#(it’s nearly ten minutes long so JUST BE AWARE—)

[justmwahstruly]

IM FUCKING CRYING DAWG THANK YOU

NOT THE WAY MY JAW DROPPED.

UHH YOURE WELCOME?? SLSJSKDKSJDJDBXBYKS DIES/POS

[astraystayyh]

please fall before i fall

jeongin x reader. best friends to lovers. they think it's unrequited love so a bit of angst. but they're just idiots. happy ending :))

summary : 3 times you saved jeongin's ass and the 1 time he saved yours (and ended up confessing along the way). holidays themed.

winter falls masterlist.

a.n. : i am very happy to finally post my first fic for the winter falls collab with my author xi hehehehhe i hope you'll enjoy this one <333 it's very light and fluffy she's the cute one!! oh and my song rec is i bet on losing dogs by mitski

One. 

Jeongin’s thumb hovers over your contact name, his rosy lip pulled tightly between his teeth. He hesitates for a few seconds before finally dialing your number. 

“What do you want?” you start which makes an incredulous snort escape his lips, a gust of powdery air materializing before his mouth from the cold. 

“How much do I have to pay you for you to come over?” 

“Ten thousand dollars. Cash,” you precise as he mouths along to what you say, already guessing what your next words would be. 

He's come to know you at an abhorrent speed these past few months; since you sat right next to him in your biology class, head buried in an oversized navy hoodie. Your perfume knocked into him like a gentle breeze— Sicilian lemon and white bouquet notes, nostalgic summer amid an unforgiven autumn. Memories of sticky fingers from molten ice cream and feet soles meeting the warm sand wafted in the air, alluring him to the kindness of a long-gone summer, you. 

That is why he talked to you at first, because you smelled nice, incredibly so. He tells you it's because he liked the pair of shoes you were wearing. 

“What if I brought you your favorite coffee?”

“Are you outside my dorm?” you squeal and he imagines you must be scrambling to get up, opening the curtains. He knows he's right as your figure materializes behind the window. “Hi,” you wave, a small giggle escaping your lips. He can't help the fond smile that draws upon his lips. 

He thinks he likes you a little. 

“Hey, please help me wrap my family’s gifts,” he pouts, waving the coffee in the air. Your order that he memorized by heart, not even meaning to, it was just natural for him to order you coffee every day, to remember your preferences as if they were his own. 

“Why are you here if we're going to your dorm anyways?” you laugh, leaning against the window. 

“Because I know I need to bribe you,” he sighs, angling his head to the side. “Are you not going to hang up and come downstairs? The coffee will grow cold.”

“I’m coming!”

An hour later, four gifts are resting beside Jeongin's figure, perfectly wrapped thanks to your skilled hands. He's lying on the warmed tiles, and you're right beside him, so close your knee brushes against his thigh now and then. 

He is keeping count, well, more so his heart, constricting in his lungs each time you touch. 

He's so aware of you, so much he's sure you’ve crawled into his skin, morphing him into nothing but a shell of you. 

Perhaps he likes you a lot. 

“You're an insane man. Who leaves gift wrapping to the last minute?”

“You're best friends with said insane man.” 

“Remind me how did that happen again?” you ask, propping your head on your elbow, and turning to the side to look at him. Jeongin has to pretend that the sight of you hovering over him doesn't affect him. That his eyes aren't drawn to your lips, heart dissolving at your feet, hoping to brush against your own. 

Please fall before I fall, he nearly pleads.

“Why are you so close,” he feigns disgust, pushing your face away with his pointer finger. 

“What? Does that fluster you?” you question, amused, bringing your face even closer to his. He scrambles away before a blush sprouts on his face, one he wouldn't be able to justify to your scrutinizing gaze. 

“As if. You're ugly,” his eyes squint, lips thinning into that particular smile he knows annoys you. He moves to the side swiftly, anticipating the shoe you throw at him.

“You're literally— remind me to never help you again, asshole.”

“I'm kidding. Thank you for today, seriously. I didn't know wrapping gifts could be this hard.” He falls back to the floor dramatically, banging his head against the tiles in the process.

“Well deserved,” you whisper. 

“I heard that.”

“Good,” you giggle, before gently massaging the spot where he has bumped his head. He purses his lips against one another, afraid of what words might escape the confines of his throat, vocal cords moving to the gentle rhythm of your touch. 

“Will you keep on being this clumsy, Innie? mm?” you muse, tone quieter. 

The nickname makes his insides churn, it is always so tender when it falls from your lips. No one has ever called him this softly before. No one has ever called his heart before you. 

He shouldn't be this clumsy with it. It is a fragile organ, akin to glass, easily breakable, so translucent— it'd be easy for anyone to peer inside and find you in it. 

“Yeah, I probably will.”

He'll stop liking you next year. He hopes. He'll try. 

Two.

Next year has come, familiar frigid winds pulling you to Jeongin’s heart, perhaps even more so than before, cementing your being into the nooks and crannies of his soul, perfectly so, as if it was destined for you alone to fill the emptiness inside him. 

Seasons have changed and yet summer remains, its essence stored safely within the notes of your perfume, it tickles his nose as you're seated on the countertop, legs swinging lazily while he scouts through his fridge. 

“Remind me why we're doing this again?”

“Because I made a bet with Yoon.”

“Your sixteen years old brother?”

“Yes.”

“You are in college.”

“I know.”

“Why are you taking it to heart?” 

“Because I have my pride,” he says solemnly, hand on his heart and you roll your eyes. 

“You literally begged at my feet fifteen minutes ago to help you.”

A year later, Jeongin stood beneath your window once again, phone brought up to his ear, hand hidden behind his back. You pick up on the first ring. 

“Look out the window,” he quickly says before you can even speak. 

“Hello, Y/n, how are you, Y/n, are you surviving with the cold—” you say sarcastically as you pull the curtains, the words dissolving in your tongue as he brings a single flower before him— you recognize its pink petals easily, Camellia, the rose of winter.

“I did not have time for coffee, but I plucked this off the sidewalk,” he offers, an amused grin on his face. “Help me bake cookies, pretty please, I'll be forever indebted to you. Forever and ever and ever and ever—”

“This is such a poor rendition of Romeo and Juliet, I'm afraid Shakespeare is suffering in his grave right now.”

“Do you think he knows of every theater play that was done to his story?” Jeongin muses.

“That's a good question actually. I hope he didn't see mine,” you shudder before your face pales. 

“You did not tell me you ever did that!”

“I'll bake your cookies and you'll never bring this up again.”

“Deal. My Juliet,” he smirks and you throw a middle finger aggressively to his face before hanging up. He shouldn't find it as endearing as he does.

“Because, my dear Y/n, this is my holiday reputation at stake. I kind of raised the bar last year with my gift wrapping.”

“You did?” you raise an eyebrow promptly at his words and he sighs, taking out the butter before leaning against the fridge.

“We did. Which is exactly why I need your help again. Imagine how embarrassing it would be if Yoon wins,” he shudders and a giggle finally escapes your lips.

The kitchen warms up at the sight of your smile.

“It's cute when you need me once in a while,” you say nonchalantly, hopping off the counter and moving to wash your hands. Jeongin freezes in his place.

“I always need you though,” he confesses quickly, swallowing the words, hoping that this way you wouldn't be able to taste the sincerity coating them, sticky honey dripping from his tongue whenever it speaks of you.

“Good thing you'll always have me then,” you beam, your words hanging into the air, oxygen suddenly harder to inhale.

“Gross,” he fakes a shiver, as his heart drops in his chest, breaks, and twists at the weight your words carry.

He'll always have you, but not in the way he wants to, your eyes would never soften at the mere mention of his name, and you won't think that a season blooms into every room he is in. He has you, but just a fragment of you, not how you have him, as a whole, heart, body, and soul. 

He's already fallen, a terrible, terrible fall.

“Will you help me or just stare off into the distance?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He smiles bashfully, rolling his sleeves and sidling by your side to mix in the eggs, one by one, per your instructions. 

It smells nice in the kitchen, the caramelized fragrance of browned butter, sweetened by the sugar dissolving into the warm liquid. Tentative sunlight streams through the window, and it falls perfectly on Jeongin's face, highlighting his sharp features. 

Not that jeongin needs any additional light, he reminds you of spring, a flower blooming on his face each time he smiles, his dimples two youthful fountains the roots strive from, brightening his face even more. 

He tentatively glances at you as he adds the chocolate chips to the mix, only to find you staring forward. He misses the fond look on your face by a few seconds, the tinting of your features with soft hues of pink, of spring, of him. He always misses it, always misses you. 

Three.

"I can't believe you have 37 pairs of shoes but not one nice shirt.”

“It's 36, please count correctly,” Jeongin retaliates and you snort, flopping around in bed till you land on your stomach, chin propped up by your hand. Jeongin is still rummaging through his closet, head almost disappearing into the dark void of his wardrobe. 

“What do you need this for anyway?” you question, as you scroll through your phone mindlessly. Jeongin’s eerie silence causes you to look up. 

“Um. I have a date tonight.”

“Oh.” 

His words hang over the room like a heavy cloak soaked with rain, the oxygen sucked out of your lungs and ensnared within that singular gasp.

Jeongin swiftly turns around, before kneeling beside the bed, eyes brimming with a hopeless search— you are too focused on steadying your breathing to notice.

“Should I go?”

“I mean… Why are you asking me?”

“If you don't want me to, I won't,” he speaks in an overflowing sincerity, as though he'd willingly surrender the reins of his life for you to guide, should you only dare to ask. 

A breath, a pause, and he adds, “In case you'll be lonely tonight.” Your hope deflates in an instant, akin to a birthday balloon tossed into the careless hands of children. 

Pity, that's what he feels for someone who hasn't had a date in a year while he went on ones regularly. Although they never transcended beyond that first meeting, always a first date, never a second. He says none of the people he meets are his type. 

“I have a date too.” It was the truth, Suhoo had told you to meet him at the ice rink. You said you'd think about it. You knew deep down that your answer would be no, solely because he isn't Jeongin.

Perhaps it is too late for him to fall for you.  

“Really?” 

“Yeah, with Suhoo, you know, the guy in our Economics class.”

“He's nice.”

“Mm.” 

Could you lose something you never had in the first place?

“You should wear Seungmin’s white shirt.” 

“Yeah. That's what I thought too.”

“And bring them flowers. The rose of winter, maybe.” 

You had preserved the plucked flower he gave you in a vase. The pink of the petals liquefying and bleeding into the blush on Jeongin’s cheeks once he noticed. 

“That one's just for you.” 

Four. 

You're alone on the ice rink, the frigid winds assail your form, fingers numb from winter's cruel grasp. Suhoo didn't come after all, perhaps he was offended by you calling him at the last minute to confirm your date.

The chill of disappointment is more biting than the frost— you want to melt off the ice, you want your spring. You want your Jeongin. 

But he isn't yours, perhaps he will never be. He is too sought after, too captivated by the fleeting chase of someone new to spare a glance at you. 

But in this instant, you need him. You need him to hold your hands in his larger, warmer ones and get you off the ice rink. You need the sight of his familiar dimples and blooming smile. 

So, you call him. He picks up on the first ring. 

“Are you that bored on your date?” He playfully taunts, and his voice becomes a gentle breeze that stirs the emotions you struggle to contain. Tears cascade down your cheeks in an achingly familiar path. 

“I-Innie,” you hiccup, and you’re instantly met with the sound of scraping chairs against the floor, the hastening cadence of footsteps hurrying out into the street. 

“Did he do something to you?” He speaks so coldly, a tone so foreign to the warmth of your Jeongin. He shouldn't be tainted with winter too. 

“He didn't come. Can you p-please pick me up?” 

“I will. I'm coming in a bit, okay?” 

He finds you rather quickly on the ice rink, a sore thumb unmoving between the gliding bodies. He skates over to you, almost falling twice in the process. 

“You're so clumsy,” you snort as he stands before you, sobs racking through your body once more at the sight of him.

You weren't mad at Suhoo. You were heartbroken over Jeongin.

“I'll beat him up for you. I'll tell Changbin to help me too,” he smiles, hands fidgeting as they land upon your cheeks, trying their best to wipe away your tears.

“Please don't cry. I hate seeing you cry, Y/n, I really can't bear it." The tears only fall harder at his words, as if he's stringing them forth with each touch of his.

“Did he do something to you?” an unknown voice startles you and you turn to your right to find a girl looking at you then at Jeongin, a frown etched on her eyebrows.

“No, I'm her friend I didn't-”

“I wasn't talking to you,” the girl cuts him off and you laugh despite you, as Jeongin’s jaw hangs open, before closing once more.

“It's not him, thank you so much though,” you smile gratefully and she nods, eyes wary as she glares at Jeongin one last time, before skating away.

“I can't believe that just happened,” He exhales, a breath tinged with bewilderment, before he delicately encircles a hand around your back. Gently, he guides your head to rest against the comforting refuge of his chest.

“What are you doing?” you mumble against his navy hoodie, the one he borrowed from you. You can still smell your perfume on him. 

“I'm comforting you.” 

“You don't like hugs.” 

“It's different when it comes to you.”

You close your eyes, allowing the tide of his warmth to envelop you like a cascade of spring petals.

“Where is your date?”

“I didn't go.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I love you. I'm tired of looking for you in other people,” he quickly says and you peel yourself away from him, feeling as if his clothes were suddenly made of fire. 

“What?” you whisper, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I love you,” he repeats, each word drawn out, much slower this time, his hands cradling your face, tenderly, as though holding the sun between his delicate fingers. “I'm tired of pretending you're not my summer.”

“Don't say things you don't mean,” your voice wavers. 

“I mean it. I've always loved you. You complete me in ways I didn't know were possible, and I know you only see me as a friend but-”

Your lips press against his, a culmination of aching desires that have lingered for two years. Distant laughter echoes in the background, ice cream melting onto your fingers, a soft breeze ruffling your hair, flowers blooming under the soft caress of the sun— two seasons melting sweetly into the kiss.

“You're literally so blind,” you giggle against his lips, and his smile widens, your noses brushing against one another. “I love you too, idiot.”

“You love me?”

“You're my favorite season.” 

“Don't steal my lines.”

“Hey—” he kisses you this time, the winter is long forgotten. 

Was it ever a fall if you caught him in the end?

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Father’s Friend! Simon “Ghost” Riley Headcanons

Warnings: 18+, Implied Smut, Age Gap Relationship, Forbidden Relationship, Older Man/Younger Reader, Protective! Simon, Slightly Creepy! Simon, Petnames, Profanity, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except ‘You’.

Simon was more gentle with you than he’d ever been with anyone, especially now as he lay on top of you, pushing into you slowly, carefully.

He knew what you were doing was wrong – the looks, the gifts, the sneaking around behind everyone’s backs – but he’d already betrayed too many of his instincts – allowed you to break down too many of his walls – to care now.

Simon had fucked before, but he’d never made love to anyone. You were his first, in that sense.

“That’s it,” he rasped, releasing a guttural moan as he finally managed to slip into you fully. He felt himself twitch. Felt you heaving laboured breaths as he lay heavy inside you. He rested his forehead against yours, skin slick with sweat, pressing a languid kiss to your lips, trailing down, along your jaw, down to the sensitive area just beneath your earlobe. Your pulse point.

“Doin’ so well for me, Love,” he told you. And from the veins bulging beneath his skin, his scars and tattoos underlined by a constellation of capillaries and a cacophony of life, you knew he was telling the truth.

Simon can remember every single point that led to this. At first, it was your meeting. Fated, it seemed. Especially now as the two of you lay with your legs tangled together, fingers interlocked and bodies all but conjoined. 

For a man who’s always struggled with eye contact, this is the only time he’s ever enjoyed it. Peering into you, your eyes.

Simon knows you love him. Though, he doesn’t quite believe it given how he perceives you to be out of his league.

And, despite your assurances, Simon tends to get a bit…jealous.

Self-conscious.

He’s aware of the fact that the age gap between the two of you is wide enough to let some doubts slip in; doubts that, in your young age, you’ve made a horrible decision pursuing a man as grizzled as Simon.

But he never takes his insecurities out on you. Not outside the bedroom, at least.

If you’re going out with someone Simon views as competition, he has a tendency to leave you ‘something to remember him by’ — namely his cum rolling down your thighs and dripping into your underwear.

He loves watching you try to greet people normally, knowing that you were getting raw dogged just ten minutes before, the aftermath seeping into the fabric of your underwear, making you shift in your seat, trying to find a position where you’re not pressed against the sopping-wet fabric.

Simon wonders if, during those times, you think of him. The same way he thinks of you as his mind wanders and his hand slips across the waistband of his jeans, palming himself at the memory of your whimpering, the tears in your eyes as you tell him how good he’s making you feel.

His possessiveness gets the better of him sometimes, hence he sends you into the world with some part of you filled with his semen.

During these moments, his jealousy manifests in his roughness with you — in his need to make you feel things no other man can.

Other times, he’s gentle. Endearingly so. And those are the times you know he needs reassurance the most.

Card your hands through his hair, call him yours, tell him how much you love him. He’ll be the one moaning and whimpering into the crook of your neck, I guarantee it.

Given the nature of your relationship, Simon is not one to take risks.

Unlike Price, he won’t slip his hand up your thigh and tease you in public.

He won’t sit next to you of his own free will when you’re out with your father, and he won’t be nearly as talkative with you as when you’re alone together (which, given he’s Simon Riley, isn’t much to begin with, but there’s a difference only you can tell).

But you’ll feel his eyes on you, see the look of longing, of hesitant love — first love — lie within them.

To others, it’s a death stare. To you, it’s the closest thing to an ‘I love you’ you can get under such surveillance.

If anyone — especially your father — started getting suspicious of the nature of your relationship – your affair – Simon would act as if it’s business as usual. Pretend as if nothing’s wrong.

If the two of you suddenly change your behaviour, it’ll look even more suspicious – that’s what he tells you. But, of course, he doesn’t invite you over to his house as much; doesn’t placate your desire to go shopping by driving you into town. The most he’ll do is offer you his jacket when you’re cold – a bare bones gesture of goodwill and nothing more.

He longs for you in ways you can’t even fathom during your away-time, in ways he could never verbalise. But trust that, when you’re able to again, Simon won’t be letting you leave his house. Or the bedroom, for that matter.

You can expect him to be a lot more open and receptive to physical affection after that – in private, of course. 

Kisses to the crown of your head, longingly staring down at you as you lay against his side, holding your hand at every convenience, etc.

Simon is the BEST gift giver you could ask for. He spoils you silly, buying you anything your heart desires, be it clothes, jewellery, food; the world is yours when you’re with him.

He isn’t unwise with his purchases, however.

He’s observant, has a keen eye. He’ll see things you like before you do, and he’ll buy you things he knows you’ll love before you even have the chance to tell him.

Your bedroom is going to be near-bursting with all the things Simon’s bought you. But telling your father that you bought them all off the internet with your new job money (a job you had to fabricate to account for the many hours a day you’d disappear off with Simon and the sudden influx of cash coming your way).

It took a LONG time for Simon to start liking you. To start loving you.

The close proximity of his house to yours made your paths cross more times than he could count, leading to a daily conversation of some nature. ‘How are you?’ and ‘What are you up to?’ eventually turned into ‘Hey, can I ask you a question?’ — for you often asked Simon’s advice about issues you didn’t want to discuss with your father; a bold show of trust, Simon thought — and ‘Are you doing anything later today?’

The first time you’d interacted with your father’s mysterious friend beyond a superficial capacity had been when you’d helped him paint his fence (which, you noticed, he’d started sprucing up after you’d suggested it to him a few weeks prior). Sure, you thought he was attractive, a nice, albeit very quiet, personality, and decided to lend him a hand on your way back from a walk one morning.

