#+ he has a little scar mark on the left side of his mouth and i'm guessing its from his ice cream accident

[rememberwren]

/•Harmless Fun 3•\

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Further Parts

You and Johnny smoke weed.

#

Morning dawns too early for your tired eyes. Whether you have slept at all or only dozed, you can’t say. More than half the night was spent grappling with the crippling regret of having gotten off to the aftermath of your gay roommates having sex. By the time the sun is rising on your shame, you can hear the sound of someone out in the kitchen making coffee. 

Which begs the second question. How are you meant to face them after hearing what you did? Just remembering it makes your skin go hot. When you can avoid it no longer—when the smell of Folger’s is slipping beneath the crack of your bedroom door—you slip into the bathroom and splash cool water on your face. 

Your hand is on your doorknob when you remember what you’re wearing: a ratty old tank top and panties. In your old apartment, you wouldn’t have thought twice about walking around in the public space like this—but that was before. Rushing to a box, you dig through and find a pair of shorts to tug on, slipping on a shirt over your tank top while you’re at it, hoping it disguises your lack of a bra. 

Johnny is not nearly so shy. Standing by the coffee pop leaning heavily against the countertop while he scrolls on his phone, he wears nothing but a low-resting, loose pair of sweatpants. All the saliva in your mouth dries up at the sight when his head snaps up at the sound of your door. He grins at you. 

“Morning, lass. Sleep well?” 

“Great,” you lie. “I was so tired I passed out.” 

“Me too,” teases Johnny. “All the work I wasn’t allowed to do really knackered me. Coffee? There’s tea too, but I never got the taste for it like Ghost did. Simon, I mean.”

“Coffee would be great.” 

He leans up and God. For all the jokes he made last night about having a ‘bum leg’ there’s nothing else bum about his body: he’s cut, all tanned skin pulled taut over soft muscle, the terrain of his body broken up here or there by the odd scar. He has a smattering of dark hair on his chest that thickens below his navel where it trails downwards, bordered on either side by his Adonis belt. 

On his neck—more like his collarbone—there is a livid lovebite. You can still see the impression of teeth, even across the room, pretty purples and fresh reds and it makes all the blood rush to your cunt until every stumbling step you take to the kitchen emphasizes your sensitivity. 

You take the mug from Johnny trying to meet his eyes and not the hickey on his neck. You mutter: “Thanks.”

“I cook too. Regular little housewife, I am.”

A housewife perhaps, but one to Simon. Too guilty to let him cook for you, you end up elbow to elbow with him while you both cook together. You glance towards their bedroom door once or twice when Johnny grows too boisterous, sure that soon he would wake Simon. 

But both your plates are clear without a sign of the larger man. After doing your share of the dishes, you dress properly, prepared to spend the day running necessary errands for the new apartments, including buying your own share of groceries. 

With Johnny’s Be safe, hen still ringing in your ears, you slip into the elevators and—nearly bump straight into Simon. He’s dressed for running, sweat glistening on his pale arms. He had just tugged his mask down past his chin. His mouth quirks into the semblance of a smile, tugging at a little scar on his lip—

—lips that left that mark on Johnny. Suddenly you are stammering, stepping aside out of Simon’s way, greeting him with more awkwardness than you had the very first time you met. He watches all your social fumblings with quiet amusement before disappearing into the apartment, his greeting to Johnny within cutoff abruptly by the closing of the door. 

Jesus Fuck. Could you be any more awkward or obvious? 

#

The next days come easier. The three of you fall into an easy routine. Simon is usually awake late and up early, running not just to keep in shape but from PTSD related nightmares you learn from Johnny. Johnny himself has his good days and bad days, days when the pain in his leg is too much for his general good humor to overpower. Those days, he is prone to melancholy and sulking. He plants himself on the living room couch and ‘can’t be arsed’ to move. Both men are troubled, their time on active duty leaving wounds that are fresh on their bodies and their minds—but it’s only part of them. 

And there is so much good. Johnny’s cooking (“my ma taught me”) is better than good. They both clean up after themselves and don’t mind picking up your slack on days when you pick up extra shifts and come home exhausted. 

One day bleeds into another and you come to find the awkward first interactions are in the dust in the rearview mirror. You no longer feel like a guest living in their guestroom. You’re home. 

One day you come home to the apartment smelling like oil paints. Simon is nowhere to be found (typical), but Johnny is at his easel, a palette set up with Winsor Newton colors: burnt sienna and vandyke brown and lamp black and titanium white and phthalo blue. The smell of turpentine stings your nose, but you don’t say anything; it’s a little unspoken, but you get the idea that the painting on Johnny’s easel was begun before his accident, and though he periodically puts paints on the palette, he has yet to add to it after all these months. 

He turns and brightens at the sight of you. 

“There she is. A sight for these sore eyes.” 

You roll your own. You’d learned by now that Johnny was a flirt—and it didn’t matter if Simon was in the room or not. As a matter of fact, perhaps it is in your imagination, but he seems to lay his flirtation on extra thick when Simon is in the room. The larger man never says anything, though he does give the occasional long-suffering sigh.

“Painting?” you ask. His paintbrush is still clean. 

“Just giving up on it!” he says cheerfully. He sets the paintbrush and the palette down, reaching for his cane. You don’t mention how heavily he leans on it as he comes around the couch and collapses, reaching down to arrange his bad leg in a position that is comfortable for him. “Do me a favor, lass? You’ll have to go climbing. On top of the cabinets, you see that tin? Be a love and fetch it for me.” 

You do as he asks, using one of the chairs from the kitchen island to stand on. It isn’t a tin at all but a solid glass container with fasteners on each side to maintain a nice, strong seal. You deposit it on his lap and are thinking of fetching him a pain pill while you’re in the mood to play Lassie when he opens the container and the smell hits you. 

Weed. 

“Do you smoke?” he asks. 

“Not often,” you admit. You didn’t have the budget for it. 

“Can’t let our best girl go without,” Johnny says, eyes twinkling. He calls you that a lot—’our best girl’. It makes something disgustingly needy inside of you preen its feathers. If only I were yours, you think. He takes out a pre-roll. “I haven’t smoked in a while either. This will probably be enough for the both of us.” 

And God, it is. He abandons his cane inside and you both cram together on the tiny balcony, shoulder to shoulder, passing the blunt back and forth. Johnny takes these deep drags, chest practically heaving with all the smoke he struggles to take in, every inhale ending in a series of light coughs and his fist pounding at his chest. 

“Not a bad view, is it?” he asks you, watching as you hold the smoke in your lungs for as long as you can. He takes his own hit and then passes you the blunt again, careful to keep the burning ember away from you, like a gentleman. His shoulder brushes against yours, and you feel a warm combination of the weed and his proximity thrum through all the vessels in your head and chest. 

You look out over the city. This high up, a good deal of the buildings are below you. The sky is still bright and blue, wispy clouds stretched thin here and there. You look at the streets and find yourself looking for Simon. “Not bad at all.” 

“That’s why I wanted to paint it so goddamn bad,” he admits. “Something pretty like this should be on paper. Canvas, I mean.” 

“Why can’t you finish? The painting,” you add when he raises a brow at your accidental double entendre. You bump his shoulder a little, careful not to truly send him off balance. He wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you to him while he thinks, taking another drag that almost finishes the blunt for good. 

“Dunno, really. I guess I was a different person when I started it. Seems wrong to have a different person finish the painting.” 

“I think that’s cool,” you admit, leaning against him. Weed makes you like that; touchy feely. “We’re changing all the time. Even if you hadn’t gotten hurt, you still wouldn’t be the same person who started it. Does that make sense or is that the weed talking?” 

“Definitely the weed,” he says solemnly.

You try to stay a little clear headed, though by the time you both are stumbling back into the apartment, you are leaning heavily on each other, giggling like school children. 

You make a bowl of popcorn, eat it all, and then make another. At one point, Johnny drops his sweatpants to show you the place in his femur where three pins lie. It takes all your strength to keep your eyes on the scar running along his tan skin and not his soft package three inches up and six inches to the right.

 Simon arrives home during the second bowl of popcorn. He is sweaty—does the man run for a fucking living? With a body like his, you might be persuaded to consider it—and immediately wrinkles his nose at the scent that has permeated the apartment despite you and Johnny’s best efforts. 

“There he is!” Johnny says, sleepily. “There he is, come home from the war.” 

“It’s pronounced run.” 

“Come give me a kiss, LT,” Johnny insists. 

Stuffing his earbuds in their container, he walks around behind the couch and plants a kiss on Johnny’s temple. Johnny makes an unhappy, demanding sound. He turns his upper body, reaching up to cup Simon’s jaw (briefly getting his fingers tangled in the mask below his chin) and brings him down for a full kiss. You look away at the first flash of pink tongue, feeling the heat in your face and about two feet lower.

When they’ve finished, Johnny says: “And what, no kiss for our girl?” 

You turn, eyes wide, mouth agape. Simon’s brows are a hair raised. Even he seems to think this is somewhat bold of Johnny. Before you can open your mouth to insist otherwise (it’s the only polite thing to do when your roommate offers your husband to kiss you), Simon says: “Give her one from me.” 

And he disappears into the bedroom, shedding his shirt along the way and giving you a nice peek at his muscled back, glistening in sweat. Johnny is giving you a sly look—does he know? God, he does, doesn’t he? Everyone knows how you feel about the two of your roommates. Paranoia threatens to send you spiraling. 

Then Johnny’s arm comes down around your shoulder, and the soap bubble of paranoia around you pops. 

Belly full, high, you fall asleep against him before Simon is even out of the shower. Sometimes you have moments of lucidity: Simon’s appearance and being jostled over as the two of you make room for him on the couch. The movie ending and another starting. A third bowl of popcorn. But each time you slip back into awareness, you are tucked underneath Johnny’s arm, nose full of his scent, warm and safe. It’s hard to want to wake up from that. 

The last time you wake up, it is to darkness. 

The movie has ended. Credits have rolled. 

Voices, quiet as whispers just barely audible over the sound of the late night traffic. 

“...scare her off.” 

You struggle to tune in to the conversation, eyelids heavy. “...didn’t seem scared. She wanted it.” 

“You didn’t give it to her.” 

“She’s high,” whispers Johnny. “She can’t consent.” 

“What a good boy you are.” 

Johnny sucks in a little breath. “Don’t, Si…” 

“Hm.” 

“She’s right fucking here.” 

“Asleep.” 

“A temporary condition, in case you didn’t know.” 

“I don’t see you stopping me.” 

Stopping him…your eyes crack open, lids so heavy you can barely move them. Somehow the three of you have fit together on the loveseat, you tucked beneath Johnny’s arm, and Johnny nearly laying across Simon’s lap. One of Simon’s hands—huge, so huge even compared to Johnny’s thick thighs—rests on his husband’s sweatpants-clad leg and is creeping northward. The sight is like a punch to your lower gut. The breath goes out of you in a shaky rush that neither of them seem to notice, the electricity between them too strong for anything to interfere.

“You can do it. You could stop me.” 

“Affirm,” Johnny whispers. His fingers flex against your shoulder unconsciously, and you feel his head whirl toward you, ducking down a little to make sure you are still asleep. You let your eyes fall shut just in time, keeping the rise and fall of your chest even and slow. His exhale brushes against your face and then he is turning away, back towards Simon.

“Then why don’t you.” 

“Cause I…” 

“Hm.” 

“Cause I don’t want to…” 

“Think you’d like it if she woke up,” Simon murmurs, his hand coming to palm Johnny’s rapidly hardening cock. He maps the shape of it through the cotton sweatpants like he’s learning the shape all over again. “You want her to see how desperate you get. That’s the real you, isn’t it, Johnny? You’re only ever just a stiff wind away from turning into a slut.” 

“Your slut,” Johnny breathes. He can’t thrust his hips against Simon’s touch, not without risking waking you, but he does reach out and put a hand over Simon’s, convincing him to use a firmer touch. You risk opening your eyes more, watching as the both of them stroke along the length of his cock slow like syrup. “Your slut, LT, only yours—” 

“Don’t lie to me.” The words put you on edge, but the tone—it’s all in the tone. Simon doesn’t sound like a man who is angry. He isn’t acting like one either, his thumb finding the head of Johnny’s cock beneath the cotton and teasing it softly. It jerks beneath the fabric, and you can’t help it. A sound slips past your lips, something desperate and needy. You clench your eyes shut, feeling both of them go stiff  and silent beside you. 

“She still—?” 

“Think so,” Johnny whispers. He says something else, but it is too quiet to be heard. 

The couch springs creak as Simon stands, and then you are taken up in the larger man’s arms. He still smells like his shower gel, his shirt freshly laundered. For a moment, the change in altitude as you are lifted has your eyes fluttering open, but Simon mutters something quiet that makes your eyes feel heavy all over again, though you don’t sleep, not as he carries you into your room and lays you on the bed, not as he draws back the covers and tucks you under them. 

You are only fast asleep before the sounds begin on the other side of the wall.

[apocalypse-shuffle]

BLACK NOIR | EARVING (the boys)

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“Just a Trim” (Black Noir x Gn!Reader)

| In a spur of the moment move you offer to do Earving’s hair in order to spend more time with him. To your shock, he takes you up on the offer.

| SFW, Noir being briefly insecure about his disfigurement, hair care, good vibes.

| 1k+ words

Tomorrow was going to be a marked day. One of those dates that you held close to your heart and pulled out anytime you were even peripherally pressed about the event.

In passing Black Noir had mentioned his regularly scheduled grooming appointment. The hair that did still grow on his head would need a trim so he’d be offsite at a smaller Vought facility for a few hours.

You’d taken in his words, a mix between excitement that he felt it necessary to share his whereabouts at all warring with upset at how long he’d be gone (basically your whole workday) on the final day of the week you’d be able to see him until you were allowed back onto the upper floors in another four days.

It’s that heavy swirl of emotions that spurred your mouth into action and had, “I could trim it if you want,” falling past your lips unbidden.

He’d turned on deft feet at your words to stare you down from behind the mask, back ramrod straight and body still.

Finally, after maybe a minute of you waiting him out (the type of contemplative minute between you two that you cherished), Noir gave a slow nod of his head and pointed to two numbers on one of the recruitment posters on the wall next to you before marching off.

He’d indicated the numbers ‘two’ and ‘thirty’, and you’d never admit to anyone but him that you’d had a little bit of a bounce to your step after you’d registered what that meant.

So what if the thought of him allowing you into his hair had sent butterflies dashing through your bloodstream? It didn’t matter that he’d typically had what were no doubt unfeeling trims from Vought hired barbers either, because he had to know that you weren’t going to treat his hair with such clinical detachment.

You were going to be sharing some level of intimacy - he was going to let you be that intimate with him, period! - and you planned on treating this undoubtedly maskless milestone in your relationship with the appropriate amount of significance.

This was huge!

Holy hell you needed to gather your supplies.

The top of his head is not devoid of similar scars as the ones that mar his face. A patch of gnarled scar tissue takes up a third of his scalp, scars running in their steep wiggling pattern and stopping any hair from growing.

The marks from the explosion still being so prominent even after all these years makes your heart squeeze painfully in your chest.

His interesting hair growth pattern is the first thing that drew you gaze when you’d entered. After your greeting he’d stared at you for a while, the note paper in his hand boldly proclaiming: ‘tell me if you want me to put it back on’, before he tossed the paper aside and ripped off his mask. For a moment all you’d been able to do was blink uncomprehendingly before realization dawned and you threw him a smile, or tried to since he’d kind of stopped looking at you entirely and has just been deathly still for the last minute or so.

After that you’ve forgotten yourself too much to not let your eyes wander, the white of his blind eye snagging your attention next and then the scars that crawled up the entirety of one side of his face and sprawled into his hair stole all of your remaining attention once more.

The scars are steep and plentiful and even the reports on his injury from back when he was originally caught by the explosive didn’t do even the sight of the scars left behind justice.

Finally, his expression registers and you cringe back and tear your gaze away from him entirely at the edges of the grimace you can see on his downturned face.

Way to go, you’ve gone and made the man uncomfortable.

“I’m ready when you are,” you say quickly, voice soft as you move further into his sparse personal space in the tower.

With a tentative two person shift and shuffle routine eventually you both end up settling down, you sitting towards the edge of the only lounge chair in his sitting room - bare feet planted flat on the unbelievably soft carpet - and Earving on the ground between your spread legs.

You don’t really talk much after that, preoccupied with getting his hair saturated with water so that it’s ready for you to detangle and stretch. The last thing you want to do is take length off of Earving’s hair that he didn’t want and skew his trust like that.

Up close his scarring is easier for you to map out as you brush your fingers over his wet curls with the finger of one hand, nothing but the edge of your pinkie on your other hand daring to press into his hairline in order to brace his head and keep it still.

Unthinkingly you stray from running over his curls to trace the border of the patch of skin between the scars on his head and the growth of his hair with your nail. The blunt point shifts fine hairs and barely applies any pressure as it goes but Earving shivers anyway.

The speed you snatch your hand back with jostles the both of you.

“Sorry!” Your voice comes out mostly squeak as you pull away even more, doing everything but straight up sailing across the room as your face heats up something fierce - though your cheeks show nothing for it - and your hands raise placatingly. “I’m so sorry. That’s on me. I wasn’t thinking—”

Your word vomit stops dead when Earving begins shaking his head and fully pivots his head up to look at you. From between your legs where he’s sitting down, stretched out legs crossed at the ankle in front of him and face on full display for you, he looks so damn unreal your words peter off like a dying engine.

Christ almighty if Earving didn’t look painful, but he was perfect all the same.

Watching the way he so readily faces you now with both his good and bad eye without obstruction and the tentative quirk of his lips, you shiver. So fucking perfect.

He shakes his head again, his functioning eye still meeting one of your similarly brown ones, and then leans forward to press a lingering kiss to the bend of your knee.

