. They play in the background of his mind sometimes, persistent like a system error, recurrent like a late-night looping television program. 

Your inventions often kept pace with his. Your smile was bright, brighter than the pillars of light that shone from Piltover's grandest lighthouses. Starry-eyed and driven, you wanted to improve, as a person and as a scientist. You challenged him to push further right alongside you. 

Of course, you knew him better than most, but Viktor wonders: did you ever expect him to go this far? Did you ever plan on retreating back to Zaun with him, to fall further into madness together? 

By now, you must be smart enough to know he is different. What you might've had, a friendship or a partnership or something delightedly improbable, it is now nothing. Nothing more than another one of his shed weaknesses and old, discarded memories. 

Perfect machinery does not feel. Not even for you, no matter what it once felt. Scientifically, it can't. You should understand this relationship is not beneficial. He could and would gladly break you, it's what he built himself to do. And yet, as he's starting to realize, perhaps being broken by him is exactly what you want. 

"Please touch me," You're begging, as his palm caresses the all-too-human curve of your side. Your voice is warm, lustful. A sweet, familiar taste settles in the back of his throat, as you coo the old nickname you still reserve just for him. "I need you to, Vik." 

And just like always, because of you, because of his predisposed sense of responsibility, or perhaps because of an unrecognized fault in his complex machinery — Viktor gives in. 

He revels in your vulnerable, quivering limbs and your heavy, desperate gaze. The grip of his Hexclaw tightens on your wrists, your hands closing, fingers tensed. He drags his palm down your stomach slowly, carefully. His gentleness is calculated, but it is yours, all the same. 

Your legs spread for him on impulse when his hand reaches your thigh. He squeezes, before he brings his hand between them, allowing the end of his index finger to brush your clit; his touch is precise, with all the efficiency and learned confidence of a flawless, apathetic machine. He could make you fall apart for him so easily, every part of you perfectly attuned to his touch, and his touch alone. 

Yet, he's teasing you, careful and slight touches barely grazing where you're oh-so sensitive for him. Your thighs shake, and spread wider; your body is exposed to him, soft and sweat-soaked expanses of skin contrasting splendidly with his bulky, armored chassis of metal. Now, instead of his index, Viktor uses his thumb, providing more friction and a slightly firmer touch. You squirm, the pretty features of your face washed over in pleasure, before you breathe a small, satisfied whine. 

"That's it," He murmurs firmly. "To think this is all it takes to make you submit." 

Viktor allows his thumb to trace circles onto your swollen, needy clit, and your breath proceeds to hitch so deliciously for him. An action, and reaction. Repeated experiments make for predictable results. Hextech hand practically digging into your wrists, Viktor brings his free, metal hand to your cheek. Oddly tender, his cold palm cups your face. He isn't surprised at the response it gets out of you, your chest heaving with a deep, trembling sigh. Every part of your skin tingles, as you lean into his faux, steel touch. 

"Earlier, you wished to be defiant. Disobedient." Viktor scolds, his thumb flicking over your clit while his fingers brush your cunt, gathering your dripping slick on the digits. He takes his metal hand away from your cheek, and he presses it flat to the table, right beside your head. Your brows pinch disappointedly, clearly unsatisfied with his subtle form of punishment. 

"And now look at you. Wet and desperate." 

He's barely touched you, barely even begun with you, and you're already dripping. 

"I wasn't- I'm not disobedient," You're countering, although it's damn near impossible to keep your voice sounding steady when his persistent touch is toying with you. He's teasing, circling your clit agonizingly slowly, just to make you squirm. "I brought you everything you asked for. Like always." 

"Yes, and you did well," Viktor praises flatly. As though he's reading off a trained script, rather than watching the way your eyelids flutter as his knuckles brush your entrance. "Our current project will run smoothly now, utilizing the tech you acquired for us. But when I told you to wait, to bring the tech after I had finalized our plans, you did not listen." 

You admit simply, foolishly, "I missed you." 

Those words are familiar. You'll often tell him you missed him when he returns to the lab, home at last after finalizing a few affairs elsewhere. You said you missed his face the first time you saw it, your hands gently holding his cheeks, caressing metal and skin — despite how different he looks now. Despite the scars, the mechanical parts. 

He knows you missed him. In a soft, delicate way. In an indecent, desperate way. His form of longing is much, much different. When the mortal matter and fraying wires of his brain yearn to have your presence beside him, with him, under him, it is strong, it is carnivorous. It is encompassing. 

"You nearly comprised everything we've been working towards." Viktor's third arm tightens even more, making your wrists and arms go nearly numb. "There is only so much I can do to protect you. I disposed of the last enforcers to attempt tracking you down, but if you were to lead them here, you will not just be putting yourself at risk. You are threatening our entire vision with your recklessness." 

Carefully, his index finger finds your entrance: sensitive and wanting. He deliberately pulls his hand away when you whine, instead placing his palm back on your inner thigh. Your skin is soft to the touch. Your gaze stays steady on him, on the unflinching shape of his mask, your eyelids heavy, pupils blown with clear arousal. As though he encompasses all you need, anything you could possibly want, and everything that could devastate you. 

You are frustratingly beautiful. 

Viktor hums, the sound low, somewhat mechanical. He gently guides his hand over your neck, just how you like, until large, metal fingers are wrapping around your throat. Not squeezing, just tightly holding. Enough to ground you, to remind you of who you belong to. You let go of a sigh, your eyes growing heavier. Your heart is skipping, and with his hand around your throat, the subtle vibrations of your quick pulse shudder through his complex machinery. 

"Viktor-" You start, voice weak, barely there. "I'm-" 

"I know you want more." He squeezes your thigh, applies just enough pressure to your throat to make your mind go fuzzy. "Tell me what you have been waiting for me to give to you, what you desired so strongly that you ran to me, instead of following the plan. And perhaps, I'll let you have it." 

You tremble: a full-body, tingling shudder. Viktor — the Machine Herald — is so much larger, so much stronger than you. He's augmented himself to be significantly taller, significantly more imposing, and underneath him like this, you must look meager. Pathetic. Fully bare, your legs spread open for him. Giving yourself to him so easily. Your chest heaves, your mortal heart skipping and wavering at the sight of him above you, pinning you beneath his heavy, metal form. 

"Breathe, zayka," Viktor murmurs, his grip on your neck loosening up. "Your heart is racing. Focus on me." 

Taking in slower, deeper breaths, your mind quiets, your pulse calms. Stars and static thrum in the corners of your vision, your thoughts a knotted up blur. Viktor — his touch is all you can focus on — traces his fingers further up your thigh in approval. 

"There. Very good. You're alright." 

"Your fingers," You pant, "Please." 

Viktor scoffs, his tone mechanical and rough, "You can do better. Try again." 

Huffing, your head knocks the firm worktable when you toss it backward. 

"Bastard." Your hands clench and unclench, your wrists giving a poor attempt at struggling against their hold. To no avail, of course. "Are you at least going to let me touch you?" 

"No. Answer me. Do not make me repeat myself." 

You briefly gnaw on your bottom lip, your jaw tense, thighs shaky. "I need your fingers inside me, Vik. I've missed you, I need you, please. I'm going fucking crazy." 

Viktor's unmoving, glowing eyes examine you carefully. "That's it. That is much more sufficient. So exquisite, when you are begging. Take what you need, then." 

You're well aware he isn't the same man you once fell for, nor is he the soft-spoken, bright scientist you once knew. Rumors paint him as a maker, a monster, a machine. He is cold to the touch. He isn't supposed to feel, he removed such functions ages ago; they were useless to him. As were his failing lungs, his weak legs, his heart. A heart made from machinery never skips. It can't be blinded by love, or lust. It cannot be distracted by old, unkindled flames, in the same way you often are. You envy him, somewhat. 

But Gods, when it's just you and him in his lonely little corner of Zaun, and when you are at the pleasant mercy of his perfected touch, you swear, he feels more human than anything. Nothing else truly matters, because still, he is yours. 

Viktor's index finger slides inside you slowly, just barely stretching you around its thickness. You're wet enough that he could press it in easily, could have you melting and drooling over whatever you're given — but instead, he chooses to let the digit fill you languidly. The feeling is slight, enveloping and enthralling and familiar, yet not enough to make you feel full, at the same time. His fingers are long, dexterous. Pretty and scarred. 

You've watched him work on plenty of augments and automatons, hands tightly grasping a wrench to turn it, fingers carefully holding the ends of thin wires to thread them together. Each action swift, exact. 

With the same level of precision, Viktor presses his finger deep inside you, and crooks it upward to nudge it right against your sweetest spot — and you whimper, your whole body shivering, collapsing. 

"One is never enough to satisfy you," He asserts; he gently pumps his finger into you to a steady, easily manageable pace. "Isn't that right?" 

If his mask weren't there, you're sure you'd see him speaking through a slight grin, maniacal and crooked, impossibly him. Your heart pounds. You're doomed, you must be. 

In response, you nod your head fiercely. Another shaky moan tears through you as he works you on his slender digit. Pressing in, dragging out. Calculated and perfectly steady, like the continuous beats of a metronome. 

"Or," Viktor questions, "Should I have you come undone around just one?" 

"No," You snap quickly, although you're obviously in no position to be making demands. Your eyes flutter open, your face contorted in a mix of pleasure and frustration. He finds your desperation strangely satisfying. All for him. It's the same sort of hungry satisfaction that comes with working on an automation, striding closer and closer to a job well done. He adjusts, pushing your legs apart with his large knees when they tremble and threaten to close. 

"Give me two," You're pleading, "Please." 

Viktor hums, the sound low and vibrating. 

"Guiding you to your peak would prove trivial, even without the means of penetration. You are simple. Easy to unravel." His low, intimidating voice effortlessly sends goosebumps careening down your spine. "You could most likely be led to cum against my shoe or my thigh, from modest friction and my voice alone." 

"Viktor," You almost wince at how pathetic you sound. "Stop talking." 

Viktor eases his index finger as deep inside you as you can take, and heat surges across your form in thundering, breaking waves. "Why would I stop when you are enjoying it?" 

Oh, he knows you far too well. 

"Dammit, at least-" You exhale, trembling through a moan, and Viktor's Hextech arm holds onto your wrists impossibly tighter as your hips roll into his hand — desperate to feel more of him. It works, momentarily. Until he is using his free hand to firmly grip your waist: thick metal fingers digging into warm, pretty skin. He pushes you back against the worktable, holding you in place. 

You groan in frustration. "At least quit teasing me." 

"Such impatience. I am working you upwards, gradually conditioning you to take higher levels of stimuli. It will make the process as a whole much more pleasurable." 

"Gods if you weren't wearing that stupid mask, I would shut you up in no-" 

"I always satiate you, milaya," Viktor answers calmly, as he slowly drags his finger out, leaving you quivering and empty. The nickname he uses is tender, familiar. It reminds you of your once different life. Vividly, it forms blossoms in your chest, unfurling flowers and delicate petals. Tugging sweetly at your thudding heart, despite the cold artificiality of his manufactured tone. Milaya. His darling. 

Though, the Machine Herald does not covet. What he desires, he takes and makes his. 

"Interesting," He's muttering, seemingly mostly to himself. "Your neediness has greatly increased since the last time we convened. Normally, you are capable of controlling yourself. To a certain extent." 

He tsks, metal hand caressing slow, reassuring circles onto your waist, while his other palm dives back between your legs. His fingers drag over your cunt with an irrational sense of clumsiness, considering the motion is coming from him. He lets his fingertips search for nothing in particular, getting them slick with your arousal, nudging your clit carelessly with his knuckles until your back is arching, and your sighs are sharpening. 

"Sorry." You mumble a half-hearted apology, eyelids softly fluttering. 

"It was not a complaint." Viktor presses his fingertips close, dangerously closer. 

Your body needs him, needs what only he can give to you. His hands, his fingers inside you. Every inch of you screams for his touch. As though you are a solved puzzle, a piece of technology broken down to let him understand each individual part. Your thighs shake, and that's part A. Your chest heaves, your shoulders go tense. Significantly human responses. Components labeled B, C, D, V. Your lips quiver, before they mutter another breathless, desperate plea of his name. 

Predictable, and understandable. Yet, for certain, you are a delight to decipher. Those pieces and budding sensations come together as he thought they would, and they — and you, are primed to be bent at his will. 

You expect him to tease you further. When he falls silent, becoming more impossible to read than he already was, you feel your arms and your thighs tense with what must be anticipation. Surely, he can sense how eager you are. 

But Viktor doesn't falter, he does not hesitate. He guides his metal hand underneath your back, predicting its arch, and he presses two of his fingers, his middle and ring, to your drooling entrance. They slide into you with a filthy, wet noise; it's almost obscene how eagerly your cunt accepts them. How you plead with whiny utterances of yes, yes, your voice breaking, eyes closing. He eases them inside you slowly, fills you with them completely — until his scarred knuckles are nudging against you, and you're sobbing through a half-sigh, half-moan. 

He doesn't wait to hear you beg for more. You're given a calculated amount of time, just enough seconds to catch your breath and get used to the stretch of both digits inside you. He fucks you on his fingers, pumping them in and out to the tune of your broken whines and gasps for air. It's a gradual process. A coded, mastered technique well-baked into his mind, his heart, and his hardware. 

Of course, he's long since learned just how to make you fall apart. He has studied you, he's proceeded to subconsciously store your data in the most important vault in his mind. It is simply a matter of getting you there, of drawing out your pleas for him and your tremors and your pulses, to push you even further past your previous crescendos. 

You can always be louder. Finish harder. You deserve to. And when it comes to any and all of his endeavors, including this one, he is persistently, unquenchably ambitious. 

"Vik-" You're babbling, in a wavering voice he might logically, astutely label as precious. His quiet lab echoes with the whirr of various displays and devices. With your soft noises, echoing alongside the wet squelch his fingers make each time he presses them deeper. "Please, I just- I'm so- I want you so much-" 

"You have me," He answers rigidly. Prepared and intentional, his fingers move slower, drawing out your moans and your shudders of pleasure. "Or were you demanding more?" 

"I always want more with you." A faint, endearing pout forms on your features, the kind of look only he can draw from you. "Want- I want you to fuck me." 

It isn't anything of importance; just an aimless, desperate plea. The kind you might be expected to ask of him when you're in this state — your mind wandering, your body relaxed. You need fuel for your building fire, you need to hear him outline through words what he can't through actions. You cannot make him feel as you do, but Viktor is kind enough to let you play pretend. 

Though, for whatever strange, unrecognizable, illogical reason, he goes against the fixed line of actions he was previously adhering to, and he hesitates. He contemplates. He twitches, circuitry briefly inoperable, fuzzy and working against him. His center, his self-regulating core, hums with marginally more force than it did before. The hand he has pressed to your back trembles. It thrums with artificial, built-up heat, before he grips you much tighter. 

Fortunately, he rediscovers his composure as quickly as it waned. Viktor quirks his fingers into your sweet spot to make you cry out for him, and then he drags them half-way out — every moment agonizingly slow, so he can admire the way the digits glisten in the lamplight. 

"Filthy little thing." His voice is thick. His words are stern, making you picture how his jaw might be tightened. "I am already providing you everything you asked for, and yet still, you act greedy. Human desire is terribly intemperate." 

"As if-" You're squirming, sweating, your hair a mess, warm gaze and moon-wide pupils locked onto his obscured face. "As if you feel nothing from this." 

"I cannot feel. You are well aware of this reality. I suggest you do not continue to persuade yourself otherwise." 

"Bullshit." 

"In fact, I do feel nothing." Viktor brings his thumb to your clit on his next press in, rubbing it roughly, circling it precisely. "I am incapable of experiencing desire," His fingers crook and spread. "Nor enjoyment." They pump slowly, while they stretch you around their shape. "Or affection." 

"But you were worried about me- fuck- when I went off on that stupid mission," You're mumbling, barely able to speak through ragged gasps for breath, "You were fretting over my safety. You- hah, you stopped everything you were doing just to check on me, because you felt relieved, you felt happy when you saw me walk in, didn't you?" 

Did he? 

Hours earlier, you returned to his doorstep, and he knew it was you from the way you knocked; he put aside the small automaton he was working on, and hurried to meet you at the door. He gave you a quick once over — in this form, he is vastly larger and taller than you, to the point where you have to crane your neck to look up at him — but you assured him you hadn't been injured. When you fell against his armored chest in something of an embrace, he didn't push you away. Nor did he protest when you pulled his heavy, bulky shape on top of you as you fell back against the nearest surface, his additional sensors picking up your already increasing breathing and heart rate. 

He recalls your arms around him, hands tugging at his cape, removing sections of his armor, fingers threading through his hair. Soft lips pressing to cold steel — 

Viktor tenses. You are plenty capable on your own, capable enough that he rarely considers whether or not you'll return. You always do, after all. This mission was considerably riskier, though. Considerably more worrisome. 

If anything had happened to you, if he discovered you were injured or captured or worse, his subsequent reaction would be less than logical. His mental processes would malfunction, and he would lose the ability to think rationally. The stifling, unstoppable force that would build within him could be compared to something like rage, something like love. 

You swallow thickly, and the room swirls around you in a dizzy haze as Viktor slowly pulls his fingers from you. Leaving you empty. 

He murmurs, "Look at me." 

It's a little difficult of a command to follow, with your head spinning and your eyes all heavy. Still, you force yourself to breathe deeply, to steady, in the wake of the sudden lack of attention. 

You look up, and his hand, fingers slick and filthy, momentarily moves to grasp your chin. He tilts you towards him, to make sure you're watching. Viktor reaches up, and he presses a mechanism on the side of his mask. It hisses, releasing air, small puffs of steam streaming from either side. 

He removes it tentatively. He tosses it aside with a bit less caution, causing it to clink, spin, and nearly fall when it hits the upper edge of the table. 

You're met with messy brown hair, scarred skin, and familiar moles. The entirety of his jaw is made of metal, reconstructed into intricately crafted steel that continues down his neck and underneath his armor. His skin is overly pale, to the point where you can notice deep eye bags, and the criss-crossings of several individual, purple-hued veins. His expression is stern and deadpan, his brows slightly creased. He takes you in, gaze flickering down for a moment, then back up — and searing eyes, dark purple pools and bright orange suns, finally meet your own. 

"Your legs," He's instructing; his voice, no longer filtered through the mask, sounds warmer, clearer, a little less deep. Despite everything, terribly familiar, and blissfully human. "Place them around me." 

Unable to stifle a smile, you lift your thighs, casually locking them around his back at the ankles. You rarely get to see his face, and it's impossible to keep your eyes off of him, nor can you stop your heart from pounding. Viktor returns your gaze, cold and unflinching. It's like he's examining you, regarding you with the same restrained interest as he'd have for the subjects of his experiments. 

"There you are," You're cooing, head tilting, "Vitya."

Viktor's expression finally shifts from his usual indifference, his brows scrunching up to form a slightly irritated scowl. 

"Defiant again. As expected." 

"You used to like it when I called you that. Am I not allowed to tease you now?" You're laughing, and your smaller frame, still pinned underneath him, shifts somewhat when he loosens his grasp on your wrists. A faint amount of mercy. You offer him one of those radiant smiles he can't stand — can't resist. "You can be such a hypocrite." 

"Open your mouth," Viktor sneers coldly, "So it can be put to better use." 

With a firm, metal hand, he holds the curve of your soft side, measuring your individual tremors, paying attention to the steady movement of your lungs. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your lips. Your breath hitches, and your mouth forms a line. You can't help but roll your eyes. 

"I can just leave, you know," You mutter, your voice still playful, yet noticeably a few volumes lower. "But I'm guessing you don't want me to." 

Funny. You seem to think you could escape from his grasp. 

"Open. Your. Mouth. Before I give in, and do something I shouldn't." 

"I'm not-" 

Your protest fizzles out into a surprised noise and a subsequent sigh; Viktor grabs you, he pulls you closer in tandem with surging forwards, and his mouth promptly crashes into yours. 

Finally. 

The kiss tastes sharp, like iron and ash, like something distinctly him when his tongue slowly brushes against yours. You allow your eyes to close — but Viktor hardly leaves you any room for air as he practically devours you. It's deep, enthralling, and clumsy. Needy, on your end, and hungry on his. The kind of kiss that possesses you, consumes you. Your mind is dizzy, your breath is gone, but you need to kiss him more than you need to breathe. 

You melt into him gently, naturally. Like you were always meant to. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheek: a motion far too soft, far too important. 

When he pulls away, finally giving you some breathing room, your eyes immediately meet. Your chest is heaving, your heart warm and pounding to a tempo made just for him. His gaze is once again sharp, once again perfectly composed. 

You miss the softness of his lips already. "Vik." 

And he needs you, needs more of you. He's wanted to feel your lips against his for far longer than you or even he could have realized. Since those days when you were both young and stupid, when you vowed to achieve your dreams together. As though your gentle voice pleading his name is just tender enough to push him over a metaphorical edge, to flip some hidden switch in his complex mechanics — He kisses you again, again, again. 

All of this, it isn't meant for him. It is unfathomably human, from the way you breathe fervently against his mouth; stuttered breaths, quicker than his, heavier than his own could ever be. To the way he touches you, a half-machine's best imitation of intimacy. His still-human palm moves to brush your neck, then glides further to hold the back of your head. Your body is all awkward limbs and soft edges and smooth skin, but you fit underneath him oh-so perfectly. 

He can't stop. It doesn't seem real; Viktor imagines he must have fallen into a different reality, he's in a different body with a different, mortal heart. None of this makes an ounce of logical sense otherwise. Then again, when do you ever make sense? 

He can't focus on anything but your lips on his — because for a few fleeting moments, he isn't defined by metal and machinery; he is himself. He is a mess of muddled thoughts and imperfect touches. Your legs around his back pull his figure closer to yours, and you have him wondering what it might entail without any steel in the way. Just skin against skin. 

It'd be impossible for him to feel such a thing, when there's little skin left. His entire arm, his legs, his torso, his spine; they've since been replaced, improved upon. Is this the closest he'll ever get to you, to love? 

Waves upon waves of warmth wash over you, they drown you, they envelop you. Even once Viktor has finally pulled apart from you with one last soft kiss, you still aren't able to breathe. Your heart pounds against your ribs, so fiercely it almost hurts. 

He settles back above you, and as you calm again, he holds your gaze. His slender fingers move to trace the column of your throat, where they not-so-subtly seek out your pulse. It's racing for him. He looks remarkably composed now, compared to how disheveled you're sure you appear. 

Gently, he trails his hand upwards. His thumb swipes your kiss-swollen bottom lip. Your mouth parts instinctually, allowing him to carefully press the digit into your warm mouth, onto your wet tongue. 

"Do not leave," Viktor murmurs, an analytical edge already returning to his tone, in spite of what transpired between you. He pulls his thumb from your mouth, brushing it over your bottom lip again, smearing your lips with your saliva. "Stay for tonight." 

"Are you asking? Or is that a demand?" Your breath on his skin is foggy and hot. When it's clear he isn't going to answer, his gaze regarding you inquisitively, you propose another question. Your hands clench, they briefly push against the unyielding grip of his Hexclaw. "Will you let my hands go now?" 

"Tsk. Only if you are capable of keeping them to yourself." 

"C'mon…" You hum disappointedly. He appears routinely unaffected by your pouting. So, you change your approach. 

You shuffle, trying to get more comfortable. The table beneath you feels especially firm. "What if I say please? Is that what you're looking for?" 

"Go ahead. It will not affect my decision." 

"Seriously? But I want to touch you. You're so pretty." 

Viktor hesitates, but only briefly. He senses the whirring in his chest, the usual hum of his augmented components. Substitutions where imperfect pieces should be, strength replacing frailty, mechanics coming to life once more as his mind becomes forcibly unclouded. His systems are working as usual again. All it took to experience a malfunction was your lips on his, and all he needed to do to rebuild his composure was pull away. And you are still a gasping, heavy-eyed mess. 

