#'do you ever look at someone and wonder 'WHAT is going ON inside their HEAD??'' audio from inside out

[yeyinde]

touch starved reader with an oral fixation x kidnapper!Simon who’s all punishment and no physical affection? Please Simon just a little kiss? with tongues? :( (i just wanna make out with this man while my heart aches for him)

by Allah, you people are dogs. i will write the filth as usual.

DEAD DOVE, 18+ | dubcon. kidnapping. mean!Simon. dom!Simon. masking corporal punishment as affection. kissing. size kink, size difference. some thigh riding. degradation + humiliation (verbal). non-con pet play. marking (heavyyyyyy mentions of Simon biting you like a chew toy). choking. daddy kink (but in the awful, demeaning way). manipulation. forced affection. coersion. forced/manufactured dependency. brief mention of Simon stepping on your back to hold you down so he can whip you w a cat o nine tails. yanno. the usual Friday night.

idk. there's something so hot about you, completely naked, riding Simon's clothed thigh as he holds you up by your neck. tongue out, desperate for a kiss while he just mocks you the whole time.

It's survival. 

At first.  

A means of masking the innate horror of being stripped of your agency, your autonomy, by a man you barely even know. One you met once before (fate sealed), and now—outside of your apartment complex where he was idling by the foothold, smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the brick wall, head turned. Gaze narrowed as you approached. 

Waiting for someone, you assumed, thinking nothing else about the matter. 

Nothing else, except—

He looked familiar. You think you saw him before. He was staring at you. Hadn't stopped. Hasn't said a word, either. The silence was oppressive. Heavy. Your hands fumbled with the keys. Shaking. Trembling. 

He's pretty, you thought, suddenly. In the way car wrecks can sometimes be. Jarring and awful and hideous, but—

Mesmerising. 

Macabre. And that's what he is. Everything from the mask on his face (skulls, go figure), to the absurdity in his size, his width. The way space itself seemed to move around him, bending and distorting just to let him pass. His own gravitational pull. Magnetic. You feel it tugging on you as he pulls another lungful of smoke. Another. Another.  

(like an hourglass, a timebomb, almost. you wonder what will happen when it runs out—)

He gives you the creeps. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. A visceral sense of unease curdling in the pit of your belly as he keeps staring, staring. Eyes—crystalline under the broken headlamp, washout into crushed topaz—drilling into your back, sharp enough to flay skin. Everything inside of you says to run, but your key won't fit inside the lock. Won't—

Ever. 

And hindsight has always been a bitter thing, hasn't it? Cruel in her mockery. Had you known, then, that he wasn't a workman loitering by the complex, waiting for a friend; or a low-level drug dealer casting webs into the plum hewn aether, it might have saved you. Might have. 

Maybe. Because he was there, waiting for you, all along. 

Life has a funny way of paying back good deeds. All it took for your life to crumble down around you, rubble falling off of a shaking mountain, was kindness. Was seeing a large man in the pouring rain, already drenched. Black clothing sticking to the granite contours of his body, and offering sanctum in the shape of a rusting umbrella you found at a thrift store for three dollars. 

(“here,” you said, chipper. All smiles. “i live just down the street, and you look like you need it more than i do. do you want it?”

and he—

he simply stared. stared. his eyes liquid, molten, as they carelessly dropped, roaming down the length of your body at his own leisure. leering. assessing. it was odd. weird, but—

he huffed, then. seemingly satisfied by whatever you measured up to in his head. his neck lulled back, and he gazed at you from down the crooked length of his nose, tucked neatly away under the thick band of a facial mask. skulls. how could you be so stupid? 

slowly, like he was trying not to startle a mare, his gloved hand reached out, curling thick fingers around the hilt of it. he tugged once. in your stupor, you forgot to let go. embarrassment flooded in. he huffed again, quietly amused, as you untangled your numbed fingers from the umbrella. 

in your distraction, he moved closer. smelled of ash, of mildew. sweat and stale cigarettes. there was something predatory in the way he slipped through space. a preternatural quiet. an eerie stillness. 

you hadn't realised he was there, looming, until he rasped out, “more ‘n you could ever realise, pet.”

and you're sure why you do it. did it. but your hand slips into your shopping bag, eyes widen. heart thundering in your chest. 

“are you hungry? i, uh, i just bought some apples, um—”

his eyes are lavascapes. shackles. chains. “i could eat.”)

And now—

Forced to play this strange cat and mouse of his where he treats you like soot on the bottom of his shoe, and you pretend that it's affection. Love. How godless.  

Protection, he calls it. 

("mine," he whispers, orison soft, into your ear. "ain't go' nowhere else to go, do you, pet? world's big. would eat a small thing like you up. safer here. wit' me. only me.") 

You wonder what he'd do if you told him the biggest danger here was the madness nestled inside your head, the one that sometimes made you look at him like he was your salvation instead of the warden holding the end of your leash in a firm hand. Unyielding—like everything he does. Is. 

Withholding, too. Everything must be earned. Nothing given. Nothing handed out. And you know that this is a ploy, a tactic. Subterfuge meant to chisel into your sense of self, dehumanise you. Turn you into a simpering, obedient little doll for him to play with as he wishes. You know this, and yet—

It's survival, you promise yourself as he tugs on the hook latched to your collar, testing it for weakness. Survival, when his hands—bare, bare; warmed skin against skin, you could just weep—brush over your throat, nails skimming goosebumped flesh as he wedges one, then two inside, hirsute knuckles tickling your pulse. It tightens the collar to near choking. Intentional, you know. He likes it when you beg—for air, for food, water, him. 

Vile man. Awful. 

(You want to roll on your belly at his feet.)

This cold, cruel touch lights a fire under your skin. It's been months since he's last done so. Always wearing gloves when he has to. Using paddles, belts, when you misbehave. Never his bare hand. Not anymore. 

(“m’hand is for good girls,” he slurred, words merging, meshing together, painted with exertion. He wedged his boot against the small of your back, holding you down, and cracked the end of a cat over your bare ass, thighs. Unbothered by your howls, your screams, as the whip bit into your skin. You've never so much as been hit as a child for misbehaving, and now, as an adult, you have a madman standing over you, introducing you to something called a cat o’nine tails—a favourite in the army, lovie. “bad girls,” his boot pressed down harder, heel digging into your spine. “Bad girls get the whip—”)

Bad. Bad. Because you tried to run, to leave him. He dressed you up, called you Mrs Riley, and you—

Ducked out the back door when he turned away for a second. 

Stupid. It was poor timing. A test. He set you up, measuring your loyalty to him, your commitment, and you failed. Failed. 

(“this is what ‘appens when spoiled little cunts get their way too much. they act out, don't they? bitin’ the ‘and that feeds. you'll learn soon enough, though—”)

Ghost—sir, sir (master, maker, god; you'll call him anything he wants if he touches you again)—pulls his fingers away, depriving you of his touch once more. And it's all so stupid. So fundamentally wrong, deplorable, but you follow. Needy. Whining for it in the back of your throat. 

It's been months. Months without touch. Without sensation outside of leather lashing across your thighs, your ass; harsh, gloved fingers digging into your jaw, braced against the back of your head, as you swallow down his cock in an effort to prove to him you've been good. So good. Can be good. His good girl. 

You need to touch him. Need his touch. Ache for it, for something outside of this nook he placed you inside of, denied the privilege of living upstairs with him after you tried to escape. 

You want to. Badly. Your fingers twitch. Ghost sees it. Hums. 

“Need somethin', pet?” 

Your mouth is dry. You swallow. It burns. It hurts. “Yes—”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir—”

Behind the mask he's yet to take off for you fully, only ever hitching it under his chin to devour your cunt whenever you've been good, his jaw tightens, the fabric bunching up. 

You reel back from the look of sheer displeasure etching harsh lines into the hollow gaps of his eyes. Heart thundering. Stomach churning. 

“Mas—” he cuts you off with a soft sigh. Marked with his irritation. “D—dad—”

Dad. A new one. Daddy. He didn't seem like the sort to be into this type of play, not with his sardonic, deadpan eyes. His mockery. His dessicated humour, awful and biting. You'd have sooner expected him to laugh at you—in that slow, deep hum he gives; a little chuff, full of condescension and jeer—than to get off on it. On you, kneeling between his legs with your chin braced against his palm, mouth open, tongue out, as he fucks into the tight clench of his fist, groaning as you beg daddy to give you a taste. 

It's gross. Disgusting. 