You stayed there the whole day, talking to Simon throughout.

It felt like this was the first time you’d actually met him. The first time you’d managed to get more than three words out of him.

Sure, most of his answers were stunted, but you could tell they were truthful. And yet, you also knew he was hiding something. Many things, in fact. Things you didn’t push for, instead opting to tell Simon about yourself, relinquishing details about your life, your hobbies – anything to make you appear more like a person and less like a nuisance.

He painted, too. Though, he’d often find himself distracted by the sight of you in your shorts, bent in a way that, to a man as pent-up and lonely as Simon, could be seen as provocative.

He felt icky. Like a creepy old man spying on his younger neighbour.

He did try to distance himself after that, uncomfortable with the thoughts that ran through his head for the entirety of your time together.

Unfortunately for him, however, you were persistent. Hadn’t seen the hungry glow in his eyes whenever you wore something slightly revealing.

He felt like lecturing you, telling you to cover up — to not flaunt yourself so readily. Didn’t you know lecherous men (him) lurked around every corner ?

Another part of him felt like enabling you. Wanted to see as much of you as you’d let him. You were the first pretty thing to wander into Simon’s sights in a long time – one that hadn’t fled or disappeared at his behest.

One day, you’d dressed yourself in a flimsy little shirt and shorts and the weather had taken a turn for the worse. You and Simon had rushed back to his house, the shelter closest to you. There, seeing you soaking, your shirt sticking to your body, Simon did the gentlemanly thing and offered you a hoodie of his to keep warm in.

He’d never given someone his hoodie before. Not in this capacity, at least (Johnny didn’t count because Sergeant MacTavish had actually stolen Simon’s hoodie and worn it without asking.)

The sight of you drowning in the fabric made the breath in Simon’s throat catch.

In that second, you weren’t the byproduct of his best friend. You were small, defenceless, and indebted to him.

Simon hadn’t been able to see you the same way since.

No longer did he take pleasure in watching you bend over for one thing or another. Now, he looked for opportunities to care for you.

Subtle shows of his growing fondness for you. His need to take care of you.

And…well, you know the story from here ;-).

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

[loveindefinitely]

— ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ THREE OF HEARTS | könig x ghost x reader

✩ PART ONE / ACE OF SPADES

// read on ao3. fic playlist. series masterlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

You can still taste the smoke on your lips.

The flavour of tobacco against your tongue, the spiralling smoke brushing your cheek. A hand in your hair, another between your thighs. One strong chest pressed against your own, the other laid onto the sheets between your legs.

A name spoken against your ear, another whisper muffled by your thighs.

Torture, in its rawest of forms – malicious and cruel and perfect. An agonising taunt of what could be, if not for regulations, rules; decorum and practicality. Right and wrong.

It had been two years since you’d seen the men that starred in your darkest of fantasies. Or, more precisely, six-hundred and thirty-eight days since you’d tasted them, breathed in the strong scent of their cologne.

But you weren’t counting.

You wouldn’t dare.

…Still.

Six-hundred and thirty-eight days, you’d spent, longing and hoping and dreaming of another moment. A possibility to be embraced, once more, by them. Even just a minute of their time, to speak, to ask if they felt the same instant connection you had.

Six-hundred and thirty-eight days of waiting for this very moment.

“Sergeant, I’m sure you’re at least aware of Colonel König and Lieutenant Ghost,” your Commander speaks, elbows resting on his desk, hands folded underneath his chin as he studies you.

Your mouth is barren of moisture, all of it draining straight to where your clasped hands grow clammy in your lap. Without a word, you nod. Your Commander doesn’t comment, but his eyes narrow, and he releases a short exhale.

The room feels so small, now, his office like your own personal prison cell. Walls a fading beige, the seat beneath you a cracking leather – the stench of old paperwork. It’s a challenge not to cough from the dust.

“And I know that you’re well aware of your upcoming mission. Tomorrow, correct?” He asks, flipping through the stapled stack of paper before him, tongue peaking out to lick over his thumb as he skims over the fineprint. 

You nod once more, eyes nervously darting around the enclosed space. No windows? Seriously?

“You’re a smart woman,” he observes, with a small shrug of his shoulders, eyeing you curiously. “I think you know what I’m implying.”

The contracted mission, which had once been an infiltration, targeted approach, has turned into a long-term undercover one overnight. In fact, you hadn’t been informed of the drastic change until ten minutes ago.

Neither had you been informed of the two soldiers you’d be working with.

You didn’t know if you’d ever regretted something this deeply.

Ever.

“I don’t even know the details, let alone my cover,” you begin, fidgeting with the hem of your civvies tank, “Isn’t this CIA shit, anyways? Why are we –”

“You know damn well why we need you three on this, and not just any agent,” Your Commander raises an unimpressed brow, and you slump further into your chair. He’s right, of course, but it doesn’t mean that it makes you feel any better.

The layers within this mission were nearly impossible to decipher.

A foreign terrorist – one growing a steady following within political groups and extremists – was pulling the strings of one of the most exclusive and profitable trafficking rings in the world. And he was doing it right underneath the public’s noses.

What the cover was hadn’t been known – until this morning.

“Read it yourself,” your Commander breathes exasperatedly, and with that tone, you know it’s not going to be pretty.

Tossing the paper over to your side of the desk, it skids to a soft stop right at the edge.

Flitting your gaze to the front page, your stomach sinks.

There, in printed, full colour – is them. They look unbelievably imposing, with their uniforms, and their masked faces.

You knew what was hidden beneath that black fabric.

The images aren’t the only thing to catch your abrupt attention, however, your focus instantly snatching on the cover stories. The… 

Oh. Fuck.

“Commander –”

He instantly raises a palm, and you bite your tongue, hesitantly reading the text from start to end. It doesn’t make the situation any better; somehow, it makes it worse – tenfold.

You speak before you can stop yourself.

“BDSM?” 

If all the blood has drained from your face, you’d be lucky to die on the spot. Because, truly, you can’t think of a better option. A bullet to the head, maybe? Arsenic in the water sat next to the contract?

Yeah. Anything is better than whatever the fuck you’re supposed to be doing tomorrow.

And for the indefinite future.

“I know that it’s impractical,” he tries to amend, obviously seeing the pure distraught written all over your features, “But it’s our safest bet. There’s thousands – millions of lives on the line here. And I’m sure you’re not alone in your… hesitation, either.”

Chewing at your inner cheek, you nervously skim over the rest of the information, before skidding it back over to your Commander, running a hand down your face.

“I have to pretend,” you inhale, deep, “To be in a kinky throuple.” 

With the men who you’d done ‘kinky throuple’ shit with, went unsaid.

The man across from you winces. But he doesn’t deny it.

“That’s…” He seems to search for words, but comes out empty. He clears his throat. “Yeah. That’s… That’s pretty much. The cover story.”

He sounds highly uncomfortable with the topic at hand, but with sweat beading at the nape of your neck, and your mind reeling, you can’t find it in yourself to have any empathy. At least he didn’t have to infiltrate a fucking sex club.

Flashes of bare skin, scarred jaws, calloused hands –

“When’s the briefing?” 

The words fall from your lips in a breath, your subconscious need for information being set to default while the rest of your brain tries to play catch-up.

Looking down at the bulky, gluttonously gold watch adorning his wrist, your Commander grimaces, before looking back up to you with an apologetic frown. “It’s in five minutes. This morning’s been a rush, sorry, kid.”

Rising from your seat on unsteady legs, you accept your own copy of the papers with shaky hands. If your Commander notices the trembling, he doesn’t comment on it.

They feel heavier than any weight, the words in your hands – the words bearing down on your soul.

Attempting to make sense of it all is a fruitless effort, and trying to reason with it is just as impossible. How could you? When this undercover mission was likely going to be the most difficult one of your life? Was this the universe’s form of a taunt, a punishment?

Your Commander opens the door for you, the soft draft of the hallway allowing you to breathe. 

The stifled, stale air of his office gives way, and your shoulders loosen slightly from the tight posture they were in. Maybe everything will be fine. You won’t be in a fake relationship with the men who you had a relationship with, however short-lived, to stop a world-class terrorist.

…Totally.

Following your Commander tightly behind him, your mind a hurricane of emotions and anxiety, you chew at the inside of your cheek as you rack your thoughts for any sense of direction.

You, inevitably, come up empty.

Boots hitting the linoleum floor swiftly, the sound echoing around the empty space, you release short, calming breaths. Realistically speaking, this wasn’t going to be the cause of your death – you were a professional. You were one of the most skilled coveted ops agents for-hire, and what was this but just another aspect of your job?

Maybe this was exactly what you’d been hoping for – a real, substantial opportunity.

Maybe they’ve both forgotten you.

Your breath hitches at that thought.

It takes root in your mind instantly. What’s making you believe that they care, in the slightest, for you? What makes you think that one night of lustful desires could hold a flame to a proper relationship?

What if you were just that – one night? Nothing more of importance, or worth, to them?

“C’mon, kid,” Your Commander claps a comforting hand onto your shoulder, near dragging you into the briefing room. 

You’re just grateful that he takes your hesitation as an uneasiness about the cover story, and not the men you’ll have to execute it with. …Although, the cover story isn’t exactly a breeze, either, König and Ghost aside.

The air-conditioned meeting room feels like ice against your heated skin, the door closing behind both you and your Commander as he goes to take a seat at the head of the table, beside a woman of whom you haven’t seen before. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled back into a short ponytail, a classic button-up adorning her torso as she flips through the files in front of her. 

When she looks up, she greets your Commander with a short nod, before giving one to you, too.

Other than her, the room is empty – and checking the decade-old clock on the wall, it seems like there’s only a minute until the official starting time.

Choosing the safest bet, a chair to the left of the elongated, wooden table, you sit in the middle. It feels like the best choice – not too close to the Commanders or any Chiefs.

You aren’t new to the concept of briefings; in fact, you’d likely been involved in more than any of the Sergeants you knew. 

Being an expert in the field of undercover and intelligence-based operations means that you attended more meetings than, say, an explosives expert. You have to know the smallest details; discuss them and pick them apart, add your own two cents.

Intelligence is something you pride yourself on – you break most stereotypes about the military, all in one go, and you aren’t ashamed of that. Book smart, progressive; a woman. 

It never fails to make you smile internally, the second-glances from the withering old men that held authority within your ranks. While you deal with the drawbacks every second you work, there are some benefits, you suppose.

The cushioned meeting chair is comfortable where you’re seated, hands folded dutifully in your lap as you await everyone else’s arrival.

Their arrival.

Door creaking open, your heart skips a beat in your chest as you instantly dart your gaze up.

You most definitely do not deflate when you see one of your Lieutenants walk in, instead of a specific one from the Task Force. …Or a six-foot-ten Colonel.

The logistics of this mission must’ve been insane to sort out. While KorTac and SpecGru are formally enemies, and actively enemies, too, there are under-the-table deals and trades made between the two behind closed doors.

This must be a prime example of such a decision.

König and Ghost – from those few hours you’d spent with them – had been amicable. That was putting it lightly; they definitely shared a few secretive, heated looks, even a kiss and a few strokes, too.

Maybe the whole forbidden thing was even more intense, for them? Being so explicitly enemies?

You weren’t exactly sure – still aren’t.

None of it makes any sense, which is a debilitating feeling, for someone who needs to know everything at all times. As best as you can, anyways.

Taking the spot directly in front of you, your Lieutenant gives you a kind smile. You easily reciprocate, even with your anxiety heightened, your thighs squeezing together underneath the shadows of the table.

The overhead lights are a harsh, grating white, and you feel a pounding headache incoming.

Your Commander and the woman seem to be engaging in a quick, near-silent conversation at the head of the table. They swap some papers around, narrow their gazes, raise brows. They’re… hostile, but not unbearably so – amicable enough not to cause a fight.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The world doesn’t stop, time doesn’t freeze, but it’s a close thing with the way your heart stutters in your chest, your breath cutting off with your last inhale.

At the door, fist still raised, deep blue eyes and a sniper hood meet your startled gaze. The man’s eyes soften immediately when they catch onto yours, the greasepaint smeared around them doing nothing to hide the instant spark that lights within them.

He is, you distantly think, as breathtaking as you remembered him to be.

The top of his head is hidden behind the door frame, his height palpable even within the excessively tall roof of the building. His posture allows him to curl into himself, even with his fist still raised.

“We late?”

And –

Oh.

Oh.

König’s unbelievably large frame had taken the spotlight – but that wasn’t to say that the other man was any dimmer in your eyes.

Ghost. True to his name, his voice is a rough drawl, muscle-corded arms folded over his chest as his eyes dart around the room, before landing on…

You.

He doesn’t flinch; his expression doesn’t change in the slightest, actually, not even a hint of recognition in his dusky brown eyes. Just cold indifference, this side of disgruntled.

As if you’ve been frozen in time, you struggle to think, let alone breathe – like your life has been suddenly set to manual. With a quick jerk of a movement, you let your eyes zone out onto the mahogany in front of you.

“Colonel, Lieutenant – just in time,” the woman speaks succinctly, folding one leg over the other as she finally looks away from your Commander to gesture the two in.

Oh, what you wouldn’t give for a moment to process. To figure out the battlefield that is your head, and decide on your next actions – your feelings, too, the emotions of it all.

“Good to see you two haven’t killed each other yet!” Your Commander laughs, jovial, and you want to bang your head onto the table.

“...We are professionals.”

That Austrian accent – the thick, headiness of it, the lilt, the gentle tone – it’s one as familiar as your own. One that’s played in your mind, a constant, the memory of it spoken against your heated skin both a blessing and a curse.

Six-hundred and thirty-eight days, it had been.

“At killing.”

You can hear the side-eye, the bored tone, the guttural raspiness reminiscent of his hometown. The sarcasm, too, a core part of the very man’s existence.

Six-hundred and thirty-eight days.

Your Commander is the only person in the room who laughs, clasping his hands together before waving the two over to join at the table. Looking up, for a split second, you nearly deflate when his eyes catch onto yours. The glint in them says everything you need to know.

“Colonel, Lieutenant – let me introduce you to Sergeant Star,” your Commander gestures towards you, and really, would melting into the floor be so bad?

Ghost raises a single brow, and your Lieutenant runs with it.

“Funny story, that,” he starts, and you barely restrain yourself from burying your head in your hands, “First mission. She somehow figures out who was sending the false intel for a case, and dismantled the whole bloody plan, made a new one. She was spot on, too.”

His smile turns shiteating as he leans further back into his chair, folding his hands over his chest. 

“When we got back onto base, Commander over there gave her a gold star for her troubles. Pretty good tradeoff, aye?”

“Leo,” you mutter under your breath, delivering your superior a vicious glare. 

Your Lieutenant – Leo – was more of an annoying older brother than anything else. Since that mission, he’d taken you under his wing; protected you like his own, too. He was a dickhead, but a solid one that you wouldn’t trade for the world.

Even when he pulls shit like this.

“That’s…” König folds into himself further, if that’s at all possible, as he looks to Leo. “Impressive. Very good.”

Ghost doesn’t say a word, instead, moving to sit in the chair next to your Lieutenant, and opposite you. König quickly follows his lead, sitting to your left with rough movements. A man of his size – to be graceful with anything was something of a miracle.

He’d been graceful when his hand had wrapped around your neck –

“Now that everyone’s here,” the woman cuts in, moving to stand and turn on the TV sat between her and your Commander, “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The show is multiple images of the targets, some of the women that have been kidnapped, reports, and other important information. You catalogue it all, playing close attention to the names and circumstances of both the victims and the targets.

It’s going smoothly, until –

“The rules,” the woman whose name you’ve learnt is Laswell speaks, flicking to the next slide. Your stomach drops for a reason other than the two men sat at the table when you read its contents.

Rule One: Explicit consent must be given between pre-established partners, or any new partners if a scene is wished to be done.

Rule Two: Masks must be worn at all times, with safe alternatives if oral play is wish to be done.

Rule Three: A person’s inclination [Dominant, Verse, Submissive] must be displayed on a corresponding armband, which will be supplied at entry.

Rule Four: Access to the basement level may not be granted to anyone, unless a verification and acceptance process has been executed. No exclusions apply.

Rule Five: Submissives with a Dominant(s) must stay within eyesight at all times, unless a collar has been placed onto the Submissive marking ownership.

It feels as though someone’s scrambled the contents of your brain in an attempt to destroy your very essence – and your stomach feels as hollow as your heart as Laswell reads off the words on screen. She doesn’t falter once, unlike you, knuckles whitening against the tight fists forming in your lap.

König, nor Ghost, react outwardly. No hint of hesitance or uneasiness, just taking their professionalism in stride.

You feel like a fool.

“Ghost will be acting as the Dominant, König the Verse, and Star the Submissive,” Laswell states, matter-of-fact, as if your world didn’t start crumbling around you the moment you’d been called into your Commander’s office.

If you were at all in a state to laugh, you’d probably giggle at how suitable the roles are. They all aligned to That Night, and a distant part of you wonders if the three of you were just obvious with your tastes.

“We’ve rented an apartment four blocks away. When you start to inquire about the basement,” she flicks to the next slide once more, “They will follow you. Expect to have a shadow everywhere you go – and one that you don’t know is there, obvious or not.”

“You guys aren’t good people, as of tomorrow,” Your Commander chimes in, leaning forward on the table, looking between both König and Ghost. “You are interested in their side business, and Star,” he looks to you, “Is none the wiser. This only works if you follow through with that – and offer up her services as collateral.”

“You want us to pretend,” König shakes his head, looking dismayed, “To give the Sergeant to the ring?”

Silence.

And, then, “Yes.”

You were made aware, earlier, of course, that your role was going to be slightly different to that of the other two men. But you hadn’t actually expected something so… fucked.

“If this goes sideways –” Ghost speaks up, voice deep and raspy as his eyes narrow, ever so slightly, visible even with his mask, “ –We’re risking ‘er life.”

“I know what I signed up for,” you respond, finding your voice, however weak. “This is no different to a warzone. Just with less explosions, and more…” You struggle to find the words, “Mind games. Tactics are changing from bullets to rumours.”

He doesn’t try to debate it, just merely shrugs indifferently and slides his smooth gaze back over to the two at the front.

As if he hadn’t felt you cum around his cock; heard you moan his name while he left bites over your neck.

Bastard.

The meeting goes on much the same, with more information on the plan as a whole. It makes sense, to you, and you know that you’ll be able to get it done.

König and Ghost, however, that haunting spectre that was them, feel like a road block.

Ghost, from what you had gathered, was either ignoring your existence for some selfish reason, or had completely forgotten about That Night.

You simultaneously find it hard to believe that your time together was that forgettable, and that it was truly something special. It has, after all, been six-hundred and thirty-eight days. Maybe he was used to such intimacy, although you find it hard to believe, it is a possibility.

Then, there’s König – his eyes, the way he almost reeled back at the sight of you, told you enough.

He remembered. Clear as day.

But whether or not he cares at all, or wants to discuss your past at all, is a whole other story. Maybe he just wants to brush it under the rug, forget it ever happened, and move on.

As much as one could move on when pretending to be in a relationship, that is.

“You will head to your apartment by eighteen-hundred, tomorrow night, and get yourselves situated. The club opens at nineteen-hundred, so an hour or so after that is reasonable,” Laswell says, finishing off on the debrief.

Her eyes find all of you.

“There’s a lot riding on this. This isn’t like any mission any of you have executed before – but we have faith that you will execute this with precision and care.”