At no point does he stop holding your gaze.

A tiny noise falls from your lips and you watch, entranced, as a full lopsided smile takes over the bottom half of his face before he nuzzles into the brown skin on the inside of your thigh with another branding press of his lips.

“Earving,” you breathe, too close to choked up to regulate your voice anymore than that.

Your tone is incredibly transparent, but you can’t even be mad about it when he’s gazing up at you with such a sharp glimmer in his eye.

In response he wraps a tender hand around your ankle and taps lightly at your skin for you to continue before stretching his neck back until his damp hair is pressed to your stomach again.

Painfully aware of your closeness - and where his head is, good lord - you heed his request with far steadier fingers than before.

Y’all were good. He’s pretty clearly just shown you that, now you just had to let yourself believe it.

This time when you press against his head to shift him around as you work you’re not so tentative.

When you brush your free hand down his face to ease him into a better angle for you to pick out his hair he leans into your hold and strengthens it, his breath rushing over your fingers like a proclamation as you run the pad of your middle finger over the bow of his lip and the raised lines of his scars brand a claim into your palm.

When the teeth of the pick snag on a tight congregation of coils and you murmur a soft apology his thumb rubs circles into the ball of your foot and sends shivers up your dark skin.

When you’ve finally combed out his shrinkage and pulled out the well loved hair grade shears he responds to the shaky breath you take while lifting the blades to his head with a firm grip on your ankle and a strong squeeze to ground you.

The both of you move like this for the rest of the hour and by the end you’re trimming with steady hands and intermittently tipping Earving’s head up to blow away stray hair trimmings and press little kisses along his hairline just to draw out his telltale huff of laughter.

Sure, after this you’ll both go back to just being two people working in the same unfeeling company and Earving will go back to being Black Noir, one of the ever merciless gods that you were all little more than ants in the eyes of, but for now he pulls you up and you tug him down and y’all are able to come together like wayward nephilim to experience the finer things in life somewhere in the middle of all that hierarchical bullshit.

Just for an hour or two; trapped in your own little pocket of the world.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed! Please mind any typos, I am but one lowly creature and my eyes can only catch so much.

I don’t know why this character is so amazing at being my impromptu spur of the moment muse, but he really is so good for it.

Also, lowkey I kind of feel like Noir would wear his mask all the time even if he’s wearing civilian clothes like Wade/Deadpool tends to do (and there might’ve been a Vought commercial of him wearing civilian clothing over his suit once so there’s also that option). I don’t know, the image just came to me.

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

[thebookbutterfly]

Hey there! Could you possibly write a Sandor Clegane x gender neutral reader where Sandor has a soft spot for reader and reader feels the same? He tries to hide it but one day reader get’s hurt and he patches them up and maybe confessions come out?

🦋 Little Bird— Sandor Clegane x gn!Reader

Summary: You get injured in an ambush. Sandor carries you to safety and takes care of you.

Tags: #so much hurt/comfort, #a teensy bit of angst, #fluffy ending, #potentially OOC Sandor Clegane but personally I think he is pretty baby girl, #request

Warnings: Gender Neutral, no use of Y/N, descriptions of blood and injury, mentions of death, cannon compliant threats of violence, no beta and no ‘ragrets' [1,371 words]

AN: This is a request by @agender-wolfie. I really hope that this is what you were looking for! It came out a bit longer than I intended, but I am such a sucker for hurt/comfort tropes I really shouldn’t be surprised lmao. I wrote this all in one sitting and I haven’t done any editing so please excuse any errors. Happy reading! 🦋 Love BB

If you like this work my requests are currently open! So please give me your ideas ;)

You hissed a curse, gravelly and threadbare, as Sandor sidestepped another fallen tree.

A jumble of vulgar expressions that barely registered to you as they left your mouth. Almost all of them taught to you by the giant man holding you to his chest. The hound cradled you surprisingly gently, but his tension was evident. It was written all over him.

His scarred face, which you so rarely got the opportunity to study, was pulled into a broken grimace. The rest of him taut like a wire ready to snap beneath his armour. If you weren’t bleeding all over him, you might have reached up to prod the furrow of his brow. A silly attempt to smooth away Sandor’s permanent scowl.

The thought shattered as another wave pain tore through your ribs. Every bump in the path sowing fresh agony in the ruined skin and muscle.

Sandor ran a calloused thumb over the side of your knee in apology. Uttering clumsy noises of comfort as he picked up the pace.

“We’re almost there. Hold on just a bit longer, little bird.”

His gruff voice was cut with a noticeable amount of panic. Your brow scrunched at the unusual sound. You had gotten used to many things about Sandor as you travelled North with him. His rough sense of humour, bitter attitude, scarred face and huge stature were familiar to you by now. Underneath those things, his kindness and his softheartedness had become apparent to you too.

All the vulnerable pieces of himself that he smothered and choked beneath layers of vulgar humour and recklessness, had been presented to you in glimpses as you got to know him. But panic? Panic was new to you.

The farmhouse that Sandor had marked out in the distance finally drew into view. Up close it was a measly grey thing. The stone masonry looked haphazard at best but its chimney puffed with life. Behind it a barn lay with its doors open and rattling in the freezing wind.

You expected Sandor to head straight for the shelter of the barn but instead he strode to the front door. The family of four, seated around the dining room table inside, scrambled back as he slammed open the door with his usual subtlety. Which was to say— none at all.

You groaned as the sudden movement jostled your wound. Normally you would have chastised him for being so rude but your head was swimming. Too weak to lift your hand, you focused your energy on your eyes. Willing them to stay open, if not for your sake then for the sake of your worried companion.

An old man stepped forward to speak but Sandor cut him off, “One of you better be a healer, because if they die I will mount all of your heads outside on sticks.”

It was an ugly threat and they paled. The youngest boy whimpered looking suddenly ill. A younger woman with dark hair and a generous smattering of freckles stepped forward. She gestured a slightly shaky hand towards the table before him, before turning to her family.

“Clear the table, quickly. We can lay them down here,” her attention shifted back to the massive man standing in the doorway, “I’m not a healer by profession but I’ll do everything I can.”

Sandor seemed pleased enough by this answer. The rest of the family had been wise enough not to put up a fight and so Sandor stepped forward. He eased his grip and lay you down on the hastily cleared surface.

He moved to step away and let this stranger do her work but you whimpered. Fingertips clutching at air until he shifted back into reach.

A leather belt was stuffed between your teeth as your tunic was torn up the side. Unfamiliar hands grasped at your arms and legs. Holding you down with a bruising grip. All the while, Sandor brushed his bloodied fingers over your forehead and through your hair. The warmth of his skin a small consolation for the pain you were about to endure.

The woman lifted a needle and thread. With a glance at Sandor and his affirming nod she began to count down and you closed your eyes, unable to look.

Three.

Two.

One.

Fire. Your body was on fire. You arched off the table. Trying to escape the agony, the needle slowly piecing your flesh back together. The table shook as you thrashed but the hands holding you down didn’t falter. Sandor’s gravely words of comfort were the last things ringing in your ears as the world went black.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The first thing that you noticed when you woke up was the lack of pain. Your side still ached, the wound tender, but it was a dull throbbing now. No longer, the screaming torture it was as Sandor carried you away from where you were ambushed.

The second was the warmth. You couldn’t remember the last time you had been this warm since you and Sandor had journeyed across the border into the North. Sandor.

You opened your eyes slowly. The lighting was dim but from what you could tell you were inside the barn. The door was closed now though and soft orange candlelight illuminated the space.

You lay on your good side underneath a thick layer of blankets, and next to you lay the man your eyes sought for. His arm tucked you to him, large calloused hand resting somewhere on your lower back.

His heart thudded rhythmically beneath where your head lay on his chest. His even breathing and faint snores filled the quiet. Despite your inner protests it was the most comfortable you had been in years.

You gazed up at him, not wanting to wake him just yet. Sandor didn’t sleep nearly enough and you were content to watch the way the candlelight danced across his skin. It caught on his scarred cheek. Shadows flickering on the panes of his face.

Unable to resist you lifted a hand to his cheek. Your touch was featherlight but his eyes snapped open. Sandor’s gaze flicked to you immediately. Scanning you for distress and finding none, his body relaxed.

“Seven Hells, I thought you were going to die. Never do that again,” he said gruffly. His cheeks were flushed but he made no move to shift away from you.

Your voice was cracked from screaming but you still managed to mumble, “M’Sorry.”

Sandor sighed, “It wasn’t your fault, little bird.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a water-skein. Unscrewing the top he held it out towards you.

“Here, drink. Then you can go back to sleep,” he said.

“Thank you.”

The moisture eased the pain in your throat and soon you were snuggled back up under Sandor’s arm. The wind howled through the rafters and you both sat in silence for a little while.

Your thoughts broke the quiet, “Thank you for carrying me here. Thank you for staying.”

Sandor’s eyes met yours, they were unguarded and soft in a way that seemed reserved for you. Reserved for these conversations in the dark.

His voice was low as he replied, “I would have carried you to the ends of the earth, little bird.”

You studied him, the scars that mottled his skin, the cut on his brow and the curl of his mouth. Something deep within you settled, like a cat stretching out on a rug.

“You’re a good man, Sandor Clegane,” you said.

The conviction in your voice hit him harder than any blow on the battlefield ever had. The tidal wave of emotions that followed threatened to take him under but he swallowed them down.

You pretended not to notice his watery eyes and he lifted his spare hand to stroke your head. “Go to sleep, I’ll keep you safe.”

You nodded sleepily, too tired to fight it off any longer. A few seconds pass before you feel it. The soft press of his lips on your forehead. They linger there for a while before he pulls back, the warmth that they leave behind searing like a brand on your skin. You smile as you drift off, lulled to sleep by his warm embrace and steady breathing.

“Goodnight, little bird.”

[niki-phoria]

⋆｡°✩ I KISSED THE SCARS ON HER SKIN / I STILL THINK YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL

kissing their cursed marks with itadori yuuji, inumaki toge, kamo choso

notes: gn reader (no pronouns used), maybe ooc choso ?? he's a little insecure, sad yuuji, not proofread, header from pinterest, title from pierce the veil - a match into water

ITADORI YUUJI has the weight of the world on his shoulders. it’s a heavy burden to be the vessel of the strongest curse jujutsu sorcerers have ever seen - one that places an unrelenting amount of pressure on him to be perfect, lest the world be destroyed due to a moment of lost control.

yuuji moves in a daze as he trudges back to jujutsu high. some of the tension in his shoulders relaxes when he notices you, curled up on the couch in the common area, patiently awaiting his return.

you look up when he closes the door behind him, tossing your phone to the side. “long day?” 

yuuji sighs, all but collapsing onto the couch beside you. his head finds a place in your lap, resting against your thighs. “i had another meeting with the higher-ups.” 

you frown, gently beginning to card your fingers through his hair in the hopes of providing some comfort. yuuji looks up at you, unshed tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. “what if i lose control and he takes over again? what if i hurt you?”

“you won’t. and if you do, you’ll fight like hell until you get it back.” your fingers twist around strands of his hair; your nails gently massage against his scalp. yuuji closes his eyes when you brush your fingers against the small mark near his left eye. your touch is gentle - comforting. his breath hitches when you lean down, pressing a fleeting kiss against the scar. “i trust you, yuuji.”

INUMAKI TOGE’S hands burn as he wraps them around a hot cup of tea, feeling the warmth of the boiling water through the ceramic. his smile is hidden behind the hem of his jacket when you slip into the chair beside him, holding your own cup. 

underneath the golden glow of the kitchen lights, toge can see the fresh bruises littering your knuckles. he’ll have to remember to pick up some ointment the next time he goes out for cough medicine, he notes. 

“is your throat feeling any better?” 

“salmon,” toge nods. he tugs the hem of his jacket down just enough to expose his mouth before taking a sip of his now bearably warm tea. your own drink goes forgotten as you watch him, your gaze trained on the curse marks near his lips. 

“tuna?” toge asks, cocking his head at you in confusion. 

“everything’s fine. it’s just…” you softly smile, hesitantly reaching up to rest your hand against his cheek. toge watches with wide eyes when your fingers brush against the edges of his cursed mark. the skin is rough against your skin - permanently embedded with the mark of the inumaki clan. “you’re very handsome, toge.”

his face burns at the praise and toge has to resist the urge to hide behind the safety of his uniform again. 

but he doesn’t. 

instead, he leans into your hand, encouraging you to continue your ministrations. there are a million words lingering on the tip of toge’s tongue. but in the quiet of the night, nothing else needs to be said.

mornings with you were quickly becoming the favourite part of KAMO CHOSO’S day. waking up to your body curled up beside his; watching you carefully style your hair in front of the bathroom mirror; dancing around the kitchen together as you attempt to make breakfast - he could never get enough.

it was part of your routine. choso would watch you with an attentive gaze and a soft smile. today, however, was different. choso studies his reflection in the mirror, his eyes fixated on the mark stretching across his nose. 

“hey,” you whisper, placing a hand against his back. “is everything okay?”

choso relaxes a little at your touch before turning to face you. “do you think my curse mark looks weird?”

“no. of course not.” you furrow your eyebrows, cocking your head at him in confusion. “do you?” 

he remains silent, stealing another glance at the mark across his cheeks. “it’s just… humans don’t have curse marks. i thought you would prefer how i look without one.”

“choso,” you whisper. he can feel heat rising to his cheeks when you reach over to tilt his face to look at you. the edge of your thumb brushes against the edge of the mark; your fingers gently caress his cheek. he remains still when you slowly lean in, pressing a few stray kisses against his cheeks. “i love you. and your cursed mark. please don’t ever forget that.”

an unfamiliar warmth settles itself into choso’s chest. it’s a feeling he’s still not used to - how his heart beats faster around you. he softly smiles, leaning his cheek against your hand. “i love you too.”

taglist (open! send an ask/dm to be added): @sunoooism @vamxpi @sad-darksoul @kamote-kuneho

if you liked this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, feedback, or rebloging !! and if you want to support me, check out my jjk masterlist <33

[mikkomacko]

Thank u for doing requests ! What about giiving kisses on mob boss Nico’s scars (if any)?🥹🥹

This is so sweet oh my god I’m gonna cry. (This also somehow turned into a smut scene at the end so happy first smut scene of mob boss Nico!)

Thank you so much for requesting! I hope I did it justice!

————————————————————————-

It wasn’t a big dead, not really. Just an off-handed remark Jack had made after Nico chirped him for getting a bad haircut.

“You should spend more time worrying about that lip of yours than my haircut.” He’d yapped, motioning to the recently split lip Nico had gotten. “Eventually your girl’s not gonna wanna kiss it better.”

It had healed just fine and yeah for a bit there you’d avoided the raw wound, but now that it’s just a sliver of a scar it’s fine, right?

Nico can’t help it. He’s picking at it, smears of shaving cream still splattered across his jaw and cheeks. He picks at it until the skin of his lip is red and raw, and it hurts so badly he has to stop.

In a frantic spiral he’s suddenly spotting all the little marks on his face. Every scar left over from teenage acne to fist fights to hitting his head on the coffee table as a child, Nico feels manic as he takes them all in.

Maybe he shouldn’t have shaved. Maybe he should’ve let his beard grow out, creep up his cheeks and down his neck to hide all the ugly marks.

Down and down and down the rabbit hole he goes. Wiping the shaving cream off with a towel, Nico spots the ugly mark on his collar bone from where he’d been nicked with a knife. The one on his abdomen from where he’d been kicked with steel toe boots.

Something ugly and ashamed rises in his chest, threatens to choke him. He scrambles out of the bathroom, haphazardly shutting off the light as he rushes to the closet. In his haste to cover himself he misses you already lying in bed. It’s not until he’s yanked on a hoodie and sweatpants, finally able to breathe easy, does he notice you watching him with bewilderment.

“You ok boss?” You ask him, slightly amused.

Nico runs a hand through his hair, feels like throwing up. What if you saw all of them? Like really saw them? Sat in front of him and saw all those ugly spots at once, all his ugly spots?

“Fine,” he mumbles, climbing into his side of bed. He feels stiff and awkward, ignoring your gaze as he reaches to shut off the bedside lamp.

You make a confused noise in the dark and Nico blinks until his eyes adjust. Then he’s lying back on the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. His fingers ache to reach for you, to touch your skin. But he’s terrified of you touching his skin and suddenly deciding you don’t want to anymore.

Stupid fucking Jack and his big mouth.

The sheets shuffle, the mattress moving with your weight. “Nico?” A hand pats down the duvet, then slithers across the blanket until it’s resting over his chest.

“Hm?”

“Baby you’re on the edge of the bed.”

“M’just hot.”

“Maybe it’s the winter clothes you just put on?”

Nico hesitates, scrambles for an excuse. “Not feeling well either. Don’t want to get you sick.”

“You ate three plates of pasta, Schoa. I don’t think that’s contagious.”

Clearing his throat, Nico pathetically shrugs. Something’s welled up in his esophagus, is choking him and he wants you to reach over and make it better.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong or am I gonna have to piss you off first?”

He closes his eyes, feels the weight of your hand on him. That feeling chokes him again, makes him panic until he’s spiting out his worst fears to you.

“Do you still want to kiss me?”

Nico expects you to laugh, to kick at his leg and tell him he’s being ridiculous. But he thinks the pathetic whimper of his words has given away how dire this topic is to him.

“Oh baby,” you breathe out, “I want to kiss you all the time.” You sound sincere, like you’re thinking about kissing him right now. It makes his face hot, embarrassed and insecure for some reason.

His silence is thick, hanging in the air so heavily you have to sit up in bed and crawl over him. Nico can’t help it, his hands moving on their own to find your hips as you push the blankets back and straddle his thighs.