It's not done for anything else other than to humiliate you. To crush you under the heel of his boot—little bug—so that you will always know where your place is in this scenario. His little wife. Mother, mum—

He pulls on the leash, jerking you forward. Purrs, “good girl,” and then steps back, moving away from you. Cruel. Dismissive. You hate him, hate him—

(Need him so deeply. With every fibre of your being—)

You watch him as he goes, mourning the loss of his presence already, as he paces around your space, your cage. Broad shoulders barely fitting inside. Head ducking to avoid hitting his crown on the popcorn ceiling. It's strange seeing him here like this. Prowling. He usually comes when he wants you, when he needs to enact more merciless punishment on you for whatever perceived evils you committed (not greeting him with a kiss when he walked in, not letting him suffocate himself in your cunt when he had you sit on his face, not making him cum all over your face quick enough when you knew he had other engagements to get to—), or when he ruts, heavily, between your thighs, cold and detached. Seeking pleasure from your icy flesh, and giving nothing in return but white hot agony. 

Him here, idling in your presence, is revolutionary. 

“S–sir—?”

He hums, quiet. Sits in the chair as you gather the fragments of yourself littered on the ground. His mood is malleable, it seems. 

You push, fingertips sinking into the putty of his agreeable temperament. “Can I—”

You waver when his sharp eyes raze over your bare body—clothes are for good girls, after all—pupils sloshing over the edges, bleeding into midnight blue. 

Your body is a battlefield. Every inch of skin branded with his mark—pretty, thrawn rings of teeth tattooed in silver, haloed in black and red, desecrate your flesh: neck, collarbones, breasts, belly, thighs (a particular favourite of his), ass, mons; all bitten through, chewed up. It weeps when you move, has blood trickling down your skin. The cracking scabs make him coo, poor thing, all bloody fer me? and he licks at them, sucks, until only a pinkish wound in the mimesis of canines remains. 

Uprooted, turned into something new—

His chest expands when he settles his gaze on the sliver of space between your spread thighs. Concealed in tenebrous, hidden from his leering, lecherous view. He cocks his head, considers something unknown to you. His thoughts, his mind, worlds away. Untouchable. 

(only to bad girls, he’d snarled out when you asked why—)

“Testin’ my patience still?” He doesn't rip his gaze away from your cunt, speaks to it sometimes more than he speaks to you. “Thought this alone time might’a cleared your ‘ead.”

You flush. Embarrassment roiling through you. His displeasure is a palpable thing. Heavy. You hate the weight of it. 

“I need—I need you.”

Another toneless hum. “‘Course you do. Ain't got anyone else.”

He's awful. Hideous. You want to rip his tongue out of his mouth. “I—I want you. Please.”

Ghost doesn't answer. You stopped expecting him to a long time ago, his moods odd measures of ebbs and flows; passive and mild, cracking terrible, awful jokes as he strokes your back, hands riveted to your skin, and then biting and caustic the next. Pushing and pushing until you lash out, snap, so he has a reason to push you down, punished and smothered under his bulk, as he ruts into you like a beast, a man starved. Tells you it's for your own good. That you need him. Would be lost without him. 

Bludgeoning a hole into you wide enough for him to crawl inside of. Poisoning you from the inside out with the same nocuous rot that flows in his veins. 

Maybe that's been his agenda all along. Maybe. To make you want him as badly as he wanted you. Desperate, obsessive. Going so far as to follow you home, lost little mutt waiting in the shadows outside of your door until you threw him another bone. And when that didn't work, when the food stopped being enough—

He took you. Held you captive in his house deep in the wilderness. A place so endlessly green that you sometimes stare out at it—unfathomable sea of phalthos and jasper—and feel dizzy. You'll get lost out there—

just like he says. 

As he turns your obsecration over in his head, you wait, supplicant to this man as you rest on your knees. Pretty pet with a golden collar adorned in gems. 

Fitting, you find. With his head cradled against his thick knuckles, you can't help but shiver at the way he looks shrouded in the gloaming embers of a fading twilight. Leonine. A king perfectly at ease in this thick, caliginous atmosphere.

His eyes burn, magmatic, in the low light. Vats of endless ink. Black holes that will swallow you whole if you get too close. But he's poised. Contemplative. Assessing. 

And then grips the end of the leash tight in his other hand. Tugs.  

You obey the wordless command, crawling on your hands and knees to where he's spread out on the recliner. Laxed, dripping with a careless indifference as you wander to him, resting your chin on the spread of his knee. 

Looking up, up, at him, waiting. Wanting. 

There's so much of him—a fact that has been the catalyst to your downfall the moment you saw him standing under the awning; this massive creature. Thighs wider than the width of your body. Burly forearms. Broad shoulders. He's big. Indomitable. Thick, endlessly so. But there's a give to his body. Valleys of softness hiding corded muscle. Firm, but—

Your fingers sink into the soft give of his belly when you reach out, bracing against stomach. Pulling yourself further into the bracket of his spread thighs, inching closer to him. 

He meets your reverent stare, eyes liquid along his lower lash line.

“Thought you were gonna keep me waitin’ all night,” he muses, giving another pull on the leash. It destabilises you. Your nose bumps into his sternum, and you moan at the sting. 

There's a dissonance in the back of your head. A hairline fracture in the line that keeps a degree of separation between pleasure and pain. They meet against the crack in the divide, merging into a abysmal polyphony conducted by his hand. 

He watches, amused, as you whimper, sniffing harshly against the burn. It's not bleeding, and not broken—small mercies, you suppose—and you let it simmer into a dull ache as you slowly clamber into his lap.

Ghost leans back as you settle, greedily taking in the sight of your thighs stretched wide over his leg, cunt pressed, tight, against the rough scrape of his jeans. The touch burns. He hasn't touched your pussy in weeks—

“C’mon,” he urges, hand spanning the width of your lower back. Coaxing. “Show me ‘ow good you can be.”

It's all the permission you need. Slowly, slowly, your hips start to gyrate, dragging your slit over the coarse material. The friction is agony. You need more—

He draws his other hand up, curls it around your neck, forcing your head back, back. You gasp, staring at him, dizzy, from down the slope of your nose. The clasp of the collar digs into your skin. It hurts. It's too much. 

you don't want him to stop. 

His hand is huge. It spans the entire length of your neck, thumb to your pulse, pinky grazing the hollow of your throat. It forces you to lift your chin higher just to let him fit.

He likes it, too, you know. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of his bare hand, scarred and thick; dusted with a cropping of fine hairs along his scabbed knuckles, sitting against the whole of your throat. Swallowing you up. Can feel how much he enjoys the sheer depth between your sizes when his cock twitches, stiffening more

The look on his face is appraising, anatomising. There's a cold measure of distance in his gaze. A barren polynya. You want to cross it. Chart these untamed lands until they're deeply ingrained within your being. Cimmerian effigy burning to keep you warm. 

It's survival, you think, and arch into the palm of his hand. 

He holds you like a doll. One hand on your lower back, pressing your cunt to thigh. The other tightening around your throat. Bare skin against bare skin, and oh, you could just cry—

But this is not what you need. What you want. And he knows. He always does. Knows the inside of you like it's written down—inked on paper. Thumbs through the makeup of you, chapter by chapter, until no mystery remains. 

“Tell me what you need, pet. Beg for it.” 

“Let me—” his hands tighten, choking the air from your throat. Crushing your collar against your neck. “Lemme—kiss you, please, please—”

Tighter. Tighter. The world around you swims under a thin ocean. Phosphenes swim, untethered, in your periphery, ghosting along the curve of his shoulders. He might kill you yet. Keeping going, going, until those brittle, bird-like bones in your neck snap—

You'd let him, you think, muscles falling lax. Submissive. Just the way he says he likes even though you know he fucks you harder, touches you more, more, when you act out. Misbehave. 

“Kiss me?” He taunts, words abrasive. Strident. Scrubbing hard against your skin. “Ain't that jus’ the sweetest thing I ever ‘eard.” 

You burn, blister. “Please—”

“Reckon I ought to. Kissed your pretty cunt ‘fore I even kissed your lips, huh, pet?” 

Your chest folds over itself. Stomach knotting. Balling tight. Unease is a razor blade scraping your nerves. 

“Simon—”

“Ah, ah—” his hand tightens. Vicious. Chiding. “You ‘aven’t earned the privilege of sayin’ my name, ‘ave you? Cheeky thing. Might ‘ave to take a cane to you next.” 

“No, no, no—! I'm—”

“Sorry?” He mocks, cocking his head. Condescension drips from the corners of his eyes. 

“Please, sir—”

“Dad is gettin’ tired of this attitude of yours, pet—” his fingers dig into your skin, hard. Biting. A warning, you know. The blunt press of a blade to your jugular. But it thrums along the suture line to your desire, a wellspool of murk coiling low in your guts. You throb, cunt clenching down around nothing. Achingly empty. “Thought we got rid of it this time ‘round. Learned our lesson.”