The words sit in your soul like a reminder; a way of steering you the right direction.

A few words are exchanged after that, some questions, some answers. Leo will be serving as your operator, in charge of communications and resources for the mission. At the back of your mind, you’re grateful for the distant support of your Lieutenant.

It’s when everything’s wrapped up, and you’re falling back as everyone files out of the room, that a presence behind you has you freezing up.

Ghost.

“If you’re not up for the mission, just say so instead of draggin’ us down,” he mutters, just loud enough for you to hear the grain of his low, impatient voice. “This is important, Sergeant, and if your head is elsewhere –”

“You don’t remember?” Your voice comes out tight, impatient, upset. 

His shoulder checks yours as he passes.

“What’s there to remember?”

taglist. @thegreyjoyed @hayleybarnesx

[katszumi]

"but, isn't it a blessing to have someone care about you?" your voice was soft but your words weighed heavy on bakugou's heart.

it was nearly ten o'clock. due to your rampant text messages you sent to bakugou ten minutes ago, he stayed up past his normal bedtime in order to figure out what exactly was your issue tonight.

you were rested on the bench that was outside of u.a while bakugou was reclined on the bench, his legs sprawled out in front of him. there was a mere sprinkle that surrounded the area around them, a slight breeze also forcing you two to sit closer together to bask in each other's warmth.

bakugou was unsure what to reply with. where did your random outburst even come from. what did you really want him to say?

bakugou didn't particularly understand love and he damn sure didn't know how to express it. maybe that's why he was okay with it at first— you deserved to be with someone that could make you happy. he knew that he wouldn't be able to live up to your standards. he lacked all the aspects for a healthy relationship.

but when you got together with that stupid guy you met at a coffee shop eight months ago, he felt like an idiot for not pursing you. he noticed all of your tired eyes, insecure smiles, and passive behavior. it was only then when bakugou realized he could’ve done so much better than he thought.

you took his silence as an opportunity to continue. "someone who worries about your happiness and wants to always be by your side?"

yes. bakugou wanted to scream. yes, you fucking idiot. were the words that burned his throat. why couldn't it come out when he so desperately wanted it to?

did you decide to be blind of his feelings towards you? bakugou had thought he'd shown you that he'd go to hell and back for you, but still, you couldn't discern the fact that he was so infatuated with you? he was so in love with you that he would wait for you at the bottom no matter how long it took.

he hated this feeling. why did it have to be you that caught his eye? the only girl he was drawn to, no matter how many times he tried to escape your aura, the path always lead back to you.

he doesn't know why he would sit with you while you ranted about your relationship problems. maybe it was because he didn't want it to be anyone else other than him or because he cared about your well-being most of all. maybe it was both.

either way, he fucked hated it. why couldn't it be the other way around? why couldn't he be the one on the receiving end of your love? bakugou knew for sure he wouldn't do half of the shitty things that your lover would do. he hated that you stayed with worthless dick-face of a man you call your boyfriend. did you not know that with your personality and beauty that you could find someone that was worth millions?

"you know... i like to think someone cares for me that way." bakugou didn't have to look at you to tell there were tears prickling your eyes. water threatening to spill out. it was a usual thing whenever you'd ask him to lend a ear to your venting sessions. he wanted nothing more than to grab your face and kiss your tears away.

bakugou didn't understand love. not in the slightest. but bakugou understood regret. and his biggest regret came in the form of you. if only bakugou had enough courage to tell he that he loved you years ago when you two first met, then he would be the person on the receiving end. he would be the guy who would always be by your side. to be the guy who truly cares about you.

for however long you stayed with that asshole of a boyfriend, bakugou was aware his chance with you was as close to zero.

and he was fine with that.

because even though it pained him to hear you talk about another guy, bakugou would rather have some of you than none of you. he didn’t mind having to swallow his feelings that tugged at his heart if it meant you were happy.

he dryly laughed. "there is," his eyes suddenly finding comfort in the wet cement below them. "just someone who fuckin' sucks at showing it."

bakugou didn’t just not understand love. he hated it. he despised love because it always fell into the hands of the wrong person.

-

yes the quote is from fruits basket, i couldnt help it.

[muddyorbsblr]

onyx pt2

See my full list of works here!

Summary: Thor's return to the Compound reveals that your new pet kitten wasn't quite what you thought he was

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: language (it's like 2 cuss words but i'm still not sorry, Rogers); the lightest sprinkle of angst [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: himbo Thor hours

You couldn't believe what you were hearing from Thor. Implying that the sweet tiny kitten on your shoulder was actually the god that wouldn't even spare you a single glance sideways. The one that barely even registered that you existed.

"Thor no. It can't be. This little bub is small and baking biscuits on my cheek. He purrs. He's cat-shaped. Onyx is a cat. He's my cat. And right now you're scaring him being all up in his face like this. I say this with so much love…Thunder? Back the fuck off." Your kitten shivered even harder as he snuggled into your neck, keeping his little face buried in your hair.

"Lady Y/N, I know my brother's eyes anywhere. Especially after he disguised himself as a snake when we were merely eight years old and--"

"Changed back and stabbed you. Bleh it's me. I know the story, Thunder," you finished for him, suddenly exceedingly aware of the weight of maybe-Onyx-maybe-Loki on your shoulder despite the tiny feline frame. "But I'm telling you there's just no way that my cat is--"

You looked into Onyx's eyes and immediately your shoulders dropped, realizing that it wasn't a coincidence that his eyes were a familiar shade of blue. Thor was right; he knew his brother's eyes anywhere. The kitten embraced your face, pressing his nose to your cheek repeatedly.

"Onyx, look at me." He stilled against your cheek, his wide pleading eyes looking into yours with something that looked akin to resignation. "You were hissing at FRIDAY and Shaun about getting chipped because you understood everything we were saying. Am I right?" He didn't move, the pupils in his eyes growing wider and the corners of his eyes starting to fill with tears. "Because you're Loki?"

He took a deep breath, this little chest puffing up with air and suddenly looking significantly less cat-like than he did a minute ago. Onyx -- actually, Loki -- pressed his face to your cheek again, the action now making your breath hitch in the back of your throat. Then finally he nodded,  and the air left your lungs.

You walked over to  your apartment, Thor's heavy footsteps following just behind you, and placed Onyx/Loki on your desk in front of a notepad and a pen. "Talk." He looked up at you again with those wide pleading eyes. "Please," you added, unsure of what to feel now that the last few hours you spent with your newfound pet was being colored with the context of who he actually was.

Too many thoughts, too many questions, floated around your head, nearly overwhelming you, as your last round of pain meds began to wear off and the discomfort you were feeling gradually became a throbbing pulsating sensation throughout your left side.

Most of them revolving around why he acted the way that he did in this tiny form with you, and how long this could have gone on if Thor hadn't revealed his identity within ten seconds of seeing him. The blond god pulled out a chair for you to read along as Loki's green magic surrounded the pen and words began to form on the paper.

I made a misstep while practicing my magic and cast a spell that turned me into this diminutive feline form. I had exited my quarters earlier today to find assistance in retrieving the spell I require to reverse its effects.

"Hold on." The pen stopped mid-stroke, the cat looking at you with your hand held up. "If you can make things move with your mind, why couldn't you just get the spell book--"

"Grimoire," Thor corrected you. "He gets a bit testy when you use the other word."

"Right then, why couldn't you just move the grimoire down and reverse the spell on your own?" The pen lifted again, you and his brother crowding around the paper to read his answer.

When I scale down my form to something so vulnerable, my magic is not as potent. In theory the grimoire is only just at the limit of my powers' reach in this form and I run the risk of crushing myself with the tome.

"Loki, are you telling me you need help reaching the top shelf?" Thor chortled at the question, sounding like he was struggling to keep his chuckles at bay. "Can it, Thunder, it's not that funny." The cat nodded at you, starting to stand on his back legs again. "Okay, so why not ask your brother? He's way taller than me."

"Oh that I can answer for him, Lady Y/N," he quipped, raising his own hand up in the air. "My brother doesn't trust me around his possessions. Something about how I have a tendency to break his things."

"You know what, that tracks," you muttered, standing and presenting the kitten your hand. "Come on then, let's get you back to normal." He hopped onto your hand and you were about to put him on your shoulder before you stopped, keeping him perched on your hands instead. He meowed at you, starting to climb up your arm before you picked him up again, keeping him in your hands.

"Think my brother wants to be on your shoulder, Lady Y/N. Seemed quite comfortable there," Thor spoke up, letting out a soft chuckle when the kitten started nodding enthusiastically, agreeing with him. "Perhaps you should--"

"I let him stay there earlier because he was my cat," you shot back. "Now he's your brother, it's not the same thing." He whimpered, his little cat body shaking in your hands, taking every ounce of strength you could spare not to give in and just place him back there. He kneaded at your palms the entire way to his apartment, Thor carrying around your stepping stool.

You all got to Loki's study, setting him down on the desk as he guided you to the grimoire he needed, shaking his head at each tome on the shelf that you'd pointed at so far.

"My word, Brother, your attention to detail in these sketches is remarkable, you even got--" Loki hissed at his brother, who was currently standing by a stack of journals, a small sketchbook in his hand. "Alright alright I desist. I shall take my leave. You shall be the one to divulge this information once you are yourself again."

The blond Asgardian's heavy footsteps sounded throughout the apartment until he left, then a few moments afterward you faintly heard his booming voice as he rejoined the rest of the team. You pointed at another grimoire that finally had him nodding his little head, stepping aside on the desk to make room for you to set it down.

"Okay then," you spoke up once you stepped back down to the ground, suddenly feeling more awkward as you stood alone with him in his apartment. "I'll uhh…I'll leave you to it."

You made it to the door of his study before you heard his tiny meow again, seeing him standing on his back legs at the edge of his desk, grabby hands outstretched towards you.

"I'll see you when you're…you again. Later, Loki." The sound of his little meows tugged at your heartstrings, nearly making you turn around and…honestly you didn't even know why he'd want you there with him but you'd stay if only to wipe the sad look from his face. You couldn't deny the adorable little cat much anyways in the hours he was yours.

Then again, you probably couldn't deny him anything in his Asgardian form, either.

An hour after you walked out of Loki's apartment you were hobbling your way back to yours, having eaten enough to take your next round of medications and toting a compound that Banner whipped up in his lab that could maybe help your injuries heal a touch faster. You had half a mind to just cut the sweatshirt off of you once you got inside to avoid the lingering discomfort, but ultimately decided against it.

That wasn't a good enough reason to let a perfectly good forest green sweatshirt go to waste.

You were about to start using the compound on your ribs first when a voice stopped you. "Darling…"

That voice. You recognized that voice anywhere. Giving you butterflies whenever you heard it in mission briefings. Haunting your vivid fantasies regardless of the time or appropriateness. The voice that had you incapable of forming words on any other day.

"Good to see you back," you said, trying to keep your composure around the god.

You reached for your sweatshirt again to cover yourself from his piercing stormy gaze, but before you could, he stood before you, his hand gently grasping your arm while the other rested on your waist. "I received a message from my brother while I was in my feline form, asking if I could check on your injuries. Aid in your healing somehow, if I feel inclined. His words, not mine." Your breath hitched when his thumbs stroked at your skin more tenderly than any of your former lovers had ever touched you. "I would have done it regardless."

Your pulse was thumping in your ears from his proximity, from the way he held your gaze. From the way he held you like he was fighting every urge to pull you to him. Like he would let you step out of it if that was what you wanted.

But all you wanted at the moment was to ask him, "Why didn't you tell me who you were the second you saw me in the pantry?"

The journal Thor was holding earlier materialized on your desk, diverting your attention to the open page. Probably the page that he was commending earlier that made the raven-haired god hiss at him in cat form. The image on the page had the air leave your lungs.

It was a sketch of you.

"My refusal to look at you before was not from disdain, little mortal," he spoke, taking a step closer to you, his hand traveling up your arm and framing your face. You could feel his breath on  your skin. "It was because every time I would look upon your features, I had to fight back every compulsion to do this."

He tucked his finger under your chin, turning you to face him before pressing a tender kiss to your lips that had you weakening in his hold, your stomach violently fluttering as his lips moved against yours. You whimpered against his lips, making him pull you into his arms, weaving his fingers into your hair.

"I've longed for you, precious mortal," he whispered once he pulled away, pressing kisses along the side of your face while you caught your breath. "To know the taste of your lips on mine. The feel of your supple body pressed against me." He kissed you again, lifting you off your feet and carrying you deeper into your apartment. Into your bedroom. He laid you down on your bed, briefly licking into your mouth before pulling away, making light wash over the room with a wave of his hand. "May I heal you, darling?"

Words failed you at the sight of him hovering over you, eyes wide and pleading as he looked on at the bruises and cuts that colored the left side of your torso. You wordlessly nodded your head to grant him the permission he needed to go forward, giving you a soft smile before he leaned down and pressed his lips to your bruises.

"Much better," he breathed out, nipping at your skin before moving his hands down to the waistband of your leggings, lips traveling down to your thigh and kissing you over the fabric. "Once I have seen to your injuries, you should know that I have every intention to make you mine." He kissed you just below your belly button, humming against your skin as you squirmed underneath him, deft hands working the tight fabric down your legs. "If you wish to be, that is."

"I do," you gasped out, ceasing to give a flying fuck how desperate and wanton you sounded at the moment. "I'm yours, I'm all yours."

He smiled against your skin, kissing away at the injuries you sustained on your left leg before making his way back up your body. "You've no idea how delighted I am to hear those words from you, my darling." You felt what remained of your clothing melting away along with his, your moan when skin met skin muffled by him slanting his mouth over yours.

You woke up the next morning to the feel of Loki's nose brushing against yours, pressing kisses along your face until you let out a soft giggle from his attentions. "Good morning, sweetheart."

Your response had him running his fingers along your sides, turning you into a squirming giggling mess as you tried to wrestle your way out of his hold. "Good morning, Onyx."

A/N: I heavily debated w/ myself if I was gonna put smut in this but ultimately decided not to because it's a fluff story and I wanted it to stay a full fluff story 🥴 Just know that he did, in fact, give her plenty a mango ride 😏😏

This is probs the last story I'll post for 2023, so I'm gonna wish you all a Happy New Year and here's to the whorish insanity we'll all get up to in 2024. I have a whole lot planned out, starting with more horny bitches cuts and…a certain celebration I've been putting off because I'm drowning in a sea of WIPs 😂

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @peaches1958 @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @anukulee @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @tom-hlover

[froggywritesstuff]

rest | yandere!asmodeus

ship/pairing: Yandere!Asmodeus x g/n!reader

fandom: Helluva Boss

request: anon: yandere asmodeus

warnings: yandere, kidnapped reader, too many pet names (reader gets called darling, sweetie, honey, and baby), forced close proximity, unwanted touching (not sexual), unhealthy relationship, not proofread

word count: 710

A/N: i'm so very tired rn.  i do not in any way support yandere behaviour, please know that this writing is purely fictional, and should not ever be reenacted in real life

You glare at the door in front of you, debating running away and back to the comfort of your own bed. No, comfort wasn’t the right word. Your mattress felt unusually hard tonight, and the sheets felt like sandpaper grinding against your skin. Your blankets were too hot and you felt suffocated underneath them, but that wasn’t nearly as bad as the uncomfortable sensation you got from sleeping without any covers. After an eternity of contemplation, you will yourself to lift your hand to the door, your knuckle knocking against the wood. Regret immediately hits you as the sound rings through your ears, but you stay still. It’s been too long since you got a good night's sleep and you weren’t gonna let an overgrown chicken stop you from getting that. You’re not letting your guard down, and you’re not letting yourself forget about the monster he really is. The love he claims to shower you with is nothing but poison he decorates with food dye and glitter. And you won’t fall for it, no matter what.

”What’s the matter darling?” he opens the door and you reluctantly crane your neck upwards to meet his eyes.

”I can’t sleep.” you say simply, hands clinging onto your pyjama shirt.

You don’t miss the way his smile widens ever so slightly, before he asks, “Do you wanna sleep in my bed?” he pushes his door open further, allowing you to get a look at his bed. Your body has never felt as exhausted as it does when you see his bed. It’s just so big and fluffy, and the blankets are so soft, you feel like they’re calling to you, telling you to come sleep.

The thought of saying no and marching back to your own room crosses your mind more than once, but you genuinely don’t think you have the energy to do that right now. Nodding your head, you remind yourself of all the shit he’s put you through, you just really want a good sleep. You’re not falling in love with him like he’s so convinced you eventually will and you never will, you know that. 

“Is everything alright with your bed sweetie? Anything you need fixed?”

“I dunno I just couldn’t sleep.” you shrug, frustrated over how genuine his voice sounded.

He grabs your shoulders, leading you to the bed, "Well not to worry darling, you're always welcome to sleep in my bed."

You know that. Not a day went by when he wasn't reassuring you that there wasn't any pressure to sleep with him, and that he trusted you to grow comfortable with him in your own time. Though apparently not enough to not kidnap you. You keep reminding yourself of that whenever you catch yourself thinking about how nice he treats you. Or whenever you find yourself wanting to believe him when he tells you how much he loves you. 

The bed as you suspected is comfortable as fuck. The soft sheets and blankets gently hug your body, and you can feel yourself sinking into the mattress. It's almost enough to make you forget about your captor lying next to you. Almost.

"You comfortable honey?" his voice rings through your ear, making you aware of just how close he is.

Shuffling over to further the distance between you, you sigh, ”I hope you know I’m only doing this for your bed, this has nothing to do with you.”

”I know.” he answers nonchalantly, making your chest tighten with frustration.

You sit up, staring at him with the coldest glare you can muster, ”I just want it absolutely clear that I’m exhausted yet I took like, ten minutes standing in front of your door, contemplating sleeping in the same bed as you.”

”You’re adorable baby.” he says tiredly, laughing softly as if this were just some joke. His hand gently but firmly pushes you back down to the bed, done with the ease of moving a pillow. You go to make yourself more comfortable on the bed, but feel Ozzie's hand pull you against his much larger body.

Before you can even begin to struggle, you're trapped between him and his arm, as his mumbled voice softly speaks to you, "Get some rest darling. I love you."

[fariesoiree]

to hobie’s surprise, you’re still working into the late hours of the night. no way he’s gonna let that happen multiple nights in a row.

caution! mdni 3k wrdz, pet names, oral f. receiving fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, black fem reader, overstimulation, use of cunny cunt n pussy, back scratching, squirting, creampies pls do not spam like my blog if you enjoyed it, feel free to tell me in the reblogs

when hobie swung into your open window, he wasn’t expecting to see you awake and actually doing stuff.

his head tilts at the sight of you typing away at your laptop, swivel chair turning in endless semicircles. you’re dressed for bed, wearing a silk nightgown and your slippers astray beneath you. even your hair is tucked away from the night under the safety of your bonnet. “why are you up, ducky?” he climbs his way through the window purposely left open for him.

it’s become a part of your routine. you both live your lives during the day and at night, hobie comes by to climb into bed beside you. you spend the morning together, just for him to leave and do the same the next day. as long as neither of you acknowledge it, he doesn’t count it as a consistent schedule and therefore doesn’t feel the need to stop.

you don’t lift your head to acknowledge him like you routinely do. instead, your manicured hands dart across the keyboard. “got home from work late, got an essay to write. it’s due tomorrow night.”

“what?” his shadow grows nearer with each step he takes towards you. hobie knows you’re too far gone when you don’t reprimand him from sitting on your desk. “it’s almost four in the morning, lovely. you can’t do it tomorrow?”

“no,” there’s a pause between your words and the silence is filled with your incessant typing, “i picked up a shift at work so i can’t.”