Still, there is something troubling him. The same illogical functions that've been prodding at his mind since the very beginning. Lingering errors. Faults in his perfected frame. When he looks at you now, he strongly senses the push and pull of those inaccuracies. 

If he allows you to touch him, each framework, every mechanism — Everything he's been carefully constructing might come crashing down. 

Would that be so bad? 

Pretty. How ridiculous. Viktor scoffs, his jaw tensing up, his next words arbitrary. "Most are afraid when they look at me." 

Perhaps they should be. Perhaps you should be. 

But you just smile, your expression growing soft as you tilt your head, and you answer in earnest: "I don't think I've ever been scared of you." 

Again, there goes his worthless, thrumming, obsolete heart. 

You should be afraid of a man who's designed himself to fit an image you no longer recognize. You shouldn't try to get so close to him, when his compulsive obsession to destroy and remake borders on a clear line of danger. This new chassis embodies perfection. It has long since relinquished any weaknesses, but if you detested him, he wouldn't blame you. Others are reluctant to embrace his vision, save for a select, fortunate few. You and him have history. History that would make seeing him like this rather difficult, he assumes. 

Usually, Viktor is able to keep any oversights from throwing him off course. He can't be distracted from achieving his goals. The people of Zaun need him. This new body poses no hindrances. Pain doesn't disrupt him; it can be turned out, like anything else. Pain of the body, and pain of the heart. 

You, though. Any thoughts he has of you start as small blips. Tiny, persistent sparks. They build overtime, burning brighter, hotter. Until he sees you, and you look just like how you did back then, so, so long ago. There are tired lines on your face, faint scars, and he knows they're his fault. All at once, his mind is threatening to become a mess of discordant, fraying parameters, of processes that are refusing to function in the manner they should. 

He wants to keep you far, far away; far from him, from this lab. Far from this terrible, awful place you both grew up in. If he could, he'd have you go somewhere so very distant, where you couldn't distract him — where you could be happy and free. You will see the sky, feel the sun's warmth, and breathe fresh, cool air. It'd be what's best for you. And he will continue to further his endeavors in evolution. Alone, as intended. 

But ultimately, no matter what he winds up doing to his mind or his body, he would think of you. Of holding you or unmaking you, sometimes he isn't sure which. If you were truly afraid, if you ran, he wouldn't follow on your heels. But along with you, you'd take a piece of himself, a faint trace he would never get back; for better, or for worse. 

Viktor listens to the sound of your breathing: steady, deep. His gaze studies you, but it lingers on your eyes for longer than intended. You are still looking up at him, smiling, sparkling like a sky full of stars. As though he is a sky filled with stars. 

Your breaths become heavier when he presses his palm to the center of your chest. He drags his touch down, down. You are more sensitive this time, he notes. You lean into him once his hand caresses your pelvis, your waist, and you loosen your legs from around his back to become more comfortable. His fingertips trail up your inner thigh, and you shudder, you shiver. 

He thinks of kissing you once more. A couple times more, maybe. Proper judgment tells him he should resist. The thought remains there, lingering and burning between you. 

"Viktor…" You murmur, your voice a bit broken, but he's hanging onto every word. "Touch me again." 

Pleasant sensory inputs glow within him; tingling veins, reverberating wires. Overwhelming heat fills his shoulders, the back of his neck, his head — the heat of machinery, the warmth of his soul. 

Viktor grabs your waist assertively, metal fingers digging into your hip. His gaze doesn't waver from yours as he guides your thighs to spread. Suddenly, he pushes himself against you, until you are hopelessly pressed between steel and metal. Between him, and the worktable. 

You feel his weight, you feel the intricate ridges of metal plates and hard edges, the artificial heat of his much larger body radiating against your bare skin. Now, you are completely pinned, practically chest to chest, pressed underneath the Machine Herald so closely it's enough to make your head spin. You wonder if he can feel your heart beating. Perhaps he can hear it. Or maybe, he just knows your heart must be pounding for him, as it always does. 

Your limbs tremor with excitement. As his palm squeezes your thigh, you can't help but arch into his touch. Thin, skillful fingers press close and feel how wet you are — still so sensitive, already dripping out onto him. You aren't teased, you aren't even able to catch your breath, because two of his fingers are swiftly dipping inside you, giving you exactly what you need. 

It feels so right. Viktor reaches for your cheek. He encourages you to continue meeting his gaze when your eyes flutter and nearly close. 

Your gaze on his, you let his name leave your mouth in a series of sharp gasps, and desperate pleas. He fills you slowly, but wastes no time building a rhythm; his fingers pump into your sensitive cunt gently, then methodically. Satisfied, Viktor hums, and he carefully shifts his other arm down. He holds your back as it arches, further pressing you against himself. 

Now, the way he pleasures you is deliberate, it isn't enough, but Gods, you'll take anything he gives you. 

"That name," Viktor starts, speaking in a smooth, level tone, perfectly contrasting the airy huffs and whines you utter for him. The name he hoped to relinquish, his name. "It sounds best when you are pleading it." 

You smile through a soft moan. "It's my favorite. Such a sweet name." 

Precisely, determinedly, his fingers crook into the spot within you he knows all too well, and you crumble, you sob. 

"The tech you brought to me will accelerate the completion of our latest prototype," Viktor is explaining, matter-of-factly. As though the conversation is as simple as it is necessary. Like he doesn't have his large body shoved against you, and his fingers knuckle-deep inside you. It just serves to excite you further, honestly. 

"I will install the heat core, and adjust its interior components accordingly. We could have its systems operational by tonight. However, I doubt I will be able to focus." 

You take a forced, deep breath. "Yeah? Because of me?" 

Obviously, he wants to say. You'll be here, staying in his lab, as you usually do after a tough afternoon or a previous sleepless night. He doesn't mind. Your chatter might occasionally be disruptive to his work, but your voice is nice, it is calming. Your presence itself might be a distraction, an interference that his mind tells him he should discard, but having you here is a nice change of pace, compared to the long, lonesome hours he's grown used to. He has never minded. 

Sleep is less of a necessity for him. Resting for a handful of hours a few times per week is usually enough to keep himself operational. The torn leather couch he keeps in his quarters is there just for you. He no longer needs to eat in the typical sense, although he still needs to recharge burned energy. He keeps stocked up on the foods he remembers to be your favorites. 

It's strange, out of everything he's forgotten, he still remembers such useless, trivial details. Each and every detail about you. 

Without you, this space — the adjustments he's made to accommodate your presence, the dip in the couch from where you always sleep, your articles of clothing strewn over the floor and the couch arms. His lab would feel so empty. 

His next words sound much gentler than usual. Warmer, more desperate. 

"Because your voice will not leave my mind. Begging for me. Breaking for me," Viktor murmurs. He nudges his fingers against your walls, testing, teasing you. "Pleading my name." 

Once more, he challenges your limits; his fingers slide into you deep, so deeply you can feel them everywhere. Nudging at your core, filling you perfectly. As if on queue, you whimper a broken plea of yes, and as your eyes flutter, you're cascading into a needy mess of pleasant, shaky gasps. You writhe, your pinned hands trembling, wishing for something to hold onto. Though, he keeps you in place underneath him, blissfully unrelenting. 

"Say it," Viktor demands, "My name. Tell me who it is you need." 

"Viktor," Your voice is light, clumsy and slurring slightly, but in the way you say his name, there's an unmistakable lilt of pure adoration. You need him, you need to feel him everywhere: his practiced touch, his soft skin, his steel-built anatomy. You want him to not have to leave you, to not need to choose between you and the Undercity's future. 

You feel completely, utterly dizzy. You want so much. You want his hands, flesh or metal, to study every intricate inch of you. You want him to stop holding back, you need the both of you to make up for the stupid amount of time you've lost — "I- hhah- I want…" 

With your eyes nearly shut, static and stars flickering at the edges of your vision, you hadn't noticed how close he'd become until Viktor's voice echoes warmly, right against the shell of your ear. 

"You want me to fuck you?" 

And holy shit, his tone is sultry, his accent is thick — you shiver so hard you're sure he's left feeling the aftershocks, your body still pressed up right against his, even through his layers of metal armor. Viktor doesn't stop the steady pace of his fingers, pumping and arching and working you so well. Nor does he quit speaking, simply because he knows this is what you want to hear. What you need to hear. 

"You are insatiable," He scolds, although there's little emotion in his level tone. Just an obvious, already-known sense of acknowledgement. His voice is a thousand times more intense when it is curling directly into your ear; "You wish for me to render you even more weak than you currently are, so you can be shown exactly who you belong to? Oh, and how I'd fuck you. How I would take you. I would make a mess of you, I'm sure. You'd be begging to be given all of me. To be used by me." 

It's merely theoretical, a set of fake promises and dirty words to put pleasant visualizations into your mind — calculated, like everything he pursues. And it works. Predictably, your entire body shudders with pure, forceful need. You pulse around his fingers, throbbing like a heartbeat. You sob, and try to twist to face him, although it's impossible, considering you're still tightly pinned beneath his figure. 

You want to see his face, he figures, so Viktor shifts up. He re-puts himself in the center of your vision, and you glance towards him, eyes flickering across his face; your gaze on his is practically teary-eyed. Desperate and eager, you find ways to plead without words. 

You want to let go. Of course you do — always forced to be strong, you need nothing more than to melt at the hands of the last person left in Zaun that you trust. Even if he is more machine than person. Even though he is not right for you. 

For a moment all too brief, Viktor wonders what it would be like to push those boundaries. To truly have you, beneath his hands and in his heart, to feel you resounding beside him like the echoes of a rippling, rolling wave. 

How would he take you? No, how would you want him? 

He formulates a few possible outcomes. Perhaps you'd want him hard and desperately. You need to be put in your place, to feel him as close as he could possibly be while he molds you to his shape. You want to be obedient. A good little subject. You want to be called good, very, very good for him while he pounds you into the table, or maybe while he leans back, glowing, masked eyes focused solely on you, your hands gripping his armored shoulders so you can bounce on his lap however you'd like. The Machine Herald's perfect little pawn. He wagers with such filthy actions and words, he could make you even louder than this. 

You'd be pinned underneath him, and instead of his fingers, he'd fill you with all of himself — carnal and raw. Warm and sweat-soaked. Yet still, your body pressed to his would be agonizingly tender. 

Or maybe you'd want him in a different way. In a much softer way. 

Tenderness has never been afforded to him, it's hardly a concept he knows, but perhaps it's what he once hoped for. With you, it's what he once pictured. 

Every touch would be slow, delicate. Your hands interlocked. Bodies pressed together, galaxies against galaxies. So close, they could be mistaken for the same shape. He would learn you truly, and honestly. Warm and gentle, you would touch him soft enough to make him human again. 

Your voice would beg for him, whispering sweet nothings into his ears, against his form. Useless, perfect declarations of love. Viktor shudders. He imagines your hands, pretty and delicate, brushing the space between his shoulder and his steel spine. Feeling his scarred skin, alighting fiery sensations he assumed he'd long since lost. 

Compared to who he was before, he is much stronger. He must be strong, must be forged of grit and iron, he must not submit to worthless, human desires. But you make him oh-so weak. 

He isn't supposed to be weak. 

"Please," You're gasping. You are barely able to speak at this point, babbling sweetly between broken noises as he fucks you on his fingers; it's just enough to make you shut your eyes and imagine more. "Fuck- Vik- Oh, p-please…" 

Splintering, throbbing with mechanical heat, his inner workings surge with a sublime abundance of molten, unbridled energy. Burning, it's burning him up from the inside, melting him down and making him fragile. 

You've gone fuzzy beneath him — No, his vision is fuzzy. Your edges are blurred, your chest is heaving as his fingers barely leave you before pressing back in. His hand adjusts, allowing his thumb to brush your puffy clit on the next press in. When you whimper his name, as you've done countless times before, he swears he sees nothing but flickering, colorless static. 

Burning and heightening and building, he must be malfunctioning, experiencing crucial gaps in his design. This shouldn't be happening. He should not feel, and this isn't feeling, but there is something building inside of him, something with your name on it. 

No, no, your name is flickering through him, pounding against his mind like a drum, and he has to establish control. He has to fucking fix this. 

He needs to be closer, so much closer. He needs you in an unexplainable, all encompassing way. In a way that shouldn't be occurring. He doesn't want anything, he can't experience the sensation of wanting because it isn't meant to exist. 

Truthfully, he's past the point of no return, and you might be all that's left to hold him in place. Impossible. The only thing he's ever desired is progress, evolution. Improvement is what matters. Improving, fixing, augmenting. 

You are going to be the death of him. He needs to be pressed against you, holding you, in you, examining your inner workings, guiding you to reach your true potential — 

Something snaps. 

"Do you know," Viktor grasps your face, roughly tilting you in his direction. The newfound harshness to his tone is exhilarating. "How impossible it is to resist breaking you?" 

He laughs, the sound sharp, almost chilling; his smile is crooked, barely recognizable, showing off even more crooked teeth. His gaze holds your own until it practically burns into you. His body is hot. To the point of overheating. You feel the heated metal against your skin, pressing to your chest, your thighs, faint puffs of searing steam pouring out from gaps in the plating. 

The grip his Hexclaw has on your wrists is so tight it nearly hurts. But it's faltering, his hands are twitching. He seems to recognize he might be hurting you, and so he lifts off of you slightly, he forces himself to loosen his hold. 

There's a sound coming from him that echoes like grinding gears, like the hiss of burning filaments. Like something is crumbling. Fighting against itself. 

"It is all I have ever known, milaya." Viktor lets go of something akin to a sigh, although he has no need to breathe. He is utterly ruined — the poor excuse for a heart he once placed between his ribs is aching, shuddering with the anticipation of a touch, soaring with the softness that comes with a kiss. Is this what it feels like to be dizzy, to be lovesick? 

You shudder as his thumb rubs your clit, and he digs his metal fingers into your side, feeling the space just beneath your ribs. "You will soon understand," He murmurs, "And if you are incapable, I am still willing to teach you. To make you into so much more." 

There's a stirring in his chest at that, at the thought of completing you; a deep-rooted abnormality he can't quite pinpoint. Is it excitement? Guilt? Lust? 

You swallow. You're crumbling, as he sends tingles through your veins in the wake of more enthralling words. 

"You are mine. Your fundamental place is at my side." Viktor senses the building heat of his inner workings, a deep wave rolling up from his constructed spine to settle onto the back of his neck. Building, burning, breaking. "I cannot wait to unmake you." 

Pulling you apart would be delightful. 

Your pieces would be disassembled, separated by each individual, pretty, dizzying section, so you could be redone carefully, gently, with a sense of tenderness only he could manage. He wants to understand you. To know exactly what makes you tick, down to your most basic of functions. To be close. Indistinguishable, the both of you made from the same materials. If you were constructed in his image, your components marked by his influence, there would be no doubt who you belong to. 

Through breaking you and mending you, he wonders if he could find new ways to make you sing. You'd relax under each touch, shuddering and breathing his name as he completes your newfound enhancements. Gazes locking. Touches lingering. Metal soldering. Viktor trembles. Gods, how he wants you. 

Furthering your potential and heightening your pleasure both require similar sentiments. Trust, and vulnerability. Opening your chest to watch your heart pound for him is the same as measuring your hitching breaths, growing heavier the deeper and faster he presses his fingers into you. 

Because delicately pulling you apart just to put you back together is some metaphor for intimacy. Carving out a space for you within the confines of his fake heart is some synonym for tenderness. Holding onto his memories of you, replaying everything he can't quite forget to the point of near insanity — to the point where he attempted to forcibly remove you, by removing those emotions. Only to fail. Feeling these sensations for you when he shouldn't is some form of devotion. 

You shouldn't feel for him either, right? 

Having you there from the very beginning meant something; you were beside him when he only dreamed of becoming someone greater. When his ideas for evolution were just prototypes, when he first put the full extent of his weight onto both his legs. Didn't it mean the world to you too? 

You were equally misunderstood. By your peers, by the world. Just as you believed in him, he saw light in you, from the very start. He thinks you could burn bright enough to melt anyone who stands in your way. And now, years down the line, when he is seen as less than human, you only see him. Not what he's become. It's infuriating. It's unmistakably loving. 

You are panting. Getting close. Your bottom lip quivers, and your body tenses, each shudder more forceful than the last. His fingers echo a filthy, wet sound each time they pump into you, and your back is arching, you are simply begging to fall apart around him. For him, because of him. You deserve to. 

And you sing, voice trembling like plucked strings, "Just p-please. You can do whatever you want to me, I trust you- I've always trusted you. Vik, I need you. I'm yours. All yours." 

All his. 

Whatever he turns into, whatever becomes of his body, memories, and heart, you would still follow. No matter what his goal might be; to destroy this city for what it did to the both of you, or to work in unison to try and remake it. Or perhaps, he plans to become more. An example of perfection. A God. As if he isn't one already. 

The first time he touched you, when he felt the softness of your skin and heard the plea in your voice, and knew you were in his heart still, still, wasn't it akin to a prayer? 

Oh, he is going to unravel you. 

Viktor allows his grip on your wrists to finally, fully loosen; his Hexclaw presses flatly to the table, helping to support his weight. Relaxing, you exhale a deep breath, but you don't hesitate for long. Your arms waste no time wrapping around him, pulling him close. When you kiss him, a hand cradling his cheek like he is something breakable, and not a perfected piece of unstoppable machinery, the tender press of your lips to his feels undoubtedly inevitable. 

All he knows is since the day he pretended to forget about you, when he decided to become something more, his new heart beat steadily, his enhanced mind was clear. But his systems wouldn't stop buzzing. 

When he hardly knew where you were or what state you'd return to him in, the noise grew sharper. Fervently pulling, Hextech whirring, unsated electricity sizzling like fireworks underneath his skin. Having you in his arms once more only made the static form so thick, he thought his mental processes might completely go haywire. All he knows is that now, as he's kissing you, feeling your lips on his, your body against his own, and your hands tangling through his hair — for once, the static is silent. Blissfully silent. 

And he kisses you, harder than before. Softer than anything and everything. 

"Faster-" You're pleading brokenly against his mouth, between breathy kisses, your voice echoing through him, "More." 

Faster, harder, more. Whatever you desire, he's going to give it to you. Viktor mumbles, "Of course." 

Finally able to move, you hook one leg around his waist, you use it to drag him in even closer. You rock into his hand when his fingers spread and crook inside you, and you grab tight, messy fistfuls of his hair. His lips on yours, kissing you over and over, leave you little room to breathe. 

Once you've pulled away, you're gasping for air, and his gaze fixates on yours: examining, devouring. Viktor takes note of your every movement. How you grind into his fingers when his thumb teases your clit, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, brows pinched. How you fall back against the table when the sensations overwhelm you, eyes shut and limbs weak. Pulsing and tensing around him, so sensitive. So close to falling apart. 

Your arms wrap around him again, and he tries to keep the pace of his fingers steady, while you begin placing hurried kisses to his cheek, his neck. You kiss the side of his face, soft lips on soft skin. Then, your lips continue down, they press to his steel jaw. He tilts his head to let kisses fall over the expanse of metal that runs down his neck. Tingling phantom sensations curl into him and split him open. 

"Close," You're muttering, so quiet he nearly doesn't hear. You hold him as tight as you can manage. Your breath is warm on the side of his face, tickling his skin, making him feel even warmer within. 

"You are close?" He repeats for confirmation; his hand finds your side, and you grip his shoulders, hands brushing over thick plates of metal, desperately searching for something to hold onto. Your nails dig in, firm enough that he thinks the steel might chip. Viktor breathes a slight laugh, "You sound so sweet." 

"So- I'm getting so-" You swear, "Oh, f-fuck…" 

The only way he might quench what's come over him and steady his systems is by watching you come apart. Pleading his name, while you melt into a needy puddle of all the emotions and pleasant sensations he could never let himself have. Brought to your peak by his touch, his voice, because you are his, all his. 

Viktor's free hand traces up, cool steel carefully finding your collarbone, your neck. Then, his fingers are wrapping around. He squeezes your throat just barely, just how you like, enough to make you fall back with your arms sprawled above you. Your head is perfectly dizzy, as his fingers work you steadily, his thumb flicking your needy clit much faster. Pushing you closer, closer. 

Until it's far too much, and you are at his mercy, guided right to the edge of an exhilarating, electrifying precipice. 

"Let go. I have you," Viktor instructs, "Let yourself submit." 

Everything you've been building towards, all of his touches, all of this ecstasy, and how terribly you've missed him coalesces into this. Into a single, shuddering moment, waves upon waves of pleasure pushing you over the waterfall's edge. You're melting, cumming hard for him, your arms shaking, until he's removing his hand from your throat and giving you something to grab onto — delicate fingers laced with thick, strong, metal ones. Perfectly contrasting. 

Your vision goes white. Your body tenses and then goes limp, like you've been shut down. The high is forceful, before it becomes soft, ebbing over you with gradual warmth, his hand in yours enough to steady you. Heart pounding, you take quick, loud breaths. 

You can't help but feel disappointed when Viktor's hand releases yours to return to your waist. He holds you carefully, cold fingers brushing your skin reassuringly. Every touch feels deliciously raw, alight and sensitive. 

Your eyes open slowly. Viktor's hair is a mess in his face, likely caused by you. He seems flushed, if only slightly. His unflinching gaze flickers across your form, before it settles back on your eyes. 

"Breathe," He instructs carefully, gently. His hand grips your side a bit tighter; he's clearly affected by the way you sigh. You do your best to follow along, the aftershocks fading as your pulse slows, and as you start to calm. 

"There. Excellent, you have done so well," Viktor praises. He smiles slightly in satisfaction. "You have never been this breathless." 

Whatever words you could've formed in response don't come. They can't, not when his fingers are still inside you; not when Viktor is pressing them into your sensitive cunt just barely, squeezing your side as he delights in the way you whine. Pleasure, white-hot and familiar, surges through you fiercely. 

It's so much, it's so much, it's too much, he's already fucking you with his fingers, and before you can fully wind down, you're swiftly building towards another high. Your body needs this. You just aren't sure if you can take it. 

"Ah- shit," You murmur; reaching up, you tangle both hands in his hair, gripping tight for leverage. His expression remains infuriatingly calm. "I want- I need more. It feels so good, Vik," You're practically purring those last words, your whole body shuddering through another wave of ecstasy. "But I don't- I'm not sure if I-" 

"You can." Viktor interrupts, assured and composed. "You can cum for me as many times as I dictate." 

You're smirking now, obediently spreading your trembling thighs wide, while you roll your hips into his touch; his fingers are so thick, so impossibly, perfectly deep — "Hah- and you said I'm the insatiable one." 

"Yes. You are the most insatiable human I have ever known. And it would seem you are particularly insatiable with me." 

"You were once- Oh-" 

Your head falls back as Viktor nudges that sweet, tender spot inside you, and your body becomes limp once more. 

He takes the opportunity to bring the Hexarm's hand to your cheek. It's large enough to eclipse your face, the same way it was big and strong enough to easily pin both your wrists in its grasp. The heat radiating from the metal makes your eyes briefly flutter, before he trails it down to your throat. Perfectly responsive, your eyes grow heavy. He provides you with your favorite, much-needed pressure. 

You've watched him use this very same hand to solder metal and create machinery. The device could heat to a temperature a thousand times hotter than it is now, it's capable of firing off a single ray of concentrated energy potent enough to slice through steel. And he has that hand wrapped right around your neck. 

Fuck, that shouldn't excite you. It shouldn't have you quivering more and whimpering, shaking while you try your best to keep meeting his eyes, all because you so desperately want to hear him speak again. Praising you — You are doing so well for me, so pliant, so adorable. Or scolding you — Pathetic, aren't you? Quivering like a rabbit, and all it took was a little brush with danger. You are amusing. 

Whichever he prefers. Because Viktor is so much stronger, so much smarter, and it hardly matters what he chooses to say, when any and all of it still gets you off. 