The words are frank, prosaic. Had you any sense of self still malingering in the back of your head, you might have struck him for the blatant disrespect. But as you struggle to reach for it, pawing around in the vacuous abyss for any fragment of who you were before this, before him, you know—without any doubt—that none exists. Nothing. He’s too ingrained in your marrow, hewn into your skin. Copper sutures holding his filament within you. Cradled between your thighs, nestled in the rotting vacancy of your heart. 

He knows you. Every part—

“We did—we did, da—daddy, please—” 

It’s shallow. Muffled, like he’s trying to swallow it down, but you feel it rumble through his broad chest. A guttural sound. A groan. Drenched in pleasure, in want. So thick, you could almost taste it. 

He hides his need under a layer of derision. 

“Such a needy thing, ain't you? Desperate little slag like you wouldn't last out there, would you?” 

His hand digs into your hip, pushing you off of his thigh. Eyes skewering into the wet stain on his trousers. A huff spills out—the sound a near perfect mimicry of crushing charcoal in your hand. 

“No. You'd be eaten alive. Torn to pieces. World's too big for somethin' like you.”

Mindless, dazed, you nod. Arching into him. The leather leash snaps against your chest. “Yes, yes—”

His cock presses into your thigh, hard, fat. Your mouth waters. Drool dribbles down your chin. 

He smells of tinder when he leans in close, blood drenched words biting into your skin. “messy today, aren't you? Be lost without me. Tha’s why you wear a collar, isn't it?”

Pitifully, you nod. Eyes full of tears. Each word is a bludgeon into your resolve. Into your sense of self. 

But it earns you his affection, and his thumb presses into the corner of your mouth, unhinging your jaw until it falls open, lax. He holds you like that, mouth lax with his hand still around your neck. The other lifts away from your lips, goes to the thick band around the bridge of his nose, slips inside. 

There's no buildup to it. No lingering sense of anticipation. Practical, detached, he merely tugs it down, and lets it snap under his chin. 

Your breath is punched out of your lungs at the sight of him. Barefaced. Scarred. His nose is crooked; a jagged hook with scar tissue delineating the spots where it's been broken too many times. His lips are—

Full. 

Mangled. 

Scars run in thick slashes over them, denting the flesh in places. Burn marks line his pale flesh. Charcoal rubs into his eyes, highlighting the whites of his lashes against smeared soot. 

He's—

Pretty. 

Like a car crash. Calamity. The broken remains of a town after a hurricane, a tornado, ripped it apart. Ugly, brutal. His face looks like it's been mauled by a bear, a tiger. Scarred and hideous, and—

You shiver. His eyes drop, landing on your own lips. The soot on his brow flutters down, lands on his eyelashes when he lifts his brow up mockingly. Derision curdling an awful smirk on the corner of his mouth. Crooked. Like him. Like his teeth. His nose. His boxy jaw. His lips—

You kiss him. 

Can't help yourself, really. There's a pull. Gravitational. Magnetic. You need, need, to taste him. To quench this ache in your jaw that makes you want to wrap your tongue around something, play with it between your teeth. Soft and sweet—

Ghost's lips are plump beneath yours. The thick scar tissue is almost velveteen when it glides over your bottom lip. You moan into it, into the feeling; victory—however pyrrhic—swims like mercury in your veins. Finally. 

And he doesn't kiss you back. Doesn't make any effort to reciprocate at all, but he's not tense beneath you. Not stunned. Or reluctant. He’s pliant. Malleable. Agreeable, willing to let you devour his mouth, his taste, as much as you want. Doting. Letting you spoil yourself on him. With him.

Because you need him, don't you? 

Like the air you breathe. The food he gives you—apples, always, on rainy days; salmon and rice in a pretty bowl with your name etched into the porcelain—and the attention, the affection—

(suck my cock, pretty girl. don't make me put a gag on you—deeper, you can take it, can't you? take my fat cock all the way up inside your sweet little cunt—my pretty girl—)

—it’s all so divine. 

His hands on your body, your throat, spasm. Once. Just once. Against your leg, his cock twitches. Leaks prespend into the demin. You rut against his thigh, aching for it. Whimpering—

And then he's groaning into the kiss, snarling out your name until it wedges between your lungs, syphoned in from his scorching breath. Another brand in the shape of him. 

Ghost kisses the same way he eats—messy, sloppy; all teeth and tongue, and full pretty lips. Clumsy, like no one taught him how to properly hold his silverware and he's trying to mock what he saw on television. Brumish. A broken, contemptuous pastiche of sumptuosity. A starving dog, snarling around its plundered morsel. Protective. Possessive. 

It coils around you. Thick, smothering. 

He sucks your tongue into his mouth, catching it between his teeth. The sting brings tears to the corner of your eyes, and when you pry them open, you find him already staring at you (always, always, always—), lidded. Heavy pools of desire shaded in the brume of a winter dawn. A bonfire flickering in the distance of a whiteout. Sanctuary from the cold—

He seems to catch himself. Expression flickering. Warbling around the edges. It closes off in a blink. He pulls back. Locks into the ashlar veneer of this indifference he wears like a suit of armour. 

But you saw it. It was there. Within reach—

“Need me, don't you?” He drawls, timber a needlepoint between cruelty and desire. Sultry, low. Husky. He knows what it does to you. How he can unravel you at the seams with just his voice alone. “Need me so fuckin’ much, pet. Would be lost without me—”

“Please, Simon,” you whisper, feather-soft. Cunt throbbing, pulsing. Needy. “Please—”

The strident reprimand for using his name doesn't come. His hand tightens around your throat, unconscious. A paroxysm that has pleasure carving itself down your spine, electric. 

“Come get it, then,” he rasps, voice wrecked. Raw. Curling at the edges, thickening his accent until the words elide. 

Hand to your throat, he drags you close. Closer still. Keeps you sat pretty on his lap as he pulls you in for a bruising, hungry kiss. Tongue shoving between your teeth when you gasp.

His kisses are always hungry, but this is different. Greedy. He devours you whole. Eats you alive. His hand falls to your lower back, holding you tight to his chest.

You moan into it, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Squeezing until your knuckles blanche, joints twinging in discomfort. 

After months of nothing, this alone is bliss. His taste soaking onto your tongue, drenching it in the bitter tang of sage, wheatgrass, and stale cigarettes. Intoxicating. It leaks into you, nocuous. Infects from the inside out. 

His plan coming to fruition, you think. What he sought out to do all along, ever since you wandered close to this untameable Tartarean guard, and offered yourself up to the jowls of a starving beast. 

He pulls away with a heavy breath, eyes charing around the edges; brittle briquette. 

“Gonna be a good girl from now on? Come upstairs, be a good mum for dad? Or am I gonna ‘ave to cane this—” his hand drops, grabbing a fistful of your ass in his hand, fingers digging into the skin between your cheeks. Possessive. It cracks like a whip down your nerves. “—tight lit’le arse?”

You shake your head instantly. Quickly. “I'll be good,” you whisper into his chin, tongue flicking out to lick across his scars. The dried sweat on his skin tastes briny. Reminds you of the ocean on a brumous November evening. The incipient yawn of a ravenous hurricane gathering its lot on the shore. 

Sirens blare in the distance. Fear curdles in your guts, sits heavy like a stone. An anchor. 

“So sweet f’me,” he mutters, words deepening as his head falls back, letting you pepper kisses across the underside of his jaw. Mouthing along the constellation of scars. His voice is rumble. It shivers across your lips, tongue. Shakes the marrow in your bones. “Better stay this way, pet.”

Into his pulse, you murmur, “I think you like it better when I’m bad.” 

You can feel the snarl brimming in the back of his throat. Your ass stings with the phantom burn of when he lashed out with the whip. It drags a whimper out from deep within your chest. 

His hand tightens around your neck. A warning. “Got some guests over f’dinner tonight. Would love to finally introduce them to my sweet little wife—” deft fingers slip across the dewy skin of your folds, knuckles grazing over your drenched hole. The touch makes you squirm. “But if you’re gonna be bad, then I’ll leave you locked up down ‘ere.”

“I’ll be good,” you swear, words a hushed breath over his jugular. His finger flattens, drawls soft, slow circles around your clit. “Ah, I’ll—I’ll be so, so good, Simon—”

“Good girls deserve rewards, don’t they?” His palm flexes possessively around your throat when you nip at old scar tissue. “Maybe I’ll let you sleep in our bed tonight instead of in your dog house. We can ‘ouse together. I’ll fuck you proper—” he roughly shoves two fingers into your hole, leering when you gasp, back arching in a bow. “Know this pretty pussy has been achin’ for me, ‘asn’t it? Gonna breed it full—”

There’s static in your head, ringing in your ear. The noise distorted, pulled underwater. You think you say something, plead—no, no, no, anything but that—but his hand tightens around your throat, fingers pushing up, up into you, notching against that spot inside that makes your head swim, your vision flicker. The abyssal chasm inside of you aches, rages; its waters swell, currents frothing, slamming against the ceiling of its iron prison, and—

Simon pulls away. Fingers stilling inside of you. No friction, no relief. Hypoxia renders the world silent. Muted. Held in stasis, stagnating at the edge of a gaping precipice he holds you over, secured by the fragile curve of your neck, fine bone china. 