“Nothing could ever make me not want you.” You whisper. In the dark he finds your eyes, the moonlight coming through the window gleaming in them. They look shiny and blurry, warped by the night- no by him. Because he’s got tears in his waterline.

“You didn’t want to kiss my lip,” he mumbles like a child, “when it was hurt.”

You stroke through his hair, press your palm to his cheek. “Because I didn’t want to hurt you, not because I didn’t want to kiss you.”

“What if next time it’s worse? What if the cut is bigger and then the scar is and it doesn’t get better?”

“What-Nico where is this coming from? Did something happen?”

He’s silent, embarrassed again. “Jack said if my scars get any worse you won’t want to kiss them better anymore.”

“Oh Nico baby,” you huff in disbelief. “Have you ever noticed that Jack doesn’t even have someone to kiss his scars better? Who does he think he is?”

You’re right, but he doesn’t feel better. So he just shrugs, makes some weird noise of protest in his chest because he’s scared and hurt.

“Can I please turn the light on?”

Nico leans into your palm, heart thumping loudly in his chest but he mutters his consent. The lamp flicks on and at first he’s blinded. But then you come into view, one of his shirts on your shoulders and you’re pretty hair frizzy on top of your head.

You look so beautiful over him.

“Oh my god, what has Jack done to you?” You ask softly, stroking your thumb under his droopy eyes that are still wet with unshed tears.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles.

Your fingers trace his face, over the soft skin of his freshly shaved cheeks and the slope of his nose. Your thumb outlines his lips, your eyes following its movement with such adoration in them it makes his heart ache.

“You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen,” you say with earnest, stroking the scar on his lip. “No cut or bruise or scar is ever going to change that.”

“Yeah?”

You lean down, ghost your lips over his. “Yeah Nico,” you promise, sealing it with a kiss. He runs his hands up your back, holds you as you trail kisses over the little marks of his face.

Nimble fingers dip beneath his hoodie, touch the warm skin of his stomach. “Can I take this off my love?”

Sluggish, Nico nods. He sits up enough to help you wiggle it off of him, falling back into the pillows as you throw the hoodie to the side.

You sit back, admiring the skin of his chest and abs with your hands and lidded eyes. “All I see when I look at you, is the brave and strong man that I love.”

Sliding down his body, you mouth at his collarbone with soft and needy lips. Nico sighs contently, lets your breath tickle his skin and grows warm at the way you touch him so sweetly.

Sometimes he wonders how you can treat him so softly, how you can take him in those soft hands and turn him into a puddle.

“Baby,” he whines, unsure of what he’s even calling for. All he knows is that he loves you and you’re making him feel so good.

“Let me love on you,” you request, word pressing into the column of his throat. “Let me show you how beautiful and sexy you are Nico.”

He tangles his fingers in your hair, shudders as pleasure nips at his belly and blood rushes to his cock.

“Fuck, yes, please.”

You’re slow and diligent, finding any and every place on him that is marred or changed and showering it in kisses and loving touches. He’s sweating and panting when you get to the edge of his pants, peeling the band down to reveal more and more of the scar there.

“This one’s my favorite,” you say so quietly he almost doesn’t hear you.

“Huh?”

He lifts his head, brain foggy with lust. You peer up at him through thick eyelashes, blinking sultry over the planes of his body. Lips hovering over the mark that trails down the v of his hips and the top of his thigh.

“My favorite,” you mumble into his skin, kissing at the point of his hip. Then you’re pulling his sweats down even more, innocent eyes watching him hiss when his cock jumps free, red and hard against his abdomen.

“Why?”

Your lips curl up, wicked as you bite into the inside of his thigh just enough to make him twitch. “Because I get to see it every time I’m down here.”

Nico’s brain short circuits, shuts down when you bite into his skin again and it feels so good he might come untouched. He doesn’t want to though, not that he needs to tell you that.

You nose at his cock, mouth wet and hot against the base of him and his bones turn to jelly. He falls back into the mattress, widening his legs for you to get closer.

Grounding himself with fingers in your hair, Nico whimpers when you drag the flat of your tongue up his length, gentle fingers wrapping around his girth.

“Baby,” Nico whines again, and you’re already kissing at the thick head of his cock, all teasing flicks of the tongue and lips sticky with precum.

“I know pretty boy,” you assure, sweet and loving. Nico moans, ears growing hot at the pet name. “So pretty, from those big eyes of yours all the way down to your pretty cock, huh?”

His hips buck up, eyes rolling back and he twitches in your hand. Jesus Christ, now he knows why you love when he talks you through sex. The rawness of your words, the truth in your tone, how utterly sweet you sound saying such filthy things.

“Make me cum,” he begs, tugging on your hair encouragingly. “Please just -fuck!”

You swallow him down easy, fitting his cock into your warm mouth just how he taught you. Like it’s habit now, to have his cock dripping into the back of your throat while your tongue licks at the underside of him.

Nico’s so worked up and sensitive he’s already throbbing and threatening to blow his load. That fire licks at the base of his spine, curls his toes and has him blubbering nonsense. You bob your head, drooling down his length and cupping his balls in your palm.

You’re so soft and warm, so loving in everything you do. Nico thinks it might kill him one day, how much you love him. But that would be a hell of a way to go.

His cock throbs, twitching in the hollow of your cheeks and you stroke a free hand over that favorite scar of yours. That’s at it takes and he’s seeing stars, coming so hard on your tongue it twists painfully at the pit of his stomach.

Dropping his hands from you, heavy like his bones are made of lead, Nico fights to catch his breath. Your merciful on him, easy and gentle as you kiss your way back up his torso and to his mouth.

Nico doesn’t peel his eyes open until you’re messily mouthing at his parted lips. Your tongue tastes like him, breath hot and he groans into your mouth as he kisses you back.

“I lied,” you pant when you part from the kiss. “This one’s my favorite actually,” and your pecking a kiss to the scar on his lips.

“Baby you just sucked the soul out of me,” Nico croaks, wrapping his arms around you and pinning you into his sweaty chest. “I can’t take anymore compliments.”

You giggle, touching your nose to his. “It’s the truth this time, I love that one. It’s the first thing I see every morning, the first thing I see after you kiss me.”

Nico hums, smacks a kiss to the corner of your lips. “Yeah? Do you think that’s pretty too?” He goads, smirking when you blush and roll your eyes. “Pretty like my cock? Or pretty like my eyes?”

Laughing, you wiggle in his hold to try and get away. “Oh shut up!”

“Noooo keep telling me how pretty I am, boss please?”

[ellewritesalright]

Close your eyes

Aegon Targaryen x gn!reader

Masterlist

Synopsis: Aegon has a quiet moment with you in the brothel.

A/N: I have been so deep in hotd recently! I have so many blurbs and stuff on my mind, none of them really canon specific. Hope yall enjoy!

Warnings: no smut, talks of minor violence by a dog, Aegon suggesting that a dog should have been put down, otherwise lmk if I forgot anything

Word count: 1009

..........

Aegon slumped off of you, laying on his back with a soft groan. His pale chest reflected in the candlelight, rising and falling with deep breaths. This was the third time this week he had visited this particular brothel, though he had come to your room here countless times before.

You laid beside him for a moment, then you rose, going to pour a cup of water for yourself. You didn't bother putting on a robe as you stood at the table in the corner of your room.

"Do you have wine?" Aegon asked, watching your form.

"Only water, your highness. I can fetch some if you'd like."

He shook his head, raising an arm to cover his eyes from the candles as he laid there. "No. Stay here."

You nodded, though he did not see it, and you gently padded back to the bed. You sat on the edge, cup in your hand. You were tempted to reach out and brush back the strands of blond hair that were matted to his forehead with sweat, but you did not.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, your highness?" You asked gently as you watched him.

He raised his arm off his eyes, stretching and groaning softly. His eyes focused on your cup. "Give me a drink, would you?"

You held it out to him, but when he did not move an inch to take it, you murmured, "Lean forward," and held it to his lips as he sat back on his elbows.

He looked up at you with eyes like a lost puppy as you helped him drink the water. He swallowed and tilted his head away, and your hand retreated. You watched a little drop of water on the corner of his mouth, how he seemed so unbothered by it. Perhaps he was still drunk, as you and the gods had seen him stumble into your room in the brothel with lasciviousness in his eyes and a pouch of coins in his hand.

But now he was sated.

"Anything else, your highness?" You asked.

"Lay back with me," he mumbled, dropping his elbows and resting his head against the pillows.

You set aside your cup and did as he said. You laid down where you had been previously. Your arm barely touched Aegon's.

"Could you… could you lay on your stomach for me?" He whispered.

You let out a breath and shifted onto your stomach. You brought your face to the left, looking over at him where he moved onto his side. He was sitting up slightly.

"Close your eyes."

You looked at him for a moment--he seemed calm at present--and then did as he asked. There was a light touch on your skin, along your shoulder blade first. It traced the curve of it, then moved to the other shoulder blade. The touch then moved between your shoulders, gently squeezing the bottom of your neck before slowly moving down. His hand went lower and lower, injecting warmth into your muscles as you felt his palm smooth down along your spine.

You expected to feel him trail his hand lower, even dipping it between your legs, but his touch stayed on your back. The lowest it moved was tracing to the tops of your ass, barely grazing the marks left by another customer you hosted earlier this week.

He pressed his thumb into a scar on the right of your back, and you felt his breath on your face and shoulder.

"How'd you get this?" He mumbled.

You cracked your eyes open to see him staring at your scar, a tired but intrigued look in his eyes. His thumb kept brushing along it.

"From my childhood. A dog bit me," you answered. "Its teeth pierced the back of my arm too."

He shifted to inspect for another scar on your arm, the sticky, sweaty skin of his chest pressing to your back as he leaned over to look at your arm. His thumb traced this one too, and he tutted.

"Stupid dog. Whatever happened to it?"

"What do you mean?"

He moved to lay on his side again, his warm chest peeling off of your back. "Did someone kill the dog for biting you?"

You let out a breath, concealing the urge to laugh at his words. It wasn't difficult to tell he was highborn. "No, they did not, my prince. My family actually took in the dog. Trained it to herd for us."

Aegon's brows narrowed. "But it bit you."

"That's what dogs do," you shrugged.

"It was violent."

"It was hungry and I had a scrap of chicken in my hand."

"It should have been killed for biting you."

You sighed and brought your hand to his face, hoping to ease the concern in his brow. "It is not so horrid an offense, my prince. A wild animal biting a farmer's child isn't something to worry over."

He leaned slightly into your hand, letting out a huff.

"Did it hurt?" He asked, his mouth pressed to your palm.

You nodded. "I remember it felt warm at first, from the blood. Then I went inside and my mother cleaned it up, rubbed it with salve and wrapped it tightly."

"How old were you?"

"Seven, I think."

Aegon frowned again, his head dropping to the pillow. You curled his hair behind his ear.

"Do not pity me, my prince," you hummed. "I am all better now. Besides, that is not the worst infliction I have worn."

His eyes flickered to the bruise at the bottom of your back again. He said nothing, but shifted closer to you, his hand still on your skin. His touch rubbed slowly along your back again, warming you.

He wouldn't leave for another few hours. He would fall asleep here and his guards would quietly escort him back to the Keep before the sun was in the sky. But for now, he was beside you, treating you with a kindness most wouldn't expect from the king's untamed son.

"Close your eyes," he murmured again.

The world went dark when you closed your eyes. You didn't feel his breath on your face until the second before he pressed his lips to your forehead.

..........

A/N: Thanks for reading! Feel free to like, reblog, and comment if you want to read more, I really appreciate the feedback! If you want to request a fic for hotd, I will write for Aegon, Aemond, and Jacaerys, so please feel free to send in an ask. Otherwise, I hope you have a great day/night :)

[blingblong55]

Blood and Lust- 141 NSFW

A/N: huge thank you to @warenai @shadofireshinobi and the anon for the picture/gif

Based on a request: --- 141 in a vampire orgy. All vampires are said to be bi so do what u will with that infol also F reader so #27, #23, #4, #15. not sure if i can have so many numbers on a request but please do feed me --- F!Reader, smut, MDNI, 18+, monster/vampire au, orgy, mentions of blood(obvi), knife play, pain kink, marking, biting, rough!sex, unprotected!sex, human!reader, voyeurism, mentions of drug use, degrading, spit roast, M4M, MM4F

A/N: Straight to it...(won't mention much about your own pleasure bc I simply forgot to put that much detail into it and I also forgot to write the aftercare but let's pretend it did happen)

It was an annual thing they did, get drunk on blood, have sex, and get high on drugs. You and Soap had been friends for years and every year, you were the chosen one to be fed on. He of course had your consent to drink your blood, as the rest of his housemates did. Today, you are in the large bed of their home. Sex toys of all sorts around the room, three of the men already in bed. Soap had started things off with you in the bathroom, trying to ease the nerves. Some good amount of cocaine always did the job.

Now in their bed, Price and Soap initiated things. You in your pink lingerie, like the perfect little prey. Soap's lips on yours, Price was spreading your legs open. Gaz was already stroking his cock, Ghost watching as you let Soap kiss your neck, a smirk on his face the entire time. With one quick notion, you were under Soap. His fangs are deep in your neck. Price began to drip from the other side of the neck. You moan as Gaz begins to slap his already-hardened cock onto your cunt. "Already wet?" he chuckles and nods off to Ghost. Your blood dripped down your neck, and Price was leaking it, leaving bite marks all over your neck and shoulder.

Once the two men stopped drinking from you, Ghost bends down, a knife on his hand whilst the other stroked his own cock. He forces your mouth open, his tip being slapped on your tongue. A knife gently tracing your chest. You squirm. "Shh, it's okay," he whispers and then makes you suck on his cock, his hips thrusting as you begin to gag. Soap watches this with delight, he moves closer and kisses Ghost. Price begins to finger you, his fingers deep inside as you try and move but get slapped either on your tits or thighs. "Don't you fucking move," he growls and then looks at Gaz. "Do it," Gaz says and then both of the men position your thighs far from the other. Gaz kisses your legs as Price positions his needy cock by your entrance, his tip circling your pulsating entrance. Your blood still leaking. The bite marks Price has left, will become definite scars.

Ghost strokes Soap's length and before he ever dared to cum, he stops and then slaps your face. The way your throat tightened around his cock, making him feel that much-needed release get closer. Gaz spreads some white powder down on your stomach, sniffing it up his nose and shaking his head with a grin. Soap moves down and sniff the powder as well, both men then look at the other and begin to touch each other. Your clit was rubbed by Gaz's fingers all as Soap kissed his neck.

Ghost continued to spread the knife over your chest, leaving small trails of your blood. He licks the cuts and smiles, "What a lovely dinner." You continue to gag, Ghost occasionally pulling out so you could breathe, then slamming his cock back inside your mouth. Your lips, like a perfect ring around his thick member. Price fucked himself into your pussy, which only made you moan more. Your blood was addictive to all these men. Out of all the men, Ghost and Price abused your body the most. They slapped and marked you all over, leaving marks for other vampires or just other men to see. At one point they all agreed to mark you as their complete property. A skull with fangs on your lower back now as proof of their ownership.

As Soap and Gaz drank blood from their glasses, they continued to either touch themselves as they watched you get completely destroyed by the thick cocks of their friends or touch each other. By some point, you began to get whipped, your body covered in bruises, red hand prints, cuts or bite marks. Once Ghost came in your mouth he pulled out and bit your neck, the artery leaking your blood, Gaz took this opportunity and drank from you as well. The room was filled with whimpers, begs, cries, moans and groans. Your eyes leaked tears, one's which was licked by Soap as he then trailed down to your tits. He nibbled on them like he had no other purpose.

Price's cum leaked from your cunt, he slapped it and then joined Soap, both men completely abusing your tits like there was no tomorrow. Once Ghost and Gaz were drunk on your blood, they made you get on all fours. Gaz behind whilst Soap took your throat. Ghost and Price say done, smoking and stroking themselves as they watched you take their mates. Soap choked you with his hands, making you gag and get teary pretty fast. Gaz slapped your ass, leaving his handprint on your already raw skin. You were forced by Soap to not look away from him, always to keep your eyes on him. "Look at you, what a dumb whore you are," Soap spit out which made Gaz grin. Your blood now leaking down to your chest.

Your eyes rolled back as they made you near your third orgasm. You wanted to tap out, your legs already shaking you, you were a blabbering mess but your body begged to be fucked to the extreme. "Just look at how easy we can make you cum," Gaz comments and slaps your ass again. You whimper only to have Soap slap your face and thrust himself into your mouth like an animal in heat. His thrusts so hard it would make your throat sore by the next day. Price has Ghost suck him off as he watched you get wrecked. This is what turned him on the most. No other human can make these men act this way like you and your body can. As more of Price's cum squirted hot into Ghost's mouth, he watched his two other mates cum at the same time inside of you.

Ghost sat up, watching as Gaz pressed the knife against your skin, ripping the layers of it and letting blood flow. He had a sadistic smile, he loved how you would whimper and beg for more. Knew you loved to be hurt by the blade. Your face was flushed, all your body was trying to calm itself down from the already multiple orgasms you received from either getting fingered or getting your holes used. Your legs shake and Soap lays you on your back.

"Not much a brat now are you?" he smirks as he recalls how bratty you were days before this orgy. He once more digs his fangs into your neck, and he sucks the blood, feeding himself for the next day or two. "Fuck you taste so sweet," he whispers and smiles. His thumb wipes the mascara-stained tears from your face and he kisses your forehead.