Deep within your heart, you know he'd never hurt you. He would take away your pain if you asked it of him, so you wouldn't have to feel it again. His words can be sharp, simply because he wants to protect you. He wouldn't even attempt to put his hand on your throat like this if he didn't have complete, total control over the Hexclaw's laser. Carefully, he observes your every movement for any sign of discomfort, calculating and controlling each aspect of your pleasure — and it only serves to make your heart pound faster. 

Of course, he can tell when you start to truly shake. He knows every inch of you is melting with overstimulation, and he's going to give you more. 

"Take it. I know you are capable." His voice gives you goosebumps, while his fingers press into you shallowly, but the smallest movements are more than enough to make a mess of you. "There, perfect, you are performing excellently. Relax. Continue breathing deeply, nice and slow breaths. I will take care of you, love." 

Love. 

"Don't-" You choke, trying to keep your eyes on his despite the way your vision wavers and blurs; your reaction is immediate, predictable, and instantly satisfying. "Don't stop…" 

You're beautiful like this, when you're underneath him. Since his enhancements, compared to his new body, you are now much smaller. He had to learn to adjust to the touches you need, to be gentle. Like you once were with him. Your roles, reversed in such a crucial way. You are undoubtedly strong in your own right, but when it comes to him, you are as sensitive as you are receptive. He needed to study how to keep from holding you too tightly, how to regulate his temperature to not burn your skin underneath his hands. 

You are a pretty sculpture of quivering limbs and glistening skin. Your chest heaving, eyes fluttering. As beautiful as you were back then, before this. Before he lost the warmth he felt in his chest every time he saw you, before feelings on their own became mere faded memories. His iron consequence, locking away his dying love. 

He gives you another. Three fingers press inside your dripping cunt, stretching you, filling you. A hand grips your side, his third lightly squeezing your throat — he works your pleasure for all it's worth, and has you gasping as he wrings out your aftershocks. 

Viktor's mouth can't help but twitch into the slightest smile. "Look at you. You are worthy of the world." 

He would give it all to you. 

The Machine Herald will have this city in his hands. His vision is moving fast and accomplishing much, so it is only a matter of time. If you wanted more, he'd just have to reach even further. Relinquishing his human emotions left him without the need to be happy, nor content. But you, your happiness, keeping you safe, seeing you smile. It is stupid, foolish, doesn't make sense; his mechanics stutter, until he thinks he is choking on his own contradictory tenderness. 

His body is betraying his mind. There is heat at his center, more than the normal amount emitted by his internal components. A very human, very filthy amount of heat. His skin underneath his armor is flushed and warm, his chest is aching from the weight of your heavy destruction. You are destroying him, and he can do nothing but allow it. 

"I missed you," You murmur earnestly, voice weak, close to shattering. Your eyes are closed. Why, why are those words making his hands and his limbs and his heart shudder? "I missed you so bad- don't stop, keep fucking me Viktor- don't, please don't stop talking…" 

Is that what you're imagining? 

So he doesn't stop. 

As you fall back against the table, Viktor removing the Hexclaw and letting go of your neck, he leans in to speak right against your ear. "I am proud of you, lubov. Infiltrating Piltover must not have been simple. You brought me more than I required, you did so with much efficiency. And you returned to me safely. Allow me to reward you. Fall apart for me, cum like I know you so desperately need to." 

Your body curls, your hands move to his shoulders and grip them impossibly tight in an attempt to keep yourself steady. "Vik- Viktor-" You're gasping, you're close, "Kiss me, please kiss me-" 

His hand holds your chin, the cool, rigid steel of his thumb swipes over your bottom lip; teasing you, making you whimper. Sliding further, into your mouth, until you're tasting the sharpness of metal. Until you're gently sucking, feeling the intricately crafted notches and joints on your tongue. When he pulls it out and kisses you hard, when his lips press to yours and your high-pitched moans become muffled on his mouth, you cum on his fingers hard enough to see the afterimage of stars. 

He's trailing kisses down your jaw while you pulse around him, your thighs shaking, your head tilting to let his mouth find your throat. In the wake of his soft kisses, his foggy breath, you melt, and fully succumb to your shuddering high. 

Working you back down is a slow, patient process. A kiss onto your neck for every gasp you take in, the feeling of gentle teeth once your body starts to fully relax. Everything you've wanted, everything you missed; far too tender for who he's become. 

There are faint marks on your neck by the time he pulls away. Signs he was there. Proof he is softer than he is meant to be. 

You could stop here. Instead, the next few moments happen in their own special space of reality. 

Away from this city, away from his lab. A different plane made for just the two of you. Your mind feels dizzy, heavy. Viktor meets your gaze, momentarily scanning your face, waiting to make sure you've calmed. 

He is all you can think of, all that has ever mattered. And even when he is right here, you miss him so, so much. 

You tremble from the end of your spine to the top of your shoulders when he carefully pulls his fingers from you. He brushes his palm from your thigh to your side in one steady, soothing motion. You can feel the scars on his palm, the slight hesitant tremor to his still-slick fingers. You're reaching up, palm pressing to his chest. You absently feel the various ridges of metal. Smooth to the touch, armor radiating the faintest flickers of heat. 

He glances down, watching your movement as your palm brushes further, further. Delicate fingertips trail the dips and outlines that continue down his stomach. Eventually, you reach as far as your arm will let you, your fingers drawing circles onto the rib-like sections of steel crossing just above his hips. As he glances back up to you, he finds your soft, pleading gaze to be already looking at him. As sweet as he's always remembered. 

Your breathing is heavy. "Vik," You're begging, "We shouldn't- I'm sorry. This is stupid. I know we should stop, but…" 

He is going to regret this. 

Before he can stop himself, before his mind and his systems can even be led to form a single rational thought, Viktor is pressing the palm of his Hexarm just above your head, flat to the table. He is leaning over you, he is finding your cheek with a soft hand and a gentle touch. He's pulling you in, crashing his lips against yours, and he knows you're right — you shouldn't continue. He shouldn't allow this. 

Machines do not feel. The Machine Herald feels nothing, and wants for nothing besides evolution. But Gods, you're kissing him like his lips are a drug, all you need after wanting to kiss him for so, so long. Since before you both became dim shells of what you once were. Your legs are wrapping around him, your fingers are brushing his face with such devastating tenderness, and Viktor believes he is feeling everything. 

He's reaching down between your gasps for breath that make gaps in your kisses, and he's deftly activating a set of small, circular mechanisms on either of his sides. The armor on his chest unlatches with a clicking noise, platings becoming loose, unaligned. 

The larger, more cumbersome sections of his armor, including his gauntlets, cape, and shoulder pieces have been discarded from the start, making the portion of chest armor come off as two simple halves. He has to pull away, sit up straight, and partially slide off of you to remove it all the way. Both pieces of armor hit the ground with a particularly heavy thud. 

Most of his body has been replaced. Underneath the metal armor, there's just more metal; sections of iron that've been fused to replace muscle and skin, alloyed parts that reinforce his thin frame. 

You have only seen him like this once. He was fixing some miscalibrated platings on his side, a wrench in one hand, the Hexclaw's laser busy welding a suitable replacement. Two thirds machine, and one part still human, he was definitely much different from what you remembered. Still, there were small sections of pale skin on his back, split where his spine had been reconstructed. And jagged scars, adorned by faint, dark moles. His messy hair still falls around his face just like you remember it. 

You wanted to touch — he says he can't feel, but would he sense your fingertips as they traced his scars, would he shudder as your hands felt his skin? If you kissed what remained of him, his hand and each of his fingers, his back and each of those pretty moles, his chest down to his stomach, could you alight new sensations in him? 

You've never wanted to touch him more than in this moment. 

The bottom portion of his armor comes off much easier, leaving just the thick sections that cover his thighs down to his legs, including the steel brace mechanism. You're only able to catch the faintest glimpse, before he's pulling you into another deep kiss — a kiss that burns with every moment lost, his body pressing you against the table and beneath him. Your arms wrap around him, palms trailing across his back. 

As they've always longed for, your fingertips feel the back of his neck: the ridges and hard edges of his spine, the solid base of the Hexarm, his soft skin. Viktor physically shudders. When one of your hands tangles in his hair while the other falls, landing upturned beside you, he kisses you harder, he absently finds your hand and holds it in his. Your fingers lace together. His hand feels so warm, still slightly larger than yours. His skin is scarred, your thumb brushing over calloused knuckles and thin, purple veins. Every touch is so tender, earnest, human, it's nearly unbearable. Your hand was meant to be in his. Even if it won't last. 

It's a strange sensation, when his body presses ever closer to your own. Metal leads down from his navel, across to his pelvis, trailing underneath the armor on his thighs as one smooth, solid construction. Partially welded into his skin, but seemingly designed to make some sections removable. It is warm like the rest of him, designed with faint ridges and indents. 

Your legs, locked around him at the ankles, encourage him to press ever-closer. He devours you, kissing you deeper than you thought possible. You sigh against his mouth, and hold on tightly to his hair. His body rocks against yours in an instinctual, clumsy motion. Close, pressing, grinding. Warm metal and those perfect little ridges grind between your legs, against your core, against your clit. And you practically jolt. 

Oh. You break away from the kiss to toss your head back with a breathy, pretty noise. Pleasure threads through you, thick and unrelenting. 

Viktor mumbles something that barely registers in your ringing ears: Should stop, you manage to make out. And then, Are you alright? 

"Yes, I just-" You mumble, panting hard, "Don't. Don't stop." 

So Viktor grasps your waist in a tight, yet careful grip. His eyes never leave yours, gaze burning with a fire you've never once seen. He guides you to press against him, grinds his body against yours until you're making a mess of the metal. Until the faint ridges are nudging your swollen clit just right, until the heat of the iron is burning through you, into you, and your slick arousal is glistening on the steel. 

Your mind and heart are racing. 

"Oh, fuck-" You're swearing, your words surely seeming broken; he finds your cheek, he tilts your head up towards him, and you can't decide if the gesture is tender, or possessive. "I need you, I really, really do." 

His body feels as though he just touched the surface of the sun, and Viktor hardly knows if the warmth is coming from his overloaded systems, or if it's surrounding him, heat drawn thickly from the friction between the two of you. Perhaps it's a mix of both. 

Either way, he is losing himself. It's all happening so terribly fast; when his body rolls against yours, and you whimper through a filthy utterance of his name, there is a clear, undeniable response. A tingling in his veins, an eager sensation that shoots from his back to his chest to his core, consuming everything like a wildfire, and threatening to envelop all of him. 

He doesn't even know what to do with this. How to silence these disruptions, how to get his stupid brain to stop picturing you shuddering beneath his form as he presses against you, presses inside you, and brands every inch of you with his own name — 

"Milaya," Viktor hums, and you swear, his tone sounds lighter, his voice sounds strained. "I have always needed you. I'm not- No, I want- I shouldn't…" 

Trailing off when you cry out, he swallows. His thumb brushes your bottom lip as he continues to guide you towards him. Sweat beads on your chest, your thighs. He instructs, partially shakily, "Keep looking at me. Please." 

You've rarely heard him stutter or falter, never seen him anywhere close to worked up. You hardly knew if he had the capacity to feel this way, even though he certainly wasn't built to, even though he definitely isn't supposed to. And isn't it all because of you? 

The way your gaze locks with his as he rhythmically rocks against you has your heart skipping beats. There's a slight softness to his cold eyes, to his expression, that you're sure no-one else has seen before. Not since back then. You are impossible to resist, and this definitely needs to stop, this is definitely too far — it's going even further when your hand reaches down, fingertips clumsily tracing the edges of the metal seared into his navel. 

He knows what you want. You're greedy, a glutton for punishment, a sweet, terrible fool. But if he's honest with himself, perhaps he is worse. You are pleading his name again, the sound echoing unendingly in his ears, and Viktor is removing the front-most section of the metal enhancement: a thin plate that forms a triangular shape from his hips, all the way down. 

When he presses against your form, the next sensation to bleed into you is much different. It's smooth, soft latex, shoving against you. The last layer remaining between you and him and — 

And you can feel him. Straining hard and heavy against his underclothes. Firm and warm as he rocks into you, grinding all of him onto your throbbing cunt. You aren't thinking, you can't think anymore. Not when Viktor is hard, and when your heartbeat is so damn loud in your ears, you couldn't possibly hear anything else. 

"Viktor," You're murmuring, your chest pleasantly aching. Pleasure welds with emotion, walking the same shaky line, until your heart is unfurling with delicate petals that fill your throat sweetly, consuming you wholeheartedly, "I love you." 

If Viktor's mechanized heart was still capable of faltering from its pre-programmed rhythm, he's sure it would be fucking pounding. 

Every part of him is set alight. Burning, he feels smoke in his throat, and swears he tastes fire. He's overloading, practically overheating, like a fragile body trembling with need and want, like a system with too many programs open at once — and oh Gods, it just keeps opening more. His vision has long since gone blurry, and every sound in his ears is thick, as though he's been submerged in deep water. 

How long have you wanted to say those words? He thinks of quiet days spent with you in Piltover, the lingering glances and faint touches he tried his hardest to forget. 

How long has he needed to hear you say them? 

Honestly, he could cry, if he was at all still capable of crying. His mind is a mess. Heat is threading through his circuits, devotion and desire, a terrible softness; he's so soft inside, it hurts. It actually hurts, and he believed he taught himself how to forgo any pain. 

Electricity and faulty Hextech sizzle in his core, radiating, echoing. His damn foolish, worthless, synthetic heart. He needs to hold you, fuck you, break you. To encode this sensation into his head and his blood, because forgetting the way your voice strummed those words would be worse than admitting he is too weak to discard them. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

He doesn't deserve this. He was not built to love. Love should be thrown out, along with everything else. Love is a weakness. You may be fine with placing your heart on railway tracks, you might not think twice before putting yourself in danger, but if anything were to happen to you, he might be entirely consumed. 

With his mechanized existence, he could soon become immortal. This longing would surely stick with him after you're gone, an eternity of something he could never understand. Swallowing him whole, holding onto him tight. Endlessly painful. But right now, when he is here and stuck in a dream at the same time, when he is more of himself than he has ever been, and you are all that exists in his veins, could he ever manage to stop? 

You are so close to so much more. So close to ruining everything — just one last layer, one more touch. One movement, one press of his palms to your figure before he slides into you, one last massive, unfixable mistake. 

"Vik, please, please, I'm-" You can barely hold on anymore, as much as you've been trying to. You curl into him, grinding back against him hard; "I can't, I can't fucking- hhah- I'm so close-" 

Your bodies rock together desperately, beckoning and wanting more of what they shouldn't have. His heat radiates into your skin, and your breath fills the air in thick, heavy huffs. You're still so wet, and it makes every movement slick and simple. Your hands feel his back, his shoulders, his steel jaw, his face. Anywhere you can touch, you're making the most of it. 

Viktor finds your chin, he holds it delicately, and when he says your name, it feels personal; devastatingly so. Like he could make a home with the familiarity laced through each syllable. He breathes them like he did back then, coveting you so deeply. Muttering it as one final plea. 

If he can't fix this, perhaps you can reconstruct this part of him. Could you show him how to live again, could you instruct his mechanized heart, and finally teach it how to skip? 

"I have you," Viktor sighs, because he's sure you want to hear his words as much as he needs to say them. He doesn't require a working heart, when he can let all of himself echo through his still-human soul. "I love you." 

Your chest bruises with sparks in the wake of his gentle voice. Still somewhat robotic. Spoken as though each individual, inevitable word is one he is learning to speak. I. Love. You. 

Your legs and arms wrap around him, holding him as close to you as he could possibly get. Exhaling shakily, your whines are broken, your nails digging into his back. They'll leave red marks onto his pale skin; he hopes they do. His chest is pressed right up to yours. Viktor allows his forehead to rest just barely against your own, utterly tender, and he melts, as your thudding heartbeat echoes through him. Body to body, scarred skin on softer skin. Delicate limbs held around a partial chassis of firm, strong metal. 

Helpless. Perhaps for you, he is the helpless one. 

It doesn't matter; everything is crumbling away, and the both of you are thrown right back into reality, because you are falling apart for him at last. One last time. 

You shake, liquid hot pleasure drips over you like burning wax, and you're left at the mercy of your blistering, final high. Another few deep grinds into each other are all you need — the both of you throbbing, his jaw tensing, Hexclaw twitching, stiffening, and radiating a powerful amount of heat. His eyes flutter, the artificial glow behind them flickering like a dying lightbulb. You hold onto him tighter, and he lets go of a slight noise. A quiet, shaky, all too desperate moan. 

You stay rocking against one another even while you're cumming, even after your voice is sore from chanting Viktor's name so loudly, you briefly worry that anyone just outside of his lab might've heard you. 

Finally stopping, you only begin to relax once your whole body is entirely spent. 

You breathe slowly. In, and then out. Deep, calming breaths. Your heart pounds with force. The room refocuses around you, the harsh light of his various lamps burning into the back of your eyelids and making you see colorful spots. Viktor waits a few moments, before he shakily pushes up to prop himself above you. 

There's a hum of ambient, grinding metal coming from him. The hiss of steam. The echo of small shudders, and forceful gasps. Your vision is still fuzzy, your limbs incredibly weak, but you notice when he reaches for something; the thin metal plating, which he secures back onto himself. 

Once your eyes are completely clear and your heart is beating to a normal tune, you're finally able to focus on him above you. In barely any time, with a half-machine's perfected efficiency, Viktor has already regained every last aspect of his composure. 

"Stay. You require rest," He instructs matter-of-factly, his tone filled with his usual sternness. His gaze scans you up and down methodically. "I will supply you with a change of clothes." 

Right. Viktor's heart can't shudder like yours. Soft sensations have no need to linger. You'd almost forgotten. This is what you were always bound to return to: you, an ally. And he is just a machine. 

Through heavy, lovesick eyes, you admire the sight of him above you. His thin figure, enthralled in shadow, light reflecting off of the metal sections of his outline. He runs a hand through his hair to push it from his face, a gesture you find particularly endearing and human. 

"Oh, don't worry," You hum casually, stretching your arms and legs out. Your voice is light, foggy and still weak. The table beneath you feels firm against your back, but with how lightweight your whole body feels, you couldn't care less. "I don't think I'm moving even if I wanted to." 

Viktor raises a brow just slightly. He taps your neck with a single smooth, metal finger. "And something needs to be done about these." 

Briefly, your expression shifts into confusion. You tilt your head, allowing his fingers to trail further, and they examine the base of your neck down to your collarbones; the marks he left on your skin are swiftly darkening, forming blotchy, pretty bruises. 

Realizing what he's getting at, you smile smugly. "Worried someone's gonna ask questions?" 

"Half of Zaun acknowledges you as my right hand. I am not worried. But they will ask. It could prove arduous." Viktor explains, his tone exceedingly controlled. "Come. Hold onto me." 

When you don't immediately move, he stares at you expectantly. So, despite your tiredness, you listen, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his middle loosely. Viktor lifts you with ease. His heavy boots clunk with each step, and he carries you just a few paces from the table, setting you down on your back, and onto the familiar, ripped-up leather couch. It shifts, accommodating your weight and his. Compared to the worktable, when your back hits the soft yet worn cushions, you feel like you're resting on clouds. 

Viktor shifts, starting to move away, but you keep your arms wrapped around him, and speak before he has the chance. 

"Vik…" You're purring, "Stay here." 

A brief look of contemplation crosses his face, categorized by the slightest pinch in his thick brows. You smile, and nearly wind up kissing him again. He doesn't attempt to pull apart from you when you drag him closer to yourself, your lips gently brushing his cheek. 

At first, he's overly stiff. His arm fits underneath your back to hold you out of mere obligation. In contrast, his metal arm is kept beside you, refusing to touch, steel-jointed fingers flexing absently. But once your hands trail up, your fingers tracing the back of his neck, before they run through his hair, he honestly, earnestly relaxes. 

Your body underneath him is comforting. Limbs entangled, your legs brushing steel and the rigid metal brace. His head leans gently into the crook of your neck, almost hesitantly, as though he isn't entirely sure where to place it. He can't help but fall against you, bodies pressed into one another naturally enough to form the same grave. If he ever came face to face with death, he would refuse to accept it, unless it was just like this. 

You let your tired eyes close. You allow yourself to focus on his warmth, on the weight of him, and you can almost pretend this is natural. That you are in the past, or perhaps residing in a much different future. You are both lovers, as you wished you would be; simple and uncomplicated, nothing more, resting together in the dizzying comfort of your afterglow. 

It'd be nice. Nicer than anything you've been afforded. The only problem is Viktor is all firm steel and hard edges. His metal hand shifts to hold your side, and his fingers are digging into your skin, gripping a bit too tight. His weight on yours is making it damn near difficult to breathe. And right now, he is very, very hot. 

You frown, your eyes fluttering open again. "You're overheating." 

"My internal temperature is regulated by a liquid cooling apparatus," Viktor murmurs, after a moment. "It seems to be malfunctioning." 

His voice is smooth, as it always is, but it sounds much warmer, much quieter, when it's spoken this close to your ear. You sigh softly, and shuffle a little under him, trying to get more comfortable. 

"Ah. That sounds concerning." 

"The device will adjust itself in time," Viktor clarifies. "If it does not, repairs will take a few minutes, at most." 

Your fingertips brush over his back. They feel the thick ridges of his spine, and the thin steel shape of the Hexclaw's base. It feels cool and lifeless under your palm. "This is cold, though." 

"It is inoperational. It stopped responding, I will need to reset it individually." 

"That so?" You huff in response, laughing a little. You hold onto him tighter, and lean your head into his shoulder. "Whatever. Just don't let go of me." 

He doesn't. You exhale a long, weak breath. Your hands tremble slightly, as they uselessly grip onto the sections of cold steel that frame his shoulders. Viktor stays perfectly still, and he allows you to hold onto him as tightly as you need to. This might be the last moment you'll have together. For a while, at least. He has much to attend to, after this. Some tasks he can work on at your side, with your assistance, preferably. Some missions he must complete alone. 

The next time you speak, your voice is so fragile, he thinks he should be holding it in his palms. Or else it'll break. 

"We shouldn't- or, I guess I shouldn't have said… you know." You shudder, shaking all over before you tense. You're holding him too close to allow him to see your face, but he can picture your expression: slightly playful, to attempt to hide your uncertainty. "Gods, I'm so stupid. But I meant it. And I just-" You laugh, "I'm sorry, Viktor. Maybe you were right. I've been way too reckless." 

Viktor has no need to ponder his answer. "I know. Don't apologize. You should be resting, our conversation can continue tomorrow." 

You breathe deeply, and he quietly murmurs, his voice echoing through your ears, "I love you, milaya." 

Fake. Expected. A ghost of choked-back emotions, of all-too tender moments already slated to become forgotten memories. But something is there, something that tells you he's trying. For now, you'll take it. It's more than enough. 

You are close to falling asleep; every one of your nerves, washed over by warm, inviting waves, enveloped in his persistent heat. As though he can sense your building exhaustion, Viktor rubs your back with slow, reassuring circles — as best he can manage, considering your shapes are pinned too close together. Your breathing evens out, and you relax into his touch. Your mind feels as heavy as your weary, weak limbs. 

Your love would be soft, he considers, distracted. Gentleness personified, warm like your smile, like the radiant sun shining down on one's skin. Patient and alighting. Like being pulled by the wrists, wrested out of a rocky, dark sea — finally alive, and finally able to breathe. The still-human part of him feels in measures of softness. The mechanical part is much, much different. 

Heat is running through his veins. It's racing through his system, and he knows it isn't from any sort of malfunction. It burns. The taste of it is like sharp blood on his tongue, it spins in his head like the dizzy grinding of gears, sears through him with fraying wires and sizzling static. Pain and softness, forming a mix he might certainly call love, but might also swear to remove. 

There's a certain sharpness gnawing at him. A flickering, raw bruise, brutalizing him from between his ribs, regardless of his attempts to try and ignore it. Your efforts are failing. You are feeling, and that means you have failed. Even dying embers burn out the same as raging flames. 