Phosphenes swim by. The chossy wobbles.

This distance is agony. You need to be closer, closer, to crawl inside of him, to live in the brackets of his ribs, safe and protected from the world he warns you about. Stone cold. You mewl, whine—

“Gonna be my good little wife?”

Gasping with broken lungs, you nod. Nod, nod until you’re nauseous. Dizzy. Sick—

His spit cools on your lip. Your hackles raise, body shuddering in revulsion—some primal part rears, hisses it’s infectious. Wrong. Get rid of it—

“Not gonna run?”

Slowly, you lick your lips, catching his sickness on your tongue. Swallowing it down until it sinks like a stone to the bottom of your belly. Heavy, for such a small, damning thing. 

How absurd, you think. How absolutely mad. 

Then you whisper, paperthin, “kiss me again, please, Simon—”

And he moves. Liquid in the gloam. Made more for shadows, midnight, than for golden apricity, where the light is harsh on his face, unveiling ruins and ravines; monoliths meant to be paid tribute to in the dark. Your hands lift to his jaw when he moves in, catching your lips in a bruising, biting kiss. 

His touch is searing. Owning. He isn't laying claim: no, you're already his. 

It's possessive and angry. No finesse. All slate teeth and tender tongue. They slide together in a strange game; little fawn stupidly nipping at the tiger's heel. He lets you, groaning into your mouth when you arch back, hips pushing into his fingers, taking him deeper. A pale pantomime of what's to come when he lays you on his soft bed, sweet and divine, and buries himself deep. 

It should scare you. Ought to. And maybe it does. Survival, you think, but you still pull him closer. Deeper. Because it’s bliss, you find. The world around you falling dead. Silent. Pulled into a vacuum. Teetering on the edge of a black hole, event horizon. He drags you in. 

Simon hums, pulling you closer. Touching you—soft, sweet. Palms a gyve. Shackles, chains. His fingers lift from your neck, trailing down the slope of your throat until he reaches the golden loop of your collar's hook. His gaze glides, magmatic, down to where your leash dangles between your heaving breasts.

It's almost tender when he grabs it into his fist. When he pulls, pulls—

Your back arching. His fingers slipping deeper inside your cunt. Obedient little doll.

When he lifts his eyes, the look you find is hot enough to char bone. You taste blood in the back of your throat—

Into the seam of your mouth, he purrs, “good girl.”

—and you swallow it down with a moan. 

(after all, you know better than to run from starving dogs—)

[themultifanshipper]

Oscar had blabbed. That’s the only explanation you could come up with at the moment, given the position you found yourself in, kneeling at your friends’ feet.

Warnings: blowjobs, sex, one mention of yolo, and if you don’t like cum, probably don’t read this, it’s filthy (literally), PinV sex at the end

Alex and Logan had been eyeing you up all week. At first, they seemed to be glancing in your direction constantly, head movements catching your attention, but as soon as you’d look back at them they would avert their eyes. Then you noticed that they were staring at you for longer periods of time from across the room, seemingly unaware of what they were doing until they’d snap out of it on their own. But yesterday, that was when you saw their gazes shift into something else. Before they ranged from blank to vaguely curious, but yesterday, they looked hungry. It sent a shiver down your spine the first time. Now you just found it downright confusing, wondering what could have possessed them to start looking at you that way.

That night you were at your best pal Oscar’s place in Monaco, having just given him a congratulatory blowjob for his performance in the race (Oscar always said you were the best he’d ever known at giving head), and you decided to tell him.

“You know, Alex and Logan have been acting real weird lately” you called from the bathroom.

“Yeah? In what way?” he replied, in bed scrolling on his phone.

“Well… at first they just started staring at me, I think unconsciously, but now they’ve started looking at me like they want to eat me or something. ”

‘Shit!’ he thought. You couldn’t see him, but his eyes widened and he immediately started typing out a message to the boys: "what the fuck guys? Stop staring at her it’s weirding her out!"

“What do you mean?” he asked you, managing to keep his voice level.

“I don’t know… like- I’ve only ever seen that look when someone wants to rail me, you know? But it can’t be that, right?” You came out of the bathroom and Oscar turned his phone off a little too quickly, which confused you, but you were too tired to question it at that moment as you crawled into bed and snuggled up to him.

“Nah probably not, maybe you’re imagining things?” he tried, you didn’t bite.

“Absolutely not. We’re flying with them tomorrow, then you can see for yourself.”

The next morning when you woke up, you saw that you’d been added to a three way group chat with the two Williams drivers. You had two messages:

Alex: ‘We need to talk to you, privately”

Logan: ‘It’s nothing too serious tho dw <3’

‘Thank god for Logan’ you thought. Unbeknownst to you, they had been bickering all morning about how to broach the subject.

You would all be meeting at Nice airport to get a jet together so you didn’t have to wait too long for answers.

The four of you were alone on the jet, and when Logan got up to go to the bathroom, you glanced at him and he motioned for you to follow him.

'Okay, here we go' you thought nervously.

He closed the door behind you and you stared at him waiting for him to speak first, but he just stood there fidgeting nervously so you broke the silence.

"So what did you need to talk to me about?"

The room was relatively cramped so you were rather close, closer than you were used to, and you were able to count the freckles that dusted his face as you waited for an answer.

Instead of doing so however, he surged forward and kissed you. Which was confusing, but to be fair you weren’t going to start asking questions, as his lips were softly trailing over your jaw, making you let out a shaky breath.

“I’ve been thinking about this all week” he mumbled into your neck.

Before you even had time to form a response, the door slid open and there stood Alex, with a massive smirk on his face at the sight of you two.

“Started without me Logan? Bastard.”

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, as you stood there, half pressed against the sink by Logan’s hips, and very confused at was on earth was going on.

Alex came and pressed a light kiss to your temple before tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Are you okay with this?”

You nodded, not even sure what ‘this’ was but, yolo, as the kids say.

So he plastered his body to your side and turned your head to kiss you, as Logan started trailing downwards, taking the waistband of your joggers with him. He gasped loudly as he very quickly realized you hadn’t put any underwear on underneath. You glanced down and raised an eyebrow at him.

“What? I travel comfy!”

Logan didn’t even hear you as he was already trailing kisses all over your thighs, lifting one of them and hooking it over his shoulder. His fingers spread you as he licked a broad stripe from your perineum to your clit, making you shudder in anticipation.

Alex’s hand on your jaw brought your mouth back to his, and his other hand snuck under your top to play with your breasts, making you keen under his touch.

One of your hands was in Logan’s hair as he lapped up your juices, getting his face soaked in the process, the other was making its way into Alex’s pants to grab hold of his cock, which had been hard ever since he saw you get up to follow Logan to the bathroom.

Your movements were uncoordinated as you were getting closer to orgasm on Logan’s tongue (and fingers that had since joined the party), and when you came, Alex had to put his hand over your mouth to muffle the loud moans that threatened to spill from you.

Logan stood up, a fucked out expression on his face, and licked his lips before grabbing Alex by the hair and crashing their lips together, Alex groaning into his mouth at the taste of you on his tongue.

You took their distraction as an opportunity to get down on your knees and unbuckle Logan’s pants, immediately getting his cock out and licking a long stripe form base to tip.

That made him shudder and he moaned into Alex’s mouth, the two of them still going at it, so you took him deeper and deeper, alternating expertly between breathing through your nose and swallowing, and you took Alex out of his pants to start stroking him at the same pace.

It eventually got too intense for poor Logan as he grabbed your hair and pulled you off him.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come too fast if you keep going like that.”

Alex grinned at him, then down at you. “You really are the best then, yeah?”

Your brain didn’t even register the implications behind that statement as you took Alex into your mouth, down to the base in one go, as if to say ‘see for yourself’.

You alternated between the two of them, getting them to the edge before pulling off to breath properly before switching. At some point they had started kissing again, groaning into each other’s mouths and running their hands through each other’s hair.

Then, without warning, the door opened and there stood Oscar, smug as anything.

“Well well well, what’s all this then?”

The image of George briefly flashed in your collective minds.

You pulled off with an obscene pop and looked up at the other two boys.