A/N: I know the homophobes will hate me for making them bi but fuck off we all needed this

Tags: @liyanahelena @anonymuslydumb @sharkssharkssharkssharks @yoursuicidalcupcake @ghostslillady @sleepydang @saoirse06 @hellnoname @karurururu @ghost-2513 @cheenutchutter4lyfe @airghostlyfox @greatstormcat @kuddelmuddell @unknownghoststhings @undercover-smutlover @luv69nina @welliah

[bitethedevil]

Raphael with a Tav who LOVES to get 'marked' by him? Like Tav has 0 issues showing off Raphael's bite marks and is a moaning, dripping mess when he treats their little mortal body like a scratching post during sex. (bonus points if Tav isn't keen on the idea of Haarlep doing the same to them and Tav is only into it if it's from Raphael because it is from Raphael)

Thank you! Really liked this one <3

CW: Blood

A Pretty Canvas (NSFW)

She was in the restoration pool, pouring the water over the raised scars on her arms and back. She watched as they slowly healed. Raphael entered the boudoir and looked at her with a smile when he saw her. His eyes wandered down her body and didn’t miss the scars on her back.

“Haarlep, I presume?” he asked and looked down at her, gesturing to her scars.

“Yes,” she answered and poured more water over herself with the jug in her hand. “They can’t seem to keep their claws to themselves. I asked them not to like you said but they didn’t listen”

“Tsk, tsk,” he tutted. “They should not be marking things that aren’t theirs.”

He walked over and picked up a towel. He held it out for her. She stepped out of the restoration pool, and he dried her off with the towel while admiring her body.

“Though I don’t think I can blame them,” he purred and ran the soft towel over her skin. “With such a pretty canvas at their disposal.”

He discarded the towel led them to his bed once he was done drying her off. He sat down on the edge while she stood. He touched one of her breasts. He kneaded it gently with his hand, feeling the weight of it before digging the claw on his thumb down the top of it. Her breath hitched slightly as she watched the small beads of blood appearing over the scratch. His eyes darkened at the sight.

“Mm, very pretty, indeed,” he purred in a low voice before wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer.

He ran his unnaturally warm and forked tongue over the beads of blood. He closed his mouth around the spot and sucked at it, his sharp teeth digging slightly into the skin. His mouth moved down to tease her nipple.

She felt him place his sharp nails right under breasts and slowly pulling them downwards while applying pressure. She sucked in air at the pain but didn’t complain. It was different when it was him who marked her. The red trail his claws left behind ended at the top of her thighs.

He leaned back to admire the cuts. She looked down her body where four long scratches adorned her body on both sides. One particular spot bled more than the rest. He wiped it off with his finger and then moved it to her lips. She cleaned it off with her mouth.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice a deep rumble. “We can’t have you staining the sheets now, can we?” He patted the spot on the bed beside him. “Bend over.”

She complied. He got up from the bed to stand behind her. He admired the view while he took his time to take off his clothes. She shivered when she felt one of his fingers find their way to her already dripping wet slit. He teased her clit before he positioned himself at her entrance. His hands went to her hips to hold her steady as he slid inside her. His nails dug into her skin as he bottomed out with a deep growl. The sound she made was between a yelp and a moan. It was music to his ears.

He still held her steady with one hand on her hip, while the other brushed over her back, applying only slight pressure for now. He started moving and took her at a languid pace. She moaned into the sheets.

“Tell me, dear,” he said. “Do you belong to Haarlep?”

She shook her head. His nails dug into her hip as he pulled her towards himself, burying his cock inside her with a brutal trust. A slap on her ass followed. She knew what he wanted and got the message immediately: use your voice.

“No,” she whined.

“Very good,” he said with condescending praise. “Indeed, you do not. Who do you belong to?”

She was too caught up in the delicious feeling of him fucking her to answer immediately. A mistake, because Raphael was many things, but patient was not one of them. She received another slap and this time his claws cut her as he did so. She could feel the sting after.

“You,” she quickly said. “You, Raphael.”

“Very good,” he praised again.

The hand on her hip moved to her lower back as he pressed her down into the mattress so she couldn’t move. His pace slowed but his thrusts became deeper. He growled as he sank completely into her.

“Be a dear and spell it for me,” he purred.

Such a simple request, though still incredibly difficult with the way her brain was turning into mush at his effect on her body.

“R…” she mumbled into the mattress.

She felt a claw dig into her left shoulder. It went deep and she winced at the pain, though her body only became more aroused at the sting of pain. As far as she could tell without seeing what he was doing, he was writing it in Infernal. A written language that seemed almost made for this with the way the letters looked.

She kept going and so did he, scratching each letter into her skin while slowly fucking her. The way she was pressed down into the mattress made it hard to breathe. Her body was hurting and yet she only wanted more. Each time she lost track of which letter came next, she was punished with yet another slap. The slaps became harder each time she failed. She would without a doubt have a couple of dark bruises once they were done.

She breathed a little sigh of relief when they finally got to ‘L’. He etched it into her skin and then pressed himself down against her back. She almost screamed at the pain of the friction from his torso against her bleeding cuts. He leaned down to growl into her ear:

“Very, very good, my dear,” he growled, and his thrusts gradually got faster, more brutal. “The next time Haarlep gets any wrong ideas as to what is theirs and what is not, you tell them that I will personally deal with them if they forget their place and mark you again. You are mine.”

It was a thin line between pain and pleasure. It would be hard for a bystander to discern whether the sounds coming from her were of someone having sex or someone getting tortured, which was exactly how Raphael liked it. It didn’t take long before he came deep inside her with a growl.

She was shaking. She wasn’t sure if it was from her coming or if it was just her body reacting to how everything hurt. Raphael got up to admire his work. She must have been some sight with how her body was scratched to ribbons and the way his cum was dripping from her.

After a moment he patted her on her hip to motion for her to get up. She stood up on shaking legs and turned around. He was smirking at her with a pleased look in his eyes. He looked a mess too with his slightly disheveled hair and the way his torso was covered in her blood.

He gently held her hips as he turned her back to a mirror and moved her head to see his work on her back. She didn’t need to know Infernal to know that it said ‘Raphael’ in thick red bleeding lines.

“I think you should keep it,” he purred. “You should let it scar instead of healing it. In case any misunderstandings should occur again. If not, I will be happy to redo it.”

He gently kissed one of the scars on her shoulder. As insane as it sounded, she was tempted to jump in the restoration pool to take him up on the offer.

[spectoris]

STITCHED AND SEALED | KYLO REN

pairing: kylo ren x gn!reader

summary: your side of the infirmary seems to be the supreme leader’s favorite place

contains: mild makeout, mentions of scars, wounds, and blood, reader is a medic

word count: 0.8k

The scars on his hand are thick. They start from the center of his palm and branch out like the edges of a star. Though long healed, it’s easy to tell how deep they must’ve been once. Naturally, the curious shape of it sparks your inquisitive nature, but you hold your tongue. 

The infirmary hums with the delicate sounds of electronics pulsing. Aside from data pads’ occasional chirp, all is mostly quiet. It’s almost easy to forget that it’s the Supreme Leader who sits on the bed in front of you in only his sleep pants, his helmet and suit left behind. His hand is heavy in your palm, pliable as you turn it over to inspect the skin.

This is the second night in a week Supreme Leader Kylo Ren has asked you to tend to his old wounds. You see nothing wrong with them, likely because it’s been so long, but he insists there is always something bothering him. An itch, a sting, a cramp—you tell him it’s because of the stress he puts on now, yet Ren is always surer than you. Though he bickers, you don’t mind it all too much. His voice, unobscured by his helmet, is always low and smooth, easy on the ears. Sometimes you purposefully tease him just to hear the slight laugh in his words versus the mechanical drone during his work hours. 

As you suspect, there isn’t much to treat. But you keep his hand in yours anyway, fingertips running along the jagged skin. “What happened?” you ask. An injury of this nature was no accident. It’s too focused to be from a battle or simple cut.

He pulls back slightly. “It was a while ago.”

“Didn’t know ‘a while ago’ could do this.”

Ren blinks slowly for a few moments. Then, he upon seeing your growing grin, he scoffs, though the corners of his mouth also move. As much as you’d like to know the story of it, amongst the dozens of other scars across his skin, you decide it’s best not to dig too deep. The vast plane of his back holds the most, defined by his taut muscles. As he twists in his seat to grab his shirt, you notice a scratch along his shoulder blade, still red and swollen. When you touch it, Ren winces and sucks in a breath.

“When did you get this?”

“Yesterday.”

Little specks of dried blood cling to the wound, still somewhat fresh. He must’ve slept on it, or ignored it, for it to be like this.

“Here, can you pass me the gauze there?”

Ren grabs the pile of white cloths from the bedside table along with a small roll of tape, then turns his back to you. With a cotton ball, you dab the wound with an antiseptic. Ren jolts—you probably should’ve warned him. He remains still as you apply and tape down the gauze, all after spreading a little ointment on the surrounding skin. 

You pat the gauze softly. “Good as new.”

You can’t help but let the tips of your fingers glide across his back before he turns to you again. Like a constellation, your finger drags from one mark to another, connecting the sporadic shapes. Ren says nothing; his head peers over his shoulder to watch, less stiff. Too lost in the details of his skin, you don’t notice how close you’ve become until you look up, his breath hitting your cheek.

Then your mouth is on his, and when you realize what you’ve done, it’s too late. His lips remain frozen for a moment before they move against yours. Instinctively, you want to jump back—he’s your superior, for crying out loud. And you’ve just kissed him as if none of that matters. You guess, deep down, it really doesn’t.

A warmth floods your entire body, half from how he’s pulled you against his bare chest, half from the blush that makes every inch of you want to melt. As wrong as it may be, neither of you fight against it.

Ren’s mouth continues to capture yours, hungry and fervent. Your head grows light from the lack of air, but you can’t bring yourself to stop, not when his hand rests on the back of your head and pushes you deeper into him. Only when you cough does he finally let go, and even then his lips are still seeking yours. Eyes blurred and dazed, the only thing that comes to your mind is—

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t— That was—”

He utters your name in a whisper. “It was perfect.”

You’ve let your head fall, looking down at your knees. With his knuckle, Ren lifts your chin to meet his. The embarrassment dissipates when, after catching his breath, he kisses you again, just as aching as it had been a few seconds ago. When you meet his dark, heavy-lidded eyes, you understand. It doesn’t matter to him, and it never had. All the after hours in the infirmary for no good reason, the excuses, the arguing. So painfully obvious, yet you can’t ever fathom why he willingly chooses you. But he did—he does. And you’d be a liar if you said you weren’t happy with it.

a/n: i’ve been in a big writing mood but everything i produce is a) shit or b) mega shit so i hope this was somewhat enjoyable

[meiluu]

Fangs. Spider-Man 2099

Miguel O’Hara/ Reader(AFAB)

*no gendered pronouns/terms used* *Not edited*

cw: SMUT 18+ MDNI—> fangs, creampie, AFAB oral(receiving), P in V sex.

Miguel wanted nothing more than to come home and forget about all that's been going on. The weight of the multiverse rested upon his shoulders, and it took everything in him to not break.

Softly landing on the balcony to his shared apartment, taking a quick glance into the windows- there you are. A sigh leaves him as he gently opens the balcony door. the book you had been reading was tossed aside, jumping up from the couch you are running to Miguel. Your body warms with your shared embrace. "I missed you." your words are muffled as you shove your head further into his chest getting lost in his familiar scent. With your words Miguel is tightening his hold on you, "Me too." lifting your head just enough to rest your chin on his chest, "Do you want to talk about it?" a huff escapes him, "No, I don't want to think about anything besides you and me right now." reaching one of your hands to pull off his mask, "Ok." Softly tossing the material to the side, cupping his cheek you motion him to lean down towards you. A chuckle leaves his beautiful lips, "What is it you want mi amor?"

A little whine leaves you, pouting your lips at his resistance. A cocky smile graces his face, "Nope that face wont work on me." Your defeated sigh fills the air, "I want you." shying away from looking at him. "Hmm, What was that?" oh you were going to punch him, you knew he could hear you. Miguel watched as you eventually moved your face towards his, fire burning within your eyes. "I want you." As your words fall from your lips Miguel is already leaning down, capturing your lips with his. It’s sweet but desperate, his arms lower from being around your shoulders down to your waist. Without even thinking about it Miguel let’s his fangs extend, nipping at your bottom lip. You let out a gasp at the sensation, creating the perfect opportunity for Miguel to push his tongue into your mouth. A deep satisfied groan rumbles from his chest, as he gets lost in the taste of you. Tongues dancing together, but all too soon you both are pulling apart for air. Your eyes immediately lock onto the thin string of saliva that kept you two connected. Just as Miguel has got his breath back he’s moving his kisses down the side of your face going towards your neck. Taking advantage of the thin tank-top, he leaves a plethora of dark to light love marks down your neck. Stopping where your neck and shoulder meet, inhaling your addictive scent he sinks his fangs into you. Making sure to not excrete venom out while biting you. A wobbly moan tumbles from your lips at the sensation.

Retracting his fangs he raises his head, locking onto your gaze. “Can I have you?” His voice is strained with lust, it takes a moment longer to really register his words with the fog your mind has accumulated. “Yes- please.” And with your words Miguel is swiftly picking you up, carrying you to your shared bedroom. On your way there you feel the ticklish feeling of Miguel’s talons cutting expertly through your clothing. Making it to the bedroom and being tossed onto the bed, you realize that Miguel has ruined your clothes. They are now nothing more than big scraps of fabric. A whine of annoyance leaves you at this discovery but you are soon shut up by Miguel, “I’ll buy you new ones.” His voice is gruff but full of promise. Throwing what’s left of your clothes to the floor, you are left completely bare, and Miguel is soon following your lead. Quickly pulling off the top half of his suit, the bottom half not too far behind. Finally he’s left completely bare to you, your eyes shamelessly roam across his exposed skin.

Eyes catching on to the scars that litter his torso, seeing the defined muscle that looks like an artist sculpted them. A rosy blush dusts your cheeks as your eyes lock on to his heavy and aching cock. Fully erect and leaking precum, your toes curl in anticipation. “Cariño, don’t look at me like that.” At his voice your eyes quickly rise to meet his, his voice sent liquid heat down your spine. His words were laced with lust and hold more meaning than just the words alone. “I can’t help it, your so beautiful.” Your words are nothing but sincere, and they have Miguel smiling. “Te amo.” His body is shadowing yours, hands on each side of your head. Lips descending upon your body, little nips from his fangs accompany each burning kiss. Tongue swirling around each perky nipple. With a measured pace Miguel finally reaches where you need him most, making sure to be gentle Miguel latches both hands to the bottom of your thighs lifting you up towards his mouth.

In one quick movement his tongue is lapping up your cunt, relishing in the taste that is undeniably you. Swirling from bottom to top, plunging his tongue inside massaging the inner walls of your cunt. Then he’s retracting, heading towards your clit. Fingers filling the space his tongue has left, tongue dancing around your clit. Miguel has brought heaven to you in this moment, your mind was wrapped in a lustful haze of pure pleasure. Your hands were gripping tight upon his hair, the only thing that was keeping you grounded. Your moans where music to Miguel’s ears, he was taking special care to not pierce you with his talons but every lap of his tongue made it that much more difficult. And to add onto the strain to not hurt you with his talons, he was having an extremely difficult time not ripping himself away from your cunt so that he could properly fuck you into the bed. So for now he was distracting his leaking cock by it rutting into comforter. But fortunately he wouldn’t have to wait long, because before he knew it he could feel you grip tighten and your moans rising in frequency, you were close to cumming. “Miguel- more, please.” Rushed and needy are your words, but you never needed to worry Miguel would follow your every request or demand until the end of time.

The feeling of your walls rhythmically tightening around his fingers with a vice like grip has him groaning into your clit. As he slows his movements with your waning orgasm his moving his body up the bed, lining his cock up with your glistening cunt. Sinking into has Miguel’s mind short-circuiting, no matter how many times you both did this dance he would never get tired of it. Arranging your legs to rest wrapped around his strong waist. Hips grinding into you, making sure to go to the hilt with every deep thrust. Pushing his talons into the comforter, most likely ruining yet another piece of fabric. Your hands latch onto his wide shoulders, forehands nearly touching as you both share the air around you. Shared sounds of pleasure surround you both, picking up the pace. Harder, faster thrusts has you digging your nails into him, arching your self to get as close as possible. And thankfully Miguel is on the same wavelength, both hands are quick to wrap around your torso. Pulling flush against his chest, you can now feel his rapid heartbeat along with every groan and moan he lets out. “Miguel—I’m close.” A slurred expletive in Spanish is all you get in return. Miguel rises up to his knees, you are clinging onto him- arms around his neck and legs around his waist. He’s pulling you down to meet his every harsh thrust. Head thrown back, eyes rolling back as the head of his cock kisses your cervix sending pure pleasure throughout your body. The brush of his fangs against your neck has you shivering in response. Each thrust within you has you spiraling closer to the edge of release. Miguel is soon moving one of his hands closer to your clit, rubbing tight furious circles around it. And with those quick movements your cumming around his cock, squeezing every inch of him, trying to get him to cum with you and to stay connected with you. Another harsh Spanish expletive is heard along with a moan as he pulls you firmly against him, every twitch of his release is felt within you.

Sweet kisses are being placed along your neck along with familiar spanish endearments, “so good…I love you so much.” Miguel’s voice is muffled by your skin. With gentle movements Miguel is slow to leave your cunt, with sweet fulfillment he watches as his cum slowly dribbles out of you. Keeping his tight embrace around you he is unhurriedly heading towards the bathroom, using his organic webs to turn on the water- filling the tub. As he waits for the tub to fill he busies himself with relaxing within your embrace, finally becoming free from the stress he has accumulated.

With the tub finally full, a smirk is making its way upon his face. You had begun to grind against his cock bringing it to attention, Miguel couldn’t help but let out a huff- you were insatiable and he couldn’t love you more for it.