You've drifted off, it would seem, your breathing slow, your body limp. So Viktor holds you just a bit tighter. 

For once, for the first time since he truly decided who he wanted to be and what he wanted to accomplish, he is lost. 

In the end, he is going to have to make a decision. One that will benefit his vision. Or one that will destroy him from the inside out. He must carve out these distractions, remove the sections of his heart that are faulty, or he must learn what it would mean to embrace them. 

It scares him, truly. Viktor, the Machine Herald, genuinely scared over something meant to be so trivial. Fretting over the one person he never wanted to lose, even though he was sure he'd already lost you. He wonders what his opposition would say, what those who view him as soulless might think, if they knew the truth. And if you knew? 

Just having to tell you, forcing himself to push you away, or coming face to face once more after he's altered his brain to completely forget you — No, the thought alone might be enough to seal his fate. 

He'll make up his mind before you wake. His head will become clearer, eventually. When your voice is gone from his ears, when your phantom touches tracing his skin have finally disappeared. Besides, this moment won't last, and he wants to savor what's left of it. 

Whatever happens next, wherever he takes this, he knows you will follow — to a different path, to a better future. Or to the ends of the earth. 

[jediknightdjarin]

BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly. 

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates. 

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag. 

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on. 

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year. 

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester. 

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that. 

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up. 

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway. 

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry. 

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat. 

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else. 

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!” 

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place. 

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run. 

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door. 

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom. 

What a bloody headache. 

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite. 

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?” 

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there. 

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again. 

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open. 

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat. 

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be. 

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod. 

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders. 

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable. 

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?” 

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten. 

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism. 

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you. 

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him. 

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner. 

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically. 

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in. 

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time. 

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale. 

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back. 

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for. 

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone. 

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out. 

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.  

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face. 

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling. 

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more. 

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial. 

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says. 

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year. 

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway. 

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.   

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect. 

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy. 

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this. 

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him. 

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room. 

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes. 

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch. 

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words. 

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin. 

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for. 

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though. 

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.  

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.  

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you. 

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone. 

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds. 

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what. 

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear. 

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done. 

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter. 

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed. 

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away. 

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot. 

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor. 

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more. 

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket. 

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed. 

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours. 

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent. 

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults. 

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you. 

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find. 

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?” 

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder. 

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing. 

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it. 

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth. 

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook. 

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business. 

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside. 

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table. 

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open. 

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely. 

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits. 

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset. 

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to. 

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else. 

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA. 

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip. 

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward. 

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?” 

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry. 

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat. 

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence. 

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face. 

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face. 

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism? 

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed. 

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches. 

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch. 

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight. 

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap. 

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist. 

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base. 

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.  

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him. 

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness. 

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room. 

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off. 

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put, 

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips. 

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back. 

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest. 

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?” 

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV. 

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says. 

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises? 

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things. 

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—” 

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable. 

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him. 

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue. 

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch. 

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means. 

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap. 

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes. 

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey. 

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him. 

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn. 

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into. 

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either. 

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand. 

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word. 

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss. 

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open. 

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering. 

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks. 

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin. 

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice. 

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way. 

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open. 

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug. 

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full. 

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected. 

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you. 

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.  

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle. 

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten. 

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms. 

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out. 

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face. 

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air. 

“Simon—”  you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place. 

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too. 

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.  

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away. 

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms. 

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds. 

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom. 

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?” 

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?” 

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.  

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice. 

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive. 

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees. 

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck. 

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off. 

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices. 

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again. 

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight. 

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way. 

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always. 

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does. 

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under. 

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air. 

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway. 

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid. 

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him. 

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?” 

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity. 

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open. 

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.” 

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying. 

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

[jediknightdjarin]

Hand To Heart (I'm Gonna Stay Faithful)

bfd!joel miller x younger!reader

summary: a pregnancy scare makes you realize just how deep you are in this.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, p. in v., pregnancy scare, fingering (WE GET IT U LIKE IT), bit of praise kink, humilliation kink, breeding kink (they're stupid and insane acc), dacryphilia, sex thru the looking glass (there's a mirror in reader's dorm), ANGST in capital, they're starting to catch the feels™ ur honor, hurt/comfort, plot thiccens, this people are clearly NOT in a good headspace btw idk we listen read and don't judge.

word count: 4,757 words

side note: everyone calling this joel nasty but thirsting after him too? was going to hold a trial over my citizens but yk... what the hell, sure! i too want nasty bfd!joel to ruin me: he can be my baby daddy who doesn't pay for child support of our 4 kids and we'd make way to bed for our 5th LET'S GO also spam time! but i also happen to write in wattpad, and got a pedro pascal social media fic going on :) it's on spanish tho, but if u speak the language and would like to tune in, u can read it here

part: prev | masterlist | next

It's a regular Tuesday when his phone rings at ten in the morning.

"Dad"

Joel gets up from his desk in a brash move, immediately picking up his daughter's worried tone. Tommy bursts inside, telling him to calm down, but all Joel can hear is the anxious beat in his chest.

"What's it, babygirl? You okay?" his throat tightens. "Talk to me"

There's silence before she answers, as if she's unsure to continue.

"It's not me" he feels his muscles relaxing, but then Sarah drops the bomb. "It's y/n"

Joel's heart beats with a different type of worry.

"What's wrong with her?" voice firm but emotionless.

It's almost summer again, and he's still seeing you. In a way, you had carved a space for yourself in his cold heart, so naturally, fear settles in. He'd never admit this things out loud, though.

"I don't know, dad" his daughter starts to rush the words out, panic evident on her voice. "She has locked herself in the bathroom and won't stop crying. I-I didn't know who else to call"

"Don't worry" but it sounds like he's trying to convince himself. "M' comin'. S'anyone else in there?"

There's a pause on the line before she answers.

"No"

He thinks of you. He'd seen you cry before, of course, but it'd been over silly childish stuff, like getting sent to bed early or not getting what you wanted for Christmas.

He thinks of you. Images of your pretty face, etched in pain, make his stomach drop. It isn't fair: your face was one destined to be happy for eternity, your smile so contagious Joel would sometimes find himself surrendering to your juvenile joy, his crow feet a little more notorious since you entered his life and carved your space on it by force; a light in the dark.

He just couldn't bear to see a mirror of his dullness on your face. It wasn't right.

"Stay put. I'll be there"

He tries not to think about your eyes drained of life. He tries not to think he's the cause. And then, he hangs.

As soon as Joel enters your dorm, your perfume is up his nostrils, providing him with a sense of relief he didn't know he needed. It was comforting and familiar, words that used to be hollow now carrying a knowing feeling that stung right on his chest.

"Dad" Sarah calls out, going for a hug. Joel embraces his daughter tightly while caressing her hair. "I'm so glad that you're here. I didn't know what to do"

"Breath in, babygirl. S'alright" he looks at your door, closed. Broken sobs can be heard, and his wounded heart feels like a heavy burden on his chest.

"My class starts in ten" Sarah speaks against the fabric of his flannel, "but I just couldn't leave her like this"

His daughter has a good heart. At least one of them did, anyway.

"Go to your class" he's commanding before he can fully process what he said.

Sarah breaks the hug, looking at him with a look he can't quite place.

"What? But, dad-" she tries to protest, concerned for your wellbeing.

"I'll take care of it. Always do, haven't I?" he sees her hesitation, and afraid of where her doubts would take her, Joel adds a small joke in there. "Y'know those classes ain't free, kid. Go ahead"

"Okay" she gives up. "Just... tell me if anything happens, yes?"

"F'course. Trust me"

"I trust you"

He still remembers when Sarah's kindergarten teacher handed him that drawing: Joel was wearing a cape, and she said his little girl had told everyone in class his dad was a superhero because there was nothing he couldn't do. That same admiration and faith is there in her eyes, even as the small naive kid slips from his fingers and turns into the woman that stands before him. He's not the devil, but the worst father in the world, and that is pretty much the same to him.

When Sarah is out of your dorm, he's trapped inside the small room with your heavy crying on the other side of the door. He looks at the small place, thinking about all the times he's sneaked inside during the night, hiding like a criminal as you wait for him behind the door full of scrapped stickers, ready to capture his lips with an eagerness that gnaws his chest.

Now it's just him and your sobs, his terrified reflection displayed in the mirror in front of your bed, mockingly staring back.

What are you doing? it questions, and Joel, always ready to answer, has suddenly lost the ability to speak.

Forcing himself out of such a pitiful state, he approaches the door, knocking softly.

"Sarah" your hoarse voice speaks up, and just then, he realizes how much he loves hearing your voice, no matter how it sounds. "Don't you have classes to go to? Leave me, please. I promise I'm good, I-"

Joel hears your distress, so he interrupts what looks like the start of a nervous rambling wreck. Huh, doesn't he know you so well?

"Sarah's gone" a beat, "It's me, Joel"

As if you wouldn't recognize that deep voice even if you were deaf.

There's silence before the door flings open, surprising Joel, who takes a step back, barely noticeable to the rest, but obvious to you, who has spent hours admiring him and all his small movements, he who you could draw by memory and built in your head as real as he who was standing before you, his eyes circling with a whirlwind of emotions you can't quite place, yet make your heart race.

Joel takes in the sight of you, deciding it's unfair how good you look, despite your disheveled hair, run mascara and red-rimmed eyes: you are still the prettiest sight he's ever seen, and now he doesn't know what scares him the most.

"You're wearing my shirt" he says out loud his latest discovery. It's all he manages to say: not an are you okay? nor an what's wrong?

No, Joel just happens to be very stupid(ly in love).

"Sarah didn't see me" you hug the fabric that makes your frame look smaller, or maybe it's your tired composture that makes it seem that way, avoiding Joel from enjoying the way his shirt looks on you. "If that's what you wanted to know. Been inside there for hours, already was when she came by"

The fact that you rather explain and assure him of his supposed possible worries instead of sharing your own, makes his stomach tie on a knot. Were you too kind or perhaps selfless? Maybe just stupid(ly in love).

Joel grunts, and you're not sure if it's his way of dissmissing your comment (maybe he thinks you're lying), chastising you in a shallow manner or the fact that you're poorly trying to avoid the elephant in the room. Maybe he thinks you're still a foolish careless child who can't comprehend the weight of whatever it is you're doing by being with your bestfriend's dad behind everyone's back.

"Tell me" he gets closer to you, fingers on your cheeks, but they don't dig the skin, instead, his roughness hiding a surprising tenderness to them. "What happened, y/n?"

The rawness in his voice takes you by surprise. Joel Miller, who seemed a man impossible to waver, now stood before you, wrapped in a gloom that left you at loss for words, something akin to hope planting it's seed on your heart.

"Tell me" he demands, yet his pupils move as unsteady as your heart. There's no power for command in his voice, only what you could allude to helplessness.

Was it because you were putting up walls like he did?

Was it because the consequences of being with you are starting to dawn upon him?

Whatever it is, you don't like it.

"What's wrong?" he's pushing for an answer softly, such a contrasting image to that of him in bed. "Please, talk to me"

Please.

The words slip past his trembling lips, defenses crumbling.

Joel Miller hasn't pleaded since Sarah's mother packed her bags and walked out of their shared home. He promised himself he would never be vulnerable again, never at the feet of a loved one, beggin to be seen.

To be heard. To not be hurt. To be loved.

But here you were, red eyes blown wide at a confession spoken through other words.

Please.

Your chest feels heavy, breath constricted.

"Joel..." you utter his name like a prayer. As something to believe in; something to hold.

He rushes to your side, strong arms caging around you as your labored cries fill the tiny room.

"S'alright" he whispers against your ear, burying his face on your shaking shoulder. "M' right'ere, doll"

Your hold turns more desperate, practically clinging as if your life depended on it.

"Take your time, y/n" your name so soft, you feel like crying more. "I ain't goin' anywhere"

"Promise me" you whimper, holding tightly.

"I won't go" he assures. There it is, the same unwavering strength you know. It's for you, he thinks.

"Joel" you call out again, tone terrified. "I think I'm pregnant"

It takes him at least a minute to speak. Even to breathe.

"...What?"

He feels your erratic pulse against his chest.

"Joel. Look at me"

He doesn't feel your heartbeat anymore. Just then he realizes he's backed down, embrace letting go of yours. Joel takes in your eyes, shimmering with new tears and fears.

"Joel?"

"I'm here" his voice sounds like it belongs to someone else, and the reminder like it's for himself.

"I know" your small voice speaks up, "but, just- please, look at me"

Joel holds your gaze, and it's like your air supply as been cut.

We don't want this.

"Are you sure?" Joel asks cautiously, as if you were a small animal he's afraid to scare.

"No" you breath in. "I bought the test, but I couldn't take it... I was, for the very first time in my life, scared. But there's always a first, isn't it? That's when Sarah found me"

There's always a first. You weren't afraid when he pounced you next to his sleeping daughter, neither when you didn't stop coming and he let you in everytime, and absolutely not when he obscenely ate you out while Sarah was on the phone. No, you were brave―brave enough to stand defiant when his conflicting gaze pierced through you, daring you to be the first to leave this mess and forget about him. But you were brave because you stayed, despite it all.

That had to mean something, right?

"You said you wouldn't leave me" it comes out in a shaky breath; a threat. Your voice seethes with a quiet rage. "You promised, Joel"

Like the word promise was a dagger twisting on his insides, not a sacred oath.

So he forces himself to be that hero Sarah still thinks he is. After all, he promised her he's going to solve this, didn't he?

"I did" he runs a hand through his hair. "Got the test with you?" You slowly nod. "Take it, then. I'll wait here"

You don't move from your spot, chest still moving uneven under your labored breaths.

"When you come out, I'll promise I'll still be here"

He can't promise you more. The world? It's what you deserve but not what he can give; Joel can only give so much.

"Okay" your tone is clipped, and that's all you say before entering the bathroom and closing the door behind you.

The room feels smaller than it is, the small plastic stick feeling heavier in your fingers than it actually is. You hear the clock's tick, Joel's frantic pace and your own irrational beat. It feels like a bomb: ready to explode and destroy everything within it's range.

Time drags like a cigarette, walls closing over your shaking pale frame. Your phone has a timer going on, yet for some reason, it feels an end to your beginning. You hug your body, wishing it was Joel's arms doing so.

But you saw it: fear, hesitation. It was on his eyes, auburn cracking like wood under fire. He was weak, and so were you. All of this... it starts to loose it's meaning. What started as a summer fling now falls upon you like a second skin you can't quite wash off, and it's suffocating as much as the enclosed space where a stupid line could change the rest of your life forever.

Joel outside isn't doing much better. He's aware his walking probably set you on edge, so now he's sat at the small bed that dips under his weight. He takes one deep breath, two―then looses count.

How could he be so careless? For a brief moment, why did he let himself believe it could be?

For God's sake: you were his daughter's friend. He had seen you and Sarah play on his house, laughing on his porch, gossiping on her bedroom. Growing up.

He wanted you, a desire so consuming it sometimes kept him up at night, thoughts confusing with something else. Probably fear, probably acceptance.

Joel is aware you changed his life. You, with your wild spirit and obnoxious laugh. You whom he couldn't tear his gaze away when standing in the same room, a magnetic force making the world around you drawn to you and that dangerous allure you had that made it impossible to resist you. To forget you. To live without you.

He feels dirty. A monster. A wolf with an insatiable hunger, sinking his canine teeth on your soft flesh. He'd drink your blood, to always keep a part of you with him; to be one. Like a lamb sent to the slaughter: but you wanted it. You had placed your head inside his jaw; trusting. As if knowing he could devour you, yet he'd never hurt you. Daring, almost.

Show me you can love me. Take a bite. Take me as yours. Mark me. Ruin me for anyone else. My blood, it belongs to you. This isn't a sacrifice―this is love.

When you exit the bathroom, hand holding the pregnancy test, it's all clear to him.

For a moment even, Joel forgets there's a world outside and sees a small baby: they have your smile, your eyes―and nothing of him, because you're the sun of his moon, the light of his darkness, and that baby is a mirror of you and your beauty. You and your warmth, devoid of his cold and far from where his filth can taint it. They have to look like you, because you are the most beautiful person in the world, and suddenly, the idea one more of you is possible, makes it feel like just you isn't enough.

"It's negative"

For the second time in the day, Joel is rendered speechless. His gaze is trained on the floor, lost in thought. Besides his lack of an answer, whatever he's thinking makes you nervous.

"Joel, are you okay?" you call out.

He swallows the lump on his throat, pose awkward before he moves next to your bed.

"M' fine, baby. C'mere" he sits over it again, motioning with his hand the empty spot next to him. Joel's embrace is warm, like it shields you from the cold harsh truth.

"Are you upset?" you ask over the comfortable silence, the underlying tension stretching like a rubber band.

"No" his answer comes quick, "but I won't lie to ya', doll. Thought for a sec and ol' man like me could give a pretty girl like yourself a baby as beautiful as their mamma"

A treacherous pink dusts your cheeks. Had you lost all your common sense? Seconds ago, your life hung by a fragile thread, and now all your body can think is to go for the same risk again. Fuck it.

"Did you? I thought you were too busy freaking out"

Joel lets out a nervous laugh. "M' a busy man, doll. Learned how to do two things at once"

A fire settles in your stomach when his touch lingers over your soft flat belly, longing.

"Hmm, I see" your fingers move from his hold to his collarbone, as they play with the buttons he hasn't wore.

"Y/n" he warns. You stop for a moment, not because you're unsure, but because when you look up, his eyes don't shine with that glint of danger and hunger that gives you the thrills. Instead, they look at you with a fondness he doesn't seem to even realize―the one that gives you the hope of it all.

"I want this" you speak up, voice confident.

"I don't think that's a good idea, doll. What'ya need is-"

"You" your face gets close to his, cutting his words and breath. Joel's adam's apple bobs, your throbbing pussy going through a Pavlovian response, such action an indicator he's surrendered to you, mouth watering at just the thought. "You said you could do two things at the same time, right? The comfort me in the only way you know"

There's hesitation on his eyes, and while you think it's because he's still hung up on the idea this isn't what you need, Joel's mind is stuck in the fact you think he can only warm your bed but not your heart. It's stupid, indeed. It can't affect him that much. Ashamed, he cuts the space hanging between your lips and traps them in a heated kiss.

"Hmh, Joel" your voice barely audible as Joel's fingers grip on your hair, his sleazy tongue sliding it's way into your mouth until you can feel it in your teeth. "Please..."

He chuckles at your neediness. "Please, what?"

"Please" you whimper, feeling your back heat with droplets of sweat under Joel's shirt, the sticky feeling akin to that starting to pool in between your thighs. "Please, make me feel good"

Joel smiles adoringly, moving your body until your legs are up his shoulders. Sure, his knees covered by his dirty worn-out jeans are ruining your fresh laundry, and his joints may crack here and there, but you don't pay mind to this little things: all you care is how he's kissing your bare thighs, his salt and pepper stubble tickling skin that feels more sensitive than ever; burning almost.

"Gon' touch 'tis pretty pussy 'til you forget y'r name, doll" he breathes out. "Will ya' let me?"

You nod eagerly as he helps you get out of your panties, throwing them somewhere around the room. You smack his arm playfully at his rough manners, but then he's pressing his lips with wet ticklish kisses on your legs and laughter bubbles at the tingles it's causing.

"S-stop, Joel!" you beg, legs shaking. Your giggles are contagious, and soon the foreign feeling lifts the corners of his scowl into a smile, a concept becoming more familiar with time.

"I ain't stopping" his fingers then graze your clit, tauntingly. You whine, as Joel doesn't let up on your clit, his calloused digits coated in your arousal. "'Tis what you asked for, baby. So 'm gonna make you feel good. So good until you can't speak nothin' that ain't my name"

The threat feels like a delicious promise, so you tell him you'll behave.

"I wanna try somethin', doll. Wait" you whine at the loss of his fingers inside of you, and then he's moving your body until he's against the wall and you're on the border of the bed. With your eyes, you follow his line of view. "So needy, ain't ya'? Cockhungry slut. Jus' scared the shit out of me and now you want me inside?" he tsks. "Sick fella"

"Joel..." you breath out, desire pooling into your orbs.

"Wanna see you, doll" you see your reflection in the mirror as Joel lowers his head to whisper on your ear, eliciting goosebumps on your skin. "Want you to see yourself, too. How you'll be beggin' for me"

His middle and ring finger dip between your folds as he continues the minstrations, fingers pumping in and out as they graze your moist cunt. They start to go in circles, and even if it's not exactly next to your bed, you can see the mirror begin to fog, whines condensed in the heavy air.

His shirt clings uncomfortably to your body, but you don't care. In a way, he feels even closer to you, as if he was an extension of yourself.

Joel's body radiates heat on it's own, making the room's temperature skyrocket.

You lean your head back onto the mattress, moaning.

"Need ya' to use that pretty mouth of y'rs, doll. Say it" his fingers linger on the dip of your hips, waiting for an answer with a smirk and daring manner. "Say what ya' want; that's if you can"

It takes you a while to speak up, the slippery sound of Joel's coated fingers the only sound to be heard on your dorm.

"I... I need" you whine through labored pants, "I need you, Joel"

I need you, Joel. It's in the heat of the moment, really, yet on that very instant, he makes a silent vow that hangs unspoken in the air.

"Good girl" he bites your earlobe, making a chill run down your spine.

His fingers fuck into you just how you like it: swirling to explore your inner tight walls.

"Fuck. Love how your pussy takes me, doll. 'S mine, isn't it? Say it, say who this pussy belongs to. Who's the only man allowed to have it"

You close your eyes, but the answer comes clear. "You, Joel. Just you"

You whine, feeling him go harder in a new-found confidence. Your nails dig on his biceps, but he doesn't flich, still busy burying his fingers inside your clit as his mouth continues spilling filthy shit you barely can comprehend, mind starting to go numb.

Normally, Joel would make you cum on his fingers, always making sure to lick it after, claiming it was bad manners to leave to waste. But today, the clock ticking in your wall, he knows he must hurry.

"Eager, eh?" you taunt back, seeing how quickly he's pulling down his underwear, guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance.

Your dripping cunt welcomes his cock, tip teasing your entrance.

"Don't" he seethes.

"Don't?" you laugh. "Don't what, laugh?"

His fingers grab your jaw tightly, forcing you to look behind you.

"Don't stop lookin', doll"

Joel slips the tip of his cock into you, his hands grabbing your waist to steady you. He looks at you through the mirror, seeing your dazed eyes, waiting as you bite your lip.

"That's it, good girl" he praises, purring against your ear. You see his face go down and lick the side of your neck before sinking his teeth in it. "Gonna reward you for'at"

Your mouth falls agape when he fully pushes his cock inside of you, burying himself to the limit in the first thrust. You moan, stretch wet pussy trying to adjust to his girth. He groans, his hips moving back and forth with yours, to meet his thrusts.

"R-right there" you whimper, feeling eyes starting to water. It had been a long day, and with his cock buried deep inside you, you can't think of anything else: just him―like this, for the rest of your life; you don't need more. "Fuck, don't stop"

His thumb rubs across your cheekbone, capturing a tear that had slipped past your foggy mind in a brittle moment of vulnerability, brown eyes flickering with something else. It could be.

We could be.

"Fuck, you cryin' over this cock, doll? What'a fuckin' slut" he laughs incredulously, but there's a hidden fondness to it. "S' that how good 'm makin' you feel?"

You can only moan, his dick harder now, his infatuation with your fucked-out state evident in the way his movements become more hectic.

"Can't even speak? What'a dirty minx inside 'tis sexy little body"

"Mhm" you blabber, tears running hot down your cheeks, landing on the mattress in fat droplets, noticeable through the reflection even. Joel stares back at your puffy eyes, devotion pouring at your glossy gaze, coated in a faint red tint, more pronounced from your earlier cries. Fuck. Never did he think your lambent eyes and sniffle sounds could turn him on this much. Something about him being the cause of it has his head spinning.