What sight the three of you made, you on the floor with tears running down your cheeks, Alex and Logan flushed and messy, hair sticking up and looking fucked out, with their cocks out.

That’s when it all clicked. The looks, Oscar’s avoidance, this whole mess in the bathroom.

Oscar must have blabbed about your activities to them.

You turned to the man in question.

“Did you plan this?!”

He laughed. “No one could have planned this. But I did mention to them how good you are for me, and I’m certainly enjoying the show. Do carry on, that looks painful.” he said, gesturing to where Alex and Logan were still hard, and leaking all over themselves. You looked at them in disbelief.

“Are you enjoying this? Being watched by your best friend while you’re getting sucked off?”

They had the audacity to look bashful, and it also kind of did it for you. So you slowly took Logan back into your mouth and Alex in your hand and they groaned in unison. You savoured every second of it, even the sound of Oscar’s breath hitching as he inevitably started touching himself in time with your pace, made you wet.

As the three men got closer, their noises got louder and Alex asked “Where?”

Oscar answered for you. “If you ask nicely she’ll let you come anywhere you want”

The two others groaned and quickly rushed out “Can I come on your tits?” and “On your face, please?”

You nodded at them, and they started jerked off hard and fast, aiming at your face and breasts as you closed your eyes and stuck your tongue out. Alex came a couple of seconds before Logan, painting your face in streaks of white, most of it landing on your tongue, then you felt another load land on your chest as Logan whined out his orgasm.

As Logan caught his breath, Alex pulled you to your feet and kissed you sweetly as a thank you, before he leaned down and started working his tongue over where Logan’s cum streaked your skin, making you gasp. Then Logan came closer and started licking Alex’s cum off your face. It was hands down the weirdest situation you’d ever been in, but it was hot as fuck. That was made obvious by how Oscar groaned behind you, still working over his cock at a leisurely pace.

“What a sight you three make. If Lando were here he would cream his pants…”

You huffed “I’m sure he would, but you’re certainly not going to tell him about this, right?”

His eyes twinkled “We’re meeting him for lunch tomorrow in Montreal.”

The other two finished cleaning you up and got you (and themselves) dressed again, kissed you one last time, Logan giving you a quick tap on the ass, before leaving you and Oscar alone.

“You mind getting on your knees one last time for me, baby?”

“Anything for you, Osc” You smiled, but before you could move, he grabbed your arm.

“Actually… I want to make you feel good too.” He glanced at the mirror. “Stand in front of the sink, hands on the mirror.”

You obliged, planting yourself firmly before he pulled down your pants, already having noticed your lack of underwear earlier, and pushed a couple of fingers into you.

“God, baby, you’re dripping.”

“I know that, just get your dick in me!”

He chuckled and lined himself up, bottoming out in one go.

“Fuck- so warm and tight, just for me” he groaned and kissed your neck before grabbing your hips tight, and pounding into you.

The angle made it so that he hit your g spot on every thrust, getting you close to the edge in record time, your loud moans spurring him on to go harder.

You came together, panting and coming down from your highs with him wrapped around you, breathing into your neck.

Logan and Alex were in the cabin, listening to yours and Oscar’s needy moans as they squirmed in their seats. They were wondering if maybe next time, Oscar would let them fuck you.

It’s 4am, leave me alone. Inspired by these pics

[johnwickb1tsch]

Vino Veritas - Part V

A Destination Wedding Frank x Fem!Reader Fic

Attending the wedding of your ex-fiancé gets slightly better when you meet someone having just as miserable a time as you... Warnings: Nothing too serious holy shit. Cursing. Broken engagement. Nihilism, existential bullshit, copious amounts of sarcasm. NSFW. Loosely based on the movie but I'm not that smart. Or bitter. 😆 chapter map.

V. Talking In Bed

You didn’t exactly pack sexy pajamas, so you make do with an old t-shirt you cut the neck out of, and your nicest pair of panties, forgoing your old sweatpants that are a size too big and have a hole in the leg.

“Is that…a rat?” asks Frank, looking at your t-shirt with a raised eyebrow.

You chortle while looking down at the grinning animal howling at the moon emblazoned on your chest.

“It’s a possum. I made it in art school…five million years ago.”

“Somehow, it suits you.” 

You laugh, crawling into bed with him.

As it turns out, it doesn’t stay on long anyway. You snuggle up together, having a glass of wine in bed, watching a medical drama. When the wine is gone, your attention soon turns from bad tv to making out. Frank asks between kissing you, “So was it Kevin who made you feel like you take too long?”

The answer is absolutely yes. He’d guilted you for wanting your own pleasure, complained when you tried to direct him how to touch you, and that affected you forever with other partners, truth be told.

“Ah…yeah.”

“What a prick.”

You can’t help but laugh between kisses that curl your toes. “Agreed.” A moment later you pose, “Is it weird we're talking about your brother in bed?”

“Half-brother. And we've been bashing him all weekend. Why stop now?” 

You sigh, still laughing a little. “Fine. Yes. He traumatized me for life, the asshole.” 

As you say this Frank is kissing down your body. It feels wonderful, but you miss his full mouth on yours. “Hey. Where are you going?” you say, trying to pull him back up. 

“I'll give you three guesses,” he offers, pulling up your t-shirt to kiss your belly.  

“You don't...” Your breath hitches as his tongue dips into the waistband of your panties. Oh god. “…Have to do that.” 

“Have to?” He pulls down your panties a little with his teeth. You watch him down your body with a mixture of amusement and something unnervingly warm in your chest. He should look absurd like this, trying to chew through the strap of your underwear. When in fact…he moves you to the tips of your toes.

“What if I want to?” he asks. 

“Do you?” Somehow, you find it hard to believe. No one ever has wanted to before. It’s always a matter of course, and you sense they don’t enjoy it, which adds to your own anxiety about it all.  

“Yes.” 

That single word—and maybe his tongue exploring your hip, makes you squirm. 

“I like it,” he affirms again. 

“Really?” 

You sound so incredulous. 

“Yes. And, let me tell you something I hope you carry with you after this weekend. Anyone who gives head as good as you do deserves cunnilingus. Copiously.”

You giggle a little, and your panties are dragged down your hips. 

“Frank?”

“Present,” he says to your pubic bone, brushing your downy curls with the tip of his nose.

“I—”

But then his tongue touches your center, and you absolutely forget what you were going to say. 

“You can take as long as you want, baby.” 

The flat of his tongue running up your slit is a marvel, and you don’t think this will take long at all. “Oh.” It only gets better, as this man toys with your clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing you languorously. Pleasure begins to fill in between your legs, a warm, maddening pressure that makes you arch against him. “Oh god... oh fuck...You're really... good at this.” 

He moans in answer against you, that deep grumble that vibrates through your entire body. The most brilliant feeling coils and throbs inside you, insistent and inevitable.

“Frank... I'm going to cum.”

He makes a sound of encouragement, or so you assume. This orgasm breaks over you like the dawn, slow and scintillating, warm as sunlight. The tingling rush fills the cradle of your hips and spreads up your spine. You arch off the mattress, fighting not to crush his head between your thighs as this consuming sensation has its way with you. He licks you through the aftershocks, until you writhe and beg for mercy from overstimulation. 

He wipes his mouth on the sheets before climbing up your body, claiming your lips in a deep kiss. You can taste yourself on him, earthy with a hint of salt. You feel the blunt tip of him nudging at your entrance, and you crave the stretch of him entering your body like you need air to breathe. 

“Please?”

He slides inside you like you have always been his to claim, rocking his hips slowly until he's sheathed to the hilt. You are so sensitive after orgasming on his tongue, but it's wonderful. Everything is wonderful, and you wrap your legs around his hips, somehow managing to pull him deeper with a heel on his firm buttocks. 

“Fuck,” he sighs into the bend of your neck. “You are—” He bites down on whatever he was going to say about you, making another primal sound that raises gooseflesh all over your body. He takes this round slow too, and you love just feeling him, running your hands over the powerful contours of his body, the muscles of his arms and back as he unhurriedly fucks you into the mattress. 

“Think you can cum again?” he asks between kisses.

“I…don’t know,” you answer truthfully. The first orgasm was so complete—and the two before that, don’t forget—and you’re feeling pretty fucking satisfied with this day.

“Hmm. Can I flip you over?”

Although you’ll be sad to lose him in this perfectly connected missionary position, you nod. Maybe it was feeling too intimate for him. It was certainly…intense, for you, and maybe you need to pump the brakes before you start catching all these feelings for this man who obviously isn’t optimistic about the staying power of human relationships.

But then, you can’t help but muse, as he positions you on your stomach with pillows under your hips, that he doesn’t touch you like something disposable meant for his own pleasure. He touches you like he might break you if he’s not careful, like he can’t quite believe you’re real under his big hands and strong fingers.