[jellyfishoreo1206]

I'm unsure if I'll consistently write for TF2 but omg has this been rotating in my mind like a rotisserie chicken from Costco

MEDIC, SNIPER, ENGINEER EATING YOU OUT

NSFW MDNI

Includes: a smidge of consensual somnophilia, fingering, tonguing, overstimulation, mention period blood/blood consumption (?), breeding if you squint

S/O is afab with fem pronouns

MEDIC

We can all agree he is a FREAKKKKKK

Now lemme say this

HE LOVES WAKING YOU UP LIKE THIS

Like seriously

He could do this forever

The soft/breathy moans you let out whenever he goes down on you

And how your body responds to his actions??

Omg he could just stay there

Doesn't care if you lock your thighs around his head, that's what the respawn machine is for

Loves it especially if you're having a wet dream about him, gives him an excuse to eat you out

Will love it even more when you're on your period/ovulating

Just the taste and smell of your blood and arousal mixing on his tongue and how much more fertile you will be when your period/ovulating finishes

It drives him INSANE

Will literally groan into your pussy from the satisfaction of your taste

Maybe whimpers/begs if he's pussy drunk

"Mein liebe! I can't get enough of jou..pleaze let me taste more of jou.."

If he's REALLY pussy drunk, he'll start speaking in his native tongue

Likes to think he's just helping you with your cramps (in which case he is :3)

He leaves bite marks on your thighs, it's canon I don't make the rules

I feel as if his tongue is more wetter than most, maybe a little slimly

And on the semi-thicker side

Would use his fingers to watch you flutter around them as he presses kisses into your skin

Then pull several orgasms from you via mouth until the only thing you are screaming is his name

"Scheiße.." Ludwig whispers to himself as he drags his hands slowly up and down the plush inner thighs of yours, observing the scarred skin as a trail of goosebumps followed right after as a breathy moan left his lips. He originally came in to wake you up as it was nearly time for breakfast as knowing the others, the food will probably be gone in just a matter of minutes. But a certain smell hit his nose when he approached the bed, one that made a unmistakable shiver of excitement go through his body.

The smell of period blood.

It wouldn't have been the first time he has gone down on you while on your menstrual cycle even you were while sleeping, but everytime it always brings him as sense of extreme arousal whenever he gets a whiff of the metallic scent. He would never tire of the smell or taste of it, not even after having tasted it 1,000 times would he never tire.

His breath comes out heavier as he drags a finger from your hole to clit, voicing his pleasure as he sees just the amount of blood and arousal that gathered on his finger from one stroke alone. Something in him went feral as he saw how your hole seemed to flutter, begging for him as the slightly quiet moan of yours left your lips. With no hesitation, he dove into your folds, hungerly lapping up your arousal as he groaned, eyes closed as he savored the flavor of you on his tongue as he thrusts it into you at a semi-fast pace. He made sure to pay attention to your clit, bringing his fingers up to gently rub at it to add to your pleasure.

A buzz went through his body as he continues his actions, his free hand anchoring itself onto your thighs as they twitched. The world seemingly disappeared around him as he made out with your pussy, blood and arousal smearing onto the lower half of his face as he angled his tongue to reach the right places inside you. A stream of whimpers were leaving your mouth, an absolute musical to his ears as he drinks you, a mixture of saliva, blood, and arousal slowly drip down his chin and onto the pristine white of his collared shirt. The other mercs might notice it, if they're observant enough, but to hell with them.

It wasn't long until your insides clamped tightly around his tongue as a long moan left your plump lips, walls pulsing as gushes of your arousal cover the entirety of the lower half of his face as well as the top part of his shirt and vest. Pulling away was a struggle, moans leaving his mouth as he humped the bed, lapping up the rest of your arousal with a hunger, merely pulling away when your twitches increased. He was somewhat surprised when he made eye contact with sleepy eyes, observing how flushed your face was and the dripping sweat begining to form around your hairline as your lidded eyes observed him, chest heaving heavily as you attempted to catch your breath.

God you are going to be the death of him.

The stinging pain of his hair being pulled snapped him out of his trance, your hand fisted in his hair guiding him back down to where he was before previously. He lets out a low groan when he sees just the absolute mess that he left. He needed no words when you pulled him closer, his breath fanning your heat as he watched your folds flutter from anticipation.

"Meine Liebe, du machst mich absolut verrückt.."

ENGINEER

All I can say is

HE IS A TEASE

AN ABSOLUTE TEASE

Like, he will basically make out with your pussy

Full on french kissing it

And when you're about to come, just sooo close to that edge, he just pulls away

And he will MAKE you beg for him to let you come

But will then make you come over and over again, chuckling whenever you try to ask for him to slow down

Dw you guys use the stop light system

He's not Engineer w/o that gentleman in him

"What's the matter, darlin'? Thought you wanted this~"

The main reason he does this? To see you squirt

No joke, he thinks you become more attractive when you're squirting

His mouth is so warm

AND HE HAS A THICK AND ROUGH TONGUE

He knows how to use that thing

And he knows very damn well

Prideful bitch (I love him)

Will more than likely use the Gunslinger when going down on you too

Inserting those metallic fingers inside you as he slightly nibbles at your clit, enjoying those small yelps you let out

His fingers are pretty thick too

Always cleans up/showers so you don't have to worry about oil or smth like that

I've seen this around whenever reading anything smut related about Engie, but he adds a vibration setting to the Gunslinger

It just makes sense

He would absolutely love to bite around your thighs, placing his hands on your love handles to keep you from squirming away from his touch as he continues his teasing

Bc he's in the workshop most of the time, he'll sometimes forget to come to bed most of the time and that ends up with you pretty needy

So to make up for it he'll eat you out with a passion, going slow and taking his time to work you up to that point, dropping some praise here and there as he kisses bits of your skin as he licks at your core in long strokes

Or just eat you out while you're sleeping, it's a 50/50 with this man

Also doesn't care if you clamp your thighs around his head, do it however much you like cause his mama didn't raise no wimp

Gives so much praise

Like so much it's sickeningly sweet

If he's still in his work clothes, he'll put his helmet on your head before going down

"Keep tha' safe f'me, yeah?"

He's a cowboy and a gentleman through and through

Will sometimes go down on you in his workshop if he's desperate enough

Which has led to some unfortunate walk ins (poor pryo will never see you guys the same anymore)

"Fuck! Dell slow down!"

Despite your pleads, the engineer between your legs didn't bother to stop, seemingly just going faster, his tongue lapping at your pussy like a dog. The only indication you had that he heard you was the slight chuckle vibrating against your core, moans slipping past your lips as you felt yourself nearly tipping over the edge, the temperature of the room seemed to rapidly heat up the more that thick tongue of his teases itself inside of you.

God he's been going at it for so long. The insides of your thighs are literally dripping with your previous orgasms, thighs shaking as you attempted to keep them from clamping them around his head as he drinks up your arousal.

But right when you were just about to come, just right at the very very edge, he stops all movement. Whines and gasps left your mouth as you begged him to keep going, to not stop, all attempts futile as he was pulling away from your core with a sly smirk on his face, using his tongue to lick up the extra fluids that collected around his mouth.

"What's the matter? Isn't that what you wanted, Honeybee?" Oh you could just slap that smirk off his face if that throbbing desperation of yours wasn't bothering you so much.

"Fuck please don't stop! Please!" Desperate pleas fell from your lips as you begged for him to continue what he was doing, begging him to just keep going despite your earlier complaints. Though what you weren't expecting was the sudden intrusion of his thick finger, a pleasured yelp leaving your mouth. The mechanic pumps his finger at a deliciously fast pace, the semi-rough texture of it providing a sensation that has your eyes rolling back as it scrapes against all those good spots within you, fingers gripping at the bedsheets when it hits a particular spot within you.

"That's it, let yourself go for me, Honey." His words effortlessly drip off his tongue, his eyes watching as his finger gets covered in your juices in seconds, adding a second one with ease to the first, watching how you squirm underneath him. Though he noticed how a little bundle of nerves was being neglected, and being the man he is, decided to fix it as he leaned down and gently takes it into his mouth, sucking it in a soft manner.

That seemed to have been enough to pull another orgasm from you, strings of moans leaving your lips as the mechanic listens in satisfaction as he drinks. You. Up.

Your mind was completely fogged with pleasure, small twitches here and there as you attempted to get your breathing under control. In the midst of that, Dell pulled away being careful to not overstimulate you any more as he pulled his fingers out, peppering your thighs with kisses as he waits for you to come back to earth, a smile on his face.

"You alright, darlin'?"

It took you a few seconds to process the question, only mustering up a nod, that was enough for him though as he leaned up to place a careful kiss on your cheek. "Okay, Hun. How does a nice warm bath sound?"

God I love chubby strong men

SNIPER

He has fangs

He will use them (gently) whenever he can

Nibbles at your clit/folds or your thighs whenever he goes down on you

I feel like he has a smell kink

Oh who am I kidding he DEFINITELY has a smell kink

Like, look at him

He's obsessed with the smell of you

To the point he kinda steals a few pairs of your underwear from your dirty laundry to keep for himself

Okay moving on

Has wandering hands, he cannot keep them in place

Very shy when it comes to it, and awkward for the first few times

But after a few encouraging words and teases he gets right to it

His tongue is a little longer than the other two

It's not as thick but omg can he reach allll those good spots in you

Maybe a smidge less wetter than Medic's

A little submissive, considering he's very touch-starved

Fastest to become pussy drunk too

So many whimpers and moans are falling out of his mouth and into your pussy

"Ohh bloody hell, Roo.. I can't stop.."

Denies that he even got pussy drunk (liar)

A little cautious whenever your thighs are slightly squeezing his head

Cause my man is HELLA skinny

A stick if you will

Head would easily collapse compared to the other two

One time you squeezed your thighs a bit too hard, and he ended up with a cranium broken into several pieces

That was fun explaining to the Medic

When the others found out they never would let him live it down

Poor guy :[

His fingers are longgggg and have a good amount of thickness to them

Like he spends more time watching his fingers stretching out your cunt

If he feels adventurous enough (or brave) he'll want you to sit on his face while he eats you out

You swear he gets more vocal when you sit on his face

So. Much. PRAISE.

He accidentally edges you without knowing it sometimes, but he always makes up for it <3

"Fuuuck, Roo.. You look so pretty spread out on my fingers.." The temperature in Mick's camper seemed to increase rapidly despite it being chilly in the early morning of New Mexico. The sun was barely peaking from behind the mountainous region, the interior of the van being dark due to the lack of light as you watched the outline of the sniper's frame above you with breathy moans leaving your lips as those deliciously thick fingers of his pump themselves into your heat.

His sunglasses were still on the small bedside he had in his camper, giving you a clear view of his eyes as they were intensely watching how his fingers disappeared into your heat with a erotically wet 'squelch' filling the space of the camper.

"Mick! Je–sus don't stop!" The knot in your stomach seemed to be getting tighter, steadily building up in pressure the more time that passed as his fingers dragged deliciously against the ridges of your walls, shocks of pleasuring shooting out through your nerves.

Though it seemed like his fingers inside you weren't enough, as he lowered his head to be leveled with your sopping wet, hot core.

Removing his fingers, whines left your mouth, about to ask him why he stopped before keening at the feeling of his fingers rubbing at your clit and the feeling of his warm tongue pushing itself into your hole.

"Fucking shiT–!"

His normally cool and calm facade quickly broke down the moment he had a taste of you on his tongue, whines and gasps leaving his mouth and into your core, making it more pleasurable for you as your back arched up from the bed, your hand shooting out to grip at his hair as an anchor.

The action alone pulled a loud groan from him, his tongue seemingly going at a faster pace, messily lapping at your flowing juices as it covers every inch of his lower face and the inside of your thighs.

His hands soon began to wonder, various places of your body did he squeeze gently, what was once steady hands were shaky and unsteady as they continued to roam your body feeling every bump, scar, and crevice underneath his fingers tips.

Everything started to become fuzzy from the constant pleasure and sensations, to add to it Mick hasn't stopped those beautiful moans of his as your cunt muffled them, you could faintly hear some words, most likely words of praise. You could see the top half of his face through teary eyes, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as sweat dotted here and there on his face, hair messy and pointing in nearly every direction, god he was just so handsome.

The knot in your stomach finally broke, waves of euphoria washing over your body in rapid paces, nerves sparking and lighting on fire as the sensation surges and crashes throughout. Unconsciously, you accidentally wrapped your thighs around the sniper's head, squeezing a bit too tightly for his comfort. That's if his mind was clear, he would've cared, though his top priority as of now was to clean you up off all those delicious juices spilling out of your core and onto his tongue.

It took him some time to pull away once your ecstasy has passed, removing himself from in-between your thighs, placing delicate kisses along the way as he pulled himself up to lay down beside you.

Silence for a few moments, before you began to giggle exhausted, wrapping your arms around him to huddle yourself within his warmth.

"Wha's so funny, Doll?"

"Do I really have that effect on you?"

"Wha'?"

"To make all those cute little noises of yours."

"... don't know whatcha talkin' bout."

"Liar."

AHHHHHH I WISHED TO HAVE FOUND A BETTER ENDING FOR SNIPER USUJJJJWHWIWHJEIE 😭😭😭😭 (probably will update it to fix that later tho)

[scarasimping]

I WAS HOPING U DID NSFW BUT I WASNT SURE

PIRATE SCARA 100% LIKES SEEING U WITH HIS HAT ON WHEN UR ON HIS SHIP, UR HIS ROYAL TREASURE AND HE LOSES IT AT THE SIGHT OF U WITH HIS HAT

He 100% has a think for marking, biting and leaving dark bruises from his mouth on your neck (and places no one else can see) gets him going (this man would go feral)

“Scara i told you to make sure their hidden!”

“Oops ;)” ps: hes not sorry <3

AND DONT GET ME STARTED ON TEASING, THIS MAN WILL DROP SO MANY FLIRTY THINGS TOWARDS YOU WHEN HE SHOULDNT, running from the guards? He’s gonna comment on how he knows you can last longer.. I mean run longer

Hiding behind a tree away from the guards? Oops his fingers slipped up under your shirt better stay silent, you wouldn’t want them to hear would you

ANON ILL KISS U ON THE MOUTH I LOVE U

about the hat thing, you're 100% correct. there's something about seeing you wear his hat that makes him feel possesive over you. it's a hat that everyone knows belongs to him, even other crews (and especially his enemies) so if you're wearing it, they know that you belong to him as well.

he's absolutely fucked you while you wore nothing but said hat as well. his calloused hands holding your thighs while they wrap around his waist as he has you pressed against the wall of his quarters. His hat almost fell off with all movement, but without stopping his relentless pace, he simply adjusts it to fit more snugly on your head.

"make sure this stays on, darling," he would say while all you could do is nod and dig your fingernails deeper into his shoulders and back.

speaking of marking, youre absolutely right that he has a thing for it, both giving and receiving. seeing your pretty body that's been pampered your whole life, not a scar to be seen, adorned with those deep purple and red marks left by him and only him fills him with a sense of pride. he would be there for hours marking you if he could, making sure anyone who happened to see any of them would know how well loved you are. He'd leave them on your chest so that they barely peak out of whatever shirt you're wearing, down your stomach, and especially on your pretty thighs.

pirate! scaramouche is definitely a thigh man btw. big thighs, thighs that are on the smaller side, he does not care he likes whatever as long as they're yours.

anyways, if you get mad at him for leaving a hickey where someone can see, he'd just smile at you cheekily and pretend to look innocent.

"whoops, must've gotten carried away...oh well!" this motherfucker does not care.

but also, he absolutely loves when you leave scratch marks down his back (and hickeys of your own on him but scratches are his favorite) especially if he can feel them throughout the day. yes, they sting a little, but he doesn't care in the slightest and even likes the stinging. your scratch marks are alongside all of his scars along his back and something about that makes him so happy.

(plus whenever he feels them there he just remembers his night with you and wants more so don't be surprised if the next time you see him, he's asking for another round.)

you're so right that he would tease you all the time. as you're hiding around a dark corner from the guards, pinned to the wall by him to make your bodies as small as possible so that you're not spotted, he's just biting back a laugh and staring down at you.

"Isn't this a familiar position?" he would whisper. "almost like last night when I-"

you have to kiss him to shut him up, it's the only thing that works.

that still doesn't stop him from slipping his hand under your shirt or down the hem of your skirt, so that he can test how quiet you can be. make sure you don't get caught ;3

[fanaticsnail]

Perfection Incarnate

Tobiuo Masterlist Here

Word Count: 2,200+

Synopsis: Several members of the Heart, Kid, and Straw Hat pirates engage in a game of Poker. When Shachi runs out of Berry, he decides to bet something a little more interesting: Tobiuo's kiss.

Themes: Heat x Tobiuo, Canon x OC, gambling, drinking, kissing, yearning, unrequited love, infatuation, fascination, supernova trio crews, first kiss, they're so sheepish, fluff, swearing.

Notes: I am learning how to draw on my phone because I want to do some digital art. Always starting with a kiss, I just wanted to know more about why they were kissing like that. Calls back to this comic I did a while ago. 3rd person POV.

“Alright, which one of your crewmates has the weirdest mouth?” Shachi’s nasally crackle shot through the air, his drunken stupor propelling those around to laugh with him, “I'm outta Berry, so I gotta bet somethin’.” Penguin clapped a hand over Shachi's shoulder, leaning his forehead against his upper arm and hissing out a snort of laughter into it.

Killer was contemplative, leaning back in his seat and thinking on it. Going through a list of names of his crewmen, he finally settled on, “Heat. I think Heat has the weirdest mouth. Guy breathes fire, and he's got the ridges from the scar marks. Robin?”

“I'd say Brook, just because he has no flesh, nor tongue, but can still taste and consume food,” she hums in deep thought, meandering through her cards and sorting them from weakest to strongest suit. Shachi stifled his laughter, using his hands in a rough flurry to call to his crewmate from across the bay.