"New rule" he growls, "you keep those pretty red eyes lookin' at me when you cum"

You whimper at his words, the powerful aura they carry pushing your orgasm closer to the edge. You feel your tight folds clenching around his cock, hands holding to his back while your nails dig in it. You feel yourself approaching your release, multiple tears escaping down your cheekbone. In an obscene gesture, it isn't his thumb but his tongue what removes the wet stream from your body, feeling the salty drops on his tastebuds.

You were already so worked up, it was a matter of seconds before you could cum at any moment. Your walls clench around his length, and before you can process, Joel pulls your body up, caging your tits until they're pressed against his soft chest. You face the white paint of your wall, and Joel can see your back in the mirror as he's still buried inside of you. You gasp at the change in position, all of the sudden, a painfull delicious sensation flooding your senses.

"You're gonna cum, aren't ya', doll?" Joel's asking, hot breath nestled in your neck.

"Hmh" you barely manage to blurt as he fucks into you harder, your arms clutching onto him. You were being so loud now that you were sure you'd get at least one noise complain, hoping it stays there; if they found out not only had you been fucking, but with a fourty year old man who happpened to be the father of your bestfriend, you'd probably get expelled. "So close..."

"You know?" he whispers, voice fragile over the sound of your pants and worked up breaths. "I was scared, ealier. M' sorry you had to see that" your body trembles, making you close your eyes. "But I need ya' to know, for'a moment, I did think about having a kid with you"

Your forehead drips with sweat, mixing with the sodium of your tears.

"Maybe in 'nother life, huh?"

Your heart feels like it's about to burst when he sloppily kisses you, as to prevent any words come out of your mouth―humilliating or full of regret, avoiding the heart ache of a rejection. Joel, for a moment, lets his heart wander off to territories he shouldn't, thinking of things he should leave to be. Joel digs his hole deeper, but he doesn't care: he just wants to be the best grave in your cementery.

"Maybe" you answer, but it sounds like a possibility, the promise of a foolish mind betraying the guarded hidden hope.

"Fuck, Joel" you bury your face against his soft pecs, your orgasm crashing over you. Your whine comes our rather loud, trying to drown the sound against his body. He doesn't stop holding you on his arms, firm; you'd probably fallen if he didn't.

"Wait for me, doll. 'M close"

"Please" you plead, kissing his jaw. "Need you. Want to feel you, Joel"

Not daddy, but his name. I want you. I need you. Want to feel you; for you to fill me. He groans, rhythm sloppy as he crashes his lips into yours. he should stop, especially after today's events, but God, his traitorous head is filled with images of you, belly round with his child, one carved to be the spitting image of you.

Do it.

You moan inside his mouth when you feel him finish inside of you, thick, your fingers running through his dark greying hair damp with sweat.

"M' right here" he says his words from earlier, and you feel yourself hugging him to keep his body next to yours even as he pulls out.

"I know" you hum, arms around his neck. "Thank you for coming"

"What of both?"

You let out a laugh.

"Jesus, Joel" but your tone is devoid of malice, adquiring that layer to it, just like his own. There's a shift in the air, and if you felt it before, now you know there's no point of return. "You sure are something else"

credits: divider @kodaswrld / gif @loregifs / dts: @ann-gell; ángel de mi corazón, tkm mucho, gracias por llegar a mi vida ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

[jediknightdjarin]

Temptation

Pairing: modern best friend’s dad!Silco x younger!f!reader

Summary: Lusting after his daughter's friend is wrong, but when a simple accident makes him realize his feelings are requited, he no longer minds taking it to the next step.

Warnings: 18+ mdni!!! smut, p inv, rough sex at some point, oral(F!), alcohol consumption, bff's dad!Silco, he smokes obv, Jinx doesn't know, making out. READER AND JINX ARE 25-26 & SILCO IS MID 40s.

Word count: 3.6K+

An: I suck at titles lmaooo. this is NOT beta-ed. ENJOY AND COMMENT & REBLOG PLEASEEEE!!

Silco knows it is the wrong thing to do. He feels sick in the head for even letting this idea pop into his mind, let alone entertaining it.

But he can’t help himself, not when you have started brightening his dull summer mornings with a simple smile. Not when he catches you staring at him resting on the pool lounging chairs in nothing but his swimsuit — which he was forced to wear because of his daughter — and a cigarette dangling from his thin lips.

He seriously can't help it, no, because how can he look away from you shyly smiling at him when he makes a dad joke at dinner with Jinx groaning like a toddler? How can he be normal about this odd feeling inside his chest when your eyes meet subconsciously? 

The answer is simple; he is not normal about this, not even near trying to be. It has been so long, if ever, that he has felt such a deep longing inside him. It makes his eye twitches in annoyance because he doesn’t know how to stop it.

You are his daughter’s best friend, much younger than him, much prettier and brighter. He is a rotting old man who survives on booze and nicotine, his line of work is dangerous, and yet, when he looks at you his life is not as colorless as it used to be.

It seems like you know he can’t keep his eyes to himself — both the damaged and the good one — with how you are gliding through the unbearable crowd, arms tangled with Jinx as you both dance, surrounded by your classmates and peers.

Silco does not know why he agreed to help the two of you throw this party. He kind of does, but deep down he does not understand why Jinx insisted on it, all he knows is that saying no to Jinx is the hardest task ever, and worse, saying no to you when you bat your lashes at him and give him one of the sweetest smiles ever that has his heart racing miles. 

And now, watching you move your hips to the rhythm with Jinx jumping up and down around you with Ekko, awakens something not so innocent inside him. He looks at your hands caressing your sides as you swing to the beat, raising your arms over your head when the song reaches its climax.

Silco’s grip tightens around his glass, jaw clenching over and over as he sees you interacting with your guy friends and classmates, smiling just the way you smile at him and touching their arms while laughing at some stupid jokes those stupid boys tell you.

He sighs shakily, drowning the rest of his whiskey before he throws one leg over the other as soon as he sits on the couch, spreading his arms over the back of the cushions while he stares at you dancing with a lousy dude who would probably treat you better than him.

He shakes his head slightly, pulling out a cigarette from the pocket of his vest, puffing a few times against the end of the leaf cigar as he lightens the tip, his good eye never leaving you as he closes the lid of the lighter harshly.

He watches you closely, and for a second, your eyes find him, and he looks as if the smoke he exhales takes all the air from his lungs — but in reality, it is your smile that makes his chest tighten and his heartbeat rises rapidly.

You divert your eyes to the bar Jinx had ordered to be made, carefully making your way there and out of his sight.

He sighs, bringing the end of the cigar to his thin lips as he takes a long drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs while he searches for you among the crowd. He shakes his head in disapproval, pressing his lips into a thin line as he realizes he has been looking for you again, his daughter’s best friend.

Sick old man, he thinks to himself and stands up, ignoring the crowd and the guests that jump on his way, bumping against him with drinks in both hands and murmuring apologies.

Silco holds his hand behind his back as he moves away from the bustle and hustle of the party, sighing in relief when the music starts to fade away the more he walks upstairs.

He groans when he finds boys and girls on the stairway kissing and touching each other while some of the guests are snoozing on the stairs, mentally taking notes to scold Jinx tomorrow for inviting such mindless people into his house.

Someone stumbles on him, legs wobbly and beer in hand as the boy falls on Silco, his drink pouring on Silco’s red shirt and vest, soaking his clothes thoroughly.

“Fucking hell,” Silco grumbles under his breath, trying to keep the boy up as best as he can while beer drips from his shirt on the stairs and the guy drools on his shoulder, “Sit down here.”

He lowers the boy on the stairs, his cigarette nearly falling on the ground as he drops to his knees because of the heavy weight of the guy holding onto Silco tightly, saying something under his breath before passing out, going limp in Silco’s arms.

“Great,” he spits the word out before he untangles himself from the boy and lets him sleep on the stairs, leaving towards his bedroom to change his shirt and wash the beer off his clothes.

With steady steps, he reaches his room and opens the door, making a beeline towards his desk in the corner of the room to put his cigarette out, throwing his head back in defeat when he hears the cold liquid dripping on his shoes.

“What an inconvenience,” he shakes his head, reaching to grab a napkin from the drawer of his desk to wipe the beer as best as he can because he would have to drop his clothes in the washing machine tomorrow.

Silco pulls his shirt out of his pants, unbuttoning his vest and dropping it on his desk while he starts undoing his shirt as well, closing his eye when he sees half of the fabric is a darker shade of red, knowing how it will probably stain.

He starts aggressively wiping, but the more he looks at the crumbled napkin, the worse his temper gets, too bad to the point he doesn’t hear the knock on the door, and definitely doesn’t notice you when you walk inside his room.

“Silco—“

“What?” He turns around angrily before his gaze softens when he sees you, body relaxing immediately when he looks at your shy smile, “Sorry, darling, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“No worries,” you say quietly, looking at his shirt and how tightly he was fisting the napkin, “Do you need a hand?”

“No, thank you,” he replies, watching your lips part as your eyes fall on his chest, taking in the freshly exposed skin before you trail your gaze over his neck and up to his face, locking your eyes with his, holding his stare before looking away quickly. 

You fiddle with your fingers as you walk toward his bathroom, leaving him breathless on his spot, his fingers nearly tearing through the napkin as he looks at your backless dress, your hips swaying with each step you take.

“Okay…” You search in the cupboard for something, probably the wet wipes Jinx always leaves in every room of the house because she might need them instantly. You mutter a cheerful ‘Aha!’ And stand up, walking back to where Silco is standing before pointing at his shirt, “Can I?”

“There’s no need, darling…” he tries to reach and grab the wipes from your grasp but you pull it back a little, stepping in front of him, shaking your head as you grab his shirt, softly wiping the stain off as best as possible.

“You left the party so early,” you start, looking into his eyes as you keep cleaning his shirt, and he takes his time memorizing every up and down of your face, the curve of your smile when you catch him staring more than you were doing, “Did you not enjoy it?”

“I’m not very fond of these things,” he says, his chest rambling with each word, his hot breath now fanning on your face as he reaches down to hold the corner of his shirt as you press on the fabric harder, “Nor am I young enough to enjoy them.”

“Please,” you scoff playfully, stopping your movements before you reach to play with his collar, feeling the warmth of his body much better now, “You’re not that old, Silco! You can hold your drink and I bet you still have women wrapped around your fingers.”

“I doubt it, darling,” the way the pet name rolls on his tongue makes his fingers itch with desire, and you standing too close to him, your faces mere inches away from each other is not helping his case, “The grey hairs and the damaged eye are not something enjoyable for women.”

“I like them,” you whisper, dragging your gaze over his scar, your hand slowly moving up his neck, your thumb tracing his throat before you hover your fingers over his cheek, “It makes you more dangerous, more intriguing in a good way.”

“Does it now?” He asks, raising his hands slowly to caress your hip, his cold fingers touching the heated skin of your back, “How intrigued are you?”

“Enough to sneak out of the party and follow you to your room,” you bat your eyes at him, cupping the back of his neck after you drop the wet wipes on the floor and drawing him closer so your noses brush against each other, “I would say I am pretty intrigued.”

“We shouldn’t do this, darling,” his other hand comes on your waist, his fingers wandering over your exposed skin, and he feels your breath hitching with each movement, “I’m too old for you…”

“No, you’re not,” you respond, bringing his face closer to you while his arms circle your waist, pressing your body to his, and he closes his eye when you press against his growing bulge, “I want you just as you are.”

“I want you too,” he says and rests his forehead on yours, breathing in the perfume you have put on for the night, “So badly…”

“I…I want you now but I’m scared,” you whisper, “What about Jinx? I love her but if I spend another moment away from you I think I’ll die.”

“You won’t die,” Silco chuckles slowly, one of his hands moving to your back, holding you close as he resumes talking, “We will figure it out eventually. She is a grown woman with a coherent mind, she will understand.”

“I hope so,” you lean closer, your lips only one breath away from his and it takes everything in him not to rush you and kiss you right now, “All summer I’ve been holding myself back.”

“Is that so?” He asks and grabs the back of your neck, ready to close the distance and take your breath away, “I can say the same, only I had to push the feelings down because of our situation.”

“I don’t care anymore,” you breathe out the words, wrapping your arms around his neck, “I need you now, stop this torture and put me out of my misery.”

“Gladly, darling.”

Finally, finally, he closes the gap and presses his lips to yours, tasting the alcohol you’ve been taking earlier. You hum into his mouth and tangle your fingers through his hair, pulling on the roots while he bites your bottom lip, pushing his tongue inside your mouth to taste you wholly.

You moan when your tongues meet, battling for dominance but he doesn’t let you win. He explores your mouth, tasting you like his life depends on it. His chapped lips move against your softer ones, creating a harmony he has never experienced before.

He gently guides you backward towards his bed, eyes closed and lips tangled. Silco keeps his arm around you, steadying you when your knees hit the edge of the bed, and he gently lowers you on the mattress, not breaking the kiss even for a second.

His hands move down to roam your body, feeling the curve of your hips and thighs while he kisses your breath away, fingers vibrating with excitement as he holds you down by his hands on your waist.

You spread your legs for him, making enough room so he can get closer, pushing his knees against your heated underwear enough to have you squirm under him.

Breaking the kiss, you gasp for air loudly, looking up at him with blown-out pupils. He looks just as blissed out as you are, his good eye’s teal iris is no longer visible with how large his pupil has gotten, and his lips are swollen and bruised because of the lack of air from the kiss.

“You are… breathtaking,” he mumbles under his breath, holding himself up by one arm next to your head while the other cups your cheek, “You have no idea how many times I have dreamed of having you like this.”

“Me too,” you nuzzle your face against his palm, reaching to grab the hem of your dress to pull it over your hips, revealing your underwear to Silco’s hungry eye.

He looks at your thighs squeezed together to relieve the pressure building in your core, biting your lip when Silco lets go of your face to trace the pad of his fingers over your inner thigh, loving the way you slightly quiver beneath his subtle touch.

“Take your dress off,” he tells you, sitting up on his knees as he spreads your legs further, watching you pull the fabric off until your chest is bare and the dress is dropped on the floor. He sucks in a sharp breath as he looks down at you, nearly naked as the day you were born, and he thinks about the last time he saw such a beautiful sight.

Never, he has never seen anything nearly as eye-catching as you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers and leans down to kiss your neck, attaching his mouth to your sweet-scented skin before he trails his kisses and gentle bites down your front, one hand coming up to play with your breast while he bites on the fat of your other teat.

You groan and push your chest up, reaching to hold onto his head while he licks your nipple and takes it in his mouth, sucking on it a few times before he lets go with a lewd ‘pop’ sound.

“Silco, don’t keep me waiting, please…”

“Patience, dear,” he says, gripping your thighs in his hands before he pulls your underwear down, letting it dangle from your feet before he starts kissing your hip bones, “Great things come to those who wait.”

“I’ve waited long enough!” You whine, sitting on your elbows to look at him, pouting a little when gives you a pointed look, “Don’t make me beg, Silco! I need you so bad.”

“I know, I know,” he shushes you and kisses the fat of your thigh before he leans down to lick a long stripe of your wetness on your folds, making you gasp as his warm tongue draws a pattern over your heated sex, “I’ll give you what you need soon, but you need to let me have my fun too.”

And with that, he dives in like a man starved, sucking on your clit in a way that has your fingers digging into his skull a bit. He groans against you, tightening his grip around your thighs as he nudges his nose to the bundle of nerves, humming when he hears the moan that falls past your lips.

He pulls back suddenly, leaving you whimpering and writhing under him. Silco knows he should make you come first, being a gentleman and all, but for the first time, he decides to be selfish.

“I need to be inside you, darling,” he tells you and flips you over, crawling over you before he leans down and kisses the side of your face, threading his fingers with yours on the mattress while he fidgets with his belt to pull his cock out, “Every minute that I’m away from you is torture.”

“Silco…” you moan, looking at him from the corner of your eyes as he pins you to the bed, finally pushing his pants down while he strokes himself to full hardness, almost spending himself on top of you when he looks down at your winking drenched hole, all ready for him to fill, “C’mere, you’re too far away.”

You somehow manage to wrap your arm around his neck to pull him closer, and he takes this as his cue to line his cockhead with your cunt, pressing his nose into your hair as he gently pushes inside you, groaning as your warmth envelops him completely.

“Fuck, Silco—“ you gasp when he bottoms out, stretching you out deliciously while he reaches deep inside your core, the thick leaking tip of his cock nudging against your sensitive spots, “So good…”

“You feel amazing, dear,” he growls in your ear, letting you adjust his size whilst he holds himself back from ramming inside you like a madman, “You feel even better than what I imagined.”

“Move, please,” you say, pulling on the hairs on the back of his neck. He looks at your mouth falling open when he pulls back slowly and pushes back inside just as gently, “Oh, yes…”

“If you could see yourself now,” he groans, going faster than before, his hips slapping against yours. Silco squeezes your hand, his other hand coming to rest on your waist, keeping you pressed to the mattress while he fucks you harder and deeper too, “So beautiful, darling.”

You can only moan in response, loving how he tries to be careful with his movements, considering your comfort more than his pleasure. So when you squeeze his neck and mumble under your breath ‘Faster, Silco’ with those hazy eyes that never fail to make his heart jump out of his chest, he loses his mind.

“You don’t know what you are asking of me,” he says, breathless by the idea of you granting him the right to take you on his bed — rough, raw, full of pent-up emotions — and then kiss your breath away, “I’ve already been treading on thin ice by holding back.”

“Don’t want you to hold back,” you gasp when he gives an experimental thrust, caging you fully underneath him with both arms next to your head, his nose resting on your cheeks, “Please…”

He doesn’t need any more convincing, instead, he starts hammering his cock inside you, fucking you harder than before while you bury your face into his pillows. His scent fills your nose as his cock does your pussy, and you can’t stop the lewd and obscene noise that leaves your mouth.

He is all you can think of and all your body consumes.

He is not much better; his cock is throbbing deep within your walls and when you clench around, it only spurs him on to go deeper and faster.

Silco’s shirt is now soaked with his sweat, chest glistening with shiny droplets while he watches his cock go in and out of you at a fast pace.

He loves how he fills you to the brim perfectly, and when he senses you are close with how your legs start kicking as soon as he hits your G-spot, he nearly falls on top of you and pistons himself in and out of you.

You come at the same time, falling over the edge of your peak together while he sneaks his hand between your body and the mattress to press circles over your clit, making you gush around him instantly. He peaks at the same time as well; pulling out as fast as possible to stroke himself, spilling his cum all over your back with a groan of your name.

You lay there panting, chuckling breathlessly when he drops his forehead on your shoulder, not wishing to crush you with his weight.

“Are you okay?” You ask him, gently rolling on your back to look at his flushed face before reaching to tuck a gray strand of his hair behind his ear, “I didn’t wear you out, did I?”

“I should be asking you this question,” he chuckles and rests some of his weight on top of you, hiding his face in your neck as he litters your skin with kitten kisses, “How are you feeling?”

“Amazing,” you reply, caressing his hair while you kiss the side of his head, “You?”

“Me too, although I feel like a leg cramp is coming my way soon,” he laughs softly and drops next to you on the bed to catch his breath.

“Oh you poor old man,” you mock him, pecking his nose before jumping down from his bed, hissing when you feel how sore your inner thighs have gotten, “I have to go back to the party. Jinx is probably looking for me.”

“Alright,” he nods, watching you move towards his bathroom to grab another wet wipe to clean his cum off your back, “But we have to talk about this later.”

“Don’t worry, Silco,” you beam at him, pulling on your dress before turning your back to him, mentioning for him to help and pull the fabric up from your thighs, “I’m not running away without you.”

“Okay,” he kisses your shoulder and smiles, staring at you while you reach the door of his room, “See you around, darling.”

“Have a great night, Silco.”

[jediknightdjarin]

woke up to your Simon POV posts and i have never been so glad for a flare up in the middle of the night. overjoyed at 4 AM. entirely in love with the way you write his thought processes as he looks at reader; i would be lying if i said it's not doing something to me, although i do know that isn't the point. GOD, THE SINS I WOULD COMMIT FOR SIMONS POV OF THE LAST CHAPTER. no pressure though, seriously, especially not regarding this!

i remember you mentioning that you're considering giving access to select users, are you still considering that? if so, is it okay to DM you to add my username to the list?

my love for tortured men will do me in someday, but i'll die with a smile on my face

(As long as people stay mostly cool with it, I think I’ve convinced myself to post them all publicly. Ty for the idea!)

18+ TW: Intrusive sexual thoughts, trauma

His absolute angel of a person spreads her knees open for him. Right there on the floor, like she doesn’t mind at all. Like this is just a sexy little game to her, and she really didn’t care that he thoughtlessly cut off her airway, and now she’s ready to be played with a little more.

Simon can’t see what he’s touching, but he doesn’t have to. Her thighs are flushed hot and velvety, creating the most perfect path—

Oh.

His mind whites out for a second, when he makes contact with the wetness between her legs. He curses, because he doesn’t know what the opposite of a curse would be. A prayer, maybe?

He keeps touching, because he can’t help it. It’s making him painfully hard to know that she had this kind of response to a blowjob in the dark. That she somehow finds the most tortured parts of him tolerable, even kneeling on the floor with her hair in his fist.

He steals it, like a starving street urchin. Takes some of that divine mess and puts it on himself, because he needs to feel it on his own wretched cock.

He gets honest with the movements of his hand, towering over her and keeping her head anchored to the edge of the mattress. That’s when the rising tide of fear always hits, when he’s experiencing pleasure. When he’s going to cum.

It took her moving in with him to force him to get comfortable with it. Jerking off before was always a last resort, and never the relief he hoped for. But then all of a sudden something sweet and eager and perfect was touching him all the time, and it became a necessity. Day by day, it got easier. He got to the point where he could barely have a thought about Roba or any of them, and just do his usual shower wank like any other way to keep up his body. Like eating his vegetables, he got a little bit used to it.

So maybe that was important, too. Maybe that’s why he’s not thinking about the desert or the voices or the bones. He’s just picturing the pretty thing beneath him, the mouth that deserves better than to have something disgusting of his shot into it. And as he begins to feel his body tightening in anticipation, his only thought is, don’t laugh.

She won’t laugh, surely. She didn’t laugh the first time, when he came. She was fucking crying that time, and that’s about as far from the cruel humiliation of his memories that he can imagine.

Don’t laugh, he almost says, but doesn’t. He just sort of prays it instead. Don’t laugh when I cum.

He needn’t have worried.

Next Simon POV

Chronological Read-Through Path

[jediknightdjarin]

Relaxing Days

(Crosshair x Reader)

This one is kind of an OOC Crosshair cause I think he’s just a touch starved, misunderstood man. I took this idea from a previous fic in my drafts and turned it into some soft Crosshair smut!

(Divider done by @snotbuggle)

Warnings: SMUTT, first time! Reader, slight insecure reader, oral (f and m receiving), face sitting, nipple play, pet names, Crosshair is a soft boi, check ins, consent is key, p in v sex, fluffy ending.

Words: 5.5K+

The snarky sniper of Clone force 99 or The Bad Batch, had taken a liking to you almost immediately after you joined the squad as their general. You seemed to be one of the only people outside of his squad of brothers that he trusted with his life. And that was saying something because it usually took him a long time to trust people but with you, it took merely a day.

When you first joined the squad, the others were sceptical but welcoming nonetheless, never having had a proper general to answer too. Wrecker was the first to warm up, knowing that he could joke with you and never be judged. The others were shocked when it was Crosshair who warmed up to you next, finding comfort in your presence and being nice to you. Tech had even tried to take Crosshairs temperature and run a few test before the sniper scowled and smacked him away.

It happened after you returned to Coruscant, back from a long, strenuously mission that you broke through Crosshair’s hard exterior. You matched his stubbornness head on but still showed him unwavering kindness, even if he had been cold to you when you first joined. He respected you even more when he realized that you wouldn’t take his shit, conceding his respect and reciprocating your kindness.