Again he sheathes himself inside you, and a ragged moan is your reward as you tilt your hips and clench around him. You look up to find you can see the two of you reflected in the vintage full length mirror in the corner of the room.

The two of you should look absolutely look ridiculous like this, with your ass in the air, naked, joined. But all you can think is that this moment is beautiful. “Take off your shirt,” you request, and after considering you for a moment, tilting his head to make that lovely dark hair swing down around his eyes, he complies for you.

Your eyes meet in the mirror, and it is utterly electric, a primal thing you feel in the very marrow of your bones, your walls fluttering around his cock buried inside you. You really didn’t think it possible, but just looking at him like this turns you on all over again. “You are gorgeous,” you tell him, and just for a moment his fingers tighten on the meat of your hips, maybe hard enough to bruise.

You don’t mind.

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

“Only if you mean it.”

“You are,” he answers without hesitation, and he begins to move, sliding completely out of you before plunging back into your tight little hole. He loses himself like that for a minute, using you for his pleasure and you gladly take it all.

“Why don’t you touch yourself?” he pants, slowing down inside you. You feel the strain of it in his back, the shudder in his arms.

“What?”

“Never tried it?”

Not with someone else in bed with you.

“No.” You’ve never been that comfortable with anyone.

“No time like the present.” The glide of his manhood inside you is maddening, his thickness stretching you in such a delicious way.

“You don’t mind that?”

“I’d love it. Take your pleasure, y/n. Use me. Cum on my dick again, I want to feel it.”

He seems so intent on it that you don’t want to deny him. Tentatively you reach between your legs, finding your swollen clit with your middle fingers, the way you would if you were alone…and oh. This is good, with him inside you. Inadvertently you clench harder, chasing your orgasm, the possibility of release not so elusive as you’d thought it would be.

“Yeah, like that baby,” he coaxes, and you glance up to see him with his head thrown back, concentrating on moving rhythmically inside you, for you. The thought fills you with such warmth, it’s as much of a turn on as his cock or your sticky little fingers. He bends over you, bracing himself with one arm so that he can touch your nipple, flicking you between his fingers in a way that sends sparks of pleasure straight to your groin, like throwing gasoline on a bonfire. You whimper, wanting it so badly suddenly and utterly surprised its even possible. You literally did not know your body was capable of this.

“So good,” Frank coaxes in your ear, the soft scruff of his beard against your cheek. “That’s my good girl, give it to me.”

You’re not sure what tips you over the edge; the praise, or the feeling of him utterly surrounding you while completely filling you, the timbre of his deep voice or his clever fingers on your tits or the way he moves his hips, but suddenly you are lost—the explosion of your orgasm hits you with a force that makes you see colors, bright oranges and yellows and peridot greens dance in your mind as your greedy cunt flutters on his cock.

Frank sinks his teeth in your shoulder as he thrusts quickly and deeply inside you, chasing your pleasure and soon following with his own, groaning into your hair. His hips snap against the pillow of your rear end, driving himself as deep as he can as he spills inside you. You feel the hot rush deep in your core, the aftershocks of your orgasm milking him further.

He collapses on top of you; you are too spent to protest. This is how you die; smothered by this beautiful man after the most mind-bending coitus of your life. Eventually you make a muffled sound that sort of sounds like, “I can’t breathe.”

With a satisfied sigh he shifts slightly, but does not abandon you, his heavy arm still looped over your waist, his manhood still sheathed inside you. His breathing deepens behind you, and you find you have zero interest in dislodging him. This is all too sweet, too perfect to be real. You doze together like that for at least half an hour.

He’s the one who stirs first behind you, kissing the sensitive skin behind your ear. “This has got to be the most decadent day of my life,” he muses into your hair. “Three rounds of incredible unprotected sex with a beautiful woman I just met a day ago. There has to be some catch. The gods will punish us accordingly for living too well.”

“Is it that hard to believe we’re allowed to have something good for ourselves once in a while?”

“Yes. That’s not how life works. What’s the success rate of a modern IUD?”

“99.8 percent.”

“Hmm. It’s not perfect.”

You snort, if not sleepily.

“Believe me, I am not looking to be a mother any time soon.”

“Ever?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never really heard the tick tock of the maternal clock everyone talks about. Giving my life over to the thankless servitude of motherhood doesn’t appeal to me, for some reason.”

“Oh good. I was afraid I was the only one with mommy issues.”

“I do not have mommy issues.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Ok, maybe my mother and I are sort of at odds.”

 “Here we go.”

“She’s never really seemed happy in her conventional stay-at-home mother life-path, but she definitely tried to push it on me as the best choice when I was almost too young to know better.”

“There it is.”

“You don’t have to sound so pleased about it.”

He chuckles sleepily, pulling you closer into the warm shelter of his broader body. “Misery loves company.”

“What about you?”

“What what about me?”

“Do you…want kids?”

“I would rather be dead in a ditch.”

“Wow. Ok then.”

“Being alive is such a miserable farce, why would I knowingly inflict it on innocent children?”

You sigh, lacing your fingers with his. “Suddenly, it doesn’t seem all bad.”

“Think of all the pain you’ve gone through to get to this moment. Or maybe, that perfect, fleeting moment a little while ago, more like, the afterglow of which we are still enjoying. Was that really worth it?”

“Maybe.”

“For a half-tolerable day with a stranger who you’re never going to see again?”

This causes you to freeze in his grasp, holding your breath. For a long moment you feel like even your heart ceases to beat. “You…never want to see me again?”

It’s his turn to still behind you. “Not necessarily. That’s just…how these things go.” You can’t tell if he’s sad about it, or just resigned, the way he’s resigned to everything being total shit.

“They…don’t have to? If we decide…different?”

“Come on, honey. Please don’t.”

“Don’t what? Take exception to feeling like a throw away cocksleeve?”

“Did you expect me to propose?”

“Of course not. I just…you couldn’t even pretend until tomorrow morning that maybe I meant a little to you?”

Suddenly your throat is too tight, and your vision is clouded with tears. It hurts. Everything just hurts, and somehow it hurts worse now than when this whole fucking misadventure started.

“Oh my god,” you sigh, sliding out of bed. The air feels so cold without his furnace of a body wrapped around you.

“Y/n. Please don’t go.”

“Being around you feels like being electrocuted,” you blurt, looking desperately through the bedclothes for your panties. Where the fuck did he put them?

He slumps at hearing that, suddenly very interested in the wall.

“I get that a lot.”

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” you try to explain, unable to see very well through the film of your tears. Great. Nothing like having an argument with your beaver out.

“Oh yes. The good kind of electrocution,” he snarks, though there is a spark of what might be hope in his dark eyes.

“There is just something about you. You don’t mince words for anyone, you constantly tell the truth, and it’s exciting and low key uncomfortable, and I get some weird little rush out of knowing you might insult me any minute and then I get to verbally spar with you and you have some brilliant riposte for anything I say, it’s the most fun I’ve had with any man in a long time, and this whole weekend I’ve had this prickly heat just crawling under my skin and I’m pretty sure it’s your fault.”

 “You really talk it up, when you put it that way.”

You are so relieved, when anger arrives on the battlefield, and you’re able to get your shit together well enough to actually think.

“Look,” you say forcefully, pointing at him. “I usually fucking hate it when people say things happen for a reason.”

“Yes. It’s incredibly conceited.”

“Right. Because it implies when bad things happen to people who don’t deserve it, it was good somehow?”

“Go on.”

“But what if…”

“Oh God.”

“What if we met here, for a reason? Like my whole horrible fucking ordeal with Keith was somehow a trial…that brought me here to you?”

Immediately he shakes his head, something like panic in his eyes.

“Oh no. We’re not doing the this was meant to be thing.”

“You won’t even consider the sliver of a possibility?”

“You don’t even like me.”

“Who said I don’t like you?”

“No one likes me!”

“I do like you.”

He actually growls at this, as though the concept is so foreign, the possibility is terrifying.

But you also know that getting involved with a man like this is a bit like petting an abused dog. At any moment if it perceives you look at it wrong, it might snap, it might hurt you. With words, in Frank’s case, but to your tender heart that’s almost the same as taking a physical blow. Yet…you do not care. Because when things are good with this man…they are splendid, and you feel like it’s worth the price.

It’s worth a try, at any rate.

Yet the way he is looking at you—it doesn’t look good.

“You really don’t think this thing we have is special at all?”

You hate how much it hurts, to ask this question.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I am resigned to the fact that this will go no further than this weekend. These things never do. I’ll say I’ll call you, or you’ll say you’ll visit me, but it just never happens, and we waste our time on that glimmer of hope for some tiny aspect of life to not turn out to be complete shit—just to have it snatched away by the march of time.”