“you’re becoming a cog in the capitalism machine. that’s why you’re so stressed out. you should to take a break before they make you a mindless slave. that’s what they want, y’know. for more people to – ”

you tilt your back, a sigh leaving your lips. your eyes close with the attempt to find what dwindling patience you have. “hobie, i really cannot do it tonight. i have an essay to write and it’s due tomorrow. i just told you that.”

he stares at you, only for a moment. there’s a lot of things he isn’t enjoying about this. the fact that you’re still awake, the fact that you’re stressing over something put in place to make you feel bad about yourself, and the fact that you’re snapping at him. he’s sure it’s due to your lack of sleep but that doesn’t make him feel any better about it. “you’re in a shitty mood and it’s starting to bother me.”

“wow, really?” you can’t help your sarcastic tone. it slips out before you’re aware of it. “i didn’t even realize i wasn’t feeling super good!” your eyes are rolling as you place the laptop on what desk space is left from his limber body. you regret it the moment you say it but you’re so deeply set in your ways that the second thought doesn’t linger long.

he’s silent again, fingers tapping against the desktop. he stares at the floor, outlining the wood detailing with his eyes.

you both stay like this for a while, typing and staring at the floor. you can’t deny his company aiding your stress relief. it’s always nice to have hobie around, even if he isn’t doing anything.

ten minutes pass before hobie is glancing at the clock. “alright,” he finally says while rising to his feet. “time for bed, love.” he turns your chair himself, dragging you away from your nearly completed essay.

“what are you doing? i have work to do.” you struggle against him, tugging your arms but to no avail. he’s just so much more stronger than you, pulling you to your feet and into his arms. “hobie,” you whine as he gathers you up and into the air with his super human abilities.

“oh, i heard you,” hobie says, closing your screen and turning off your desk lamp. the room immediately gets dark. the lamp functioned as the sole light in these hours. having it off sent your space in a blanket of nothingness. “i just don’t care. you’re tired and your attitude is shit.”

you can never get over how easily he overpowers you, despite his tiny frame. while hobie is large in height, he’s the lankiest thing. his strength solely came from his radioactive spider.

you huff, throwing your weight around. all it does is get you tossed onto the bed. because your eyes have yet to adjust to the lighting, you’re unable to see a thing. you can’t help but shriek upon impact, bouncing on your mattress. “what the hell, ‘bie? my attitude is shit? your attitude is shit. mad at me because i’m not giving you attention because i have stuff to do. of course i’m tired. i’ve been up all night because i actually have responsibilities.”

“stop fightin’ with me.” hobie worms his way next to your body. his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you into his chest. “and while you’re at it, stop talkin’ and go to sleep.”

you’re still mumbling your distaste against his skin, arms pushing against him. you’re refusing to go down like this, to let him simply take you away from the essay you’ve been working so hard on. you’re so close to finishing, you can taste it. “isn’t this against what you stand for? thought it’s wrong to force someone to do something.”

he only holds you tighter, strapping your arms down in his grip. “you’re not takin’ care of yourself, princess. didn’t sleep last night, didn’t sleep the night before. think i’m gonna let you not sleep again? especially since you’re talkin’ to me like you’ve lost your mind.”

“i’m not! i didn’t say anything to you. if your feelings are hurt that’s your fault.” you resorting to using your feet, kicking at him until he’s forced to tangle his legs with yours.

“you’re always sayin’ the same thing when i call you out on somethin’. ‘i didn’t do it’. ‘it’s your fault’. ‘i’m not sorry’.” hobie’s voice raises a few octaves to mock yours. “it’s not rocket science. just admit it and let me help you.”

your cheeks puff in irritation. his route isn’t helping your mood and knowing unfinished work is just arms length away is making you antsy. “unless you’re gonna get up and do it for me, which you won’t, you can’t help me.”

with your next blink, you find yourself on your back. the bed dips and rises as hobie adjusts his position, arms locking around your legs and hands resting on your stomach. “what the actual fuck are you doing?” you sit up and as a result, slide out of his grasp just a bit.

hobie just yanks you back down and tightens his hold, leaving you no choice but to remain at his mercy. “helpin’ you. if you don’t wanna go to sleep, fine. i’ll just make sure you can’t do nothin’ else.”

he rolls the hem of your gown up, despite your protests above him. you wiggle about but it has no effect on his focus. he’s too busy staring at the pretty cotton panties you sport. “you need to relax, treacle. gonna spread yourself thin.”

you blow out a breath, somewhat mixed with frustration and defeat. you know he’s right but your mind is already racing with everything you have to complete this week, including going to work and making school deadlines. “that’s reality, ‘bie. that’s how it is. i’m not a crime fighting, rioting spider person with no cares for anything. i actually have to be a cog in the machine or whatever you said.”

his lips ghost and press against your skin, littering soft kisses along your inner thigh. “so? don’t gotta let them use you like this.”

“hobie.”

he hooks his finger around the bottom, pulling the white material to the side. “jus’ worried about you is all, dovey. shouldn’t even be awake, much less doing somethin’ right now.”

he tenderly kneads the stress away at your hip while his thumb coaxes you into submission, drawing slow circles on your clit. he leans his head against your skin, looking through his eyelashes to watch you.

you, who’s struggling to give off an unaffected impression, eyes closed and knees bending. “get off. you’re annoying me.” your slight grip on your sheets tell him otherwise.

“mhm,” hobie hums. his gaze is trained on you and you only while he warms your sex up to his touch. “you gonna go to sleep if i do?”

your silence is a loud enough response for him. he turns back to your now glistening cunt. his thumb glides over it with ease, collecting your slick and redistributing it along your folds.

he doesn’t understand you and your need to fight against him. hobie really is just trying to take care of you and you’re insisting on ignoring him and rotting your soul away. as if he is going to stand by and let that happen.

you keen at the feeling of his tongue running over your cunny, flat and thick. a soft pant falls out your lips, just barely open. your fingers curl into your palm. there’s a part of you that doesn’t want him to know, yet, how quickly he’s consuming your thoughts so you force you spine into the mattress and hold your arms against yourself.

you clench your teeth together and mute the moans that crawl their way up your throat as hobie drags his tongue around. his lips wrap around your bundle of nerves, suckling off the juices. his lips piercings aren’t helping, slotting against your skin and sending you into overdrive.

he glances at you for a second, only when you give in and entangle your hand in his hair. the tug that follows only pulls him closer. he has to pull your thighs apart when they threaten to close around his head. any other day, he’d stare at you with a warning slap to your pussy but tonight, he lets it slide in hopes you’ll tire yourself out.

hobie can tell your close when your writhe in his hold, both to get away from and get closer to his tongue. he’s easing you into it with a hand reaching up to clasp yours and another at the soft skin of your tummy, forcing your back out the arch. he massages your skin in encouragement at your orgasm that comes ripping through your body.

hobie, although unhappily, has to leave your pretty pussy behind. you’re pulling his hair so hard, he’s forced to resurface until he’s eye level. “feel better?” he positions himself next to you on his side. he’s sweet, draping his arm around your waist.

as he expected, you nod and curl into his chest. you can’t deny that much of the stress you felt before dissipated. hobie’s warmth is soothing, enticing you to revel in your sheets. you’re grateful when he pulls the duvet over your bodies.

his head is in the groove between your neck and shoulder, peppering kisses along your skin. “that’s good to hear, duck.” his fingers run up and down your back, just grazing and dipping farther and farther down. “still thinkin’ about all’at stuff?”

“yeah but i can just do it tomorrow. it’s not like i have a lot left because i already did most of – hobie!”

you shriek when his fingers suddenly become nestled inside you. you grip his shirt, hiding within his chest. you shudder at the feeling of them move, stroking against your cunt.

“you’re still thinkin’ about it.” he chastises with a click of his tongue. he holds you in place to control your twitching, continuing to peg his digits into you. “wrong answer.”

“i’m not,” you whine. you can both feel your gummy walls tighten and twitch, sucking him in despite you campaigning to get away from him.

“you’re not?” hobie cradles you against him, gentle in touch. “could have sworn you just said it, though.”

you whimper and mewl, torn between enjoyment and overstimulation. his fingers are larger than you can comprehend, digging dip within your core, and much longer than yours, pressing farther than you could ever do yourself.

you’re reduced to sobs, nearly shredding his shirt into two with how much you’re pulling it apart. the popping of the seams is drowned by your voice and the squelching of your slick against his hand.

his arm against your back leaves you little room to struggle with his fingers prodding from behind. at some point your leg slips around his waist.

“it’s okay, pretty. i got you, yeah?” hobie feels hot, physically hot. the duvet wasn’t helping, trapping your body heat that increased with each movement. he also can’t help his massive boner, having to fight the urge to rut against you.

hobie knows this is about you, or rather that he’s making it about you. about helping his baby get to sleep. this isn’t the first time he’s came back and seen you up at the late hours of the night. the first few times, he let it go but the longer this continues, the more messed up your sleep schedule is going to be. he has to interfere, especially when you’ve been waking up in a terrible mood each morning, a frown already settled on your lips before you’ve even gotten out of bed.

he’s so deep in his thoughts, hobie nearly misses how desperate you suddenly get. it’s only when you’re reaching behind to grasp his wrist that his brain fog is gone.

he didn’t realize, either, how much faster he’s moving, fingers bumping against your spot. “dove,” hobie says it softly, “i don’t want to use my webs on you. move em’ before i do.”

you’re reluctant but obliged, unwrapping your fingers from his wrist and hanging them over his shoulder. you find yourself plunging your nails into his skin. “hobie,” you cry out, hips grinding against him.

“i know, pretty. i know,” he whispers against your forehead. “let it out. i got you.” hobie consoles you as your body tenses in his hold.

you’re all wound up, taking a final gasp as it all rolls off your skin. he draws gushes of your cum out your leaking hole and swallows your sobs in his mouth, connected with a kiss. you’re grateful for his comfort, clinging onto him as if he is your saving grace

your chest rises and falls with each breath and you shove his hand away. “no more,” you roll away from him, simultaneously pulling off the covers for some much needed cool air.

it’s futile when hobie draws you back into him after tossing off his shirt, himself. “nah, i think you have another one left in you.” you can feel him shuffling behind you and assume he’s preparing to pull his dick out.

you tightly cross your legs together at his words, eyes darting around for a clock. “what? it’s so late, though. i have so much to do tomorrow, too. we should just sleep.”

your rational fall on deaf ears because he’s easily lifting your leg into the air and almost to your shoulders. “oh? you have a lot to do tomorrow?”

his tone has your stomach twisting. you wet your lips, feeling around for something to hold on to. “n – no. i don’t. i’m not doing anything tomorrow.”

the fat tip of his cock slaps against your folds, sticky from his own arousal. “too late, lovely. you already said it. gotta fuck it out of you.”

you’re still pleading your disagreement and how you’ll start sleeping at a proper time when hobie stuffs his cockhead inside your cunny.

he groans in your ear upon your welcoming wet grip. you always feel so good, at this point he’s addicted. if he ever died in your cunt, hobie would be the happiest man in the world.

thanks to the previous orgasms, there’s no pushback. only you griping about how you can’t take it and that he’s too big, which hobie knows is a lie. truthfully, you go through the same thing every time and he can never get enough of it.

“tired yet?” he grunts in tune with his rapid, steady paced thrusts. hobie doesn’t expect anything past your incoherent gargles.

you clutch the mattress under your pillow, prying at the fitted sheet. with every thrust, your body lurches forward. your head turns on your own accord, reaching out to cup his cheek.

you’re so cute, he thinks, with your eyes big and round and full of enchantment. you heave him towards you until your lips are moving together in perfect synchrony.

hobie wraps his tongue around yours, sitting up to deepen in. with his neck craned down and your dress pulled up, he gets a perfect view of his dick sliding in and out.

it glistens, even if the limited moonlight. the base is especially glazed over, foaming with a white sheen.

he feels like he’s becoming deranged when you toss your head back in ecstasy. you’re going to kill him, he’s sure.

and he’s even more sure when your tiny fist is rapping against the bed. “oh my days, oh my – fuck!” you outstretch your arm until you find his, grabbing in a firm hold.

hobie plants his head on top of yours and inhales the whiffs of hair products from your bonnet. he can smell the lingering hints of rosemary from your oil. “no more staying up late, you hear? pissin’ me off with this.”

and like the best girl you are, you nod brainlessly. your wordless promise is taken seriously, you’re sure. it’s cemented when hobie forces you to look at him.

his eye contact is just as intense as the grip on your cheeks. you can see just how vehement he is and it only makes you needier.

your face screws up as one final indication before your entire body trembles. you fall limp onto your side, cunt spasming around him. you’ve been fucked into oblivion, ready to settle in for the night. to your surprise, hobie has other plans.

his pulling out has you thinking he’s done, only to roll you into your back and position himself on top of you. he doesn’t wait for you realize what’s happening before he’s aligning his tip with your entrance again and gliding it in with ease.

you feel full to the brim, one hand on his chest and the other scraping your nails against the headboard. at some point, he supposes his own lust kicked in. after putting your needs first, he’s given free reign to chase his own orgasm.

that’s exactly what he’s doing now, pounding into you with such speed, your tits have been jostled out your top. the brown of your nipples has his infatuated brain screaming.

“hobie!” you all but yell. you’re inching slowly towards the top of the bed, unaware of your movements. hobie isn’t, though. he finds purchase at your hips to shift you back into place.

“hold – hold on. jus’ wait.” he moves both your legs over his left shoulder, driving deep.

you swear you can feel him in your throat, swear he’s realigning your insides like some sort of chiropractor. “gonna – ” your eyes roll to the back of your head. your nails dig into his back and drag across the skin as you try to ground yourself.

immediately, his attention fall to your cunt. hobie expects to see the usual sparkling ooze of cum but to his marvelment, watery squirts take it’s place.

you seize up so tight on him, he’s forced to release inside you without warning. he has to remember to hold himself up as to not crush you beneath him. all he can think about is how that was probably the best nut he’s ever had.

“you . . . you wanna finish your paper?” hobie says finally. he’s the first one to speak as you were both trying to catch your breath from your late night exercise.

you so quickly scowl at him, both at the implications and the thought of doing anything else tonight. “you must not value your life. you can’t.”

hobie smiles, lazily. he kneads at your muscles. “bear with me, treacle. ‘s gonna be uncomfortable.” he warns, anticipating the wince your expression turns into as he pulls out, genuinely this time.

you can feel the scratches developing from your previous actions, rubbing his shoulders, and a tinge of guilt tugs at your heart. “sorry. for these and all the worry i caused you . . . and also for what i said.” you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close until you’re both laying down, cuddling up on each other. although you can’t quite remember what you said, you know you would have never uttered the words on a normal day.

he shrugs, fixing your slipping bonnet and unbunching your nightgown. “it’s in the past. i’m not thinkin’ about that, right now. i’m thinkin’ about how we need to get you ready for bed, again. can’t go to bed like this.”

he’s right but you’re still dramatic about in, unwilling to leave the comfort of your bed. “ten minutes.” you say, eyes fluttering closed. you revel in your sheets as long as you can before hobie chuckles, ripping them off.

“no, can’t do that. we’re doin’ it now. we both have to shower and shit and you probably can’t stand without me,” his voice is lighthearted, if not evident by the smirk playing in his lips.

he’s carrying you again, subjecting you to the princess treatment he feels you deserve. the most funny part about this, to him, is how dedicated you were before to staying up all night.

now, you’re all pliant and it’s purely due to him and his cock. even though hobie made you promise these endless nights won’t continue, he definitely doesn’t mind doing this again. especially after how easily you finally knock out, mouth wide open and snoring.

[peachesofteal]

First Sight

Chapter 1 of 2. Part five of the Sassy series. Reblogs, comments, likes, interactions, etc are cherished by me. 🖤

Simon Riley/female reader 5.9k words - AO3

Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI, pregnant reader, PTSD, thigh riding, Simon talks you through it, praise kink, explicit sex, jealousy, possessive Simon, angst, tenderness, mentions of blood and violence, nightmares, childbirth, medical procedures, Simon is bad at feelings; Simon is learning how to have his feelings. Simon has felt this before.

“And you are?” 

“I’m her… I’m the baby’s father. We had her information updated two weeks ago, at the office. I’m listed as her emergency contact.” The doctor looks skeptical but taps a few keys on her laptop before she glances back to him. 

“Last name?” 

“Riley.”

“Sorry, Mr. Riley. She’s been my patient for nearly seven months, and I’ve never seen or heard of you.” Bloody hell. His jaw clenches together so hard he thinks his teeth might shatter. 

“I’ve been overseas.” The lights and sounds are scratching under his skin, making him tense, priming him for a fight. “I came in on the ambulance with her... I have to be with her. She can’t be alone when she wakes up. She’ll be scared. She won’t… she has P-.” 

“I am aware of her history.” The doctor snipes and his fist tightens, tendons curling until his hand becomes a weapon, not thing the of comfort it was a mere ten minutes ago. 

“Look. I’m on her list. So you can let me back there or-“ She holds her hand up to silence him and the vein in his forehead pulses. 

“I’ve already paged a tech to bring you to her room, Mr. Riley. It’s just going to be a few minutes.” She gives him a reproachful look before she says something about coming by to check on you shortly, and he lets out a long breath.

You’re somewhere else. Your eyes are trained on the e-reader in your hand, but they’re not moving across the screen. You’re not blinking. Your breathing is even, and deep, but your fingers are fisted in the blanket, and your gaze is burning a hole through the bed, through the floor, possibly right down to the core of the earth.

It makes Simon nervous.

Not because he is afraid of your PTSD.

He is afraid of you slipping away. Sometimes, you leave and come back a different girl, the guarded one, the one that hasn’t tried to forgive him, the one who is reliving the pain he caused her every second. The one who takes your place when you disappear right in front of him, who’s memories burn too bright.

He knows he may never be fully absolved in your mind, but you still show him mercy. You still let him in, still let him have you, except in the moments when you fall through his fingers like tiny grains of sand. Those moments may have been earned, but it doesn’t make their sting any less painful, and he struggles in throes of them.

“Sass?” He calls, cautiously, reaching for where your hand is clenched. His fingers graze the sheets, the softness of the fabric much like your skin. They must be expensive, he figures, the cotton luxurious against the rough scrape of his palm. He thinks he likes the color, the soft green that matches the chair and the trim in the baby’s room. “Glacial green,” you correct him every time he calls it light green, or blue green, or pea soup. It’s a natural tone, earthy, and you seem to gravitate towards it, always telling him you think the color is ‘soothing’ or ‘calming’. You have a few shirts and sweaters in the same palette too, and an old, faded sweatshirt that you used to wear when you were with the 141, worn out lettering stitched across the chest. It was too big for you then, always drooping below the flare of your hips, the hem stretched out and curled. Now, it pulls snugly across your middle while you lay in bed beside him, where the e-reader sits in your dainty fingers. He doesn’t know how you’ve done it, keep your fingers so velvet and smooth, even after your years in the desert. “Sass.” He tries again, louder, squeezing with the lightest bit of pressure until you blink.

“I’m here.”

“I know.” You turn your face up towards him with a sleepy smile, and he reaches for you without hesitation. “Tired?” He murmurs into your hair, your nose just slightly smashed into his neck.

“Mmm. Yeah, sleep sounds nice.” He finds the light easily, pulling the room into darkness with a flick of the chain, and returns to press his face to yours before succumbing to the pull of sleep.

“I mean, did you get a good look at her?”

“Shit. I’d bury my face in that ass. EOD is air force, right? Think she’s got a landing strip?”