After that, he began to open up to you. He would crack jokes with you much to the surprise of his brothers. But that helped them to feel more comfortable with you as their general. You had even over heard Hunter say to the Tech and Echo once, “if Crosshair likes her, then how bad could it be?”

Crosshair would tell you stories about their cadet days and about missions they took on before you had become their general. Even at late hours of the night, he would come knocking on the door to your quarters, asking to talk or just wanting to be held, to cuddle when he couldn't sleep. You never objected, letting the misunderstood, touch starved trooper in, holding him close until the sun shone through your window in the morning and sometimes even after that.

The rest of the squad took notice of Crosshair’s more relaxed behaviour as the weeks went by, noting that he had much less of a temper now that you were around. He would join the team in joking around and was much less bothered by Wrecker’s childish antics, even initiating some jokes.

The Batch was pleasantly surprised by how kind Crosshair was to you but, Hunter especially, was happy to see his little brother finally somewhat relaxed. He was glad that Crosshair had found someone who he felt comfortable with and even if it wasn’t him or any of the other batch members, at least he had someone.

Through his hard exterior, you could see that he was a soft, misunderstood man under there, looking for a purpose, looking to be loved by someone. And you showed him that he had a purpose in life other than to be a soldier, that he deserved love and that you loved him.

~Time Skip~

Locked in a heated makeout session, you and Crosshair were in your quarters aboard the Negotiator 2.0 spending time together. The other members of the Bad Batch were off doing their own thing, unaware of what was currently going on between their General and sniper behind closed doors.

After another successful joint mission with the 212th, General Kenobi thought it best to give the men a much needed break, sighting their good work. Everyone had been excited for the rest as they awaited their next orders. That's what led you and Crosshair to this moment, some quiet time alone in your quarters. You and him hadn't gotten to spend a lot of alone time together because of how many non stop missions you had been sent on.

You had been a couple for a few months now and, with the exception of Hunter, because nothing got past him, no one knew. You were courting in secret because it wasn’t something you wanted everyone to know just yet. And with you being a Jedi and Crosshair a clone, it would get you both in trouble if the wrong people found out about your relationship. That’s why you and Crosshair agreed to keep your relationship on the down low.

Since then, you and Crosshair had been sneaking around, trying to find more and more places for you fun "games". This wasn't the first time you've been like this but it's never really gone all the way.

You were nervous for your first time having sex, never having had it before. Yes, you and Crosshair had engaged in foreplay with hand jobs and fingering but nothing past that. You were afraid you wouldn't be good enough for him, not having the experience her had in this department as well as other reasons.

Right now, you were sat on top of Crosshair’s lap, straddling him as his hands massaged your thighs. Your hands were wrapped around his neck, playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck. You pulled away from the kiss breathless, resting your foreheads together and smiling at each other. Crosshair had such an amazing smile and you were saddened that he didn’t show it off more. Then again, if you got to see it everyday then you’d be happy.

“Crosshair?” Your voice was quiet, almost like you felt the romantic atmosphere would disappear if you were any louder. The man below you responded with a short ‘hmm’, his lips travelling down to kiss at your neck.

"I think I’m ready," you whispered to him, taking hold of his face and bringing it up to look at you, holding it gently in your hands. His eyes went wide as he pulled away from you slightly, searching your eyes for reassurance. He knew that this was new territory for you, attachments and relationships forbidden for Jedi though most were not celibate. But you had confided in him that even if sex was a loop hole, you didn’t want just anyone, you wanted a connection with someone.

"A-are you sure Cyar’ika? I mean I am too but I just want you to be fully ready so you won't reg-" Crosshair began to ramble but you cut him off with short, reassuring kiss to his lips. The lips that had whispered so many loving words to you in the late hours aboard the marauder, flying through hyperspace or between missions in your quarters on Kamino.

"I'm sure Crosshair. I want you to be my first," you said, shrugging off your top robes as reassurance for him, making him smile and nod. He slowly helped you pull the remainder of your robes off, pulling your undershirt up over your head, discarding the piece of clothing on the floor.

Crosshair’s upper armour was soon to follow, hands working diligently to remove it with your help. You moved down to his legs, removing the armour adorning his slim yet muscular thighs. You were careful when removing it, being mindful that the clones took pride in their armour which was no exception for the Batch. Once his armour was full removed, Crosshair pulled you back up and onto his lap, hands finding their way to your ass.

The top half of his blacks soon followed his armour to the floor as you lifted the shirt up and over his head, feeling his lean yet muscular body as you went. Crosshsir wasn't a super big man, his genetic makeup modified to be of a slimmer size to better suit his position as the team sniper. Even if he wasn’t a large man, he was still muscular and fit, tall and agile. No matter what he looked like, you loved him just the same.

You smiled as he moved his hands up and down your sides, still looking a little hesitant, as if unsure that you were fully ready and committed to this.

“Are you sure this is what you want mesh’la? Because I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to stop if you change your mind.” Crosshair said, wanting to hear you say it one more time.

You kissed his soft lips again, trying your best to convey to him that you really wanted to do this before pulling away to take off your breast band, throwing it to the floor with your shirts and the rest of your clothing.

“I’m sure Crosshair. Please, I want you.”

Crosshair looked down at your breasts hungrily, his eyes meeting yours, silently asking for permission to start. You nodded shyly, closing your eyes before taking hold of his wrists and bringing his hands up to massage your chest. You moaned softly as he took one of your hardeneding buds between his thumb and index finger, tweaking and rolling it.

His unoccupied hand moved up your body to your lips, tracing his thumb along your bottom lip before you engulfed it into your mouth to suck. Yours eyes met again, not breaking contact as you sucked his thumb. It was such a sensual act to Crosshair that he let out a chuckle before groaning at your eagerness. He pulled his finger out of your mouth slowly, being sure to hold your lip open before moving his other hand down to play with your neglected nipple.

“Fuck Crosshair, that feels so good.” With his fingers doing such a great job on just your breasts, you felt as thought you would cum just from nipple simulation. His fingers were long and the pads soft, making his hands perfect for jobs like this. You moaned as he took one nipple into his mouth and began to suck softly, picking up the pace as satisfied moans continued to fall from your lips. As he worked on you chest, you started to grind you hips against his crotch, making him moan around you nipple.

Crosshair pulled away from your chest with a slight pop, moving his hands down to your hips. He gripped your love handles gently yet firmly and began to meet your hips with his, grinding against your clothed core making you both moan.

"Cross, Fuck," you moaned, burying your face in his neck to try and muffle your sounds. You kissed and nipped at the skin of his throat, feeling his Adam’s apple bob with your affections. You moved your hands down to his pants, pulling at the drawstring of his blacks and feeling the waists of them slacken slightly.

You had never told him so but he looked sexy in just his blacks. He always looked sexy no matter what he was wearing and now, you could see him fully nude which would finally complete the fantasy you had envisioned many time before. You groaned as the image slotted itself in your mind, the picture making your core wet and ready for him.

Crosshair moved his hands down to the hem of your pants, unbuckling your belt and pulling it off, tossing it to the floor. You smiled at him and got off of his lap, standing up beside the bed before slowly, teasingly, sliding your pants down your legs. Crosshair watched with bated breath as you stripped off your last layer, stepping out of them and leaving you in your black panties.

Crosshair watched in awe, seeing you in nothing but your panties was an image he was determined to commit to memory. His hands reached for your hips again, running them up and down as he admired your gorgeous physique.

“Mesh’la,” he murmured, entranced by your beauty. Your cheeks were tinted a light pink as you too in his words, feeling bashful about the way he was looking at you though you did nothing to cover yourself.

Crosshair let a smile grace his lips as he stood up with you, removing his hands from your hips and pushing the bottoms of his blacks down and off, leaving him in his boxers. You watched with hungry eyes as his black came off, getting down on your knees in front of him. Your eyes met again and you never broke the contact as your hand came to palm his clothed erection, feeling his cock flex through his boxers.

Crosshair moaned softly, running his fingers through your hair as you palmed him, "S-stop teasing (Y/N)," he whimpered, a sound that you never imagined would come out of the snarky snipers mouth. He was always very careful with his words and the things that came off his tongue, but in this moment, hearing such a vulnerable sound come from him made you giddy.

You smirked up at Crosshair, feeling your confidence grow as you slowly pulled down his boxers, letting them pool at his ankles. He stepped out of them and kicked them to the side, resuming his position in front of you. You looked up at him with innocent eyes, your hand coming up to stroke his cock. Crosshair sighed in relief, legs shaking slightly as he moved back to sit on the bed, you following him dutifully.

You ran your hands up and down Crosshair’s thighs, kissing up his inner thighs until you reached his cock. You made eye contact with him again as you brought your tongue to his tip, kitten licking it while your other hand stoked his base. Crosshair sighed as he threaded his fingers through your hair again, just resting it there and not pushing you further. You carefully and, quite skillfully, took him into your mouth and began to bob your head up and down.

"Oh dear maker!" Crosshair moaned almost breathlessly, trying and failing to keep his hips still. He gently and gently thrusted his hips, encouraging but not forcing you to take more of him in your mouth. You smiled around him before taking his entire length, right down to base, in your mouth. You gagged slightly, never having done this before but trying your best to make it good for him. And Crosshair was long, and had some girth to him which made it more difficult but you persevered.

"Oh kriff cyar’ika, that feels so good," Cross moaned, continuing to thrust into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You squeezed his balls as you took him, feeling the heavy weight of his sack pulse as his hips stuttered. He gripped your hair and held your head down at his cock pulsed, not being able to hold it in any longer.

“Can I-“ he barely got the words out as you nodded, deepthroating him as he came with a shout, his cum flooding your throat. You gagged as he came, sucking on his cock through his orgasm as he began to soften in your mouth.

Crosshair removed his hand from your hair, panting as he came down from his high, legs twitching and chest heaving. He reached down slightly and held your chin in his hand, watching as you swallowed his load. You pulled off his cock with a small pop, a string of saliva connecting you to his softening length as you too in deep breaths, wiping your lips with the back of your hand.

Crosshair groaned softly, his hands reaching under your arms, pulling you up off the floor and into his lap again. He kissed you deeply and you happily obliged, your tongues moving together. Cross didn’t care that he could taste himself on your tongue, still in the afterglow of what was one of the best orgasms he had ever had. You could feel him hardening again, his enhanced genetics meaning he had stamina to spare. You smiled into the kiss, giggling as you pulled away and buried your face in his neck.

"What is so funny kitten?" Crosshair asked, his voice thicker than normal, gruff and sexy to your ears. You whimpered softly into his neck just from hearing the words roll off his silver tongue, the tongue you wanted to badly to feel against your cunt.

"You," you said, smiling into his neck and placing small kisses along the side. He chuckled and pulled you away from his neck, kissing you deeply once more before coaxing you stand again. Crosshair ran his hands up your tights to the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs to reveal your beautiful pussy to him. You shyly crossed your legs once your panties were on the floor, a pink hugh tinting your cheeks.

“Don’t hide cyar’ika. You’re beautiful,” Crosshair said, pulling you back into his lap. You were sheepish, not meeting his eyes again until he tilted your chin up to him.

“I’m being honest (Y/N). You’re so unbelievably, breathtakingly beautiful ner sarad,” he said and kissed your lips gently. It was a loving, affectionate kiss that held so much meaning and warmth behind it that you couldn’t deny his words.

“Thank you Crosshair,” you whispered against his lips, knowing that he wouldn’t lie to you especially about this.

Crosshair began trailing kisses down your neck toward your breasts once more where he engulfed your left nipple in his mouth again, while his left hand came up to play with the right one. You moaned a little louder than before, voice high as he ravaged your chest, laying a claim to your breasts like a man starved of milk.

Crosshair pulled off with a small pop before laying back on the bed, pulling you with him as he adjusted himself on the pillows, "come here cyare," he said, the term of endearment rolling off his tongue like a prayer.

You seductively crawled on top of him so you were situated on his firm chest, staring down at him and waiting for his next move. He smirked again and gripped your ass, pulling you higher up his body until you were straddling his face. You gasped at the sudden display of his strength, hands coming up to support yourself against the wall. You looked down into Crosshairs determined eyes, finding desire and hunger in his eyes as they flickered between yours and your cunt.

"I want you to ride my face mesh’la. Wanna taste you so bad," he growled against your thigh making you moan and nod. Crosshair smirked, quickly bringing your pussy down to his face, and lapping at your folds with vigor.

You moaned unabashedly as he got to work on your sensitive core, licking, sucking and biting your lower lips. To Crosshair your moans were like a music to his ears, singing his praises and praying to him to go faster. You were still hesitant to put your full weight on him, afraid that you would suffocate him.

Crosshair must have felt your hesitation, as he wrapped his arms around the back of your thighs and pressed you down against his tongue. You yelled out an obnoxiously pornographic moan as he latched onto your clit, sucking hard on the sensitive bundle of nerves. You brought one hand down to his head, running your fingers through his short silver hair.

“Oh fuck Crosshair! Fuck that f-feels amazing,” you managed to get out between pleasured sounds, throwing your head back as he furiously sucked on your clit.

Before you could fully process what was happening, Crosshair entered a finger into your soaked pussy, pulling a deep, guttural groan from you. You looked down again to see his piercing hazel eyes looking back up at you as he devoured your cunt while he finger fucked you. He then added a second and third finger after a few more moments, stretching your entrance open in preparation for his cock. You panted above him and began to grind against his fingers and face, chasing your incoming orgasm.

"You stretch me so well Cross, so fucking good," you moaned and threw your head back again, the hand in his hair tightening. Crosshair smirked and sped up his movements, thrusting his fingers faster as he sucking on the hood of your clit.

"Oh Fuck! Oh maker C-cross, I'm so C-Clo-" you didn't get finish you sentence as Crosshair crooked his fingers inside you, hitting your g-spot dead on with a precision only he had. You screamed as you came on his tongue and fingers, Crosshair lapping us your sweet juices as if they were his last meal. Your chest heaved with your head thrown back as you came down from your intense high, Crosshair slowly removing his fingers from your cunt. He carefully lifted you off his face, guiding you back down his body to your snug fitting position on his lap.

He sat up and held you as you caught your breath, hearing him whisper sweet nothings in your ear to help bring you back. A dazed smile graced your face as you listened to him speak, his voice soothing you as reality returned to your vision.

“You’re alright love. I’m here,” Crosshair whispered, rubbing circles on your back. He took a deep breath in and a deep breath out, guiding you to follow his breathing patterns as your brain fog cleared. You followed the movements of his chest, feeling safe in his arms as he brought you back.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door, interrupting your tender moment together. Your heart beat quickened, the fear of getting caught weighing heavy on your mind. You weren’t afraid to admit that you were with Crosshair, but it was against the code to for attachments so it was Obi-wan at the door, you were both royally fucked.

"Who is it!" You called out, removing yourself from Crosshairs lap and sliding off the bed. You quickly forced your bath robe into your hand, wrapping it around yourself before walking to the door.

"It's your favourite clone!" The voice of one of your best friend’s came from the other side making you turn to Crosshair and mouth to him to hide. He rolled his eyes and begrudgingly nodded, quickly stepping into the fresher, hitting the button to close the door behind him.

The door to your room slid open to reveal Commander Cody standing on the other side, arms crossed and a worried look in his soft hazel eyes, "I heard you scream so I wanted to come and check on you," He said, giving you a once over from head to toe to make sure nothing was wrong.

You mentally face palmed because you knew that someone would catch you if you were too loud. You nodded and pulled the rode a little tighter around yourself, being mindful that you were naked underneath and your neck was most likely littered with love bites, "Yup! Just fine! I just dropped my lightsaber on my toes and it surprised me is all!" You lied, just coming up with a quick one to cover for yourself though your voice was higher than normal.

Cody nodded, still looking sceptical but not wanting you push you further, "Ok, if you say so. Also, have you seen Crosshair? Wrecker’s been looking for him, something about wanting to place a bet on something," He added, his posture relaxing ever so slightly. You shook your head quickly with a shrug, trying to come up with a cover for Crosshair now.

"Have you checked the training deck? He’s usually there upping the target practice high score for you boys," You asked and rocked back and forth on your heels, hoping they hadn’t checked there yet. Cody bit his lip, feeling a little silly that he hadn’t thought about that before uncrossing his arms with a sigh. He shock his head before giving you a short hug, holding you in his arms a little longer than her would anyone else.

"I'll have the boys check there now. Thanks vod’ika," he said, giving you a cheeky smile as he stepped back into the hallway. You smiled back at him and patted him on the back, knowing that for now you were safe, "No problem Cody! I hope you find him.”

“I’m sure we will,” Cody said with a chuckle and gave you a two finger salute, walking down the corridor and disappearing around the corner. When the door slid shut, you sighed, re-engaging the lock before peeling the robe off your body. Crosshair emerged from the fresher, a scowl on his face as he came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck.

"Damn reg, killed the mood," Crosshair snarled, his possessive nature shining through just a little. You playfully slapped his arm but soon realized what he meant. You could no longer feel his hard cock on your ass, but instead a soft lump of flesh resting against your behind.

"First of all that's my best friends and technically your CO-” you said and turned to face him, smiling slightly, "-and second-" you reached your hand down between your body, gripping his softening cock. You began to stoke it slowly, teasing and seductive making him groan, "-we can always bring the mood back," you whispered breathlessly in his ear, listening to him moan as you jerked his cock.

He was hard again within a few minutes, your touch being everything he needed to get back in the mood once more. You smiled at your handy work before using the force to give him a push, pushing him back towards the bed. He fell onto it with a surprised yelp, listening to your giggles as you came back over to him and straddled his hips again.

Crosshair grinned and sat up a little, watching as you positioned your cunt over his cock. He took hold of your hips before you could sink down on him, his eyes meeting your ask you gave him a curious glance.

“One last time cyar’ika, are you sure you’re ready for this?” He asked making you giggle again. You leaned down and kissed his lips, running one hand through his hair as the other one remained wrapped around him.

“I’m sure Cross. I want this, I want you to be my first,” you whispered against his lips and slowly lowered yourself down on him, moaning as he stretched your pussy, cunt swallowing him greedily. Crosshair groaned at the tightness of your core, gripping your hips firmly before bringing you down on his cock fully in one fluid motion.

You cried out, head falling forward onto Crosshairs shoulder as you panted for breath, "W-what was that f-for?" you voice quivering as you spoke, the surprise of the movement melting away and making way for an unforgettably pleasurable sensation. It felt so good and he hadn’t even begun to move yet.

"Get it over with- kriff- it’ll hurt less," Crosshair said, moving his hips in slowly circles before he began to shallowly thrust up into you. You moaned, unrestrained and cock drunk, hands finding purchase on his shoulders as you moved up and down on his cock, feeling his tip against your cervix.

"You’re so tight mesh’la," Crosshair moaned, moving his hands from your hips to your ass and grabbing at the round globes for more leverage, "you like having my cock buried in your tight pussy? Does it feel just as good as it does in your dreams?” he whispered in your ear making you moan louder.

"Keep sweet talking like that and I'll cum before we've even really started," You said somewhat breathlessly, your hips meeting Crosshairs as he thrusted up into you. It felt amazing, almost like heaven and for your first time, you were sure that no one could ever be as good as Crosshair.

Crosshair sped up his thrusts, his hips slapping against your ass forcefully as his high drew closer and closer. He was embarrassed with how quickly he was going to cum but then again, you were so warm and tight around him, he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck cyar’ika, I’m gonna cum,” he groaned out, his hips stuttering slightly as you moaned on top of him.

“I’m almost there Cross, fuck you feel so good inside me,” you moaned out, hands on his chest before a yelp left your throat as Crosshair rolled you onto your back. His cock remained buried inside your cunt and with the new position it felt as if he was reaching deeper and deeper.

“FUCK!” You screamed as crosshair sped up his thrusts, chasing his orgasm just as he was yours. He brought his hand down between your bodies and began to rub your clit once more, drawing a scream from your lips at the over sensitivity.

“Crosshair!” You moaned as you came, your walls convulsing around and drawing his cock in, holding it inside your pussy. That threw Crosshair over the edge, his cock pulsing inside you as his seed shot deep into your cunt. You could feel his spend painting your walls white, the warm sensation of it making you see stars.

Crosshair slowed the movement of his hips, letting every last drop of his seed out inside you. You both panted as he laid down next to you, holding you in his arms as you both came back to reality. You stayed there for a few minutes to catch your breath before Crosshair carefully pulled out, causing a whimper to leave your lips. He whispered an apology to you and kissed your forehead, getting up and quickly walking to the bathroom.

He came back a few seconds later with a glass of water and a damp cloth, slowly sitting you up. You made no protest against the movement, body and mind still up in the clouds in the after glow of your orgasm. He thoughtfully clean you up, smiling apologetically as you whimpered, still sensitive from your first time. Crosshair kissed your forehead again, using the cloth to clean himself off before tossing it into the clothing shute and handing you the glass of water.

“Drink up mesh’la. You need it especially after such activities,” he said, the smile not leaving his face. You nodded and drank the water slowly, watching Crosshair as he picked his armour up off the ground and placed it by the door with genuine care. You smiled down at the glass of water in your hand, thinking about how caring Crosshair was being with you. You watched as he then picked up your clothes off the floor and discarded them in the clothing shute. He walked over to the dresser in the corner of your room, opening the top drawer and pulling out a clean set of underwear for you.

You finished your water and put the glass down on the nightstand, smiling slightly in embarrassment as Crosshair came over to the bed. He carefully pulled you to stand on your shaky legs, helping you into your underwear before scooping you up and laying you back down in your bed.

He quickly retrieved a new pair of boxers from his pack, pulling them on before sliding into the bed next to you. Crosshair pulled the covers up over your bodies, pulling you closer as you snuggled into his chest. You sighed contently, feeling warmth envelop your body as you pressed up against his frame underneath the blanket. Even if Crosshair normally ran a cold body temperature, right now her warm, a comfortable, post sex warm.

"That was amazing Crosshair, thank you." You said and laid one more gently kiss to his chest, drawing circles around the 99 tattoo on his left pec. He smiled softly down at you and placed a kiss to your forehead once more, running a hand up and down your back.

"I love you, ner mesh’la cyare. Thank you for making this an amazing and unforgettable experience. You truly know how to make a man happy," Crosshair said with a chuckle and looked down at you with the charming smile you had come to love.

"I love you too. I’m glad it felt good for you, I was afraid I wouldn't be go enough for you with how inexperienced I am,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear shyly. Crosshair had been with other women before, all of the Batch members had, and all those other women had more experience. But you loved Crosshair, and you hoped to be enough for him.

Crosshair looked at you bewildered before holding your chin softly in his hand, building you to look him in the eyes. He looked down at you with such love and adoration, hand instead moving to hold your cheek as he stroked it with his thumb, "Non sense ner kar’ta, that felt absolutely fantastic. I'm glad I got to be your first and you were absolutely amazing. I have never found a woman who made me feel as loved and cared for as you. You are more than good enough for me," Crosshair said and placed a delicate kiss to your lips,trying his best to convey his love before he pulled away from it.

You smiled and snuggled into his chest farther, enjoying the contrast of his now cool smooth skin against your heated palm. You drew circles on his chest, enjoying the feeling of his heartbeat against your cheek. Crosshair kissed the crown of your head, holding you close and whispering sweet nothings into your ear. Soon you both drifted to sleep in each other's arms, content with how the night had come to a close.

Let me know what you think of this! If you want to see more soft Crosshair, let me know in the comments!

[jediknightdjarin]

MA MEILLEURE ENNEMIE

You know what they say: "Keep your friends close, but also your enemies even closer."

Silco x fem!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Warnings: sensitive topics, explicit sexual content, graphic violence, unhealthy relationships, power dynamics, love and hate dynamics, dom/sub, specific tags in each chapter, Silco's POV in some parts.