“Jesus, it’s so fucking terrible when you say it that way.”

“It’s just the truth. It’s life.”

You shake your head, whirling to go, panties or no. He can watch your bare ass as you walk out of his life forever.

“Wait, come on, don’t go.”

“Why not? What’s the point? What’s the point of anything?”

“Living in the moment?”

“Well, in this moment, I kind of feel like shit, so I think I’ll bounce.”

“Please don’t go.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because you like my company?”

“Yes.”

“Is it so fucking hard to admit that?”

“Yes, because any time I ever have the naivety to admit the slightest fondness for anything, the universe finds a way to snatch it away.”

You march back to the bed, jumping up to sit on the corner just out of reach with your arms crossed. You wait, looking around.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting to see if the universe strikes me dead.”

He gives that growling sigh that you are finding increasingly endearing as you get to know him. “Come here,” he says, holding out his arms.

Finally you crawl to him, and some restlessness settles inside you when he pulls you against him. From the small sigh he gives, you think he might feel the same way, and his grip tightens on you a little more. You’re not sure who kisses who, exactly, just that your mouths are pressed together, and for a little longer it seems like something is going right in the world.  

“If you haven’t noticed…I’m kind of a huge asshole.”

“Yeah,” you agree, and he snorts into the top of your head. “But you know what? You’re also kind of sweet…sometimes.”

“It’s a curse.”

“Only if you treat it that way.”

It just makes him hold you harder.

“No one can put up with me for long, y/n. Not even my own mother. My own father tried to kill me. It’s just facts. That’s why we’re going to enjoy the rest of this weekend, and when we get back home, we’re going to part as friends.”

You sigh, leaning even more against him. The film of tears is back, and you hide under his chin.

“You’re not even willing to try?”

“I’m doing you a favor. Believe me. I am what I am and it’s too late to fix me.”

“What if I don’t think you’re broken?”

“Very funny.”

“I meant it when I said I like you.”

“I like you too. It’s more than I can say for most people. Want to watch a movie or something?”

You nod, and you settle in together under the blanket to watch some stupid action flick. You can’t really focus on it, because Frank’s arms are around you, and it still feels like you have a live wire sparking under your skin.

[xxchaosjojoxx]

I can't stand you (Penguin x reader )

A/N: This idea was suddenly in my head and as soon as possible I started taking notes. Tbh I would love to see more of Penguin if he acts like that. If you ever do something like this or maybe wanna do a followup part/sequel, tag me please.

The break room inside the Polar Tang was full and loud. A lot of chattering and laughing was heard. Bepo and Penguin were entertaining the whole crew. You have been a member of the heart pirates for almost 6 months and they all welcomed you with open arms and you knew instantly this is family now. Everyone was pretty nice towards you for one exception. You were looking at the young man with the penguin hat. You didn’t know if you did something wrong or said anything, but he disliked you and showed it. Whenever you entered a room, his smile was gone. He was sighing, groaning and you are pretty sure he rolled his eyes whenever you were there. At the beginning you joined him and Shachi in the kitchen. You even joined their training sessions once in a while. Everything was fine and then suddenly he was annoyed whenever you showed up. No one could tell you what was wrong. Even Shachi was clueless, or pretended to be clueless. It was weird for him to behave like this. He was such a fun and sweet guy around others. Telling jokes, entertaining his crewmates. He even made snacks for everyone once in a while. He was so caring towards his crew except for you. You tried talking to him, asking him if you did something that hurt him or something like that. But Penguin ignored you the whole time. With an annoying groan he just turned around and left you alone. You wished to be friendly with him as well. You often wondered what his eyes looked like under his hat, what his smile would look like if it was directed to you. You knew two facts for sure. He was pretty handsome, without seeing his face clearly and he hates you.

You sighed. Today was a hot day and you all wore your boiler suits half off and it was still too hot in the submarine. You drank the glass of water before you in a few big gulps.

A few minutes later your captain, Trafalgar Law, joined you guys. “We were docking on the next island in a few minutes. I have a list of supplies we need to restock. So make sure to do it first, before you explore the island..” He held a few pieces of paper in his hand.

“Shachi is still bedridden. The flu knocks him out for today and tomorrow for sure. After that he will be back with his full energy most likely. That’s why y/n will stay behind and guard the Polar Tang with Penguin.” With that he turned around and was ready to leave the room. He stopped right in his tracks as Penguin shouted at him. “Wait! Why do I have to do this with Y/N? Can someone else join me?” He was asking, annoyed that he had to do this with you. You felt hurt, as he was saying it without a problem. The rest of the crew were looking between you, penguin and Law. They felt pity towards you.

Law let out a sight. “Shachi can’t do this today, so y/n will do it today. You always do this in tandem.” Penguin gritted his teeth.

Ikkaku suddenly stood up. “Ehm Captain. I could be on duty today for Penguin or Y/N.” She said and Law glared at her with an unpleasant look. “No. Penguin and Y/N will do it today. Captain’s Order. You don’t have to sit next to each other the whole time. We will be away for a few hours at most. So get yourself together.” With that he left the room and the silence was very weird.

Ikkaku patted your shoulder and smiled at you before leaving the room. After a while Penguin left as well, you stood up and were following him.

You both were in a corridor as he began to talk. “Do what you want. Go into your room or on deck. I will do it alone.”

You increased your speed to match his. “You heard what the captain said. We have to do this together. Can you stop being a bitch about it?”

He stopped in his tracks. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it. Go do what you want, but leave me alone.”

He started to walk again and you felt anger rising in your chest. So you jumped forward and grabbed his wrist. “I have no idea what your problem is when it comes to me, so stop treating me like an enemy here. We are a Crew.”

With one movement he was freeing himself from your grip, grabbing your wrist and pressing you against the near wall. Your hand was above your head, and he held you with a tight grip. You were shocked about this sudden situation and looked at him with a hint of fear and panic in your eyes.

“You are my problem.”

You gulped and tried to hold his gaze. “What did I ever do to you?”

He tightened his grip around your wrist. “You are arrogant. You show off whenever you can. You have to show everyone that you are great at everything. You are a better cook. You are a good fighter. Shachi and I could lose to you for sure. They are laughing at your jokes. I hate seeing you. I hate that you are better in everything that I am. I hate that you look really hot in those damn tight tops you’re wearing.”

You looked at him confused. He was still furious but there was more. He was looking at your cleavage and leaned into you. “I hate that I can’t help but feel attracted to you, to the point that I become horny whenever you walk around like this…like today. I hate that I want to kiss you and make out with you. I hate that you have so much control over me, that I would do anything if you just ask me.” His other hand was tracing your sides and your face til the point he was holding your chin in his hand. His face was really close to yours and you could feel his warm breath on your skin.

“It makes me angry. I absolutely hate…that I am telling myself to dislike you even though I don’t want to.”

And suddenly his lips were on yours. Without realizing what exactly happens, his tongue slipped between your lips and you granted him access. Your legs felt weak and his knee were suddenly between your legs, to help you get steady. Your hand was still in his grip while the other was finding their way to the back of his neck. He pulled away and kissed your neck with hot and needy kisses. A soft moan slipped from your mouth and he covered your mouth with his hand, leaning into you and whispering into your ear. “Be quiet. I don’t want anyone to hear you.” He was looking at you with a cold look and even though you were confused and dizzy from this, you couldn’t help but find this situation with him extremely hot at this moment.

Penguin were looking at your flushed face. You were panting and your eyes were half lidded and full of desire. Suddenly the man before you smirked. “Seems like I have some control over you as well.” He was nipping at your ear and returning, kissing your neck once more.

You tried to talk and when his hand left your mouth and explored your waist the words slipped out. “I didn’t mean to come around arrogant. I thought I could impress you somehow, yknow?” He was humming and his lips were on yours again. “Stop talking.”

It was hard for you to hold back another moan of pleasure.

“I would love it if we could get along.” Penguin was stiff, pulled away and looked at you in shock. Maybe he realized just now what he just did. “Fuck. Can you stop talking? Otherwise I really have to consider if I hate you.” He let go of your wrist and was looking at you with lust in his eyes. “Let’s forget that this happened, sweetheart.”

He turned around and took a few steps. You were standing there in disbelief. “What? No, I don't wanna forget it. And did you just call me sweetheart?” There was no way you would ever forget making out with your handsome crewmate.

He was turning his head towards you. “Believe me, If we continue this show you won’t ever be able to forget it.” Penguin smirked at you and your face turned dark red. You wouldn't be against it but admitting it, is another story. You were holding your cheeks to hide the fact that you were flustered by his words and the fact that he turns you on with that damn smirk of his.