“Dunno but I’d be coming in for a landing all the time if she was on my squad.” The table of privates laugh to each other, and Simon’s fingers curl around the bottom of the beer bottle in front of him. He briefly considers, for a moment, if Price would dismiss him if he broke it over one of their heads and then used the shards to slit the rest of their throats. Bleed ‘em out right there on the table. 

He shifts on the stool. Johnny gives him a skeptical look. One of them, says something else. Sounds a little like ‘tight’ and ‘pussy’ strung together. Another one snickers. 

He’s on his feet behind them before anyone realizes. The low drone of rage pressurizes inside his skull. 

“Want to share what’s so funny, private?” The table falls silent immediately, all of them staring up at him, dumbfounded.

“N-nothing’s funny, sir.”

“Ya sure about that?” Johnny chimes in before Simon can say anything. 

“The bomb tech, we were just… appreciating her. Saying how nice it must be nice, having something like that to look at all the time.” Simon can feel the heat of Johnny’s gaze on the nape of his neck.

“The bomb tech outranks you, private. You will address her as Sergeant.”

“Y- yes, sir.”

When he gets back to the base and little house the 141 is crammed into, you’re already asleep in your room. Sprawled across the shitty thin mattress, your shirt rucked up around your stomach, little boyshorts riding the curve of your hips. The scar from Belize is still shiny across your ribs, peachy and puckered. The sight of you safe and sleeping soothes the raw buzzing of anger in the back of his head. 

His girl. His. 

He’s already got his hands all over you by the time he gets his boots off, and you shift a little when he presses his face into the top of your ass. 

“Simon?” you mumble. “Y’okay?” Simon, Simon, Simon. It’s always Simon with you now. You’re constantly stripping him bare with it, and he doesn’t even know your name.

He teases a hand across your skin, over the scar and up under the peak of your breast to your nipple, where he rolls the already hardening bud between his fingers. You shudder with a moan, shoulders twisting to turn yourself on your back, but he stops you. His teeth find the swell of your ass, and he sinks them deep. You squeak. 

“Can you hold still?” He says, your body answering for you with a shiver. The bite woke you sharply, and you watch him out of the corner of your eye. 

He pulls the underwear down your legs until they disappear, and then sinks his fingers into your cheeks. The glisten of your cunt shimmers, already wet, already waiting for him. 

“Scoot back, sweet girl. Up on your knees.” You do as he says, shimmying down until you’re pressing against his thigh, clit ghosting against the fabric of his jeans, just barely. Your hips are shifting, slowly, and he knows you’re trying to get just a little bit more friction. He leans over you, gloved hand in your hair. “Now be good for me and rub your desperate little clit on my leg until you come.” You shake your head no and he rears back, pulling off his shirt and gloves, leaving the mask and his jeans the only thing on his body. He slaps you across your ass, just hard enough to watch the skin turn under his palm, and you jolt with a moan, cunt pushing back against his leg. “Do you want me to give you my cock, Sass?” you nod frantically. “Then ride my thigh until you’re coming on it.” The curve of a smile, a smirk, pushes at your cheek, and you start to move your hips, slowly at first, and then fevered, chasing your high while he watches. “That’s my girl, just like that.” 

You start to jerk erratically, your face screwing up into the little pout and he knows you’re close. “You going to come Sass?” You mewl pathetically, mouth making desperate sounds and he watches you rub yourself all over him. “Sweet girl. That’s it, just a little more. There you go.” Your gasps reach a fever pitch, and he groans. “Ride it out, good girl. Come all over me.” His jeans are smeared with you, but he praises you, telling you how good you were, how much he likes that you made a mess on him. Once you come down from it, he strips and presses himself along your back, rucking the balaclava up to his nose to pull the skin beneath your ear between his teeth. He wants to mark you, hard. Leave an impression of himself on your body, brand you down to your bones. Tomorrow, when those fuckwit privates line up for brief, he wants them to know. 

He sinks into you as deep as he can, little noises coming from your mouth as he splits you open on his cock, your cunt so tight it feels like it’s choking him.

“Si-Simon.” It’s his name, again. You’re flaying him alive with it. When you say it, it feels like he’s not wearing the mask, it feels like he is Simon, and not Ghost. He’s becoming addicted to it, consumed by it. It makes his head foggy, makes him do things that he’s never done, like approach a table of infantry and scare them out of running their mouths, or mark you like you belong to him. You cloud his judgement. You make him want things, things he doesn’t deserve, things he could never have. You make him soft, and desperate, and when you turn and look over your shoulder as he slams himself to the hilt, your gaze burns into him like you’re seeing him. Like you know. 

“Please, don’t.” Your voice breaks as you beg, clutching the baby to your chest. Your face is bruised, nose probably broken, and tears stream down your cheeks. You’re trembling, eyes desperate as you plead. “Simon. Simon, get up. Please, get up.” He tries, but he can’t. He is beaten. His body is broken, bones shattered, organs bleeding out slowly inside him. The cool metal kiss of a barrel presses to your temple and you scream at him, for him, he’s not sure anymore. “SIMON GET UP.” His body weighs a thousand pounds, and cannot lift himself to help you, to save either of you. The gun cocks, and you close your eyes right before the finger on the trigger moves, the bang echoing across the room and your-

He jerks awake, immediately seeking the warmth of your body next to him in bed. When he feels you, his chest loosens, and you shift onto your side, cracking an eye open.

“Hey.” Your voice is thick with sleep, but still sweet as honey, and he takes your hand in his. Your pulse flutters under his palm. Strong. Stable.

“Hey.”

“Nightmare?” He nods.

“Go back to sleep.” You roll your eyes, flicking on the light that sits at your bedside table.

“I’ve been sleeping forever, I am practically sleeping beauty at this point.” You stroke through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. “Wanna talk about it?” you whisper, and he shakes his head. Yeah, Sass. Want to hear all about how I keep dreaming of your bloody corpse? Or about how I keep seeing you and our son being murdered right in front of me, over and over and I’m powerless to stop it? That’ll do real well for your stress level. Instead, he smooths his hand over the swell of your belly, where the baby sleeps, warm and protected, safe from everything out here that might hurt him. “You promised.” You needle, and the slight push is all that’s needed to relent.

“I keep… dreaming of you dying. Or being killed, in front of me. You and the baby.” You sit up a little and he immediately pulls the second pillow down behind the small of your back for support.

“Dying how?” He swallows.

“Someone’s holdin’ a gun to your head and you’re begging me to save you, but I can’t. I’m lying on the floor, bleeding out.”

“Sounds pretty scary.” There are a lot of things, that he hasn’t found the courage to say out loud to you yet. Promises and pledges, thoughts about being grateful and feelings of adoration. He wants to tell you how much he appreciates that you listen to him, that you validate him, but the words never come out, so he presses a kiss to your forehead before sliding down so his head is resting on the side of your belly.

The memory of the dream skips across the forefront of his mind, and he can still see you lying in a pool of blood, little boy lifeless in your arms. The blood, that looks just like the blood that covered the walls and the floor of his family’s house. His mom’s blood. Tommy and Beth’s. Joseph’s. The blood, that looks just the same as it did when he found you unconscious a few weeks ago, smells the same as when it poured out of the wound in your stomach in Belize. The blood, the blood, the-

“Simon.” He doesn’t even realize he’s breathing harshly until he hears you saying his name. “Hey, Si. Simon, it’s alright.” You stroke up and down his arm, tracing a faded pattern in his sleeve. “You’re here, in my house. In my bed. With me. There is no danger.”  

“With you.”

“With me. And the baby. We’re here, together. We’re safe.” He turns his head, pressing his ear to your skin. Swoosh swoosh swoosh. The heartbeat soothes the frayed edges of his nerves, and the two of you sit just like that for a while, content. “Shit.” You groan, the sound a low whisper, and anxiously rub your belly. He waits for what he knows is coming, the pure, sweet melody that you hum when you try to settle the baby. The once guilty pleasure, when he would stand just out of sight so he could hear it, is now a full indulgence, as he’s able to lay beside you and rub circles into your skin while you hum softly.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, you gasp in surprise.

“Sass? What is it?”

“I… I think I peed myself.”  

“Hey!” No. How did you find him so fast? “Simon, wait.” When you say his name, it jams into his brain, scrambling the signal, and forcing his steps to falter. It’s just enough for you to catch him. “Look. I know you’re mad. I know I fucked up.” You’re breathing heavily, probably from sprinting down the row of tents that he had ducked past, and you push your hands out in front of you like you’re trying to cage him in. “But I made sure Gaz was alright, and I still had a job to do! Those charges were my priority, I wouldn’t have split up otherwise. Simon, I understand-“ He cuts you off swiftly.

“You can address me by my call sign, Sergeant.” You startle. He looks away, looks anywhere else but your face, where your gaze waits to peel him open. 

“What?”

“You will address me as Ghost, or Lieutenant.” 

You’re guarded now, expression wary, but there’s still something hopeful in your eyes, something that’s calling him home to you.

He has to get away. Now. 

You take an uneasy step forward, hand extended like you’re going to touch him. 

“Simon.” You whisper. 

He steps back. 

Your face falls. 

He’s tactical about it. The bag, the extra pillow, your shoes. A phone charger, the collection of snacks you’ve been hoarding recently, like a dragon hoards their gold. He remembers everything.

Almost everything.

His phone rings when he’s buckling his seatbelt.

“So, should I like, call an uber or are you going to help me get in the truck?” Bloody hell. He nearly beats his head against the steering wheel before he’s unbuckling and running towards the door. You’re standing in the living room, hands on your hips, unimpressed, with a hint of a smile on your lips.

“I’m sorry, I-“ you wave him off, reaching for his arm.

“Come on, you gotta boost me up.”

His eyes dart back and forth from the road, to where you sit, stone-faced in the passenger seat. You’ve been quiet since he pulled out of the driveway, the silence an uneasy thing that rests heavily between the two of you, and he reaches for your hand that lays limp on the seat.

“How’s the pain?”

“Not too bad.” You’re chewing on your lip, still lost in thought for a moment before you speak again. “Simon. If something happens…” his blood freezes.

“Nothing is going to happen.”

“We’ve never discussed it though. What to do if something goes wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Something has already gone wrong. Everything has gone wrong. It can’t get worse. It can’t. 

“Well, if there are complications and we have to choose…” He almost pulls the truck over, his heart seizing in his chest like he’s been electrocuted. A million scenarios slam through his brain at record speed, flipping open in front of him like a picture book. Everything he’s imagined before, but worse. This time, it’s not mercs, or a stray bullet, or shadowed government assassins that take you away from him, but your own body, or a doctor, or-

No. He would not be without you if there was a choice. Not again. 

“There is no choice, Sass.” His voice is gruff, and you palm your belly with a gulp. “We… I, would choose you. A million times. A million and one. There is no other choice… for me.”

“Okay.” You whisper. A tear rolls down your cheek before it’s hastily wiped away, and you turn to him with wide eyes.

“Okay.” He echoes, taking your hand in his.

You almost died. You almost died, and he wasn’t there. Johnny almost died, and you almost died, and he can’t stop thinking about the two of you wandering around trying to find the 141, trying to escape without a weapon, or comms, or anything. He can’t stop thinking about how vulnerable you were, how close you came to being dead. Being gone. Like everyone else. Like his family. 

The feeling fills his body with ice. It paralyzes him before panic seizes his nervous system, pouring fear into every synapse flitting through his brain. 

His family. You could have been lost, like his family.

He barges through the door of the office, eyes wild behind the mask.

“I need her gone.” Price looks up at him, perplexed.

“Who?”

“Sass. Transfer her. Put her on leave. Anything.”

“What are you on about?”

“I can’t… I can’t have her here. She’s fuckin’ with my head.” His chest feels tight, like there’s a thousand pounds sitting on his ribcage. It’s terror that is pumping through his veins right now, unbridled, and raw, threatening to wreck him where he stands.

“Ghost, calm down.”

“I can’t!” It’s practically a shout. He’s losing it. The empty echo of the dead radio replays over and over in his head. The image of Johnny, bleeding out, slumped against your small frame, the panic on your face, the two of you covered in blood loops repeatedly every time he closes his eyes. It melts into the memories of finding his family dead and then twists together, over and over until he thinks he might be hallucinating. 

“Tell me what’s going on.” Price is standing now, voice calm, gesturing to the other chair. He’s not a loose cannon, not anymore, but it’s been a long time since he’s raised his voice at the captain. Guilt swells inside him.

“I’m fuckin’ her.” He paces in front of Price’s desk. “And it’s… She’s messing me up. Can’t think clearly.”

“You’re what now?”

“I’ve never… I’ve never asked you for anything-”

“Simon-“

“and I know this is unfair. She’s great at her job, Price I know that. But I have the seniority. And I need ya to do this for me.”

“I can’t just dismiss her. I brought her here, asked her myself.” He grits his teeth.

“Price…  she….” His lungs are screaming now, his breath coming in short gasps but there’s no oxygen in this room. “It’s not… I can’t. It’s not safe.” 

“Simon, sit down.” It’s an order, and he complies, slumping into the chair and cradling his head in his hands. “Now. Start from the beginning.”

“I know you’re disappointed.”

“You said I would be able to try.” You doctor is sitting on a chair at your bedside, across from Simon. She’s wearing a very serious expression, and you’re wearing your ‘don’t fuck with me face’, the one he’s seen time and time again, before and during ops. You open your mouth to argue with her again, but a contraction steals your breath, your nails sinking into his skin like tiny razorblades.

“Just breathe.” He soothes, stroking over the crown of your head until you fall back onto your pillow, tense lines of your forehead relaxing as your eyes close.

“If the placenta separates any further from the wall of the uterus during the rest of your labor, it could be life threatening for both you and the baby.” She doesn’t handle you with kid gloves, and you lift a lid to glare at her. He swallows the chuckle in his throat. Surefire way to catch a fist in the jaw. 

“Fine.”  The word is hissed through clenched teeth, and she pats your hand reassuringly.

“They’ll be some paperwork to sign, and then we’ll get you prepped. Nothing to eat or drink in the last six hours, right?”

“I’ve been in labor for the last seven and a half hours, so no.” you deadpan, before looking longingly over to your bag of snacks. The doctor glances at him with a gentle smile.

“Mr. Riley, you’ll need to change, we can… hopefully, provide you with scrubs that fit. We’ll also give you a surgical mask, and a cap. Sound good?” He nods in thanks as she leaves, and he turns back to you, pulling the mask down to his chin to rest his cheek against your palm. You raise an eyebrow at him.

“You’re not gonna pass out in there, right?”

“Me?”

“Well, they are going to pull my guts out.” What?  You giggle, just a little, and heave a sigh. “But seriously. Don’t faint. I don’t think they have gurneys big enough for you.”

“I’ve seen plenty of guts, Sass.”

“Yeah…but not mine.”

Price announces his presence with a knock. “Heli’s almost here.” Simon says nothing. His elbows dig into his knees, fingers rolling the elastic band between his thumb and forefinger, strands of your hair wrapping around and around the tie until they become tight, little strings that make indentations. “Ghost.” He knows what Price wants. What he wants to hear. He still says nothing. “I did this for you against my better judgement.” Price says, like he doesn’t already know. When Simon looks at him, he sees the weight of their decision. The shame. The guilt. And he feels it, too. “You should say goodbye, Simon.” 

His voice is rough, on the verge of a scream, or something worse when he finally speaks. 

“I can’t.”

“So, when you get in the room, you’ll notice she’s lying on a table, and there’s a drape that’s a visual barrier between her chest and the rest of her body.” The nurse, the super friendly one that you said you liked, is talking him through what’s happening while he walks down the hallway next to her. Her shoes squeak a little bit against the linoleum, and he focuses on the pattern of the sound. Step squeak, step squeak, step- “Now, she can’t feel anything, but C-sections can be nerve-wracking, and she got a little anxious when we got into the OR.” He nods. Of course you’re nervous. You’re strapped to a table where they’re about to cut a hole in your abdomen. “She’s asked for you a few times, I promised I’d deliver.” She gives him a wink and pushes open a door. “Here he is!” She calls cheerily, and you turn to look, eyes finding his within a second, like always.

“Simon.” You wiggle your fingers towards him, and he wastes no time, sitting in the chair that the nurse pointed to and bringing your hand to the mask, right where his lips are.

“Hi sweet girl. You alright?” You nod.

“I think I’m a little high.”

“She had just a bit of midazolam, for the nerves.” Your doctor says from the other side of the drape.

“That’s alright.” He smoothes some hair from your face and tries to remember to breathe. Everything about this room sets him on the edge, and there’s a live wire running through his bones, all the way down to where his hand holds yours. There are too many people, too many lights, machines, and his skin is crawling, the desire to snatch you from the table and disappear down the hall repeating in the back of his mind, again and again. He can’t stop thinking about what could go wrong, terrible scenarios that leave you dead or the baby dead, or both. They push and pull at the logical side of his brain, fighting to get through, desperate to derail him, insistent and-

You smile up at him, all sweet, a little daft from the drugs, and everything feels quiet again. The tension between his shoulder blades lets out like air from a balloon, fast and easy.

“You ready?” He thumbs at a tear escaping from the corner of your eye. You’re looking at him, looking beneath the mask, kicking and tearing past the pieces of Ghost until you strike true, until you reach Simon. You always do.

He pushes his forehead against yours, and breathes you in, the stench of sterile hospital and all.

“Yeah, Sass. I’m ready.”

He’s pulling the balaclava back over his face when you bust through the door and ram right into him. He recoils, the reaction second nature, and his eyes find yours in the little bathroom mirror immediately. You step away, the room stretching too big all the sudden, the distance between his body and yours too far, and his brain stumbles over the realization. Something stutters in his chest, his breath catching when he looks at you, watching as you flail before you look away. 

“Shit! Fuck. Sorry.” You glance at the wall, then the floor, then turn to run before he figures out how to make his mouth work. 

“You’re alright, Sass. I’m finished.” You’re standing half in the hall, half in the bathroom, bleeding, and something twists in his gut. Blood and injury are not uncommon in the 141, but he’s surprised at how unsettled he feels when he sees the trickle of red on your shoulder. 

“Get that cleaned up.” It comes out rough, like an order, and your throat bobs with a swallow.

“Okay a little bit of pressure and then you’re going to feel a lot of relief.” The doctor says and you nod, fingers pressed into his palm.

“Simon.” Your voice wavers.

“I’m right here. I got you.” He keeps his eyes trained on yours, willing himself to get lost in the hue of your irises, tuning out everything else in the room until-

A baby cries.

“Congratulations mom and dad!” Someone calls and the room spins. Mom and dad. 

“Can I see him?” your fingers are still entrenched in his, the words watery and light.

“Breath sounds are good.” A voice says, and then there’s a squalling baby next to him. A baby. Your baby. His. 

“Oh. Oh.” You’re in shock, he thinks. He’s not sure, because he might be too, and he blinks rapidly as you place a few fingers on the baby’s cheek. “Hi, Theo.” You coo and cry, smiling through the tears that dot your face. The nurse says something to you, and then she places the baby on your chest, where you cradle him with your other arm, pulling Simon’s hand up towards Theo’s back for support, holding it against his skin. You glance up at him for a second, teary happiness morphing into concern, and then back before your finger lifts from Theo’s cheek to his, swiping along his cheekbone. He presses your palm to his face with his free hand, over the mask, and closes his eyes for a second.

When you pull away, your fingers shimmer under the white lights of the operating room, and the tips of them shine with something wet.

His tears.

“I don’t see cabbage. What about romaine?” 