“Ours is Tobiuo. You gotta see her tongue and teeth, man,” Shachi admitted to the table, all ignoring the shouts and petulant competitions going on between Law, Luffy and Kid. Tobiuo released several soft huffs of laughter, soundlessly expressing her glee while nodding in confirmation with her red-headed crewmate. Killer tilted his head, narrowing his eyes beneath the mask to get a better glimpse of the inside of the fishwoman's mouth.

Arching her brows at his inquisition, she slunk back in her seat, lazily hooking her right thigh over her left knee and slinging her arm around the back of Penguin’s chair. Eyeing the mask-wearing man cautiously, she drew her tankard up to her lips and took a large sip of the amber liquid within.

“Why all the curiosity about mouths and Berry, Shachi?” Robin asked, regaining the tables attention and peeling their eyes away from Tobiuo's lips.

“I'm gonna bet Tobiuo’s lips for my wager. You up for it, Iyo?” he slurred his speech, lulling his head to the side and looking over his pointed sunglasses at her, “Gonna kiss the winner?” Tobiuo moved her hands in a rushed flurry, her lips pulling back into a tight-lipped snarl.

“Am I meant to be offended, or-…?”

“-No, no! Of course not,” Shachi interrupted the gestures, “Look, we all know what your lips feel like. You're an excellent kisser. I'd say they're worth…” he trailed off, creating an opening for another voice to air their thoughts.

“...Three Million Berry.”

Tobiuo choked on her drink, snapping her head over to the quieter voice at the end of the table.

Hiding behind a hand of cards, the slouched and bashful shoulders of the Kid-Pirate Fire-Breather softly shot his sunken eyes over the margin of the stack of cards. Tobiuo tilted her head to the side, fluttering her webbed hands hastily before tapping Penguin's arm with the heel of her palm.

“She's wondering why so much,” Penguin raised his arms defeatedly before translating properly, “Her exact phrase: ‘for that price, you could hire an escort to mess around with. Why her’?” Tobiuo nodded, waiting for his reply. Killer sat back in his seat, smugly looking between Heat and the Heart Pirates’ chief of security.

Killer had been the target to Heat’s confessions regarding his attraction to the fishwoman, often the source of many a migraine. Finally having an opening for conversation, he felt a weight leave him as Heat continued.

“I-... I, uh-…” Heat fumbled, his fluster rising in his cheeks and blooming the warmth in his chest. Killer’s migraine returned, prompting him to take action and rearrange his cards.

“That settles it, then,” Shachi confessed, looking between his pile of Berry, Nami, Robin, Killer, Penguin, Tobiuo, Wire, and Heat, “Opening bid, three million Berry. Anyone gonna call?” Tobiuo moved her hands and furrowed her brows, her two crewmates ignoring her protests and chastising words.

Before Heat had the ability to test his hand against Shachi's, to win the opportunity of a kiss from the Fishwoman, the blonde Kid-Pirate spoke up.

“I'll call you on your bullshit, Shachi,” Killer spoke up with his warm tone full of playfulness and jest.

“Jokes on you, blondie,” Shachi’s nasally crackle cut through the air, “I got 3 pretty ladies in my hand. Got something better than a three of a kind?” Shachi’s cocky grin looked greedily down at the pile of Berry on the table and back up to Killer.

“Actually I do,” his grin widened beneath his mask, his smile heard in his soothing baritone, “I've got a straight flush.”

“No,” Shachi whined, chucking his cards on the table in defeat, “And it was all going so well! I actually had a good hand this time!” Rather than consoling her crewmates of his loss, Tobiuo narrowed her milky-gaze at the mask-wearing man and tilted her chin up to assess him.

“Bets a bet. Pay up, Buttercup,” Killer rose to his feet, prompting Tobiuo to do the same. In two broad strides, she stood in front of him and folder her arms into one another. Killer snuck a look at his crewmate, Heat, who placed his cards face up on the lengthy table in front of him. A royal flush, a hand that would've landed him in Killer’s place if he spoke up.

“Don't be shy,” Killer uttered, elevating his right hand up and returning his attention to the seven foot Fishwoman. “Let me see,” he extended up his fingers towards her chin. Tobiuo narrowed her eyes, at him and released a puff of air from her lips before pouting them.

“Don't get all huffy with me, Missy,” he giggled, his shrill laugh causing her to become more at ease. Unlacing her arms, she allowed him to place his thumb and index finger on her chin and draw himself into her space. Offering a small hum of approval, he gently coaxed her face towards him.

Killer took a moment to appreciate being dwarfed by her great height, sparing another glance at his fire-breathing crewmates before directing her closer to his mask.

“Now say ‘ah’ for me, Tobiuo,” Killer moved his thumb up and gingerly toyed with Tobiuo’s bottom lip. Rolling her eyes, she parted her lips and revealed a sharp set of teeth. Each tooth was whittled naturally down into a sharp peak, her stalactite-shaped canines protruding from her upper and lower lips.

“Ohh… Pretty,” Killer hummed in thought, examining how interesting her uniqueness was in comparison to human anatomy while drawing his thumb away from her lip and down to her chin once more, “Now the tongue?” Tobiuo’s smirk rose up on the left hand side of her darker lips, lulling her tongue over and revealing the organ to him.

“Bloody hell-!” Killer exclaimed, pulling his hand away in shock at the length of the morsel. Divots, ridges, and pliant barbs were elevated over her palate. The tip of her tongue tapered off in a pointed end, extending far further than regular capacity.

Heat sat quietly by, his eyes widening and heart beating rapidly against the shell of his ribcage. Just when he thought he couldn't get more enamored with Trafalgar Law’s barbaric fighter, he swoons at the new light being shone on her otherworldly anatomy.

“Gonna show me what a three million Berry kiss is?” Killer goaded, prompting Tobiuo to retract her tongue back into her mouth and lean in closer to Killer. Reaching her webbed hand up to his mask, he shook his head and recoiled against her touch.

“Not on your life, Missy,” he shook his head and stepped fully away from her, “I don't take this off for just anyone. Not even for such a pretty reward as your lips, honey.” Tobiuo tilted her head to the side, furrowing her brows while fluttering her hands. Killer watched the motions, not truly understanding and looking over to Shachi or Penguin for translation.

“She's asking where you want her to kiss you, in not very appropriate language, I might add,” Penguin chuckled, prompting Shachi to wheeze. Killer shot his attention past the two Heart-Pirates towards the fire-breathing commander and curled his finger twice towards him.

“We were talking about Heat earlier,” Killer informed the gathering of allied troops at the poker table, “Can’t kiss me, but you can kiss one of the other commanders on my behalf.” The corset-wearing commander stepped closer to both Killer and Tobiuo, his eyes avoiding the milky-gaze of the security officer as she assessed his form.

She hadn't really thought much about the blue-haired Kid-Pirate, not truly experiencing a closeness like this with him to truly admire his features. Heat trailed his eyes up to her chin, hovering briefly on her lips before meeting her gaze with his own.

Fluttering her hands at him, Shachi, Penguin and, surprisingly, Wire, all released a cackle at her flurry. Heat shook his head, his lips parting as he tilted his chin towards the gathering without departing his eyes from hers.

“What are you-?” Heat asked his hairless eyebrows knitting together curiously, “Are you making fun of me?” Tobiuo slunk away, smiling with her lips tightly shut and a deep, purple blush rising to flood her cheeks and webbed ears. Heat chuckled, stepping forward more boldly now.

“Oh, I think you are making fun of me, Tobiuo,” Heat uttered in a deep rumble, causing her to take a step back and buckle her knees on the back of the bar island to the side of the poker table, “And what are you saying, hm? What's got them all giggly?” Weaving his legs within hers, he rose his right hand to cup her neck and tilted her head back. Hovering his lips over hers, he whispered gently over her sensitive skin.

Tobiuo’s brows rose, her gaze darting down to his lips and back up to his eyes in shock. Heat's thumb gently caressed the dips and elevations of scales against her skin, prompting Tobiuo’s breath to hitch and shudder. Heat made to tease the security officer a little more, but his over-eagerness to brush his lips with hers stilled that thought in a heartbeat.

Surging forward on his toes, he dwarfed the Fishwoman by looming his frame over hers, immediately meeting his lips with hers in a soft kiss. Closing his eyes, the tattooed Fire-Breather hummed into her lips in a soft moan, enjoying the warmth of her lips on his. Tobiuo's eyes remained open, examining the commander as he pressed his lips on hers with more intent and meaning.

Tobiuo was not unaccustomed to kissing for fun, many of her crew often got a peck on the forehead, a raspberry blown in their necks from behind, or a platonic oscillation if she was feeling exceptionally generous. But this? This was something entirely different.

Heat's lips ignited something in her that she hadn't felt before. Heart fluttering in her chest, she finally closed her eyes and leaned into his kiss. Webbed hands finding his hips, she drew him further into her lap and tilted her chin up to brush with his. Changing the angle, she parted her lips and prompted him to do the same. Just as her thumbs brushed against his dermal tri-hip piercings, Heat’s fingertips raked and carded through her hair to add depth to the kiss.

As his tongue finally met with hers, a small whimper caught itself in his throat at the ridges and flexible barbs coarsely grinding against his. Drunk on the feeling, his boldness halts as his bottom lip gets nicked on her sharp teeth.

“Ow-! Ouch-!” Heat hisses, tugging his body away from her and drawing his hand up to his bleeding lip. Tobiuo’s eyes widened in horror, her hand raised in a c-shaped cup and waving it in front of her lips. Her lip quivered, sharp lips chattering as she truly depicted her apologies for the bite.

“She's sorry, she's sorry,” Penguin translated for her, watching the flurry manically fluttering from her hands with her lips moving soundlessly, “‘It was a mistake. I'm so sorry, pretty boy. So much for a three million Berry kiss’.” Heat’s eyes widened, shaking his head and releasing his lip from his fingers. The softest trickle of red dribbled down his chin, doing nothing to calm Tobiuo’s hasty apologies from flying from her hands.

“...Pretty boy?” Heat blushed, his cheeks tinting with the softest shade of pink. Tobiuo stilled her hands, the same purple hue dusting her scaled features. “Is… Is that what you called me? ‘Pretty boy’?” Tobiuo sucked her lips into her mouth to halt her rising smile, prompting Heat to step towards her once more.

“I-... I think you're really pretty too, love,” he confessed in a barely audible whisper.

Killer hummed, slouching in his seat and offering his clenched fist towards Wire. The taller man clenched his own fist and tapped it against the balled fist of the first mate. The blonde was feeling rather pleased with himself, finally having Heat’s longing and infatuation momentarily satiated by a soft kiss from the security officer of his dreams.

Tobiuo felt her heart soar at his confession. Although, compared to the women present on the three vessels, she didn't feel she was all that much to look at. When her eyes met with Heat’s once more, she felt like the most beautiful creature that had ever lived. Offering him a little more of a grin, Heat released a whimsy sigh.

“Perfection incarnate.”

[shadowtriovibes]

Hi, could I request a oneshot of female!MC in a toxic relationship and Sebastian angry/in protect mode after seeing a bruise on her, and going after her bf? As he confronts him he reveals his love for her in his heightened emotions. MC catches up in time to overhear everything and to stop Sebastian from killing him. Ending with fluff and MC ditching him for Bash?

Thank you, I love your blog!! 💖

hello anon! thanks for the request — obviously the topic is a little sensitive so please mind the tags before reading! 🤍

a guy like you should wear a warning

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

Word Count: 2.5k

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, magical fights and physical fights, Love Confessions, Hurt/Comfort

“You know why I’m here,” he says simply. “Did you seriously think you wouldn’t have to answer for that? She’s bruised.” A brief flicker of fear passes over the boy’s face as sparks fly out of the end of Sebastian’s wand, but quickly it’s smoothed over with a haughty grin. “So she told you, is that it?” the boy asks. “Poor thing, I should’ve known the ‘hero of Hogwarts’ couldn’t take one fight before running off to her little guard dog.” “You call that a fight?” Sebastian demands. “Looked a little one-sides to me.”

It’s bad enough that Sebastian has gotten used to seeing you confidently wear the collection of scars you’ve accumulated during your time at Hogwarts.

In fact, the very first time he’d met you, he’d noticed the thin scar that runs from your eyebrow down to the middle of your cheek. It’s the first thing that most people notice about you when they first meet you, he assumes, which is frankly an insult to your eyes.

Eventually you told him that your scar had come from an attack you’d withstood back in London – the very attack that brought Professor Fig to you in the first place, and that had resulted in you learning about at Hogwarts. Some of Rockwood’s men had tried to corner you just off Diagon Alley when it had occurred, and while Wiggenweld had been helpful in making sure you didn’t lose your sight in that eye, the swift Diffindo you’d taken to the face would always leave a mark.

You’ve also got a burn on your forearm from a particularly rough round of Cross Wands. Sebastian loathes that he’s responsible for it, even though you insist that you’ve grown to rather like it.

“It’s a badge of honor,” you joke, delighted by his residual guilt. “I’ll always remember that I ended up winning that round, won’t I?”

There are countless others, too: a thin scar by your lip where a particularly aggressive poacher had decked you while wearing an ostentatious ring, a fading mark on your ankle from angry Mongrel’s bite, and a small round burn from the tip of an Ashwinder wand right above your left hip that he’d only once caught a glimpse of.

By now Sebastian has seen just about every mark on you. (Hell, he was there when you got half of them.)

However, that familiarity means he’s quickly able to spot when there’s a new mark on you — especially where one shouldn’t be.

That morning at breakfast, he’s too preoccupied by the lush pile of cinnamon scones in front of him to get a good look at you when he first arrives. Given that he’s simply rubbish at Astrology, he’d been up late charting the stars to prepare for his N.E.W.T.s and had only just arrived near the tail end of the meal.

He’s already shoved half a scone in his mouth before he realizes Ominis is sitting beside you looking grim, one hand gently resting on your shoulder. On your other side, Anne is murmuring quiet reassurances to you while you press a cold compress to the right side of your face.

“It’s not that bad,” Anne says softly. “Just dab some Wiggenweld on it and it won’t even leave a scar.”

“Merlin, what happened to you this time?” Sebastian asks.

Anne shoots him a warning look as you sheepishly lift your head, gently removing the compress to show off an angry red laceration on your cheek. He hisses sharply – that looks like it hurts.

“It’s a long story,” you mumble.

“I’ve got time,” Sebastian says easily.

He hopes he’ll hear another story about how you’d been unable to sleep so you slipped out in the middle of the night to take on a lingering poacher camp, or maybe you’d attempted to sneak one of your baby Graphorns into one of the last remaining dens along the Clagmar Coast and failed to avoid detection.

Instead, you just avert your eyes.

“W-well, I guess it’s not really a story,” you murmur. “I was just running late to breakfast this morning and I, um… tripped, and those stairs are harder than they look.”

Sebastian frowns. You don’t keep many secrets from each other these days, but he can still recognize when you’re not telling the truth. Besides, that rapidly-bruising cut is clearly from a smack to the face, not a tumble down the stairs.

Anne pointedly clears her throat and takes the compress from your hand, tenderly pressing it to your cheek without another word.

When Sebastian looks across to Ominis, he’s surprised to see his friend’s sightless eyes peering back at him purposefully before he subtly shakes his head.

Not many people know that Ominis has quietly been studying Legilimency for several years. It was actually Professor Hecat who had suggested it in the first place, noting that his inability to interpret body language made dueling significantly more dangerous for him. Obviously saw Legilimency as a tactical advantage, but for Ominis, it was something infinitely more nuanced – a form of magic that his family hadn’t tainted, to start.

Indeed, Sebastian is surprised that his closest friend would have invaded your mind without your explicit consent, but he would be the first to admit that if he had such a skill, he would have done the same thing.

A beat later, Sebastian hears his best friend’s voice echo inside his head as he says, She didn’t fall. It was him.

His vision goes red, and his hand is on his wand before he even realizes what he’s doing.

“Bash,” Anne warns as he stands up from the table. “Don’t.”

“W-what are you doing?” you ask quietly, and as you peer up at him, the compress slips down your face.

As soon as he sees your wound again, there’s nothing anyone at that table could possibly say that would stop him from tracking down that sanctimonious Gryffindor prick you’ve been dating for the past few months.

Sebastian had been quite shocked indeed when you’d announced that you had started dating a boy you’d met in Hogsmeade near the start of term. Of course, the shock stemmed from the fact that you were apparently the last of your little quartet to learn that Sebastian was hopelessly in love with you.

You remained ignorant and had let that smooth-talking, arrogant twat into your circle without so much as a second thought, Sebastian had thought bitterly. He’d had to watch miserably as you spent less and less time with your fellow Slytherins in favor of being plied with attention from him and his cacophonous troupe of utter wankers.

Of course, Sebastian knew he was only dating you because you were the “hero of Hogwarts” and not because he actually liked you. He’d tried to tell you that once, and predictably it had gone rather horribly.

(Specifically, you’d hexed him so hard that he’d had to spend the night in the hospital wing because he couldn’t stop belching up flames).

But now it seems like his motives have shifted. He didn’t just want to date you – he wanted to control you.

Maybe you had indeed snuck out the night before, hoping to simply have some time alone with your thoughts while you patrolled for stray camps on your broom. And perhaps when you overslept and arrived late to breakfast, he pulled you aside and said that he was sick of waiting up for you, that it makes him look bad in front of his friends, like you don’t respect him. And maybe for good measure, he’d told you that you may have more powerful magic than him, but he certainly doesn’t need a wand to remind you of your place.

A quick glance at the long Gryffindor table across the room informs Sebastian that your boyfriend is long gone, perhaps anticipating that bruising you like that will come with swift consequences. Ignoring Anne’s protests and Ominis’ gentle warning to stick to legal spells, please, he stomps off toward the Grand Staircase.