“Now come on, we have duty together, sweetheart.”

[sailorsenshishitposter]

Megumi Fushiguro x Reader

Spoilers for chapter 212

Megumi Fushiguro:

You're angsty, you likely listen to mid 2000's bands like Linkin Park/Three Days Grace/My Chemical Romance etc. or you have major daddy issues.

First Date:

You had recently transferred to Jujutsu High. It was your first day and to be honest, you had kind of gotten lost due to how large campus was. "Crap. How am I going to find my dorm?" You then saw a pair of dogs. "Oooo cute!" You reached out and gave them head pats and nose boops. Suddenly the dogs started barking. "What's going on?" You then noticed a boy walking towards you. "Are you ####?"

"Yes." The boy then took his phone out and started texting someone. "It's good that I found you. Gojo was wondering where you were and asked me to find you. I can't believe he's too lazy to do it himself... Anyway, I'm Fushiguro. It looks like we'll be attending the same class. Now let's hurry before he starts blowing up my phone like he's some sort of concerned father."

You later met Itadori and Kugisaki and the four of you soon became best friends. It was two months later and you were having a girls night with Nobara. "All right, truth or dare?"

"How do you feel about Itadori?" Kugisaki started to gag and then pretended to vomit. "Trust me, I definitely don't feel that way about him. What about you?" You blushed. "Oh. No, I don't have a crush on him."

"But you do like someone right? I mean your face is giving it away. I bet it's Fushiguro!" You then slammed your hand over her mouth. "Quiet! Do you want someone to hear you!?" She then began to laugh hysterically. "I knew it!  Alright, my lips are sealed. In exchange for my silence, you have to ask him out!" You felt like you were going to faint. "K-Kugisaki..."

"I don't know what you see in that guy anyway. He looks like he's the type to set oil slicked seagulls on fire.." You stood up. "That isn't true! He's kind, compassionate... He loves animals! You should see how he treats his gyokuken!" Nobara wasn't impressed. "Of course he treats them well. They're apart of his ten shadows technique. Have you ever played haunting ground? That's a good example of why treating animals well is nesecary for survival."

"...Did you know that he writes poetry in his spare time?" You had done it now. Kugisaki was crying so hard from her laughter. "NO FUCKING WAY! I HAVE TO TEXT ITADORI ABOUT THIS!" You sighed. This conversation clearly hadn't gone the way you had thought it would. Oh well. You now had to worry about how you would confess to your crush.

It was the next day and you had called Megumi and asked to meet him alone. "####, I'm here. Is everything okay?" You smiled. How sweet. He was worried about you. "Fushiguro... I'd like you to have this!" You pressed an envelope towards him. "What is this ####?"

"It's... a love letter..." Megumi then opened the note. Inside was one of the most heartfelt confessions that he had ever seen. Now it was his turn. "####, you didn't really think this would work out, did you?" You started crying. "What?"

"I guess it's not you fault. I mean who wouldn't want this body? ####, I could never go out with you because you're not even on my level. To be frank, you're weak. Now let's put this humiliating display behind us and move on." You were shocked. Was this really the same boy that you had fallen for? "Al-alright... Sorry to have wasted your time..." You then walked away so he wouldn't see your tears.

"That was easy. Man, she was worse than Yorozu! Well, time to go find Uraume and start that cooking show we always dreamed of!" You didn't know it but yesterday Sukuna had managed to force feed Megumi some of his fingers while saying "give your regards to the chef!" If only you had confessed a day earlier.

[arcanarix]

Prompt: Stalker Toji, you feel eyes on you and decide to play into it, putting on a show for whoever is watching you.

You often view every day as a blank canvas. 

You can’t predict what each unique stroke of your brush is going to come out with, if it’s going to be a clean stroke or a raggedy one, but you go straight in without any solid plan. Planning’s for uptight losers, anyway, and you like when life provides just enough novelty for you to keep your otherwise monotonous routine worth telling like a story. So when you feel eyes on you through your bedroom window, you can’t help but wonder . . . it can’t be a figment of your imagination if it has been a common tingling sensation. Right around this hour, in fact. Practically every day. At this point, you come to see it as a sign that there’s about to be a dramatic shift in your life. Not that you’re one of those nutty spiritual hippies or anything like that, because you know this sort of thing is legit. You have some kind of proof that this isn’t in your head. 

You swear you’ve felt those eyes closer than they have been some nights, too. Sometimes in your very home.

And sometimes you may just enjoy the attention more than you’ll ever admit to yourself. 

Sometimes you find yourself changing in front of that window, uncaring for whose eyes fall on you because you’re not ashamed of your body. Far from it. Crazy to imagine in a world that tries to sell you’re not supposed to be proud of how you look but you sure damn are. Enough to flaunt it for this mystery audience of yours. Slipping off that sweaty top from your white collar job, feeling the stress lifting as you do so. All those incessant rantings from your boss and your supervisors just vanish the minute you take off your work clothes. Now just in your bra and underwear, you decide to twirl about and strut that stuff. Your eyes gaze upon the window, imagining you’re meeting the eyes of that stranger who keeps visiting you. Either as a guardian angel or a guardian demon–who the hell knows? You sure as hell don’t. Not only that, you like to think you’re absolutely friggin’ grown. You can handle anything life throws at ya. You have the most hard to please boss in the world and faced other scary things like that. Much scarier things like a violent ex boyfriend who’s in prison.

With a bit more of shimmying that ass you work so hard to keep plump and round and juicy, you decide that’s enough of a show to keep that stranger on his–or her, what the heck–toes. You shoot the window one last smoldering look before tossing your hands over your head for a long stretch before strutting into your bathroom, not without a fresh pair of nighties to wear. You opt for that silk nightgown a friend got you. It’s sexy and lightweight and perfect for a hot night like this.

Little do you know, all this time someone’s stared back at you–milking every minute of that show you put on for him (and milking himself of every last bit of indulgence he can). Toji finally declares this as an invitation inside.

So, as you enter your restroom for your bath, he slips into your space.

You haven't the slightest idea that the next stroke of your brush might unveil something . . . dangerous.

TBC?

[dnpbeats]

d&p slow dancing to thinking out loud remains absolutely batshit because we all know it was scripted but WHY??? WHAT WERE THEY TRYING TO ACCOMPLISH WITH STAGING THAT?

[swagspren]

I think it is sweet that, even though we have Adolin’s POV since the start, you the reader get to go on the “I think this guy might suck” to “okay this guy is not so bad” journey with Kaladin. I feel like tWoK and beginning of WoR it still feels like I know Adolin means well, but he is really out here yelling at his dad and being on his high horse (lol). Even when he locks himself up with Kal I was a little like “okay, as he should.”

Then he’s out on the plains like goofing around with the water kid and stuff and I was like okay! He got us! He got me with that one! And that is also the scene that Kaladin concedes that he is likeable and a good guy etc

[wontbyers]

This is what I was talking about here btw

[pinkeoni]

I can’t help but wonder what Vecna was going to do with Will if the gate wasn’t closed at the end of s2. What were his plans with Will’s body once he completely took it over? Is he disposable like Billy, was he just a means to an end, or did he have bigger plans with him?

[nero-neptune]

“Y’know, blockbusters, hundred-million dollar box office. It’s all they say they want down there these days. I just don’t think I have one of those in me…MTV says it all started with Steven and the shark. And then came the extra-terrestrial. And George brought us R2-D2 and Indiana Jones. Batman. Dick Tracy. Entertainment Tonight calls it “high concept”…I don’t think I’m a “high concept” kinda guy. ”

NORTHERN EXPOSURE 1.06 “Sex, Lies, and Ed’s Tapes”

[shadowpeachyuri]

macaque with an inside out-style crew of emotions in his head but instead of the normal joy-sadness-fear-anger-disgust ensemble he has Fear, Homosexuality, Regret, Fear 2, and Smugness

[braceletofteeth]

Moonjo's stare.

[styona]

English is not my first language so I didn't understand what 'hung' meant in this context right away and I thought he wanted to be hung as in killed and I was like well that's some weird flex but ok, cause at this point nothing he says in his interviews can faze me anymore I guess. And I didn't know who the dude was cause I sure as hell was not expecting Tobias to mention an actor of that kind of industry. But that still was SO out of pocket

[bisexuallilapitts]

Rob bringing a bird to the Umbrella Academy press is probably the most on brand thing he's ever done

[henrysglock]

Paper Faces - Chapter 12: Twisted Every Way

Alternately: Fuck It, We Ball (1892)

This chapter is the STxPOTO equivalent of Timmy Turner saying "What’s the worst that possibly happen?", iykwim.

As always, heed the tags, comments are greatly appreciated, and constructive criticism is welcomed!