“No. It has to be cabbage. Or kale! But I really prefer cabbage, and so does your kid, you know. Romaine is totally different.” You babble, and he stares at the heads of green leafed things underneath the misters, eyes scanning for the label that says cabbage. 

“I don’t see any cabbage, Sass.” A woman who’s inspecting a shiny red pepper a few feet away from him looks over, curiously. 

“It’s a staple food, Si. It never sells out; it has to be there.” 

“It’s not.” 

“Ask someone.” Irritation is bleeding into your voice now, and the idea of approaching a store employee makes his skin itch. Maybe he can just buy the romaine and ask for forgiveness, or go to a different supermarket. It’s not quite midnight yet, something else could be open. 

The woman inspecting the peppers has sidled closer to him, close enough that he can see her face turned upwards towards his, eyes studying the balaclava before she clears her throat. 

“Excuse me?” He turns, eyes narrowed. 

“Who is that?” your voice rings through the speaker. “Is that a woman? Ask her where the cabbage is!” He pulls the phone away from his ear and blinks down at her. 

“The cabbage is up here.” She says politely, pointing to the top row of light green, rounded vegetables. Nearly in front of his face. 

“Thanks.” He says roughly, but she smiles at him all the same, while you call his name over and over on the phone. “I got it.” 

“Yes! Oh my god thank you.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Bloody lucky I love you.” 

The line is silent. His heart lurches, thundering into a frantic beat that thrums through his entire body. His limbs feel numb, and he doesn’t say anything else, just holds his breath. He can hear you breathing, just barely, through the phone, but it sounds like you’re trying to hold your breath, too. Like you’re listening for him. 

“Simon-“

“I still gotta get the potatoes. See you in a bit.” The line goes dead.

“Okay, sit here.” The nurse instructs and he forces his legs to move, makes his knees bend so he can lower himself in the chair. He can’t look away from what she’s holding in her arms, the infant, the baby that is his and yours. His kid. “Skin to skin is very important for newborns. It helps regulate their heartbeat and breathing and can help maintain their temperature.” She continues, motioning for him to relax against the backrest.

“Skin to skin?”

“Yes. You’ll need to take off your shirt.” He shakes his head. He can’t do this. You should be doing this. You’re his mother. He’s… he’s not you. Theo won’t want him, he’ll want you. He- “Mr. Riley? You don’t have to, but while we wait for her to get back, it’s a good opportunity for it.”

“What do I do?” The idea of holding Theo to his scarred chest makes him feel sick.

“Once you take off your shirt, I’ll put Theo in your arms and cover you both with a blanket.”

“I don’t think…”

“Don’t worry. I’ll show you how to hold him if that’s what you’re worried about.” Theo cries out, a sharp, shrill sound that draws her attention downwards before she looks back up at him with an expectant expression. Skin to skin is very important for newborns. He knows you would want him to do this. He knows that you would understand too, if it was too much, if he felt too exposed. But it’s important. Theo needs this. He needs… his dad. 

He pulls the scrub top over his head, careful to keep the mask in place, and leans back slowly against the chair.

“You’re going to support his head just like this-“ she moves him into the crook of his elbow, positioning his little legs and arms so that he’s laying flush against his chest. “and his body will just rest right here in this space… and there you go.” Simon doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t move, he can hardly think. He doesn’t even feel her place a blanket over his body, curling it beneath where he cradles the baby. All he can see is Theo in his arms, so tiny, his eyes scrunched shut and small hand curled into a fist.

The lights in the room go dim, and he looks up, realizing that the nurse is by the door. “I’m going to give you some privacy. They should be finishing up with mom soon but there’s a button right there, next to the bed. The red one. Press it if you need anything and one of us will be here right away. Okay?” She gives him another encouraging smile and he nods.

“Okay.” When the door clicks shut, he finally lets out the shakiest breath of his life and reaches up to pull the surgical mask from his face. Theo’s eyes aren’t open, but his chest rises and falls, soothing some of the fear that has a grip on his heart. He gently touches Theo’s hand, and his tiny fingers curl around Simon’s giant one. He gets lost, staring down at the small boy. Looking at every single feature, his ears, his nose, the bow of his lips. He tries to memorize it all, the way the tuft of his hair sits, the creases of his skin around his elbows and knees, the soft pant of his breath. It fills him with emotion, so much he’s afraid it might overwhelm him, bury him beneath its weight. He knows this feeling, has felt it grow inside him since the very first day he laid eyes on you. Has watched it fight through a forest of dark and snarled roots, cutting and biting away at the things that have died and festered inside him. He knows it better than he knows himself now, knows the truth, cannot deny this knowledge that he would lay down and die for you, for Theo. He understands the pure terror that has blazed within him since that day in Belize, and he knows that he would spend the rest of his life, waiting in agony with bated breath, just to kiss you once more, or hold his child in his arms.

It terrifies him, but he knows its name.  

He knows it’s love.

Simon leans down and brushes his lips across his son’s forehead, gentle and light, before murmuring to him as softly as he can manage.

“Hey, Theo. I’m your dad."

The next fic in this series is here.

[ghost-bxrd]

Do you have more fae!Dick headcanons, but from the batfam or his friends pov? 🥺

Check out this awesome post for a phenomenal addition to the Fae verse!

But in case you wanna stick with only Dick being fae, here’s some more headcanons for you, hehe ✨ I can never say no to doing more 👏

I don’t know enough about Dick’s friends to do a good pov for them, but here’s Bruce and Jason for now 💚

Bruce

Bruce knew something was other about Dick from the moment he started screaming when his parents fell and every single animal inside the circus went wild

Dick is a strange child. he never lies, but he’s got this uncanny ability to maneuver around the truth and make it bend to his will. It comes in handy during his Robin days, but Bruce will be the first to admit it creeps him out a bit. Even thinks that sound like a lie on surface level and up being truthful. To the letter.

Contracts. During their time as Batman and Robin, Bruce unknowingly enters into multiple little deals with Dick without being aware of it. Dick never takes advantage, but there’s one instance where Bruce finally realizes how important it is to leave absolutely no loopholes in orders or wordings when Dick nearly kills someone and it still falls into the terms of their agreement

The manor. Things have never been completely normal about the ancestral home, but with Dick around the walls seem to breathe. There’s always a light on behind some window even when it’s late and Alfred is long asleep. At night something scratches along the walls and the scent of rain and mushrooms lingers in the air. Neither Bruce or Alfred ever find its source. Hallways become long and winding when you’re half asleep. The walk to the restroom ends up being at least ten minutes.

Bruce yells at Dick and uses his full name for the first time and Dick just— folds. It’s not his true name, but he treats it as such. And Bruce is horrified at the way Dick’s entire form seems to warp and gain new joints and twist itself outside the human imagination. But then he blinks and it’s just Dick again, glaring balefully, hissing at Bruce not to use his name in anger. Ever. Bruce is too startled to do anything but promise he won’t.

Promises. Dick uses them sparingly, but when he does he upholds them with a vengeance. Bruce learns to never, ever make Dick promise something that will endanger him. Because dick would still follow through on it blindly.

Promises made by other people. Dick becomes vindictive if he thinks someone isn’t upholding their end of the bargain. The first time it happens, a simple thing about being home in time for dinner, Bruce got assaulted by rabid deer with curiously sharp teeth on his way to the car. In the middle of Gotham City. Bruce and Dick have a serious talk afterwards.

Jason

Dick is less than thrilled when Jason is declared Robin. Fae are possessive. That’s his name Bruce gave away. That’s his family Jason is infiltrating. Dick wants Jason gone. (Bruce barely manages to stop the murder of crows from shoving Jason off a roof)

Jason doesn’t realize there’s a pissed off fae out for blood. Bruce has a hard time rallying Dick, but he manages. Ergo; Jason thinks the manor is the best thing since sliced bread and he’s super excited about meeting Dick. He joins Alfred in making Dick’s favorite meal for his official visit and unknowingly ends up winning Dick over with it. An offering of favored food to fae creatures goes a long way in earning their favor. And Dick is no different. It helps that the food is genuinely delicious and Jason jumps at the chance to refill his plate. Jason unknowingly dodged a bullet there.

Dick becomes protective of Jason. Jason is his now in the same way Bruce and Alfred are. They’re human. He’s fae. They’re so very vulnerable and susceptible to injury and manipulation.

Jason avoids wandering the halls of Wayne manor alone for the longest time because he always feels there are eyes following him. (They are.)

The manor, reacting to Dick’s inherent magic, shortens each of Jason’s routes. It creeps Jason out even more

Sometimes there are feathers at the foot of Jason’s bed. He doesn’t know what kind of bird they could be from. When he shows them to Bruce the man just sighs

Jason has a temper tantrum and retreats into the woods behind the manor. He can’t find his way back until he calls out for Dick and suddenly the manor looms behind the next tree

[ohcaptains]

as long as it takes.

pairing. abby anderson x female! reader

synopsis. Abby’s generous with her love. She gives, and seldom takes. It’s why she takes her time with you. Why she slowly works you over, dragging you to your eventual release as if she has all the time in the world. Though this time, it’s taking far too long.

an. based off of this request. pls like, reblog and comment. i appreciate it endlessly<3

warnings. 18+. minors dni with this fic & my blog. abby manhandles you (hand on jaw -- not choking), references to anxiety and stress, crying, assplay?...assplay (blink and you’ll miss it) fingering...squirting...

You’re all too aware of the clock on Abby’s bedside table.

The ticking fuels your anxiety, and you glare at the bright red numbers, seeing that it’s been about half an hour. Abby usually got you there in just under ten.

Her record was three. Two and a half, if you minus the time it took to get your pants off.

Fuck. Okay. Ignore the clock. Just focus on Abby.

You huff, turning away from the box and sliding your palm into Abby’s loose mousy blonde hair. She hums, tightening her grip on your spread thighs. 

The echo of the sound makes your belly flutter, and your breathing hitches when she swirls her tongue around your clit again, hitting the edge of the nerve.

Okay, yeah, this is good. Abby is good. Good doesn’t even cover it. She’d had a lot of practice – had you strewn out on her bed like this too many times to count.

She flattens her tongue and swipes it through your folds, broad and unafraid, and the spit from her mouth dribbles down your thighs, pooling onto the sheets.

It was slow and sloppy yet tinged with a desperate edge – just how you liked it. So why was it taking so long? The pleasure is there, but it’s distant, hidden behind the swirl of thoughts that are blocking you from reaching your high.

Abby hasn’t complained once.

Realistically, you know she wouldn’t. Or if she did, it would be in jest, but all you can think about is that maybe Abby wants to stop. Maybe, Abby wants to just get this over with. But she wouldn’t be going this slow if she wanted to…what if she’s just tired? Guilt washes over you, thick and unwavering. You frown at her ceiling, whimpering in frustration more than desire.

Snap out of it, you tell yourself, breathing deeply and closing your eyes.

You try and block out everything but Abby – focus on the sensation of her nose pushing into your clit, her tongue darting over your puffy hole. She circles her tongue around your clit again, stroking long and slow, and you stutter her name, hips bucking up an inch.

Your thighs push at her hands, desperate to clench around her head, but she tenses her muscular arms, keeping your legs spread open. You whimper, trying to fidget, and Abby hums a laugh at you.

“That’s it, baby,” she mumbles, her voice deep and coated in desire, “take it.”

Your fingers tighten in her hair, your body going taut as Abby sucks at your clit, and the familiar wave of pleasure finds you. “Please – fuck,” you moan, tone high pitch and desperate. You turn your head to the side, back arching, trying to grind against her mouth.

“Just – “you choke, clenching tight, “Rightthererightthererightthere,” you whisper all at once, the rush threatening to spill, and you briefly think, finally.

Fucking finally.

It’s been about 45 minutes now, nearly took an hour. There’s a part of you that feels bad. A part of you that wants to shy away and apologise because It’s obscene. It’s embarrassing, really, it’s never happened before, and it’s – it’s gone. It’s gone.

“No,” you whisper. “Fuck,” you curse, shaking your head, trying to get it back. Trying to focus, but your brain has sabotaged your body once again, your high fluttering away from you.

“Shit,” you huff, loosening your fingers in your girlfriend’s hair.

Abby looks up in understanding. She places a kiss on the inside of your thigh. Her comforting voice finds you. “Just gimmie a minute, and I’ll try again.”

She sits back, and the warm light of her bedroom illuminates the slick that’s coating her chin and cheeks. She wipes it away with the back of her hand and rolls her neck and jaw. The ache between your thighs slowly begins to fade, even as you take in her disheveled state.

Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, kinky from her signature braid and a little frizzy from your wandering fingers. There’s a pink flush to her freckled cheeks, and her lips are swollen and wet. She licks them. At some point in the last 45 minutes, she’d taken her shirt off, and is now topless. She mindlessly rubs her chest, smoothing her fingers over the top of her breasts.

You lazily look up at her, naked from the waist down. The top half is covered with Abby’s loose-fitting tank, and the wide arm holes don’t leave much to the imagination.

“’ ’m sorry, Abs,” you sigh, “It’s not happening.”

But your girlfriend ignores you, too busy reaching her arms up and stretching her thick muscles out. She drops her arms and holds onto the dips of her neck, rolling her head around. The position lets you see the wide bulge of her muscles, covered in freckles and a light sheen of sweat.

“It takes as long as it takes,” she says nonchalantly. The bed dips as she drops between your legs again, “just gimmie another minute, and I’ll get us there.”

She goes to shove her arms under your thighs again, but you cringe away from her, shaking your head.

“It’s been ages already. I’m just…in my head.” She laughs, “Well get out of it.”

She’s joking, but it makes a lump form in your throat.

You look down at her, your pretty, desperate girlfriend, so eager to make you come that she’s willing to spend nearly hours trying to get you there. You try and swallow the lump down, but it won’t budge, and you let out a shaky breath, trying to stop the tears threatening to spill.

Abby hears the change in your breathing and looks up.

“Babe?” “Fuck, I’m sorry,” you splutter, wiping the tears from your eyes. “I’m being silly.” “Oh, sweetheart.”

She says the endearment so softly, that all of your bottled-up feelings come rushing back at once, and you hiccup a sob. You reach up and cover your face with your hands, tears spilling down your cheeks freely.

You’ve been so stressed recently, anxious about a month-long upcoming supply run that you’d helped plan. Abby was leading the charge. Everyone was putting so much trust in you, and it was incredibly overwhelming. No wonder your brain was pulling you every which way.

“Ugh,” you groan, shaking your head. “I don’t wanna cry, I’m just –” you sniffle, and Abby tugs your hands away, holding them in her large palms. Her inner brows are slanted, concern marring her features.

“It’s okay,” Abby tries to soothe, knowing the source of your stress. Usually, her words would bring you comfort. But this time, there’s too much to soothe. “It’s not,” you sob, and Abby sighs. “I know, but stressing about it isn’t going to help.”

Annoyance floods through you, “I know that!” you huff.

The force of your near shout echoes throughout the room, and Abby flinches, jaw tensing.

Your eyes go wide at her sudden clip demeanour. “’ ’m sorry,” you quickly whisper, lip wobbling. Another tear slides down your cheek, and you furiously wipe it away, “’ ’m sorry,” you say again, voice breaking. Abby’s features slowly soften as you apologise for the third time, “’ ’m sorry for being loud, m’ just frustrated.”

“I know,” she coos. The corners of her lips lower. “I know baby, come here.” She tugs your hands forward, pulling them around her neck, and you reach into her, cuddling into her large frame as she twists, laying back on your shared bed. Her wide hands come up under your shirt, rubbing your back, coaxing you to relax your entire weight into her. You nuzzle the side of her head.

“’ ’m sorry,” you sniff, and she kisses the side of your head. “I’m trying really hard to concentrate and it just…slips away from me.” “These things happen, baby,” she whispers, “We Just gotta stop the distractions.”

Abby continues rubbing your back.

Her wide palm drags up the expanse of your back, calloused fingers from years of training rough, but soothing. Her loose hair smells of her vanilla shampoo still, with a hint of smoke and rainwater from being caught out in the woods when it poured earlier.

Her hand continues its languid rhythm, and you nuzzle deeper into her neck, sighing in contentment.

You feel yourself slowly drifting off, losing all sense of reality, until you blearily come to as her hand trails lower, fingertips smoothing over your ass. You don’t think much of it, until she takes a handful and tugs, hitching your crotch up, grinding it against her sweatpants.

“Abby,” you whisper, sound muffled by her neck.

She hums in response, massaging your ass in her wide palm. It’s sort of comforting, but you sense she’s not doing it in that regard, especially as she grips tight, revealing your damp folds to the cool air. You whisper her name again, and she smirks when she hears your sharp inhale.

Abby continues playing with you.

Not really touching but touching all the same. At some point, your fingers move, and you flatten your hand on her chest, just below her shoulder. “Abs,” you voice. She pushes her mouth against the side of your head, “mm?” she sounds. “’ s’not gonna work,” you whisper, already doubting yourself.

Abby tuts, “Not if you keep on thinking like that,” she taps your thigh, “leg up.”

With a huff, you go to move, but Abby gets impatient and tugs it up anyway, pressing your knee into the mattress by her waist. The position leaves you exposed, and anyone walking in right now would see Abby Anderson’s hand trailing over your ass, fingers dangerously close to your damp folds.

She slides the width of her heavy hand between your cheeks, the ball of her palm pushing there, and you jolt, sighing into her neck.

Abby’s fingers move further, pressing against your pussy, and your slick makes her fingers slip, forcing them between your damp folds. Your nerves short circuit. Heat floods between your thighs once again, and you stutter, “F-Fuck, Abby.”

“Mm,” she hums again, cradling your shoulders with her spare arm.

She takes your hair, speaking against the side of your head. The words are muffled, but you make out, still so wet, baby, as she drags her long fingers through your used pussy, fingers sliding over your swollen hole.

You mewl into her neck, clawing at her shoulder.

She doesn’t ask how you want it.

In fact, she’s so lazy with it, so lethargic and slow, that it’s as if it’s not happening at all.

There’s no real big scene, and no real direction to her movement, either.

She just plays with you, sliding her thick fingers through your folds, back and forth, the ball of her palm dragging over your asshole, and fuck, it’s so openly dirty that you have to hide.

Have to push your face into her neck and moan, trying to conceal how good it feels. Abby doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tease you like she usually does.

At some point, she stuffs her thick fingers against your clit and drags, and you gasp her name, grinding back into her hand. It swells beneath her fingers, but she doesn’t pay it that much attention. It’s as if she’d touched it by accident, didn’t really mean to, because she moves away, instead choosing to push her cupped fingers against your entrance – not inside, just across – and you feel your slick coat her, feel it spread over abs.

You go quiet. No noise, just the stutter of your breath against her neck.

Again, Abby doesn’t say anything. No teasing. No, like that? No, ask nicely and I’ll fuck you with them.

The frustration is still there, but it’s directed at her.

Pressure builds behind your clit, and you want more. Want it quicker than this, so you push back. Try and match her rhythm by rolling your hips. If you catch her fingers at just the right angle, she’ll push against your clit, you’re sure of it.

You imagine yourself spread open on top of her, grinding your cunt back into her hand, the ball of her palm pressing between your ass cheeks, and you’re embarrassed again.

This time, at how much you want it.

Wanna come, wanna come, you whisper into her neck, rolling your hips up. Your clit drags against her abs, and you clutch her shoulder. “Wanna come, please,” you whine pathetically, pussy clenching around nothing.

She’s got you whining and begging, and she’s said fuck all.

Abby’s managed to subdue you, with her quiet, yet commanding aura. She’s got you laying on her, not griping you all that tightly -- you could move if you wanted to, and yet, it’s as if you can’t.

She’s letting you use her.