Status: On going.

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

I do not authorize translations or reposts on other platforms. AO3

Silco was at its limit. The last few days had been a whirlwind, made worse by Jinx's eccentricities, which Sevika couldn't control. He was exhausted, his nerves on edge, so, as if it were the most obvious solution, one of his subordinates suggested that he relax… in a brothel. The idea was so offensive that Silco almost killed him right there. But in the end, there he was and unfortunately or fortunately you are the lucky one who will serve him. Little did they know how such a decision would completely change the course of their live, going far beyond sexual provocations and petty dramas. When the past and present collide, there is no stopping the impending chaos. Your non-traditional prostitute and crime lord fanfic

1 Desire 11 Reasons 21 Past 2 Addiction 12 Manipulation 22 Wolves 3 Burn 13 Line 23 Bargain 4 Choking 14 Possession 24 5 Negotiation 15 Baptism 25 6 Poison 16 Masquerade 26 7 Fetish 17 Promise 27 8 Ultraviolence 18 Fracture 28 9 Monsters 19 Ma Meilleure Ennemie 29 10 Justification 20 Ruin 30

"The worst is you and me."

[jediknightdjarin]

cw: piss mention.

Being Johnny’s friend, and him desperately wanting to take things further— he comes up with a terrible idea to drive you into his arms in a way he thinks is rather subtle.

He’s going to get Ghost to hit on you next time you’re out at a pub. Ghost has an uncanny ability activate the prey drive— he gets too close, speaks too low, looms too tall, and stares too deep (not to mention the kind of language he uses in his pickup lines).

So Johnny casually gets up to go piss, leaves you sitting at the bar, practically passes the baton as he goes by Ghost on the way.

And Simon, he loves the classics.

So he starts off by staring down at you as you sit in your stool, unblinking, and saying “I can smell your cunt.”

You look up with rapt attention, clenching your thighs.

Soap watches from across the bar for a signal, either a grimace on your face or a discreet hand gesture from Ghost that they’d worked out earlier.

But he underestimated your freak. And Simon wasn’t about to back down when it was clear you liked how he came across.

Simon perches himself next to you, crowding in close and speaking into your ear, Johnny able to see as your stunned expression turns into a bashful smile, like he just told you that you have beautiful eyes. He actually said “bet you’d let me spit in your mouth if I told you to open up, yeah?”

Things escalate. You barely touch your drink, too absorbed in what Simon is saying to you.

“Saw those fuckin’ thighs from across the bar, Jesus Christ— want you to sit on my jaw and fuck my face— warm my cheeks with those thighs while I shove my tongue in that sweet little pussy. I’d let you piss in my fucking mouth if y’wanted to.”

When Soap finally forces himself to go back to the bar, you subtly tell him you’re gonna head out and that you had fun. He awkwardly bids you goodnight with his mouth nearly agape as Simon grabs hold of your hand to pull you along.

And he looks too damned eager to get you out of there— doesn’t even have the decency to throw a smug look at Soap. Because truthfully? He’s kinda forgotten why he came here in the first place. He’s got more important shit on his mind now.

[jediknightdjarin]

🖤 | Terrible thing

✧ contains ⤐ SMUT. dirt and filth. oral, missionary, doggy in front of a mirror. very brief mention of a breeding kink. also very brief reference to cannibalism bc im into the artistic image it creates. title is a reference to the song by AG because I'm obsessed with that song, and with silco. oh and lethal levels of yearning but yk, that's the usual. based on a real true story! w.c ~ 2.6k

Ao3 version | part 2 | collective works

You remember how he tastes. 

The feeling of him in your mouth— warm, sweet, and entirely unexpected of someone like Silco, who's all jagged teeth and rough angles. 

You remember gazing up at him through your lashes, fingers eagerly digging into his thighs as you wait for him to open his mouth and say something— praise your performance, degrade you for being so desperate to have him that you'd get on your knees in his office, call you a filthy whore for the behavior you've been exhibiting, for acting like a bitch in heat— anything in the sonorous tone that you’ve grown accustomed to. 

But nothing comes out of his mouth. 

Instead, you blink and find yourself in a new location. One where he's on top of you taking you at an agonizingly slow pace. You're on his bed now, sinking under his weight into plush crimson sheets; the questions you had a second ago melt on your tongue when he digs himself deeper into you, erasing any coherent thought from your head.

He fucks you into the bed with a passion that you have only dreamt of finding in other men you’ve taken to bed. He splits you open at the center, keeping your legs wrapped around him securely, and stitches you together with every deep slow thrust. He buries his head into your neck, hot breath over your skin as his teeth sink into the junction of your neck and shoulder. The moan that escapes your mouth is intensified when his long lithe fingers dig into your hips, making sure to leave dark, blossoming bruises to match the ones on your neck. The thought of admiring all these marks later makes your heart beat erratically in your ribcage. 

Yeah, that's more like the Silco you know. 

Your vision blurs as you reach up to thread your fingers through his unkempt hair, so different from his usual look. Despite the slow pace, you find yourself inching closer to your release, body hungrily clenching around his length. The heat of his body and the slow languid motion of his thrusts plants a sort of heavy yearning in your heaving chest, a hunger that grows every time he’s deep inside. You want to hold onto him forever, cage him in your arms, hold him against your chest as you come undone under his ruthlessness. You want to reach out and dig your teeth into his flesh, take a part of him and keep it to yourself.  

The moment feels too short. It feels too long. You can't tell where he ends and you begin. 

His scent heightens your senses, the characteristic dark musk mixing with cigar smoke, as you find yourself drawing closer to the edge. This is something holy, something sacred, something you’ll be praying to for a tremendously long time. His hips snap against yours in a particularly brutal thrust and a devastating noise escapes you, akin to a warning. He pulls back from his attack on your neck to watch, to observe with eager eyes— dark and wide, pupils blown wider than you’ve ever seen— as you fall apart under him. 

Despite him blowing into you like a shimmer addict, the desire in your body isn't fully sated yet. 

You’re just as hungry for him as you were when you kneeled down in front of his office chair and hurriedly unbuttoned the pants holding the cure to all your late night problems. The need to see more of him lands the two of you in front of his vanity; the mirror you imagine he adjusts himself in every morning now reflects the sight of your naked bodies, giving you a perfect view of all the bruises he’s been littering your body with. Pliable under his touch, your body aches deliciously as he enters you, a firm arm on your waist holding you back from toppling over. The sensation still feels new, the ache in your chest reinvents itself over and over again. 

In this room, it feels like only the two of you exist, and all you have to care about is how he feels. 

How does he feel? 

He handles your body so recklessly and yet with so much love, bending you in whichever way he likes and taking you as deep as he can go. You give yourself to him readily as you watch his face in the mirror, aquamarine and hellfire orange merging to touch the deepest part of your soul while his cock does the work to reach the deepest part of your body. 

He wraps his other arm around your waist and kisses your neck, almost like he's apologizing for the bruises he left earlier— warm, wet tongue soothing the ache of the newest ones. 

You admire how he looks in the reflection, nose buried in your neck like he’s finding a lost part of himself in your body, like he wouldn’t mind getting on his knees and worshipping you. 

Your eyes move down to observe your own body. It responds so steadily to his touch, moving and changing every time he thrusts forward, if it weren't for his tight grip on your waist and the possessive hold he has on you, you'd be up against the mirror. You wouldn’t mind that if it meant he got to feel you deeper. But you focus on your appearance, on your breasts, on your chest and the heaving thrum of your heartbeat, on all the imperfections you thought would bother you forever. The dip of your hips, the stretch marks that decorate your body, the fat of your stomach that Silco holds so possessively. 

Were you always this perfect? 

The thought is so erotic, it makes you want to lean in and kiss the mirror, press your bare tits to the cold glass and create a mark for everyone who comes into his room to see. For everyone to know that he bent you over the vanity and fucked you until you saw stars and could only utter his name. It makes you want to turn around and kiss Silco, make him feel the same appreciation that he works so hard to fuck into you. 

The man in question lifts his head and your breath hitches when your eyes meet in the reflection. Countless people have gazed into his eyes in fear, trembled at his feet and begged for their lives, but few of them have had the pleasure of trembling under his touch in the way you’re doing right now. The thought that this man is dangerous, and undeniably cruel at times, sends a jolt through your body. The realization that you’re in the arms of a monster, a beast, and he’s holding you so affectionately, it plants an unspeakable feeling in your chest. 

You watch with bated breaths as his eyes scan over your body, appreciating everything you have to offer. It's a little humiliating— being put on such an open display, having nothing to cover up your most intimate areas besides his bruising grip that travels from your waist to fondle your breasts— but it turns you on endlessly to be ravaged by something as simple as his gaze. 

Something deep in your stomach coils as you watch a sharp, razor-like smile stretch across his face. You think about his sharp edges, how you'd willingly cut yourself on them over and over if it meant having him close. Even when he's literally inside you, filling you up to beyond satisfactory levels, you're thinking of ways to have him closer. 

The thought of him planting something irreversible inside you, something alive, passes through your head like a seductive whisper. 

Your eyes meet in the mirror again and he looks proud of his work. He must know that after he's had you, he's ruined everyone else for you. He must know that everytime you let someone else touch you, you'll be thinking of his steady slender hands; and everytime someone slips their length inside you, you'll be comparing them to his size, to his drive. He must be smug as fuck knowing that no one in the undercity will ever fuck you like he's doing right now.

He looks into your desperate, wanting eyes and knows that you belong to him. 

The thought of him being possessive over you, with all the marks he's been planting, is nearly enough to push you over the edge once again. But you hold back, wanting to savour this moment, to savour the way he stretches you out and holds you close. Your breathing grows erratic and your pleas more desperate, but you hold it in because he looks at you like it's a silent order. If you hold out a little longer, you can come together.

The increasingly loud sound of your moans and gasps makes you long for his voice. You realize, on the verge of ruin, that he hasn't spoken much to you. This whole time, the sounds echoing through the bedroom have been coming out of your throat, deep from your chest, and only intermittently interrupted by his groans as he drilled into you like an animal. He hasn't been talking to you, using that silver tongue of his at what he does best, telling you things to satisfy that gnawing desire in your chest. 

You wanted him to tell you that he loved you, but you wouldn't fling that onto him during your first time together. You wanted to hear him call you nice things, call you pretty and use pet names like he always does outside the premises of the bedroom. Darling, dove, lovely, filthy, whore, slut. You wanted him to be a little mean, tease you for how desperate you've been to get into his pants. You wanted him to claim you verbally the way he does physically, you wanted him to say it out loud, claim you as his in a passionate declaration so you could replay it in your head when you touch yourself to the thought of him. 

You wanted to hear his voice. 

You straighten your back, pushing up against his chest, and tilt your head slightly to try and face him. You observe his neck and his flushed complexion, watch his throat bobbing like he's almost nervous that you're looking so closely. You notice some fresh love bites that you barely remember creating on his neck, but they're undeniably yours. It’s almost like they carve your name into him. You soften at the sight, realizing that Silco must trust you tremendously to let you touch him so intimately, especially around his neck. 

He looks down at you and you admire the shape of his nose, hoping that you'll get to have it between your legs soon. You look directly into his eyes and feel your knees grow weaker at the fondness in them, so raw and honest, like everything he's ever given you. The scarred side of his face is uncovered, giving you a clear view of the dark grooves that run down his face, like river streams flowing down to his neck. You lean your head further back, resting it on his shoulder, losing sight of his normal eye but holding the gaze of the altered one. The deep charcoal has always fascinated you, how someone could survive and continue fighting after being plunged into the depth of darkness of betrayal. But what always stole your breath away was the burning orange in the middle, illuminating the orb like a vicious flame in the middle of the rich black darkness. You catch your reflection in them and feel your chest swell with pride, the Eye of Zaun only has eyes for you.    

Your eyes move down to his lips and you feel the desire inside you increase tenfold. The shape that you've spent years memorizing, pinning after, it's so close in your reach now. Your mouth goes dry when you realize he's drawing in closer, the same idea infiltrating his mind. 

You can almost taste the alcohol and rich flavorful cigar on his lips, only a sliver of distance between you and everything you’ve been yearning for. 

But not all good things come to fruition. 

You should've known. It doesn't make sense. 

Three years of being his friend, being at his side when he needed you the most, growing closer despite everyone warning you about the notorious crime lord ruling over Zaun. Months of pining over him and memorizing his features and the lovely shape of his lips, wanting desperately to get a taste of him, to get a taste of the bitter and evil monster that sends horror coursing through the undercity. Sitting in his office, on his couch, pretending to innocently read the book you borrowed like you weren't imagining him bending you over that desk and fucking you until your legs were shaking.

Nearly a year of harboring feelings for him and you've never told him. 

The first thing you see is darkness. It takes a few seconds for your eyes to adjust to the lighting, and you realize, with a heavy heart, that you're in your bedroom. Alone, no Silco between your legs, nothing to accompany you besides the dull aching in your lower stomach and the wetness between your thighs. 

You knew your feelings for him were getting out of hand, but a wet dream like that is officially reaching a new low. 

Not that you haven't had dirty dreams about him before, or fleeting inappropriate thoughts when you were around him, but none of them have felt this raw. You've never felt so loved in any of your previous wet dreams, and you're starting to doubt if you've ever felt that loved when awake too. 

You turn to plant your face into the pillow, groaning in frustration. Even in your dreams, he fucks like an animal and loves like a starving artist. It felt like you were cursed; when everyone was warning you about him, they forgot to mention that you'd want to fuck him so bad it would haunt your every waking thought— and sleeping ones too, apparently. 

The alarm besides your bed beeps and you lift your head up from the eternal anguish to glimpse the time. The realization that it's 6:50 on a Saturday night jolts you awake. 

In exactly half an hour— 7:20 never made sense to you but you've learned to stop asking questions when it comes to Silco— you were supposed to meet the man who was just fucking the daylight out of you. Or, well, the man you wish would fuck the daylight out of you, and the nighttime and all times of the day really. But that's besides the point, you're fucked, and not in the way you need to be. 

You fight the urge to bury yourself into your bed sheets and just play dead until Sevika or some other trusted employee comes to drag you out of your apartment. But the thought of having to meet him in your sleepwear, the one with all the evidence of your arousal, was more mortifying than having to pretend you aren't thinking filthy, dirty thoughts about him. 

You've done it before, how hard could it be? 

Besides, it's almost a family activity now, your weekly meetups. Maybe Jinx will be there and a reluctant Sevika will join you and attempt to teach you how to play poker and you'll suck at it and it will just be a good old fun time. And you wouldn't be thinking of how sexy he looks when he leans back on the couch and drinks his whiskey like that and blows smoke rings and smirks when you lose and- 

No.

You were going to get up, take a cold freezing shower, and exorcise every dirty thought from your gutter of a mind. You were going to sit in his office and not have a single deranged thought about him, and it was going to be fine. 

Right? 

[jediknightdjarin]

finished season one of arcane (i know, i know, i’m late to the party) and of course this is the first character i write for.

feel free to send me prompts if you’d like (for silco or any other arcane character)! my inbox is always open ❤️

Not technically explicit, but close enough. So - MINORS DNI

tw: possessive!silco, biting/marking, injured reader (injuries are minor)

never so much blood pulled through my veins (silco x gn!reader, arcane)

You’d kept your head down for most of your shift, grateful for the dim lighting and the patrons who could care less about the person serving them drinks so long as those drinks kept coming. It meant no one went out of their way to glance at your face, and though you’d earned yourself a few double-takes whenever someone did manage to get a good look at you, no one had gone scurrying to Silco’s office yet. You supposed you could count your lucky stars for that.

Or so you thought, until Sevika sauntered up to the bar. She waited until you placed a glass of her usual on the chipped counter before she gestured over her shoulder toward the stairs.

“Silco wants to see you,” she said, lips twitching in amusement at the look on your face. 

“Why?” you muttered, fingers clenching around the glass in your hand. 

Sevika leveled a stare at you. “You know why.” 

Your lips twisting, you set the glass aside and made your way around the bar. Sevika’s stool creaked beneath her as she turned to watch you go. 

“Oh, and you might want to put some ice on that, sweetheart!” she called after you, and without turning around you raised a middle finger in her direction. Her short bark of laughter followed you up the stairs, and then it was just you and the long, quiet hallway leading to Silco’s office. 

Should have made a break for it, you told yourself, futile as an escape attempt would have been. Sevika would have hauled you back before you had a chance to make it very far, regardless of how much of your booze she was probably throwing back right about now. 

Better to just get it over with. You raised a hand, decided against knocking (what was the point?) and twisted the doorknob open with clammy fingers.

Perched at his desk, Silco barely spared you a glance as you stepped into his office, one hand clasped around a cigar and the other roving a page packed with text you couldn’t read. 

You slipped over the threshold and allowed the door to swing shut behind you, the muted thunk of the latch slotting into place reverberating through the room with all the finality of a gunshot. 

It was only then that Silco lifted his head to peruse you.

“Sit,” he ordered, the tone of his voice brooking no argument.

Grimacing to yourself, you went to grab one of the rickety old chairs Silco kept around for associates, though your fingers had barely grazed the wood before the silence was marred by the scrape of his own chair across the floor.

“Here,” he commanded, and though you eyed the space he’d made with trepidation, you rounded the desk and awkwardly lifted yourself onto its surface, curling your fingers around the worn edge as Silco reached for your chin and tugged your face into the light.

The bruise marring your left eye throbbed like a broken tooth with every beat of your heart. Last you’d seen of it in the dirty bathroom mirror, the skin had been flushed and hot to the touch, puffy with burst blood vessels. You doubted it had gotten any prettier since, and as you watched Silco trace the shape of it with narrowed, vengeful eyes, you braced yourself for what you knew he was going to ask.

“Who?”

“A nobody,” you murmured, avoiding his eye. Or trying to, until his grip on your chin tightened and forced you to meet his gaze. “It was just a punch, Silco. He didn’t even know - “ You faltered, realizing what you were about to say.

Silco’s eyes flashed. “Didn’t know what?”

You held his gaze, trying to ignore the growing tightness in your chest. “He didn’t know I was yours.”

Silence settled between you, broken only by the rush of your breaths and the faint din of the jukebox and patrons down below. This close, you could smell the lingering musk of Silco’s cigar, left to smolder in the ashtray by your hip, and you knew the scent would cling to you once you left. You knew Silco would want it to.

His fingers released your chin, but only so they could reach up to curl around your cheek. 

“And now he will.”

Your breath stuck in your throat. You didn’t ask what he meant - why would you, when you already knew? You didn’t even ask why - why it mattered that some desperate thug who didn’t know of your connection to the feared Eye of Zaun had thrown a punch and taken off with the meager possessions you bothered to carry with you. 

You knew why. 

Silco’s thumb grazed the tender skin beneath your eye, expression unreadable. “Is this it?” 

You opened your mouth to lie and then thought better of it. Silco would know. He always did. “My arm,” you mumbled, shifting on the desk. Pale blue and piercing amber trailed over the limb in question and you hurried to amend, “It’s just a scratch - “

“Show me,” Silco ordered, and you huffed lowly before plucking the buttons at your wrist from their holes and winding your sleeve up the length of your forearm. The swath of torn skin looked worse than it truly was, due in part to the rushed patch job you’d done in the bathroom before your shift, and Silco’s lips thinned as he took your arm and walked thin fingers along the hastily applied bandages and traces of dried blood. “Sloppy,” he tutted derisively, and you frowned.

“I was in a hurry,” you defended, neglecting to mention that this was the exact scenario you had been trying to avoid with your haste. 

Silco frowned, unimpressed. “Singed will see to you and fix this mess,” he decreed, as though a couple of poorly tended scrapes and a black eye actually required more medical attention than you could give yourself. “And then Sevika will walk you home.”

You bristled, envisioning the mocking grin Sevika would give you for that privilege. “I don’t need a doctor or a guard - “

Silco yanked your arm into the light, the neon signs beyond his window flashing eerily over your torn and bloodied skin. “What you need is not up for debate,” he hissed, amber eye blazing and pale blue cold as ice.

“I can take care of myself,” you gritted out between clenched teeth, straining ineffectually at his grip. Your current predicament would suggest otherwise, you thought with an irritated grimace, but you weren’t about to feed into the narrative Silco was trying to spin, even when the man’s rage simmered so close to the surface. Not towards you, regardless of the rough way he was handling you, but toward the unnamed assailant who had dared to strike you. Dared to touch what was his.

The thought irritated you as much as it thrilled you. Silco wasn’t often one to overreact, especially to what amounted to a glorified mugging, and yet in the moment he looked as though he could raze the Undercity to the ground just for the pleasure of plucking your attacker from the ashes. You didn’t know how to handle holding that kind of sway over anyone, much less a man like Silco, and in a fit of pique you snapped, “What are you even upset about? That I got hurt or that someone else touched your property?”  

You grunted as Silco jerked you forward, nearly tugging you off the desk completely. Only the tensing of your thighs allowed you to regain some semblance of balance, your ass perched precariously on the lip of the desk and one boot braced against the arm of Silco’s chair while you glared at each other. 

“If my protection is not to your liking,” Silco rasped, thin fingers wrapping around your thigh and heaving it into the air until you were forced back against the surface of the desk in an ungainly sprawl. “Then it seems I must improvise.”

His chair creaked as he bore forward, slotting his torso between your splayed thighs. You scrambled for a handhold but froze at the scrape of his cheek along your knee, watching in muted fascination as his mouth dragged along the length of your inner thigh. 

“What - “ you gasped, intimately aware of the unlocked door and the short distance between Silco’s mouth and your sex, already beginning to throb beneath the barrier of your clothing. 

A flash of piercing amber was your only reply, followed by a sharp jolt of not-quite-pain as Silco’s mouth parted around your inner thigh and his teeth sunk in. 

You tensed at the pressure and the muted scrape of Silco’s teeth through your clothing, but you were given only a moment to process the sensation before Silco was grunting in displeasure and reaching for your waistband, tugging at the hem of your shirt and vest until the chill of the room prickled along your stomach, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

“Sil - ah!” You gasped wetly as his teeth sunk into the delicate skin below your navel, fingers scrabbling for a hold on the edge of the desk and squeezing as pain rippled through you. The bite was harsh, if not deep, enough pressure to feel the imprint of Silco’s teeth in your flesh but not savage enough to draw blood - at least not yet. 

He held you there for a moment, the skin beneath his mouth turning damp, flushed with heat, and you held your breath as the fingers wrapped around your thigh squeezed in time with your racing pulse.

You shivered when he finally released you, a wet gasp sticking in your throat as your breath rushed back to you and a dull ache reverberating from the spot he’d bitten. Your moment of reprieve was a short one, though, and you cursed as his mouth climbed the gentle swell of your stomach, breath hot against your skin, only to sink his teeth into the meaty flesh between your ribs. 

“Fuck.” Your head thunked against the surface of the desk as pain and something too sharp to be called pleasure but couldn’t be anything else rushed through you. Your limbs grew heavy beneath the onslaught, numb but flushing hot and cold in equal measure, and as Silco’s lips and tongue joined the fray, working a deepening bruise into your flesh, your hands clenched fitfully around the edge of the desk, desperation surging through you like a rising tide.

Again and again you were subjected to the clench of blunt, uneven teeth around swaths of vulnerable flesh - the jut of your hipbone, the center of your chest, the damp hollow of your throat. Your vest and shirt gaped around your torso by the time Silco seemed satisfied with his work, his lips parted around rough breaths and strands of loose hair, mussed by your fingers clinging to them for dear life, hanging over his eyes.

“The whole of Zaun will know who you belong to,” he rasped, fingers sinking into the meat of your thighs. He was the only thing holding them aloft, his torso bent over yours and his bulge a heated brand against your own sex. You gazed blearily into those sharp eyes and could do little but nod, desperate, feverish, and despite the dull throb between your legs, utterly spent.

The whole of Zaun, he’d said, when what he’d meant was the world. And god help anyone who got in his way.