Ultimately he tracks down the rotten sod in the Transfiguration courtyard, pompously leaning on the fountain like he doesn’t have a very precise bounty on his head.

“Get up, you feckless git,” Sebastian growls.

He’s already drawn his wand, and the rest of your gutless Gryffindor’s posse quickly scatters several meters away.

“Sallow,” he drawls. “What’s the problem today?”

It’s no secret that Sebastian is not a fan of the boy, though Ominis frequently bends over backward trying to encourage him to be polite for your sake.

“You know why I’m here,” he says simply. “Did you seriously think you wouldn’t have to answer for that? She’s bruised.”

A brief flicker of fear passes over the boy’s face as sparks fly out of the end of Sebastian’s wand, but quickly it’s smoothed over with a haughty grin.

“So she told you, is that it?” the boy asks. “Poor thing, I should’ve known the ‘hero of Hogwarts’ couldn’t take one fight before running off to her little guard dog.”

“You call that a fight?” Sebastian demands. “Looked a little one-sided to me.”

“You and I both know that if she’s wanted to, she could have tossed me into the air and slammed me right into the ground without lifting her wand,” the boy reminds him, standing up from the fountain and slowly reaching for his own wand. “But she knows better.”

Oh, Sebastian is sincerely going to enjoy this, he thinks.

Before the other boy can properly aim at Sebastian, he quickly casts a merciless Depulso at him and sends him skidding into the fountain – but not before crashing into the tranquil Wyvern statue that sits in the middle.

When he emerges, waterlogged and swearing up a storm, he sends a vicious Descendo across the courtyard to Sebastian.

Of course, Sebastian Sallow didn’t earn his title of reigning champion of Cross Wands by being unable to dodge such a simple spell.

The next curse he casts burns hot when it’s expelled from his wand.

“Confringo!” he shouts.

Flames flicker at the edges of your boyfriend’s robes and he yelps, panicked, before clumsily stamping out the fire with his soaked cloak.

Sebastian gives him no time to recover. “Flipendo!”

He goes sailing through the air and lands in the grass at the base of a gnarled tree, his wand abandoned by the fountain.

“You’re pathetic, Sallow,” he taunts. “All this for some whiny little slag?”

All of a sudden there’s a taste in Sebastian’s mouth that sends him reeling. It’s metallic, like blood, and stings a bit like an electric current. He remembers that taste – it precedes an urge he hasn’t felt in years, a spell he swore he’d never let cross his lips ever again. But it’s there, begging to be cast, practically daring him to silence your tormenter permanently.

He stomps over to the spineless, hunched-over prick with his wand drawn, pointed squarely at the boy’s chest.

But then he hears your voice call out, “Bash, stop!”

Both boys turn just in time to see you dash down the stairs into the courtyard, Anne and Ominis on your heels.

“Stop,” you repeat, and Sebastian can see that you’re trembling. “He’s not worth it.”

He murmurs your name, distracted just enough to lower his wand almost imperceptibly. Unfortunately, it’s enough for the boy beneath him to roll out of his aim and pull himself to his feet. Then he swings at Sebastian, disarmed and desperate.

Sebastian tastes very real blood in his mouth this time — his lip has split, he realizes.

Then he laughs, which unsettles just about every onlooker in the courtyard.

“Mate, you can hit me all you’d like,” Sebastian says dryly. “But I haven’t got any compunction about hitting you back.”

For someone who generally agrees with Ominis that wandless violence is uncouth and uninspired, Sebastian packs a mean punch. He hears the twat’s nose break as he collapses to the ground in a heap, evidently knocked out cold.

Anne gasps. Ominis sighs, dissatisfied.

You, however, are completely silent.

“He deserved it,” are the first words out of Sebastian’s mouth.

As he carefully flexes the fingers of his bloodied hand, he adds, “He deserved much worse, actually.

“Sebastian, that’s enough,” Anne hisses. “You won, let’s just drop it.”

He desperately rakes his hand through his messy curls. Once he catches his breath, he carefully approaches you.

You look frozen in place — in fact, you’ve hardly moved a muscle since Sebastian had called out to you.

“I didn’t want you to see that,” he says quietly. “But I meant it. He dared to lay a finger on you, he had to answer for it.”

You nod carefully and barely flinch when Sebastian lifts a finger to trace along your bruised cheek.

“Bash,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he says quickly, but you cut him off with a shake of your head.

“I’m sorry you had to handle him,” you say softly. “I wanted to, I would have, I just... At first I wasn’t even sure if it was real. I couldn’t believe that someone who loved me would say things like that to me, or hit me like that.”

Without thinking, Sebastian scoffs and says, “He doesn’t love you, I love you.”

Sebastian didn’t think those bewitching eyes of yours could go any wider, but once again he’s wrong.

“W-what?” you stutter.

“I — I just meant, someone who loves you wouldn’t put their hands on you,” he insists, mentally cursing his own existence. “A-and I’d never hurt you, obviously, so–”

“You love me?” you whisper. “Truly, Bash?”

He’d imagined finally telling you the truth so many times, but none of those scenarios involved Ominis, his twin sister and about forty other students watching with bated breath.

“I mean… yeah,” he laughs softly, deciding to reach for an aloofness that might allow him to maintain a shred of dignity. “Thought it was pretty obvious that I’ve been mad about you for ages.”

But before you can respond, you hear Professor Weasley emerge from her classroom and exclaim, “What in Merlin’s name is all this commotion?!”

You take Sebastian’s hand and start to tug him toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower in hopes of sparing him what would surely be several weeks of detention. The rest of the crowd quickly disperses and offers you much-needed cover; fortunately you’re able to spirit Sebastian away up to the Room of Requirement without being stopped.

“Sit,” you instruct him once inside, gesturing to a small round table with mismatched chairs. “You’re still bleeding.”

Sebastian touches his lip as he takes a seat and discovers that it indeed stings. You return with a rag and a bottle of Wiggenweld, dabbing some onto the cloth and gingerly pressing it to his lip.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Sebastian,” you say carefully. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, go on,” he agrees.

You stubbornly wait until he meets your gaze before you ask him, “Did it ever occur to you that there might be a simpler way to tell me that you love me than nearly killing my boyfriend in front of half the school?”

He waits a beat before admitting, “Honestly? Not really.”

You smile ruefully and use the rag to wipe away the rest of the blood around Sebastian’s mouth. Once you inspect his wound and confirm that the potion has firmly sealed up where it had split, you lean in and press a gentle kiss to his lips.

Before you can pull away, he murmurs against your lips, “But he’s not your boyfriend anymore though, right?”

You simply roll your eyes at him and toss the rag against his chest so he can return the favor.

[aliensubstance-xxx]

Sanders Sides x GN!Reader HC (& some General ones)

ahhh forgive me if this is a bit clunky! I don't usually do stuff like this but I need to get it out of my brain hah

What they're like kissing you:

Logan is by far the best kisser of the bunch! He starts off a little robotic or unsure, but after a while he starts to experiment, figuring out what you like most and getting good at it.

Prepare to be completely breathless and kiss-drunk and for him to just stand up properly, readjust his tie and go about his day. He's got a schedule to keep, after all.

Patton is a very silly kisser, he likes to press kisses to any and all bare skin (and covered!) he can reach, and will grab hold of you and just smother you in kisses :)

Be wary if he goes anywhere near ticklish spots- he will blow raspberries there

Roman is so dramatic when he kisses you- it's all big gestures, like dipping you or picking you up and pinning you to the wall etc. He kisses you so deeply you could swear you hear a musical crescendo in the distance.

Unless he's feeling more mellow, in which he'll still kiss you deeply, but just...quieter and softer, tipping you up by the chin and just breathing in your space.

Virgil is, obviously, quite a nervous kisser. He'll never settle his hands- he wants to have them all over you at once, on your hips, on your shoulders, clutching your hands to his chest, in your hair, anywhere. He gets flustered quickly too, he'll kiss you deeply and then bury his face in your shoulder (You can feel the heat of his blush even through you clothes) until he can kiss you again.

Oh, and he's a biter. Don't be shocked if you manage to spend some time making out with him and you end up in teeth marks and hickeys (and sore lips)

Remus is...sloppy is probably the best way to describe it. He's passionate and enthusiastic, so much so that your kisses will be all teeth, tongue and spit.

He will also lick you. sorry.

Janus is actually quite the reserved kisser- he's a little embarrassed about his snake mouth when it comes to kissing (He'll never say it out loud.). He does want you to enjoy kissing him as much as possible, so maybe after some snake themed compliments he'll take off his gloves and pull you in by the hips.

Catch him by surprise with chaste kisses as much as you can- he'll make a pleased little rattle/hiss (like a purr?) out of surprise. It's very cute.

General HCs:

Small TW for, minor angst & mention on injury, innuendo and reference to genital piercings on the last one.

Despite being identical, they all actually have very small differences! That being said (and totally making sense)

Logan has the biggest hands- noticeably. Man's hands could wrap around your entire being with ease. ahem sorry. Moving on.

Roman is slightly more muscular (still chubby though. good lord), and has one or two scars he got while in the Imagination and decided to keep!

Janus, obviously, has his scales and his eye. His scales go cross his shoulders, elbows, hips and knees- he's also got a little forked tongue and a glottis under said tongue. (The glottis is what snakes have a the back of their throat- it helps them breathe while swallowing large prey...and in Janus' case-)

Virgil has two tattoos- a ring of thorns around his right finger (Right ring finger for individuality, thorns for hardship and struggle) and an earthworm on his left forearm (Rebirth, especially to do with the life cycle. and he thinks it looks cool. He wanted to get a spider but he didn't want to frighten Patton.)

Patton gets a little cut right under his heart whenever Thomas is genuinely heartbroken- he has a little collection of scars there.

Other than their lobe piercings, Virgil, Janus and Remus all have other piercings!

Virgil has an industrial on his left, his secondaries, and two conches on his right ear.

Janus originally had snake bites (when Thomas was a teen. Janus wasn't always as refined as he is now) and one helix piercing.

Remus' has however many piercings he wants on any given day- he takes them out every night and re-pierces however he sees fit every morning. (This includes his frenum piercing. On his willy. look it up but be warned for penis.)

That's all for now! If you liked my stuff and want to request something (minific, or more hcs) feel free to shoot me an ask :) hope you enjoyed.

[halfmoth-halfman]

viii. but i can't help falling in love with you

Pairing: Mob Boss!Price x F!Reader Word Count: 5.6k Warnings: bruises, injury, medical inaccuracies, blood, scars, scar mention, talks of abuse Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. prev | next

“Everything about it says it was just a random break-in—”

Price hums, clearly not happy with the answer.

“—the guy’s prints weren’t in the system, and he didn’t have any affiliated markings or tattoos,” Ghost continues, hands gripping tight around the back of Soap’s chair.

“We asked around on our ends,” Alejandro sighs, gesturing between himself and Valeria. “No one recognizes him.”

“We haven’t heard anything either, but I have Ayah keeping a lookout for anything new,” Farah adds from Price’s left side, trying to add some small amount of comfort to a clearly upset Price.

“It was probably some guy looking to score,” Kyle reasons from the chair across her. The dining room lapses into silence as Price sits in thought, arms crossed and fingers drumming against his bicep.

“We should ask the bird,” Nik cuts in. “If it’s someone she knows, this could be a targeted attack against her, not the club.”

“Let her sleep,” Price says, leaving no room for argument. Nik gives him a questioning look but nods and stays silent.

“We could keep a set of eyes on the hotel for a few weeks, see if anyone comes lookin’ around?” Soap suggests.

“We can’t spare anyone right now,” Ghost huffs. “Not with the way things are.”

“But—”

A soft knock draws the room’s attention to the door leading to the sitting room.

It’s the worst anyone has seen you look. Dressed in leggings and a maroon sweater that’s a little big on you, you look exhausted and run-down, with deep purple bruises lining your neck.

“He-ey—” you croak out, wincing as you give a haggard cough.

Rudy’s on his feet immediately, guiding you to the closest chair, the one directly opposite Price’s seat at the head of the table. He sits you down as you try to clear your throat.

“I told you, no talking,” he chides, gently tilting your head back to lightly press his fingers against the bruises, just like he had when Price brought you here last night. You sigh through your nose, giving a quick sorry in sign language.

“How are you feeling?” Alejandro asks. You open your mouth to answer and shut it promptly when Rudy sends you a warning look. You shuffle, reaching into the pocket of your leggings to pull out your phone.

You type for a quick second before your phone chimes, and a robotic voice answers for you, “Like I almost got choked out by a man twice my size.” That earns you a few chuckles, though Price looks less than amused.

You type again, a quiet beat before the voice in your phone asks, “What did you do with him?”

There are a few glances around the table, most landing on Price as if they’re unsure whether they’re allowed to answer.

“He’s taken care of. No need to worry,” Price answers. You nod, trying not to hit Rudy’s fingers with your chin.

“Did you…recognize him at all?” Roach asks. “Maybe you’ve seen him around the hotel or…?”

“Roach,” Price warns.

“It’s a fair question,” Nik scoffs. “We need to know if this was random or if someone’s going after her.”

They go back and forth while you type, waiting for a lull in their argument to answer. “I didn’t get a good look at him, but from what I saw, I don’t recognize him.”

“And…do you have anyone who might be after you? An old co-worker? Friend?” Valeria presses.

You swallow tightly, fingers hesitating over your phone. Rudy catches that, pulling back from you to give you a curious look.

“Canary?” Rudy asks softly, his quiet voice loud in the room's silence. “Is someone after you?”

It’s too late to lie now.

Think, think, think.

You type again, “The cops? The ones who interrogated me when I covered for you after Hasan. They seemed pretty mad, and they knew where I was staying.”

You give your best worried look, setting your phone down to fidget and pick at your nails.

“That could explain why we didn’t find anything on him,” Alex says, looking at Price.

“Shepherd wouldn’t risk one of his guys like that,” Kyle disagrees. “Especially not to go after someone who’s barely involved with our business. No offense, Canary.”

“None taken,” you sign, giving a casual shrug.

“It wouldn’t hurt to look into it,” Farah sighs. “Can you ask Kate to check around and see if she can find anything on her end?”

Price, silent until this point with his eyes fixed on you, takes a deep breath. He sits up in his chair, the room lapsing into a tense silence as everyone looks toward him.

“Rudy, how’s her neck?” Price asks.

“Still swollen, but it looks like it’s going down,” Rudy answers before turning to you. “You’ll have to take it easy for at least a week. Minimal talking and no singing.”

You give him a salute and a thumbs up.

“I’ll call Kate and see if she finds us any information,” Price sighs. “We’ll close the club tonight while the rest of you find out what you can and put out feelers—see if any of the other families are trying to branch out. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

Price stands, and the others follow suit, taking their leave with gentle goodbyes and smiles aimed toward you.

“König, hang back a second,” Price calls as he walks to your end of the table and takes the seat next to you, pulling the chair closer to fit you between his spread legs. König nods, lingering near the door as Price gently traces his finger along the bruises on your neck.

“Any news from Majka?” Price asks quietly.

“Nothing yet. Conor said he’d let me know if he heard anything,” König answers. Price nods, a brief flash of disappointment across his face.

“Okay, thank you. Keep me updated.”

“Yes, sir,” König says, giving you a nod before leaving the room.

The room sinks into a comfortable silence as Price looks over the purple and blue of your neck. He’s as gentle as possible, fingertips barely ghosting over the swollen skin.

“How are you?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper as he pulls his fingers away to slide his along your cheek and cup your jaw. You set your hand over his, squeezing softly with a small smile.

You shrug half-heartedly, trying to reassure him without talking, lest you incur Rudy’s wrath.

He nods in understanding, leaning forward to kiss your head softly. When he pulls away, you lean forward, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

“Gaz and Roach brought your things over last night. You can pick whichever room you want, and we’ll move your stuff there,” Price says, perching his head on top of yours with a comforting hand rubbing up and down your back.

You reach for your phone, keeping yourself attached to him as you type, “The room I was in last night…?”

“My room,” Price chuckles.

You pull back to look up at him questioningly, tilting your head. “Then where did you sleep?”

“In one of the spare rooms,” he shrugs. “We got done late, and you needed the rest.” You roll your eyes, clicking your tongue in disappointment.

“If you like the room that much, you’re welcome to it,” Price teases.

You narrow your eyes, glaring playfully at him before you type out your answer, a smirk on your face as your phone says, “I’d prefer the room with you in it.”

Price’s brows raise as he smiles down at you, but there’s a hesitance in his eyes. “You’re sure? I don’t want you to feel like you have to after what happen—”

You set a hand on his chest to stop him. Setting your phone down, your hand slides up to rest on his cheek, gently pulling him closer and closer until you’re barely centimeters apart.

“You make me feel safe,” you rasp before you move forward and close the gap.

For a brief moment, Price stills, and anxiety rockets through you at the thought you’ve overstepped.

You move to pull away, and he lunges, warm hands coming up to frame your face as he kisses you with a year’s worth of bubbling tension finally boiling over.

You don’t know how you feel as you kiss him. It’s a combination of emotions you haven’t felt in so long: relief, desire, comfort, joy. They all swirl together into the one emotion you’ve been chasing since your wedding.

Safe.

-

Living with John is suspiciously easy.

It feels as if you've known each other for years, and that same familiarity extends to the rest of the club.

You remember nights with your father as a child, listening to him tell you old war stories from his chair while you took and apart and cleaned his guns in front of the warm fireplace. Those memories bring a fondness to your heart that you always thought was the peak of what familial love was meant to be, but it’s nothing compared to your life in the manor.

Dinners with Kyle, Farah, and Alex are filled with laughter and teasing and almost always made by you and John. There’s no tense silence as everyone picks at their plates, no stilted conversation about business and only business, no large work dinners that force you to parade around in an uncomfortably tight dress while you serve your guests.