Her fingers accidentally hit your clit again and your eyes roll back, mouth opening, and you moan into her neck, grinding faster, pussy dragging against the thick of her fingers, moving, fingers scratching into her shoulders, and you’re whimpering her name, a constant drabble, Abby, Abby, Abby, you go, and you’ve soaked her chest, so wet that you’re slipping over her fingers, rutting, drooling her name, saying, please, please please fuck fuck fuck – it’s there, and --

She senses you slip. Senses you lose it, the whimpers suddenly annoyed and irritated. Abby slides a hand under your chin, and knocks it up, clasping her fingers over your cheeks. She makes you face her, forehead pressing against yours, blue eyes wide and intense.

“Come back to me,” she orders.

Her voice catches your attention, loud and commanding in the silent room.

You clutch her broad shoulders, there, you’re there, until your belly bottoms out, and you’re pouting. “Abby,” you sigh, frustrated, eyes closing, and she shakes her head, “No, don’t look away.”

She’s close enough that your noses touch.

“Look at me,” she commands, and you do. How could you not? A warm, comforting rush consumes you. Abby’s everywhere. She’s there. Right there. Eyes bore a hole into your soul as she whispers, “Keep your eyes on me.”

And you keep your eyes on her as she pushes two fingers inside of you, stuffing you, and you hear how wet you are. You gasp at the sudden pressure. The angle gives her easy access to the spongy part inside of you that makes you go docile. She curls her fingers and presses against it. Your eyes roll back, pussy squelching around her thick fingers.

“’ m’ my god, Abby,” you moan, suddenly drunk on her. The clutch she’s got on your chin loosens a little, but she still keeps your forehead pressed against her, fingers pressed tight in your cunt. “That feels so fucking good,” you sob, clenching down. The pressure pushes up at the back of your clit, too. You hold the hand she’s got on your jaw, swallowing, and trying to settle your quickened breathing. Abby bumps your nose with hers.

“Look at me, baby.”

She whispers it, voice strained. Blearily, you blink down at her. Her blue eyes look fucked out – alive.

“No one here but me. No thoughts but me, okay?” she asks, but it’s not a question. She does ask one, though, cocks her head to the side, teasing glimmer in her eyes as she whispers, “What’s my name?”

Her fingers slide out of your pussy, then plunge back inside. You moan, slick pouring over her digits. Abby tightens her grip on your chin, “name.” “Ab-Abby.”

She smiles, proud of you. “’ s’right baby, you keep thinking that.” She drags her mouth to your forehead, kissing quickly, before pressing a messy, wet one to your lips, mumbling, “Keep thinking about me,” then she drags her fingers out of your cunt again, pushing them in and up as she mutters, “Keep thinking about me while I do my fucking job.”

Her words make you sob.

Nearly say thank you, then you can’t say anything at all, as she fucks her fingers into you. You grind your clit into her abs, delirious from the pleasure. The tension coils again – was never far away -- swirling in your belly and pooling in your lower back.

Abby doesn’t let you run from it. Doesn’t let you drift. Her hand continues to be locked around your jaw, and the pressure is constant, reassuring, keeping you tethered to her.

She speeds up, and you chase her fingers, letting out a drawn-out moan. The ball of her palm presses into your ass again, and you clench tight, losing composure.

“Fuck,” you sob, eyes rolling back. Your nails drag over her shoulders, and you let out a pitiful sob as you whimper, “’ 'm gonna come Abs,”

As if on cue, she drops your chin, and lets you press your face into her neck.

She drags the free hand between your bodies, stuffing her hand against your clit while the other fucks up into you. The sudden pressure there makes you see stars, and you choke out her name as your body moves, grinding your clit into her hand.

Your legs are shaking, your heart thumping against your chest, and your orgasm is so close, that suddenly, you’re frightened it’ll slip away again.

“Abby— “you sob again, her name a shaky cry into her neck. You clutch the side of her throat, grinding into her hand. “Please,” you gasp, “please it’s so close, please.”

“Shh,” she whispers into the shell of your ear. “Take it like a good girl.”

All at once, it hits you, blindsides you – grabs and pulls you under.

You go tight. Body locks up -- clenches tight around Abby’s fingers, and she lets out a depraved moan of her own, coaxing you through it.

That’s my girl, that’s my pretty girl, she whispers, tone strained and taut. Her words knock you over the edge, and you sob her name, pussy convulsing, gushing over her hand.

“’m’mygod my god, Abby, so good – so fuckin,” you whimper, riding out your orgasm against her chest and hand.

Your pussy soaks her, wet enough that you hear her fucking her fingers up and out, walls fluttering around her thick fingers as she drags your orgasm out of you. Your legs shake, fingers clench tight around her shoulders as it goes and goes and goes, nerves shot, and you yelp as the sensitivity suddenly hits.

You shove a hand between you to grab Abby’s wrist, trembling, and Abby stops, wet fingers lax in your grip.

The room fills with your laboured breathing. Abby’s chest pushes in and out, the adrenaline leaking from her body as you breathe deep into her neck. Your heart begins to slow, the ache between your thighs slowly dispelling, and it’s then that you whisper, “fucking finally,” into her neck.

Abby laughs. You pull back to see her smiling face, and she’s flushed red, sweat beading over her hairline. “You – “she starts, breathless. She leans back into the pillows, rubbing her forehead. “that was really fucking hot.”

You beam from it, sitting up straighter. Lazily, you glance between the pair of you, and her abs are slick from you, the crotch on her sweatpants damp, too.

“You see how easy that was?” she jokes, grabbing your attention. She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand, sniffing. “You gotta clean me up, baby,” she sighs, rolling her neck, “I can’t move my arms.”

ao3. more abby. ko-fi. 

[jungshookz]

teeny tidbits: namjoon wants a raise & y/n is kind of scary

i watched the proposal again recently + i’ve been on depop trying not to spend a million dollars on all the y2k corporate-core clothes = inspired me to write this snippet of ceo!y/n (you all know i have a soft spot for anything ceo i’m sorry) 

“ever since you hired me, i’ve managed to boost sales up by approximately 28%-“ namjoon clears his throat, trying his best to continue standing tall as he points to the screen with his little laser pen, “i’ve been working here for nearly a year and a half which you can argue hasn’t been very long, but at the same time i feel as though my efforts and the results that i’ve produced is well deserving of a raise, miss y/l/n. i wasn’t going to say anything but i’ve actually been offered a position elsewhere with a higher salary, and, well- i do enjoy working here, and i would like to stay here, but-“ 

you lean back against your office chair, propping both elbows up on the arm chairs before pressing your fingertips together, staring intently at the presentation in front of you 

your eyes follow the little red dot darting across the screen and you lick over your teeth as your head tilts to the side slightly 

“-so, what do you think?” namjoon reaches the end of his presentation and tucks his pen into his shirt pocket, very much aware of how much heat is radiating off his body from the nerves 

he’s heard some things about people who’ve tried to ask for raises, and making the bold move of coming directly to you has historically never ended very well for those guys 

jungkook presses the button for the lights to turn on and the blinds to roll back up from where he’s standing by the front door, offering namjoon a smile and a supportive nod 

at least five seconds of silence linger in the air and namjoon wonders if you’re able to hear his heart practically beating out of his chest 

you’ve also been maintaining eye contact with him the entire time he’s presented which makes him ten times as nervous because he’ll be the first to admit you have very nice eyes 

“…i think all of this could’ve been an email, kim.” you lean forward, office chair squeaking slightly as you swipe your phone off the table and unlock it, “the next time you want something, i don’t need a thirty-eight minute presentation on why you think you deserve it.” 

“ma’am?” namjoon’s face reddens and suddenly it feels like the collar of his button-up is suffocating him 

“who’s trying to poach you from me?” 

“i-if you don’t mind, i’d like to keep that detail priv-“ namjoon immediately stops talking when your eyes flicker up from your phone to look at him through your eyebrows, “ah- min corporations, miss y/l/n. i was contacted by their secretary last week.” 

“mm, i’ve spoken to that secretary. preppy little thing.” you snort, eyebrow raising slightly at the memory of the one time you got a call on your personal cell phone from min corporations (you’re not even sure how that secretary got your damn number in the first place) inviting you to a lunch with mr. min yoongi himself 

you went, of course, more than surprised to discover that the secretary wasn’t just his secretary but also his wife and the mother of his (adorable) daughter 

you don’t know how she managed to go from secretary all the way to wife/mother but hat’s off to her for pulling that off

with that being said you’re sure that if she spoke three decibels higher all the dogs in the city would start barking and all the windows in your office would’ve cracked 

“you’re a hard worker. i like having you on my team.” you set your phone face down on your desk, “get back to work. we can discuss numbers another day because if you make me look at another excel spreadsheet i might change my mind.” 

“oh, i- thank you so much, miss y/l/n, i really appreciate it! thank you so much-“ namjoon fumbles with the projector and switches it off, a weight instantly lifted off his shoulders at the implication that he will, in fact, be getting a raise 

“mm.” you gesture with a flick of your wrist for him to leave your office as you raise your phone to your ear, “min yoongi! trying to steal my star salesman, are you?” 

jungkook opens the door for namjoon, stepping aside to let him out before shutting the door behind him quietly 

“see, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” jungkook beams, giving namjoon a hearty pat on the arm, “congratulations on the raise!” 

“i think i need to take a shot or something, that was- so stressful.” namjoon lets out a breath, reaching up to loosen his tie slightly, “god, she really- her eye contact is crazy intense sometimes-“ 

“it’s probably the eyeliner in her waterline making her look ten times scarier, you’ll survive-“ 

🎙️ ask y/n for eyeliner recommendations (talk to my characters!) 

📚 why not explore the rest of the library while you're here? (go say hi to your other faves!)

���� or perhaps you want something shorter to read? (drabbles and mini series!)

🌟 or something even shorter? (teeny tidbits like this!) 

[the-guilty-writer]

I second the ask about Hotch's daughter with endometriosis!!! I'd like to see that

I just finished it ♡

Aaron Hotchner x daughter!reader

You truly wondered how women with endometriosis survived periods before thermotherapy products were invented. Hot water bottles and heating pads were a necessity for you during this time of the month. It wasn’t that they made the pain go away - they just made it bearable enough to allow you small bits of time where you could do something more than laying down.

At the moment, a hot water bottle and a maxed out dose of Ibuprofen were holding you together - barely. After twenty minutes at school, you were sent home by your English teacher, who was concerned about your nauseous complexion. Somehow, you'd managed to do some make-up work before taking a long (and much-needed) nap.

With your dad away on a case, the list of chores was longer than normal, but the pain made moving nearly impossible, much less cleaning. Dishes needed to be put away, the kitchen table needed to be cleared, and he laundry hamper was flooded with clothes, but there was no way you could do any of it while your insides felt like they were going to fall out. The only thing you absolutely had to do was pick Jack up from school. Everything else could wait.

All the energy you’d gathered went into the ten minute drive to and from picking up your brother. He requested a snack as soon as you got home, which you somehow managed to make him food without screaming in pain. It took every ounce of energy you had left to sit at the table with your brother as he did his homework.

The pain and fatigue clouded your brain, so much so that you hardly noticed the door to the apartment open.

“Dad!” Jack jumped up his seat and down the hall toward him.

“Hey buddy,” Hotch said. The tone of his voice was a testament to his exhaustion, but a happiness to be home.

“Dad, I made this painting in art class and I really want to show you. It's in my bedroom. Come look!” Jack didn’t give your dad a moment of rest.

“Okay,” he chuckled. “I'll be there in a minute.”

Jack’s feet pounded against the floor, running to his room in anticipation. Your dad’s longer, slower footsteps followed behind. As soon as he appeared in the doorway, you could tell the case has been a hard one. He looked beyond exhausted, horrors still haunting his eyes and crushing his spirit. Not even your little brother's innocent greeting could extinguish what your dad had endured over the past few days.

“Hey, dad,” you greeted him with as much enthusiasm as you could muster up.

“Hi sweetheart.” He planted a quick kiss atop your head before moving to the kitchen. “Where are all the plates?”

A displeasement crossed your dad’s face. You'd meant to empty the dishwasher earlier that day, but the pain body had stopped you.

“Still in the dishwasher,” you said, holding back a wince as your stomach cramped.

“I thought we talked about this.”

“We did, but-”

“You’re almost an adult. I expect you to start showing up like one.” He was calm but stern. Unblinking eyes bore into you. It made you want to cry.

Hotch turned and left the kitchen, his calm footsteps indicating he was going to Jack's room.

Despite the pain radiating through your body, you stood up and carefully made your way to the dishwasher to unload it. As soon as you leaned over to lower the door, a stabbing sensation penetrated your gut. Dizziness washed over your head and blackened your vision. In an instant, you had crumbled to the floor.

You weren't even aware that you'd let out a cry of pain until your dad was kneeling next to you, a gentle hand caressing your face. Through teary, blurry vision, you could just make out the worry in his fearures.

“It hurts,” you choked out.

“I know,” he said gently. “I'm here. I've got you.”

Strong arms lifted you off the kitchen floor, carrying you to the couch. A heating pad was laid across your stomach and a straw was brought up to your lips with the gentle encouragement to drink.

When you managed to open your eyes, Hotch was next to you, a look of concern on his normally serious face.

"Hi, sweetheart." The words were the same as before, but his tone was different.

"Hi," you whispered.

"Here," Hotch brought a hand behind your back and used the other to hand you a bottle of water, "have some water."

You took gentle sips. Your father’s hand still rested on your back, rubbing it soothingly.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You didn't make me get up." It was true.

"No, but I jumped to conclusions about what you were able to do and it made you feel like you had to do something that caused you pain." Sometimes having a profiler for a dad was a good thing. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," you said.

Hotch helped you lay down again, covering you with a warm blanket. "Can I get you anything?"

You snuggled into the blanket and adjusted the heating pad to sit in the best place for easing pain. "Just the TV remote."

Your dad smiled - his small but rare smile - before handing you the remote. The rest of the afternoon would be filled with watching bad TV and chick flicks, but he didn't mind. If it made you just a little more comfortable, then it was worth it.

[justabigassnerd]

Protective Friend

Pairing - Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell x daughter!reader

Word count - 2,182

Warnings - physical violence, mentions of cheating, blood, angst, mentions of Goose, fluff

Summary - after someone picks on Bradley one too many times, you handle the situation and secretly impress your father

A/N - it's been a minute huh, y'all? I think I'm doing a bit better (no promises), so maybe I'll be uploading more fics. anyway I won't bore y'all with a long A/N so as per y'all, please send in requests, feedback, and enjoy

Growing up alongside the Bradshaw family, it was basically inevitable that you would become best friends with Bradley Bradshaw. After all, you’d practically known the family since birth with your dad working alongside your Uncle Goose and it had devastated you when Goose died, understanding the finality of it all even at a young age. After Goose passed you made even more of an effort to be a good friend to Bradley, doing your best to keep a smile on his face.

However, the kids at your school were not nearly as kind. They had found out that Goose had died one day during an activity in the build-up to the summer holidays where your teacher gave you the freedom to make Father’s Day cards to store somewhere safe until the day came and Bradley had innocently asked your teacher what he was supposed to do. When the teacher had crossed the room to crouch down alongside him to ask why he couldn’t write a card for his dad, some kids had overheard him saying that his dad was dead and apparently thought it was the funniest thing to them. The teasing started off light before it got worse, but you could tell it bothered Bradley all the same, especially given the sensitivity of the topic. You ended up telling your dad about the teasing and bullying and without hesitation, Maverick had gone straight to Carole to make sure she was aware as well. Carole, of course, wasted no time going to the principal and telling him about how he needs to be doing better in making sure the bullies get punished.

When the principal did nothing about it, nonchalantly saying he couldn’t control kids’ actions, Carole went and tracked down the parents of the kids who were picking on Bradley after you gave them their names. Once again, Carole reached a brick wall as when she spoke to the various parents of the kids, they just shrugged her off and said that both Bradley and Carole needed to stop being so sensitive over something that happened years ago and that a bit of friendly teasing wasn’t hurting anyone so according to them, Bradley simply had to man up and learn how to take a joke. It took everything within Carole not to slap anyone when she heard the same answer multiple times. Her son was being bullied and no one was doing anything about it when this was the time to step up and do something. She didn’t care if had been ten minutes or ten years since Goose’s passing, he was still Bradley’s father, and her son was allowed to mourn the loss he suffered.

When Carole next met up with Maverick and filled him in on what had happened, Maverick immediately offered to give it a try himself, more than willing to be assertive and to even drag Iceman into it if needed. Carole told Maverick not to worry about it, and that he probably wouldn’t get much further than she did, even with Iceman.

“Do you want me to sleep with their wives?” Maverick had jokingly suggested which resulted in Carole hiding her giggle as she lightly slapped Maverick on the shoulder.

“You wouldn’t dare.” She replied, continuing to laugh as Maverick shrugged jokingly.

“All I’m saying is I could give them the best night of their lives, end it then and there and then ruin their marriage. That’ll teach them for picking on Bradley.” Maverick says nonchalantly, leaning back against the sofa with a grin.

“Mav, I love you, but no you can’t ruin people’s marriages over this.” Carole says as Maverick holds his hands up in mock surrender, both of them chuckling lightly.

“It was a good idea though.”

A couple of days later, one Saturday morning, you managed to coerce Maverick into taking you to the local playground and when you asked if Bradley could come with you and so he walked you over to the house just down the road and asked Carole if Bradley wanted to come to the park with the two of you. Carole was of course extended an invitation to join you all, but she politely declined, saying she had housework she needed to do. Now with Bradley in tow, the three of you make your way to the park, entering the gated park and both of you immediately head over to the swings while Maverick sits himself on a bench just outside of the park, watching you play with a soft smile.

However, at the most crucial moment, Maverick found himself distracted by a pair of attractive women who smiled flirtatiously at him as they passed, deciding that since both you and Bradley were happily playing in the park, he had the perfect opportunity to strike up a conversation with them.

In the park, a boy that was in your grade named Johnny decided he wanted to pick on Bradley, calling over to him and once again picking on him for the fact his dad was dead the moment, he realised you had crossed the park to talk to another one of your friends.

“Stop it.” Bradley said firmly, standing from the swing and attempting to stand up for himself against the bullies.

“What are you going to do? Tell your dad?” Johnny said before eyeing the way Bradley’s hand clenched around something hanging on his chest.

“What’s that?” He then asked teasingly, eyes glinting with glee as Bradley took a step back, fist tightening around the dog tags that once belonged to his dad. With nothing more than a look exchanged between them, Johnny’s two friends put a hand on Bradley’s shoulders and forced him to the floor, while Johnny pried Bradley’s hand open and removed the precious dog tags from around his neck, inspecting them and chuckling to himself.

“Goose? What kind of stupid name is that?” Johnny says, reading the callsign displayed on the tags.

“Give them back!” Bradley cries out, attempting to get up and grab his dog tags but Johnny’s friends were quicker, forcing down on his shoulders harder to prevent him from moving.

Across the park, you had heard Bradley’s demand and so glanced over and immediately removed yourself from your conversation and immediately rushed over to Bradley’s defence, taking less than a second to realise what it was Johnny had stolen.

“Give it back, Johnny!” You say firmly, holding your hand out expectantly and gritting your teeth when Johnny just laughs in your face.

“And why would I do that?” He taunts, sniggering as he glances over at his friends who laugh too.

“Because you’re not going to like what I’m going to do next.”

Just as Maverick was bidding goodbye to the two women, making sure to give each of them a cheeky wink as they went, he turned to look back at the park and instead came face to face with a rageful-looking mother who had a boy alongside her who was holding a tissue up to his bleeding nose.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” The woman all but yells in Maverick’s face, barely giving him space to breathe, let alone process what she is saying.