[jediknightdjarin]

daddy cool, side B ⋆˙⟡

simon riley x fem!reader (background price x reader) summary: you make a movie with simon. ↪or, john produces. tags/warnings: making a porno, rough sex (p in v), oral (f + m), please forgive my dialogue i'm trying my best, degradation / slut shaming, squirting, a little dubcon, size kink, a little pain, unnegotiated kink, john is mostly in the background but he's there

“Alright honey, move a little to the right.”

“Like this?”

“Just like that, sweetheart. Spread those legs a little.”

John had been your fluffer earlier, licked you until you were rarin’ to go, wet and soft and needy. He can probably still taste you on his mustache.

You’re taking photos now, leaning back on the bed, bare wet pussy spread for John and the camera. Your two fingers create a perfect V, showing him your winking hole, your pert clit.

He really wasn’t lying about producing– you hadn’t deeply suspected him, but there was a niggling little thought there that he was maybe putting it on to get you in bed. It had worked either way, but nice to know he’s honest.

Ghost, the masked man. Cheesy, but popular with women, John says. They like the mystery.

“Touch yourself a little,” John shifts the camera as you do, lightly petting your clit with two fingers, “that’s good, that’s real good.”

You dip two fingers into your hole, wet from John’s earlier attention, biting your lip in what you hope is a seductive manner for the camera. John chuckles low in his chest, cock pushing against his tight pants. The view makes your mouth water, but you aren’t here for John today.

You’re here for the giant of a man that walks through the doorway, wearing scuffed blue jeans and big black boots. The mask isn’t what you’d imagined, but it fits over the tight white t-shirt he’s wearing. A skull.

“Ah, Simon,” John turns to greet him, “there you are.”

Simon’s cock is already chubbed up in his jeans, long and thick against his leg. For a perverse moment you imagine what it would look like for he and John to push their bulges against each other, groaning, pec squeezed against pec, and your pussy clenches.

You wish John would perform, if only just to tag team you with this meaty specimen of a man.

Add it to the spankbank.

“John,” Simon greets him back, stepping into the room. He’s not even looking at you, which is hot for some reason you don’t care to parse. He lifts a boot and steps onto John’s stool, “fresh meat?”

John laughs, which seems to be the only answer Simon needs before he turns towards you finally and pins you to the bed with his gaze. 

Your fingers pause, still dipped halfway inside, clit pulsing against the heel of your palm.

“Pretty,” he says, and just as you’re about to say thank you, “nice, Cap,” a pause, “picked a ripe one.”

He walks until his shins hit the bed, looking down at you and your spread legs, where your hand is still and your pussy drips onto the sheets. His eyelashes are pale, ghostly, strangely beautiful against his brown eyes. 

You wish you could see his face, his expression, but John was right– they do like the mystery.

There’s a little hint of a scar that pokes up from his cheekbone, pulling the skin of his bottom lid a little, but there’s no time to examine him in detail.

“Right then,” John interrupts, “let’s take a few pictures.”

The first pose he puts you in is on Simon’s lap, explicitly directing you to press your pussy against his jeanclad thigh and make a little wet spot for us, will you, love?

It’s honestly humiliating, but you’re so tuned up that the heat of your embarrassment only adds to the tension.

“That’s good, that’s real good,” John murmurs, instructing Simon to put a heavy hand on your lower back, pressing you further into his leg.

Your clit drags against the fabric, and the camera snaps your open mouthed gasp.

“Pull her shirt down,” and Simon does; pulling your tanktop down until your tits fall out, soft and peaked, pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt.

You’re looking over your shoulder, hazy, bottom lip between your teeth. John snaps a few more before he places you in the next position.

All you can stare at is the dark patch on Simon’s jeans.

“This one’s for the cover,” he says, getting Simon to lay down and pull his jeans a little down– showing off the line of hair leading to the biggest tease; the beginnings of his bush, trapped under just his jeans.

He’s gone commando. All you can see is the little pudge of his pubis as it’s squished by his waistband, a tasty little tenderloin you want to bite.

You’re next; standing over Simon, legs wide open, looking down at him with your tits out and your thighs wet. It’s a movie-esque kind of pose, and in another universe maybe you’re decked out in cheap sci-fi costumes for a blockbuster.

Then he’s ready, and you have to re-dress. Tanktop goes back on, shorts get slid right back up your legs, and he puts you on top of the covers.

Simon prowls like a panther, graceful in his movements despite the sheer size of him. You’re leaned back, elbows on the bed, breathing harder the closer he gets.

“Felt that wet little pussy,” he says, voice low, “she’s more than ready for me, isn’t she? Probably soaking those slutty shorts.”

“Uh huh,” you murmur, legs outstretched and straight before him. 

John had told you a little bit of the ‘script’ beforehand, a loose skeleton to follow outside of improv, so you aren’t shocked when he pulls the button open on your shorts and pulls them down in one fell swoop.

“Look’it that,” his lips move under the mask. You wonder if he’s licking his lips, looking at your pussy like that.

He takes you by the ankle, dragging you across the mattress until you’re flat on your back and looking up at him.

“Haven’t even seen my cock yet,” he laughs meanly, his other hand reaching to take a big squeeze of his cock through his jeans, “and look’it that. Slag if I’ve ever seen one.”

Your face burns, breath stuttering. This wasn’t a part of the little warning John had given you, but you’re not that mad about it. Hot, humiliated– but not opposed.

Simon looks at you for barely another second before he’s crawled up to your face, knees on either side of your head.

Oh.

“Gimme a kiss.”

You lean forward, lips pressing against his rough jeans. He smells good, a little like cigarettes but there’s that musk you love so much. You mouthe against him until he pulls your head back to the mattress by your hair.

He pulls down his jeans, freeing a mostly plump cock that flops onto your cheek. Oh man, it’s weighty. The nestle of curls at the base of it is like a magnet for your eyes, too.

“I can take it all the way,” you look up into those inscrutable eyes.

“Yeah? Prove it.”

You take the tip first, licking it lewdly, turning to the camera every so often like John had told you to– just let them see those eyes, honey. Show them how much you like it.

So you do. You give big, wide eyes as Simon gets impatient and starts tunnelling down your throat, shoulders trapped beneath his heavy thighs.

When you gag, he laughs lowly, keeping you there. He runs a rough thumb over the taut stretch of your upper lip, down to your lower lip, palm cradling your jaw.

“That’s a good girl,” he slides backwards, jeans scraping your nipples through your tanktop, hardly giving you but a moment before he's pushing back in. Rinse and repeat.

It’s like with John, only Simon’s cock is a little different. Longer, and curved where John’s is thicker. The tip pokes you in the back of the throat, sometimes at the roof of your mouth from the awkward angle.

You feel crushed underneath him despite your entire lower half being free, legs coming up and thighs squeezing together as the camera pans towards them and John murmurs, “show me that pussy, honey.”

So you spread your legs, humiliated at the gluk-gluk-gluk sound coming from your throat but gushing impossibly more under the camera’s lens.

“That’s a pretty picture,” Simon grunts, sliding out of your mouth to tap the head against your lips, letting you stick your tongue out and drool drip down your chin, “yeah. Keep your mouth open.”

This is mostly for the camera, the way he rubs himself on your face, the way you lay there and keep your mouth open. You don’t have to fake the desperation, but still.

Simon’s a pro.

He leans back, fingers finding your bare cunt and sliding a finger along your slit. Slippery, swollen, the contact is like drinking water in the desert. Like the satisfying pleasure-pain of pressing down a bruise.

His finger slides up and down shallowly, never stopping where you need it while you kiss the underside of his cock.

“This cock-hungry pussy’s soakin’ my fingers,” his eyes squint, like he’s grinning under the mask, “reckon I could solve a drought with this,” he lifts his finger to your mouth, slipping them in for you to taste yourself.

Where the fuck did John find this guy?

You play along, face burning, sucking his fingers with a soft moan.

After a moment, he leans back and gets off you, pulling your tanktop down as he does so your tits bounce back out. Hello again, ladies.

There’s a small moment of stalling where John sets the camera up on a tripod near the end of the bed and Simon drags you so your head is towards the headboard, and then it’s 3 2 1 action again.

“Hands on the headboard,” Simon gruffs, then slides onto his belly and presses his mask to your cunt. Your hands fly to the headboard, hanging on for dear life as he inhales through the fabric.

Jesus. He rubs the knit on your swollen pussy, up and down, spreading you open with his covered chin and then pressing his nose to your clit.

You don’t have to exaggerate your sounds. They come naturally, rising in pitch when he pushes his mask up just enough to see his pink, scarred lips wrap around your engorged clit.

He’s greedy, eating more to taste you than to please you.

When he lifts his head, mouth wet and tongue poking out to lick the remnants of your slick, stopping at the cusp of your orgasm, you give the camera at the end of the bed your best wounded animal look.

Simon doesn’t take his jeans off when he gets back up to his knees, shuffling to kneel between your legs.

You notice all too late that he hasn’t fingered you, not even a little dip. He’s licked you, sucked on your clit until you were keening, but there’s a deadly focus in his eyes as he puts the fat head of his cock against your hole that tells you you’re in trouble.

“Got a good look at this?,” he grunts, tilted towards the camera, “this is the best part.”

Oh fuck, he pushes in and it feels like a hydraulic press; crushing pressure, a sting, stretching taught around him as you gasp–

“Pinching me,” he curls his lip, abdomen tensing, “Jesus.”

“Oh god, fuck,” you shiver, trying to keep your knees spread, wincing and gasping in deep breaths for air as he carves a space inside you for himself.

“Relax,” he squeezes in further. Stretching, painful, intensely delicious, “relax that cunt for me, sweetheart. Let her get what she needs. ”

You try, only noticing John as he palms his bulge, watching your pussy struggling to take Simon’s cock.

It takes a few see-sawing movements of his hips before you finally loosen a little around him and he really lets loose. Doesn’t let you take a breath, just starts pounding like he’s getting a bonus for it and you shout with surprise.

A vision of an adventuring viking comes to mind, beaten and lashed by storm, the only respite to hang onto the mast in the middle of a ship… that’s the headboard for you.

He fucks like animal, but it’s still as graceful as the way he moved when he first entered the room. How can a man that looks so rough, is so big, roll his spine and slap his hips into yours in such a dancerly way? His pace is inhuman.

His cock spears into you like he’s digging for gold, tilted just so that you’re loud with how good it feels and almost wincing every time he pokes a little too deep.

You think maybe it’s on purpose, what with the way he stares down at you, big hands coming to hold your midsection and dig his fingers into your skin. 

Yeouch, that feels good.

“There she is,” he fucks you deep, unrelenting, groaning when he feels your hole start to squeeze, “doesn’t even need a hand, then,” he laughs.

He’s right. You don’t. Your abdomen squeezes, orgasm building, the first of its kind– without any kind of contact on your clit, that is.

You try to hold back for as long as possible, try to make eyes at the camera again, but you’re lost to the feeling of getting fucked so good and so deep. The feeling builds and builds and steamrolls you, legs shaking where they’re spread, ears going deaf with the blood rushing in them.

A scream bursts forth from your throat at the same time as you literally spray, slick soaking Simon’s jeans and the bottom of his t-shirt. 

There’s no time to be embarrassed with the hard, punitive thrusts he gives you as he rides his orgasm out behind yours, filling you up with hot come.

You’re boneless, after. Laying nice and still for John to get closeups of your creampie’d pussy, for Simon to rest his spent cock between your pussylips and grin under his mask, tucking himself back into his soiled jeans as John dismisses him.

He’s damp everywhere, but he strolls over to John’s little minibar area and pours himself a whiskey like it doesn’t bother him.

John doesn’t give you a break, either. He pans the camera to the mess on the bed, the wet spot you’d caused by squirting all over Simon’s cock.

John grins at you from behind the camera.

“You’re a natural, honey.”

[jediknightdjarin]

Slippage

Slippage - Goldfrapp

Silco × Fem! Reader Ao3 Word Count: 2,632 Summary: Helping the undercity's most prominent chembaron relieve some 'stress'. TWS:// 18+ ONLY, Reader uses she/her, Graphic sexual descriptions, Blowjob, Softish Dom! Silco, Cum swallowing, Face Fucking, Orgasm Edging, Dirty Talk & Praise, Porn a little Plot, Silco calls you 'Good girl', Hair pulling, Deep throating, Silco has an oral fixation, Silco is your boss, Vague but implied age gap, A/N: The voices have been speaking to me

The stench of stale air and cigar smog lingers alongside the faint scent of florals that aren't quite definable. You haven't seen Silco in days; the number of such you've kept counted in the back of your mind. He's been busy, and as part of his inner circle, you've been swamped with cleaning up the most recent spectacle of his adopted spawn. Sevika was enraged as always, while you typically resigned yourself to picking up the pieces as they'd fall into place. Jinx wasn't as much of a blight to you as she might've been to others, at least, not in the same way. It wasn't a secret that your relationship with Silco was far more than just some lackey. No, you'd been graced with the modest promotion of relieving his 'stress.' Not that you minded it, of course; you knew if push came to shove, he'd never force you into this position. Silco favors devotion over convenience and, even more so, prefers to keep his money in his pockets. You offer an outstanding balance of both, and you take some amount of pride in that.

Jinx wasn't quite a fan of sharing his attention. Of course, you occupied his time much differently than her, but that time was typically few and far between; else, she might make you an 'accidental' casualty in one of the grand displays of her ingenuity. In some capacity, you could understand; you'd wished you knew how to connect with her in some way aside from those vague threats and paint bombs on your back any time you tried to be a little too cordial with her during a job. Alas, you don't tend to waste your time, and you think, as postulated by Sevika, that even if you did, your time might just run short.

None of that matters now, though, not while things are going the way they are. You don't talk to Silco about Jinx. Sometimes, he confides in you his worries, his drunken admissions of guilt and fault in the name of his ambition, but you never bring it up; hold him when he feels frail enough to lean, and at times, he allows you the privilege to lean your weight onto him in kind. The last few days, however, the weight of all that enclosing has been weighing down on you both. 

This leads to you sitting in his office on the little stool near his desk, thinking of anything and nothing all at once. Despite the nature of your relationship, no matter how intimate you may find yourself with him, you know deep down you are not much more than a convenient outlet for his passing fancies. Another means to an end—a pawn in a sea of chess pieces, just like Sevika was just like any of them where. All except Jinx. Yet, you wait for him, not in the bar amongst the rest of your colleagues—no, you're waiting for him here because you know what you want from him.

The door opens with a careless creak. You turn your head around to see him with Sevika in tow. She seems surprised, though, and that quickly melts into exasperation. Her eyes meet your own before rolling to settle on Silco. Without a word, she remains standing, shutting the door behind him as he walks inside. The man in question's expression never changes. Guarded and controlled, you can tell he's boiling at the seams.

"How are—How was the meeting?" You'd ask carefully, nervous and shifting in your seat as he took his coat off. Leaving the apparel on the rack next to the door. With a heavy sigh, he'd sit on the sofa rather than at his desk, leaning over to open the oak box that held his cigars—watching him with some anxiousness, you'd speak again. "I've been a little worried," You admit, looking at the floor. "Everything seems like it's...falling apart, somewhat—"

"I don't need your input." His tone was calm and cutting. It shut you up, as always; you knew your words hardly carried weight, just watered-down sentiments already passed down by those of higher standing. Either way, you'd seem surprised at how he'd snapped at you. Lifting your gaze to see him looking over at you now. It would take you a minute to say anything.

"Sorry." You couldn't keep yourself as timid; in truth, it pissed you off that he wouldn't listen to you, but you wouldn't dare start something over it. Your voice held a heavy tone of defiance, a show of compliance rather than genuine remorse for speaking out of line. If anything, you're sure he'd much rather talk about anything but the state of things. As you'd avoid looking at him again, attention pointed towards the lamp on his desk. A weighty sigh expanded your chest before you'd huff it out. His eyes dart to the ceiling pillars for a split second as if to be sure of something before speaking.

"Come here, on your knees." his voice is velvety and compelling—nearly contrite. He languidly seizes a cigar from the box, not bothering to shut the intricate oak lid before swiping the cutter and clipping the end as he adjusts his hips, letting the bud hit the antique carpet below before sitting at the farthest fringe of the soft cushioned leather. His legs are outstretched, his feet firm on the elaborate carpeting. Silco appears comfortable and uncaring, but each movement is somewhat rigid, and his expression holds a sense of guard.

You do as he says without question.

You've done it a million times before, but the sudden command ignites some anticipation as if it were the first time. Leaning forward, your knees hit the carpet carefully, and you pulled the small gold-plated rectangle from his pocket. Just as always, flipping the lid of the decorated butane lighter with a quiet click as the little blue flame would burn the end with a soft hiss, Silco took a few puffs before lying back against the plush leather again.

"Truthfully," He starts, free hand reaching forward and smoothing over the skin of your cheek before resting to cradle your head as it rests against the clothed meat of his inner thigh. His thumb brushes against the soft flesh of your face gently. "The state of things isn't as I'd like them; too many little matters morphing into one undeniable nuisance that can't be snuffed out without..." He'd take a prolonged drag, leaning his head back as the smoke billowed from his thin lips. A soft grumble reverberated through his chest before he let out a sigh. "Significant change." His voice was almost absent, as if he were mulling over the possibilities of what change might entail, how it might benefit him, or how it may just ruin everything he'd built. Your hand would slide up from where it rested over his knee. Palm trailed over his thigh before resting on his hip. The gesture was tentative yet hopefully comforting as his attention returned to you. "I have missed your...company the last few nights." His voice returned to that thoughtful velvet rasp, his thumb pressing delicately into the flesh of your cheek as he'd led your face to meet his gaze.

"I've missed you too." You'd speak, voice coated in genuine sentiment. Leaning into the warm touch of his palm as you look up at him, his expression is unchanging. He regards you with some sense of tenderness and consideration. Silco would take another inhale of smoke, letting the smoke fall from his lips so as not to blow it directly into your face.

"Prove it, then."

--

The aroma of fresh cigar smoke dawdled in the air, as did the faded scent of his familiar soap as your nose pressed against the wispy hairs of his pelvis. His grip on your hair is firm but not unbearable. Your head is bobbing up and down gently as his hips occasionally twitch upward. The tip of his cock hit the back of your throat; cheeks hollowed as the sound of your sucking was fairly vulgar, especially as you couldn't quite keep yourself quiet. A moan vibrated through your throat as you felt him twitch once again, the vein pressed firm on the flat of your tongue pulsating. His hand tugged at your hair—a telltale cue for you to pull off but not entirely stop. Silco loved to take things slow. The pleasure is prolonged and achievable, but only if he allows it himself. A low hum rolls past his lips as he peers down at you, tapping his cigar on the edge of the armrest, the ash dropping onto the carpet.

"Look at me." his tone was breathless but controlled. He watched as you ran the flat of your tongue up the length of his engorged nerve. Your eyes met his own just as he'd bring the cigar cap to his lips once again and inhale. "Good girl, let me see those pretty eyes." He'd muse, fingers rubbing a few strands of your hair in between his fingers affectionately as he kept it away from your face. His lips curled upwards into a sly little smile as you pressed a kiss to the head of his cock, licking away the tangy abundance of precum that had built up while he rewarded you with a pleased sigh. You didn't dare touch him unless he told you to, hands kept hidden in your lap as you also didn't dare touch yourself without his permission. While you continued to kiss and lick at his hard twitching cock, he'd keep his eyes trained down onto you; cigar kept between his lips as his other hand would rest against the back of the sofa, still taking little puffs of smoke while the body was nearly gone by this point.

Silcos cock wasn't huge, but he was nowhere near small. It fits pleasantly in your mouth and hits deliciously to the back of your throat without making you gag, not unless he pushed you too far, which he rarely did unless it were to make sure the ropes of his cum would go straight down, a punishment, preventing you from tasting him. The appendage was pale, just as he was, the head a soft shade of red while being a tad thinner than the rest. You take in the sight of him above you, the way his head falls back. His lips twitch as you kiss at the underside of his shaft, licking upwards only to wrap your lips delicately around his head before taking him back into your mouth—earning a low moan; his arm, once draped over the back, coming to pull the cigar from his lips.

"Mhnm, taking the initiative, I see." His words drag as a heavy breath follows. "Doing so good for me, dove—just like that." He's close; that is clear, and judging by how he allows you to take such 'initiative', he's ready to let himself give in to desire. You return to bobbing your head, not too fast but not particularly slow. Keeping your eyes on his own, focusing on the stark blue and faux blood orange of the other as they'd fixate on you. Another tap on the back of the sofa would discard the lingering ash onto the floor without regard. His hand pulled a bit sharper at your hair, and his sounds seemed much more guttural as he started directly controlling your movements.

"Harder—suck harder—" Impatient and needy, his hips would buck upwards to meet the bob of your head, making you gag with the effort of compliance. "Ah—good girl, my sweet dove—" He'd rasp, hand moving to place the cigar cap back into his mouth before it would go to the other side of your head, shifting his hips once again as you'd sit up a little more. "Keep those lovely eyes on me," He'd command, a jolt going straight to your already needy cunt as you'd clench your thighs. Silcos satiny sweet moans and hums turn to stifled groans of needy and desperation as he fucks your face, hands at either side of your head—careful to keep your hair out of your face as you'd look up at him through your lashes. Gritting his teeth as he bit down on the cigar cap, his cock twitching while you tried to keep your mouth tight and teeth away as you'd gag and whine around the fat flesh of his throbbing cock. The taste of his precum was as it always was, especially mixed with the watery flavor of your saliva—salty and tangy.

"Fuck—" he was never quite this vocal "My sweet girl—good girl, so good for me—" nor this aggressive.

You could see the way his chest heaved and his head fell back before he'd put his attention back onto you, drops of sweat beading at his temple before he'd finally let go. Pushing himself deep within the spongy flesh of your throat with an uneven and guttural moan. Spilling the thin ropes of cum down your throat while you held off on gagging around him, he'd pull your head up slightly.

"Open your mouth," He'd demand, cockhead pressed firm as it would twitch and throb on your tongue, watching as cum poured out onto the buds. The taste is salty and oddly smooth—not unpleasant, but it was clear his diet hadn't been stellar this past week. "Swallow." voice strained and commanding.

You do as he says without hesitation.

The sight makes his upper lip twitch again, a pleasant sigh leaving his lungs as one hand slides from your hair to your face. Cupping the flesh gently while the other would run through his hair, pushing fallen strands back neatly into place as he'd caught his breath. You'd maneuver his softened mass back into his underwear and then his pants, buttoning him back up. A swift gesture of his hand would compel you to sit up a bit more, hands bracing against the leather before shifting to straddle his hips. Knees dipped the cushion as your hands gripped the back end of the sofa, looking down at him.

"I don't have the time currently," He'd start, taking the cap from his lips again, "but I want you in my bed tonight...I won't leave you unsatisfied."

"You never do." You'd hum breathlessly, pressing a few kisses to the right side of his face before he'd push your lips to his own as he relaxed further against the sofa. Thin, nimble fingers trace up to secure the small of your back. Silco would pull his lips away with a breathless huff of air, leaning over to the neon-decorated ashtray at the side table as he'd snuff the stub of his cigar out.

Your hand reached out to cradle his jaw and bring his attention back onto you, bringing his lips to yours again, and he would reciprocate. The kiss was languid and restless before he'd pull away again and pat gently at the small of your back, hand rubbing up and down your back, before he'd speak, eyes fixated on your own.

"I have work that needs to be done, darling...You'll have me undivided tonight." His tone was somewhat teasing, eyes unmoving as you'd finally get up. Fixing your hair in any way you could.

"Tonight, then." Your tone matches his, turning to leave before you feel the faint and playful swipe of his hand at your backside. Looking back at him with a faint chortle to catch the slightly playful gleam in his expression—the desire, shaking your head as if to feign annoyance before opening his office door. The faint stench of sex and cigar smog lingers alongside the faint smell of florals that aren't quite definable, which follows not too far behind you.