When Soap and Ghost stay the night, you sometimes run with Soap in the mornings, turning morning exercise into a friendly competition. There’s no pushing on his end, no yelling at you to pick up the pace, or warnings about falling behind. It’s all encouragement and jokes and teasingly elbowing each other as you walk the rest of the way back to the house.

Sometimes Ghost joins you instead, the two of you enjoying a quiet run around the property. He indulges you in the few questions you have about the flowers you find. The answers are short, as you expected, but he’s surprisingly knowledgeable about the flora around the manor and has a cute eagerness to his voice when he explains a flower’s meaning to you.

After a month, Nik finds you one afternoon, grinning at you as he wipes the black grease from his hands onto his overalls. He leads you to the garage, where he shows off the extensive collection of cars he’s worked on, both classic and modern, and tells you to take your pick. You try to assure him you don’t need anything more than your beat-up car—it may be falling apart, but it’s wormed its way into your heart.

“That’s fine, but you’ll have to drive something else while I fix up your piece of shit,” he tells you. It’s then that you notice the back of the garage where his workshop is set up, and he’s got your broken baby up on a lift with the tires taken off.

So, you pick a new one—something practical, efficient, and baby blue—and thank Nik when he tosses you the keys.

Alejandro visits often, mostly to talk with John about happenings with the club, but he always makes a point to find and say hello to you. Sometimes, Rudy or Valeria will join him. When Rudy does, he checks in with you, asking how you’re feeling and making sure your throat isn’t bothering you anymore before joining John and Alejandro. When Valeria visits, she skips out on business talk entirely, insisting on taking you out to go shopping or see the city.

“There’s no point in sitting through a bunch of information Alejandro will tell me about later,” she laughs with a dismissive wave.

You don’t see König or Roach at the house much, and when you do, it’s usually late at night, just as they're leaving John’s office. John never tells you what they come for, but he’s always a little more tense after their visits.

You don’t know how to describe John. The best fitting word that comes to mind is welcoming.

He lets you have half the space in his massive walk-in closet, even though you barely have enough clothes to take up one of the shelves. He has you pick one of the spare bedrooms, telling you to redecorate it and turn it into whatever you want. You’re allowed anywhere in the house, save for the few rooms belonging to the other club members, to do anything you want.

The freedom is almost overwhelming.

When he senses your hesitance, he assures you that he wants you to feel at home, that this space is as much yours as it is his.

You let yourself explore over the weeks but do your best to stay out of the way of club business; it’s not that you’re not curious, you just…don’t want to know, don’t want to be involved in the stress of it all.

You’ve dealt with that enough in your life. It’s a new era for you, and you’re determined to hold on to it for as long as you can.

-

When Rudy gives you the okay to perform again, you nearly tackle him in a hug. Even if it’s only for the first half of the show, you’ll take what you can get.

Farah switches out with you during intermission, and you head for the bar, where Alex already has a stool open for you.

“Feel good to be back?” he asks, smiling wide as you take your seat.

“It feels amazing,” you laugh. He slides you a glass of water, briefly turning to tend to another patron.

Someone clears their throat behind you, tapping you on your shoulders. There’s a dull thrum of pain, but you ignore it and spin in your seat to find König staring down at you.

“Boss wants you upstairs,” is all he says before turning and walking away.

…okay?

You finish your water, giving Alex a quick wave before heading to the club’s second floor.

You pass a few private game tables, not finding John at any of them, and head towards the few closed-off rooms.

You don’t need to guess which one he’s in when you turn the corner and find Ghost standing guard outside the door.

“Everything okay up here?” you ask as you approach.

“Nothing unusual,” Ghost gives a slight shrug, his shadowed eyes flitting about the hallway.

“Then, mind if I…?” You point to the door behind him. He nods, taking a step to the side to let you through.

The room is dark, low-lit, and filled with cigar smoke and laughter. You make your way through the haze to the poker table at the center of the room, where John sits with Nik and a few other men you’ve never seen before. A couple of them have women with them, barely dressed and making more effort to distract the other players than paying attention to their companions.

Something tightens in your chest, fight or flight buzzing around the back of your mind.

Sitting in a dark room, shoved in a barely-there dress, put on display to distract the other players. The threat of being left to wolves should you fail looming over you.

John wouldn’t that to you.

He’s not the same as—

“There she is!”

John reaches out to grab your hand as soon as you’re near and kisses the inside of your wrist.

“Care to join us?” John asks, staring up at you with a look of adoration that sends a shock of straight want down your spine. “Could use my good luck charm.”

Nik barks out a laugh, “With the way you’re playing, you need more than luck.”

“You don’t have to,” John murmurs, while the others are too busy with their laughter and jokes.

The softness in his voice puts your anxiety at ease. Of course, he’d never force you to be somewhere you didn't want to be.

“Why not?” you shrug, smiling as he tugs you forward and pulls you down to sit across his lap. A hand settles around your waist, a soft kiss pressed along the curve of your neck, and the cards are dealt.

You watch while they play, bets higher than anything you’d be comfortable with. They’re pretty good, but you’ve spent a lot of time around poker tables and even more time around liars. You wait until the final community card is flipped, and the man directly across from you—the last one left in the game against John, older with dark, greying hair—blinks three times and makes his bet before you lean into John as if to kiss his neck.

“He’s bluffing,” you whisper, following it with a kiss before you straighten up. John doesn’t acknowledge you, blank face trained on his cards, but you feel a small squeeze of your hip where his hand rests.

John calls, and the two reveal their hands. It’s not even close, your observation correct, as John wins by a landslide.

He presses an appreciative kiss to your shoulder. You catch Nik smirking at you, and you wink back at him.

The game continues well into the night, and you don’t leave your place in John’s lap. The two of you take it easy, letting John lose a few games while still winning a majority. You play the part, batting your eyes at the others with a flirty smile so they think nothing more of you than John’s arm candy while you lean in to pepper kisses along his neck and whisper hints in his ear.

By the time they call it quits, the left side of his neck is covered in your lipstick, but he’s a few hundred-thousands richer.

“Quite the good luck charm you have there, Price,” one of the men next to Nik—red-headed with one of the scantily dressed women pressed against his arm—laughs, drinking you in with a leer that sets you on edge. “Maybe next time, I’ll try her out.”

John laughs, but you can feel how hard he tenses beneath you.

“She’s spoken for, I’m afraid,” he says with a polite smile, pressing you just a bit tighter against him.

“Sure,” the man laughs before turning to mumble to the others, “Must be all that good luck she’s rubbing off on him,” The others laugh along, save for Nik, who focuses on gathering the cards on the table.

“Go wait outside for me, Dove,” Price speaks quietly. You nod, standing from his lap.

You lean down to kiss him on the cheek before smiling to the table. “You girls want something to drink? It’s on me!” The three women glance at each other before noticing the tension rising in the room and nodding. They follow you out, and you direct them toward the bar before turning to Ghost.

“You might wanna head in there,” you tell him. He nods, waiting until you’ve turned down the hall to go inside.

You spend the next hour with the women at the bar, having a fantastic time as they drink and dance and tell you all about how awful their men are in hilarious detail, probably having their first taste of freedom in a while.

You understand. You’ve been there before.

They leave for a fifth dance, and this time you decline, far too exhausted to keep up with them.

As soon as they’ve disappeared into the crowd, you let out a long exhale, letting yourself lean against the bar.

“Tired?” a baritone voice murmurs into your ear, strong arms sliding around your waist.

“A little bit,” you sigh, turning to face John. “Everything go okay?”

He hums, one hand pulling off your waist to wrap around yours and bring it to his lips. He leaves a lingering kiss on your fingers, eyes holding your gaze as he allows you to see the dried blood and bruising on his hand.

“Probably should go home and wrap this,” he sighs, trailing kisses down the side of your hand to the inside of your wrist.

“Is he still breathing?” you ask, giving your best attempt at a look of disappointment despite the smile slowly growing on your face.

“Unfortunately,” John scoffs, pulling you closer so his mouth can continue its path up your arm.

You click your tongue at him, rolling your eyes in fake annoyance as you pull your hand out of his embrace to set your hand on his cheek. “You don’t have to do that whenever someone says something like that to me. It’s bound to happen.”

His brows knit together, concern and confusion drawn across his face.

“Not to my girl, it isn’t,” he says, firm and final.

“John—”

“Get a room, you two!”

You’re startled apart as Soap and Kyle reach the bar.

“Hey, let the old man have his fun!” Alex scolds through poorly held-back laughs. John groans, head falling into the crook of your neck as the three burst with laughter.

“Ready to go home?” you laugh softly. John nods into your shoulder, stepping back from you with a long sigh and deep reluctance. He takes your hand in his, pulling you away from the bar as the two of you are followed by cheers and shouts of:

“Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!”

“Take it easy on him, Starling!”

“Have fun!”

Your first priority will be taking care of John’s beaten knuckles. The fun can come after that when you thoroughly thank him for defending you.

-

It isn’t unusual for John to be up late, either busy at the club or in his office.

Just as it’s not uncommon for you to go to bed alone. Of course, he makes up for it by making sure you never have to wake up alone, but you still miss him on nights when work comes first.

To make up for his absence, you take to wearing his shirts as pajamas, melting into the rich smell of him that lingers on the fabric as you sleep. When he’s finally done for the night, he often finds you lying on top of the covers, snuggled down into the fabric of his shirt. It’s a sight that fills him with equal parts adoration and want, something that he will never get tired of seeing.

You always wake up whenever he finally joins you for the night, moving so you can get under the blankets and let him pull you into his side. Sometimes, he talks to you about his day until you’re lulled to sleep by the soft vibrato of his voice, and sometimes, the sight of you in nothing but one of his shirts leads to even longer nights spent touching and feeling and worshipping until your voice leaves you.

Sometimes, it leads to nights like tonight, you laying beside him with your head on his chest, listening to the rhythmic beating of his heart while he trails his fingers in nonsense shapes across your back.

Things are fine, content, even downright serene until he skims over a ridge of the scar on your shoulder, and you tense instinctively, hissing softly under your breath.

He pulls back immediately, “Sorry, sweetheart.”

One thing about John: he never pushes.

He knows about the scar, knows how you go out of your way to cover it up, how you flinch whenever someone touches on that side. He observes, stores the information away in his brain, takes care to avoid touching you there, but he never asks you about it.

“It’s alright,” you sigh, rolling your shoulder, trying to get the ache to leave.

You want to tell him. You have for the last month, but every time you think to bring it up, something catches in the back of your throat, gnawing at you until you back out.

It leaves you with an awful sort of guilt, one made worse by the fact that you don’t have anyone to confide in about it. No one to bounce your ideas off of. No one to reassure you that John’s opinion of you wouldn’t change if he knew.

You trust him implicitly.

He’s never given you a reason not to.

You can’t keep complaining about being haunted if you won’t let go of your ghosts.

So, in the quiet darkness of your bedroom, you suddenly sit up, throwing one leg over him to place yourself in his lap, and set your hands flat against his chest.

“Did Kyle ever tell you I was married?” you ask softly.

John goes still beneath you.

“Things were good at the start. Or he made it seem like they were so I wouldn’t realize what he was actually doing, but over time that façade he put up melted away, and I—I realized how big of a mistake I actually made.”

He doesn’t speak, but John’s hands settle on your thighs, gently kneading into the bare skin.

A small attempt at comfort.

A silent I’m here.

“He never hit me or anything like that. He found other ways to hurt me, ways that would be harder to prove if I ever left, and he had this…charisma—he was so likable and charming that whenever he’d say no one would listen to me, I’d believed him. One day, he—” Your voice catches, and John’s hands slide up to your hips as he sits up and sets his forehead against yours.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he whispers.

“I want to,” you reply. It takes a second for you to collect yourself, and you’re still not sure you’re ready, but you push yourself to do it anyway. “One day, I just snapped. I couldn’t take the snide comments, the vague threats, the constant anxiety—I couldn’t do it anymore. I tried to leave, and he tried to stop me, and we got into this huge argument. He grabbed my arm, and I pulled away too hard, not watching where I was going…and broke my shoulder, falling down a flight of stairs.

“I try not to think about it a lot, but my shoulder never really healed properly, so sometimes even the smallest touch just makes it ache, and all I can think about is that day, lying at the bottom of the stairs, wondering if it wouldn’t have been easier to have broken my neck instead.”

The pain lingers, but there’s a considerable weight that lifts from your chest.

There’s a beat of silence before John moves again, gently grabbing your hand and setting it on his chest, guiding your thumb along the skin where you feel a small raised circle underneath the hair.

“One of the first deals after I’d just started the club,” he sighs. “Went in all cocksure and arrogant, thinking I knew everything and that no one could touch me. The dealer we were meeting with had this idea that we were overcharging him, which we were, but we weren’t going to tell him that.

“Well, I got mouthy, and his men got violent. He pulled a gun, and the friend I was with, the man I’d started this club with, shoved me out of the way. Bullet tore through him but slowed down, going off kilter just enough to miss my heart. The Hell I unleashed after my recovery is what laid the foundation for what the club is today, but sometimes…Sometimes, I think about him, and I wonder if it was a fair trade. If it wouldn’t have been better for me to have taken the bullet and let him be here instead.”

A trade. One painful memory for another.

An implied confession: you’re not alone.

You lean forward, a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

I’m glad you’re here.

He pulls you into him, lips colliding with yours.

I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.

Your hands wind their way around his neck as he flips the two of you, laying you down against the bed. He hovers over you for just a second, blue eyes gazing down at you with far too much emotion for you to handle. You pull him by his hair, and he follows your lead, closing the space to pour all that emotion into a kiss that you return with the same intensity.

I love you.

-

If there’s one thing John loves more than surprising you, it’s spoiling you.

It starts with jewelry, small boxes of simple, elegant bracelets and necklaces left on your vanity during your performances.

Then it extends to clothes, your half of the closet slowly filling with pieces you find when he takes you shopping. He carries your bags for you, and you repay him by modeling every piece of lingerie you buy when you get home.

When it’s his turn to handle date night, there’s always some outrageously fancy restaurant or sold-out showing waiting for you, everything complimentary, and the staff exceptionally welcoming to the two of you.

Spoiling you isn’t restricted to expensive gifts, either.

When you catch a cold in the middle of spring, John takes the day off—something Kyle says he apparently never does, and something he can’t afford to do, says Ghost—to tend to your every need.

He overhears you talking with Valeria, telling her how you’d love nothing more than to sink into a hot bath, and you come home to a candle-lit bathroom and a tub filled with warm water and bubbles. He washes your hair, massages your shoulders, and whispers in your ear all the things he plans to do to you once you’re out of the tub.

You appreciate every single thing he does for you and tell him so often. He shrugs it off, saying he’s happy to treat you the way you deserve.

In truth, there’s something else, something far more selfish, that drives him.

He loves you. He loves to see you smile. He loves the way your eyes light up when he takes time away from the club to spend it with you—something he finds himself doing more of recently, an attempt to escape the stress and paranoia that’s been building.

He loves it even more that it’s him that’s making you happy, that he’s the only one who can make you smile like that, laugh like that, moan like that. You’re his just as much as he’s yours, and he has no intention of ever letting you go.

"Zip me up?"

Especially not now, when you’re standing in front of your bedroom mirror, half-dressed in a gown he bought for you, trying to get ready for a gala.

You look like a dream, dress hanging off your figure as you gaze at him over your shoulder with that beautiful look on your face. The one that always makes him feel like a shy teenager stumbling over his words.

John steps up behind you, and you turn a little more to meet him with a soft kiss. You turn back to the mirror, standing up straight to give him access to the zipper of your dress and the bare expanse of your back.

You wait patiently, adjusting your jewelry here and there. So distracted. So trusting. It tugs at something in his heart how vulnerable you allow yourself to be around him, a man with so much blood on his hands, they're stained down to the bone. Yet here you are, allowing him to touch you, to stain your skin with that blood and violence and danger that will follow him for the rest of his life.

He doesn't know what he's done to deserve you, but you meet his eyes in the reflection, giving him that stunning smile, and he knows it doesn't matter.

He'd burn the world to the ground if it meant he could have you in the ashes.

-

It’s the middle of the night when Ghost walks into his office unannounced, carrying a small, black folder.

“Bit late for you, isn’t it?” Price asks, looking up from the journal on his desk.

Ghost doesn’t speak, walking up to the desk and setting the folder down. Price sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before picking up the folder.

“Are you going to tell me what this is, or do I have to guess?”

“Tried calling you.”

“Phone’s in the bedroom.”

“You’ve been gone a lot.”

“Is this late-night visit for something important or just so you can tell me you’ve missed me?” Price doesn’t mean to snap; the irritation that he’s having this conversation instead of finishing up his work so he can join you in bed grinding against his nerves.

“We found the man that attacked Canary. We know where he’s from.”

Price’s eyes shoot up to meet Ghost’s. Ghost looks about as tired as he does, and Price can’t blame them. Things have been tight for months, walls slowly closing in around the club.

There’s something else in his face, something that sets Price on edge.

Price knows Ghost, knows the man who’s been by his side for years, helping to take care of every dirty deal the club’s had to deal with.

Ghost has a certain detachment, no care about what he’s doing or who he has to hurt to do it.

It’s not Ghost he’s talking to, but Simon who’s staring down at him with sadness and pity.

“Look in the folder,” Simon sighs.

Price doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to know about whatever’s in here, what information he’s about to have to deal with. He wants to throw the folder back at Simon and bury his head in your neck, ignoring the rest of the world.

But he’s the Boss for a reason.

He sets the folder down, steeling himself with a deep breath, before flipping it open.

A stone sinks into the pit of his stomach, and his heart shatters.

“Oh.”

The mask slips back on, Ghost’s protective nature taking over as he watches Price visibly deflate.

“How do you want me to handle this?”

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