“I’m sorry, what?” Maverick says, trying his best to calm the tension. He had recognised the kid instantly; you had pointed him out to your dad one afternoon when you had first told him about the bullying.

“Your brat of a daughter punched my sweet Johnny for no reason! I can’t believe you’d raise a child to think that’s okay.” The mother says, glaring at Maverick who takes a moment to glance over at you where you were crouching down alongside Bradley, clearly talking to him before taking a moment to look over at your dad with a worried expression.

“y/n wouldn’t hit someone.” Maverick says, getting up from the bench to be more level with the woman.

“She punched him!” She repeats, even louder and begins to get looks from people surrounding them.

“Okay, okay, cool your jets. I’ll speak to her.” Maverick says, waving his hand dismissively before crossing to the park gate, opening it and catching your eye before gesturing you over and waiting patiently for you to approach.

“Hi, dad.” You mumble, glancing down at your shoes to avoid looking Maverick in the eye.

“Hey squirt. So, I heard you punched that Johnny kid. Want to tell me what happened?” Maverick says, crouching down to be at your level and gently encouraging you to look at him. You mumbled something in response but none of it was audible to him.

“You gotta speak up kiddo.” Maverick encourages gently, reaching out and resting a hand on your shoulder and squeezing lightly, silently promising you he wouldn’t get upset.

“He took Uncle Goose’s dog tags from Bradley.” You say, a little louder so that Maverick can hear you. Upon hearing the reason you had lashed out; Maverick knew he couldn’t be mad at you at all, but he also knew he had to try and dissuade you from using violence in the future.

“Okay, sweetheart, you can’t punch people. I understand why you did it but if you’re ever in a situation like this, you come and get me, Carole, Ice, whoever. We’ll sort it out. I’m sure you did try but make sure you use your words. Punching people isn’t okay, no matter what it is they do.” Maverick says softly, watching as you carefully take in his words, nodding softly.

“Yes, daddy.” You say before Maverick gently pulls you into a hug.

“Go and grab Bradley and get ready to head back home. I’ll speak to Johnny’s mother.” Maverick says quietly before releasing you from the hug, letting you go over to Bradley then standing up and heading back over to Johnny and his mother.

“I didn’t see you disciplining your daughter. How do you know she won’t do it again?” Johnny’s mother says firmly, gripping her son’s shoulder and pulling him closer to emphasise the injury.

“I spoke to her, and she knows it’s wrong. But she did tell me that your son took something that was special to not only Bradley, but his family and my family too. And when your son clearly refused to give it back, she did what she thought she had to do. She won’t do it again, but I won’t say she wasn’t justified.” Maverick explains, folding his arms across his chest and raising an eyebrow as he anticipates her freakout.

“She hurt my son and you’re saying it’s justified?” The shock and horror was painted all over her face as she yelled at Maverick.

“I’m not going to lie to you and say she wasn’t justified in what she did. Your kid stole something special from Bradley and has been bullying him for a while. You have refused to teach your kid better so no I will not punish her for standing up for her friend.” Maverick says firmly, deciding then and there that the conversation is over and turning to find you and Bradley.

“Come on you two, we’re heading home!” Maverick calls over to you and Bradley and when you and Bradley rush over to him, he wraps an arm around each of your shoulders and ushers you away from the woman and her son and begins the walk home. First, you drop Bradley off at his house, both of you greeting Carole as she opens the door. Just before Bradley heads inside, and while Maverick is explaining what happened earlier to Carole, Bradley turns to face you with a small smile.

“Thank you for getting my dog tags back.” Bradley says softly, making you smile before hugging Bradley.

“You don’t need to thank me.” You insist gently, squeezing Bradley softly before releasing him from the hug and letting him head inside with Carole while Maverick wraps an arm around your shoulders and encourages you to head home with him.

When you make it home, Maverick guides you into the living room and asks you to stay put while he grabs you an icepack. He soon returns with an icepack in hand, sitting down alongside you and taking the hand you had punched Johnny with and placing the icepack on the knuckles, biting back a frown when you wince slightly.

“This should help with any swelling.” Maverick says tenderly, his voice quiet as he lets you hold the icepack in place.

“Are you mad at me?” You question quietly, eyes fixed on the icepack to avoid looking at your dad.

“No sweetheart, I’m not mad. I do wish you had handled it a little differently, but I can’t be mad at you for standing up for Bradley.” Maverick admits, watching as you finally get the courage to look up at him.

“I wish I didn’t punch him. But it was satisfying.” You say quietly, a shy smile covering your face as Maverick lets out a soft chuckle before carefully pulling you into a hug.

“Well between me and you. I think he had it coming.”

[captain-hawks]

JUST ONE LOOK

♡ — keigo takami x f!reader

Your mysterious shopping bag of lingerie can only go unmentioned and unworn for so long before Keigo’s nosiness wins out. Naturally, he takes matters into his own hands…and finds out a thing or two about himself along the way.

18+ ONLY

wc — 2.5k

prompt — oral fixation, lingerie, praise

additional content —  established relationship, smut, masturbation, panty kink, light voyeurism, allusion to unprotected p in v + creampie, cum eating, needy/horny keigo

╰┈➤ kinktober masterlist

Keigo shifts from where he’s seated uncomfortably on the couch for what might be the hundredth time in the past ten minutes. Thousandth, even.

He’s fairly certain that he’s on the verge of losing his mind—if the continuous tremor of anticipation rippling through his feathers is anything to go by. He’s accidentally sent no less than eight of them zipping across the room today without warning, much to the chagrin of your cat. 

So maybe he’s just a little on edge.

Two weeks ago, you cheerfully walked through the front door of your shared apartment, kicking off your shoes as you attempted to maneuver your way through the entry hall with a large assortment of shopping bags clutched in your hands. Keigo had kissed you on the forehead and swiftly took the cumbersome bags from you, ushering you off to where takeout and a movie were already queued up in the living room waiting for your arrival. 

He’d preened a bit as you twirled back around, stealing a kiss from his lips before bounding off toward the smell of food. Meanwhile, Keigo nearly dropped the bags himself moments later when he tried to get them all through your bedroom door at the same time, one of them ultimately falling to the floor in the process.

After stowing the rest of them away in the corner, he turned around for the lone fallen soldier—a small, nondescript black bag with matching tissue paper. But as he went to pick it up to add it to your pile that you’d inevitably sift through tomorrow morning, he froze in place, eyes catching sight of a flash of bright red lace peeking out from the wrappings. Like a beacon. 

While he knew better than to pry—he’d learned his lesson after he was feeling particularly nosey one Christmas Eve—he couldn’t help the wolfish grin that spread across his face as he tucked the bag away with the rest. No matter the article of clothing, Keigo had a thing for seeing you in red. 

A very, very big thing.

A “sorry for popping a boner in the middle of the restaurant, but your red lipstick is distracting me” thing.

A “sorry, I know we just got to the gala, but you’re in a little red dress, and I think I might come in my pants before they start bringing the hors d’oeuvres out if we don’t go fuck in the bathroom” kind of thing.

And it’s not that you didn’t already have any red lingerie, because you certainly did. Keigo had ruined and ripped more of them than he could count. But the thought that you’d discreetly brought something new home to surprise him? Well, that had a bolt of arousal shooting straight to his groin, cock jumping excitedly in his sweatpants without an ounce of shame. 

But it’s been fifteen and a half days now, not that he’s counting. 

Fifteen and half days of waiting for you to reveal your little surprise to him, his dick now sore from constantly being half hard with anticipation every second that he’s around you.

Valentine’s Day, your birthday, his birthday, your anniversary—it’s not close enough to any significant date that he can think of that perhaps you’d be waiting for. So the fact that you might just come strutting into the bedroom after a shower suddenly wearing them any old night of the week? 

Keigo knows he can be a little dramatic sometimes. 

(Really, he’s well aware.)

(He thinks it makes him a bit more charming and endearing—or at least that’s what you’ve told him.)

And maybe he has a tendency to over exaggerate his needs a bit, like when he texts you in the middle of the work day and says he’s going to die if he can’t come steal you for a quickie on your lunch break. 

(Not that you mind one bit.)

But he’s definitely not exaggerating when he decides in the bathroom that he’s completely and totally lost it past the point of no return now, because his goddamn dick is too hard to even take a piss. He’s been toying with the idea of just outright telling you he saw them, offering you pleading eyes and a little flutter of his wings as he coyly asks when you’re going to wear them for him. 

…but then if you did have a surprise planned, he’ll feel terrible for spoiling it. 

So maybe he’ll just go take a peek.

For science.

To tide himself over.

(You know how needy he is, and he’s taking it upon himself to make the unilateral decision that you’d understand. You’d take pity on him and his aching dick.)

He carefully makes his way into the bedroom, quiet as a mouse—even though he’s fully aware you won’t be home from work for another three hours. The lingerie is surprisingly easy to find, shiny black bag primly folded over and tucked into the back corner of your sock drawer. 

Just a look.

One look, and he can go be an impatient, horny weirdo jerking off to the thought of you wearing them once he has a mental image of the full spread.

But—

Keigo quirks a brow as he takes the single piece of lingerie out of the bag, a feather darting out from his left wing to prod at the material. The red thong hanging from his pointer finger has a lacy waistband, a silky satin pouch of material in the front, and a thin string in the back, which connects to the waistband with a small, delicately-placed bow.

Something about them looks…different than your other panties, the rest of the dainty little thongs tucked away in the drawer above your socks that he’s intimately familiar with. Eyes darting back to the bag, he spies a piece of paper lying curled up at the bottom. It’s just the receipt, and he’s not sure what exactly compels him to do it, but all of his questions are immediately answered when his eyes begin to scan the thin, white sheet. 

Written in bold, capital letters in the middle of the paper, itemizing the purchase, are the words: MEN’S THONG.

Oh.

And suddenly the way the front of the material is a bit larger than he’s used to seeing…makes sense.

Keigo quietly tucks the panties back into the bag, putting it back where he found it before closing the drawer and walking out of your bedroom. He spends approximately twenty-six minutes sitting on the couch, watching a cooking show without absorbing a single bit of what’s being said. Another eleven minutes are spent rearranging the order of your plants sitting along one of the windowsills and agonizing over whether or not the painting hanging above the fireplace is straight. 

He accidentally feeds the cat twice.

Just shy of forty-five minutes have passed when Keigo finally stalks back into the bedroom and digs the thong out of the drawer, hastily tossing the bag aside. His clothes end up in a similar state, carelessly discarded on the floor a moment later. 

He can offer little explanation as to why he ends up in bed, wings relaxed as he leans back against the cushioned headboard, gaze trained on his lower half. Already hard as a rock, Keigo’s thick cock barely fits in the panties despite the fact that they’re made for men, his engorged balls taking up most of the space inside. Flushed head poking out from the waistband, he’s transfixed by the way the precum dripping from his slit leaves a dark, wet stain on the satin. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes the color of the panties is a near perfect match for his wings.

While he’s not sure what your plan was here, Keigo thinks you’ve probably let this purchase sit as you contemplate the right time to find the way to say, “Hey babe, would you mind wearing a thong for me?”

And in theory, Keigo’s not quite sure how he may have initially responded, in all honesty. 

In theory.

In practice, the moment he realized what he was holding in his hands, he was overcome with the uncontrollable desire to know what it would feel like to stroke his cock through the satin. To fuck his fist till he’s spurting hot cum all over the panties. To feel your pretty little pussy squeezing down on him when he ruts into you while he’s wearing them, lacy waistband straining tightly against his hips.

“Oh fuck,” Keigo moans, roughly running a hand over his hair as he begins to palm himself through the panties.

You bought these for him.

He’s so fucking hard, his dick is going to explode.

More precum leaks out of him, leaving behind a slippery, damp surface for the satin to slide up and down his cock as he begins to rock his hips upward into his closed fist. Eyes falling shut, he bites his lip and groans, forcing himself to take it slow and savor the tremors of pleasure simmering inside of him. There’s a small part of him that wonders how he’s going to wash the inevitable mess out of the thong when he’s finished without you noticing, but that’s a problem for future Keigo who can think straight once his balls aren’t floating with an overabundance of cum. 

—

On a normal day, Keigo knows you’re home before your key even turns in the lock.

But today, you make it all the way into the slightly ajar doorway to your bedroom, and even then, he doesn’t notice your presence. 

The sight before you takes your breath away—Japan’s number two hero, wings twitching and toes curling, moaning and panting and outright fucking whimpering as he jerks off while wearing a bright red thong. Not a single scenario that you imagined while buying the panties can even hold a candle to this.

Completely mesmerized by the way his thighs tremble with the effort to maintain a semblance of control, you can’t help but stand there and quietly observe for a few moments. You know what it feels like to be beneath him, atop him, beside him when he gets like this—desperate and aching and a little bit feral. But watching him from afar like this carves out a new place inside of you, a new pocket of hunger you hadn’t even realized existed until this moment. 

“Baby,” Keigo finally breathes out as he realizes he’s not alone, golden eyes trained on you as he continues to stroke himself through the thong. 

He exhales a shaky breath when you settle down beside him on the bed, head leaning against the headboard as he turns it to the side. 

“Found your present,” he admits, though his attempts to look remorseful are nullified by his rough voice and flushed face. “Sorry I spoiled the surprise.”

Another moan escapes his throat, and his eyes fall shut as he arches his back, squeezing firmly at the base of his shaft, not quite ready to finish just yet. You shift slightly, thighs rubbing together as your cunt clenches around nothing, wetness beginning to seep into your underwear. 

You could climb into Keigo’s lap right now, letting your tits spill out of your breezy little sundress as you bunch up the skirt, shuddering at the feeling of his fingers rubbing you through your panties. He’d hook a finger in them, tugging them aside before sinking two digits right into your pussy, just the way you like it. You’d squeeze his rock hard erection through his silky, red thong, mirroring the way he stretched your own panties to the side to reveal the full length of his thick, weeping cock. Together, you’d make a filthy, wet, sticky mess—and merely seeing his panties covered in your cum and his own would find you begging him to bend you over and take you again, roughly fucking you into the mattress till you’re sobbing his name and filled deeply with his seed.

But you can save that for tomorrow.

Later tonight, even.

Right now, you’re overcome with the need to watch him bring himself to completion. You lean in, mouth ghosting over his as you let your tongue gently slide over his bottom lip. He shivers. 

“This is better than any way I imagined giving them to you.”

He captures your tongue between his lips, mouth slotting over yours in a messy kiss. 

“Can I fuck you in these?” 

“Only if you get cum all over them for me first,” you implore him, fingertips caressing the stubble on his jaw.

Keigo moans at your request, the steady rhythm he’s fallen into while fucking his fist faltering, the heavy strokes growing sloppy.

“Feels so good,” he chokes out.

You can’t help but run a hand over your breasts, a breathy sound falling from your lips as you thumb at your peaked, tender nipples. His lust-blown eyes don’t miss the movement, and you squeeze your tits, letting them swell over the low-cut neckline of your dress.

Carding your fingers through his hair, you whisper against the shell of his ear, “I’m so wet just watching you, Keigo.”

“Fuck, baby,” he grunts. “How wet?”

Leaning back to hold his gaze, you trail a hand beneath your dress and into your underwear, running a finger along your damp slit. You moan in response, unable to deny yourself the pleasure of plunging two fingers into your slippery cunt.

“Show me,” he exhales, toned laced with desperation.

Your pussy twitches in protest when you pull your digits out, but it’s entirely worth it for what happens next—

Placing your fingers in front of Keigo, you expect he’ll offer you a cheeky smile as he licks a broad stroke along the digits, tasting the arousal that’s coating them. Instead, his lips fall open, and he takes your fingers directly into his mouth. The ache between your thighs grows at the sensation of his tongue languidly licking them clean, but he doesn’t stop there. He begins to suck on the digits, replacing the juices from your cunt with his own saliva, golden eyes going hazy as he moans around them.

Heat spreads beneath your skin, desire clawing its way through every crevice of your body, and your own breathing goes ragged at the sight before you. At this rate, Keigo’s going to need to fuck every single one of your holes in those cum-soaked panties tonight before you’ve had your fill of him. 

“Good boy,” you murmur, watching the way his wings splay even wider at the praise. “Make a mess.”

Keigo groans loudly at that, his strokes growing erratic as he finally lets his impending climax consume him entirely. Seemingly endless ropes of cum spill from his cock, the thick, eager spurts flooding his panties and painting the length of his chest. 

“I hope you saved some for me,” you say when he’s finished, a playful smile on your face as you gesture toward the way his softening shaft is still twitching slightly, small dribbles of cum continuing to weakly leak out of him.

Looking down, he begins to laugh at himself, taking a deep breath as he runs a hand through his messy hair. “I hope you planned on buying mor—”

He chokes mid-sentence as you lean down and begin mouthing at his cock through his panties, running your tongue over the cum that’s leaking through the material. 

— likes, comments, &/or reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[charliemwrites]

could we please get something where it's like some time after shy thing's been kidnapped and johnny tries asking her to watch a movie with him or just spend some time with him so she can see he's safe?

Ooooh I’ve been meaning to do something like this for a while, so thanks for requesting it, bean!!

It’s been a few months now, since Johnny…. well, since you came to live with him. You’ve given up on crying, screaming, begging to be let go, or reasoning with him. Whatever obsession he has with you, it’s not going away anytime soon and you’re just…. trying to keep a healthy distance.

Except he makes it really hard when he insists on checking on you, talking to you, being… around you. You try to stick it out for as long as you can before retreating to another room, and then like clockwork he always comes to find you and it starts over again.

But he’s been oddly absent today. You know he’s in the house, nearly startled yourself sneaking into the kitchen only to find him there sipping a coffee. But he’s… left you alone for the most part. That almost makes you as nervous as him invading whatever room you’re in.

But you’re just sitting and waiting at this point, curled up in the window seat of your room, trying to distract yourself with a book. A knock at the doorframe draws your attention. You shift nervously, all too aware that he’s blocking your one exit.

“Easy, lass, I just wanted to offer…” he pauses, scrubs a hand through his fluffy mohawk. You catch yourself thinking that it’s endearing. “I got ahold of that new movie you seemed interested in… and I’ve got some chocolate popcorn… just wanted to offer to watch it with you.”

You blink, not sure what to say. That movie isn’t even supposed to be out yet, and you didn’t expect to get to see it for months until it comes out to stream.

“Don’t have to of course, but… I wanted to see what’s got you so interested.”

You don’t find your voice for another second and he puts his hands up, an awkward smile on his face.

“I won’t push this time, promise. But there’s a spot on the couch just for you if you change your mind.”

He quietly pads away and you stare at the spot he was, fighting with yourself. But… you’re so tired of being afraid, of being lonely. He’s…. He’s good company in his own way - even if you still don’t trust him.

You finally manage to creep out of your room, find him focused on the screen. The movie is already ten minutes in. He looks confused as you settle into the cushion on the other end, close but not touching.

“Oh thank god you’re here,” he says, “I’ve got no clue what’s going on.”

You clear your throat. “Well.. it’s a sequel. Did… did you see the first?”

“Ah, fuck it is? No, I’ve never - we can still watch this…”

You smile a little at the flush around his ears and hope he’s not the kind to get mad when embarrassed.

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind watching the first one again… if you’re up for it.”

He lights up like Christmas morning. “Aye, that sounds pure dead brilliant. What’s it called?”

You tug a blanket around your shoulders as he offers you the chocolate popcorn, and feel yourself starting to slowly relax.